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Title: Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia

Author: L. Mühlbach,

Translator: F. Jordan

Release Date: October 17, 2006 [EBook #19562]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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                        NAPOLEON IN GERMANY

                  NAPOLEON AND THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA

                        An Historical Novel

                          BY L. MÜHLBACH

        AUTHOR OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT,
    BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, ETC.

               TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY F. JORDAN

                              NEW YORK
                                1908
                        COPYRIGHT 1867, 1893,
                      BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


                  *       *       *       *       *




                              CONTENTS


 BOOK I.

 CHAPTER

        I. Ferdinand von Schill
       II. The German Song
      III. The Oath of Vengeance
       IV. In Berlin
        V. Quiet is the Citizen's First Duty
       VI. The Faithful People of Stettin
      VII. The Queen's Flight
     VIII. Napoleon in Potsdam
       IX. Sans-Souci
        X. Napoleon's Entry into Berlin
       XI. Napoleon and Talleyrand
      XII. The Princess von Hatzfeld
     XIII. The Suppliant Princes
      XIV. Triumph and Defeat
       XV. The Victoria of Brandenburg Gate

 BOOK II.

      XVI. The Treaty of Charlottenburg
     XVII. The Secret Council of State
    XVIII. Baron von Stein
      XIX. The Queen at the Peasant's Cottage
       XX. Count Pückler
      XXI. The Patriot's Death
     XXII. Peace Negotiations
    XXIII. The Slanderous Articles
     XXIV. The Justification
      XXV. Countess Mary Walewska
     XXVI. The Dantzic Chocolate

 BOOK III.

    XXVII. Tilsit.--Napoleon and Alexander
   XXVIII. Queen Louisa
     XXIX. Bad Tidings
      XXX. Queen Louisa and Napoleon

 BOOK IV.

     XXXI. Baron von Stein
    XXXII. The Patriot
   XXXIII. Johannes von Müller
   XXXIV. The Call
    XXXV. Financial Calamities
   XXXVI. Prince William
  XXXVII. The Genius of Prussia
 XXXVIII. A Family Dinner

 BOOK V.

   XXXIX. French Erfurt
      XL. The Conspirators
     XLI. The Festivities of Erfurt and Weimar
    XLII. Napoleon and Goethe
   XLIII. The Chase and the Assassins

 BOOK VI.

    XLIV. The War with Austria
     XLV. Josephine's Farewell
    XLVI. Ferdinand von Schill
   XLVII. Schill takes the Field
  XLVIII. Schill's Death
    XLIX. The Parade at Schönbrunn
       L. Napoleon at Schönbrunn
      LI. Frederick Staps
     LII. An Execution

 BOOK VII.

    LIII. Homeward Bound
     LIV. The Emperor Francis and Metternich
      LV. The Archduchess Maria Louisa
     LVI. The Queen's Birthday
    LVII. Louisa's Death




ILLUSTRATIONS


Portrait of Napoleon
The Oath of Revenge
The Queen in the Peasant's Cottage
Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia
The Emperor Francis and Metternich




NAPOLEON AND QUEEN LOUISA




BOOK I.




CHAPTER I.

FERDINAND VON SCHILL.


Profound silence reigned in the valleys and gorges of Jena and
Auerstadt. The battles were over. The victorious French had marched to
Jena to repose for a few days, while the defeated Prussians had fled to
Weimar, or were wandering across the fields and in the mountains,
anxiously seeking for inaccessible places where they might conceal their
presence from the pursuing enemy.

A panic had seized the whole army. All presence of mind and sense of
honor seemed to be lost. Every one thought only of saving his life, and
of escaping from the conquering arms of the invincible French. Here and
there, it is true, officers succeeded by supplications and remonstrances
in stopping the fugitives, and in forming them into small detachments,
with which the commanders attempted to join the defeated and retreating
main force.

But where was this main army? Whither had the Prince of Hohenlohe
directed his vanquished troops? Neither the officers nor the soldiers
knew. They marched along the high-roads, not knowing whither to direct
their steps. But as soon as their restless eyes seemed to discern French
soldiers at a distance, the Prussians took to their heels, throwing
their muskets away to relieve their flight, and surrendering at
discretion when there was no prospect of escape. In one instance a troop
of one hundred Prussians surrendered to four French dragoons, who
conducted their prisoners to headquarters; and once a large detachment
hailed in a loud voice a few mounted grenadiers, who intended perhaps to
escape from their superior force, and gave the latter to understand, by
signals and laying down their arms, that they only wished to surrender
and deliver themselves to the French.

The Prussians had reached Jena and Auerstadt confident of victory, and
now had left the battle-field to carry the terrible tidings of their
defeat, like a host of ominously croaking ravens, throughout Germany.

The battle-field, on which a few hours previously Death had walked in a
triumphant procession, and felled thousands and thousands of bleeding
victims to the ground, was now entirely deserted. Night had thrown its
pall over the horrors of this Calvary of Prussian glory: the howling
storm alone sang a requiem to the unfortunate soldiers, who, with open
wounds and features distorted with pain, lay in endless rows on the
blood-stained ground.

At length the night of horror is over--the storm dies away--the thick
veil of darkness is rent asunder, and the sun of a new day arises pale
and sad; pale and sad he illuminates the battle-field, reeking with the
blood of so many thousands.

What a spectacle! How many mutilated corpses lie prostrate on the ground
with their dilated eyes staring at the sky--and among them, the happy,
the enviable! how many living, groaning, bleeding men, writhing with
pain, unable to raise their mutilated bodies from the gory bed of
torture and death!

The sun discloses the terrible picture hidden by the pall of night; it
illuminates the faces of the stark dead, but awakens the living and
suffering, the wounded and bleeding, from their benumbed slumber, and
recalls them to consciousness and the dreadful knowledge of their
wretched existence.

With consciousness return groans and wails; and the dreadful conviction
of their wretched existence opens their lips, and wrings from them
shrieks of pain and despair.

How enviable and blissful sleep the dead whose wounds bleed and ache no
longer! How wretched and pitiable are the living as they lie on the
ground, tortured by the wounds which the howling night wind has dried so
that they bleed no more! Those poor deserted ones in the valley and on
the hills the sun has awakened, and the air resounds with their moans
and cries and despairing groans, and heart-rending entreaties for
relief. But no relief comes to them; no cheerful voice replies to their
wails. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, had been placed in the ambulances,
and, during the sudden panic, the surgeons had left the battle-field
with them. But hundreds, nay thousands, remained behind, and with no one
to succor them!

From among the crowds of wounded and dead lying on the battle-field of
Auerstadt, rose up now an officer, severely injured in the head and arm.
The sun, which had aroused him from the apathetic exhaustion into which
he had sunk from loss of blood and hunger, now warmed his stiffened
limbs, and allayed somewhat the racking pain in his wounded right arm,
and the bleeding gash in his forehead. He tried to extricate himself
from under the carcass of his horse, that pressed heavily on him, and
felt delighted as he succeeded in loosing his foot from the stirrup, and
drawing it from under the steed. Holding with his uninjured left arm to
the saddle, he raised himself slowly. The effort caused the blood to
trickle in large drops from the wound in his forehead, which he
disregarded under the joyful feeling that he had risen again from his
death-bed, and that he was still living and breathing. For a moment he
leaned faint and exhausted against the horse as a couch; and feeling a
burning thirst, a devouring hunger, his dark, flaming eyes wandered
around as if seeking for a refreshing drink for his parched palate, or a
piece of bread to appease his hunger.

But his eye everywhere met only stiffened corpses, and the misery and
horror of a deserted battle-field. He knew that no food could be found,
as the soldiers had not, for two days, either bread or liquor in their
knapsacks. Hunger had been the ally that had paved the way for the
French emperor--it had debilitated the Prussians and broken their
courage.

"I must leave the battle-field," murmured the wounded soldier; "I must
save myself while I have sufficient strength; otherwise I shall die of
hunger. Oh, my God, give me strength to escape from so horrible a death!
Strengthen my feet for this terrible walk!"

He cast a single fiery glance toward heaven, one in which his whole soul
was expressed, and then set out on his walk. He moved along slowly and
with tottering steps amid the rows of corpses, some of which were still
quivering and moaning, as death drew near, while others writhed and
wailed with their wounds. Unable to relieve their racking pains, and to
assist them in their boundless misery, it only remained for him to sink
down among them, or to avert his eyes, to close his ears to their
supplications, and escape with hurried steps from this atmosphere of
blood and putrefaction, in order to rescue his own life from the
clutches of death.

He hastened, therefore, but his tearful eyes greeted the poor sufferers
whom he passed on his way, and his quivering lips muttered a prayer for
them.

At length the first and most horrible part of this dreadful field was
passed, and he escaped from the chaos of the dead and wounded. That
part, across which he was walking now, was less saturated with gore, and
the number of corpses scattered over it was much smaller. Here and there
was the wreck of a cannon besmeared with blood and mire, and empty
knapsacks, fragments of broken wagons and muskets, in the utmost
disorder and confusion.

"Spoils for the marauders," whispered the wounded officer, pressing on.
"It seems they have not been here yet. God have mercy on me, if they
should come now and look on me, too, as their spoil!"

He glanced around anxiously, and in doing so his eye beheld an
unsheathed, blood-stained sabre lying near his feet. He made an effort
to take it up regardless of the blood which, in consequence of the
effort, trickled again in larger drops from his wounds.

"Well," he said, in a loud and menacing voice, "I shall defend my life
at least to the best of my ability; the hateful enemies shall not
capture me as long as I am alive. Forward, then; forward with God! He
will not desert a faithful soldier!"

And supporting himself on his sabre, as if it were a staff, the officer
walked on. Everywhere he met with the same signs of war and destruction;
everywhere he beheld corpses, blood-stained cannon-balls, or muskets,
which the fugitives had thrown away.

"Oh, for a drop of water!" groaned the officer, while slowly crossing
the field; "my lips are parched!"

Tottering and reeling, with the aid of his sabre, and by his firm,
energetic will, and the resolution of his spirit, he succeeded once more
in overcoming the weakness of his body.

He hastened on with quicker steps, and hope now lent wings to his feet,
for yonder, in the rear of the shrubbery, he beheld a house; men were
there, assistance also.

At length, after untold efforts, and a terrible struggle with his pain
and exhaustion, he reached the peasant's house. Looking up with longing
eyes to the windows, he shouted: "Oh, give me a drink of water! Have
mercy on a wounded soldier!"

But no voice responded; no human face appeared behind the small green
windows. Every thing remained silent and deserted.

With a deep sigh, and an air of bitter disappointment depicted on his
features, he murmured:

"My feet cannot carry me any farther. Perhaps my voice was too weak, and
they did not hear me. I will advance closer to the house."

Gathering his strength, with staggering steps he approached and found
the door only ajar; whereupon he opened it and entered.

Within the house every thing was as silent as without; not a human being
was to be seen; not a voice replied to his shouts. The inside of the
dwelling presented a sorry spectacle. All the doors were open; the clay
floor was saturated here and there with blood; the small, low rooms were
almost empty; only some half-destroyed furniture, a few broken jars and
other utensils, were lying about. The inmates either had fled from the
enemy, or he had expelled them from their house.

"There is no help for me," sighed the officer, casting a despairing
glance on this scene of desolation. "Oh, why was it not vouchsafed to me
to die on the battle-field? Why did not a compassionate cannon-ball have
mercy on me, and give me death on the field of honor? Then, at least, I
should have died as a brave soldier, and my name would have been
honorably mentioned; now I am doomed to be named only among the missing!
Oh, it is sad and bitter to die alone, unlamented by my friends, and
with no tear of compassion from the eyes of my queen! Oh, Louisa,
Louisa, you will weep much for your crown, for your country, and for
your people, but you will not have a tear for the poor lieutenant of
your dragoons who is dying here alone uttering a prayer for a blessing
on you! Farewell queen, may God grant you strength, and--"

His words died away; a deadly pallor overspread his features, his head
turned dizzy, and a ringing noise filled his ears.

"Death! death!" he murmured faintly, and, with a sigh, he fell senseless
to the ground.

Every thing had become silent again in the humble house; not a human
sound interrupted the stillness reigning in the desolate room. Only the
hum of a few flies, rushing with their heads against the window-panes,
was heard. Once a rustling noise was heard in a corner, and a mouse
glided across the floor, its piercing, glittering eyes looked
searchingly around, and the sight of the bloody, motionless form, lying
prostrate on the floor, seemed to affright it, for it turned and slipped
away even faster than it had approached, and disappeared in the corner.

The sun rose higher, and shone down on the dimmed windows of the house,
reflecting their yellow outlines on the floor, and illuminated the gold
lace adorning the uniform of the prostrate and motionless officer.

All at once the silence was broken by the approach of hurried steps, and
a loud voice was heard near at hand, shouting:

"Is there anybody in the house?"

Then every thing was still again. The new-comer was evidently waiting
for a reply. After a pause, the steps drew nearer--now they were already
in the hall; and now the tall, slender form of a Prussian officer, with
a bandaged head and arm, appeared on the threshold of the room. When he
beheld the immovable body on the floor, his pale face expressed surprise
and compassion.

"An officer of the queen's dragoons!" he ejaculated, and in the next
moment he was by his side. He knelt down, and placed his hand
inquiringly on the heart and forehead of the prostrate officer.

"He is warm still," he murmured, "and it seems to me his heart is yet
beating. Perhaps, perhaps he only fainted from loss of blood, just as I
did before my wounds had been dressed. Let us see."

He hastily drew a flask from his bosom, and pouring some of its contents
into his hand, he washed with it the forehead and temples of his poor
comrade.

A slight shudder now pervaded his whole frame, and he looked with a
half-unconscious, dreamy glance into the face of the stranger, who had
bent over him with an air of heart-felt sympathy.

"Where am I?" he asked, in a low, tremulous voice.

"With a comrade," said the other, kindly. "With a companion in
misfortune who is wounded, and a fugitive like you. I am an officer of
the Hohenlohe regiment, and fought at Jena. Since last night I have been
wandering about, constantly exposed to the danger of falling into the
hands of the enemy. My name is Pückler--it is a good Prussian name. You
see, therefore, it is a friend who is assisting his poor comrade, and
you need not fear any thing. Now, tell me what I can do for you?"

"Water, water!" groaned the wounded officer, "water!"

"You had better take some of my wine here," said the other; "it will
quench your thirst, and invigorate you at the same time."

He held the flask to the lips of his comrade, and made him sip a little
of his wine.

"Now it is enough," he said, withdrawing the flask from his lips. "Since
you have quenched your thirst, comrade, would you not like to eat a
piece of bread and some meat? Ah, you smile; you are surprised because I
guess your wishes and know your sufferings. You need not wonder at it,
however, comrade, for I have undergone just the same torture as you.
Above all, you must eat something."

While speaking, he had produced from his knapsack a loaf of bread and a
piece of roast chicken, and cutting a few slices from both, placed them
tenderly in the mouth of the sufferer, looking on with smiling joy while
the other moved his jaws, slowly at first, but soon more rapidly and
eagerly.

"Now another draught of wine, comrade," he said, "and then, I may dare
to give you some more food. Hush! do not say a word--it is a sacred work
you are doing now, a work by which you are just about to save a human
life. You must not, therefore, interrupt it by any superfluous
protestations of gratitude. Moreover, your words are written in your
eyes, and you cannot tell me any thing better and more beautiful than
what I am reading therein. Drink! So! And here is a piece of bread and a
wing of the chicken. While you are eating, I will look around in the
yard and garden to find there some water to wash your wounds."

Without waiting for a reply, he hastily left the officer alone with the
piece of bread, the wing of the chicken, and the flask. When he
returned, about fifteen minutes later, with a jar filled with water, the
bread and meat had disappeared; but instead of the pale, immovable, and
cadaverous being, he found seated on the floor a young man with flashing
eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks, and a gentle smile on his lips.

"You have saved me," he said, extending his hand toward his returning
comrade. "I should have died of hunger and exhaustion, if you had not
relieved me so mercifully."

"Comrade," said the officer, smiling, "you have just repeated the same
words which I addressed two hours ago to another comrade whom I met on
the retreat; or, to speak more correctly, who found me lying in the
ditch. The lucky fellow had got a horse; he offered me a seat behind
him. But I saw that the animal was too weak to carry both of us; hence I
did not accept his offer, but I took the refreshments which he gave to
me, and with which he not only saved my life, but yours too. You are,
therefore, under no obligations to me, but to him alone."

"You are as kind as you are generous," said the other, gently,
involuntarily raising his hand toward his forehead.

"And I see that you are in pain," exclaimed the officer, "and that the
wound in your head is burning. Mine has been dressed already, and my
shattered arm bandaged--for I received both wounds yesterday in the
early part of the battle, and the surgeon attended to them while the
bullets were hissing around us."

"I was wounded only when every thing was lost," sighed the other. "A
member of the accursed imperial guard struck me down."

"I hope you gave him a receipt in full for your wounds?" asked the
officer, while tenderly washing the wound with the water he had brought
along in the broken jar.

The other officer looked up to him with flashing eyes.

"I gave him a receipt which he has already shown to God Himself," he
said, "provided there is a God for these accursed French. My sword cleft
his skull, but I fell together with him."

"Your wound here in the forehead is of no consequence," said the
officer; "the stroke only cut the skin. Let us put this moistened
handkerchief on it."

"Oh, now I am better," said the other; "now that the wound burns less
painfully, I feel that life is circulating again through all my veins."

"And what about your arm?"

"A lancer pierced it. I hope he was kind enough not to touch the bone,
so that the arm need not be amputated. It is true, it pains severely;
but, you see, I can move it a little, which proves that it is not
shattered. Now, comrade, do me still another favor--assist me in
rising."

"Here, lean firmly on me. There! I will lift you up--now you are on your
legs again. Lean on me still, for you might become dizzy."

"No, I shall not. I feel again well and strong enough to take the burden
of life on my shoulders. Thank God! I am able to stand again. For,
however crushed and trampled under foot we may be, we will submit to our
fate manfully, and stand erect. The conqueror and tyrant shall not
succeed in bending our heads, although he has broken our hearts. Ah,
comrade, that was a terrible day when all Prussia sank in ruins!"

"You were in the thickest of the fray? The regiment of the queen's
dragoons fought at Auerstadt, I believe?"

"Yes, it fought at Auerstadt, or rather it did the same as all the other
regiments--it deserted. Only a few squadrons complied with the urgent
exhortations of the king, who led us against the squares of the enemy
near Hassenhausen. His own horse was shot; we officers stood our ground,
but the dragoons ran away.[Historical] Ah, I wept with rage, and if my
tears could have been transformed into bullets, they would not have been
directed against the enemy, but against our own cowardly dragoons. The
battle would have been won if our soldiers had not disgracefully taken
to their heels. All shouts, orders, supplications, were in vain; the
soldiers were running, although no enemy pursued them; the panic had
rendered them perfectly crazy."

"And do you really believe, comrade, that we owe the loss of the battle
exclusively to the cowardice of the soldiers?" asked the officer. "Did
our generals do their duty? Ah, you look gloomy, and do not reply. Then
you agree with me? Let us, however, speak of all these things afterward,
but first of ourselves."

"Yes, first of ourselves!" exclaimed the other, starting from his gloomy
reflections. "Count Pückler, you were kind enough to tell me your name,
when you relieved an unknown sufferer in so humane a manner, and thereby
saved his life. Now permit me to tell you my name, too, so that you may
know at least who will always revere your memory with affection and
gratitude. I am Second-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Schill. You see, it is a
very humble name; still I had solemnly vowed that it should not be
unknown in the battles that were to be fought."

"And I see it written on your brow, comrade, that you will at some
future time make up for what fate has now prevented you from
accomplishing," said Count Pückler, kindly offering his hand to
Lieutenant von Schill. "Yet now let us not think of the future, but of
the present. We are disabled, and will be helpless as soon as the
wound-fever sets in; and we may be sure that that will be to-night. We
must, therefore, find a place of refuge; for, if we remain here, without
assistance, and without food, we shall surely be lost."

"You are right; we must leave this house," said Schill; "we must try to
reach a city or village. Come, let us go. You are armed, and I have got
a sabre, too. Let us go, but previously let us swear that we will not
surrender to the French, but rather die, even should it be necessary to
commit suicide! You have a knife, and when you cut some bread for me, I
saw that it was very sharp. Will you give it to me?"

"What for?"

"I want to stab myself, as soon as I see that I cannot escape from the
enemy!"

"And I? What is to become of me?"

"Before killing myself, I will stab you with my sabre. Will that content
you?"

"It will. Be careful, however, to hit my heart; do not merely wound, but
kill me."

"Ah, I see that we understand each other, and that the same heart is
pulsating in our breast!" exclaimed Schill, joyfully. "Let us die,
rather than be captured by the enemy and depend on the mercy of the
Corsican tyrant! Now, comrade, let us go! For you are right; the
wound-fever will set in toward evening, and without assistance we shall
be lost."

"Come," said Pückler, "place your uninjured arm in mine. It seems fate
has destined us for each other, for it has ruined your right arm and my
left arm; thus we can walk at least side by side, mutually supporting
ourselves. I shall be your right hand, and you will lend me your left
arm when I have to embrace anybody. But, it is true, no one will now
care for our embrace; every one will mock and deride us, and try to read
in the bloody handwriting on our foreheads: 'He is also one of the
vanquished Prussians!'"

"Comrade, did you not tell me a little while ago, that it would be
better for us to attend to our own affairs, before talking about other
matters?"

"It is true; let us go!"

And, leaning on each other, the two officers left the house.




CHAPTER II.

THE GERMAN SONG.


It was a sunny morning in autumn; the two wounded officers were inhaling
the bracing air in long draughts, and their eyes were wandering over the
transparent sky and the picturesque landscape.

"And to think that my eyes would never more have seen all this, if you
had not had mercy on me!" said Schill, with a grateful glance at his
companion.

"Ah, my friend," sighed Pückler, mournfully, "we shall not always behold
the sky and this beautiful, silent scene, but it may easily happen that
we shall see much misery to-day, and that you will curse your eyes for
being compelled to perceive it! Still you are right--it is better to
live, even in anguish and distress, than to die in anguish and distress;
for he who lives has still a future before him, and is able to strive in
it for revenge and compensation for the past. Let us descry our
immediate future from the hill yonder, and there decide on the direction
we shall take."

They walked toward the neighboring hill. Frequently they had to stop on
the way; frequently they sank down exhausted; but their will and
youthful energy overcame their weakness, and finally they reached their
destination: they stood on the summit, and were able to survey the whole
country for miles around.

"Yonder, where that dreadful smoke is rising, is the battle-field of
Auerstadt!" said Schill, after a long pause, during which they had taken
breath.

"Yes, and beyond those hills is Jena," said Pückler, sadly. "Those are
two melancholy names for a Prussian ear, and, like Ulysses, I should
like to close mine so as not to hear that siren voice of death any more;
for, I tell you, whenever I hear those two names, I am driven to
despair, and would like to throw myself into that abyss!"

"My friend, it seems to me we are already in the abyss, and our first
and most earnest endeavors should be directed toward saving us from it,"
said Schill, shrugging his shoulders. "Our first step should be to get
safely through the enemy's lines, in order to escape from the dangers to
which a collision with the French would expose us. Whither shall we turn
now? Have you formed already a definite plan, count?"

"Being disabled from active service by my wounds, I shall repair to my
estates in Silesia, and remain there till I have recovered. And you,
comrade--will you permit me to make you an offer? If you have not yet
come to a different decision, you ought to accompany me, and stay at my
house till your wounds are healed. I have splendid woods, and facilities
for angling on my estates; and if you like hunting and fishing, I am
sure a sojourn at my house will afford you plenty of amusement."

"But you forget that my right arm is wounded, count," said Schill, with
a melancholy smile; "hence, I shall be but a poor companion for you, and
ought not to accept your kind offer. I confess, moreover, that my mind
is too restless, and my heart too deeply grieved, to enjoy the peace and
quiet of country life. I must remain in the noise and turmoil of the
world, and see what will become of poor Prussia. I intend going to
Kolberg; the fortress is strong and impregnable; it will be an
insurmountable bulwark against the enemy, and I have several intimate
friends at the fortress. I will stay with them till I am well again."

"Our paths, then, will soon be different. You will go to the north; I,
to the east. But, for a few days, we shall still remain together, for
the wound-fever will compel us to advance very slowly. Let us look out
now for a dinner, and for a place where we may safely sleep to-night."

"And, it seems to me, I see a prospect of obtaining both. Yonder," said
Schill, pointing with his left hand to a small point on the horizon. "Do
you perceive that steeple? There is a village, and consequently there
are men; and, as it is situated northeast, it is in the right direction
for both of us."

"You are right; we will direct our steps thither," exclaimed Count
Pückler. "May Fate be propitious to us, and keep the French out of our
path!"

They walked down the hill on the opposite side, and then commenced
crossing, arm in arm, the stubble-field that lay stretched out before
them. All around them nothing whatever was stirring--not a sound, not
even the chirping of a bird, or the humming of a beetle, interrupted the
profound silence; neither a house, nor any trace of human life, was to
be seen anywhere.

"It is as still here as the grave," whispered Count Pückler.

"Death probably has already stalked across this field on its way to Jena
and Auerstadt," said Schill, "and for this reason all Nature seems to
hold its breath lest it should return."

"But it will not return very soon, for I should think Death itself must
be exhausted by the terrible work it had to perform on the battle-field.
Comrade, now that we know our destination, and have arranged our
affairs, we may converse a little about the dreadful events which
occurred yesterday. You were at Auerstadt. Do you know that at Jena we
had no knowledge whatever of the battle that was going on at Auerstadt,
and were informed of it only in the evening, after we had been
completely routed? We did not hear the reports of your guns!"

"So it was with us, too. At Auerstadt we did not know that a battle was
being fought at Jena; the roar of our own artillery prevented us from
hearing yours. Only when the king had sent off several orderlies to
order the Prince of Hohenlohe and General Rüchel to cover our retreat,
we learned, from the chasseur who returned first, that a battle had been
fought also at Jena, and that Hohenlohe and Rüchel were unable to afford
us any assistance. I cannot describe to you the dismay produced by this
intelligence. Every one thought only of saving himself; there was no
longer any obedience, sense of honor, or bravery. The generals were too
confused to issue orders, and the soldiers too frightened to listen to
their officers."

"And the king?"

"The king was evidently determined to die. His face was livid, his lips
were quivering; wherever the bullets rained down most murderously,
thither he spurred his horse. He had two horses killed, but remained
uninjured. It seems Fate was too unmerciful toward him: it had decreed
that the King of Prussia should not die, but learn in the stern school
of suffering and experience what Prussia needs."

"And the Duke of Brunswick--the commander-in-chief?"

"Ah, you do not yet know the terrible fate that befell him? A bullet
passed through his head; it entered on the right side, and came out on
the left. This happened in the early part of the battle; the duke was
brought back to Auerstadt in a fainting condition; his wound was dressed
there, and then he was carried by some soldiers to Blankenburg."

"The duke is not yet dead, then, notwithstanding this terrible wound?"

"No," said Schill, solemnly, "God would not let him die without reaping
the fruit of what he had sown. For his mental blindness God punished him
with physical blindness. The ball destroyed both his eyes."

"Dreadful!" muttered Count Pückler.

"You pity him?" asked Schill, harshly. "You had better pity the
thousands who are lying on the bloody battle-fields of Jena and
Auerstadt, and accusing the duke of having murdered them! You had better
pity Prussia's misfortunes and disgrace, which have been brought about
by the duke! For, I tell you, the indecision, vacillation, and timidity
of the duke were the sole causes of our terrible disaster. All of us
felt and knew it. None of the younger officers and generals had any
doubt about it; every one knew that those old gentlemen, who had
outlived their own glory, and still believed that they lived in the days
of Frederick the Great, were unequal to the occasion, to the present
time, and to the present war. Because we were aware of this, we made the
utmost efforts to bring about a change of commanders. We elected a
deputation of officers, and sent them to General Kalkreuth, for the
purpose of laying our complaints and prayers before him, and of
imploring him to induce the king to deprive the duke of his command,
and to intrust it to younger and more resolute hands. The deputation
consisted of none but skilful, prominent, and highly-esteemed officers,
who boldly declared it to be their firm conviction that the king was in
danger of losing his crown and his states, if the Duke of Brunswick
should remain at the head of the army."[1]

[Footnote 1: Vide Frederick von Gentz's writings, edited by G.
Schlesier, vol. ii., p. 314.]

"And what did General Kalkreuth reply to them?"

"The general asked, in a harsh tone, for a further explanation of their
words, and the officers gave it to him. They censured the duke's idea of
establishing a camp at Weimar, and dwelt contemptuously on the reasons
that might have induced him to do so. They proved, by referring to the
whole proceedings of the duke, that he knew neither what he was doing
nor what he wanted to do; neither where he was, nor whither he was
going; and they added that, in consequence of this deplorable state of
affairs, the whole army was filled with the most startling and
discouraging rumors.[2]"

[Footnote 2: Ibid., vol. ii., p. 315.]

"But their prayers, their remonstrances, their angry denunciations, and
predictions, were unavailing. General Kalkreuth could not make up his
mind to represent the dangers of the situation to the king, although he
himself was just as well satisfied of its critical character as all the
younger officers of the army. And thus we were defeated, disastrously
defeated and routed, in spite of all warnings of our consciousness of
the danger, and of all predictions. This time it was not the
inexperience and impetuosity of youth, but the antiquated method and
slowness of age, that brought about our ruin."

"Yes, you are right," sighed Count Pückler; "our old generals are the
cause of our misfortunes."

"Do you know, for instance," asked Schill, indignantly, "why we lost the
important defile of Kösen? In consequence of the night-sweat of General
von Schmettau!"

"Ah, you can jest even now!" said Pückler, sadly.

"I do not jest, by any means; on the contrary, I am in dead earnest!
The Duke of Brunswick had ordered the general, on the day before the
battle, to start early next morning with his division, and occupy the
defile of Kösen. His adjutant, Lieutenant von Pfuel, went repeatedly to
his headquarters to remind him of the urgent necessity of setting out,
and to implore him to rise from his bed. 'But, sir,' replied the old
general, 'let me wait at least until my night-sweat is gone; I
understand it is a very chilly morning!'[3] The old general did not rise
until nine o'clock, and started at ten with his division toward Kösen.
When he reached the defile he found that Marshal Davoust had caused it
to be occupied by a regiment of infantry scarcely an hour before. That
night-sweat of the old general has become the death-sweat of many brave
Prussians, and the gray hairs of the old chieftain will now cause the
hair of our youth to turn gray with shame and grief."

[Footnote 3: Vide Förster's "Modern History of Prussia," vol. i., p.
757.]

"Oh, it is a terrible disgrace for us, and I hardly know how we are to
bear it in a manly and dignified manner," said Count Pückler, gloomily.
"In these hours of melancholy only we feel the full extent of our ardent
love for our country; now only we perceive the indissoluble ties that
attach our hearts to it! I should like to pour out my blood in tears for
this crushed, disgraced, and yet so dearly-beloved country, and I feel
that if we do not rise speedily from our degradation, I shall die of
despair!"

"You will not die," said Schill, gravely, "for all of us who love
Prussia, and are devoted to her honor, must not think of dying at the
present time; all of us must assist Prussia in rising again from the
dust, so that she may once more boldly meet the tyrant, and take revenge
for herself and for Germany! For Prussia is Germany now, because she is
the only power in Germany that has resisted and braved the Corsican
conqueror. But God wanted first to arouse her from her arrogance and
vanity, and make the weakness of her leading men known to her, that she
might rise after a noble regeneration and with redoubled strength. Life
springs from death, and Prussia had to fall so low as to break her old
decrepit limbs that were still kept together by her glory from the Seven
Years' War; and then the young, vigorous soldier of the new century will
arise and draw the sword to deliver his subjugated country, and avenge
its desecrated honor!"

"Then you hope still for a change for the better?" asked Count Pückler,
mournfully.

"I base my hopes on the propitious star of Prussia," exclaimed Schill,
enthusiastically, "on the future, on the wrath and grief which will
awake now in all Prussian hearts, arousing the sluggards, strengthening
the vacillating, and urging the timid. I base my hopes on the tears of
Queen Louisa, which will move Heaven to help us and awaken avengers on
earth. And, for ourselves, comrade, with our wounds, with our disgrace,
we must be like the spirits of vengeance that sweep across the heath in
the howling storm of diversity, and awaken the sleeper who would give
way to dreams of peace and inaction. Prussia must not make peace in her
present calamitous condition; she must fill the hearts and minds of all
with longings for war, till the whole nation arises in its rage and
expels the enemy from the country! My friend, we have now witnessed the
downfall of Prussia, but henceforth we must exert ourselves in order to
witness also her regeneration. We ourselves must be the--"

"Hush!" said Pückler, hastily. "Just look there, and then take your
sabre."

They were now near a field-path leading to a small wood which a slender
youth had just left, and was hastily approaching them. As yet, however,
he was so far from them that they were unable to distinguish his
features or his dress, and to discern whether he was an armed soldier or
a peaceable wanderer.

"It is, doubtless, a French soldier, and his comrades are lying in
ambush," murmured Pückler, placing his hand on his sword.

"If he wants to attack us, he had better say his death-prayers," said
Schill, calmly. "There are two of us, and each has one uninjured arm."

The youth had meanwhile drawn nearer, and they saw that he did not wear
any uniform.

"He is very young," said Pückler, "and a civilian. He has apparently not
yet seen us. That bush yonder is concealing us from his eyes. Let us
stoop a little, and, as the path lies beyond, he may pass by without
noticing us."

They knelt down behind the bush, but, while doing so, took their swords,
and prepared for an attack. Then they held their breath and listened.

Profound silence reigned around, and nothing was to be heard but the
quick steps of the wanderer, who drew nearer and nearer. Suddenly this
silence was interrupted by a fresh and youthful voice, singing the air
of a popular song.

"Ah, he sings," murmured Schill. "He who can sing to-day, must be very
harmless, and it is not worth while to kill him."

"Hush! hush! let us listen to his song. He is now singing words to the
melody. Just listen!"

The voice resounded nearer and nearer to the two listeners, and they
could understand the words he was singing:

    O Hermann! for thy country's fall
        No tears! Where vanquished valor bled
    The victor rules, and Slavery's pall,
        Upon these hills and vales is spread.
    Shame burns within me, for the brave
    Lie mouldering in the freeman's grave.

    No voice! where sturdy Luther spoke
        Fearless for men who dared be free!
    O would that Heaven's thunder woke
        My people for their liberty!
    Must heroes fight and die in vain?--
    Ye cowards! grasp your swords again!

    Revenge! revenge! a gory shroud
        To tyrants, and the slaves that yield'
    Eternal honor calls aloud
        For courage in the battle-field.
    Who loves or fears a conquered land
    That bows beneath the despot's hand?

    And whither flee? Where Winkelried
        And Tell and Ruyter bravely broke
    Oppression's power--their country freed--
        All--all beneath the usurper's yoke!
    From Alpine fountains to the sea
    The patriot dead alone are free.

    My people! in this sorrowing night,
        The clanking of your chains may be
    The sign of vengeance, and the fight
        Of former times the world may see,
    When Hermann in that storied day
    As a wild torrent cleft his way.

    No idle song, O youth! thy boast.
        In self-born virtue be as one
    Who is himself a mighty host
        By whose sole arm is victory won.
    No blazoned monument so grand
    As death for the dear Fatherland.

    To die! how welcome to the brave!
        The tomb awakes no coward fear
    Save to the wretched, trembling slave
        Who for his country sheds no tear.
    To crown me with a fadeless wreath
    Be thine, O happy, sacred death!

    Come, shining sword! avenge my dead!
        Alone canst thou remove this shame.
    Proud ornament! with slaughter red
        Restore my native land its fame.
    By night, by day, in sun or shade,
    Be girt around me, trusty blade.

    The trumpet on the morning gale!
        Arm! forward to the bloody strife!
    From loftiest mountain to the vale
        Asks dying Freedom for her life.
    Our standard raise, to glory given,
    And higher still our hearts to Heaven.[4]

[Footnote 4: This is one of Arndt's soul-stirring, patriotic hymns,
published in 1806. It is difficult to render into readable English this
species of German heroic verse so as to preserve its rhythm. All the
thought of the original is however expressed in the translation. The
only change of any importance is the transposition of the seventh
stanza.]

    Keine Thräne, Hermann, für dein Volk?
    Keine Thräne, und die Schande brennet,
    Und der Feind gebietet, we die Freien
    Siegten und fielen?

    Keine Stimme laut, wo Luther sprach?
    Alle Donner, die der Himmel sendet,
    Sollten rufen: Volk erwache! feiges;
    Greife zum Schwerte.

    Rache! Rache! heissen, blut'gen Tod
    Sklavenfürsten und dem Knecht der fliehet!
    Männerwort gefürchtet und gepriesen,
    Männliche Tugend!

    Ach wohin? wo Winkelried erlag,
    Wilhelm schlug, und Ruyter tapfer siegte;
    Auf den höchsten Alpen, in den tiefsten
    Sümpfen ist Knechtschaft.

    Auch du, Hermann's, auch du, kühnes Volk?
    Auf! Erwache! Schüttle deine Ketten,
    Dass die Schmach die Welt vernehme, bald auch
    Blutige Rache!

    Lieder helfen hier and Mäler nicht.
    Mäler? Tief im Herzen sei das Denkmal,
    An dem Thurm der selbstgebornen Tugend
    Hebe dich, Jüngling!

    Und voran geworfen kühn die Brust,
    Und empor das Auge zu dem Himmel,
    Hoch die Fahne! Hoch zum Himmel! Höher
    Flammende Herzen.

    Tod, du süsser, für das Vaterland,
    Süsser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen
    Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,
    Sei mir willkommen!

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert,
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften!
    Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!

Just when the youth had sung the last verse in a ringing voice, he had
reached the bush. And now there arose above it two pale heads, wrapped
in white, blood-stained handkerchiefs, and sang in enthusiastic tone the
last verse of the song they had heard:

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert!
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften!
    Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!




CHAPTER III.

THE OATH OF VENGEANCE.


Speechless with surprise, the youth had listened to the song, and fixed
his large eyes steadfastly on the two officers, whose uniforms and
wounds revealed to him the melancholy fate that had befallen them during
the last few days.

When the two were silent, he approached them with an air of profound
respect.

"Bravo, officers of Auerstadt or Jena," he said, with a voice trembling
with emotion, "permit a poor young wanderer to present his respects to
you, and to thank you, in the name of the German fatherland, for the
wounds on your foreheads. Such wounds are also an 'ornament of the
brave.'" [An allusion to the last line of the original song.]

"And such words are an ornament of a noble heart," exclaimed Schill,
offering his hand to the youth.

He took it with a joyful gesture, and, quickly kneeling down, imprinted
a glowing kiss on the feverish hand of the wounded officer.

"My God!" exclaimed Schill, surprised, "what are you doing? How can a
man kiss another's hand and kneel before him? Rise!"

"I am no man," said the youth, deeply moved. "I am but a poor boy, who
has not yet done any thing for his country, and, perhaps, never will be
able to do any thing for it, but who feels the most profound respect for
those who were more fortunate than he. I, therefore, kiss your hand as
Catholics kiss the hands of their saints and martyrs. For are you not at
the present hour a martyr of German liberty? Hence, sir, give me your
hand, too. Let me press my poor lips on it, also. It is the only way for
me to manifest my profound respect for you."

"No," said Count Pückler, feelingly, "you shall not kiss my hand, but my
cheeks and my lips. Let me embrace you, young man, let me embrace you
for the boon you have conferred on us by your words. Come, sir!"

The young man uttered a joyous cry, and, rising quickly, threw himself
with youthful impetuosity into the count's arms.

"I will and must have my share in the embrace," exclaimed Schill,
smiling; "did not you before expressly request me, comrade, to lend you
my left arm for every embrace? Well, then, here it is."

He quickly wound his left arm around the necks of the others, and
pressed them firmly to his heart. When they withdrew their arms again,
tears were glistening in the eyes of the officers as well as in those of
the youth.

"Grief and adversity cause men easily to fraternize," said Schill, "and
therefore we shall be brethren henceforward."

"You will be my brethren?" exclaimed the young man, joyfully. "You will
permit the poor boy to call two heroes brethren?"

"Heroes!" said Pückler, sighing. "Then you do not know, my friends, that
we were disgracefully defeated and trampled under foot in yesterday's
battle?"

"I know that, but know also that the _luck_ of battles is not the true
standard for the bravery of warriors. _You_ at least did not run, and,
like true heroes, you bear your wounds on your foreheads; your mothers,
therefore, will proudly bid you welcome; your betrothed or your wives
will embrace you with rapturous tears, and your friends will be proud of
your valor."

"Does it not seem almost as though he had heard our mournful and
despondent words, and wished to comfort us?" asked Schill, turning to
the count. "His blue eyes apparently do not behold only our physical
wounds, but also those which cause our hearts to bleed, and he wishes to
apply a balm to them by his sweet, flattering words."

"He wishes to console the poor defeated, and reconcile them to their
fate," said Pückler, nodding kindly to the youth.

"You have a better and more generous opinion of me than I deserve," he
said, sadly bowing his head so as to shake its exuberant mass of long,
fair hair. "I simply told you what I thought, and what every one who
looks at both of you will and must think."

"Would to God you spoke the truth, young man!" said Count Pückler,
mournfully. "Believe me, however, but few will think like yourself; a
great many will rejoice at seeing us defeated and humiliated."

"Instead of bewailing us, they will deride us," exclaimed Schill;
"instead of weeping with us, they will revile us!"

"Who will dare to do so?" exclaimed the youth, in an outburst of
generous anger. "Do you forget, then, that you are in Germany, and that
you have shed your blood for your country? Your German brethren will not
deride you; they will not rejoice at your sufferings; they will hope
with you for a better and more fortunate day when you will get even with
that insolent and hateful enemy, for the battles of Jena and Auerstadt."

"Pray to God, my young friend, that that day may speedily dawn!" said
Count Pückler, heaving a sigh.

"Pray!" ejaculated the young man, impetuously. "In times like ours it is
not sufficient to pray and to hope for divine assistance; we ought
rather to act and toil, and, instead of folding our hands, arm them
either with the sword or with the dagger."

"With the dagger?" asked Schill. "The dagger is the weapon of
assassins."

"Was Moeros an assassin because he wanted to stab Dionysius the tyrant?"
asked the youth. "Was he not rather a generous and high-minded man, whom
our great Schiller deemed worthy of becoming the hero of one of his
finest poems? When the fatherland is in danger, every weapon is sacred,
and every way lawful which a bold heart desires to pursue, to deliver
the country."

"Well, I see already that your heart will choose the right, and not
shrink back from dangers," said Pückler, kindly. "But, in the first
place, tell us which way you are now going to take, that we may know
whether we shall be allowed to accompany you or not."

"I come from Erfurt, where my parents are living," said the young man;
"last night I was at Weimar, and now I am going to do what I have sworn
a solemn oath to my father to do. I am on my way to Leipsic."

"And may I inquire what you are going to do in Leipsic?"

The young man was silent, and a flaming blush mantled for a moment his
delicate, innocent face. "According to my father's wishes, I shall
become there a merchant's apprentice," he said, in a low and embarrassed
voice.

"What! Feeling so generous an enthusiasm for the fatherland and its
soldiers, you want to become a merchant?" asked Schill, in surprise.

The youth raised his blue eyes to him; they were filled with tears.

"I am ordered to become a merchant," he said in a low voice. "My father
is a pious preacher, and hates and detests warfare; he says it is sinful
for men to raise their weapons against their brethren, as though they
were wild beasts, against which you cannot defend yourself but by
killing them. My mother, in former days, became familiar with the
horrors of war; she fears, therefore, lest her only son should fall prey
to them, and wishes to protect him from such a fate. With bitter tears,
with folded hands, nay, almost on her knees, she implored me to desist
from my purpose of becoming a soldier, and not to break her heart with
grief and anguish. My mother begged and wept, my father scolded and
threatened, and thus I was obliged to yield and be a dutiful son. Three
days ago my father administered the sacrament to me, and I swore an oath
to him at the altar to remain faithful to the avocation he had selected
for me, and never to become a soldier!"

He paused, and the tears which had filled his eyes rolled like pearls
over his cheeks.

"Poor friend!" murmured Pückler.

"Poor brother!" said Schill, indignantly. "To be doomed to wield the
yardstick in place of the sword! How can a father be so cruel as to make
his son take such a pledge at the present time?"

"My father is not cruel," said the youth, gently; "his only aim is my
happiness, but he wishes to bring it about in his own way, and not in
mine. It behooves a son to yield and obey. Accordingly, I shall not
become a soldier, but God knows whether it will be conducive to my
happiness. Many a one has already been driven to commit a crime by his
despair at having chosen an unsuitable avocation. But let us speak no
more of myself," he added, shaking his head indignantly, as if he wanted
to drive the tears from his eyes; "let us speak no more of my petty,
miserable grief, but of your great sorrow, which all Germany shares with
you. You know now every thing concerning my affairs, and it only remains
for me to mention my name. It is Staps; 'Frederick Staps' will be my
firm one day, if I should live to see it."

"Your name is Frederick, like that of Prussia's great king," said
Schill, comfortingly, "and who knows whether you will not one day become
a great soldier like him?"

"But I have told you already that I have sworn at the altar never to
become a soldier," said Frederick Staps, sighing. "I shall never break
the oath I have sworn to my father, nor the one either which I have
sworn to myself!"

"The oath that you will become a good and honest man, I suppose?" asked
Pückler.

"It is unnecessary to take such an oath, because that is a matter of
course," said Frederick Staps, quickly. "I swore another oath, but
nobody but God must know it. When the time has come, you shall be
informed of it. Do not forget my name, and when you hear from me one
day, remember this hour and the tears you saw me shed for being
compelled to choose an avocation that is repugnant to me."

"And in order to remember us, you must know who we are," exclaimed Count
Pückler, stating his name.

"And my name is Schill," said the lieutenant. "We fought at Auerstadt
and Jena, and are now wandering about, and seeking for a place where we
may spend the coming night."

"You will find it in the village in the rear of the wood," said
Frederick Staps. "Come, I will guide you back to the village and to the
country parson, to whom I have on my way just presented my father's
respects. He is a good and generous man. You will be kindly received and
nursed by him and his wife; and if French soldiers should come to his
house, he would not betray, but conceal you."

"Oh, what delightful words you have just uttered!" exclaimed Schill,
joyously. "Blessed be your lips which have announced to us that we shall
be saved, for, let me tell you, we should prefer death to French
captivity!"

"I understand that," said Frederick Staps, quietly. "Come, I will guide
you thither."

"And we accept your offer, as friends ought to accept that of a friend,"
said Count Pückler. "We do not say: 'We cause you trouble and loss of
time; let us therefore try to find our way alone;' but we say: 'In these
days of affliction we are all brethren, and we must rely on each other's
assistance.' Come, therefore, brother, and be our guide."

They walked slowly toward the small wood from which Staps had issued.

"You stated you had been in Weimar, and spent a night there," asked
Count Pückler. "How does the place look--what do people say, and who is
there?"

"It looks like a pandemonium," replied Staps. "Nothing is to be heard
but curses, shouts, threats, and screams: nothing to be seen but faces
pale with terror, and fleeing from the pursuing soldiers. The streets
are crowded with men, wagons, and horses. The inhabitants want to leave
the city; they know not whither to escape, and are forced back at the
gates by French soldiers making their entry, or by vehicles filled with
wounded."

"And how is it at the palace? The duchess has fled from the wrath of the
conqueror, I suppose?"

"No, the duchess has remained to beg Napoleon to have mercy on her state
and her husband."

"But is Napoleon already in Weimar?"

"Yes; he came over from Jena this morning. The duchess received him at
the foot of the palace staircase, and did not avert her eyes from his
angry and haughty glances, but looked at him with the proud calmness of
a noble German lady. 'You have not fled, then?' asked Napoleon, harshly.
'Then you do not fear my anger at the senseless and hostile conduct of
your husband?' The duchess looked quietly at him. 'You see, sire, I have
remained because I have confided in your generosity, and wished to
intercede for my husband and my people.' Napoleon looked at her during a
long pause, and her quiet dignity seemed to impress him very favorably.
'That was well done,' he said at last, 'and for your sake, and because
you have reposed confidence in me, I will forgive your husband.'[5] I do
not know what occurred afterward, for I left the palace when Napoleon
had retired to the rooms reserved for his personal use. My cousin, who
is lady's maid of the duchess, told me what I have just related to you."

[Footnote 5: Napoleon's own words.--Vide "Mémoires de Constant," vol.
iv., and "History of Napoleon," by * * * r, vol. ii., p. 109.]

"And you did not hear any thing about our king and his consort?"

"Both are said to be on the way to Magdeburg, where they will remain, if
the pursuing enemy will permit them. Napoleon's hatred and wrath are not
yet satiated, and his latest bulletin is written in the same vulgar
guard-room style as all the recent manifestoes in which he dares to
revile the noble and beautiful queen."

"Then another bulletin has appeared?"

"It was just distributed among the troops when I left Weimar. A soldier,
whom I asked for his copy, gave it to me. Do you wish to read it?"

"Read it to us," said Count Pückler. "Let us rest a little in the shade
of these trees, for I confess I feel greatly exhausted, and my feet
refuse to carry me any farther. And how do you feel, comrade?"

"Do you believe," asked Schill, in a faint voice, "do you believe that I
should not have given vent to my anger at the impudence of that Corsican
who dares to revile our noble queen, if I had had sufficient strength to
speak? Let us sit down and rest. See, there is a splendid old oak. Let
us take breath under its shade."

They walked toward a large oak, which stood at the entrance of the wood,
and the foot of which was overgrown with fragrant green moss. Assisted
by Staps, the two officers seated themselves, and the roots, covered
with soft turf, served as pillows to their wounded heads.

"Oh, how delightful to rest on German soil under a German oak!" sighed
Schill. "I should like to lie here all my lifetime, looking up to the
rustling leaves, and dreaming! Amid the stillness surrounding us, it is
almost impossible to believe that we witnessed yesterday such wild
strife and bloodshed. Is all this reality, or have we had merely an
evil, feverish dream?"

"Touch your forehead; try to raise your right arm, and you will see that
it is reality," said Pückler, laughing bitterly, "and if you should have
any doubt, let our young friend read the latest bulletin issued by our
_triumphator_. But will you promise not to interrupt him, nor to be
angry at what we are going to hear?"

"I promise you to be perfectly calm, for my weakness compels me to be
so. Read, friend Staps. But, pray, let us have the German translation,
for it would be a violation of the peaceful silence of the forest, and
of the sacredness of the German oak, if we should use here the language
of our enemies."

Frederick Staps sat down opposite the officers, on the trunk of a fallen
tree. Drawing a paper from his bosom, he unfolded it, and read as
follows:

"The battle of Jena has effaced the disgrace of Rossbach, and decided a
campaign in seven days. Since the ninth of October we have proceeded
from victory to victory, and the battles of Jena and Auerstadt have
crowned all. The Prussian army is dispersed--almost annihilated. The
king is wandering about without shelter, and the queen will now regret
with bitter tears that she instigated her husband to this senseless and
unjust war. Admirable was the conduct of our whole army, soul-stirring
the enthusiasm of the brave soldiers for their chieftain and emperor.
When there was any momentary difficulty to overcome, the shout of 'Long
live the emperor!' resounded, animating all souls, and carrying away all
hearts. The emperor saw at the most critical moment of the battle that
the enemy's cavalry threatened the flanks of the infantry. He galloped
up to order new manoeuvres, and the front to be transformed into a
square. At every step he was hailed by shouts of 'Long live the
emperor!' The soldiers of the imperial guard were jealous of all the
other corps who participated in the battle, while they alone were
inactive. Several voices were already heard to shout, 'Forward!' The
emperor turned and asked, 'What is that? He must assuredly be a
beardless youth who wishes to anticipate me as to what I ought to do.
Let him wait until he has commanded in twenty battles; then he may claim
to be my adviser.' The whole guard replied to this rebuke by the
unanimous shout of 'Long live the emperor!' and rushed toward the enemy,
when, at length, the order was given to charge. The results of this
battle are from thirty to forty thousand prisoners, three hundred
field-pieces, and thirty standards. Among the prisoners there are more
than twenty generals. The losses of the Prussian army are very heavy,
amounting to more than twenty thousand killed and wounded. Our losses
are estimated at about twelve hundred killed and three thousand
wounded."[6]

[Footnote 6: Fifth bulletin of the Grand Army.]

"Profound silence ensued when Staps had read the bulletin. The two
officers were still lying on the ground, and their dilated eyes gazing
at the roof of foliage above them."

"And we must quietly listen to that," said Schill, after a long pause;
"and our hearts do not break with grief and rage! heaven does not grow
dark, and earth does not open to swallow up the degraded, in order to
save them compassionately from the sense of their humiliation! These
words will be read by the whole of Europe, and all will know that this
insolent conqueror may dare with impunity to speak in insulting terms of
our queen, the purest and best of women!"

"He is the master of the world, and will issue many more bulletins of
this description, and speak in such terms of many more princes and
princesses," said Count Pückler. "He has the power to do so. He needs
only stretch out his hand, and kingdoms fall to ruins--nations are at
his feet, and cry imploringly: 'Let us be your slaves, and lay your hand
on us as our lord and master!' It is useless to resist him. Let us,
therefore, submit."

"No," exclaimed Schill, rising, "no, let us not submit. When a whole
nation arouses itself, and shakes its lion's mane, there is no hand,
even though it were an iron one, that could hold and subdue it."

"But our nation will not rise again--it has been crushed," said Pückler,
mournfully. "It is sleeping the sleep of death."

"No, it has not been crushed. No, it will not die!" exclaimed Schill, in
an outburst of generous rage. "It is only necessary to instill genuine
vitality into its veins, and to awaken it from its lethargy by
soul-stirring exhortations, as our young friend here encouraged and
strengthened us an hour ago by his noble song. Oh, sing again, friend
Staps! Purify the air--which is still infected by the words of the
imperial bulletin--purify it by another German song, and let the native
oak, which has listened to our disgrace, now hear also manly words.
Sing! and may your voice reach our poor soldiers who are closing their
eyes on the battle-field; and may it breathe the consolation into their
ears, 'You die for Germany, but Germany does not die--she lives, and
will rise again!'"

"Yes, I will sing," said Frederick Staps, enthusiastically, "but I wish
that every note issuing from my breast would transform itself into a
sword, and strike around with the storm's resistless fury!"

"In that case all of us, and yourself, too, would be the first victims,"
said Pückler, with a melancholy smile.

"Of what consequence are our lives, if they are given up for the
fatherland?" exclaimed Staps, fervently. "Oh, believe me, I could, like
Mucius Scaevola, lay my hand on the red-hot iron, and not wince, but
sing jubilant hymns, if I thought that my torture would be useful to my
country. Now, I can only sing, only pray, only weep. But who knows
whether I shall not become one day a modern Mucius Scaevola, a modern
Moeros, and deliver the world from its tyrant?"

And suddenly raising his voice, with a radiant face, he began to sing:

    Frisch auf! Es ruft das Vaterland
    Die Männer in die Schlacht.
    Frisch auf! Zu dämpfen Trug und Schand!
    Heran mit Macht, mit Macht!
         Heran und braucht den Männerleib,
         Wozu ihn Gott gebaut:
         Zum Schirm der Jungfrau und dem Weib,
         Dem Säugling und der Braut!

    Denn ein Tyrann mit Lügenwort
    Und Strick und Henkerschwert,
    Uebt in dem Vaterlande Mord,
    Und schändet Thron und Heerd,
        Und will, so weit die Sonne scheint
        Der einz'ge König sein;
        Ein Menschenfeind, ein Freiheitsfeind,
        Spricht er: die Welt ist mein!

    Verhüt' es Gott und Hermann's Blut!
    Nie werde solches wahr!
    Erwache, alter deutscher Muth,
    Der Recht und Licht gebar!
        Erwache! sonder Rast und Ruh,
        Schlag' Jeden der dir droht,
        Und ruf' ihm deutsche Losung zu:
        "Sieg gelt' es, oder Tod!"[7]

[Footnote 7: "Victory or death!" A very popular hymn of that period.]

"Victory or death!" shouted the two officers, raising their hands and
eyes toward heaven.

"When will the Germans sing and act in this manner?" asked Count
Pückler, sadly.

"When we have awakened them!" exclaimed Schill, joyfully. "For that is
now our only task: to arouse the Germans, and to remind them of their
duty and honor. Every one ought to raise his voice for this purpose, and
toil for it. The time is past when the nation was separated from the
army, and when the civilian hated the soldier. All these separate
interests we buried yesterday on the battle-fields of Jena and
Auerstadt. Heaven permitted our army to be defeated for the purpose of
teaching us that its heart was demoralized and its vitality entirely
gone. But Bonaparte, who believes his successes to be due solely to his
own energy and sagacity, is, after all, nothing but the scourge that God
uses to chastise us. And, after chastising us sufficiently, the scourge
will be cast aside, and lie on the ground, trampled under foot and
despised, while we shall rise and become again a glorious nation. But,
in order to bring about this change, it is necessary to arouse the
Prussians, and fan the flames of their patriotism. Every Prussian must
feel and know that he is a soldier of the grand army which we shall one
day place in the field against the so-called grand army of Napoleon,
and, when the call of 'Rally round the flag!' resounds, he must take up
the sword, and proudly feel that the holy vengeance of the fatherland is
placed in his hands."

"But suppose there is no one to utter the cry of 'Rally round the flag!'
how are the people to appear and take up arms?"

"_We_ are there, and _we_ shall exhort the people to arms!" said Schill,
energetically. "Henceforth, we must not wait until the generals call us;
we ourselves must be generals, and organize armies--every one after his
own fashion--according to his influence. We must travel over the
country, and enlist recruits. As we have no standing army, we must form
independent corps, and, by means of raids, harass and molest the enemy.
The strongest lion succumbs when stung by many bees. Every Prussian must
turn conspirator, and prevail on his neighbor to join the great
conspiracy; secret leagues and clubs must be instituted everywhere, and
work and agitate until we are united like _one_ man, and, with the
resistless power of our holy wrath, expel the tyrant who enslaves us!"

"Yes, you are right; we must not give way to timid despondency, but hope
and dare every thing. Every one must become a general, and enlist
troops, to attack the enemy whenever and wherever he can!"

"I shall also enlist my troops, and lead them against the enemy,"
exclaimed Staps, with sparkling eyes. "But my troops will not be made of
flesh and blood. They will be the songs I sing, and one day I shall
march out with them, and challenge the tyrant to mortal combat! Yes, you
are right in saying, 'Every one must fight after his own fashion, and
according to his power and influence;' let me fight, too, after my
fashion!"

"Go and fight, and may the blessings of all the brave follow you!" said
Schill, placing his hand on the head of the youth. "Let us take here,
under the German oak, a solemn oath that we will devote our fortunes,
our lives, and our sacred honor, to the fatherland!"

"Yes," exclaimed Pückler and Staps, "we will take that oath!"

"Let us," said Schill, "then swear to strive for nothing but to deliver
Germany from the grasp of the tyrant."

"We swear," continued Schill, "to regard ourselves from this hour as
soldiers of the grand army one day to battle for our liberties--to leave
nothing undone in enlisting fresh troops--that our life shall be nothing
but an inexorable and never-flagging struggle against the usurper--that
we will rather die than submit. We vow vengeance against him, and
deliverance to the fatherland!"

When all had repeated this oath, Schill said, solemnly, "The German oak
has heard our words, and they are registered on high; now, my friends,
let us go and enter into a new life--a new future. Let us take care of
the body, in order to impart strength to the mind to carry out its
schemes. Come, let us go!"

They passed on, and soon reached the village, guided by Staps to the
parsonage.

The clergyman joyfully received the officers; his wife prepared her best
rooms for them, and pledged herself, like her husband, to protect them
at the risk of her life, if French soldiers should arrive, and search
the house for wounded Prussians.

"Now you are safe, and I can go," said Frederick Staps, when he was
again alone with his friends, their host having withdrawn to prepare
every thing that was necessary for the comfort of his guests. "I cannot
stay here any longer, for I have promised my father to proceed without
delay to Leipsic, and I must keep my pledge to him, as I shall keep it
to you. Farewell, friends; may God protect you, and may your deeds fill
the world with your glory, so that the poor merchant's apprentice in
Leipsic may also hear of it!"

"The poor merchant's apprentice is also a soldier of our grand army of
the future," said Schill; "we have enlisted him, and he will go and
fulfil his duty to his fatherland."

"Yes, you may depend on it he will do his duty," exclaimed Staps, "and
you will hear of him one day. Farewell, and, please God! we shall meet
again!"

"Yes, we shall meet again," said the two officers, cordially shaking
hands with the youth, and taking leave of him.

Staps left the room hastily. When he turned round once more at the door,
and greeted the friends with a nod, they saw that his eyes were filled
with tears.

The clergyman's wife now entered to serve up the dinner she herself had
prepared, and there was added a bottle of old Hock from the wine-cellar.

"In the first place, however," said the clergyman to Schill, "I must see
and dress your arm, sir; I am quite experienced in dressing wounds,
having taken lessons in surgery in order to assist our poor peasants in
case of injuries, and render it unnecessary for them to pay large
doctors' bills. Let me, therefore, be your surgeon, too."

Schill gratefully accepted his kind offer, and after his wife had
brought every thing necessary for dressing a wound, the clergyman
examined Schill's arm, and removed the coagulated blood from it.

"It is a very deep flesh-wound," he said, "fortunately the bone is
uninjured."

"Then I shall soon be able to use my arm again?" asked Schill, joyfully.

"Not for a few weeks yet, unless you wish to run the risk of losing it
entirely. Mortification might set in after the wound has commenced
ulcerating. Hence, you must be very cautious, and live as quietly as
possible. Your hands are now already burning, and your fever will be
very severe. Unfortunately, I have brought up my wine in vain. Both of
you, gentlemen, will not be able to drink it to-day, nor to-morrow, nor
the day after to-morrow either. For the first three days your fever, as
I stated already, will be very serious."

This prediction was fulfilled. For three days the officers were unable
to rise from their couch. They were delirious, and unaware of the danger
menacing them. A French regiment had come to the village to spend the
night, and four of its officers established their headquarters at the
parsonage.

But as soon as the French troops had been descried in the neighborhood
of the village, the clergyman, assisted by his wife and servants, had
removed the wounded, and prepared a safe refuge for them in the hay-loft
of his barn, far from the dwelling-house. He himself remained with them,
and, while his wife received the French officers, and informed them that
her husband was not at home, the good old man was sitting in the
hay-loft beside his guests, nursing them with the kindness of a father
and the skill of an experienced physician. He had locked the door of his
asylum, and a loaded gun and unsheathed sword were within his reach, in
order forcibly to drive back the French, in case they should try to
penetrate into this hiding-place.

But the danger passed, and the fever abated. Four days afterward the two
Prussians were strong enough to continue their journey. The clergyman
himself drove them in his carriage to the neighboring town, where they
bought two horses and departed--not together, however, but by different
routes. Count Pückler took the road to Breslau; Ferdinand von Schill
turned toward Kolberg.

Before parting, they cordially shook hands once more.

"Let us remember the oath under the German oak," said Schill.

"Yes," replied Pückler. "We shall not desert the fatherland, but serve
it with our whole strength, and after that is exhausted, we know how to
die."




CHAPTER IV.

IN BERLIN.


The utmost uneasiness and suspense prevailed in Berlin. Several rumors
had already reached the capital. It was reported that, on the 14th of
October, a battle had taken place between the Prussians and French
forces. To-day was the 18th, and no news had been received; nothing
definite was known about the result of the battle. But the people said,
if it had been favorable to the Prussians, the couriers, to whom joy
would have lent wings, would have reached the capital long since; and
this continued silence and incertitude seemed to the inhabitants of
Berlin more discouraging than any positive intelligence, however
disastrous it might be.

No one had the heart to work longer--no one could be prevailed upon to
follow his usual avocation; all felt paralyzed by a secret terror; and
hastened into the street, as though they hoped some decisive news would
fly through the air and put an end to this dreadful suspense.

All Berlin seemed to have met in the streets on the morning of this 18th
October, and the people hastened in vast crowds toward the house of the
governor of the capital; they consisted to-day not only of the lower
classes of society but the noblest and best had united with them. Men of
mind and education, the representatives of art and science, were to be
seen among them. There was no distinction of rank or position--every one
felt that he was united with his fellow-citizens by the same care,
anxiety, and affection; every one knew that all the thousands
surrounding him entertained the same wishes and apprehensions, and thus
social distinctions were unnoticed. The high-born and the rich, the poor
and the lowly, all felt only that they were Prussians--that they were
Germans; all were animated by one desire; to learn what had been the
result of the battle, and whether the Prussians, faithful to their
ancient military glory, had defeated the enemy, or, like the other
nations, succumbed to Napoleon.

Thousands hastened, therefore, to the residence of the governor of
Berlin, Count von Schulenburg, and called vociferously for him. When the
count appeared on the balcony and asked what the crowd wanted, hundreds
of voices shouted in thundering chorus: "We want to know whether the
army has fought a battle, and whether it was defeated!"

Count Schulenburg shrugged his shoulders, and amid the silence that
ensued his ringing voice was heard to say: "I have not yet received any
definite intelligence; but so soon as I have it, I shall deem it
incumbent upon me to communicate it to the citizens of Berlin."

The governor returned with tottering steps into his house. For a moment
the people remained silent, and seemed still to listen to the words they
had just heard; but suddenly a loud, powerful voice shouted: "If the
governor does not know any thing, perhaps Professor Lange does. He has
established a newspaper for the special purpose of communicating to us
the latest news from the seat of war; let us go to his house and ask him
what the _Telegraph_ says."[8]

[Footnote 8: The _Telegraph_ was a journal founded by a certain
Professor Lange, on the day when the Prussian army left Berlin. In his
prospectus he spoke in the most fulsome terms of the "invincible army of
Frederick the Great," and promised to publish always the latest news
from the seat of war.]

"Yes, yes, let us go to his house and ask him what the _Telegraph_
says!" yelled the crowd. "Where does Professor Lange live? Who can guide
us to him?"

"I can do so," said the same voice that had spoken before. "Professor
Lange lives at 22 Leipsic Street."

"Come, come, let us go to Professor Lange! Let us hear what the
_Telegraph_ says!" shouted the crowd, and hastened across the Opera
Place and Gensdarmes Market down Charlotte Street to the residence of
the journalist.

"The _Telegraph_! the _Telegraph_!" yelled the people. "We want to know
what the _Telegraph_ says! Professor Lange, give us the news from the
seat of war!"

A window on the first floor was hastily opened, and the pale, frightened
face of a gentleman looked out. "What do you want to see me for?" asked
a tremulous and hollow voice. "Why do you mention the _Telegraph_?"

"We want news from the army! We want to know whether it is true that we
have lost a battle!"

"God forbid!" said the gentleman at the window. "I have not received any
news whatever for the last three days; I know only one thing, and that
is, that Cabinet Counsellor Lombard, who was at the headquarters of the
army in Weimar, returned last night to Berlin, and is now at his
residence. Counsellor Lombard, therefore, would be the man to whom you
ought to apply."

"Lombard! Lombard!" shouted the crowd, accompanying the name with bitter
imprecations. When this name was heard, all faces turned gloomy, and
every voice assumed an angry and threatening tone.

"Lombard is to blame for every thing!" grumbled a few here and there,
and "Lombard is to blame for every thing!" was repeated louder and
louder. The excitement was as when a storm, sweeping over the sea,
lashes its waves, until, rising higher and higher, they foam with fury.

"Lombard sides with the French!" reiterated the surging mass. "He has
secretly informed the enemy of all the operations of our army, and if
the Prussians are defeated, he will be glad of it. We will go to
Lombard, and he must tell us all he knows. But woe to him if the news
should be bad!"

And the multitude with savage yells hastened down the street, back to
the Linden, and toward the residence of Cabinet Counsellor Lombard.

All the window-blinds of his house were closed, as they had been for the
last two weeks, since this well-known favorite of Minister von Haugwitz
had repaired to the headquarters of the army at Weimar. But Professor
Lange had stated, perhaps for the sole purpose of diverting the general
attention from himself, and of directing it toward the unpopular cabinet
counsellor, that Lombard had returned, and the people believed him.

"Lombard! Lombard!" shouted hundreds of voices. Eyes which had hitherto
looked only sad and anxious became threatening; many a fist was lifted
up to the closed windows, and many an imprecation uttered.

"If a disaster has taken place, it is Lombard's fault," cried one of the
crowd.

"If it is his fault, he shall and must atone for it," exclaimed another.

"He has no heart for Prussia's honor," said a third. "He is a
German-Frenchman, and would not object if the whole of Prussia should
become a French province. If he knew how to do it, he certainly would
not shrink from it, even should he bring captivity and distress upon the
king and the queen!"

"He has already done much mischief," shouted another. "The Russian army
which was to support ours ought to have been here long ago, but he
detained the dispatches in which the king informed the czar that our
army had advanced against the French. It is his fault that the Russians
have not yet arrived."

"It is his fault that the Russians have not yet arrived!" roared the
wild chorus, and the furious men began to rush toward the house. Many
armed themselves with stones, hurled them at the walls and broke the
windows; others commenced striking with vigorous fists at the closed
door.

"Open the door! open the door! We want to see Lombard! He shall account
for what he has done!" exclaimed the enraged men. "Woe to him if it be
true that we have lost a battle! Woe to him if--"

"Silence! silence!" suddenly thundered a loud, imperious voice. "See,
there is a courier!"

"A courier! A courier!" and all rushed back from the house into the
street; every eye turned toward the horseman, who approached at full
gallop.

As if obeying a military command, the multitude made way for him, but at
every step they closed behind him, and, pressing him on all sides, his
progress was exceedingly slow.

But the courier, with his gloomy mien and pale cheeks, looked like a
bearer of bad news, and when the people had scanned his features, they
murmured, "He brings bad news! A disaster is written on his forehead!"

"Let me pass," he said in an imploring voice; "in the name of the king,
let me pass!" And as he spurred his horse, the bystanders fell back in
alarm.

"'In the name of the king!' the king, then, is still alive?"

"Yes, the king is alive!" replied the courier, sadly. "I have dispatches
from him for the Governor of Berlin and Cabinet Counsellor Lombard."

"And what do these dispatches contain?" asked a thousand voices.

"I do not know, and even though I did, I am not at liberty to tell you.
The governor will communicate the news to the inhabitants of Berlin."

"Tell us the news!" demanded the people.

"I cannot do so; and, moreover, I do not know any thing about it,"
replied the courier, who had now reached Lombard's house, and whose
horse was again so closely surrounded that it was scarcely able to move
its feet.

"Do not detain me, my friends, I beseech you--let me dismount here,"
said the courier. "I must deliver my dispatches to Cabinet Counsellor
Lombard."

"Oh, let him deliver his dispatches. We can afterward compel M. Lombard
to communicate their contents."

"Yes; let him deliver his dispatches," said all; "Lombard shall
presently tell us what they contain."

The crowd stood back on both sides of the door, and busy hands were
ready to assist the rider in dismounting. But before he had been able to
do so, a voice from the rear was heard: "Ask him where the queen is at
present!"

"Yes, yes, where is the queen? where is the queen?"

"The queen?" said he. "I passed her fifteen minutes ago near the city
and delivered dispatches to her, too. The queen? Look there!" And he
pointed to the Brandenburg gate.

A carriage, drawn by six horses, was seen rapidly approaching.

"The queen! It is the queen!" joyfully shouted every one, and the
thousands who had been a moment before so anxious to learn the news, and
to call Lombard to account, rushed toward the carriage. Meantime the
courier, whose presence seemed to be entirely forgotten, dismounted, and
rapped softly at the door. It was at once opened in a cautious manner,
and a voice whispered: "Take your horse into the house. You can
afterward ride through the garden, and out of the back gate to the
governor's residence."

The door was hastily thrown open, and closed as soon as the courier had
entered with his horse. No notice was taken of this movement, for every
one thought only of the queen, and looked anxiously through the closed
coach windows.

"The queen! It is the queen!" exclaimed the people, greeting the beloved
lady in the most rapturous manner. All arms were raised in sign of
respect, and every voice uttered a welcome of "Long live the queen!"

The carriage window was lowered, and Louisa's beautiful face appeared;
but she looked pale and afflicted; her eyes, generally so radiant,
seemed dimmed and tearful; yet she tried to smile, and bowed repeatedly
to her enthusiastic friends, who rushed impetuously toward her, and, in
their exultation, forgetful of the rules of etiquette, seized the reins
and stopped the horses.

"We want to see our queen! Long live our Queen Louisa!" cried thousands
of voices. Those who stood nearest the carriage, and beheld her
countenance, fell on their knees in the fervor of their love, and eyes
that never before had wept were filled with tears; for she seemed as an
angel of sorrow and suffering. She rose, and, leaning out of the coach
door, returned the affectionate greetings of her faithful subjects, and,
weeping, stretched out her arms as if to bless them.

"Long live the queen! Long live Louisa!" they cried, and those who held
the horses, in order to stop the carriage, dropped the reins, rushed
toward the coach door, threw up their hats, and joined in the welcome
cry. The coachman, profiting by this movement, drove onward. The people,
whose desire had been satisfied in having seen their queen, no longer
resisted, and permitted the carriage to roll away.

Louisa closed her coach window, and, sinking back upon the cushions,
exclaimed in a heart-rending tone, "Alas! it is perhaps the last time
that they thus salute me! Soon, perhaps, I shall be no longer Queen of
Prussia!" She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud.

"Do not weep," whispered Madame von Berg, the queen's intimate friend,
who was sitting by her side, "do not weep. It may be a dispensation of
Providence that the crown shall fall from your head for a moment, but He
will replace it more firmly, and one day you will again be happy."

"Oh, it is not for the sake of my own majesty, and for my little worldly
splendor, that I am lamenting at this moment," said the queen, removing
her hands from her face. "I should gladly plunge into obscurity and
death if my husband and my children were exempted from humiliation, and
if these good people, who love me, and are attached to their king,
should not be compelled to recognize a foreigner as their master, and
bow to him!"

"Even though the people should be subjugated at present," said Madame
von Berg, solemnly, "they will rise one day and avenge their disgrace!"

"Would you were a true prophetess!" exclaimed Louisa. "I hope the people
will remain faithful to us in adversity, and never forget their love for
their king! Yes, I will hope for that day, and pray that it may come
speedily. I will weep no more; but remember that I am a mother, and
shall see my children again--not to leave them, but to hasten with them
to my husband, who is waiting for me at Küstrin. In half an hour we must
continue our journey."

Just then the carriage drove past the main guard-house. The soldiers
presented arms, and the drums beat.

A melancholy smile overspread the queen's features. "Do you remember
what Prince Louis Ferdinand said to his mother, on the eve of his
departure to the army?" she asked in a low voice.

"No, your majesty, I do not remember, and it is possible that I never
heard of it."

"The princess believed a defeat of our army to be utterly impossible,"
said the queen. "She thought Prussia was so strong a bulwark that the
proud assault of the French empire would be in vain. 'You are mistaken,'
exclaimed Prince Louis Ferdinand; 'you think nothing will change, and
the drums will always be beaten when you ride out at the gate? On the
contrary, I tell you, mamma, one day you will ride out of the gate, and
no drums will be beaten!' The same will happen to us, my dear--we will
often ride out of the gate, and no drums will be beaten. But here is our
house, and I must hide my tears. I will show a smiling face to my
children."

The queen's carriage stopped for the first time at the doorsteps of the
palace without meeting there the ladies and gentlemen of the court, the
high dignitaries and functionaries who had formerly never failed to wait
on her. She had come without being expected, but on this day of anxiety
and terror the announcement of her arrival would have made no
difference; for every one thought only of himself, and was occupied with
his own safety. Only a few faithful servants, therefore, received her,
and bade her welcome with tearful eyes.

"Where are my children?" exclaimed the queen, anxiously. "Why are they
not here to receive their mother?"

"Your majesty," said the palace-steward, in a low voice, "a courier,
sent hither by the king, arrived last night, unfortunately having failed
to meet with your majesty on the road. The royal princes and princesses
set out two hours ago to Stettin, and thence to Grandenz. Such were his
majesty's orders."

The queen suppressed the cry of pain which rose to her lips, but a
deadly pallor overspread her cheeks. "In half an hour I shall set out,"
she said faintly. "Pack up only the most indispensable articles for me;
in half an hour I must be ready to enter my carriage. I shall, perhaps,
overtake my children in Stettin." And she retired to her room,
struggling to conceal the emotions that so violently agitated her.




CHAPTER V.

QUIET IS THE CITIZEN'S FIRST DUTY.


The people in the meantime, gathering in still greater numbers in the
broad street under the Linden, returned to the house of Lombard, and
saw, to their great disappointment, that the courier was no longer
there.

"Now, we want to know the news contained in the dispatches, and
Counsellor Lombard must tell us," shouted one of the men standing in
front of the house; he then commenced hammering the door with his
powerful fists. Others joined him, and to the measure of this
threatening music the crowd yelled, "The dispatches! the dispatches!
Lombard must come out! He must tell us what the dispatches contain! We
want to know whether our army has been defeated, or has won the battle!"

When no voice replied, nor door nor window opened, the mob, whose anger
grew more menacing, seized once more their former weapons, the stones,
and hurled them at the house. "He shall not escape from us! We will stay
here until he makes his appearance, and replies to our questions!" they
cried. "If he do not come to us, we will go to him and compel him to
hear us!"

"Fortunately, you will not find him at home," whispered Lombard, who was
listening at the door. "Every thing is in good order," he added in a low
voice. "The dear enraged people will have to hammer a good while before
breaking these bolts. By that time I shall be far from here, on the road
to Stettin."

The cabinet counsellor glided away with a sarcastic smile to the back
gate. There stood his wife, weeping piteously and wringing her hands.

M. Lombard, who had hitherto only smiled, now laughed outright. "Truly,"
he said, "it is really worth while to make a scene in consequence of
this demonstration of the people! My dear, I should think our family
ought to know how to manage them! Your father has shaved those stupid
fiends enough, and my father pulled the wool over their eyes,[9] and, as
good children of our parents, we ought to do so too."

[Footnote 9: Lombard's father was a hair-dresser, and his wife's father
a barber. Lombard liked to jest about his descent, particularly at the
dinner-table of some prince or minister. He always alluded to his father
in the following terms: "_Feu mon père de poudreuse mémoire!_"]

"Oh, Lombard, just listen," wailed his wife, "they are knocking at the
door with heavy clubs; we must perish if they succeed in forcing it open
and entering the house. They will assassinate you, for you have heard
their imprecations against you."

"_Ma chère_," said Lombard, composedly, "this is not the first time that
I discover that the people despise and persecute me. I knew it long ago.
These blockheads will never forgive me for being a Frenchman, and for
having, consequently, a predilection for France and her heroic emperor.
And not only they, but the so-called educated and high-born classes
also, hate me intensely. Throughout all Europe I have been branded as a
traitor in the pay of Napoleon. Conspiracies were got up everywhere to
bring about my removal. All the princes of the royal house--nay, the
queen herself, united against me.[10] But you see, my dear, that they
did not succeed after all in undermining my position; and the howling
rabble outside will have no better success. Indeed, the fellows seem to
be in earnest. Their blows shake the whole house!"

[Footnote 10: Lombard's own words.--Vide Gentz's Diary in his
"Miscellanies," edited by G. Schlesier, vol. iv.]

"They will succeed in breaking in," said his wife, anxiously; "and then
they will assassinate all of us."

"They will do no such thing, for they do not come for spoils, but only
for news," said Lombard. "And then, my love, they know just as well as I
the German maxim: 'The people of Nuremberg do not hang anybody unless
they have got him!' but they will not get me, for there comes my
faithful Jean across the yard.--Well, Jean, is every thing ready?" he
said to the approaching footman.

"Yes," he replied. "The carriage with four excellent horses is waiting
for you, sir. I ordered it, however, not to stop at the garden gate, but
a little farther down, in front of another house."

"That was well done, my sagacious Jean. But I hope you did not forget
either to place several bottles of Tokay wine and some roast fowl in the
carriage for me? The ill-mannered rabble outside will not permit me
to-day to lunch at home. Hence I must make up my mind to do so on the
road."

"I have not forgotten the wine nor the roast pheasant, your excellency."

"You have packed up a pheasant!" exclaimed Lombard. "If the noisy
gentlemen outside there knew that, they would be sure to assert that the
Emperor Napoleon had sent it to me as a bribe. Now, Jean, come, we will
set out. The street is quiet, I suppose?"

"Perfectly so. All those who have legs have gathered in front of the
house."

"And all those who have fists are hammering at the door," wailed Mde.
Lombard. "Make haste, Lombard--make haste lest it be too late!"

"You are right. I must go," said Lombard, quietly. "Now listen to what I
am going to tell you. So soon as you hear my carriage roll away, be kind
enough to repair to the balcony, of the first floor and address the
people. Their surprise at seeing you will cause them to be silent for a
moment."

"But, good Heaven! what am I to say to them?" asked Mde. Lombard, in
dismay.

"You are to say to them, 'My husband, Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard, is not
at home. He has gone to the governor of Berlin, Count von
Schulenburg-Kehnert, and the bearer of dispatches has accompanied him.'
Your words will have the same effect as though a pistol were discharged
among a number of sparrows--all of them will fly away. You see, my dear,
there is a very impressive and dramatic scene in store for you, and my
father, _de poudreuse mémoire_, and your father, the barber, would
rejoice in their graves if they could see you haranguing the people from
the balcony. Farewell, my dear, and manage the affair as skilfully as
possible."

He embraced her hurriedly, and was about to leave the garden, leaning on
his servant's arm, and as fast as his gouty feet would permit it; but
his wife suddenly held him back.

"I cannot go to the parlor," she said in terror, convulsively clinging
to Lombard. "Remember, that they are continually hurling stones at our
house. Suppose a stone should be thrown into the window and strike my
head?"

"My dear," said Lombard, laughing, "I do not believe any stone passing
through the window would be immediately dangerous, for you have a hard
head, as I have found out often enough. Farewell, and do as I have told
you, unless you want the rabble to penetrate into your room. Farewell!"

He disengaged himself rather roughly, and hastened, as fast as his
aching and stiffened feet would permit, to the street contiguous to the
garden.

His wife waited until the departure of the carriage announced to her
that her husband had gone. At the same time the voices outside shouted
with redoubled fury, "Lombard! We want to see Lombard!" And their blows
thundered louder than ever at the door.

Mde. Lombard sighed; and, commending her body and soul to God, she
proceeded to comply with her husband's instructions, and went to the
balcony.

Lombard had prophesied correctly; profound silence ensued when the wife
of the cabinet counsellor appeared; hence, every one was able to
understand her words, and no sooner had she uttered them, than the crowd
dispersed, as her husband had told her.

"To the governor! Let us go to the governor!" they cried, as they moved
up the Linden; but they were attracted by a carriage, drawn by six fiery
horses at full gallop. It was the queen, who was about to leave the
capital. She looked even paler and sadder than before, and greeted her
friends on both sides with a heart-rending, melancholy smile. But they
had not time to greet even the queen, or to be surprised at her speedy
departure, as they rushed toward the house of the governor, Count
Schulenburg.

At his residence, also, the windows were covered up, and the gate of the
court-yard closed. But a large white handbill, containing a few lines in
gigantic letters, was posted on the side wall. Thousands of piercing
eyes were fixed on the paper, and an imperious demand was made to the
fortunate man who stood close to the handbill: "Read! Read aloud!"

"I will read it!" answered a loud, powerful voice. "Be quiet, so as to
be able to hear me!"

Profound silence reigned immediately, and every one heard distinctly
the words, which ran as follows:

"_The king has lost a battle. Quiet is the citizen's first duty. I
request all the inhabitants of Berlin to maintain good order. The king
and his brothers are alive_."

The vast multitude burst into a wail of despair; and when silence
ensued, every one seemed paralyzed and stared mournfully at his
neighbor. Suddenly the side-gate of the count's court-yard opened, and a
carriage, followed by a large baggage-wagon, made its appearance.

At first, the people timidly stepped back, and looked on wonderingly.
But no sooner had they recognized in it the governor of Berlin, Count
von Schulenburg-Kehnert--no sooner had they discovered that his carriage
contained a large number of trunks and boxes, and that the wagon was
also filled with baggage, and had satisfied themselves that the governor
intended to leave the capital at this hour of terror, than attempts were
made to prevent him from setting out. The people stopped the horses, and
cried, in tones of exasperation, that it did not behoove the governor to
leave the city while it was in danger, and the inhabitants without
advice and protection.

Count Schulenburg rose in his carriage. Stretching out his arms in an
imperious manner, he demanded silence. When the clamor had ceased, he
said, in a conciliatory tone: "My friends! duty calls me hence, for the
orders of the king must be obeyed. But you shall not say that I have
left the city of Berlin without adequate protection, and that I did not
devote my particular attention to its welfare. I have appointed my
son-in-law, the Prince von Hatzfeld, civil governor, and he will
zealously provide for the security and interests of the people of the
capital. Forward, coachman!"

The coachman was about to comply with his master's orders, but some of
the crowd still dared to resist, and refused to let the horses proceed.

"The governor must stay here!" they shouted; "it is incumbent on him not
to desert the inhabitants of Berlin, but to assist them in the hour of
danger!"

"In the hour of danger?" asked the count, with a wondering air. "Why, I
leave my whole family here--my children and grandchildren! Would I do so
if the enemy threatened the city?"

No one could combat this argument, and reply to the governor's
question. The men, therefore, dropped the reins and fell back, when the
coachman whipped the horses into a gallop.

They gazed after the escaping count, and looked sadly at each other,
asking anxiously: "What shall we do now? What shall we do when the
French come?"

"We will meet them sword in hand and drive them back!" exclaimed a young
man, with a noble face.

"Yes, we will do so," said another. "There are no soldiers here; hence
we ourselves must look out for our own defence. We will form volunteer
companies, occupy the gates, and patrol the streets."

"Our army being defeated, a new one has, of course, to be organized,"
said another. "We must do this; we must hand in our names, and enlist.
Let every one who thinks and feels like myself, follow me to the new
governor. We will apply to him for permission to organize ourselves for
the defence of the city. Come!" Many hastened with ardent impetuosity
from all parts of the crowd to join him. Others, seized with admiration
and respect, opened a passage, through which the quickly-gathered
company of more than three hundred young men marched to the residence of
the Prince von Hatzfeld.

But he did not admit the deputation of these brave men. He sent word to
them, by his adjutant, that they would receive his definite reply at a
later hour. At present he wished them to go home, and avoid, above all,
any riotous proceedings in the streets.

The reply which the Prince von Hatzfeld had promised to the deputation
soon appeared on handbills posted at all the street corners. It was as
follows: "It would be improper to conceal from the inhabitants of Berlin
that French troops may shortly occupy the capital. This unexpected event
cannot fail to produce a most painful impression among all classes. Only
the most implicit confidence in those who take upon themselves the
arduous task of alleviating the inevitable consequences of such an
event, as well as of maintaining order, which has become more desirable
than ever, will be able to avert the terrible fate which the slightest
resistance, or any disorderly conduct, would bring upon the city. The
course recently pursued by the inhabitants of Vienna, under similar
distressing circumstances, must have taught those of Berlin that the
conqueror only respects quiet and manly resignation after such a
defeat. Hence I forbid all gatherings and clamor in the streets, as well
as any public manifestation of sympathy in relation to the rumors from
the seat of war. For quiet submission is our first duty; we should only
think of what is going on within our own walls; it is the highest
interest to which we ought to devote our whole attention."




CHAPTER VI.

THE FAITHFUL PEOPLE OF STETTIN.


The hope of the queen had not been fulfilled. Her children had left
Stettin an hour before she reached the city.

"I shall immediately continue my journey," said she, resolutely.

"Your majesty, I beseech you to remain here," said Madame von Berg. "You
have scarcely had any sleep for the last three nights; last night you
did not leave the carriage at all, and hardly took any food. Oh, think
of the king, of your children, and economize your strength! Take some
rest."

"Rest!" repeated the queen, with a melancholy smile. "There will be,
perhaps, no more rest for me on earth! My heart is filled with
grief--how, then, can I sleep? But you have reminded me of my husband,
of my children, and you are right; I must live for them. Therefore, I
will stop here for an hour and take some refreshment, in order not to
give way under the heavy burden weighing down my mind. Come, we will
alight and go into the house."

Madame von Berg made a sign to the footman to open the coach door, and
followed Louisa into the royal villa, to the rooms usually occupied by
their majesties during their visits to Stettin. "When I was last in this
room," whispered the queen, "the king and the crown prince were with me.
There was nothing but joy in my heart. I was a happy wife, a happy
mother, and a happy queen! And, to-day, what am I?" She heaved a
profound sigh, and, sinking down on the sofa, pressed her face upon the
cushions. "Into what an abyss I have been hurled from my heaven!" she
murmured in a low voice. "Once a happy sovereign--now a poor, fleeing
woman, who can excite only pity. Oh, mother, mother, God be praised that
you do not behold my distress!" She clasped her hands, and her trembling
lips whispered prayers to heaven. Her large blue eyes were raised with
an expression of fervent supplication, and tears rolled like pearls over
her cheeks. She sat a long while pondering over her misfortunes, and
shuddering at the prospects of the future.

Finally, Madame von Berg ventured to approach and arouse her from her
meditation.

"Your majesty," she said, in an imploring voice, "you promised to take
rest, for the sake of the king and of your children. Remember the burden
of care weighing down the heart of his majesty. Remember that his grief
would be more intense if he should see your eyes reddened with weeping,
and find you prostrated in your distress."

"He shall not see it," said Louisa. "In his presence I will conceal my
tears, and seem hopeful and courageous. Let me, therefore, now at least,
pour out my overwhelming sorrow, for tears are the only consolation of
the afflicted. When I am with my husband once more, I shall try to
smile, and only weep in secret. Are you now satisfied, my faithful
friend?"

"Your majesty had graciously promised me to take some refreshment, but
the footman has long since announced that dinner is ready."

"Come, Caroline, we will eat," said the queen, rising hastily, and
laying her hand on her friend's shoulder.

She kept her word, and did eat a little, trying to become more cheerful
by conversing with Madame von Berg about her children and her
approaching reunion with her husband.

"Believe me, Caroline," she then said gravely, "it is not vanity and
longing for worldly splendor that causes me to bewail our present
trouble. For my part, I would gladly lead a private life, and be
contented in retirement and obscurity, if I could only see my husband
and my children happy at my side. But the king is not allowed to be as
other men are--merely a husband and father; he must think of his people,
of his state, and of his royal duties. He is not at liberty to lay down
his crown any more than we to destroy voluntarily the life we have
received from God. 'With it or on it,' said the heroic mothers of Sparta
to their sons, when delivering to them the shield with which they went
into battle. And thus the king's ancestors, who have bequeathed the
crown to him, call from their graves: 'With it, or buried under it!' It
is the inheritance of his fathers, which he must leave to his children;
he must fight for it, and either triumph or perish with it. That is the
reason why I weep, and see nothing but years of disaster and bloodshed
in store for me. Prussia must not make peace with Napoleon; she must
not, in hypocritical friendship, give her hand to him who is her mortal
enemy. She must remain faithful to the alliance which her king has sworn
on the coffin of Frederick the Great to maintain; and France will resent
this constancy as though it were a crime. But, in spite of her anger, we
must not recede; we must advance on our path if we do not wish to lose
also our honor, and if history is not to mention the name of Frederick
William III. in terms of reproach. Germany hopes that Prussia will save
her--the whole of Europe expects us to do our duty to the fatherland,
and this duty is to wage war against the tyrant who wants to subjugate
Germany, and transform her into a French province--to resist him as long
as we have an inch of territory or a drop of blood in our veins! See, my
friends, such are the thoughts that move my heart so profoundly, and
cause me to weep. I clearly foresee the great misfortunes that will
crush us in case we should proceed on the path which we have entered,
but I am not allowed to wish that Prussia should turn back, for we may
be permitted to be unfortunate, but never to act dishonorably. And I
know these to be the king's views, too--he--but hark, what is that?" she
interrupted herself. "Did it not sound as if a noisy crowd were
approaching? The tumult draws nearer and nearer! If they are French
soldiers, I am lost!" She rushed to the window, and looked anxiously
down on the street. A vast multitude approached, yelling with rage, and
threatening with their hands a pale, trembling man walking between two
others who had seized him, and whose eyes closely watched every motion
he made. That man was Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard, who, on his escape
from Berlin, had safely reached Stettin.

Just as he was about entering his carriage, in order to leave the latter
city, a few of the bystanders recognized and detained him. Those who
were in the streets soon gathered around and curiously looked on during
his altercation with the men who had stopped him.

Suddenly one of them turned to the crowd and exclaimed in a loud voice:
"Do not permit this fellow to depart. It is Lombard, the Frenchman, the
traitor; he has assuredly come to Stettin in order to prevent the queen
from continuing her journey, or to inform the enemy whither she is
going. Let us arrest him, that he may not betray her!"

"Yes, yes, arrest him; do not release him until long after the queen's
departure," cried the people. Threatening men surrounded the traitor on
all sides, and anxiously scanned his pale, cowardly face.

"Let me go, kind friends, let me go!" begged Lombard, and now all his
arrogance and haughtiness had disappeared. "You do me the greatest
injustice; I am a faithful servant of the king, and have come to Stettin
in order to wait on her majesty, and to offer my services to her."

"He lies! he lies!" said those who had recognized him. "Let us go with
him to the royal villa; the queen is there. If she wants to see him, she
will order him to be admitted; if not, he shall witness her departure."

"Yes, he shall witness her departure," exclaimed the rest approvingly;
"let us go to the royal villa!"

Dragged, pushed, and carried along, Lombard arrived, followed by
thousands, at the royal residence, which was situated at the lower end
of Broad Street, near the parade-grounds.

The carriage and horses stood in front of the house, and every thing was
ready for the queen's departure. But Louisa was still at the window, and
looked from behind the curtains down on the vast mass which filled the
whole street. Suddenly she uttered a low cry; and hastily placing her
hand on her friend's shoulder, she pointed to the street. "Look," she
whispered, trembling, "look! there is the evil demon who has done so
much to bring about the present calamities of our country; it is
Lombard, my most dangerous, nay, I must say, my only enemy! He hates me,
because he knows that I distrusted him, and asked the king for his
dismission. He has dealt treacherously with Prussia--I know and feel it,
and felt convinced of it long before this time. The presence of this man
proves that some new calamity is menacing me, for he is plotting my
ruin. I wonder what brought him here?"

"Let me go!" cried Lombard just then, in a loud and ringing voice. "Let
me go! I will and must see the queen!"

"See me?" said Louisa, in terror. "No, I will not see him; I have
nothing to do with him."

In her excitement, and anxious to see what would occur, she came forth
from behind the curtain, and appeared in full view at the window. The
people greeted her with loud cheers, and then turned their eyes again
toward Lombard. He had also seen her, and now raised his hands in a
suppliant manner, saying: "Oh, I beseech your majesty, call me up to
your room! I have come to offer my services and to communicate important
news. Grant me an audience!"

But she did not stir; she had apparently not heard his words, and her
eyes, usually so gentle, now looked gloomy and angry.

"The queen does not call him!" exclaimed hundreds of voices on the
street. "She does not want to have any thing to do with him! He is a
traitor."

"What have I done, then, kind friends, that you should call me a
traitor?" asked Lombard. "State the crimes you charge me with, so that I
may justify myself!"

"We will state them to you!" said the men who had detained him and who
were wealthy and highly-esteemed merchants of Stettin.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Grunert, and Mr. Pufahl, state his crimes to him, and
prove to him that he is a traitor!"

"We will; be quiet and listen!" replied Mr. Grunert.

"The people are going to sit in solemn judgment over him," whispered the
queen; "they will ferret out his crimes and punish him for them!"

Breathless silence reigned now. A chair was brought from one of the
adjoining houses, and Lombard compelled to mount on it, so that every
one might be able to see him. It was a strange sight, that of his
tottering, feeble form, with a pale and terror-stricken face, rising
above the crowd, whose eyes were all turned toward him, and who cast
glances like daggers at him.

"He is a traitor, and I will prove it to him," repeated Mr. Grunert,
closely approaching Lombard. "In 1803, when the king sent him to
Brussels to negotiate with Bonaparte, about an honorable peace between
Prussia and France, he allowed himself to be bribed. He exercised an
influence humiliating and disadvantageous to us; but Bonaparte bribed
him by paying him the sum of six thousand _Napoleons d'or_. Deny it if
you can!"

"I deny it," replied Lombard. "It is true, I suffered myself to be duped
by that monster for a moment. When I saw Bonaparte in 1803 in Brussels,
he managed to inspire me with confidence in his magnanimity and
greatness of character. But the deception did not last long, and soon I
perceived that this incarnate fiend would not stop in his career until
he had destroyed all existing thrones and states.[11] But I deny ever
having received money from him--I deny ever having accepted any
presents from him. And the best proof of it is that I have not any
property whatever, but I am as poor as a church mouse. My wife has
scarcely a decent parlor for the reception of her friends; and as for
myself, a plain arm-chair and a tobacco-pipe were always the goal of my
wishes."

[Footnote 11: Lombard's own words.--Vide Gentz's "Miscellanies," vol.
ii., p. 194.]

"You are poor, because you squander at the gaming-table and in secret
orgies what you obtain by your intrigues," said Grunert, sternly. "Your
poverty does not absolve you, for it is the direct consequence of your
dissipated life. You are a traitor. It was owing to your machinations in
the interest of Napoleon that our army, last year, when it ought to have
taken the field with the Austrian and Russian forces against France, was
placed so late on the war-footing, and finally returned to its garrisons
without having drawn the sword. You are to blame for the disgraceful
treaty of Vienna, for Count Haugwitz is merely a tool in your hands. You
rule over him. You laughed and rejoiced when the treaty of Vienna had
been concluded, for you are a descendant of the French colony of Berlin,
and you have no heart for the honor of Germany and Prussia."

"He is a traitor!" cried the people; "do not let him go! Detain him! He
shall not betray the queen!"

The crowd approached Lombard in the most menacing manner, and were about
to drag him from his chair, but Grunert and Pufahl warded them off, and
protected him with their broad and vigorous bodies.

"You do not yet know all he has done," exclaimed Mr. Pufahl, in a
powerful voice. "I will tell you about the last and most infamous
instance of his treachery. It is his fault that we lost the battle of
Jena--his fault alone."

"What am I to hear?" whispered Louisa.

Perfectly beside herself, she approached closer to the window, and
listened in breathless suspense to every word that was uttered.

"Well, let me tell you what Lombard has done," added Mr. Pufahl. "In the
middle of last month our king sent Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark with
an autograph letter to St. Petersburg, in which he informed the czar
that he intended to declare war against France, and requested the latter
to send him the assistance that had been agreed upon between them.
Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark was accompanied by a single footman
only, whom he had taken into his service for this special purpose, and
who had been warmly recommended to him. During the whole journey the
colonel kept the dispatches on his bare breast. It was only when he had
arrived at St. Petersburg that he laid them for a little while upon the
table, in order to change his dress, and deliver them immediately to the
czar. The servant was engaged in arranging his clothes. M. von Krusemark
went for a minute into an adjoining room, and when he returned, the
footman had disappeared with the dispatches. All the efforts made by
Krusemark and the police to recover the important papers were fruitless.
They found neither them nor the servant. Krusemark, therefore, had to
send a courier to Berlin, and ask for new instructions. This caused a
delay of several weeks, in consequence of which the Russian army was
unable to be here in time to join our troops and assist them in
attacking the French. We would not have lost the battle of Jena, if the
king's dispatches had been delivered to the Emperor of Russia at an
earlier moment, and if his army had set out in time for the seat of war.
We would not have lost the battle, if the dispatches had not been
stolen. Now listen to what I am going to tell you: _That footman had
been recommended by Lombard to Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark, and was
a near relative of the former_!"

"He is a traitor!" cried the people, "it is his fault that we lost the
battle of Jena! But he shall atone for it! Woe to the traitor!"

"Oh, your majesty!" exclaimed Madame von Berg, in terror, "just see! the
furious men are dragging him from his chair. They will assassinate him.
Have mercy on him and save his life!"

"Yes," said the queen, stepping back from the window, "yes, I will
protect him, but I will also protect myself."

And hurrying across the apartment, she opened the door of the anteroom,
where the major of the garrison of Stettin and a few staff-officers were
assembled.

"Major," said she, in a commanding voice, "hasten down-stairs, and
arrest Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard. Take him to the guard-house, where
you will detain him until the king sends you further orders. I will
report in person to his majesty what I commanded you to do."

It was high time to interfere, in order to save Lombard's life. The
enraged people had already thrown him down, and, regardless of the
supplications of the two merchants, commenced belaboring him
unmercifully, when the major appeared with a few soldiers and police
officers.

"Order! order!" he called in a loud voice. "Order, in the name of the
queen!"

The noise immediately died away; and those who had already seized
Lombard turned around and stepped respectfully aside to let the major
pass.

"In the name of the queen," he repeated, placing his hand on Lombard's
shoulder, and assisting him to rise, "I arrest you, Cabinet-Counsellor
Lombard! You will accompany me to the guard-house."

But Lombard, unable to stand, had sunk down on the chair, half dead with
terror.

"You see, sir, I am unable to accompany you," he groaned, faintly, "I
cannot walk."

"My soldiers will carry you, then," said the major; making a sign to
them, he added, "Take the prisoner in your arms, and carry him to the
guard-house."

Amid the loud applause of the crowd the order was immediately obeyed.
The soldiers seized Lombard, and started off with him. A large number
followed, laughing and deriding him, and congratulating each other that
their queen would now be able to continue her journey uninterruptedly,
as the traitor had been arrested.

After reaching the guard-house, M. Lombard was locked up in one of the
common cells, but the major dared not condemn the influential and
powerful friend of Minister von Haugwitz to lie on the hard bench of the
criminals, and to eat the ordinary prisoner's fare. He, therefore, sent
to the first hotel in Stettin, and requested the landlord to furnish
Lombard with bedding and food, and to send both immediately. But the
soldiers returned without having obtained either one or the other.

"Well, will the landlord send the articles?" asked the major.

"No, sir," was the reply; "the landlord declined doing so. He said, he
would not furnish a traitor with any thing, no matter what price he
offered him."

The major tried in vain to look angry. The reply pleased him just as
much as the chastisement inflicted on Lombard by the people had pleased
him previously.

"Then go to another landlord," he said, "and make the same request of
him. If he should also decline complying with it, go to a third. In
short, go and find a landlord who is willing to send bedding and food to
Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard."

The people, who had gathered in front of the guard-house, heard the
words of the soldiers as well as the renewed order of the major, and
accompanied them to find a landlord willing to furnish bedding and food
for the traitor.

An hour elapsed before they returned, still accompanied by the crowd,
whose numbers had vastly increased. The major was in Lombard's cell, and
had left orders for the soldiers to report to him there. He anticipated,
perhaps, the answer they would bring back to him, and wished the
prisoner to hear it.

He who had hitherto sat at tables laden with delicacies and slept only
on silken beds--the epicurean and sensual spendthrift--lay on the hard
wooden bench, groaning with pain and terror, when the soldiers entered
his cell. The major stood at the window, and drummed on the panes.

"Well," he said, "do you at length come, and bring bedding and food for
M. Lombard? But why did you tarry so long, you lazy fellows? Did you not
know that until your return he would have to lie on the bench here like
a common felon?"

"We could not return at an earlier time, sir," replied they. "We have
gone from hotel to hotel; we have informed all the landlords in Stettin
of your orders, and requested them to furnish Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard
with bedding and food. But all of them made the same reply--all of them
answered: 'Tell the major that I shall not comply with his orders. I
will not furnish a traitor with any thing!'"

"Oh!" groaned Lombard; "then they want me to die with my sick, bruised
body on the hard boards here!"

"No!" exclaimed the major, "I will obtain another couch for you. I will
immediately go to the governor and procure an order from him that will
compel the hotel-keepers to furnish you with the necessary articles."

Half an hour afterward he returned to Lombard, who had meanwhile vainly
tried to sleep.

"Now, sir," said the major, "your wishes will soon be fulfilled. The
governor has ordered the proprietor of the hotel _Zum Kronprinzen_,
under pain of severe punishment, to furnish you with all necessaries,
and I have sent some of my men to him with this written order. They will
doubtless speedily return."

A few minutes later, in fact, the door opened, and the soldiers carried
a bed into the cell; two others followed with smoking dishes.

"Well," said the major, "then the landlord of the hotel that I sent you
to has no longer refused to give you the required articles? The
governor's order had a good effect."

"Yes, sir, it had a good effect. But the proprietor of the hotel _Zum
Kronprinzen_ sends word to you, that inasmuch as the governor had issued
so stringent an order, nothing remained for him but to obey; but as soon
as he should be compelled no longer to furnish M. Lombard with any
thing, he would smash the dishes and plates from which the cabinet
counsellor had eaten, and burn the bedding on which he had slept."

M. Lombard had apparently not heard these mortifying words. Assisted by
his footman, who had been sent for, he hastily rose, and sat down at the
table to dinner.

In the evening the major repaired with a few officers to the hotel, and
inquired for the landord.

He came in, somewhat confused, and convinced that the major would
censure him for his conduct. The latter, however, went to meet him, and,
with a kindly smile, offered him his hand. "Sir," he said, "these
gentlemen and I have taken it upon ourselves to express to you, in the
name of all our comrades, our delight at the brave and manly reply you
made to-day, when compelled to furnish Lombard, the traitor, with food
and bedding. The officers of the garrison have resolved to board with
you, for we deem it an honor to be the guests of so patriotic a man."




CHAPTER VII.

THE QUEEN'S FLIGHT.


Louisa waited till Lombard had been carried away amid the jeers of the
people; then, accompanied by her friend, she hastened down-stairs in
order to continue her journey. Many persons were still assembled in the
street, who, instead of following Lombard, had preferred to see the
queen once more. They received her with enthusiastic cheers, and
heartily wished her a safe journey.

"Give our best wishes to our king, and tell him that we will be faithful
to him as long as we live!" exclaimed a voice from the crowd.

"We thank the queen for ordering the traitor to be arrested!" exclaimed
another. "Now we need not have any fears for her, and know that she is
able to continue her journey without incurring any danger whatever."

Louisa greeted her subjects smilingly, and lowered the windows of the
carriage for the purpose of returning their salutations, and of being
seen by them.

"Yes," she said, when the carriage rolled through the gate into the
high-road, "yes, I hope the prophecy of these good men will be
fulfilled, and that I shall safely reach my destination. Now that
Lombard has been arrested, I am satisfied of it, for he had followed me
in order to inform the enemy of my whereabouts; I feel convinced of it.
But the judgment of Heaven has overtaken him, and he has received his
punishment. Oh, how dreadful it must be to stand before the people with
so bad a conscience, so pale and cowardly a face, and to be accused by
them! We are able to bear up under the greatest afflictions when our
soul is free from guilt! And therefore I will meet the future
courageously and patiently, hoping that God will have mercy on us.
Henceforth there will be but one duty for me, and that is, to be a
faithful mother, and a comforter to my husband in his misfortunes. Oh,
Caroline, my heart, which was lately, as it were, frozen and dead, is
reawakening now--it is living and throbbing with joy, for I shall see my
husband and my children! If all should forsake us, love will remain with
us, and he whose heart is full of love will not be forsaken by the
Lord."

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Profound peace was depicted on her
handsome face; her brow was calm and cloudless, and a sweet smile played
on her lips. Grief had not yet marked this noble and youthful
countenance with its mournful yet eloquent traces, and its handwriting
was not yet to be read on her expansive forehead.

"Oh," whispered her friend to herself, contemplating the beautiful
slumbering queen, "oh, that grief might pass away from her like a dark
cloud--that no thunderbolt burst forth from it and strike that beloved
head! But I am afraid the lightning will at last blight all the blossoms
of her heart. O God, give her strength, nerve her in her sufferings, as
Thou hast blessed her in her happiness! She is sleeping; let her slumber
be peaceful and refreshing, so that it may invigorate her mind!" Madame
von Berg leaned cautiously, in order not to disturb the queen, into the
other corner of the carriage, which rapidly drove along the high-road.

The journey was continued uninterruptedly from station to station; in
every town and village the people, as soon they had recognized her,
hastened to procure fresh horses for her, and crowds gathered everywhere
to cheer her on her way. She had already passed through Frankfort, and
stopped in the village of Rettwein in front of the superintendent's
house. The footman entered and asked in her name for another set of
horses. The superintendent looked at him uneasily and gloomily. "I will
get them directly," he said; "I will go myself to the stable and harness
them, in order not to detain the queen unnecessarily." He left the house
hastily, and the footman returned to the carriage.

Louisa had risen and contemplated with a melancholy air the deserted
landscape. For the first time since the beginning of her journey she was
not welcomed on her arrival. Nobody seemed to know or care that it was
the queen who was seated in the carriage. Only a few tow-headed
peasants' children, in ragged, dirty dresses, rushed toward the
superintendent's house and stared at her, without saluting or thanking
her for her kindly nods.

"We shall frequently ride out of the gate, but no drums will be beaten,"
murmured she, with a faint smile, and sank back on the cushions.

Time passed, and no horses made their appearance. The queen glanced
uneasily at her watch. "We have been here nearly an hour," she said;
"this long delay renders me uneasy."

She rose once more and looked again out of the coach window. The same
silence prevailed. The children were still in front of the house, with
their fingers in their mouths staring at the carriage. At a distance the
dull lowing of the cows in their stables and the barking of dogs were to
be heard. No human being, except the few children, was to be seen; even
the superintendent did not make his appearance, although he knew that
the queen was waiting at his door. Just then, however, a laborer, in a
long blouse, with heavy wooden shoes, came out of the house and
remained at the door, staring with his small blue eyes at the royal
carriage.

"I do not know why," murmured Louisa, uneasily, "but this silence
frightens me; it fills my heart with a feeling of anxiety which I cannot
well explain. It seems to me as though every thing around me were
breathing treachery and mischief, and some great danger were menacing
me. Let us set out--we must leave this place. Why do not the horses
come?"

"Will your majesty permit me to call the footman, and ask him to hurry
up the postilion?" said Madame von Berg, leaning out of the window.

"Tell them to make haste," she said to the approaching footman. "Her
majesty wishes to continue her journey immediately."

"The horses are not yet here," exclaimed he anxiously; "the
superintendent promised he would fetch and harness them himself, and he
does not return."

Some one set up a loud, scornful laugh, which reached the queen's ears.
She bent forward and looked uneasily at the laborer who was standing at
the door with folded arms. The footman turned, and asked him,
indignantly, why he laughed. The man looked at him with twinkling eyes.
"Well," he said, "I laugh because you are looking for horses, and have
been waiting here for an hour already. But they will not come, for the
superintendent has driven two of them through the back gate into the
field, and then mounted the third, and rode off!"

The queen uttered a low cry, and placed her hand convulsively on her
heart; she felt there a piercing pain, depriving her of breath, and
turning her cheeks pale.

"Then the stable is empty?" said Madame von Berg.

"Yes, and there is not a hack even in the whole village; the peasants
have taken them all to Küstrin, lest the French should take them."

"Are the French, then, so near?"

"The superintendent said this morning he had seen them at Bärwalde, two
miles from our village."

"Let us start--let us set out without a minute's delay," said Louisa,
anxiously grasping her friend's arm. "The superintendent is a traitor,
and has left the village in order to inform our enemies that I am here.
Oh, Caroline, we must escape, and if I cannot do otherwise, I shall
pursue my journey on foot!"

"No, your majesty, there must and will be some expedient," replied
Caroline, resolutely. "Permit me to alight for a moment, and speak to
the postilion who drove us hither."

"I shall alight with you," exclaimed the queen, rising and trying to
open the coach door.

Madame von Berg wished to keep her back. "What," she exclaimed in
dismay. "I am sure your majesty will not--"

"Speak personally to the postilion? Yes, I will. He is a human being,
like all of us, and at this hour happier and more enviable than we are.
Perhaps he will have mercy on his sovereign!"

She hastily left the carriage, and ordered the footman to conduct her to
the postilion, who, during the last hour, had fed and watered his
horses, and was just about to ride back with them to his station. He
hastened to obey the order, and approached the queen, who stood
trembling near the carriage by the side of Madame von Berg.

"Speak to him first," said Louisa to her friend.

"You have heard that we cannot get any other horses," said Madame von
Berg. "Her majesty wants you, therefore, to drive us to the next
station."

"That is impossible, madame," said the postilion; "my horses are
exhausted, and I myself am so weary that I am almost unable to stand,
for I have been on horseback for three days. We had to take fugitives to
Küstrin all the time."

"If you drive us thither rapidly and without delay, you shall be
liberally rewarded; you may depend on it," replied Madame von Berg.

"All the rewards of the world would not do me any good, inasmuch as
neither I nor my horses are able to continue the journey to Küstrin," he
replied, shrugging his shoulders. "I would gladly comply with your
request, but I cannot."

"You cannot?" asked the queen, in her sonorous voice, "have you any
children?"

"Yes, madame, I have children. Two boys and a girl."

"Well, suppose you should hear that your children were in Küstrin, that
some great danger was menacing them, and that they were anxiously crying
for their father. What would you do then?"

"I would gallop with lightning speed, not caring if the trip killed my
horses, could I only reach my children!"

"Well," said the queen, with a gentle smile, "although you are a father,
and love your children so ardently, yet you are cruel enough to refuse
your assistance to a mother who wishes to hasten to hers? I beseech you
take me to them, for they are looking with anxiety for me." As she
uttered these words her eyes filled with tears, and her lips trembled.

The man was silent, and gazed with an air of surprise at Louisa's
beautiful face. "Madame," he said, after a pause, "pray enter the
carriage again. I will take you to Küstrin--you shall be with your
children in an hour. But I tell you, madame," he added, turning to
Madame von Berg, "I do not go for the sake of the reward you have
promised me, and I will not take any money. I go because it would be
infamous not to reunite a mother and her children. Now, make haste." He
turned round without waiting for a reply, and began to prepare for the
journey.

The queen gazed after him with beaming glances, and then raised her eyes
to heaven. "I thank Thee, my God," she murmured. "Give me strength that
I may still believe in the human heart, and that such a discovery as I
have made to-day as to the treachery of one man may not harden my heart!
Come, Caroline, let us enter; in an hour we shall be with my children;
oh, in an hour, I shall see the king!" An expression of delight
overspread her face like sunshine, and she hastened to the carriage with
light, elastic steps.

The postilion whipped the horses. The village was soon left behind, and
they proceeded rapidly toward their destination.

"How fast the kind-hearted man drives!" said Louisa. "He does not do so
for the sake of the queen, but because he thinks of his children, and
commiserates a mother's heart. Oh, I confess, my heart was painfully
moved by the discovery of the superintendent's treachery, but the
all-merciful God sends me this excellent man. I shall ever remember him,
and, please God, I will reward him for his kindness, by taking care of
his children."

"But I trust your majesty will also remember the traitor, and cause him
to be punished," said Madame von Berg, indignantly. "He has committed a
great crime against his queen and against his fatherland, and ought to
be called to account."

"If he has deserved it, let God punish him," said Louisa, gently. "I
shall try to forget him, and I beg you not to say any thing about it to
the king. I am afraid, my dear, we should have much, very much to do, if
we were to punish all those who betray us. The superintendent was the
first faithless subject we met, but he will not be the last. Let us
forget him. But what is that? Why does the postilion drive so fast? It
seems as if the carriage had wings. What does it mean?"

In fact, they dashed along the road like an arrow, and, as though this
were not sufficient, the anxious voice of the footman was heard
shouting, "Forward, postilion! Forward, as fast as possible!"

"There is something wrong, and I must know what it is!" exclaimed the
queen. She rose from her seat, and opened the front window. "Tell me
honestly and directly," she said to the footman, "why does the postilion
drive so rapidly?"

"If your majesty commands me to do so, I must tell the truth," replied
he. "We are pursued by French chasseurs. They are galloping behind us on
the high-road. I can already distinguish their uniforms."

"And shall we be able to escape them?" asked Louisa, with the semblance
of perfect calmness.

"We hope so, your majesty. If the horses can run fifteen minutes longer,
we are safe, for then we shall be in Küstrin."

"Tell the postilion that I shall provide for the education of his
children, if we reach Küstrin in fifteen minutes," replied the queen.

She then sank back for a minute like a bruised reed. A heart-rending
scream escaped her, and she raised her hand in despair. Presently she
again became composed and looked back from the window, so as to be able
to see the approaching danger.

Like lightning they proceeded along the high-road, but the chasseurs
gained upon them, and the distance rapidly decreased. The queen's
piercing eyes could already distinguish the faces of her enemies. She
heard the loud shouts and oaths with which they sought to increase their
speed. She leaned back, and a fearful pallor overspread her cheeks, but
she was still calm.

"Listen to what I tell you, Caroline," she said, in a grave, solemn
voice, "I cannot survive the disgrace of being taken prisoner by the
French. I will not adorn, as a modern Cleopatra, the triumphal entry of
the modern Augustus. To live and to die honorably is my motto. I prefer
death to ignominious captivity. Tell it to my husband and my children.
And now to the will of God I commit myself. The moment that a French
soldier extends his hand toward me, this friend will deliver me!"

She drew a small dagger from her bosom, and grasped it firmly and
resolutely.

"What are you going to do?" exclaimed Caroline, in terror.

"Hush!" replied the queen, "my resolution is irrevocable. Sooner death
than the disgrace of ridicule! Let us see what is going on."

She leaned once more out of the carriage, which was still dashing along
with the utmost rapidity. The chasseurs were fast approaching. The
panting and snorting of the foaming horses were already heard--the
flashing, triumphant eyes of the soldiers distinctly seen. Every second
brought them nearer and nearer. Louisa withdrew her head. Her right hand
firmly grasped the dagger. In breathless exhaustion, and as pale as
though dying, she awaited her fate.

Suddenly they rolled with great noise over a paved street--they
stopped--and Louisa thought it was an angel's voice, when she heard the
words, "There is Küstrin! We are saved!"

She started up, and looked once more out of the window. Yes, she was
saved. The chasseurs were galloping off again, and close at hand was the
first gate of the fortress of Küstrin. She had constantly looked back
toward the pursuing enemy, not toward her destination, and now that she
was saved, it seemed to her a miracle, for which she thanked God from
the bottom of her heart.

They passed through the gate, but could only drive at a slow pace. An
immense chaos of vehicles loaded with bedding, furniture, trunks, cases,
boxes, and bags, obstructed the passage. Shrieks, lamentations, and
oaths, resounded in the wildest confusion. All the inhabitants of the
suburbs and neighboring villages had fled hither with their movables, to
seek protection behind the walls of the fortress.

The queen had again concealed the dagger in her bosom, and looked up to
heaven with eyes full of fervent gratitude.

"I am saved!" she whispered; "I shall see again my husband and my
children. Life is mine again!"

The passage became wider. They were able to advance more rapidly, and
soon reached the market-place. A general in uniform was just crossing
it. When he was passing near her, the queen joyfully exclaimed:

"Köckeritz! Where is the king?"

"Oh, Heaven, be praised that your majesty has arrived! The king is here.
He is standing among the generals in front of the house yonder."

They stopped. The coach door opened, and the pale, melancholy face of
the king looked in. Louisa stretched out her arms toward him.
"Frederick! my dear, dear husband!" she exclaimed, and, encircling his
neck with her arms, imprinted a kiss on his lips. He did not utter a
word, but drew her with an impetuous motion into his arms and carried
her into the house, regardless of the rules of etiquette, through the
crowd of generals, who bowed and stepped aside. She clung tenderly to
him and supported her head with a blissful smile on his shoulder. He now
placed the beloved burden slowly and cautiously into an easy-chair; then
crossed the room and opened the door leading into an adjoining chamber.

"Come, come, your mother is here!" said he, abruptly, and two boys ran
immediately into the room, with a loud, joyous exclamation.

"My sons, my beloved sons!" cried Louisa, stretching out her hands
toward them. They rushed to her, clasping her in their arms and kissing
her. The queen pressed them to her heart, shedding tears, half of grief,
and half of happiness at being reunited with her family. Not a word was
spoken; only sighs and sobs, and expressions of tenderness, interrupted
the silence. The king stood at the window, looking at his wife and sons,
and something like a tear dimmed his eyes. "I would gladly die if they
could only be happy again," he murmured to himself; "but we are only in
the beginning of our misfortunes, and worse things are in store for us!"

He was right; worse things were in store for them. Day after day
brought tidings of fresh disasters. The first was, that Erfurt had
capitulated, on the day after the battle of Jena--that the French
occupied it, and that a garrison of four thousand men had surrendered at
discretion. Then came the news that the French, who had not met with the
slightest resistance, and were driving every thing before them, had
crossed the Elbe, and were moving on Potsdam and Berlin. The royal
couple learned at the same time that Count Schulenburg had left Berlin
with the troops without permission, and solely on his own
responsibility, and that he had forgotten in his hurry to remote the
immense quantity of arms from the arsenal. Another day dawned and
brought even more disastrous tidings. The French were reported as
approaching the fortress of Küstrin by forced marches!

A panic seized the garrison. Most of the officers and privates, and the
whole suite of the king, declared loudly, "Peace only can save us!
Further resistance is vain, and will increase our calamities. Submission
to the conqueror may save what remains." Minister von Haugwitz used this
language, and so did Generals von Köckeritz and von Zastrow, and so
thought the commander of Küstrin, though he did not utter his
sentiments.

The king listened to all these supplications and suggestions with grave
and gloomy composure. He did not say a word, but looked sometimes with
an inquiring glance at the pale face of the queen. She understood him,
and whispered with a smile: "Courage, my husband, courage!" And he
nodded to her, and said in a low voice: "I will have courage to the
bitter end! We cannot remain here, for the report that the French are
approaching has been confirmed. Let us go to Graudenz!"

Louisa laid her hand on the king's shoulder, and looked tenderly into
his eyes. "Whither you go, I go," she said, "even though we should be
compelled to escape beyond the sea or into the ice-fields of Siberia; we
will remain together, and so long as I am with you, adversity cannot
break my heart."

Frederick kissed her and then went to make the necessary arrangements
for their departure, to give his final orders to the commander of
Küstrin, M. von Ingelsheim: "Defend the fortress to the last extremity,
and capitulate under no circumstances whatever."

The queen seemed calm and composed so long as her husband was at her
side. But when he had withdrawn, she burst into tears; sinking down on a
chair, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.

"You are weeping!" whispered a soft, sweet voice. "Oh, dear mother, do
not weep," said another, and two heads leaned on her shoulders--the
heads of her oldest sons. She took her hands from her face, and shook
the tears from her eyes. She kissed her sons, and, placing both of them
before her, gazed at them a long time with an air of melancholy
tenderness.

"Yes," she said, and while she spoke her voice became firmer, and her
face radiant--"yes, I am weeping; nor am I ashamed of my tears. I am
weeping for the downfall of my house--the loss of that glory with which
your ancestors and their generals crowned the Hohenzollern dynasty, and
the splendor of which extended over the whole of Prussia--nay, over all
Germany. That glory has, I say, departed forever. Fate has destroyed in
a day a structure in the erection of which great men had been engaged
for two centuries. There is no longer a Prussian state, a Prussian army,
and Prussian honor! Ah! my sons, you are old enough to comprehend and
appreciate the events now befalling us; at a future time, when your
mother will be no more among the living, remember this unhappy hour.
Shed tears for me, as I do for the ruin of our country! But listen," she
added, and her eyes beamed with enthusiasm, "do not content yourselves
with shedding tears! Act, develop your strength. Prussia's genius,
perhaps, will favor you. Then deliver your nation from the disgrace and
humiliation in which it is at present grovelling! Try to recover the now
eclipsed fame of your ancestors, as your great-grandfather, the great
elector, once avenged, at Fehrbellin, the defeats of his father against
the Swedes. Let not the degeneracy of the age carry you away, my sons;
become men and heroes. Should you lack this ambition, you would be
unworthy of the name of princes and grandsons of Frederick the Great.
But if, in spite of all efforts, you should fail in restoring the former
grandeur of the state, then seek death as Prince Louis Ferdinand sought
it!"




CHAPTER VIII.

NAPOLEON IN POTSDAM.


The unheard-of and never-expected event had taken place; the son of the
Corsican lawyer, the general of the Revolution, had defeated the
Prussian army, compelled the royal family to flee to the eastern
provinces, and now made his triumphal entry into their capital! On the
afternoon of the 24th of October he arrived in Potsdam; the royal palace
had to open its doors to him; the royal servants had to receive him as
reverentially as though he had been their sovereign!

Napoleon was now master of Prussia as well as of all Germany. But his
classic face remained as cold and calm in these days of proud triumph as
it had been in the days of adversity. His successes seemed to surprise
him as little as his early misfortunes had discouraged him. When
ascending the broad carpeted staircase, he turned to Duroc, his grand
marshal and beckoned him to his side. "Just notice, grand marshal," he
said, in so loud a voice that it resounded through the palace, "just
notice the strange coincidence. If I remember rightly, it is just a year
to-day since the fine-looking Emperor Alexander of Russia arrived here
in Potsdam, and paid a visit to the queen. Please ask the steward who
received us at the foot of the stairs, whether it is not so."

Duroc went away, and soon returned with the answer that his majesty had
not been mistaken; it was just a year to-day since the Emperor of Russia
arrived in Potsdam.

A faint smile overspread Napoleon's face. "I will occupy the same rooms
which Alexander then occupied," he said, passing on.

Duroc hastened back, to give the necessary orders. Napoleon walked down
the corridor with ringing, soldier-like footsteps, followed by his
marshals, and entered the large portrait-gallery of the Prussian
monarchs, who looked down on him with grave eyes.

The emperor paused in the middle of the hall and glanced over the
portraits with a gloomy air. "All those men had a high opinion of
themselves," he said, in a sullen tone; "they were proud of their high
birth and of their royal crown, and yet death has trampled them all in
the dust. I will now take upon myself the task of death: I will
annihilate this Prussia which dared to take up arms against me, and who
knows whether this gallery of Prussian kings will not close with
Frederick William III.? Nothing on earth is lasting, and sovereigns
now-a-days fall from their thrones as over-ripe apples from trees. The
crown of Prussia fell to the ground on the battle-fields of Jena and
Auerstadt!"

The portraits of the Prussian rulers looked down silently on the
triumphant conqueror, and neither his scornful voice, nor the haughty
glances with which he contemplated them, disturbed their tranquillity.
Not a voice answered these arrogant and insulting words; the marshals
stood silent and respectful, and still seemed to listen to the voice of
the oracle which had just announced to the portraits of the royal
ancestors of the present king the downfall of their house. But
Napoleon's brow, which had momentarily beamed with proud thoughts, was
again clouded. Joining his hands on his back, he crossed the hall to the
large central window, from which there was a fine and extensive view of
the lawn, with its old trees and splendid statues, and beyond, of the
Havel and its hilly banks. He gazed gloomily at this landscape, then
turned and looked again at the pictures, but only for a moment, as
though he would threaten them once more, and make them feel again the
angry glance of him who had come to dethrone their descendant and
appropriate his crown. Then he fixed his eyes on the portrait of a
handsome woman whose large blue eyes seemed to gaze at him, and her
crimson lips to greet him with a winning smile. Quite involuntarily, and
as if attracted by the beauty of this likeness, he approached and
contemplated it long and admiringly.

"Truly," he said, "that is a charming creature. That lady must have been
wondrously lovely, and at the same time surpassingly graceful and
high-spirited."

"Sire," said Duroc, who had followed him and overheard his words, "sire,
she is still wondrously lovely, and, as your majesty says, surpassingly
graceful and high-spirited. It is the portrait of Queen Louisa of
Prussia."

A dark expression mantled Napoleon's face, and, bending an angry glance
on Duroc, he said, "It is well known that you were always foolishly in
love with the Queen of Prussia, and, according to your statement, one
might believe there was no woman in the whole world so beautiful as she
is." He turned his back on the painting and stepped to the next one:
"And this, then, doubtless, is Frederick William III.?"

"Yes, sire, it is the portrait of the reigning king."

"Of the reigning king?" repeated the emperor, with a scornful smile. "It
is a very good-natured face," he added, looking at the full-sized
portrait; "and as I behold his gentle, timid air, I comprehend that he
allows himself to be directed by advisers, and follows the will of
others rather than his own. But this little King of Prussia is taller
than I thought!"

"Sire, he is about as tall as the Grand-duke of Berg," said Duroc.

"As Murat?" asked Napoleon. "It never seemed to me that he was as tall
as that. Is not Murat of my own height?"

"No, sire, he is higher than you!"

"You mean he is taller than I," said Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders.
"Height of stature is of no consequence. Frederick II. was much smaller
than his grand-nephew, and yet he was the greatest of Prussia's kings.
We will afterward pay him a visit at Sans-souci. Until then, adieu,
gentlemen. Come, Duroc, conduct me to the rooms of the Emperor
Alexander!"

He greeted the marshals with a quick nod, and then followed Duroc into
the long suite of halls and brilliant rooms which, only a year ago, had
been newly decorated and furnished with royal magnificence for the
reception of the czar.

"These kings and princes 'by the grace of God' live here very
pleasantly," muttered Napoleon in an undertone; "they know better how to
build and furnish their residences than to preserve them to their
children. Well, I am a good architect, and have come to reconstruct the
royal palace of Prussia. Do you think, Duroc, those ingrates will thank
me for it?"

"They will see that the lion must have his share," said Duroc, "and they
will, doubtless, be thankful if any thing is left to them. Sire, here we
are in the czar's bedroom! The steward told me every thing was arranged
in it precisely the same as in the days when the Russian emperor was
here. Nobody has slept in this bed since."

"I must sleep in it," said Napoleon, quickly, "and I believe I shall
sleep in the royal Prussian palace, and in the bed of the Russian
emperor, as comfortably as I did in the Tuileries and in the bed of
Louis XVI."

He threw his small three-cornered hat with a contemptuous gesture on the
bed, which was surmounted by a velvet canopy, embroidered with gold, and
then, his arms crossed behind him, commenced slowly pacing the room.
Duroc dared not disturb him, and turned toward the paintings and
engravings hanging on the walls. The emperor walked a long while gravely
and musingly; his brow grew more clouded, and he pressed his lips more
firmly together. Suddenly he paused before Duroc, and, being alone,
spoke to him no longer in the tone of a master, but with the
unreservedness of a friend.

"Legitimacy is a terrible power, Duroc," said he, hastily; "it is what I
cannot vanquish with all my cannon. Sovereigns and princes know it full
well, and that is the reason of their obstinacy. They oppose their
ancestors to my victorious eagles, and when, by virtue of my right as
conqueror, I enter their palaces and take possession of them, I find
there the proud company of their forefathers, who seem to look
scornfully down on me, and tell me, 'You are after all but an intruder
and usurper, while we are and shall remain here the rightful owners.' I
am sick and tired of playing this part of usurper. I shall overthrow all
dynasties, expel all legitimate sovereigns--and there shall be no other
throne than mine. I shall be at least the first legitimate monarch of
the new era!"

"And expelled princes will sit in some nook of your immense empire,"
said Duroc, laughing, "and sing to the people the same song of
legitimacy; and it will be listened to as one of the fairy stories of
childhood, in which they believe no more."

"But they shall believe in _my_ legitimacy!" exclaimed Napoleon,
quickly. "I will be the first of the Napoleonic sovereigns." His brow
was clouded again. "But it is true," he murmured, "in order to found a
dynasty, I need a son. I must have legitimate children. It will be no
fault of mine if circumstances compel me to divorce Josephine; for I
will not, like Alexander of Macedon, conquer exclusively for the benefit
of my generals. I need an heir to my empire."

"Sire, you have one in the son of the empress, noble King Eugène."

"No," exclaimed the emperor, gloomily, "the son of the Viscount de
Beauharnais cannot be heir to my throne. My blood does not flow in his
veins. Oh, why did the young Napoleon die! I had destined him to succeed
me, because he was of my blood, and a scion of my family.[12] Poor
Josephine! if her tears and prayers could have saved the child's life, I
should never have thought of taking another wife."

[Footnote 12: The oldest son of the King of Holland, Napoleon's brother,
and of Hortense, Josephine's daughter, had been declared Napoleon's
successor and adopted son. He died of croup, in 1805, in his seventh
year.]

"What!" exclaimed Duroc, in dismay, "your majesty thinks of repudiating
the empress!"

"My heart never will repudiate her," replied Napoleon, drawing a sigh.
"I shall always love her, for she deserves it. She is generous and
high-minded, good and graceful. I never loved another woman as I love
her--and never shall. Judge, therefore, what a cruel blow it will be to
my heart, should I be compelled to separate from her."

"If you should, sire," said Duroc, in a voice quivering with
emotion,--"if you repudiate the empress, you would thereby sign your own
death-warrant, and Josephine would not survive it."

"She will have to survive it like myself," exclaimed the emperor,
impetuously. "I shall suffer no less--nay, I shall suffer more than she,
for she never loved me as I love her. Her tears will fall for the lost
splendor of the throne--not for her husband. But I shall bewail the
beloved wife."

"No, sire," said Duroc, almost indignantly, "you are unjust. The empress
loves you--you alone. She accepted the crown reluctantly and with
tearful eyes, and will not weep when she loses it. She will mourn for
her husband only, whom she adores, and not for the crown which adorns
but also oppresses her brow."

"Ah, what a warm advocate the empress has!" exclaimed Napoleon, smiling.
"Do you really believe that she loves me so disinterestedly?"

"Sire, I am convinced of it, and so is your majesty. The empress loves
in you her dear Bonaparte, and not the emperor. She loves you more
ardently than any other woman could do. Sire, permit an old, well-tried
friend and servant to warn you. Do not banish Josephine from your heart,
for she is your guardian angel."

Napoleon did not reply immediately, but looked melancholy and
abstracted.

"It is true," he said, after a long pause, "Josephine brought success;
until I married her every thing around me was forbidding and dark. She
appeared like a sun by my side, and we rose together."

"Sire, all will darken again, if you suffer your sun to set."

"Ah, bah! these are nothing but fantastic dreams!" exclaimed Napoleon,
after a brief silence. "I am the architect of my fortune--I alone.
Josephine did not assist me in erecting my edifice; she only adorned it
with her smiling grace. I shall do what fate and my people have a right
to expect of me, but I do not say that it must be done immediately. I
have time enough to wait; for as yet I do not stand on the pinnacle to
which I am aspiring. My plans are not yet accomplished. I hope that I
shall not die at so early an age as my father. I need ten years more to
carry out my purposes. A sovereign ought not to set too narrow limits to
his wishes; but mine--they are boundless. Like the conqueror of Darius,
I must rule the world, and I hope that my desire will one day be
fulfilled. Nay, I feel convinced that I and my family will occupy all
the thrones of Europe. Then it will be time for me to have a wife who
will give an heir to my empire, and a son to my heart. Until then, my
friend, keep the matter secret; do not mention what I have told you. The
portraits of the old kings, with their surly faces, have impressed me
very disagreeably, and it is in defiance of them that I say, I will one
day have a wife--a daughter of the Cæsars--who will think it an honor to
bear a son to the modern Cæsar! When the time comes, however, I shall
remind you of this hour, and then request you, in the name of the
confidence which I have reposed in you, to prepare my poor, beloved
Josephine for the blow that is menacing her and myself, and which I then
shall ward off no longer. But a truce to these matters! Let us go to
Sans-souci. Come!"

"Sire, before your majesty has dined?"

"Ah, you are hungry, then? You would like to dine?"

"Sire, I believe all the gentlemen entertain the same desire. None of us
have tasted food for eight hours."

"Eight hours, and you are already hungry again? Truly, this German air
exerts a bad effect upon my brave marshals. Like the Germans, you want
to eat all the time. Well, let it so be; as we are in Germany, I will
comply with your wishes. Let us dine, therefore, and afterward go to the
country-palace of Frederick II. Be kind enough to issue your orders,
grand-marshal. Let the horses be ready; we shall set out as soon as we
have dined. Tell Roustan to come to me!"

Napoleon was now again the sovereign, and it was in this capacity that
he dismissed Duroc, who left the room with a respectful bow. Roustan,
who had already heard the order in the anteroom, glided past him, to
assist Constant in the emperor's toilet.




CHAPTER IX.

SANS-SOUCI.


Duroc hastened once more through the rooms and halls to the corridor,
where the palace-steward came to meet him.

"Dinner is ready, grand marshal," he said.

"And have you set another table in the adjoining room?"

"Your orders have been punctually obeyed."

"Be good enough, then, to conduct me to the large dining-hall."

The steward bowed in silence, and led the way. All the marshals and
generals were already assembled when Duroc entered.

"Gentlemen," he said, smiling, "his majesty is now occupied with his
toilet, and Roustan has assured me that it would last half an hour. We
have half an hour, therefore, to take our dinner." Followed by the
others, he went into the next room. A table had been set there, and
appetizing odors invited them to sit down to it.

"Now, steward, have every thing served up as quick as possible. We have
but twenty minutes left." During that time there reigned profound
silence, only now and then interrupted by a word or a brief remark. The
marshals contented themselves in making the viands disappear, and
emptying the bottles. Duroc, who had frequently cast anxious glances at
the large clock, now rose hastily. "Gentlemen," he said, "our time is
up, and we must be ready for the emperor's dinner. I will go to his
majesty, and conduct him to the dining-hall. I hope all of you have
eaten well, so as not to need much of the official repast to which we
are going. The emperor has graciously ordered us all to dine with him.
Be so kind as to repair to the hall."

When Napoleon entered, a few minutes later, preceded by Duroc, he found
all the marshals assembled. The dinner commenced, and he, it seemed, was
no less hungry than his generals, for not only did he eat his soup with
the utmost rapidity, but when he saw one of his favorite dishes placed
near him, he smiled and nodded kindly to the grand marshal, who was
standing at his right, and presented him a glass of wine.

"See how attentive these dear Germans are!" he said. "If I am not
mistaken, this is my favorite dish, _fricassée à la Marengo."_

"Yes, sire, I sent the bill of fare hither last night by the courier
who announced your majesty's arrival, and I am glad to see that it has
been punctually attended to."

"So these German cooks know already how to prepare a _fricassée à la
Marengo?_ Who has taught them this?"

"Your majesty; your majesty is now the cook and butler for all
Germany--everybody has become familiar with your favorite dishes."

The emperor smiled. Placing a piece of bread on his fork, he dipped it
into the dish, and repeated this several times; and when the grand
marshal placed before him a silver plate, filled with a portion of the
same, he commenced to eat rapidly. Aware of his habit, his attendants
had taken care that the pieces of meat were sufficiently small, and the
whole dish not too hot. He began to eat the meat with a fork, and the
sauce with a spoon, but he seemed to regard both as too inconvenient;
for he laid them aside, and, after the fashion of the Turks, used his
delicate white hands, adorned with diamond-rings.[13] Scarcely twelve
minutes had elapsed when he rose. The grand marshal immediately
presented to him a golden basin and a napkin to wash his hands.

[Footnote 13: Constant, for many years Napoleon's devoted _valet de
chambre_, gives in his reminiscences a detailed account of the emperor's
habits, and writes as follows about his mode of dining: "The great
rapidity with which the emperor was accustomed to eat was frequently
very injurious to his health. One of the immediate effects of this habit
was, that he did not eat very cleanly. He liked to use his fingers
instead of a fork, and, indeed, instead of a spoon. Great care was taken
always to place a favorite dish before him. He partook of it in the
manner above described, dipping his bread into the sauce, which did not
prevent the other guests from eating of the same dish, or at least
such as wished to do so, and there were few who did not. I have even
seen some who pretended to regard this favorite dish as a way of
doing homage to the emperor. Napoleon's favorite dish was a sort of
chicken-fricassée, called, in honor of the conqueror of Italy,
'_fricassée à la Marengo_.'"--Constant, Mémoires, vol. ii., p. 56.]

Napoleon's guests had done well in dining beforehand; for, as the
servants did not attend to them so quickly as to their master, and as
they, moreover, were not able to eat so fast as he, they would assuredly
have risen hungry from the table.[14]

[Footnote 14: The guests invited to the imperial table always dined
beforehand. The emperor, in the haste with which he ate, did not notice
that the others had no time to do so. Once, when he departed from the
table, and Eugène, his stepson, rose immediately after him, Napoleon
turned to him, and said:

"But you have had no time to eat?"

"Pardon me," replied the prince, "I dined beforehand."--"Mémoires de
Constant," vol. ii., p. 55.]

"To horse, gentlemen!" exclaimed Napoleon. "Let us ride over to
Sans-souci, and do homage to the manes of the king who was a philosopher
and a great general at the same time."

The streets of Potsdam were deserted as the emperor and his brilliant
suite rode through them. All the windows were closed; the citizens were
nowhere to be seen; only a crowd of idle boys followed the imperial
cavalcade. The soldiers of the grand French army alone greeted the
emperor with joyous cheers outside of the city, where they were
encamped. Potsdam thought, perhaps, of its king, who had immortalized
it, and was sad and ashamed that those whom Frederick the Great had
routed in so glorious a manner at Rossbach now made their triumphal
entry into his capital.

Napoleon's brow was gloomy; this silence of the population was
disagreeable and oppressive. It seemed to him to be a sign of the
hostile spirit of the Prussians; and as he was riding slowly, his head
slightly bent forward, along the avenue toward Sans-souci, he muttered:
"This is a malicious and infamous trick! The haughty nobility will still
oppose me, but I will crush them. They must not succeed, however, in
making me angry, but I shall chastise those who have induced the
citizens to remain at home, and not to greet me." And, thoughtfully, he
rode on toward the country-seat of Frederick the Great.

No one was at the palace to welcome him but the castellan, a venerable
man, who, with a few aged servants in faded liveries, received the
all-powerful conqueror at the open folding-doors of the hall leading to
the terrace. Napoleon looked at him with a rapid, piercing glance. "You
lived in the period of Frederick II.?" he asked hastily.

"Yes, sire, we were fortunate enough to serve the great king," said the
castellan, in faultless, fluent French. "Hence, the honorable task has
been intrusted to us to watch over his sacred resting-place, and to
protect it from injury."

"The name of the great king is a sufficient protection for this house,"
said Napoleon. "My soldiers have a profound respect for true greatness;
they will not dare to desecrate this sanctuary. Be my guide, my friend.
Let me see the sitting-room of your king!"

"Of the present king, sire?" asked the castellan.

Napoleon smiled. "I think there is but one king in Sans-souci," he
said, "and that is Frederick II. Conduct me to his sitting-room!" and
rapidly crossing the semicircular marble hall, he walked toward the
side-door which the castellan opened.

"Sire," he said, solemnly, "this is the king's sitting-room; it is still
furnished precisely as when he lived in it. It has undergone no change
whatever."

Napoleon entered; his marshals followed him. None of them uttered a
word; every one seemed involuntarily to tread lightly, as if he feared
to disturb the silence reigning in this room, sacred by its great
reminiscences. The emperor walked rapidly into the middle of the room;
there he paused with folded arms, and his large dark eyes glided slowly
from object to object. The marshals moved softly around, and, on
contemplating the old-fashioned furniture, their ragged silken covers,
the plain desk with the inkstand placed near the window, the large
easy-chair, shrouded in a ragged purple blanket, smiled disdainfully and
whispered to each other that this was a room entirely unfit for a king,
and that one might purchase better and more tasteful furniture of any
second-hand dealer in Paris. Napoleon, perhaps, had overheard their
words, or at least noticed their whisperings, for he bent an angry
glance on them. "Gentlemen," he said, "this is a place which deserves
our profound respect. Here lived one who was a greater general than
Turenne, and from whose campaigns we all might derive instruction.
Alexander the Great himself would have admired Frederick's battle of
Leuthen."

The aged castellan, who was standing at the door, raised his head, and
with a kind glance seemed to thank Napoleon for the tribute he had paid
to the manes of the heroic dead.

The emperor's eyes were now fixed on the large clock placed on a gilded
pedestal. It was a master-piece of the period of Louis XV., and adorned
in the most brilliant roccoco style. The large dial, with the figures of
colored enamel, rested in a frame and case of splendidly-wrought gold,
and this was surmounted by a portrait of the Emperor Titus, with the
inscription, "_Diem perdidi_."

"Is that the clock which the king caused to be purchased from the heirs
of the Marquise de Pompadour?"

"Yes, sire, it is. It has always stood in this room, since he purchased
it. Frederick the Great prized it very highly, and consulted it
exclusively until his death. And it seemed to know that he liked it, for
when he closed his eyes, the clock stopped and never went again."

"Ah," exclaimed Napoleon, quickly, "since the death of Frederick the
government of Prussia, it seems, really did not know the time any more.
And what about that ragged old easy-chair? Did the king use it, too?"

"Sire," said the castellan, solemnly, laying stress on every word he
uttered--"sire, the great king died in that chair; his head rested on
the pillow now lying on the seat, and he was covered with that blanket."

The emperor rapidly approached; the marshals followed his example and
walked toward it on tiptoe. He stood before it; his arms folded, his
lips compressed, contemplating it. Behind him stood the marshals, whose
indifferent countenances and curious glances contrasted strangely with
the pale face of their master. Not far from them, near the door, stood
the white-haired castellan; his hands clasped, and his head bowed
mournfully on his breast.

Suddenly the room was filled with light; the sun, which had hitherto
been hidden by clouds, burst forth and shone brilliantly; golden beams
fell upon the easy-chair of Frederick the Great, and surrounded it, as
it were, with a halo.

"This, then, is the death-bed of the great king," said Napoleon,
musingly. "The gods did not permit him to fall on the battle-field.
Disease and age vanquished the hero of the Seven Years' War, and he died
not amid the triumphs of his soldiers, but solitary and alone! May
Providence, in His mercy, preserve us from such a fate!" And turning
quickly to the castellan, he asked, "Were you present when the king
died?"

"Yes, sire, I was; for I was his _valet de chambre_."

"Tell me the last words he uttered."

"Sire, he spoke repeatedly, but so inaudibly and rapidly that we did not
apprehend him. The last words which we were able to understand were:
'Give me back my soldiers of the Seven Years' War! I am tired of ruling
over slaves!'"

"Strange, strange," murmured Napoleon; "he was tired of ruling over
slaves! as though it were possible to rule over free men! Ah, I should
like to have known this king, who was such an autocrat, and yet despised
slaves! who wielded the sword as skilfully as the pen! to whom the
booming of the cannon sounded as melodious as the notes of his
flute--who made verses with Voltaire, and won battles with Schwerin and
Ziethen! He was able to do every thing, and we have not seen his
equal!"

"Oh, sire," murmured the marshals, "your majesty forgets--"

"Silence, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, in an angry voice, pointing with his
outstretched arm to the easy-chair, "do not flatter me in _this_ room. I
wish I had known Frederick the Great, for I believe we should have
understood each other."

"Sire," said the castellan, "it is true, his majesty did not know you;
nevertheless, he dreamed of you."

Napoleon hastily turned toward him and asked: "What? He dreamed of me?
Tell me all about it. Approach!"

The castellan, obeying the sign made to him, advanced a few steps slowly
and hesitatingly.

"Sire," he said, "it was a few years after the Seven Years' War. I had
just entered the king's service, and was on duty during that night; that
is to say, I slept in the anteroom, and had received strict orders to
awaken the king at a fixed hour in the morning, and to enter his bedroom
during the night as soon as he called me, or if I should hear any noise.
Suddenly I heard the cry, 'Fire, fire!' I rushed immediately into the
bedroom, but no fire was to be seen. My master lay on his couch,
groaning, breathing heavily, and evidently under the influence of bad
dreams. I, therefore, took the liberty to awaken him. 'Ah,' said he,
heaving a deep sigh, 'I am glad you awakened me; I had a weird, terrible
dream, and I will relate it to you. I dreamed I was standing on the
terrace of Sans-souci, and around me I beheld my state and all my
palaces close together, and behind them I thought I could descry the
whole world, with all its cities and countries; it was spread out before
my eyes like a painting of wondrous beauty, and I was rapturously gazing
at it. All at once the sky grew dark; black clouds passed over it;
profound darkness covered the beautiful world, and dreadful shrieks and
groans resounded through the air. But from the midst of the black clouds
a bright, dazzling star burst like a rocket, and set fire to every
thing, until all countries were in ruins, and all cities burned down.
And as I saw that, I cried in my anguish, "Fire! fire!" Fortunately, you
came and awakened me.' That, sire," said the castellan, drawing a deep
breath, "that was the dream. The king went on to say: 'The dream, I am
sure, is a portentous one, and some remarkable event will doubtless
happen in the course of this night. Write down every thing I told you,
and remember the date and year!' I did as his majesty ordered me; I
wrote down the date, the year, and even the hour in which the dream
occurred."

"Was the dream really a portentous one? Did any remarkable event occur
in that night?"

"Yes, sire, a very remarkable event occurred in that night, but his
majesty did not hear of it; he died too early."

"When did he have that dream?" asked Napoleon, fixing his eyes on the
old man, who composedly bore the searching gaze.

A pause ensued. The castellan replied: "Sire, Frederick the Great had
that dream on the 15th of August, 1769."

"On my birthday!" ejaculated Napoleon.

"On the 15th of August, 1769," repeated the old man, "at three o'clock
in the morning."

"The hour of my birth," muttered the emperor to himself. After a short
pause he turned again toward the castellan, and a strange, sarcastic
smile played on his lips.

"The star fell from the sky, and set fire to all the palaces and
countries?" he asked.

The castellan nodded.

"And you believed that the dream referred to me, and that I am the
fallen star?"

"Sire, I only related what the king had dreamed, and in what night and
in what hour he had the remarkable dream. His majesty spoke frequently
about it, and all his friends heard of it. But nobody was able to
interpret it. He died without obtaining the solution."

"But you have solved it," said Napoleon, sneeringly. "I am the fallen
star, and you think I have come to fulfil that dream?"

"Sire, I--"

"I shall burn down your palaces and scourge your country," added he,
harshly. "Why did you irritate me? I did not commence the war; since you
desired it, I gave it to you. But tell your friends and the good
citizens of Potsdam that the dream of their king will not be entirely
fulfilled. It may be that I shall be compelled to destroy royal palaces,
but the house of the citizen and the cabin of the peasant will not feel
my wrath, nor will I lay waste your fields. Tell the good denizens of
this city--tell them not to be afraid of me; for never shall I assail
their rights and privileges, nor interfere with their interests. And
now, gentlemen, let us proceed!" He quickly crossed the room, and
entered the adjoining apartment.

"Sire, this is the reception-room of Frederick the Great," said the
castellan, who had followed. "On that table lies the full suit in which
his majesty gave his last audience--his uniform, his order of the Black
Eagle, his hat and sword."

Napoleon hastened to the table, and seized the sword. "Ah, the sword of
Frederick II.," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "He often wielded it
with a victorious hand, and that hat covered a head adorned with the
laurel-wreath of the poet and the great general! These are trophies that
I prefer to all the treasures of Prussia. What a capital present for the
Invalides, especially for those who formed part of the army of Hanover!
They will be delighted, no doubt, when they see in our possession the
sword of him who beat them at Rossbach! And as my dear brother,
Frederick William III., has conferred the order of the Black Eagle on
me, I suppose he will permit me to take this decoration as a souvenir of
the greatest king of the house of Hohenzollern. What about the bell that
is placed beside the hat?"

"Sire," said the castellan, mournfully and hesitatingly, "it is the bell
which the king used during his whole reign to call the gentlemen waiting
in the anteroom, and the footmen at night."

"That bell shall stand henceforward in my cabinet and on my desk," said
Napoleon. "Grand marshal, order all these things to be packed up and to
be sent immediately to Paris, and add to them also the clock in the
other room--the clock that was so faithful to the great king as to stop
at his death, and to refuse to mark the time for any one else. I will
wind it up, and the clock of Frederick the Great must strike again for
me. Conduct us to the other rooms, castellan."

The old man cast a long and melancholy look on the precious relics that
were about to be taken from him, and took leave of them with a profound
sigh. He then conducted the party to the other rooms. He showed them the
library, where Frederick, during the last years of his life, had spent
every hour when not occupied with government affairs, longing for no
other society than that of his books. He then took them to the rooms in
which Voltaire had lived, and showed the emperor a paper on which the
king had written verses that Voltaire had corrected and revised.
Napoleon contemplated every thing with the greatest attention, and then
caused himself to be conducted to the fine long hall, in which
Frederick, accompanied by his dog, used to take his daily walk when the
weather was too bad for him to do so in the open air. The walls of this
hall were adorned with many paintings and engravings--all, however, did
not apparently belong to the period of Frederick; for there were among
them paintings and engravings representing his last hours, and his
lonely nocturnal funeral.--Others again depicted the scene of young
Frederick William II. standing by the corpse of his great uncle, and
swearing with tearful eyes, his hand placed on the head of Frederick,
that he would be a just and good ruler to his people.

"And what does this picture represent?" asked Napoleon, pointing to an
engraving by the side of the above-mentioned painting.

"Sire," said the castellan, in confusion, "it is a copper-plate,
representing the king's tomb. It does not properly belong here, but has
been placed here temporarily. The artist sent it hither with the request
to place it somewhere in Sans-souci, and I hung it up in this place
until my master disposes of it in some other way."

"But what about this one?" asked the emperor, whose piercing eyes were
fixed on another engraving. "There is the tomb of Frederick; two men, in
full uniform, are standing by its side; a beautiful lady is with them,
and all three are raising their hands in an odd manner. Ah, ah, now I
comprehend: that is last year's scene, when the Emperor Alexander took
leave of the king and queen at the grave of Frederick the Great, and
swore eternal friendship to them as well as eternal enmity to France?
That is what this engraving represents, I suppose?"

"Yes, sire, it is," said the castellan, timidly.

Napoleon, with a flashing glance, called his marshals to his side.
"Behold there, gentlemen, one of those theatrical scenes with which
people here in Prussia were declaiming against me, while I was silent,
but arming against them," said he with a sneer. "If the King of Prussia
does not fulfil the other oaths he has taken more faithfully than this
one, I pity his people; but he has incurred the retribution of the gods,
who insist on it that men shall fulfil their promises or they will be
crushed. We have seen enough of the place where Frederick the Great
passed his life; let us pay a last visit to him in his tomb. Where is
it?"

"In Potsdam, sire, in the church close to the palace."

"Very well. Come, gentlemen. And you, castellan, do not forget that the
dream has not been altogether fulfilled. The 'fallen star' is only a
devouring fire to the kings who bid him defiance, but not to the people
who obediently submit." He nodded, stepped from the hall into the
anteroom, and then into the vestibule, where the horses were ready for
him and his suite.

The old man gazed mournfully after the brilliant cavalcade. "He looks
like a marble statue," he muttered, "and I believe that he has no heart
in his breast. Every thing in him is made of stone. If he had a heart,
he would not dare to come hither and appropriate with a rapacious hand
the sacred relics of our great king. I must really go and see whether
his commands to that effect will be carried out or not." And he left the
hall with youthful alacrity, hastening through the apartments back to
the reception-room.

Yes, the commands had been obeyed! The hat and sword, the order of the
Black Eagle, and the bell, had disappeared. The old castellan uttered a
groan, and proceeded to the sitting-room. His anxious eyes glanced at
the spot where the clock had stood. That was also gone. But he heard men
talking and laughing in the anteroom, and when he hastened hither, he
saw some of the emperor's servants, who, in compliance with the orders
of the grand marshal, were engaged in packing up the relics in a basket,
and jesting at what they called the strange and insignificant spoils
which the emperor had obtained here. The white-haired servants of
Frederick the Great were standing close by, and witnessing with tearful
eyes the removal of treasures so sacred on account of the reminiscences
connected with them. The men were just engaged in placing the clock on
the other articles in a basket. The castellan approached hurriedly and
placing his hand on the dial, said in a low voice, "Farewell! The eyes
of Frederick the Great have often gazed at you. His eyes were also
stars, but not fallen stars, and they did not scorch and burn, but
rendered the people happy. Farewell, faithful clock, that stopped with
grief in the last hour of my king! When _his_ last hour comes, announce
it loudly and joyously, and commence going again, for the worst time
will be over then, and the fallen star will cease burning. Farewell, and
strike that hour as soon as possible!"[15]

[Footnote 15: The clock remained in Napoleon's possession and
accompanied him to St. Helena. It stood on the mantel-piece in his small
parlor, and is mentioned in his will. He bequeathed it to his son, the
Duke de Reichstadt, in the following words: "The clock which always
awakened me in the morning; it belonged to Frederick II., and I
appropriated it in Potsdam." The bell he also bequeathed to his son.
Many conflicting statements have been made concerning the sword Napoleon
took. It was certainly not the sword which Frederick had worn to the
last. The latter had a leathern scabbard which, in several defective
places, had been repaired with sealing-wax because Frederick found this
to be less expensive than to have it repaired by a harness-maker. The
king had taken this sword along, when, in September, 1806, he repaired
with the queen to the headquarters of the army; it accompanied him
during his flight, and was safely brought back by him. It was afterward
at the "_Kunstkammer_" In Berlin. The sword which Napoleon sent to Paris
had been presented to Frederick by Peter III. of Russia, who, it is well
known, was an ardent admirer of the great king. Blücher, in 1814,
brought it back from Paris.]

Looking even more gloomy than on leaving the city, the emperor rode with
his suite again through the deserted, silent streets of Potsdam. The
brilliant cavalcade moved as slowly and solemnly as a funeral procession
toward the church, the lower vault of which contained the coffin with
the remains of Frederick. The sexton and his assistants, bearing the
large bunch of keys and a blazing torch, conducted the emperor through
the dark and silent corridors, and opened the heavy, clanking iron doors
leading into the vault. Napoleon entered. For a moment he stood still on
the threshold and gazed in surprise at its plain, gloomy vault, the
walls of which were not adorned with trophies, nor with any decorations
whatever, and at that humble wooden coffin, which stood so bare and
solitary in the middle of the sombre room. Behind him were his marshals,
who looked at the strange scene with an air of curiosity and
astonishment.

"Ah," said Napoleon, gently turning his head toward them, and pointing
with his right hand to the coffin, "a man must have distinguished
himself by many great deeds, and obtained immortal glory, to need thus
no earthly pomp and splendor!"

He approached closely to the coffin; folding his arms on his breast, his
lips firmly compressed, he gazed long and steadfastly at it. The blaze
of the torch shed a bright light on his face, and as his pale head alone
was distinctly visible in the darkness, the beholders might have
believed one of the marble statues of the Cæsars on the terrace of
Sans-souci, had descended from its pedestal in order to pay a visit to
the dead king.

After a long pause Napoleon's eye resumed its wonted brilliancy. He
pointed with a strange smile at the dust covering the lid of the coffin.
"Dust without and dust within! that within was a great king and a hero;
yet that without is more lasting than the oaths which the Emperor
Alexander swore here a year ago, with Frederick William and the
beautiful Louisa. Even the kiss which Alexander imprinted at that time
on the coffin of Frederick is no longer visible; dust has covered it,
and equalized every thing." Thus speaking, he drew lines with his hand;
without knowing it, perhaps, his finger traced a large _N_ in the dust
of the royal coffin. He then hastily left the dark vault to return to
the palace.[16]

[Footnote 16: One of Horace Vernet's most beautiful paintings represents
this visit of Napoleon paid to the grave of Frederick the Great.]

The emperor paced the room a long while, his hands clasped on his back;
he then rang the bell impetuously, and sent for the chief of his
cabinet, M. de Menneval.

"Be seated," said he, as soon as that functionary made his appearance;
"take my pen, I will dictate to you my eighteenth bulletin."[17]

[Footnote 17: Napoleon wrote or dictated all his bulletins without
consulting any one in regard to them. After being dictated, the
bulletins were, however, submitted to Talleyrand, who took good care to
make no alteration.]

M. de Menneval sat down at the desk. Napoleon walked slowly up and down,
and dictated in a loud, stern voice as follows: "The emperor arrived in
Potsdam on the 25th of October, and took up his residence at the royal
palace. He visited on the first day Sans-souci and the environs of
Potsdam, spending some time in the rooms of Frederick II., where every
thing is still in the same condition as at the time of his death. In the
arsenal at Berlin, five hundred cannon, several hundred thousand pounds
of powder, and several thousand muskets, were found in excellent
condition. It has been noticed as a singular coincidence that the
emperor arrived in Potsdam on the same day and at the same hour, and
occupied the same rooms, as the Emperor of Russia during the latter's
visit--a visit last year which has had such fatal consequences for
Prussia. Since that moment the queen has forgotten to take care of her
domestic affairs, and of the most important duties of the toilet, in
order to occupy herself with politics, gain power over the king, and
spread everywhere the evil influence which possesses her. The result of
that famous oath which was taken on the 4th of November, 1805, is the
battle of Austerlitz, and the speedy evacuation of Germany by the
Russian army in the manner prescribed by France. Forty-eight hours
afterward that oath at the coffin of Frederick the Great was made the
subject of a copper-plate, which is to be found in all the shops, and
even causes the peasants to laugh. On it is represented the handsome
Emperor of Russia; by his side the queen, and opposite him the king, who
lifts up his hand over the coffin; the queen, wrapped in a shawl, like
lady Hamilton, as seen on the London copper-plates, places her hand on
her heart, and seems to look at the Emperor of Russia. It is
incomprehensible how the Berlin police could permit the circulation of
so base a satire. At all events, the shade of Frederick cannot have
contemplated this scandalous scene but with indignation and disgust. His
mind, his genius, his wishes, belong to the French nation, which he
esteemed so highly, and of which he said that, if he were its king, no
cannon should be discharged in Europe without his permission. On his
return from Sans-souci the emperor visited also the tomb of Frederick
the Great. The remains of this great man are reposing in a wooden
coffin, covered with one of copper, and in a vault devoid of drapery,
trophies, or any thing that might remind the beholder of his heroic
deeds. The emperor has presented the _Hôtel des Invalides_ at Paris with
the sword of Frederick, with his insignia of the order of the Black
Eagle, as well as with the stands of colors used by the king's
lifeguards in the Seven Years' War. The veterans will receive with
reverent awe every thing that belonged to one of the greatest generals
known in history."[18]

[Footnote 18: Goujon, "Collection des Bulletins de Napoléon," vol.
xvii., Bulletin xviii.]




CHAPTER X.

NAPOLEON'S ENTRY INTO BERLIN.


The city of Berlin had not exhibited for many years so festive and
lively a spectacle as on the morning of the 27th of October. An immense
crowd was moving across the Palace Place, Broad Street, and the Linden,
toward the Brandenburg Gate, and forming in line on both sides of the
street. Thousands of boys and youths climbed the linden-trees, that
stand in two rows in the middle of this thoroughfare, causing the trees
to move to and fro under their heavy burden, and gazed with eyes full of
curiosity from their lofty position on the bustle reigning beneath.
Through the crowd hundreds of busy figures were gliding, standing still
here and there, and addressing the people in low and impressive tones;
now and then, however, they did not content themselves with mere words,
but to some handed pieces of money, and whispered, "Drink the emperor's
health, in order that your throats may be prepared, when he makes his
entry, to shout in stentorian tones, '_Vive l'Empereur_!'"

These liberal adherents of Napoleon were agents of the French police,
already fully organized in Berlin--the hirelings of General Clarke, who
was now governor of the capital, and treated the subjugated inhabitants
with all the haughtiness and scorn of a triumphant conqueror.

Many tears were shed in the city during these days--many imprecations
uttered, but only secretly and in a low voice, for the people could not
venture to provoke the anger of the victor, but had to bear whatever
burdens he imposed on them. The odds were too heavy; the army was
defeated; the king with his court had fled; the higher functionaries had
either concealed themselves or loudly declared their willingness to take
the oath of allegiance to the Emperor of the French, and to serve him as
their master.

What remained, therefore, for the poor inhabitants of Berlin but to
submit? All had deserted them; even the governor had escaped, and his
lieutenant, the Prince von Hatzfeld, seemed to have no other task than
to admonish them to be quiet and obedient, and to implore them to
undertake, utter, and even think nothing that might be distasteful to
the new French government; but to bow willingly and cheerfully to every
thing that the conqueror might demand.

The citizens, therefore, had bowed to their fate; they had submitted
silently, and now hastened to the Linden and the Brandenburg Gate to
witness the entry of the emperor. Not only the citizens and the people
generally desired to witness this entry--the higher classes, and even
the ladies, were anxious to do so. Every one felt that a great
historical event was to transpire, and eagerly desired to behold the
celebrated man who was hated and admired at the same time; who was
cursed as an enemy, and yet glorified on account of his heroic deeds.
The streets and trees were filled with spectators; and the windows of
the splendid buildings, from the ground-floor up to the attic, were
crowded, and even the roofs had been opened here and there for the
purpose of obtaining more room.

The Linden exhibited a most imposing and brilliant spectacle; still it
seemed as though the crowd were to celebrate a funeral pageant, and as
though they had come as mourners for such an occasion. Nowhere joyous
faces were to be seen--nowhere were heard outbursts of mirth, or those
gay, amusing remarks with which the populace of Berlin seldom fail to
season a festival. The faces of the people were grave and gloomy; and
the ladies, standing at the open windows, were not festively adorned,
but wore black dresses, and black veils fell from their heads.

Suddenly the bells on all the steeples commenced ringing, and the
booming of artillery announced to the spectators, who had patiently
awaited this moment from eleven o'clock in the morning till four in the
afternoon, that the emperor was approaching the Brandenburg Gate from
Charlottenburg. The thousands assembled maintained a breathless silence;
even the trees did not move, for the restless boys who had climbed them
seemed petrified with astonishment at the extraordinary spectacle. The
men, who were now entering the gate, were not such soldiers as the
people of Berlin had hitherto been accustomed to see. They were not
fine-looking, neat young men in handsome uniforms, with bright leather
belts, stiff cravats, and well-powdered pigtails, but soldiers of
strange and truly marvellous appearance. Their complexion was
dark-brown, and their eyes flashing as dagger-points. Instead of wigs
and pigtails, they wore gaudily-colored turbans; instead of
close-fitting uniforms, wide red trousers and dark jackets, richly
embroidered with gold; curved sabres were hanging at their sides, and
their small, vigorous, and agile forms harmonized perfectly with their
splendid Arabian steeds, on which these sons of the desert, the
emperor's Mamelukes, were mounted.

Behind them came another corps. It consisted of tall, broad-shouldered
men, looking as formidable as Cyclops, with bearded, bronzed faces;
their heads covered with high bear-skin caps; their breasts veiled by
large leather aprons, reaching down to their knees; on their shoulders
enormous hatchets, flashing in the sun like burnished silver. And behind
these sappers came the famous grenadiers of the guard, infantry as well
as cavalry; next, the riflemen of Vincennes, in their green uniforms;
and, finally, the bands playing merry airs. The drum-major hurled his
enormous cane with its large silver head into the air, and the
soul-stirring notes of the "Marseillaise" resounded through the spacious
street. Hitherto nobody in Berlin had been permitted to play or sing
this forbidden melody, with which France had formerly accompanied her
bloodiest orgies; only secretly and softly had the people hummed it into
each other's ears; the most stringent orders, issued by the police, had
banished it from the concert-halls as well as from the streets. The
emperor, perhaps, was aware of this, and it was probably for this reason
that he had ordered it to be played; or, perhaps, the son of the
revolution, on making his entry into the capital of a "king by the grace
of God," wished to remind the people, by this hymn of the terrorists,
that it was unnecessary to be born under a royal canopy in order to wear
a crown and to be the anointed of the Lord.

But no one listened to this proscribed and fearful melody. All the
thousands in the streets, on the trees, at the windows, and on the
roofs, were paralyzed with amazement, and looked wonderingly at the new
order of things. They who had hitherto seen and known only proud
officers, mounted on horseback, staring at every citizen with
supercilious glances, and chastising their men for every trifle--they
who had always received the impression that army officers were exalted
personages, to whom they had to bow, who never ought to walk on foot, or
carry any burden whatever--now saw before them the officers of the
imperial guard differing but slightly from the privates, and not only on
foot, like them, but carrying heavy knapsacks on their backs; and, what
caused still greater astonishment, here and there kindly chatting with
their men during the march.

But suddenly there arose a tremendous commotion between the pillars of
the Brandenburg Gate, and the host of marshals and generals, resembling
a star-spangled avalanche, entered the city. Nothing was to be seen but
golden epaulettes, orders glittering with diamonds, embroidered
uniforms, and long white ostrich-plumes. Not on them, however, were the
eyes of the crowd fixed; they gazed only at that grave, pale man, who
rode by himself at the head of the dazzling suite. He wore no orders, no
golden epaulettes, no ostrich-plumes. Plain and unpretending was his
green uniform with its white facings; unadorned was his small
three-cornered hat. He sat carelessly and proudly on his magnificent
charger, which, prancing and rearing, seemed to greet the crowd. The
rider's features were as immovable as if made of stone; his eyes
occasionally, however, bent a piercing glance on the multitude, and then
gazed again into vacancy--the living emperor was transformed once more
into one of the marble triumphators of ancient Roman history. He
acknowledged, in a cold and indifferent manner only, the
constantly-repeated shouts of "_Vive l'Empereur_!" with which the boys
in the trees, the hired men in the streets, and the agents of the
police, saluted him at every step. To him these cries seemed to be the
usual and indispensable musical accompaniment to the step of his horse;
he did not take notice of it when he heard it in his progress; he missed
it only when it did not rend the air.

The emperor rode on, moody, quiet, and cold; but scrutinizing and vivid
were the glances which the marshals and the rest of his suite cast in
all directions. They seemed to be anxious to observe the inhabitants,
and to greet the lovely women who were adorning the windows of the
houses like garlands of flowers. But those beautiful women did not
return their salutations, and the victorious generals saw what they had
rarely seen--that the ladies did not accept their homage--that they
looked down on them with grave, mournful mien--nay, that most of those
charming faces were bathed in tears, not such as well from joy, but from
grief and anger.

Napoleon had taken as little notice of the jubilant cheers of the crowd
as of the tears of the ladies. He rode on, absorbed in his reflections,
toward the royal palace. The bells of the cathedral--in the lower vaults
of which the remains of the royal family were reposing; in the upper
halls of which the solemn wedding ceremonies of the kings and princes
and princesses of Prussia had always been celebrated--greeted with
joyous notes the triumphant enemy, and the doors of the palace opened to
him. In the brilliant halls in which formerly the submissive vassals and
functionaries of the king had done homage to their sovereign, were now
assembled the same persons, as well as the officers and cavaliers of the
court, to receive the French emperor as their sovereign and master.
There were in those halls seven ministers of the king, the members of
the municipality of Berlin, with the two burgomasters; the high
dignitaries of the clergy of both confessions, and the officers of the
different tribunals; the members of the royal household, headed by the
king's master of ceremonies, Count von Neale. And all these gentlemen
had come to present their respects to the man who had routed their army,
driven their king and queen from the capital, and transformed their city
into a French prefecture.

The broad folding-doors opened, and the grand marshal walked through the
halls, crying in a ringing voice, "His majesty the emperor!" A profound
and solemn silence ensued. The eyes of all were turned toward the door
by which the emperor was to enter. He appeared on the threshold, as
impassive as ever. But the silence continued; the shouts of "_Vive
l'Empereur_!" which had greeted Napoleon in the streets, had not
penetrated within the white hall, where the statues of the Hohenzollerns
were standing. But this silent greeting, which might seem too much to
the ancestors of the king, did not satisfy the little soul of the proud
conqueror. The grand marshal approached to introduce the master of
ceremonies, Count von Neale, and to inquire whether the latter would be
allowed to present the several dignitaries to his majesty.

"Ah," exclaimed Napoleon, "you are the Count von Neale, whose daughter
is so enthusiastic and warlike an Amazon.[19] The women of Berlin,
headed by your queen, were bent upon having war; behold the result! You
ought to keep your family in bounds, sir; you ought not to permit your
children to indulge in such senseless military tirades. Assuredly, I do
not want war--not that I am distrustful of my own strength, but because
the blood of my subjects is too precious to me, and because it is my
first duty to shed it only for their honor and security. The population
of Berlin is only a victim of the war, while the instigators of the
hostilities between France and Prussia have escaped. But I will
humiliate and impoverish the court-aristocracy, who dared to oppose me,
and make them beg their bread in foreign lands."

[Footnote 19: The French police had captured, a few days previous to the
commencement of the war, a letter, written by the young Countess von
Neale, containing the following passage: "Napoleon does not want war; he
must be compelled to wage it." Napoleon had read this letter.]

The Count von Neale, pale and trembling, stammered a few unintelligible
words and intended to withdraw, withered and crushed by the emperor's
anger. But the searching eyes of Napoleon were firmly and steadfastly
fixed on him, and, as if guessing his innermost thoughts, he said, in a
cold, disdainful voice, "Remain and do your duty!" The Count von Neale,
therefore, was obliged to stay; he had to introduce to the emperor the
officials and dignitaries, after the chancellor had previously presented
to him the seven ministers of Prussia.

The persons ordered to appear at this audience had formed in line on
both sides of the white hall, and the emperor walked slowly across the
wide apartment, while the Count von Neale, who was immediately behind
him, announced in aloud voice the names and positions of those standing
in the first line.

"Sire," he said, pointing to two gentlemen, adorned with costly golden
chains, standing in front of the line, "sire, the two burgomasters and
the members of the municipality of Berlin."

"I know these gentlemen," said Napoleon, and his face assumed a milder
air. "Both of you belonged to the deputation that wished to present to
me at Potsdam the keys of Berlin. You assured me at that time that the
rumors which had been circulated with regard to this city were entirely
unfounded; that the citizens and the mass of the people had been opposed
to the war, and that there was not one sensible man who had not clearly
foreseen the dangers threatening the country. I have now seen at my
entry that you were right; the good people of this city are not to blame
for this war, and only a handful of old women and young officers brought
about this mischief. The visit of the Emperor Alexander is the cause of
the events which have proved so disastrous to Prussia; and next, the
change which that visit produced in the feelings of the queen, who, from
a timid and modest lady, was quickly transformed into a restless and
warlike Amazon. She suddenly insisted on having a regiment of her own,
and on being present at the meetings of the council of state; she
directed the affairs of the government so skilfully as to bring it in a
few days to the verge of ruin. I shall assuredly know how to distinguish
those who instigated the war from those who tried to avoid it. I shall
chastise the former and reward the latter. Had your king not been so
weak--had he not allowed himself to be led by a faction which, oblivious
of the true welfare of the state and of the sovereign, did their best to
exasperate him against me, he would not be where he is. But my enemies
endeavored to intimidate him, and managed to frighten him by all sorts
of demonstrations. You, gentlemen of the municipality, ought to have
taken steps to inform the king correctly of the opposition of the
citizens of Berlin to a war with France. You will take care now to
preserve good order in the capital."

"Sire," ventured the first burgomaster, in a timid and humble voice,
"your majesty has seen to-day, from the enthusiasm of the citizens, what
spirit is animating them."

The emperor bent a rapid, inquiring glance on him, and seemed not to
have heard his words. "As a matter of course," said Napoleon, in a loud
and angry voice, "no more windows must be broken by the mob! You have to
see to it that such brutalities do not occur again. My brother the King
of Prussia ceased to be king on the day when he did not cause Prince
Louis Ferdinand to be hung for instigating the mob to break the windows
of his ministers."

Napoleon walked on without giving time to the burgomaster for a reply or
justification; and when the Count von Neale presented to him the members
of the tribunals, his brow was serene, and his face assumed the gentle,
winning air which always exercised so irresistible an influence on those
on whom the sunshine of his imperial kindness shed its rays.

The emperor conversed with these gentlemen about the peculiarities of
the administration of justice in Prussia, and listened to their replies
and explanations with polite attention.

"Your administration of justice seems to contain many excellent
features," said he, musingly. "Your laws have a splendid foundation of
equality, and cannot be arbitrarily perverted and abused to shield wrong
and injustice. I am astonished that, with this code of Frederick II. in
your hand, you were not able to render harmless and silence forever all
those seditious and revolutionary spirits that recently infested Berlin,
and now have made Prussia so unhappy. But, instead of suppressing this
agitation in time, you looked on idly, while miserable scribblers and
journalists, influenced by women, constantly added fuel to the fire. I
have been told of a contemptible journal in this city which is said to
have preached war against France with a rabid fanaticism. You ought to
have silenced the madman who edited it. Why did not you do so?"

"Sire, the laws of our country do not permit us to suppress the free
expression of opinion, and the discussion of public affairs. So long as
the periodicals, newspapers, and other publications, do not attack the
existing laws, or incite the people to riots, high-treason, or sedition,
we are not allowed to interfere with them. Every citizen has the right
to utter his opinion publicly and frankly, provided he does so in a
decent and lawful manner."

"That is to say, you have a free press," exclaimed Napoleon, "and grant
to every outsider the right of speaking of things, about which he does
not know any thing. With a free press no monarchy can be maintained,
especially in times of danger and convulsions. You see whither your
so-called free discussion of public affairs has carried you! Your
journalists preached war, and nothing but war; they irritated the
people, and made the king believe that they were the organs of public
opinion, while, in fact, they were but the echoes of the officers of the
guard, and of the foolish women who were bent on having war. Your queen
has used the newspapers as a weapon to exasperate and excite her
husband. Like Marie Antoinette of France, and Marie Caroline of Naples,
Louisa of Prussia has become the evil genius of her country. The Turks
are perfectly right in keeping their women imprisoned. It is the best
that can be done." He nodded to the gentlemen, and, passing on, allowed
the Count von Neale to present to him the dignitaries of the Church.

"The members of the clergy, I believe, ought to be content with me,"
said Napoleon, with a smile, which embellished his features as with a
sunshine of grace and sweetness. "It was I who restored the Church in
France; hence, I need not tell you how important and indispensable I
believe religion and the Church to be for the welfare of nations. Great
tasks and great duties are intrusted to the hands of the clergy.
Endeavor to fulfil them faithfully, gentlemen. Above all, avoid meddling
with politics. Pay exclusive attention to your own affairs, and do as
the gospel commands you: 'Render unto Cæsar the things which are
Cæsar's.'"

He turned toward Mr. Erman, counsellor of the supreme consistorial
court, and dean of the French congregation, and cast a piercing glance
on the venerable, white-haired clergyman.

"You, above all, sir, should not forget those words," said Napoleon, in
a loud voice. "For you are a Frenchman, and it is your duty, therefore,
wherever you may be, to educate faithful and devoted subjects to your
country. You might have done a great deal of good in this city by your
commanding talents and eloquence. You ought to have opened the eyes of
the population as to their true interests and the misery that
necessarily would be entailed on them by a war against France. You
failed to do so; you were silent while the fanatical war-faction was
clamoring; and while the reckless pranks of the officers of the guard
were intimidating good and sagacious patriots. I know very well that you
are not to be blamed for those excesses, but you ought to have tried to
prevent them. I know the faction whose fanaticism against France has
done so much mischief. I know that the queen was at the head of it. As
Marie Antoinette once gained over to her side the lifeguards at that
celebrated banquet, Louisa did the same with the officers of the
Prussian guard. She is, therefore, responsible for the savage war-cries
and the crazy arrogance of the officers. This woman, who has become as
fatal to her people as was Helen to the Trojans--this woman is the only
cause of the disasters of Prussia!"

His voice rolled like thunder through the hall; his eyes flashed fire,
and all the beholders, seized with dismay, turned pale and cast down
their eyes. Only old Counsellor Erman's face betrayed no fear or
anxiety. He looked at the emperor with a grave and almost angry air, and
his voice interrupted the ominous stillness which had followed
Napoleon's words.

"Sire," he said, loud enough to be heard by every one, "your majesty
says that the queen is the only cause of the disasters of Prussia--that
she brought about the war, and excited and instigated the evil passions
of the reckless! Sire, that is not true! The queen is as generous as she
is virtuous!"

The assembly felt as if thrilled by an electric shock--all fixed their
eyes timidly and anxiously on Napoleon--every one held his breath to
hear his reply, and felt already in advance the most profound compassion
for the unhappy old man who would be crushed with the victor's wrath.
But the emperor was silent. Only for a moment his eyes flashed--and his
glances seemed to pierce through the old man. Napoleon said nothing. He
seemed not to have heard Erman's words, but turned with perfect
composure toward the Catholic clergy, to converse with them about the
interests of their Church. He appeared, however, wearied; passed in a
more hurried manner to the rest who were introduced to him, and
evidently hastened to finish the audience. He then greeted the assembly
with a nod and left the hall, followed by the grand marshal and his two
chamberlains.

For an instant all remained immovable: Every one felt as if a brilliant
meteor had flitted past him, and as if his vision were too much dazzled
to be able to see any thing else. Then, however, all turned their eyes
once more to Erman, who stood at his place, calm and smiling, and looked
almost compassionately at those who had hitherto called themselves his
friends, but were not courageous enough now to approach him, and avoided
meeting his glances. He then quietly turned, and, followed by the other
clergymen, walked toward the door. But those who had stood before him
had also commenced leaving the hall, and in consequence the passage was
crowded. Erman suddenly saw himself in the midst of the throng, that
slowly moved onward, but it was apparently no mere accident that the
crowd was densest around him. Some hastily seized his hand; others
whispered to him: "Flee! conceal yourself!" Others again gazed at him
with eyes full of tenderness and emotion, and murmured: "We thank you in
the name of all the faithful!" But constantly the low words of "Flee!
conceal yourself!" were repeated. But the venerable man looked with a
calm, proud smile at those who surrounded him, and said in a loud and
firm voice, "I will not flee! I will not conceal myself!"

Just at the moment when Erman, followed by his timid friends and secret
admirers, was about to cross the threshold, a loud voice was heard to
exclaim, "Counsellor Erman!"

"Here I am," he replied, turning around, as well as all the rest.

A low murmur of horror pervaded the assembly; their faces turned pale,
and their brows were clouded. The moment so much feared had apparently
come--Erman could not escape, or conceal himself; for he who had called
out his name was none other than Duroc, the emperor's grand marshal, who
had evidently been sent by his master. Those who hitherto had been so
anxious to leave the hall, and thronged so eagerly round the courageous
old man, now stood still, and the grand marshal walked through the
opened ranks directly toward him. Every one seemed to hold his breath to
listen, and even to stop the pulsations of his heart, to hear the order
for Erman's arrest.

The grand marshal now stood before Erman, who had seen him coming, and
advanced a step to meet him. Duroc bowed, and said in a loud voice, "His
majesty the emperor has ordered me to invite Counsellor Erman, of the
supreme consistorial court, to dine with him to-morrow at noon. His
majesty desires me to tell you that he is anxious to make the
acquaintance of a man who is so faithful and courageous a servant of the
royal family, and endowed with sufficient magnanimity and boldness to
defend the absent and accused. His majesty has instructed me to assure
you that, far from disapproving your conduct, he highly esteems and
admires it, for the emperor knows how to appreciate every thing that is
high-minded and noble."




CHAPTER XI.

NAPOLEON AND TALLEYRAND.


Napoleon was rapidly pacing his cabinet. His face was pale and gloomy;
his lips firmly compressed, as they always were when he was angry, and
his eyes flashed with rage. He held two papers in his hand: one of them
was in writing, the other contained printed matter; and, whenever his
eyes glanced at them, he clinched his small hand, adorned with diamonds,
and crumpled the papers.

The emperor's anger, which filled with trembling and dismay every one
who had to approach him in such moments, had no effect, however, on the
man who stood in the middle of the room supporting one of his hands on
the table covered with maps and papers, and with the other playing with
the lace frill protruding from his velvet waistcoat. His small,
twinkling eyes followed calmly and coldly every motion Napoleon made.
Whenever his anger seemed to increase, a scarcely perceptible,
contemptuous smile played on the lips of this man, and a flash of
hatred, and, withal, of scorn burst from his eyes. But this never
lasted longer than a moment; his pale and sickly face immediately
resumed its impenetrable aspect, and the smile of a polite courtier
reappeared on his lips. This was Talleyrand, first minister of the
emperor--Talleyrand, who had originally served the Church as a priest,
then the republic as a minister--who had deserted and betrayed both to
become minister of the empire, and to combat and deny all the principles
he had formerly advocated and declared to be necessary for the welfare
of France.

"Talleyrand," exclaimed Napoleon, in an angry voice, standing still in
front of the minister, "I will set a rigorous example. I will trample
upon this haughty Prussian aristocracy that still dares to brave me--I
will let it feel the consequences of continued opposition to me! What
audacity it was for this Prince von Hatzfeld, while I was approaching
with my army, and already master of Prussia, to continue sending
information to his fleeing king and to the ministers, and to play the
spy! Ah, I am going to prove to him that his rank will not protect him
from being punished according to his deserts, and that I have traitors
and spies tried and sentenced by a court-martial, whether they be of the
common people or the high-born. Both of us have seen times when the
heads of the nobility were knocked off like poppies from the stalks; and
we will remind this aristocracy, which relies so confidently on its
ancient privileges, of the fact that such times may come for Prussia
too, unless those high-born gentlemen desist from their arrogant
conduct, and submit to me humbly and obediently. Cause the Prince von
Hatzfeld to be arrested immediately: order a court-martial to meet
within twenty-four hours, to try the traitor and spy. This letter will
be proof sufficient; nothing further is necessary to pass sentence of
death upon him."

"And will your majesty really carry out the sentence?" asked Talleyrand,
in his soft, insinuating voice, and with his polite smile.

Napoleon flashed one of his fiery glances at him. "Why do you put that
question to me?" he said, harshly.

"Sire, because I believe excessive rigor might not accomplish the
desired purpose. Instead of humiliating and prostrating the aristocracy,
it might bring about the reverse, and incite them to sedition and
insurrection. Sometimes leniency does more good than severity, and, at
all events, in applying either, the character of the nations to be
subdued ought to be consulted. The Italians are easily restrained by
severe measures, for they are, on the whole, cowardly and enervated;
and, when the straw-fire of their first impetuosity has gone out, they
feel enthusiastic admiration for him who has placed his foot on their
neck, and is crushing them. But the Germans are a more tenacious and
phlegmatic nation. They resemble the white bulls I have seen in Italy,
who fulfil with proud composure their daily task. When the driver urges
them but a little with the iron point of the stick, they work more
actively and obediently; but when he wounds too deeply, their phlegm
disappears, and they rush in fury against him who has irritated them too
much."

"And you believe that the German white bull is already irritated?" asked
Napoleon, morosely.

"Yes, sire! It is time to appease him, if he is not to grow savage and
furious. The execution of Palm has stirred up a good deal of ill
feeling, and it would be prudent to counteract it as much as possible.
Your majesty may menace and frighten the supercilious and arrogant
aristocracy of Prussia; but when they are trembling and terrified, then
exercise clemency and forbearance, which is the best way of subduing
the refractory."

The emperor made no reply, but crossed the room repeatedly. He then
stood still once more closely in front of Talleyrand, and looked him
full in the face.

"I hold to my decision," he said coldly. "I must have the Prince von
Hatzfeld immediately arrested, and the court-martial must meet within
twenty-four hours for the purpose of trying him as a traitor and spy."
He stepped to his desk, and hastily wrote a few words on a piece of
paper. He himself, having folded, sealed, and directed it, rang the
bell. "Take this," he said to the officer who had entered the room.
"Send immediately an orderly with this letter to Governor Clarke. He
must have it in five minutes."

When the officer had withdrawn, Napoleon turned once more toward
Talleyrand. "Let no one dare talk to me about mercy," he said, "for I
shall grant it to no one--neither to you, nor to the prince's wife, of
whose beauty Duroc once informed me. If the Germans resemble the Italian
bulls, I will break off their horns, and extract their teeth--then they
will be powerless. Not a word, therefore, about mercy, either for the
aristocracy, or for the journalists. These miserable scribblers must be
made to tremble, and lay their pens aside. What language that miserable
writer has dared to use against me in this paper--what sarcasms and
sneers he has taken the liberty of uttering against me! And the King of
Prussia did not have him arrested! this weak-headed government permitted
the libeller quietly to pursue his infamous course!"

"Sire, the editor of this paper, called _The Telegraph_, I am told was
one of the intimate friends and followers of Prince Louis Ferdinand."

"And, consequently, also one of the friends of the queen!" added
Napoleon, quickly. "That woman has disdained no expedient to wage war
against me; she hates me intensely, and with more energy than her feeble
husband. I will pay her for this hatred, and she shall feel what it is
to provoke my anger. Yes, I will humiliate her. She may now, perhaps,
repent with tears what she has done. She is already a fugitive. I will
drive her into the remotest corner of her country, and compel this proud
queen to bow before me in the dust, and beg me on her knees for mercy!
But I will not have mercy upon her; I will be inexorable! My anger shall
crush her and her house, as it has crushed whosoever dared oppose me.
Woe unto those who have been her willing tools; they shall atone for
having served her hatred against me!--Is any thing known about the
fellow who edited this paper, and wrote these wretched articles?"

"Sire, the editor is a certain Professor Lange, one of the most zealous
royalists, and especially an ardent admirer of the queen."

"Then he has fled with her, I suppose, and she will instigate him on the
way to pen new slanders, which, by virtue of the licentiousness of the
press, he will utter against me?"

"No, sire, he has not fled, but kept himself concealed here; our police,
however, ferreted out his whereabouts and arrested him. It remains for
your majesty to decree what is to be done with him."

"He shall be a warning example to the German scribblers, and remind them
of the penalty incurred by those who stir up resistance against me by
their insults and sneers. I will silence these libellers once for all,
and destroy their contemptible free press by the executioner's axe. The
punishment inflicted upon Palm seemed not sufficient--let M. Lange,
then, be another warning to them. Let him die as Palm died!"

"Your majesty, then, will give to the sentimental Germans another
martyr, to whom they will pray, and whose death will increase their
enthusiasm? Sire, martyrs are like fools. 'One fool makes many others,'
and thus we might say also, 'One martyr makes many others.' Suppose you
have this M. Lange shot to-day, because he is a faithful adherent of the
queen, and has written in accordance with her views--to-morrow
pamphleteers will spring up like mushrooms--there will be more libels
against your majesty, written by those having a vain desire of dying for
their beautiful queen, and in the hope that she would shed tears for
them, as she did for M. Lange."

"Ah," exclaimed Napoleon, scornfully, "you are strangely inclined to
mercy and reconciliation to-day. It seems a sickly fever of leniency has
seized you. Then you think I ought to pardon this miserable pamphleteer
instead of punishing him?"

"Sire, I believe this fellow will be much more severely punished if we
do not make him a martyr, but only use him as a tool as long as it suits
us. As this Professor Lange is so well versed in writing pamphlets, and
sending libellous articles into the world, let him continue his trade;
only let him be ordered to point his weapons against the queen, instead
of your majesty, and to revile her as zealously as he reviled you."

"And do you believe he will stoop so low as to eat his own words, and to
convict himself of lying? I was told he had hitherto glorified Louisa of
Prussia, and abused me, with an almost frantic enthusiasm."

"Sire, let us threaten him with death--let us offer him money. He will
succumb to fear and avarice. I know these journalists. They are
cowardly, and always in pecuniary trouble. Lange will turn his poisoned
arrows against the queen, and the admirer will become her accuser."

Napoleon, frowning, looked musingly at the floor. "What a miserable race
these men are!" he muttered. "One must devour them in order not be
devoured by them. Well, then," he added, in a loud voice, "you may try
it. Let us turn the weapons which the fanatical queen has sharpened
against us, against herself. But the accusations must be grave and
well-founded. The eyes of this foolish nation must be opened. We must
show to it that this woman, whom it worships as a chaste Lucretia, as a
beautiful saint, is nothing but a very pretty lady with a well-developed
form, endowed with little mind, but much coquetry, and who, so far from
being a saint, has a very human heart, and has had many an adventure. If
M. Lange is willing to write in this strain, I will pardon him.[20]
Tragedy must be sometimes transformed into a farce, that the stupid
people may laugh at what they were originally inclined to weep for. Ah,
that Queen of Prussia was bent upon waging war against me! She shall
have it. We will wage war against each other; let it be a mortal combat.
Did the Prussian ambassador accept our terms?"

[Footnote 20: Talleyrand's prediction was fulfilled. Threats of capital
punishment, and promises of ample rewards, transformed the editor of the
_Telegraph_ into as enthusiastic an admirer of Napoleon as he had
formerly been of Queen Louisa; and, after having hitherto written
nothing but fulsome eulogies, he now did not shrink from publishing the
most shameless libels against her. The immediate consequence was, that
the _Telegraph_ lost in a single day most of its subscribers. But Lange
continued publishing slanderous articles against Louisa, for the French
government paid him.]

"Sire, he was undecided yesterday; but he will not be to-day."

"Why not?"

"Sire, a courier has just arrived, and I came to communicate to your
majesty the news. He is from Stettin, and informed me that that fortress
has capitulated. Our hussars took possession of it."

The emperor smiled. "Well," he said, "when hussars take fortresses, new
military tactics will have to be invented, and the walls of fortresses
might just as well be razed. But you are right. The fall of Stettin is a
most important event, and the government will have to make up its mind
to accept our terms. We ought not, however, to accelerate the peace
negotiations too much. The terms which we have offered to Prussia are
tolerably favorable; if more couriers of this description should arrive,
we ought to render the terms more onerous, and the peace more
humiliating. Try to delay the definite settlement with the Prussian
ambassador; it is not necessary for us to sign the treaty so soon. Let
us await further news."

Just then the door opened, and the _valet de chambre_ appeared,
announcing a courier just arrived, who desired to deliver to his majesty
dispatches from the Grand-duke of Berg. Napoleon made a sign to him. The
door opened, and the courier, in his dusty and bespattered
travelling-costume, entered the room.

"Where is the grand-duke?" asked the emperor, quickly.

"Sire, in Prenzlau."

"Ah, in Prenzlau!" exclaimed Napoleon. "The gates have opened to him,
then! Give me your dispatches, and then go and take rest. I see you
stand in need of it!"

"Sire, I have been ten hours on horseback, and have just dismounted."

"Breakfast shall be served you. Apply for it to the _valet de chambre_
in the anteroom. Go!"

The courier had not yet closed the door of the cabinet after him, when
Napoleon opened the dispatches, and rapidly glanced over their contents.
With a proud, triumphant smile he turned toward Talleyrand. "I was right
in saying that we ought to delay the definite conclusion of peace," he
said; "we shall now be able to impose more onerous conditions on
Prussia, and she will have to submit to them. The Grand-duke of Berg has
sent me excellent news. The corps of the Prince von Hohenlohe has
capitulated near Prenzlau. The Prussian army exists no more. Ten
thousand men, with three hundred and twenty-five officers, about two
thousand horses, and fifty-four field-pieces, have been captured by our
forces. Ten thousand men! Now, if ever I should live to see the disgrace
of such a surrender of any of my own corps, I would make peace with the
enemy for the sole purpose of recovering my captured troops, and of
having the miserable officers shot who entered into such a capitulation.
Ten thousand men, and three hundred officers! Truly, my brother the
King of Prussia is unlucky, and I am sure the beautiful queen will
bitterly repent of her hatred against me."

"Sire," said Talleyrand, with a malicious smile, "it is said there is
but one step from hatred to love. Who knows whether the gods, in order
to punish the queen for her audacity, will not cause her to take this
step? Who knows whether her intense hatred is not even now but the mask
which conceals her love and admiration for your majesty? Beware of
approaching this beautiful Helen, lest your own hatred should run the
risk of being transformed into love."

"Ah," said Napoleon, angrily, "were my heart capable of such a change, I
should tear it with my own hands from my breast in order to smother its
desires. Though she were the most beautiful woman in the world, and
offered her love to me, I should turn away from her, and hurl my
contempt and hatred into her face. She has offended me too grievously,
for it is she who has destroyed all my plans, and instigated her husband
to assume a hostile attitude. France and Prussia are destined to be
friends, and a war against Prussia is for France equivalent to chaining
her right hand. If Prussia had remained my faithful ally last year, if
she had not joined the third coalition, our united armies at that time
would have seen not only Germany at our feet, but all Europe. Yet the
queen would not have it thus; childish and passionate, like all women,
she did not consult her reason, but only her feelings; and, as her
haughty heart could not bear the idea of accepting the friendship and
alliance of an emperor who had not been born under a royal canopy, she
preferred exasperating her husband against me, and plunging Prussia into
misery, distress, and disgrace. For this capitulation of Prenzlau is a
disgrace, and if I am glad of it as an enemy, because it is advantageous
to me, it causes me to blush as a soldier, because it disgraces the
whole military profession. Ah, there is justice in Heaven, and a
Providence is directing our affairs on earth."

"Ah, your majesty believes in such things?" asked Talleyrand, with a
sneer. "You believe there is a God who makes it His business to direct
the world and mankind, and to dabble in the trade of princes and
diplomatists? As I have not been ordained a priest like you, and never
have served the Church, I may be allowed to believe in God," said
Napoleon, smiling. "Yes, I believe in Providence, and I believe it was a
dispensation of Providence that those arrogant officers of the guard,
who thought it was only necessary to show themselves in order to drive
away the French, and who went so far in their madness as to whet their
swords on the doorsteps of the house of our ambassadors, should now be
duly humiliated and chastised. For the guards of Potsdam and Berlin are
among the captured of the corps of the Prince von Hohenlohe, and they
will soon arrive in Berlin. A royal prince also, the brother of Prince
Louis Ferdinand, is among the prisoners."

"Your majesty is right," said Talleyrand, "we are able now to impose
more rigorous terms on Prussia. If your majesty permit, I will
immediately enter into negotiations concerning this point with M. de
Lucchesini. He is at present awaiting me."

"Inform him of the latest news; that will render him submissive. You
know my intentions, and know, too, what I expect Russia to do. The king
offered Baireuth to me instead of the contribution of one hundred
million francs which I had asked for. Such a substitution is out of the
question now. Besides, we shall add the following conditions: Prussia,
in case Russia declares war against Turkey, will ally herself with
France, and march her whole army against the emperor of Russia."

"Ah, sire, you are bent, then, on breaking the heart of the beautiful
Louisa?" asked Talleyrand, laughing cynically.

"It is my reply to the oath she and her husband took with Alexander at
the grave of Frederick II. Go, and inform Lucchesini of the latest news
and of my conditions."

"Your majesty promised to be so gracious as to receive this forenoon the
ambassadors of the petty German princes, who have been begging for an
audience since yesterday morning."

"It will not by any means hurt these petty dignitaries to practise a
little the virtue of patience," said Napoleon, harshly. "I shall admit
them to-morrow, in order to get rid at length of their complaints. Do
you still remember that I instructed you several months since to draw up
the necessary reports for the formation of a new state in Northern
Germany, between the Rhine and the Elbe?"

"Sire, I carried out your order at that time, and delivered to you the
report concerning this state."

"Yes, it is in my hands, and it is time for us to carry out my views in
regard to it. You drew it up with the pen, and I executed and
illustrated it with the sword. Both of us, therefore, have done our
duty. To-morrow I will inform the ambassadors of these petty princes of
our views as to this new state, in order that they may evacuate their
own. Go to Lucchesini. I will take a ride, and pay a visit to my gardens
in Charlottenburg."

Talleyrand bowed, and left the cabinet. In the large hall contiguous to
it, he saw Grand-marshal Duroc, who was standing at the farthest window.
Talleyrand hastened to him as fast as his limping leg would permit, and
drew the grand marshal, who had come to meet him, back into the window.
"M. Grand marshal," he said, in a low voice, "I am about to turn traitor
and to disclose to you a secret of the emperor. My life is in your
hands; if you should inform his majesty of what I am about to do, I must
perish. Will you do so?"

Duroc smiled. "Your excellency," he said, "I am a good patriot, and as I
know how indispensable your life is to the welfare and happiness of
France, I shall take care not to undertake any thing against you; I
should, on the contrary, always deem it incumbent upon me to protect the
life of your excellency, and to attend to your welfare whenever an
occasion offered. You may, therefore, safely communicate your secret to
me. I would die sooner than betray you."

"I thank you," said Talleyrand, bowing. "Listen, then; the emperor has
issued orders to arrest the Prince von Hatzfeld, and to have him tried
by a court-martial."

"Impossible!" ejaculated Duroc, turning pale. "The Prince von Hatzfeld
has always been a zealous and warm adherent of France, and it was
precisely on account of this that he was in high disfavor with the court
party. The inhabitants of Berlin also reproach him with having prevented
them from defending themselves, and with having intentionally failed to
remove the arms from the arsenal. What, then, may he have done that he
should be tried by a French court-martial?"

An imperceptible smile passed over Talleyrand's astute features. "He has
written a letter to the king," he said, "which, if need be, _may_ be
construed as the letter of a traitor and spy, especially since an
opportunity is desired to set an example, and to intimidate the haughty
aristocracy, because they avoid coming hither and doing homage to the
conqueror."

"If that be the intention," sighed Duroc, "the Prince von Hatzfeld is
lost. The emperor will be inexorable."

"Is it necessary, then, to have some one put to death in order to
frighten the others?" asked Talleyrand. "But you are right. The emperor
will have no mercy. The court-martial will assemble to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Duroc, sadly. "Oh, into what distress it will plunge
the family! The young princess loves her husband passionately; she
expects to become a mother in a few months, and is to lose the father of
her child before it sees the light!"

Again a smile overspread Talleyrand's face. He inclined closer to the
grand marshal and placed his small, emaciated hand on Duroc's vigorous
arm. "My friend," he said, in a low voice, "you must try to save the
prince!"

"I?" asked Duroc, wonderingly.

Talleyrand nodded. "Yes, you! You have long known the family; you have,
on your various missions to Berlin, been repeatedly at Hatzfeld's house,
and, as a matter of course, the young princess in her distress and
despair will apply to you for advice and assistance. You must procure
her an interview with the emperor, and she will thus obtain an
opportunity to implore his majesty on her knees to have mercy on her
husband. The whole aristocracy, then, in her person will humbly kneel
before the emperor, and they will all be pardoned in the person of the
prince. My dear sir, you must at all events procure the princess an
interview with Napoleon."

"But did you not tell me that the emperor was determined not to pardon
the prince, and that the court-marital will assemble to-morrow?"

"I did. I might have added that the emperor, when I begged him to have
mercy on Hatzfeld, angrily rejected my application, and told me he would
not permit any one to renew it. He was very emphatic about it. Even
Duroc, he said, should not dare to conduct the princess to him, and thus
enable her to implore his mercy."

"Well?" exclaimed Duroc.

"Well," said Talleyrand, composedly. "I believed I might conclude
precisely from this peremptory order, that he wished to indicate to me
that he was inclined to pardon the offender in this manner."

"What!" said Duroc, smiling, "the emperor orders us not to admit the
Princess von Hatzfeld; he says he will not pardon the prince, and you
conclude from all this that he will grant her an audience and the pardon
of her husband?"

"Certainly," said Talleyrand. "What is language given us for, unless to
veil our thoughts? Whenever I have to deal with sagacious and prominent
men, I presume that their thoughts are just the reverse of what their
words express. Only simpletons, and men of no position, say what they
mean. Try it, by all means. Procure the princess an interview with the
emperor, and leave the rest to her eloquence and beauty."

"But I cannot go to her and offer her my intercession. It would look as
though the emperor had sent me; and if he then should pardon the prince,
it would be generally believed to be a mere _coup de théâtre_."

"You are right. We must avoid by all means letting the affair assume
such a character," said Talleyrand, smiling. "If the princess really
loves her husband, and if she really intends to save him, she will
naturally first think of you; for you are acquainted with her and her
family, and are known to be the emperor's intimate and influential
friend. It will be but natural for her to invoke your intercession."

"If she does so, I will try, to the best of my power, to be useful to
her, for I have spent many pleasant hours at the prince's house, and it
would be agreeable to me to do her a favor. But I am afraid you are
mistaken. The emperor never takes back his word, and if he has said that
he will have no mercy, and not admit the princess, that will be the end
of it, and all endeavors of mine will be in vain."

"Try it at least," said Talleyrand. "Perhaps you may accomplish your
purpose. But you have no time to lose, for, as I have told you already,
the court-martial is to assemble to-morrow. What is to be done, must be
done, therefore, in the course of to-day."




CHAPTER XII.

THE PRINCESS VON HATZFELD.


Grand-Marshal Duroc was pacing his room in great agitation. Evening was
drawing nigh, and still he had not received any intelligence from the
Princess von Hatzfeld. Yet her husband had been arrested in the course
of the forenoon and taken to the palace, in one of the rooms of which he
was locked up and kept under strict surveillance. The news of his arrest
had spread rapidly through Berlin, and cast a gloom over the whole city.
Everywhere in the streets groups of pale and grave men were to be seen,
who whispered to each other this latest dreadful event, and vented their
anger in secret imprecations.

All were convinced that the Prince von Hatzfeld must die; every one felt
it to be a new humiliation inflicted upon himself personally, that one
of the most respected and distinguished men in Prussia was to be charged
with felony, and tried as a common spy. No one doubted that the
court-martial would pass sentence of death upon him; and that Napoleon
would show no mercy, nor feel any compassion, could be read in his stern
and melancholy air when, followed by his suite, he rode through the
streets to Charlottenburg.

All the reproaches heretofore uttered against the Prince von Hatzfeld
were forgotten; the people forgave his weakness, his cowardice, his
predilection for France. At this hour, when he was menaced by the
universal enemy and oppressor they only remembered that he was a German,
and that the anger of the conqueror ought to make him a martyr of the
German cause. They whispered to each other that Napoleon had selected
the prince merely for the purpose of intimidating the opposition by an
example of severity, and of frightening the royalists. "He is lost!"
they said, mournfully. "The emperor will not pardon him, for he intends
to punish in the prince's person ourselves, who love the king and would
like to send him information concerning the enemy and his armies."

"The Prince von Hatzfeld is lost!" said Duroc, also, as he was uneasily
and sadly pacing his room. "Yes! This time Talleyrand, in spite of all
his sagacity, has been mistaken. The emperor does not intend to pardon
the prince, for he has selected Davoust, Rapp, and Clarke as members of
the court-martial, and they have no mercy on those whom their master has
accused. The princess does not think of coming to me and of invoking my
intercession. And even if she did, I should not be able to assist her.
All my supplications would be in vain. The emperor has resolved on the
prince's death from policy, not in auger; hence nothing can save him."

Just then the door opened, and the footman hastily entered. "Grand
marshal," he said, "there is a veiled lady outside, who insists on
seeing you. I have vainly requested her to give me her name; she will
only mention it to your excellency, and--"

Duroc did not longer listen to him. He himself hastened into the
anteroom, and, offering his arm to the lady, conducted her into his
cabinet.

"Go down-stairs, Jean," he hurriedly said to his footman,"--down-stairs,
hasten into the Palace Place, and when you see the emperor approaching
in the distance, return and inform me of it."

Jean slipped out of the door, and Duroc locked it after him. "Well,
madame," he then said, "speak! We are alone."

The lady hastily removed the veil from her face, and showed her
beautiful, pale features bathed in tears.

"The Princess von Hatzfeld!" exclaimed Duroc, successfully feigning an
air of great surprise.

"Yes, it is I," she said, breathlessly and with quivering lips. "I come
to beseech you to assist me! You must do so--you must not desert me! My
husband has been arrested! He is charged with having secretly informed
the king of the operations of the French army. He is accused of being a
spy. Oh, merciful Heaven! he will die, for the emperor is bent on having
him executed; he desires to crush and ruin us all! Do you understand it
is my husband?--he whom others charged with being a traitor to his
country, because, in his generous exertions to avoid bloodshed, he
always admonished the inhabitants to be patient and submissive--he is
charged now with having betrayed the emperor, and is to be executed as a
spy! They have dragged him from my side and taken him away. I fainted
with grief and despair. Oh, I hoped--wished it were death that
prostrated me! But God would not let me die; He preserved my life, that
I might try to save my husband. The physician advised me to remain, and
endeavor to take rest. Duroc, how can I take rest while the life of my
beloved husband is in danger? I rose from my couch, for the thought
flashed through my mind, 'Duroc will assist me in saving him!' And now I
am here, and beseech you, have mercy on a wife's despair! Duroc, help
me, so that I may save the prince! You have a kind and generous heart,
and the emperor loves you! Implore him to have mercy on my husband! By
all that is dear to you, I beseech you, beg for him!" And quite beside
herself, pale and in tears, the young princess was about to kneel down
before Duroc, but he quickly raised her up, and, bowing deeply, kissed
her cold, trembling hands.

"I thank you, princess, for having thought of and believed in me," he
said. "But I am afraid that your faith will be in vain."

"Pray for my husband," she said sobbing. "You see, I shall die if I
lose him. Have pity on my youth, and on my unborn child! Implore the
emperor to have mercy on the prince!"

"You believe the emperor would listen to me?" asked Duroc, sadly. "Then
you do not know him; you do not know what he is when he is angry. I have
been in more than twenty battles; bullets have hissed all around me;
death was at my side, and I did not tremble, but I tremble when the
emperor is angry. When I behold his marble face--his flashing eyes--when
his voice resounds like the roll of thunder, I comprehend how women
faint and flee. I myself feel then what I never felt in the
battle-field--I feel fear!"

"Then you will not assist me!" exclaimed the princess, wringing her
hands. "You will not do any thing for him? And yet he is innocent. My
noble husband never committed the crime with which he is charged. He is
no spy--no traitor--and yet he is to die! I have no friend, and the only
man who I had hoped would aid me desert? me, because he is afraid of his
master's frown!"

"No," said Duroc, "I do not desert you, I only tell you what the emperor
is in his wrath; I only tell you that the tempestuous ocean is pleasant,
and the thunder mild, compared with him in such a mood. However, I would
gladly expose myself to it if I could be useful to you and to your
husband. But it is a vain hope. The emperor would not listen to me; he
would interrupt me, and order me to be silent. My intercession would
irritate him even more, and, instead of delaying the terrible
catastrophe, I should be likely to accelerate it."

"Well," exclaimed the princess, wringing her hands, "if you yourself
dare not speak and beg for him, let _me_. I am not afraid of the
emperor's anger, and when a woman clasps his knees and implores his
mercy, he will at least listen, and his heart may be softened. I beseech
you to grant me this favor--conduct me to the emperor! Let me implore
him to pardon my husband!"

"You are right, it is perhaps the only way to save his life. Napoleon
has a generous heart; your tears, perhaps, will touch him, for he cannot
bear the sight of a weeping woman, and genuine grief always moves his
heart. But just because he is conscious of his weakness, he will avoid
seeing you, and give stringent orders not to admit any one. You must, at
present forget your rank. You must not insist that the footmen announce
you, and open the folding-doors, but you must make up your mind to
appear, without any regard to etiquette, before the emperor, and oblige
him to grant you an audience."

"Do you not see that I am nothing but a poor, unhappy woman, begging for
mercy?" said the princess, with a melancholy smile. "Would I have come
to you if I thought still of the rules of etiquette? Give me an
opportunity to see the emperor, and, though it were in the open street,
and thousands standing by, I should kneel down before him, and, like a
beggar-woman, ask for the alms of his mercy--for my husband's life is in
his hands!"

"Well, if such be your feelings, princess, I hope to be able to procure
you access to him. We must act as generals do in the field, and try to
outwit the enemy--we must deprive the emperor of the possibility of
avoiding an audience. After his return from Charlottenburg and when once
in his rooms, all will be in vain; he will admit no one, and close his
ears against all supplications of mine. Hence you must meet him at the
moment when he enters the palace. You must--"

A rapid knock at the door interrupted him, and Duroc hastened to open
it. "Is it you, Jean?" he asked.

"Yes, M. Grand marshal, it is I," said the footman, "I come to inform
your excellency that the emperor is just riding up the Linden with his
suite. He will be here in a few minutes."

"All right. Go now, Jean."

"Let us go, too," said the princess, quickly approaching the door. "Give
me your arm, M. Grand marshal; I am trembling so, I might sink down
before appearing in the presence of the emperor!"

"Come, princess," said Duroc, compassionately, "lean firmly on me.
Heaven will give you strength, for you have a noble and fearless heart.
Come! I will conduct you to the foot of the staircase, which the emperor
will have to ascend in order to reach his rooms. You may accost him
there. God and love will impart strength to your words!"

With rapid steps they crossed the suite of rooms and stepped into the
so-called Swiss hall, where the orderlies and soldiers of the guard on
duty that day were assembled. The bearded warriors looked surprised at
the grand marshal--whose face was graver than they had ever seen it in
battle--and at this lady, hanging on his arm, as beautiful and pale as a
lily. Duroc, who generally had a smile and a pleasant word for the
soldiers of the guard, the faithful companions of so many battles, took
no notice of them. He hastened with the princess through the hall into
the corridor, and down the broad winding stairs opening immediately into
the second court-yard of the palace. He then conducted her across
through the inside portal to the splendidly-carpeted principal staircase
in the rear of the vestibule.

"Await the emperor here," said Duroc, drawing a deep breath. "He will go
up this staircase, and he cannot, therefore, avoid meeting you. But he
has a sharp eye, and if he should see you from afar, he might, divining
your intention, turn around and go the other way. Ascend as far as the
first landing. The emperor cannot see you there before he mounts the
first steps, and then he will not turn hack."

The princess hastily ascended the steps, which she had so often done
with a joyous heart, and in a brilliant toilet, when repairing to the
festivals of the royal court. Duroc followed her, and told the sentinel
posted at the staircase and presenting arms to the grand marshal, that
the lady had received orders to wait there for the emperor, who--

Just then the drums rolled, and the guard in the court-yard was called
out.

"The emperor!" whispered the princess, sinking down on her knees,
clasping her hands and praying silently.

"The emperor!" said Duroc, hastening down-stairs into the second
court-yard.

Napoleon rode in at that moment, and Duroc, glancing uneasily at him,
saw that his mien was even gloomier than previous to his ride; he saw
that flashes of anger darted from his eyes, ready to wither the first
being that should come near them. On riding up the Linden to-day, he had
again missed the wonted music of "_Vive l'Empereur_!" and noticed that
the people, standing here and there in groups in the street, when he
passed them, had frowned instead of greeting him with the usual cheers.
This want of respect, this visible defiance had darkened his countenance
and embittered his soul. Just as he alighted from his horse, and threw
the bridle to Koustan, the Mameluke, the grand marshal, pale, panting,
and in visible emotion, stepped up to him. Napoleon noticed it, and his
angry glance intimidated Duroc.

"You want to inform me that Berlin is seditious?" he asked, in a stern,
hard voice. "I am not astonished at it. This city seems to be inclined
to such movements. But I am about to set it a terrible example; I will
show Berlin in what manner I punish rebels, and will cure its seditious
tendency." Striking his boots with his riding-whip, as was his habit
when out of humor, he crossed the court-yard in the direction of the
staircase.

"No, sire," said Duroc. "Berlin is not seditious. I only intended to
implore your majesty's noble and generous heart to grant me a favor."

The emperor looked at him with some surprise, and, advancing rapidly, he
set foot on the first step of the staircase, his eyes directed to the
grand marshal. "Well, what is it?" he asked, ascending the second step,
and turning to Duroc, who was walking behind him.

"Sire, have mercy on the unhappy Princess von Hatzfeld! I beseech your
majesty to grant her an audience."

"No, no," exclaimed the emperor, "do not say a word about that! I do not
wish to see her, I--But what is this?" he interrupted himself, for he
had now reached the first landing, and beheld the princess. She had
knelt down, and, stretching out her clasped hands, fixed her large azure
eyes on him with a most heart-rending, suppliant air.

Napoleon's brow grew darker than before, and with an angry air he asked,
"What does this mean, M. Grand marshal? Who is this lady?"

"Sire, it is the Princess von Hatzfeld," replied Duroc, in a low voice.
"She implored me to procure her an interview with your majesty. Sire,
pardon me for having conducted her hither, that she herself might beg
your majesty for this audience. I counted on your generous heart, which
will forgive the wife who conies to implore your mercy for her husband."

"Have you not been told that I have expressly forbidden this affair to
be mentioned to me?" exclaimed the emperor, in a threatening voice. "The
court-martial alone has to judge the prince and I will and must not
influence its verdict."

"Oh, sire," exclaimed the princess who was still on her knees, "have
mercy on me!--have mercy on my unhappy husband!" Tears choked her voice,
and ran in torrents over her pale face.

Napoleon seemed to be moved by this piteous spectacle; his eye became
milder, and his frown disappeared. "Madame," he said, bending over her,
"rise. A lady in your circumstances ought to kneel before God only. In
consideration of your condition, I grant you an interview. Grand
marshal, follow me, with the princess." He quickly ascended the
staircase, and, without looking round, walked across the halls and rooms
to his cabinet. Breathless, scarcely touching the floor with her feet,
and strengthened by her profound emotion, the princess walked behind him
by the side of Duroc.

"The emperor now enters his cabinet," whispered Duroc. "You have reached
your destination."

"My God, have mercy on me!" sighed the princess, and raised her eyes
imploringly to heaven. She was now in the cabinet, and Duroc withdrew to
the door. Napoleon stood in the middle of the room; the brightly-burning
fire shed a light over his whole figure, and rendered prominent his
stern features.

"Sire," exclaimed the princess, falling on her knees, "I beseech you
have mercy on my husband! Mercy, sire, mercy!"

"Mercy!" ejaculated Napoleon, harshly. "Do you know the crime of which
your husband stands accused?"

"Sire, I know only that he worships your majesty; I therefore do not
believe in his guilt," exclaimed the princess.

"He has acted the part of a miserable spy," added Napoleon, raising his
voice. "After he had already sworn to me the oath of obedience and
fealty, he mailed a letter to the King of Prussia, in which he reported
to him the number, the spirit, and movements of the French troops. That
is the act of a traitor and a spy, and as such he will be found guilty
by the court-martial to-morrow."

"Sire, it is impossible! My husband cannot have done any thing
of the kind. Oh, believe me, your majesty, he is innocent! He
has been slandered in order to bring about his ruin; but he is
innocent--assuredly he is innocent! He never wrote such a letter; he
cannot have written it!" The emperor quickly walked to his desk, and
took from it a paper, which he handed to her. "Here is the letter," he
said. "Do you know your husband's handwriting?"

The princess fixed her eyes, dimmed by tears, on the paper she held in
her trembling hands. She then uttered a cry, so piercing and
heart-rending, that Duroc, who was standing at the door, felt the tears
starting into his eyes. Napoleon himself could not help shuddering.

"It is his handwriting!" muttered the princess, dropping the paper upon
the floor. Her quivering lips had now no longer the strength and courage
to repeat her prayer--her head fell on her breast, and she uttered only
low groans and sobbed.

The emperor seemed to be touched by her wordless yet eloquent grief. His
manner, which had hitherto been stern, became gentle and kind, and he
looked down with an expression of compassion on that kneeling,
despairing form. He stooped, picked up the letter, and placed it in the
hands of the princess. "Madame," he said, "here is the letter. Do with
it what you please. For this letter is the only thing proving his
guilt."

The princess looked up to him with a joyous, surprised glance. The
emperor smiled, and pointed silently to the fire-place. She rose hastily
from her knees, rushed toward the fire, and threw the paper into it.

"It is burning! It is burning!" she joyfully shouted. "My husband is
saved! My husband is free!" and uttering a scream, she tottered back,
and fell in a swoon at the emperor's feet.

Duroc rushed to her aid, and, raising her in his arms, was about to
carry her out of the room; but the emperor himself rolled an easy-chair
toward her, and assisted Duroc in placing her on it.

"Now, call Roustan," said Napoleon, "he will help you to remove the
fainting lady. But quick, lest she awake and thank me! Conduct her to
her husband, who is here at the palace. Let her personally announce to
him that he is free, and tell him that he is indebted for his release
solely to her intercession. Make haste!"

Roustan entered as soon as Duroc called him, and both of them carried
the princess on the easy-chair out of the room. The emperor gazed
musingly after them, and a sarcastic smile played on his lips. "Well,"
he said to himself, "I believe this scene will be an excellent match to
the oath at the grave of Frederick the Great. It will form a glorious
subject for an engraving--one that will be more honorable to me than was
the oath to the beautiful queen. Artists will be delighted to publish
such an engraving, and the good city of Berlin will say that I am a
great man, and know how to forgive injuries."

Just then Talleyrand, who had the right to enter the emperor's cabinet
at any time, without being announced, appeared on the threshold.

"Ah, Talleyrand," exclaimed Napoleon, "if you had come a little earlier,
you would have witnessed a very touching scene. The Princess von
Hatzfeld was here."

"I know it, sire. I have just met the poor fainting lady in the
anteroom, and Duroc described to me in a few words what had taken place.
How lucky it was that there was a fire in the room!"

The emperor bent a piercing glance upon Talleyrand, but the minister's
face was perfectly calm and impenetrable. Not the slightest approach to
a sneer was visible in it.

"This proof of generosity will win the hearts of all to your majesty,"
added Talleyrand. "People will forget Palm; they will only think of
Hatzfeld, and praise you as a modern Cæsar. When the letters his enemies
had written to Pompey were shown to Cæsar, he refused to read them, and
threw them into the fire (there is always a fire burning in the right
place and at the right moment), saying, 'Although I am sure to master my
anger, yet it is safer to destroy its cause.' Your majesty has followed
Cæsar's example, and, if you have no objection, sire, I shall induce
Professor Lange to give an enthusiastic and eloquent account of this
sublime scene to the inhabitants of Berlin."

"Then you have already gained him over to our side?" asked Napoleon.
"The ardent champion of the queen has been converted?"

"He has, sire, thanks to his fear of death, and to the five thousand
francs which I offered him, and which had the same effect upon him as a
basilisk's eye on the bird. These German journalists, it seems, are even
more needy than ours, for they can be had for less."

"Five thousand francs," said Napoleon, musingly, "and for that sum he
sells his honor, his fealty, and his conscience! Ah, what miserable
creatures men are, after all, and how right are those who despise them!"

"Sire, will you permit me to enter and make my report?" asked Duroc,
looking in at the door.

"Come in, grand marshal. And now tell me, how is the poor princess? Has
she recovered from her swoon?"

"Yes, sire, she was still unconscious when we carried her into her
husband's room. He uttered a loud cry, rushed to her, and clasped her in
his arms. She was awakened by his kisses and his anxious and tender
ejaculations. A torrent of tears burst forth, and, encircling his neck
with her arms, she exclaimed, 'You are saved! You are mine again! the
emperor has had mercy on me!'"

"Poor woman! She was really in despair, but behaved very nobly and with
a great deal of tact, and I am pleased with her."

Talleyrand scarcely smiled, as he muttered to himself:

"Yes, the emperor is right in being pleased with her, for the poor
little lady really took the sentimental farce for a tragedy, and neither
she nor Duroc looked behind the scenes."[21]

[Footnote 21: This occurrence is strictly historical, but it is
commented upon by the French and German historians in a widely different
sense. The French historians, without exception, treat it as a touching
proof of the emperor's generosity. So does Thiers in his "Histoire du
Consulat et de l'Empire," vol. vii., p. 148; and the Duchess d'Abrantes,
in her "Mémoires," vol. xi., p. 340; as well as Constant, in his
"Mémoires," vol. iii., p. 380. But the German historians treat it as a
well-calculated intrigue, in order to intimidate the nobility by an act
of severity, and to conciliate them by the subsequent generosity
displayed by the emperor.--Vide "Mémoires d'un Homme d'État," vol. ix.,
p. 316; Schlosser's "History of the Nineteenth Century," vol. vi., p.
232; Haeusser's "History of Germany," vol iii., p. 42. The view taken by
the German historians is supported by the letter of the Prince von
Hatzfeld, which formed the sole basis of the charges preferred against
him, and which the French take care not to lay before their readers. The
incriminated passage was as follows: "Officially I know nothing of the
French army, but that I saw yesterday a requisition upon the
municipality of Potsdam, signed by D'Aultanne. The French say their army
is eighty thousand strong. Others state the number at only fifty
thousand. The horses of the cavalry are said to be greatly exhausted."]




CHAPTER XIII.

THE SUPPLIANT PRINCES.


The hour when Napoleon was to give audience had come, and the ministers
of the petty German princes, who had hitherto vainly implored Talleyrand
to procure them admission to the emperor, were at length to accomplish
their purpose, and to receive from the mouth of the conqueror himself
the decision of their fate. He was in his cabinet pacing with rapid
steps, while Talleyrand was standing at the desk, and with a pencil
entering a few notes in his memorandum-book.

"No," said the emperor, sullenly, "I shall have no mercy on these petty
German princes, and their miserable whining shall not shake my
resolution. Frederick II., who uttered the most cutting sarcasms against
these petty sovereigns, would have done much better if he had destroyed
these grubs in the tree of royalty--if he had made a new crown from
their small coronets. As he failed to do so, I shall not imitate the
example set by him, and my brother Jerome shall wear the crown which
shall make him a German king."

"Your majesty, then, will adopt the plan of a new kingdom in Northern
Germany, which I had the honor to draw up?"

"Yes, but I shall somewhat extend the boundaries, which are too narrow
as proposed by you. How much of Hesse, for instance, did you incorporate
with the new kingdom?"

"Sire, the entire northern part of Hesse, so that the cities of Marburg
and Hersfeld would form the southern boundary of the new kingdom, and
that Cassel would be a good capital for the new king."

"And you would leave Hanau and Fulda to that perfidious elector?" asked
Napoleon. "No, no, you are too generous. The Elector of Hesse and his
whole family deserve to be annihilated, and I am not willing to have
mercy on him or on the other petty tyrants. Brunswick, Nassau, Cassel,
are all friends of England; they never will be faithful allies of ours;
it is best, therefore, to depose them."

"The elector has already sent hither two ambassadors, whom he has
authorized to give us the most fervent assurances of unwavering fealty,"
said Talleyrand, smiling.

"I know the promises of these legitimate princes!" exclaimed Napoleon,
shrugging his shoulders. "I know what they are worth. So long as they
are in prosperous circumstances, their heart is full of haughtiness and
malice. There are, in their eyes, no rights of man--only rights of
princes; no subjects--only slaves. But no sooner are calamities
approaching than they grow discouraged, and in their cowardice they
degrade themselves before their people so far as to flatter them in the
most fulsome and abject manner, making promises to them which they are
neither able nor willing to fulfil. I have been told that these
loquacious Germans, in their impotent wrath, have called me the 'Scourge
of God!' Well, then, they shall be right. To these petty princes who are
playing the part of great sovereigns, and perverting the _rôle_ of
royalty and of the throne into a miserable farce--to these caricatures
of sovereignty--I will be a 'scourge of God!' I will scourge them to
death! Who are now waiting in the anteroom?"

"Sire, there are the two ambassadors of the Elector of Hesse, M. de
Malsburg and M. de Lepel; Chancellor von Müller, ambassador of the
Duchess of Weimar; M. de Münchhausen, ambassador of the Duke of
Brunswick; and, finally, a deputation of Poles, who have come to do
homage to your majesty."

"I shall bid the Polish ambassadors welcome," exclaimed Napoleon,
emphatically, "and make to these gentlemen many promises representing
the most brilliant prospects. An insurrection in Poland just now would
be highly conducive to the success of my plans. I will try to bring it
about by all the means at my disposal, and accomplish my purpose. Hence,
I will even go in person to Warsaw to fan the enthusiasm of the Poles."

"Sire," said Talleyrand, "that will be throwing down the gauntlet to the
Austrian government, and if it intends to preserve its Polish provinces,
it will have to take it up."

"We must take care that Austria does not regard as a gauntlet the bone
that I mean to throw to the Poles," said Napoleon. "You will instruct my
ambassador at Vienna to dispel carefully all such suppositions and
apprehensions, by repairing to the Emperor of Austria and assuring him
that I do not intend to fulfil the promises which I am making to the
Poles; that, on the contrary, in case a rising should take place in
Poland, I will take care not to let it reach Galicia, but to confine it
to the Polish provinces of Russia and Prussia, provided the Emperor
Francis maintain his present neutrality. Send instructions to-day to
this effect to my minister in Vienna. And now I will receive the
ambassadors."

"Whom will your majesty admit first?"

"Introduce in the first place the gentlemen from Hesse," said Napoleon,
entering the small reception-room contiguous to his cabinet. Talleyrand
crossed this room and entered the adjoining audience-hall, in which the
plenipotentiaries had already waited for an hour. He beckoned the two
ambassadors of Hesse to approach, and introduced them, by virtue of his
position as minister of foreign affairs, into the reception-room, where
the emperor was waiting for them.

"Sire," he said, "the ambassadors of the Elector of Hesse." Napoleon
returned only a careless nod to their deep obeisances, and went to meet
them.

"I admire the Elector of Hesse, because he dares to remind me of
himself," said the emperor, sternly. "He has been intriguing against me
too long to suppose that I would deal leniently with him. I formerly
made friendly offers to him, and requested him to join the Confederation
of the Rhine. Then it was time for him to prove his friendship and
attachment to me, and to stand by me as a faithful ally. But at that
time he still hoped that I would succumb in the struggle with Prussia;
the tirades of the officers of the Prussian guard resounded in his ears
like the music of a triumph already obtained over me, and drowned the
voice of France. But he would not side openly with Prussia either; he
would remain neutral until he could distinctly see which side would be
victorious. Equivocal in his words and actions, he thought only of the
safety of his person and his riches, and not of his country, his people,
and his honor! Let him now receive the punishment due to his duplicity.
I shall take possession of his states and appropriate his crown. The
Elector of Hesse has ceased to reign."

"Sire," said M. de Lepel, in a timid, suppliant voice, "the elector
dares to appeal to the generosity of your majesty. Marshal Mortier, with
his forces, occupies Cassel and the Hessian states, and declares them to
be French possessions. The elector and his crown-prince only escaped
imprisonment by flight."

"They have been but too lucky to be allowed to escape," exclaimed
Napoleon, angrily. "It is really time to make a rigorous example for
once, and to prove to the sovereigns, who regard war as a game of
hazard, that it may become very serious, and that they may lose their
crown and life by it. That would induce them to weigh well the
consequences of war in their councils of state before taking up arms."

"Sire, the elector, our master, repents of what he has done, and
acknowledges that he was wrong," said M. de Malsburg, humbly. "His
highness is ready to bow to every thing, and to submit to any conditions
your majesty may be pleased to impose on him."

"What does that mean?" asked Napoleon. "What does your elector mean by
conditions? I do not remember having imposed any conditions on him, for
those which I offered six months ago were annulled by the events that
have since taken place."

"But the elector hopes that your majesty, nevertheless, will remember
them, and show favor instead of deserved punishment. Your majesty, by so
sublime an act of generosity, would forever attach our master and his
whole house to the French empire. You would have no more faithful and
devoted servant in Germany than the Elector of Hesse."

"Sire," said Talleyrand, approaching suddenly, "I am free to intercede
for the Elector of Hesse, who is so humbly imploring your majesty to
have mercy on him!"

"Sire, have mercy on our unfortunate master, who is wandering about in
foreign lands, solitary and deserted!" exclaimed M. de Malsburg, in a
tremulous voice.

"Have mercy on our state, and on our people, who are devoted to their
legitimate sovereign," said M. de Lepel. "Sire, our soldiers have been
disarmed and disbanded; our treasury seized, and a French
governor-general is carrying on the administration of our country in the
name of your majesty; and still the sovereign and the people hope that
Napoleon will have mercy on them--Napoleon, who is called the Great, not
only because he knows how to conquer states, but to be generous. Sire,
the sword of the conqueror builds only visible thrones that may perish;
but the magnanimity of the conqueror builds in the hearts of men thrones
that are imperishable."

"Ah, I should not like to count too much on the throne erected in the
heart of the Elector of Hesse," said Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders.

"Sire, will not your majesty listen at least to the promises which these
gentlemen are authorized to make in the name of the elector?" asked
Talleyrand.

"Well, what are they?" asked Napoleon. "What else have you to say to me
in the name of your sovereign?"

"Sire, the elector is ready to submit at discretion to your majesty,"
said M. de Lepel. "Above all, he will hasten to join the Confederation
of the Rhine. Besides, he is ready to pay a contribution--to surrender
the fortresses in his states to the French, and to incorporate twelve
thousand men with the French army. He only implores your majesty, in
consideration of all these sacrifices, to leave him his sovereignty, and
the possession of his titles, honors, and hereditary states."

"No," ejaculated the emperor. "No; he has forfeited his sovereignty; he
is unworthy of being a prince. There is no dynasty in Germany which has
been a more persistent enemy to France than that of Hesse-Cassel. Your
master disdained to grasp the hand which I offered to him; the sword
has decided now between him and me. Fate urges me to inflict upon him
the punishment he has deserved by his misdeeds. Do not tell me the
Hessian people sympathize with the fate of the elector, and that they
are fondly attached to their legitimate sovereign. It is not true! The
people of Hesse are nursing the elector, and they are right in doing so.
He sold the blood of his subjects to England for many years, so that she
might wage war against us in both hemispheres. To this trade in human
beings he is indebted for the riches which he has amassed, and with
which he has now fled from his country. Can you deny this, gentlemen?
Can you deny, further, that the elector bitterly reproached one of his
generals, who commanded the troops sold to England in America, with
having held back his men, and with not having led them mercilessly
enough into the fire? Do not the Hessians know that the elector
upbraided him in this manner only because he received twenty-five ducats
for every soldier who was killed in battle? Well, why do you not speak?
Tell me that this is untrue--tell me that thousands of mothers are not
weeping for their sons who have fallen in America, and whose graves they
will never behold--that able-bodied men were not compelled by thousands
to leave their country as sold slaves, and that the imprecations of
those leaving did not unite with the curses of those remaining, in order
one day to become at the throne of God a terrible accusation against him
who ruined his states and his people, and enriched himself with the
blood and tears of his subjects. Why do you not speak? Dare to say again
the Hessian people love their sovereign, and long for his return?
Speak!"

His voice rolled like thunder; his eyes darted fiery glances at the two
gentlemen, who were standing before him, pale and dismayed, and who
dared not look in the face of the emperor. Even Talleyrand, by an
involuntary instinct of fear, had withdrawn several steps to the door,
and his face, usually so calm and imperturbable, was betraying some
apprehensions lest this terrible storm might be discharged on him, too,
and some of its bolts hurled at his head.

The two envoys endeavored to utter a few words, but they spoke in so low
a voice that no one understood them. They felt that the eyes of Napoleon
were still fixed on them, rendering them confused and incapable of
making any reply.

A smile, as a sunbeam, flashed through the clouds on the emperor's face,
and his glance became milder. "I see at least that you are unable to
deny the truth," he said. "Go home, gentlemen! Tell your master his
career is finished, and that he has ceased to reign. Tell the people of
Hesse, however, that they shall be happy and prosperous henceforward.
Delivered from those cruel and infamous compulsory services which the
elector was in the habit of imposing upon his subjects, the people will
now be able to devote their exclusive attention to the culture of their
fields; their taxes shall be diminished, and they shall be ruled in
accordance with generous and liberal principles. Tell the people of
Hesse what I have said to you! Go!"

He waved his hand imperiously toward the door and turned his back to
them. With drooping heads, pale and trembling, MM. de Lepel and de
Malsburg left the room. Napoleon stepped to the window, and was
vigorously drumming a march on the rattling panes.

"Sire," said the feeble voice of Talleyrand behind him, "sire, the
ambassador of the Duke of Brunswick."

"The Duke of Brunswick?" asked Napoleon, quickly turning to the
gentleman who was standing by the side of Talleyrand, and who bowed
deeply as soon as the emperor fixed his eyes upon him. "The Duke of
Brunswick?" repeated Napoleon. "I do not know any Duke of Brunswick. It
may be that I shall remember him after, a while. Let the dear duke wait
until then. I have to attend to more important matters than to quarrel
about antiquated and lost titles. Who else desires an audience?"

"Sire, the ambassador of the Duchess of Weimar," said Talleyrand.

"Introduce him," commanded Napoleon, "and in the mean time, sir, explain
to me," he said to M. de Münchhausen, "--to me who is the Duke of
Brunswick."

"Sire, he is a mortally wounded, a blind old man, who implores your
majesty to permit him to die quietly in his capital, and sleep in the
tomb of his ancestors," said the ambassador, deeply affected. "But in
order to die calmly, he implores your majesty to give him the assurance
that you will not deprive his son of the inheritance of his ancestors,
and that you will not avenge upon the son the misfortunes of the father.
Sire, the dying Duke of Brunswick sends me to recommend his family and
his state to your majesty."

"The ambassador of the Duchess of Weimar," said Talleyrand, entering
with M. de Müller.

The emperor greeted with a rapid nod the envoy of Weimar, and then
turned once more to that of the unhappy Duke of Brunswick.

"I know of no Duke of Brunswick," said Napoleon, sternly. "His name and
titles have been buried on the battle-field of Auerstadt. What would he
who sent you have to say if I were to inflict on the city of Brunswick
that subversion with which, fifteen years ago, he threatened the capital
of the great nation which I command?[22] The Duke of Brunswick has
disavowed the insensate manifesto of 1792; one would have thought that
with age reason had begun to get the better of his passions, and yet he
has again lent the authority of his name to the follies of hot-headed
youth, which have brought ruin upon Prussia. To him it belonged to put
women, courtiers, and young officers, into their proper places, and to
make all feel the authority of his age, of his understanding, and
position. But he had not the strength to do so, and the Prussian
monarchy is demolished, and the states of Brunswick are in my power.
Tell him that I shall show him that consideration which is due to an
unfortunate general, justly celebrated, struck by that fate which may
reach us all; but that I cannot recognize a sovereign prince in a
general of the Prussian army. After his conduct toward France he cannot
expect me to exercise toward him a ridiculous and undeserved
generosity."

[Footnote 22: When the Duke of Brunswick, at the head of the army of the
King of Prussia, took the field against the French, he said, in a
manifesto to his troops, "We will conquer and burn the rapacious city of
Paris."]

The ambassador of Brunswick withdrew, sighing, and with tearful
eyes.[23] The emperor looked gloomily at him till he had disappeared.

[Footnote 23: As soon as M. de Münchhausen returned to Brunswick and
communicated to the unfortunate duke the utter failure of his mission
and Napoleon's threatening reply, the mortally wounded old man left his
capital and state, in order not to run the additional risk of being
taken prisoner by the French. On leaving his palace, carried on a litter
by his faithful servants, he was heard to wail in a low voice, "_Quelle
honte! quelle honte!_" and the tears burst from the sockets of his
ruined eyes. The Duke of Brunswick had gone by way of Celle, Hamburg,
and Altona, to Ottensen, a village on Danish soil. But since the day on
which he had been compelled to leave the palace of his ancestors and his
state as a fugitive, he would take no food; he would not support the
burden of life any more--death by starvation was to deliver him from his
sufferings. It was in vain that his servants and his faithful physician
implored him to desist from this fatal purpose; he remained immovable.
Only once the supplications of his physician succeeded in persuading him
to eat an oyster. Formerly oysters had been a favorite dish of the duke,
and they excited his appetite even now. But scarcely had he tasted it
when he repented of his weakness, and his fixed purpose to die of hunger
returned as intensely as ever. He spit out the oyster and cried, "Man,
what are you doing? You give me my eyes to eat!" Henceforward it was
impossible to shake his determination. He died after long, excruciating
sufferings, on the 10th of November, 1806, at Ottensen. His remains
were brought back to Brunswick on the 10th of November, 1810, by his son
and successor, Duke Frederick William, so famous as commander of the
Corps of Vengeance.]

"And now, Talleyrand, I will go to greet the envoys of Poland," he said,
taking his hat, and advancing a few steps. But at that moment his eyes,
as if accidentally, seemed to behold M. de Müller, who was standing by
the side of Talleyrand. "Ah, I forgot the ambassador of the Duchess of
Weimar. Well, perhaps it would have been fortunate for you if I had
forgotten you. For when remembering you, I must remember the arrogance
and obstinacy of that little duke who dared to oppose me and endeavored
to frustrate my will."

"Sire," said M. de Müller, "the duke believed that his honor, his duty,
and his rank required him not to act contrary to military fealty. He was
connected with Prussia by virtue of military treaties of long years'
standing; hence, he believed it incumbent on him to adhere to them even
when the King of Prussia, to the profound personal regret of the duke,
entered into open hostilities against France."

"Ah, bah! treaties!" ejaculated Napoleon. "I tell you, your duke had not
his senses about him when he dared to oppose me. This is a good time for
any prince to lose his states in a moment. You have just seen how I have
acted in the case of the Duke of Brunswick. I shall have no mercy on
those who oppose me and dare to bid me defiance! I will drive these
wolves back into the swamps of Italy, whence they came!" Throwing his
hat with an angry gesture on the floor, the emperor added in a loud
voice, "Like this hat, I will crush them, so that no one in Germany will
ever think of them. I feel really tempted to treat your prince in the
same manner!"

"Sire, your majesty, however, condescended to lend a favorable ear to
the prayers of the Duchess of Weimar," said the ambassador, in a timid
voice.

"It is true," said Napoleon, "the duchess is a noble lady; if I pardon
her husband, it is only for her sake, and because she is a sister of a
princess closely related to me. But you ought not to rely too much on my
forbearance and generosity. If the duke persists any longer in his
resistance--if it be true that he has not yet left the Prussian
service--I take back the promise I gave the duchess, and your duke shall
learn what it is to oppose me!"

"Sire," said M. de Müller, "the duchess sent me hither in order to
inform your majesty that her husband has left the Prussian service, and
will return to Weimar to occupy himself only with the welfare of his own
state. She ventures now to remind your majesty of your promise to
forgive the duke and leave him in possession of his inheritance."

"Well, if that be so, I shall fulfil my promise," said Napoleon, in a
milder voice. "I shall not deprive your master of his sovereignty; but,
as a matter of course, he will have to submit to some sacrifices. I
shall communicate my wishes concerning this point to my minister, M. de
Talleyrand, and he will inform you of them. Do not fail to give the duke
distinctly to understand that he is indebted for his state and political
existence solely to the respect I feel for his wife and her sister, the
Margravine of Baden." The conqueror nodded to the envoy and walked
toward the door leading into the audience-hall. Talleyrand quickly
picked up the emperor's hat from the floor, and carrying it to him,
said, "Sire, you have lost your hat."

Napoleon smiled. "Well," he said, "now-a-days, when so many lose their
heads and their crowns, a man may be pardoned for once losing his hat.
Come, accompany me to the good, enthusiastic Poles!"




CHAPTER XIV.

TRIUMPH AND DEFEAT.


Scarcely had the emperor crossed the threshold of the audience hall,
when it resounded with cheers and the constantly-repeated shout of
"_Vive l'Empereur_!" He thanked the envoys of Poland for these
greetings, and quickly approached them. They presented a magnificent
spectacle in their national costume, adorned as it was with gorgeous
embroidery and diamonds. "Introduce these gentlemen to me, Talleyrand,"
he said; "I will cherish in my memory the names of those whom henceforth
I shall regard as friends!"

When Talleyrand presented them in succession, Napoleon listened to each
of their high-sounding old aristocratic names with a kindly nod and a
gracious air, which delighted the hearts of the Poles.

"Sire," said the Count of Dombrowsky, a silvery-haired man of seventy
years--"sire, in bending our knees before your majesty, we represent
all Poland, which is exclaiming, 'God save Napoleon the Great!--the
liberator of nations!'"

"God save Napoleon the Great!--the liberator of nations!" echoed the
others, kneeling down and extending their arms toward the emperor.

"Liberator of nations!" repeated Napoleon, smiling. "No one can liberate
nations unless they do so themselves."

"But, in order to liberate themselves, the nations stand in need of a
noble and high-minded chieftain!" exclaimed the old count. "Sire, the
Polish nation trusts in you; it is on its knees, praying your majesty
that you may become the liberator whom it has so long looked for. The
great Napoleon has arisen upon France like a sun--he has come, seen, and
vanquished the universe! O invincible Cæsar! In seeing you, all my
wishes and those of my countrymen are fulfilled! Already we consider our
country as saved, for in your person we worship the wisest and most
equitable of legislators. You will redeem us! You will not permit Poland
to be dismembered. Oh, sire, Poland puts her trust in the redeemer of
nations! Poland puts her trust in Napoleon the Great, who will raise her
from her degradation!"

"Poland puts her trust in you," repeated the Poles; and, in the
enthusiasm of their patriotism, forgetful of etiquette, they crowded
around Napoleon, and, again kneeling, kissed his hands and the hem of
his garment.

Napoleon smilingly allowed them to do so, but his eyes assumed a graver
expression. "Rise now, gentlemen," he said, "I have received through you
the homage of poor, weeping Polonia, but now let me receive also in you
the brave sons of this unhappy land, and speak to the _men_ of Poland.
Rise.'"

The Poles rose, and looked with beaming eyes and in breathless suspense
at the emperor, whose face exhibited the austere regularity of a statue
of ancient Rome.

"It would afford me the liveliest pleasure to see the royal throne of
Poland restored," he said, "for it would also secure the independence of
the adjoining states, which are now threatened by the unmeasured
ambition of Russia. But words and idle wishes are not sufficient. When
the priests, the nobility, and the citizens, make common cause--when
they are determined to conquer or die--then they will triumph, and may
count on my protection."

"Sire, the nobility, priests, and citizens, are already united and
resolved," exclaimed Count Dombrowsky. "We are only waiting for our
liberator to proclaim our independence."

Napoleon assumed a very serious air. "I cannot proclaim your
independence before you are determined, sword in hand, to defend your
rights as a nation."

"Sire, we are so determined!" unanimously shouted the Poles.

The emperor received this interruption with a gracious smile and added:
"You have been upbraided with losing sight of your genuine interest, and
of the welfare of your country, during your long-continued domestic
dissensions. Taught by your misfortunes, be harmonious, and prove to the
world that the whole Polish nation is animated by one spirit."

"Sire, we will prove it to the world," exclaimed the Poles, lifting up
their hands, as if taking a solemn oath.

The emperor turned his stern eyes slowly and piercingly from one to
another. He apparently wished to greet them all, and to read the
innermost recesses of their hearts. Then he said, in a loud voice, "The
restoration of Poland requires blood--blood, and again, _blood_!"

"Sire, we are joyously ready to shed ours for the sacred cause of the
fatherland," exclaimed Count Raczinsky. "We wish to know only, or at
least hope, that it will not be in vain. Sire, Poland is extending her
arms toward you; she is beckoning you with a passionate love; she is
longingly calling to you, 'Great Cæsar, come to my aid, that the sun may
once more beam upon me--that you may disperse the long night of my
torture, and that a happy day may again dawn for me!' Oh, sire, will you
listen to the supplications of Poland?--will you come to her and break
her chains?"

"No," said Napoleon, "I will not go to weeping Poland, shaking her
chains, and only wailing and complaining instead of acting, but I will
go to the men and heroes of Poland, who have thrown off their fetters,
and shed their blood for their country! Go home and tell this to your
countrymen, and ask _them_ when I shall come!"

"Sire, they will say as we say now, 'God save Cæsar! We clash our
swords, and dance the sacred war-dance, that he may come and let us see
his face!'"

"As soon as it is time," said Napoleon, significantly. "Go, my friends,
and tell your countrymen so. The time for weeping is past--that for
action has come. Improve it, and be wise. Return home as fast as you
can, for I should like to be with you before the present year has
expired. Farewell!"

He greeted them in so winning a manner that, charmed with his
affability, they again enthusiastically shouted, "Long live Napoleon the
Great, the liberator of nations!" Amid the cheers of the sanguine Poles,
Napoleon returned to the small reception-room, accompanied by
Talleyrand, whom he had beckoned to follow.

"Well," asked he when they were alone, "what do you think of it? Will
the Poles rise?"

"I am convinced of it, sire! Your words were like the steel striking the
flint, and kindling the tinder of their national ardor. It will burn,
sire--burn so brightly that Russia, Austria, and Prussia, may be badly
injured in their Polish provinces."

"Certainly not Austria," said Napoleon, quickly; "for the rest, we shall
know how to extinguish the fire as soon as it burns too extensively.
Forward your dispatch to our ambassador in Vienna to-day. He is to
assure the Emperor of Austria in the most emphatic manner that I do not
intend permitting the Polish insurrection to spread too far, and that
his Galician provinces, at all events, shall not be endangered.--Well,
Duroc, what do you bring?" continued he, when the door opened, and the
grand marshal entered with a letter in his hand.

"Sire, I bring two messages at the same time. In the first place, a new
envoy of the King of Prussia has just arrived; he is the bearer of this
letter which the king, who is now at Graudenz, has addressed to your
majesty."

"Ah," exclaimed Napoleon, "he is at Graudenz, which is still closer to
the boundary of his states. But I will drive him to the last town on the
frontier. The queen must learn what it is to provoke a war!" He took the
letter, which Duroc handed to him, and opened it hastily.

"Sire," said Duroc, "the bearer of that letter, Major von Rauch, asks
the favor of an audience, in order to lay before your majesty the wishes
and requests of his king, who has orally communicated them to him."

Napoleon turned to Talleyrand. "Receive him first," he said; "then
report to me, and we shall see whether I can grant him an interview.
But, wait a moment! Let us first see what is in the king's letter." He
broke the seal and unfolded the paper. When about to read it, he raised
his eyes toward Duroc.

"Sire, Prince Augustus of Prussia has just arrived as a prisoner of war,
escorted by a detachment of our soldiers. The Grand-duke of Berg sends
him to your majesty as a trophy of your victory. Colonel de Gerard
accompanies him."

"Did the prince behave as a brave soldier?" asked Napoleon.

"Sir, Colonel de Gerard states that even our own men admire his heroism.
The prince had separated himself with a battalion of grenadiers from the
corps of the Prince von Hohenlohe, and was marching along the Uker. Our
dragoons were pursuing him, but he repulsed them repeatedly, and would
have succeeded in escaping, with his soldiers, if the impassable
character of the ground had not detained him. He got into a marshy
country, intersected by many small canals, which greatly impeded him.
The horses sank into the mud, and their riders had to alight and lead
them. The prince also was compelled to wade through on foot. He was
leading his charger by the bridle, and just as he felt firm ground under
him, and was about mounting, the horse broke from him and plunged into
the Uker to save its own life. Our dragoons succeeded then in overtaking
and capturing the prince; and the Prussians, seeing that their leader
was taken, also surrendered. The grand-duke reports this affair at
length to your majesty, because he knows that you honor bravery in an
enemy, and because this living trophy would no doubt assume a higher
value in your eyes."

"Where is the prince?" asked Napoleon, quickly.

"Sire, he is in the anteroom, and awaits whatever disposition your
majesty may make of him. Sire, he humbly requests your majesty to permit
him to repair to his parents, to recover from his wounds."

"I will see him. Admit him at once."

"Sire, would not your majesty graciously permit him to arrange his
toilet a little?" asked Duroc. "The prince is not dressed sufficiently
well to appear before your majesty."

"No matter," said Napoleon. "Bring him in immediately." He waved his
hand to Duroc, and then looked again at the letter which he still held
in his hand.

Talleyrand, who was standing near him, fixed his subtle eyes on the
emperor's face. He saw that it brightened up with proud satisfaction,
and that gradually a cold, disdainful smile played on his lips.

"I shall be able to impose very rigorous conditions upon the new
Prussian envoys," said Talleyrand to himself; "the king seems to submit
very humbly, for the pride of a _triumphator_ is beaming on the
emperor's forehead."

Just then Napoleon threw the letter impetuously on the table. "Read it,
Talleyrand," he said, carelessly. "It is always instructive to see how
small these men are in adversity, and how overbearing in prosperity. And
such men desire to be sovereign princes, and wear a crown!"

Talleyrand was extending his hand toward the letter when the door
opened, and the grand marshal entered.

"Sire," he exclaimed, "Prince Augustus of Prussia."

"Let him come in," said Napoleon, sitting down slowly and carelessly in
the easy-chair, covered with purple velvet, which, was standing in the
middle of the room. He beckoned Talleyrand to come to him.

At this moment there appeared on the threshold the tall, slender form of
Prince Augustus of Prussia. Duroc was right; the prince was not in very
courtly trim to appear before the emperor. His uniform was torn and
bespattered; he had but one boot, and that covered with mire; the other
had stuck in the marshy ground near Schonermark, and he had replaced it
by a heavy wooden shoe, such as those worn by German peasants; his right
arm was in a linen bandage, flecked with blood, and an oblique wound,
covered with a broad black plaster, was on his forehead. Such was the
miserable condition in which the nephew of Frederick the Great appeared
in the brilliant halls of the royal palace of Prussia before the
conqueror of his country and of his house, who received him, seated, and
scarcely nodded in return to the stiff military salutation of the
prince. Napoleon looked sternly at the prisoner, and his lips betrayed
the anger seething in his breast. The prince, however, apparently did
not notice this, nor feel uneasy and irritated at the singular situation
in which he found himself; his eyes met those of the emperor calmly and
fearlessly; he did not bow his head, but carried it erect; not a trace
of fear or sorrow was to be seen in his youthful countenance; a faint
smile indeed was playing on his red, full lips when he glanced over the
room, and again at Napoleon, behind whom Talleyrand and Duroc were
standing in a most respectful attitude.

"You are a brother of Prince Louis Ferdinand, who was killed at
Saalfeld?" asked the conqueror, in a harsh voice.

"Yes, sire, I am a son of Prince Ferdinand of Prussia," was the grave
reply.

"A nephew of Frederick II.," exclaimed Napoleon. "A nephew of the heroic
king who loved France so well, that his heart and opinions were those of
a Frenchman."

"Sire," said the prince, calmly, "history teaches, however, that the
great king was not always the friend of that country, and that his love
for it did not prevent him from waging war against it. His enmity
against France gained him no less glory than his friendships for its
poets and _savants_.

"Ah, you refer to Rossbach," said Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders. "We
have expunged that name with the names of Jena and Auerstadt, and the
monument that once stood on the battle-field of Rossbach is now on the
way to Paris--a trophy of our victorious army."[24]

[Footnote 24: On the day after the battle of Jena, the emperor said to
General Savary, while riding across the battle-field of Rossbach,
between Halle and Merseburg: "Gallop to the left in this direction;
about half a mile from here you will find the column erected by the
Prussians in memory of that battle." Savary advanced in the direction
indicated, and found the small column in the middle of a corn-field.
Waving his handkerchief, General Savary made a sign that he had
succeeded in discovering the monument, and Napoleon galloped with his
suite across the plain to contemplate it. The storms of half a century
had beaten upon it, and it was difficult to decipher the numerous
inscriptions with which it was covered. The division of General Suchet
just passing the spot, the emperor ordered them to have the monument
removed and sent to Paris. The pieces were put into a caisson, and the
orders executed.--"Mémoirs du Duc de Rovigo," vol. ii., p. 293.]

The prince bent his head a little. "It is true," he said, "the goddess
of victory is very fickle. The future therefore consoles those who have
succumbed in the present."

The emperor cast an angry glance on the prince, who met it with a bold,
unflinching air.

"I see you are, both by birth and sentiment, a brother of Prince Louis
Ferdinand," said Napoleon. "Like him, you belonged to the hot-headed
young men who would have war at any price. Hard blows were required to
moderate your war-fever. I hope you are cured of it now. Your brother
has expiated his mad arrogance on the battle-field of Saalfeld. It is
your fate to return as a prisoner of war in the most pitiful plight to
the capital of Prussia, which you left a few weeks since with such
foolish hopes of victory. You ought to have listened in time to reason,
and not to the siren voice of the queen, who, in a manner so disastrous
to Prussia, inveigled all the young men to plunge into the Charybdis of
war, and--"

"Sire," said the prince, interrupting him in an almost threatening
voice--"sire, no reflections on the queen, if you please! Having
conquered us, you are at liberty to humiliate and abuse the vanquished,
if your majesty derive pleasure from such a triumph, but the noble and
unhappy queen should not be dragged into a quarrel of men. We do not
claim the excuse of having been inveigled by her, and her exalted virtue
does not deserve that charge."

"Ah," exclaimed Napoleon, scornfully, "like all young men, you seem to
belong to the enthusiastic admirers of the queen."

"Sire, that proves that the young men of Prussia are still imbued with
respect for virtue. It is true we all adore the queen as our tutelary
saint; she is the radiant pattern of our mothers, our wives, and
daughters; she is the ideal of all--and those who have once been so
happy as to have seen and spoken with her, bow to her in love and
admiration."

"Had all of you bowed less to her, Prussia would not now lie humiliated
in the dust," said the emperor, harshly. "Prussia and France are
destined by Nature to be friends, and I, who never have sought war, but
always regarded it only as a deplorable necessity, was greatly inclined
to offer my hand to Prussia in peace and friendship. But your queen and
your officers of the guard were bent on having war, and believed they
would win laurels by waging it. Now you have it with all its terrors.
What has it brought upon you? You have lost a brother by it, and you
yourself had to lay down your arms at Prenzlau."

"Sire," said the prince, in generous pride, "I request your majesty not
to confound me with those who concluded the capitulation of Prenzlau. I
did not capitulate; I was taken prisoner, sword in hand, but I did not
surrender it voluntarily."

"Young man," said Napoleon, in grave, cold calmness, "beware of being
plunged into deeper distress by your haughty spirit. The Prussian
princes are not now in a position to utter high-sounding words. Your
king is fully aware of this. Listen attentively to what I tell you: he
has begged me for peace in the most submissive manner; he is imploring
me to grant him my friendship, and calls himself happy because I am
dwelling in his palaces."

"Sire, that is impossible," exclaimed the prince, carried away by his
impulsive temper. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders, and then turned his
head a little aside toward his minister. "M. Talleyrand, please read to
us the letter," he said; "I merely glanced over it.--Owing to the
portentous events of the last days, you are, prince, without direct news
from the king. You may, then, derive from this letter some information
concerning his situation and sentiments. Read, M. Minister! And you,
prince, take a seat."

He pointed to one of the chairs standing near the door. Prince Augustus,
however, did not accept this gracious invitation. He bowed, and said,
smiling, "Your majesty will permit me to stand, for my costume is hardly
in harmony with gilt chairs, and I believe it behooves a poor vagabond
like myself to stand humbly at the door. Moreover, Prussian etiquette
requires us to stand in listening to the words of our sovereign."

"Read, Talleyrand," said the emperor, and leaning back carelessly, he
tried to discover in the prince's face the impression which the king's
letter would make upon him. Talleyrand read as follows:

"_Monsieur mon Frère_: When I begged your imperial majesty to grant me
peace, I consulted my reason, but I have now consulted my heart. In
spite of the terrible sacrifices which you have imposed on me, sire, I
desire most anxiously that the treaty, which has already been secured by
the approval of the main points, will entitle me soon to resume my
amicable relations with your imperial majesty, which the war interrupted
for a moment. It is an agreeable duty for me, _monsieur mon frère_, to
manifest, by a proof of confidence, my sincere desire to cultivate your
friendship; and I believe I do this by stopping the further advance of
the Russian troops, without waiting for the definitive conclusion of
peace.

"I was anxious that your majesty should be received and treated at my
palaces in a manner agreeable to you. I have zealously taken such steps
as were necessary for that purpose, and, according to my power, in the
situation in which I am now, I hope my endeavors have been successful.
In return, your majesty will permit me to recommend my capital and the
province of Brandenburg to your generosity. This province, so little
favored by Nature, is, as it were, a creation of my immortal ancestor. I
hope, sire, you will regard it as a monument he erected to himself; and
the numerous points in which your majesty resembles that great man, I
trust, will be an additional inducement for you to order his work to be
treated in a magnanimous manner.

"Besides, I should like to request your majesty kindly to exempt the
district of Halberstadt and the duchy of Magdeburg from the cruel losses
you are imposing on me. Such an order I should regard as a precious
guaranty of your personal feelings toward me, and you may depend upon
it, sire, I should zealously strive to reciprocate these feelings in the
most cordial manner. I pray God to take you in his Holy keeping, and
remain, _monsieur mon frère_,

"Your majesty's obedient servant,

"FREDERICK WILLIAM."

While the letter was being read, Napoleon did not avert his eyes for a
single moment from the countenance of the prince. He saw that he blushed
with indignation at first, and that gradually a profound grief
overshadowed his noble features.

"Well, was I not right?" asked Napoleon, when Talleyrand had concluded.
"Does not your king submit to all my conditions? Does he not bid me
welcome to his palaces?"

"Sire," said the prince, mournfully, "it does not behoove me to censure
the words of my king. When he has spoken, I must be silent. I only dare
to observe that your majesty may see from this letter that the queen
does not meddle with government affairs. Had she done so, your majesty,
no doubt, would not have received this letter of Count Haugwitz."

"Of Count Haugwitz?" asked Napoleon. "Of the king, you mean?"

"Sire, the king lent to this letter only his name and handwriting; Count
Haugwitz furnished the words and the spirit it breathes."

"Then you believe that the queen does not share the views of her
husband?" asked the emperor, hastily. "You believe she would still
insist on the further continuation of the war if her opinion were
consulted?"

"Sire, I only take the liberty to state that she would not have written
such a letter."

"I know it very well!" exclaimed Napoleon. "Your queen hates me; she
would die rather than beg my friendship; she would bury herself under
the ruins of her throne rather than put an end to this war and call me
her brother. But I will bend that haughty soul--I will crush her heart,
and make her repent of what she is doing. I will--but," he suddenly
interrupted himself, "what is the matter with you! You turn pale! You
are tottering, prince!"

The emperor arose and advanced a few steps; but the prince motioned him
back. "It is nothing," he said faintly, "only a momentary weakness--that
is all. I have not taken rest for several days and nights, and loss of
blood has exhausted my strength. Besides--why should I shrink from
confessing it--I am hungry, sire; I have eaten nothing for the last
twenty-four hours."

"Poor young man," said Napoleon, compassionately, as he approached the
prince, "I deplore your misfortunes. Personally you have not deserved
them, for I know you have fought bravely, and are worthy of a better
fate than that of a prisoner of war; but will you give me your word of
honor that you will not attempt to escape or participate again in this
war against me?"

"Sire," said the prince, pointing at his wounded right arm, "sire, I
believe I must give you my word of honor. I am your prisoner, and shall
not attempt to escape."

"Then go to your parents. I permit you to remain at the house of Prince
Ferdinand until you have recovered from your wounds. I will not deprive
your mother any longer of the pleasure of embracing her brave son. Go,
then, to her!" The prince bowed and was about to withdraw.

"Well, prince, have you not a word of thanks for me?" asked Napoleon,
kindly.

The prince smiled mournfully. "Sire," he said, bowing deeply, "sire, I
thank you for treating me so leniently."




CHAPTER XV.

THE VICTORIA OF THE BRANDENBURG GATE.


Without waiting for further permission to withdraw, the prince hastily
opened the door and went out. For a moment he sat down in the anteroom,
for his feet were trembling so as to be scarcely able to support him,
and such a pallor overspread his cheeks that Colonel Gerard, who had
been waiting, hastened to him in dismay, and asked whether he would
permit him to call a physician. Prince Augustus smilingly shook his
head. "The physician of whom I stand in need is in my mother's kitchen,"
he said, "and your emperor has permitted me to seek him." Just then the
grand marshal entered the room, and, making a sign to Gerard, whispered
a few words into his ear.

"Your royal highness is delivered from the burden of my company," said
the colonel to the prince when Duroc had withdrawn. "Permit me, however,
to conduct you to the carriage that is to convey you to the palace of
Prince Ferdinand."

In the court-yard below, an imperial carriage was waiting, and Colonel
Gerard himself hastened to open the door to assist the prince in
entering. But the latter waved his hand deprecatingly, and stepped back.
"I am unworthy of entering the imperial carriage," he said. "See, even
the coachman, in his livery, looks elegant compared with me; and all
Berlin would laugh, if it should see me ride in the emperor's
magnificent coach. Let me, therefore, walk off quite humbly and modestly
and enter the first conveyance I meet. Farewell, colonel, and accept my
thanks for the great attention and kindness you have manifested toward
me."

The prince kindly shook hands with him and then hastily walked across
the court-yard of the palace toward the place in front of it--the
so-called _Lustgarten_. He crossed this place and the wide bridge, built
across an arm of the Spree, without meeting with any vehicle. But the
fresh air, and the sense that he was free, agreed with him so well that
he felt strong enough to proceed on foot to his father's palace.

"No one recognizes me in this miserable costume," he said, smiling--"no
notice will be taken of me, and I will be able to reach my home without
being detained." And he walked vigorously across the Opera Place toward
the Linden. This neighborhood, generally so lively and frequented, was
strangely deserted--no promenaders--none of the contented and happy
faces, formerly to be met with on the Opera Place and under the Linden,
were to be seen to-day. Only a few old women were mournfully creeping
along here and there; and, when the prince passed the guard-house, he
saw French soldiers standing in the front, who looked arrogantly and
scornfully at the Prussian officer, and did not think of saluting him.

"Ah, my brother," muttered Prince Augustus to himself, "your prophecy
has been quickly fulfilled! The drums are no longer beaten when we ride
out of the gate and pass the guard-house. Well, I do not care. I would
gladly do without such honors, if Prussia herself only were
honored--if--" A noise, proceeding from the lower end of the Linden,
interrupted his soliloquy. He advanced more rapidly to see what was
going on. The shouts drew nearer and nearer, and a dark, surging crowd
was hastening from the entrance of the Linden through the Brandenburg
Gate. Soon the prince was able to discern more distinctly the character
of the multitude approaching. They were French soldiers, marching up the
street, and on the sidewalk, as well as in the middle of the Linden; the
people and the citizens belonging to the national guard accompanying
them--the latter in the brilliant uniform which they had put on with the
consent of the French authorities, who, now that there were no Prussian
troops in Berlin, had permitted them to mount guard together with the
French. But the people and the national guard did not accompany the
French soldiers quietly; on the contrary, the bewildered prince
distinctly heard the sneers, the derisive laughter, and jeers of the
crowd; even the boys in the tree-tops were casting down their abusive
epithets. When the procession drew nearer, and the people surrounded the
prince, he discovered the meaning of these outbursts of scorn and
derision.

A strange and mournful procession was moving along in the midst of the
splendidly uniformed French soldiers. It consisted of the captured
officers of the Prussian guard, who had been obliged to walk from
Prenzlau to Berlin, and whom the French grenadiers had received outside
of the city limits and escorted by the walls to the Brandenburg Gate, so
that, in accordance with the emperor's orders, they might make their
entry through that way. Two months before, they had marched out of the
same gate in full uniform, proud and arrogant, looking down
superciliously on the civilians, whose humble greetings they scarcely
condescended to return. Two months before, General von Rüchel had been
able to exclaim: "A Prussian officer never goes on foot." The Prussian
guard had really believed that it would be scarcely worth while to draw
their swords against the French--that it would be sufficient merely to
march against them. But now the disastrous days of Jena had taught the
officers how to walk--now they did not look down scornfully from their
horses on poor civilians, and faith in their own irresistibility had
utterly disappeared. They marched with bowed heads, profoundly
humiliated, and compelled to suppress the grief overflowing their
hearts. Their uniforms were hanging in rags on emaciated forms, and the
colors of the cloth and the gold-lace facings were hidden beneath the
mud that covered them. Their boots were torn, and robbed of the silver
spurs; and, as in the case of Prince Augustus of Hohenzollern, many wore
wooden shoes. But in spite of this miserable and heart-rending
spectacle, the populace had no pity, but accompanied the melancholy
procession with derisive laughter and insulting shouts!

"Just look at those officers," exclaimed a member of the national guard,
approaching the soldiers--"look at those high-born counts! Do you
remember how proud they used to be? How they despised us at the balls,
in the saloons, and everywhere else? How we had always to stand aside in
the most submissive manner, in order not to be run down by them? They
will not do so again for some time to come."

"No," cried the crowd, "they won't hurt anybody now! Their pomp and
circumstance have vanished!"

"Just look at Baron von Klitzing!" exclaimed another. "See how the wet
rim of his hat is hanging down on his face, as though he were a modest
girl wishing to veil herself. Formerly, he used to look so bold and
saucy; seeming to believe the whole world belonged to him, and that he
needed only to stretch out his hand in order to capture ten French
soldiers with each finger."

"Yes, yes, they were tremendous heroes on marching out," shouted
another; "every one of the noble counts and barons had already his
laurel in his pocket, and was taking the field as though it were a
ball-room, in order to put his wreath on his head. Now they have come
back, and the laurels they have won are not even good enough to boil
carps with." A roar of laughter followed this hit, and all eyes turned
again in ridicule toward the poor officers, who were marching along,
mournfully and silently, with downcast yet noble bearing.

Filled with anger and shame, Prince Augustus pressed through the crowd.
He could not bear this disgraceful scene; he had to avert his head in
order not to see the unfortunate Prussian officers; he hurried away,
that he might hear no more the cruel taunts of the populace. The ranks
became less dense, and this terrible procession passed by--the street
was once more unobstructed. The prince rushed onward regardless of the
direction he was taking, crushed as he was by the disgrace and
wretchedness brought upon Prussia. He was again suddenly in front of a
large gathering. He looked about him wonderingly and in dismay. Without
knowing it, he had gone down to the large square in front of the
Brandenburg Gate, where was a dense crowd.

But the thousands here did not utter sneers or praises--they were sad
and silent; there was no malicious sparkle in their eyes as they rushed
in one direction to the Brandenburg Gate.

The prince beheld an inclined scaffold erected near the lofty Grecian
pillars of the gate, and reaching up to the cast-iron goddess of
victory, standing in her triumphal car, and holding the reins of her
horses. He saw the ropes, pulleys, and chains, attached to her form, and
it seemed to him as if they were around his own breast, and choking his
voice. He had to make an effort to utter a word, and, turning to a man
standing by, he asked in a low voice, "What is going on here? What are
they doing up there?"

The man looked at him long and mournfully. "The French are removing the
'Victoria' from the gate," he said, with suppressed anger. "They believe
the state no longer suitable to Berlin, and the emperor is sending it to
Paris, whither he has already forwarded the sword and clock of Frederick
the Great."

The prince uttered a groan of despair. At that moment a loud French
command was heard by the gate, and as if the "Victoria" were conscious,
and obedient to the orders of the emperor, a tremor seemed to seize the
goddess. She rose as the horses began to descend, and her figure bent
forward as if greeting Berlin for the last time. A loud noise resounded
above the heads of the crowd--the "Victoria" had glided safely to the
ground. The prince uttered a cry, and, as if paralyzed, closed his eyes.
When he opened them again the beautiful pillars of the Brandenburg Gate
had been deprived of their ornament, and the "Victoria," with her
triumphal horses, stood deposed from her lofty throne.

Prince Augustus raised his tearful eyes to heaven and whispered, "Oh, my
brother, I envy you your death, for it was not permitted you to behold
the humiliation and sorrow of Prussia!"




BOOK II.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE TREATY OF CHARLOTTENBURG.


Queen Louisa was pacing her room in great excitement. At times she stood
still at the window, and looked anxiously into the street as if
expecting the arrival of some one. But that street--the main one in
Osterode, in which city the royal couple had spent the last few
days--remained silent and deserted. Large snow-flakes were falling from
the cheerless, lead-colored sky, and the November storm was now sweeping
them into little mounds, and again dispersing them in clouds of white
dust. The queen beheld nothing but this winter scene; she sighed and
returned to her room to pace it as rapidly as before.

But she was constantly drawn to the window, gazing into the street and
listening breathlessly to any noise that reached her ears. "If he should
not come," she muttered anxiously, "or if too late, all would be lost,
and the cowards and babblers would be able once more to persuade my
husband to yield to their clamor for peace. Heaven have mercy on our
unhappy country and on ourselves!"

Suddenly she started up, and leaned closer to the window in order to see
better. Yes, she had not been mistaken. In the lower part of the street
a carriage was to be seen. The storm prevented her from hearing the
noise of the wheels, but she saw it--it drew nearer and nearer, and
finally stopped in front of the house. The queen stepped back, and,
drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes to heaven. "I thank Thee, my
God! Thou hast had mercy on my anguish," she whispered with a gentle
smile. She then walked slowly and faintly across the room toward the
divan and sank down on it. "Ah," she muttered, "this eternal anxiety,
this unrelieved suspense and excitement are consuming my strength--nay,
my life. My feet are trembling; my heart stands entirely still at times,
and then beats again as violently as if it would burst from my breast.
But, no matter! I am quite willing to die if I only live to see the
deliverance of my country and the preservation of my house." She dropped
her head on the cushions and gazed with dilated eyes at the sky. But, on
hearing a low rap at the door, she slowly rose and called out in her
full, sonorous voice, "Come in!" The door opened, and Madame von Berg
entered.

"Well, Caroline, he has arrived, I suppose?" asked the queen.

"No, your majesty," said Madame von Berg, smiling, "_they_ have arrived.
The two ministers, Baron von Stein and Count von Hardenberg request your
majesty to grant them an audience."

"Hardenberg!" exclaimed Louisa joyfully, and her pale face brightened.
"Oh, let them come in--immediately!"

The queen quickly left the divan and walked toward the door. But Madame
von Berg hastened to reach it before her and opened it. "Come in,
gentlemen," she said; "her majesty is waiting for you!"

"Yes, I am waiting for you," exclaimed Louisa, meeting them, and with a
sweet smile extending both her hands.

The ministers bowed and kissed her hand. Madame von Berg had in the mean
time locked the door leading into the small anteroom, and withdrew
softly by the opposite door.

"Then you received the message the king sent you?" asked the queen,
turning toward Baron von Stein. "And you did not hesitate a moment to
come here? And you, count," added she, turning toward Hardenberg, "you
did the same as this faithful friend? Having heard that the decisive
moment had come, you did not hesitate to offer your services to your
king? Oh, I thank you, gentlemen; I thank you in the name of my husband,
of my children, and of our country! In these days of danger and
distress, when all are wavering and fearful, it does my heart good to
meet with unswerving fealty and devotion. Ah, so many have proved
faithless and deserted us!"

"But so many also have remained faithful, your majesty," said
Hardenberg, "so many have proved true and loyal!"

The queen gazed at him long and mournfully. "Few," she said, "alas, very
few! You say so only in your magnanimity, because you do not care to
make your loyalty appear as something extraordinary. But, look around in
Prussia--look at our fortresses! Everywhere treachery and
cowardice--everywhere perfidy! I will not speak to you of Stettin, of
Küstrin, of Spandau, of Anclam, and Erfurt! You know already that we
have lost them. But have you learned the dreadful tidings we received
yesterday? Do you know that Magdeburg has surrendered?"

"Magdeburg!" ejaculated Stein and Hardenberg, at the same time.

Louisa nodded sadly, and her eyes filled with tears. "It was our last
bulwark," she said, "and it is gone, too! I have wept much since
yesterday. Now I will be calm, and force my grief back into my heart.
But as Mary, Queen of England, said at the capture of Calais, 'If my
heart were opened, you would find on it the name of _Magdeburg_ in
bloody letters!'"[25]

[Footnote 25: Louisa's own words.--Vide "Queen Louisa," p. 316.]

"It is true," said Hardenberg, gloomily, "it is a great disaster. A
fortress so well supplied with every thing, and a garrison of more than
ten thousand men!"

"If your majesty will permit me, I ask, how did this intelligence
impress the king?" said Baron von Stein.

"He bore it with resignation, and that calm courage which never leaves
him in these days of affliction," said Louisa, quickly. "But his
so-called friends and advisers, Messrs. von Haugwitz, Köckeritz, Voss,
and Kalkreuth, received the heart-rending news with secret satisfaction.
I read it in their faces, notwithstanding the sadness they assumed. They
regard the fall of Magdeburg as an ally of their intentions and schemes.
They desire peace with France--peace at any price--and hope that the
king will now approve their views. Hence, Minister von Stein, Madame von
Berg had to give a letter to the courier yesterday, in which I urged you
to comply with the king's orders, and to come here immediately. Hence,
Count von Hardenberg, I am glad that you have come too. Oh, I know very
well what it must have cost your noble heart to come without being
expressly requested; but you did so for the sake of the crushed and
prostrate fatherland--I know it very well--and not for Prussia, not for
us, but for Germany, on whose neck the tyrant has placed his foot, and
which he will strangle unless the good and the brave unite their whole
strength and hurl him off."

"I came here," said Hardenberg, "because I remembered that hour when
your majesty permitted me to give an oath of unwavering fealty and
devotion--that hour when you condescended to accept my hand for our
league against France, and when you vowed to exert yourself to the best
of your ability to maintain the policy Prussia had entered into, and not
to suffer her king ever to accept the perfidious friendship of France!"

"I have never forgotten that hour," said the queen, gravely. "He who
joined us in taking that pledge at the solemn moment you refer to,
Prince Louis Ferdinand, has sealed his vow with his death: he is
sleeping on the field of honor. But I feel convinced that he is looking
down on us from heaven; and, if it be given to the spirits of the
blessed to influence the affairs of mortals, he will instill his ardor
into our breast, and assist us in reaching the true goal. But what is
that goal? and what the true way? My short-sighted eye is not able to
discern it. When I behold the tremendous successes of the conqueror, I
am perplexed, and ask myself whether it be not evident that God will
make him master of the world, and whether, consequently, it be not in
vain to struggle against him? Oh, my soul is at times engaged in
terrible conflict with itself, and gloomy doubts frighten it. But I feel
now that we are on the eve of the crisis, and that the present day will
decide our whole future. Grand-Marshal Duroc will reach this city
to-day; Colonel von Rauch, who preceded him, has already arrived. He
delivered to the king the treaty of peace, which M. de Zastrow and
Lucchesini concluded with Talleyrand at Charlottenburg. Napoleon has
already signed it. Only the king's signature is wanting, and, as soon as
he affixes it, we are the friends and vassals of the emperor of France,
and must either lay the sword aside, or, if he should command us to do
so, draw it against Russia, our present ally. A stroke of the pen will
determine the future of Prussia and the fate of my children. Now, help
me and all of us!--now, advise me as to what ought to be done! Tell me
your honest opinion as freely and sincerely as though you were standing
before God! Count von Hardenberg, pray, speak first! Do you believe it
to be necessary for the welfare of Prussia, of my children, and, above
all, of my husband, that the king should approve the treaty?"

"Your majesty is aware that I never advised the king to form an alliance
with France," said Hardenberg, "and that my most sacred conviction will
ever prevent me from doing so. But, in order to pass an opinion on the
treaty of Charlottenburg, I ought to know its provisions, and your
majesty is aware that the king has not permitted me of late to take part
in the negotiations. I do not know what the treaty contained."

"Nor I either," said Baron von Stein, when the queen turned toward him
with an inquiring glance. "But I know those who concluded it; I know
that M. de Lucchesini and M. de Zastrow believe no sacrifice, no
humiliation too great, if they can thereby succeed in making peace with
France. I know that Talleyrand is wily enough to profit by their
weakness, their cowardice, and lack of true honor; and I know, finally,
that if Napoleon signs a treaty of peace with Prussia now, it cannot but
be advantageous to him, and humiliating to Prussia."

"I will tell you what the treaty contains," said a grave voice behind
them.

"The king!" exclaimed Louisa, rising quickly and hastening to him.

He greeted her cordially, and gave her his hand. "I wished to see you in
your cabinet," he said, smiling, "and thus overheard the last words of
the secret council which is held here."

Louisa blushed slightly; the king noticed it, and shook his head a
little. "It is quite agreeable to me," he said, turning toward the two
ministers, "that the queen informs herself of the state of our affairs
and of politics generally, consulting men in whose loyalty and devotion
she reposes confidence. We must know our fate accurately and thoroughly,
in order to look it courageously in the face, and decide on such
measures as are most conducive to our welfare. Moreover, the queen has
hitherto bravely shared all our dangers and hardships; it is, therefore,
but just that she should take part in our consultations."

"Oh, my king and husband," exclaimed Louisa pressing his hand against
her bosom, "I thank you for your kindness and generosity. I thank you
for not sending me back into the narrow sphere of woman; for permitting
me to look beyond the threshold of my apartments, and to have a heart
for the calamities of our country."

The king nodded kindly to her, and then turned to the two ministers, who
had respectfully withdrawn toward the door. "I invited you to come here,
M. Minister von Stein," he said, "that you might participate in a
meeting of the cabinet, at which our course in regard to the treaty of
Charlottenburg is to be decided. I am glad that you have come. And,"
added he, addressing Hardenberg, "I am glad also that you are here. I
like men who, conscious of their worth, are not irritated at being
seemingly neglected. I know how to appreciate the fact that you are
standing by us in these times of adversity, and not looking out only for
your own quiet and comfort. I am fully aware that you are not pursuing
this course from selfish motives, and that you are rich enough to live
without any public position--richer, perhaps, than your king! Well, the
queen requested you to give her your opinion about the treaty of
Charlottenburg, and I came in and interrupted you."

"Your majesty heard that these gentlemen assured me they were ignorant
of the contents of the treaty," said the queen, fixing her beaming eyes
on the calm, grave face of her husband; "your majesty, on entering the
room, were kind enough to say you would communicate the contents to us."

"I will do so, to keep the gentlemen posted," said the king--"not,
however, as king, but as a friend, whom you, Louisa, will authorize to
take part in the deliberations of this secret council of state. Hence,
let us proceed without any regard to etiquette. I did not want to
preside over, but merely to attend your consultation, and to tell you
what you are ignorant of. Resume your seats, therefore."

"And you, dear husband!" asked the queen, sitting down again on the
divan, "will you be so kind as to take a seat by my side?"

The king nodded, and sat down by her side, while the ministers took
seats opposite. "Listen, then, to the terms of peace," said the king.
"The Emperor Napoleon demands the whole territory situated on the right
bank of the Vistula, from the point where the river enters the Prussian
states, to its mouth. Besides, he demands the surrender of the
fortresses of Kolberg, Hameln, Nienburg, Glogau, and Breslau; the
cession of the whole of Silesia, on the right bank of the Oder, with the
greater part of the section of this province lying on the left bank of
that river. He, moreover, demands the city and fortress of Graudenz; he
requires all the Prussian forces to withdraw to Königsberg and its
environs, and that the Russian troops shall evacuate our states
immediately. After all these conditions have been complied with in the
most scrupulous manner, either side is to be at liberty to resume
hostilities ten days after giving due notice thereof."[26]

[Footnote 26: Vide "Prussia in the Years 1806 and 1807"--a Diary, by
H.V. Schladen, p. 57.]

The queen, no longer able to suppress her agitation, uttered a cry, and
turned toward her husband with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "And
what does he offer us in return for all these humiliations?" she asked.
"How is he going to reward us for selling to him our provinces, our
fortresses, and our honor?"

"In return," said the king, slowly, laying stress on every word--"in
return, he holds out to us the prospect of marching soon as his ally
against Russia, and of supporting the Ottoman Porte. A second note,
which Talleyrand drew up in the name of his master, and communicated to
our envoy, was added. This note stated that, inasmuch as France, owing
to constantly renewed wars, as well as her allies, Spain and Holland,
had lost their most flourishing colonies in Asia and in the West Indies,
and were compelled, for the fourth time, to fight in their own defence,
justice and reason authorized the emperor to seek compensations on this
side of the seas for the losses he and his allies had suffered, and to
look for these compensations in those countries which, by virtue of his
victories, he had the power to dispose of in such a manner as he deemed
best. The greatest evil which Prussia had brought about by the last war,
for which she alone was responsible, was the fact that the Ottoman Porte
had been deprived thereby of its independence; for, owing to the
insulting and threatening demands of the Emperor of Russia, two princes,
who had been justly banished from the possessions of the Sultan, had
been placed at the head of the government of the Danubian
principalities, so that Moldavia and Wallachia were at present nothing
else than Russian provinces. 'Accordingly,' concludes Talleyrand's note,
'so long as the Sultan should not have recovered the legitimate
sovereignty over these provinces, the emperor would not consent to give
up any countries which the fortune of war had placed in his hands, or
which he might conquer hereafter.'"[27]

[Footnote 27: "Mémoires d'un Homme d'État," vol. ix., p. 341.]

"That is to say," exclaimed the queen, passionately, "that Napoleon
declares war against Russia, and, if we make peace with him, we must
take up arms against that empire."

"That will be inevitable," said the king, composedly. "Besides this
note, Talleyrand communicated some important information to our
ambassadors. He told them that Napoleon, before setting out from Berlin,
would issue a decree, absolutely prohibiting all commerce with England,
and ordering, further, that all letters coming from or going to that
country, addressed to an Englishman, or written in English, were to be
stopped at the post-office; that all goods, the produce of English
manufactures, or of English colonies, were to be confiscated, not only
on the coast, but in the interior, in the houses of the merchants by
whom they should be retained; that every vessel, having only touched at
the English colonies, or at any of the ports of the three kingdoms,
should be forbidden to enter French ports, or ports under subjection to
France, and that every Englishman whatsoever, seized in France, or in
the countries under subjection to her arms, should be declared a
prisoner of war.[28] Now," added he, in a subdued tone, "I have finished
my communication. You know the treaty of peace, and every thing
belonging to it. You will be able to form a definite opinion with regard
to it; you can, accordingly, fulfil the queen's wish, and tell her
whether you would advise me to sign it. Speak! and remember that here,
in this room, I am not the king, but only the queen's friend, happening
to be present at your consultation. It, therefore, behooves me to be
silent, and to listen."

[Footnote 28: Thiers, "Consulat et Empire," vol. vii., p. 880.]




CHAPTER XVII.

THE SECRET COUNCIL OF STATE.


The king leaned back, and, supporting his head on his arms, shaded his
face with his hands, as if it were a screen that was to conceal the
expression of his features. The queen turned with a sweet smile toward
the two gentlemen. "My husband having permitted it," she said, "pray,
speak. Let me hear your views. And as I deem the opinions of both of you
equally important, I do not know whom to request to commence. Let the
oldest speak first."

"Then, your majesty, I must speak," said Hardenberg, bowing low, "I know
that I am seven years older than Baron von Stein. He surpasses me in
wisdom as I do him in years."

"Well, speak," said Louisa. "What do you think of this treaty?"

"I think it is a new proof of the reckless pride of Bonaparte," said
Hardenberg. "In order to appreciate it correctly it is necessary for us
to look back into the past, and to remember how this war arose, which
the emperor asserts to have been provoked by Prussia. But the king, our
most gracious master, never desired war; on the contrary, he withstood,
for a long while, the wishes of his ministers, his court, his people,
and his army. He would have avoided the war, if Napoleon had allowed him
to form a Confederation of the North, conservative in its tendencies,
but not hostile to the Confederation of the Rhine. Deceived, menaced,
insulted, the king continued negotiating to the last moment, and did not
cease hoping that France would acknowledge that she was wrong, and yield
to the remonstrances and wishes of Prussia. The king was arming, it is
true, but only for the purpose of supporting his just and strictly
pacific demands by such a military demonstration. Compelled by Napoleon,
he had to obey the dictates of honor at last and draw his sword. The
fortunes of war decided against him; he was defeated. He commenced
negotiating again; for the sake of the welfare of his people he
submitted to the most rigorous terms which the conqueror imposed on him;
but Napoleon, instead of appreciating this, became only the more
arrogant and insatiable in his demands. The king's willingness to accept
those terms was of no avail; the conditions which had been imposed on
him were repudiated and nullified. Every new triumph, every new
capitulation of a fortress, caused the emperor to render his demands
more rigorous; and he dares now to offer a treaty, which would reduce
the kingdom of Prussia to a single province--which could not but render
the king's position even more precarious, and would be the depth of
humiliation, without offering the least prospect of a speedy and lasting
recovery from our past disasters. If Prussia should accept this utterly
illusory compact, she would thereby deliver herself completely into the
hands of an insatiable enemy, whose ambitious schemes are well known,
and deprive herself of the only support still remaining. She would
betray Russia and not save herself by this treachery, but only
accelerate her own utter ruin. No one can dare to advise the king to
sign such a paper, and, least of all, myself, after constantly opposing
an alliance with France, even at a time when it would seemingly have
been advantageous to Prussia. Your majesty ordered me to express my
opinion, and I have done so to the best of my conviction."

The queen thanked him by a slight bow, and then turned toward Baron von
Stein. "And you?" she asked, "will you communicate to me your views
about this treaty which our envoys have already signed at
Charlottenburg?"

"Your majesty," said Baron von Stein, quickly, "I lack the wise
composure and smiling calmness of Count von Hardenberg. It was not given
me to weigh the interests and the conduct of friends and foes with
prudent tranquillity and magnanimous impartiality. I am no polished
courtier, but only a blunt, upright German, and as such your majesty
must allow me to speak to you. Well, my honest German heart revolts at
what M. Napoleon is pleased to call a treaty of peace, and what, it
seems to me, would be but a pact with degradation, dishonor, and
disgrace. If I had been in the place of Messrs. de Zastrow and
Lucchesini, I would have allowed my right hand to be cut off rather than
to be prevailed upon to sign any thing so ignominious; I would have died
rather than surrender at discretion in so humiliating a manner. I know
full well that these gentlemen have done so only in order to save the
political existence of the king and his state. But how little do they
know the intentions and schemes of our powerful adversary, whom only the
most determined and obstinate resistance can induce to be moderate in
his exactions, and who, so soon as he has nothing to fear, shrinks from
nothing! As soon as the king, according to these stipulations, has
surrendered to him his fortresses and Silesian possessions, Napoleon
will give notice that he resumes hostilities within ten days, and the
king having not sufficient power to offer him any resistance, the loss
of his last and only possessions would be the natural consequence.
Napoleon would even manage matters in such a way as to leave it to
other hands to carry out this last spoliation. It is well known what
prospects he held out in Berlin to the deputation of the Poles, and by
what words and promises he instigated them to rise. He now demands the
removal of our troops from Graudenz and its environs, that is to say
from Prussian Poland. He wishes to promote the insurrection in Poland,
and to assist the Poles as efficiently as possible, so that we should
lose these provinces during the cessation of hostilities. His majesty,
moreover, is unable to enter into an engagement concerning the
withdrawal of the Russian troops, and the last fortresses, therefore,
would be sacrificed in vain. But it is just as little in the power of
the king to induce the Emperor of Russia to waive his just claims
against the Porte, or to deprive the Hospodars of Moldavia and Wallachia
of the protection pledged to them. The Russian emperor has already
marched his troops into Moldavia. The struggle with the Porte has begun,
and his honor will not permit him to recede from the stand he has taken.
Up to this hour he has remained unwaveringly faithful, in words as well
as in actions, to his Prussian ally. A large Russian army is already
approaching our frontier, and it is said the Czar himself is
accompanying it in order to join the Prussian forces and then attack
Napoleon. By signing the treaty of Charlottenburg, however, the King of
Prussia would not only have to reject the assistance offered him, but be
compelled to turn his sword against him who, in his generous friendship,
is coming to help him fight for the preservation of his states.

"This so-called treaty of peace would raise up two new enemies against
Prussia, and without changing her old foe, France, into a firm and
reliable friend. The first of these is Russia, which Prussia would have
deserted in the most perfidious manner; the second is Great Britain,
which would wage war against the ally of France as well as against
France herself. Napoleon, by that decree against English goods,
property, and subjects, throws down a new gauntlet to Great Britain, for
it is the beginning of a blockade of the entire continent; and William
Pitt, the great and heroic minister of King George, will assuredly
accept the challenge. It will kindle anew the whole fire of his hatred
and vengeance, and he will urge the full power of England against
France. Now, Talleyrand has declared loudly that Napoleon would allow
Prussia to maintain her existence as an independent state, only if
England and Russia should make peace with him on acceptable terms.
Neither, however, will do this, and Prussia, consequently, would be
irretrievably lost by accepting these conditions; for she would then
have three enemies and not a single ally. Not only honor, but also
prudence commands us to reject the treaty. Not to obey the dictates of
those two powers would be to hurl Prussia into an abyss of
wretchedness, where she would not hear the sympathetic lamentations of
a single ally, but the scornful laughter of the world. I hope that the
king may preserve Prussia from such consequences, and graciously permit
us to maintain, amid our disasters and sorrows, a clear conscience and
erect head, as it behooves men more willing to die than give up honor
and liberty!

"Your majesty must pardon me if I have spoken too freely and
unreservedly. But you commanded me to express my honest opinion. I have
done so, and pray you to forgive me if my words have not been
sufficiently delicate and well chosen."

"I have nothing to pardon, only to thank you," said the queen, "as well
as Count von Hardenberg. Both of you have permitted me to look into the
innermost recesses of your hearts. You have spoken according to your
honest conviction: I thank you!" And turning her radiant eyes toward the
king, Louisa added in a tone of profound emotion, "Your majesty, we have
lost Magdeburg! But are not such men as these worth more than a
fortress? Fortresses may fall, but so long as we shall have such men by
our side, Prussia will not be lost!"

The king, who had been sitting all the while in the same attitude, his
head supported on his arm, and his face hidden behind his hand, slowly
dropped it and looked long and inquiringly at the queen. "It is your
turn now to express your opinion," he said, calmly. "I believe you owe
it to your advisers to tell them what you think of it. You thank those
who speak to you honestly and truthfully, by answering them in the same
manner. I, therefore, request the queen now to speak in her turn, and to
tell us what she thinks of this treaty."

"I think, my king and husband, that I would rather be killed by the
first cannon-ball discharged against France than sanction this
ignominious treaty," exclaimed the queen, with glowing cheeks, and with
passionate impetuosity. "I think that, in case you sign it, I should
never dare to set foot again in the palace of Charlottenburg, because it
would seem to me as though I were not allowed to raise my eyes either to
man or to God, for the human heart turns away from the perfidious and
dishonored, and God Himself has no mercy on them. I should think the
walls of this house would fall upon us to hide our shame--I should
shrink shudderingly from every table, because that treaty might have
been signed on it which is to render us recreant to duty, and to steal
our unsullied honor. No! let us be humiliated, and succumb with a clear
conscience, rather than accept the friendship and alliance of the
Corsican, at the expense of principle!"

"Ah!" muttered the king, bowing his head, "if words could be transformed
into swords, you would win battles for me to-day. Unfortunately,
however, soldiers are necessary for that purpose, and I have no army.
Your words may be the dragons' teeth from which armed warriors may
spring, but they might turn against ourselves and annihilate us!" He
paused and looked down musingly. The queen dared not disturb his
reflections, and gazed at him in silence and with an air of tender
sympathy. The two ministers looked no less grave, and waited until he
would interrupt the silence and address them.

The king raised his head and looked at the clock. "Four o'clock," he
said, rising more hastily than usual. "I have ordered the ministers and
generals to assemble at the rooms of Minister von Haugwitz, and told
them that I should be present. I like to be punctual. Let us go then,
gentlemen; it is time for us to be at the conference."

The two ministers rose to take leave of the queen. Louisa gave each of
them her hand, which they kissed, and she dismissed them with a grateful
glance. The king kindly waved his hand, and, after they had left the
room, turned to the queen. "Farewell, dear Louisa," he said, offering
his hand to her; "official duties are calling me, and so long as I am
king I must not neglect them. I came to you in order to dispel my cares
a little by chatting with you, and instead of doing so I had to be
present at a meeting of a secret council of state. The unfortunate have
no time for recreation, and that may be useful and salutary, after all.
Farewell, then; I must go to Haugwitz's rooms."

He was about to leave, but the queen grasped his hand, and gazed with an
imploring glance searchingly at his calm and impenetrable countenance.
"Oh, my husband," she said, in a voice tremulous with emotion; "you are
going to leave me thus? You do not utter a word of consolation and
assurance?"

The king kissed her on the forehead, and pointed to the clock. "It is
high time for me to go to the conference," he said, and gently
disengaging his hand hastened away.

Louisa gazed after him until he had disappeared; she then raised her
hands and eyes to heaven. "O my God," she whispered, "direct his
resolutions, and cause him to choose what is right! Oh, give me strength
to bear my misfortunes patiently, and not to despair and murmur, even
though the king should decide on another course than the one my heart
longs for, and my reason believes to be right." On casting down her
eyes, she happened to see the open piano, and hastening to it her white
hands commenced playing a soul-moving melody. She then sang, with
tearful eyes and fervent voice: "_Wer nur den lieben Gott lässt walten,
und hoffet auf ihn alle Zeit_--"

Scarcely an hour had elapsed--the queen was still singing at the piano
when the door behind her softly opened, and the king again entered. The
carpet and the full notes of the piano prevented her hearing his
footsteps. The king walked rapidly to his wife, and laid his hand on her
shoulder. She started, and looked up to her husband with an inquiring,
anxious glance, and rose slowly from her chair.

"Louisa," said the king, solemnly, "I have just returned from the
conference of the ministers at Haugwitz's rooms. Besides Prince Henry
and myself, ten ministers, generals, and cabinet councillors were
present. Seven advocated the ratification of the treaty of
Charlottenburg; four were opposed to it. The majority; therefore, were
in favor of it."

The queen turned pale, and the painful quivering of her lips betrayed
her inward emotion. "There were eleven present besides you," said she,
breathlessly. "Seven voted for ratifying the treaty; four were opposed
to it! But what did the king say, who had to decide every thing? Did my
beloved husband side with the majority?"

"The king," said Frederick William, slowly, "decided in favor of the
minority."

Louisa uttered a cry, and, seizing his hand, bent over and imprinted a
warm kiss on it. "Oh, my dear husband, you did not accept the
ignominious Charlottenburg bargain?" she asked, joyfully. "You did not
yield to the majority? My God! I thank Thee, for Thou hast fulfilled the
most fervent wishes of my soul! Oh, my dear husband, if there were in my
heart still a spot which love for you had not consecrated, it would be
now! My whole heart is filled with pride, delight, and esteem for you.
We shall not make peace, then, with the tyrant, or accept the
hypocritical friendship of our mortal foe--we shall remain faithful to
ourselves, to our honor, and to our ally."

"Yes, we shall reject that treaty," said the king. "We shall try to
carry on the war. But let us not yield to illusions; let us not endeavor
to deceive ourselves by indulging in sanguine hopes! In again drawing
the sword, we have to struggle for our existence, and we may possibly
fail."

"Better to be buried under the ruins of the throne than to sit on it
with the stigma of perfidy and dishonor!" exclaimed the queen. "Even the
crown would not cover such a stain!"

"We may lose our state and our crown, and be compelled to flee as
nameless beggars across the Russian frontier. Are you prepared for it?"

Louisa passionately encircled her husband's neck with her arms, and
looked him in the face with-an air of unutterable tenderness. "I am
prepared for every thing, provided I may stay with you," she said,
affectionately. "Let the worst befall us, it will find me calm and
courageous, for I shall share it with you. Where you go I go. And though
we should have to flee from our invincible enemy into the remotest wilds
of Russia, my heart would be glad, for honor would accompany us, and
love would be our comfort!"

The king laid his hand on her head, as if blessing her, and clasped her
in his arms. "You are a noble and heroic woman," he said, "and I thank
God from the bottom of my heart for having given me such a wife. Pray
for me, Louisa; pray for all of us! I will now go to receive the envoy
of Napoleon, M. Duroc, and tell him that I must reject the treaty of
Charlottenburg." He pressed a kiss on the queen's brow, and then crossed
the room arm-in-arm with her. When about to go, he stood still and
tenderly looked at her. "Ah, Louisa," he said, "I forgot to tell you
something. After informing the conference that I should not ratify the
treaty, but continue the war, I commissioned Haugwitz to draw up a
manifesto by which I would announce to my people the step I had resolved
upon. Count von Haugwitz, however, said he was unable to draw up such a
manifesto, and offered his resignation, owing to his enfeebled health,
and the disease of the eyes from which he is suffering."

The queen smiled, and an emotion of joy illuminated her countenance.
"You have accepted his resignation?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I have accepted it. He will set out to-day for his estates. I must at
once appoint his successor; for, in times such as these, I cannot do
without a minister of foreign affairs. Can you recommend any one to me
whom you would deem especially qualified for the position, and in whom
you have confidence?"

The queen looked in surprise at her husband, and cast down her eyes, as
if she feared he would read in them thoughts conflicting with her words.
"It does not behoove me to advise my sagacious and prudent husband,"
she said. "His wisdom will always be able to find the right man for the
right place, and to appoint a minister competent to promote the
interests of Prussia and her noble king."

"Then you do not know of any one whom you would recommend to me?" asked
he.

Louisa looked down, and silently shook her head.

The king smiled. "Well," he said, "in that case I myself must make the
selection, and I have already done so. Baron von Stein is the man whom I
will appoint minister of foreign affairs." He did not give his wife time
to reply, but left the room quickly, and closed the door.

The queen gazed after him, her eyes radiant with joy. "Oh," she said,
"what a great and noble heart! He who conquers himself is a hero indeed.
The king has overcome his own reluctance, and, contrary to his
inclination, selected the man whom his head appreciates, but whom his
heart does not love."




CHAPTER XVIII.

BARON VON STEIN.


On the same day, after the king had given an audience to Grand-Marshal
Duroc, and informed him that he rejected the treaty of Charlottenburg,
he instructed Köckeritz and Beyme to offer the department of foreign
affairs to Baron von Stein. But the baron had declined, declaring he was
unable to fill so difficult a position--that he lacked the necessary
knowledge of affairs and forms and the requisite skill in applying them
so as to discharge the duties of so high an office in an efficient
manner. The king, however, did not accept this refusal. He caused new
offers to be made to him--requesting him to take charge of the
department at least temporarily, and promising him a large salary,
besides eight thousand dollars annually for household expenses. But
Baron von Stein did not allow himself to be tempted by the brilliancy of
the position, or the large compensation. He adhered to his
determination, and declined a second time, proposing to the king to
appoint in his place, as minister of foreign affairs, Count von
Hardenberg, that experienced and skillful statesman.

The king shook his head indignantly, and bit his lips, as he was
accustomed to do whenever he was angry. "Tell Baron von Stein to come to
me," he said to General von Köckeritz. "I will speak to him myself."

General von Köckeritz hastened away, and an hour afterward Baron von
Stein entered the king's cabinet. Frederick William was slowly pacing
his room, with his hands joined behind him. He apparently did not notice
the baron's arrival, and passed him repeatedly without greeting or even
looking at him. The minister, who at first had stood respectfully near
the door, waiting to be accosted by the king, tired of this long
silence, turned to the paintings hanging on the wall, and, while
contemplating them, passing from one to another, happened to push
against a chair, which made a loud noise.

The king was aroused from his meditation. He stood still before Baron
von Stein, and looked with a stern air into his manly face. "I offered
you twice the department of foreign affairs," he said, in his dry,
abrupt manner. "Why did you not accept it?"

"Your majesty, because I did not feel capable of filling it," replied
Stein, calmly, "and because there are worthier men who are better
qualified for it."

The king shook his head. "Subterfuges!" he said. "Firm and bold men,
such as you, do not undervalue their own importance, but appreciate it
correctly. In days so grave as these, it is necessary for every one to
be sincere. I want to be informed why you reject my offer. I have a
right to insist on knowing your reasons. I am king still, and I believe
my functionaries owe me an explanation when refusing to undertake a task
which I ask them to perform. Speak, and tell me your reasons. I command
you to do so."

"Your majesty," said Stein, with cold, proud equanimity, "suppose, in
order to comply with your command, I should allege some pretext or other
in lieu of my real reasons, and, like Count von Haugwitz, base my
refusal on my pretended ill-health? How would your majesty be able to
know whether I was sincere or not? Even kings are not capable of looking
into the hearts of men, and no orders can reveal secrets if we desire to
conceal them. But I do not wish to hide my thoughts from your majesty.
In compliance with your request, I will lay my reasons freely and
sincerely before you. But, before doing so, I must ask your majesty to
grant me two things."

"Well, what are they?" inquired the king, quickly.

"In the first place, I beg leave to be seated, for I have been ill, and
am still weak."

The king sat down on the divan and pointed to an easy-chair standing
near. "Take a seat, and tell me your second request."

"I must beg your majesty graciously to pardon my frankness, in case my
words should not meet with your approval or should appear too bold and
rash."

"I wish to know the truth, and must, therefore, have the courage to hear
it," said the king. "Why did you decline?"

"Your majesty, my first reason, though you refused to believe it, is and
remains, that I regard Count von Hardenberg as much better qualified
than myself to take charge of the department of foreign affairs, because
he enjoys the confidence of those courts with which your majesty intends
keeping up friendly relations. Count von Hardenberg, moreover, has the
confidence of your people, who, wherever they are permitted to do so,
are loudly expressing themselves in his favor, and would consider this
salutary appointment a consolation and hope for the future. It seems
unbecoming in me to accept an office that should be intrusted to a
minister distinguished for his faithful services in this department,
and, under the present circumstances perhaps, highly influential already
by his very name."

"Go on, go on," said the king, impatiently. "Say no more about
Hardenberg. Tell me your other reasons."

"Sire, my second reason is that, even though I accept the position, I
should be unable to accomplish in it what I should deem necessary for
the welfare of the state. Your majesty, so long as there is no free and
direct intercourse between you and your ministers--so long as there is a
cabinet government in existence, separating the king from his ministers,
and exercising an injurious influence on the relations of the latter
toward the subordinate officers in their departments, your ministers
cannot hope to promote the welfare of the state, and to introduce and
carry out such measures as they deem indispensable for the best
interests of the people. Your majesty's ministers have long since
recognized and felt the disastrous influence of this government which is
watching with the utmost jealousy at the door of your cabinet, and
keeping every minister from it and from direct intercourse with you.
They were silent so long as Prussia appeared to be in prosperous
circumstances, and the inward germs of her degeneracy and decay could
be concealed by a semblance of justice. But now every illusion of this
character has been rudely dissipated, and it is time to beseech your
majesty to abolish a system during the existence of which the calamitous
condition of our state has constantly and hopelessly increased. Fearful
events have followed in quick succession, and the Prussian states have
been plunged into disasters from which they can be restored only by the
united strength of the whole people. But although the ministers are
fully conscious of this state of affairs, and though they hold in their
hands the remedies that might save the kingdom, they never would be sure
that they can profit by them, for they see between them and the king a
power without any well-defined functions, and without responsibility,
meddling with every thing and directing nothing--this power can foil the
plans of the ministers at any time, reverse their measures, and
counteract their advice."

"I know very well," said the king, angrily, "that, like Hardenberg, you
are constantly on bad terms with Köckeritz, Beyme, and Lombard, the
members of my cabinet."

"Sire, I do not attack persons, but privileges," said Stein, gravely.
"If your majesty dismiss those gentlemen and select others, there would
be no change for the better. If you do not permit the ministers to
consult you directly concerning the affairs of their departments--if you
do not reëstablish the council of state, and abolish the irresponsible
cabinet, the position of your minister of foreign affairs would remain
as it is now--an empty shadow. But if your majesty should gather your
ministers around you as a regular council of state, and direct their
loyal plans and counsels with that fatherly love for your subjects which
you have manifested at all times, such a step would strengthen the
confidence of your allies, restore the courage of the oppressed nation,
inspire the conquered provinces with the determination of shrinking from
no danger in order to deliver themselves from the yoke of the oppressor,
and counteract, in the countries remaining as yet intact, that
discouragement which cannot but prevent the people from making any
heroic efforts in self-defence. Such, sire," added Stein, drawing a deep
breath, "are my honest opinions and convictions. I lay them before your
majesty with the sincerity and earnestness which the threatening state
of affairs renders it incumbent on me to manifest. My determination to
share the fate of the monarchy, and of your majesty's house, whatever
may be in store for them, is well known. But if you are unwilling to
give up a system that I am satisfied has already brought so many
calamities upon the country, and will continue to do so--if the cabinet
is to remain, and if the council of state, without which I believe
Prussia cannot be saved, is not organized--I most humbly beg your
majesty to accept my refusal."

"You want to threaten me!" exclaimed the king. "You think, perhaps, you
are alone able to save Prussia?"

"No, your majesty," said Stein, looking the king in the face; "no, I
only believe that the present cabinet government is destined to ruin
her."

The king looked down for a while musingly. "Well, what is your idea
about the new council of state which you propose?" he asked after a
pause. "Who is to belong to it? What is to be its object?"

"Its object is to be the intermediate voice between the people and the
king; to lay before him the laws and ordinances, in order to obtain his
approval and signature; to publish such of them as he has sanctioned,
and to be responsible to him for the administration of the country. But
for all these reasons it would be indispensable that the ministers
should be admitted to the king at any time, and be consulted as to any
resolutions which he would take and in reference to any changes he would
decide upon in the general policy of the government. The ministers of
foreign affairs, of war, and of finance, would form the nucleus of this
council, and be as much as possible near the king's person. If your
majesty should travel, one of them at least would have to accompany
you."

"That is to say, you would depose me," said the king, a deep blush
mantling his cheeks. "The ministers are to govern alone, and I am to
have only the right of being a sort of writing-machine to sign their
decrees."

"No, your majesty, the king is to have the deciding voice in regard to
every thing; but he must graciously refrain from deciding any thing
without having listened to the opinions of his ministers."

"And if I approve your proposition--if I assemble in my cabinet every
day a council of state, consisting of the ministers," said the king,
with seeming calmness, "would you then be inclined to accept the
position I have offered you, and become minister of foreign affairs?"

"Sire," said Stein, firmly, "it would not be enough for your majesty to
appoint new ministers, and hold daily consultations with them, but you
would have also to dismiss, formally and forever, the gentlemen who have
hitherto monopolized your confidence. Unless Count von Haugwitz and
Lombard be dismissed from the civil service--unless Beyme, who is
suspected by and disagreeable to the Russian court, and hated by a very
large majority of our people, be deprived of his present office, the
ministers cannot rely on any certain efficiency in their positions, and
even the council of state would offer them no guaranty whatever against
the continued secret cabinet consisting of Messrs, von Haugwitz,
Lombard, and Beyme."

"Enough," exclaimed the king, rising hastily, and pacing the room. "I
have listened to you to the end, because I wished to see how far your
audacity would go, and to gain a clear insight into your whole
character. I was already prejudiced against you. It is true, I knew you
were a thoughtful, talented, and bold man, but, at the same time, I
believed you to be somewhat eccentric; in short, I regarded you as a man
who, because he always thinks only his own opinion to be correct, is
unable to fill a position in which he would constantly come in conflict
with others, and soon be irritated and discouraged by the clash of
opinions prevailing there. I overcame these prejudices, because I have
always striven to select the servants of the state, not according to the
promptings of personal whims, but of sensible reasons. I was advised to
appoint you minister of foreign affairs; and (please take notice of what
I am about to tell you now) those who advised me to do so--those who
advocated your appointment most strenuously, were precisely the ones
whom you are now attacking, and are bent upon overthrowing. I yielded! I
offered you the department of foreign affairs. You declined the position
on the pretext of not being familiar enough with the details of the
department. Your refusal was greatly embarrassing to me, for I still
believed that your services ought to be preserved to the state and to
myself. I overlooked your ungracious refusal, and sent for you to speak
freely and openly with you. I have conversed with you, and now know you
better!"

The king, walking up and down, uttered these words with increasing
excitement, and in a voice growing louder and louder, without looking
once at Stein, who had risen from his seat, and, drawing himself up to
his full height, listened to this angry outburst. The king stood still
before him, and, fixing his piercing eyes on the calm, cold face of the
baron, added, "I have found out, to my regret, that my original opinion
of your character was not erroneous; that my prejudices against you were
just, and that you ought to be considered an obstinate, refractory, and
disobedient servant of the state, who, boastfully relying on his genius
and talents, so far from aiming at the welfare of his country, is
actuated solely by his whims, his passions, and personal hatred. Such
men are precisely those whose conduct is most injurious to the
interests of the monarchy."

"Your majesty," exclaimed Stein, impetuously, "your majesty, I--"

"Silence," ejaculated the king, in an imperious voice, "silence while I
am speaking! I really feel sorry that you have compelled me to speak to
you so plainly and unreservedly; but as you are always boasting of being
a truthful man, I hare told you my opinion in unvarnished language, and
will add that, if you should be unwilling to change your disrespectful
conduct, the state cannot count very confidently of profiting further by
your services."

"Your majesty, I cannot change my conduct," exclaimed Stein, pale with
hidden anger, which he could no longer repress. "As you believe me to be
an 'obstinate, refractory, and disobedient servant of the state, who,
boastfully relying on his genius and talents, so far from aiming at the
welfare of his country, is actuated solely by his whims, his passions,
and personal hatred--'"

"Ah," interrupted the king, laughing scornfully, "you have an excellent
memory, for I believe you are repeating my own words!"

"Sire, this will show you that my conduct is not always disrespectful,
but that I set so high a value on your royal words that they are
immediately engraved upon my memory," said Baron von Stein, smiling.
"But, inasmuch as I am also of your majesty's opinion that such
officials as you have described me to be are most injurious to the
interests of the monarchy, I must request your majesty to accept my
declination, and I hope it will be granted immediately."

"You have pronounced your own sentence, and I do not know how to add any
thing to it!" replied the king.

Baron von Stein bowed. "I thank your majesty most humbly," he said. "Now
I must beg that my dismissal from the service be communicated to me in
the usual form. I have the honor to take leave of your majesty."

Without waiting for the king's reply, the baron bowed a second time, and
left the room with measured steps. He crossed the anteroom rapidly, and
then entered the apartment contiguous to the hall. A royal _valet de
chambre_ hastened to meet him. "Your excellency," he said, "the queen
begs you to be so kind as to go immediately to her. She instructed me to
wait here till your return from the king, and ordered me to announce
you directly to her majesty."

"Announce me, then," said Baron von Stein, following the footman with a
mournful air.

The queen was in her cabinet, and rose from her divan when Baron von
Stein entered. She offered her hand to the minister with a smile. "I
begged you to come to me," she said, "because I intended to be the first
to wish you--nay, ourselves--joy of your new position. The king has
informed me that he would intrust the office of Count von Haugwitz to
you, and I tell you truly that this is as a beam of light for me in the
gloom of our present circumstances. I know that you are a true and
faithful patriot; that you have the welfare of Prussia, of Germany, and
of our dynasty at heart, and that you have the will and the ability to
help us all--this is the reason why I wish ourselves joy of--"

"Pardon me, your majesty, for daring to interrupt you," said. Baron von
Stein, in a low, melancholy voice; "but I cannot accept your
congratulations. I was not appointed minister of foreign affairs, but
the king has just granted my request to be dismissed from the service."

The queen started, and turned pale. "You did not accept the position
which the king offered to you?" she asked. "Oh, then I was mistaken in
you, too! There is, alas! no more fidelity or constancy on earth!" She
pressed her hand against her aching forehead, and tottered back a few
steps, to sink exhausted on the divan.

Baron von Stein approached, and his face seemed to be radiant with
energy and determination. "No, queen," he said, loudly and firmly--"no;
you were not mistaken in me, and if your majesty hitherto believed me to
be a faithful and reliable man, I am sure you only did me justice.
Fealty does not change, however, and he who has once been found reliable
will be so forever. No; let me repeat once more, your majesty was not
mistaken in me, although I rejected the position offered to me. I
fearlessly and truthfully stated to his majesty the conditions on which
alone I could accept it. The king was unwilling to submit to these
conditions; he was angry at them and reproached me in such a manner as
to leave me no choice but to present him my humble declination, which he
granted immediately. I did not refuse his offer because the situation of
the country frightened me, but because, above all, I had to remain
faithful to myself, and obey the promptings of my conviction. My love,
my fealty, my soul, belong to Prussia and the royal dynasty. I retire
into obscurity, and shall wait for the voice of Prussia and of my king.
When he calls me--when he can profit by services such as I am able
conscientiously to perform--when he permits me to be faithful to myself
and to my principles, that all my energy and faculties may be devoted to
the welfare of my country, I shall gladly be ready to obey his call and
enter upon those services. I would come to him, though from the most
remote regions, and even should death menace me at every step. A true
man does not shrink from danger or death, but from hypocrisy and
falsehood, whether it concerns himself or others; he will not stoop to
the tricks of diplomacy and dally with that which ought to be either
forcibly removed from his path or carefully avoided, but with which he
never ought to enter into compromise or alliance."

"Now I understand you," said the queen, gently and mournfully. "You did
not wish to enter into an alliance with the secret friends of the French
in our suite. The king was unwilling to sacrifice Haugwitz, Beyme, and
Lombard to you, and hence you withdraw from the service. You did right,
and it makes my heart ache to be compelled to admit it. So long as those
three men are here, there will be a policy of continued vacillation and
hesitancy, and what you would do one day those three men would annul the
next. Oh! the king is so generous, so faithful and modest! He believes
in the disinterestedness of Minister von Haugwitz, in his honesty and
sagacity; for this reason, he will not altogether give him up, and he
listens still to his advice, although Haugwitz is no longer at the head
of the foreign department. Because the king himself is taciturn, and
thinks and feels more in his head and heart than is uttered by his lips,
Beyme's eloquence and quick perception fill him with respect; and
because he is so very modest, and always believes others to be more
sagacious than himself, he esteems Lombard's abilities highly, and
wishes to preserve his services to the state. You know what I think of
Lombard, and that at Stettin I was carried away by my anger at his
conduct, more than was compatible with prudence. I caused the man to be
arrested, whom I knew to be ready at that moment to betray me and the
whole of Prussia, and whom I suspected of being in the pay of the French
emperor. But you know also that my act was repudiated, and that
immediate steps were taken to annul it. A special courier was sent to
Stettin to procure the release of Lombard, and to convey him under a
safe-escort to Küstrin; the messenger even took an autograph letter from
the king to him, in which his majesty regretted the occurrence as
arising from mere mistake. I do not tell you this in order to complain
of it, but to show you how deep-rooted is the influence of those men,
and how time is required to destroy it. But the time will come--believe
me, it will--when Prussia will extend her hand toward you, and need your
strong arm and firm will. Promise me that you will wait, and not give up
to despair--that you will not enter the service of another monarch, so
that, when Prussia calls you, you may be at liberty to respond."

"I promise it to your majesty," said Stein, solemnly. "I will wait;
blessed be the hour when Prussia needs me, and when I shall be able to
serve her again!"

"Yes, blessed be that hour!" exclaimed the queen, and, raising her eyes
piously to heaven, she whispered, "God grant that it may come soon, for
then a change in our circumstances will have taken place, and we shall
have passed from present incertitude to firm determination. Oh, how much
distress--how many disappointments and mortifications--until that change
shall come! May we have strength to bear, and courage to overcome them!"




CHAPTER XIX.

THE QUEEN AT THE PEASANT'S COTTAGE.


It was a stormy night. The wind was howling through the pines, and
driving the snow in dense clouds from the highway leading through, the
forest. There was no sound, save that of the winter's gale, and the
trees groaning beneath its power. A solitary light, twinkling as a star
through the dark woods, was shedding its beams on this desolate scene.
It proceeded from a small house near the main road, where the
forest-keeper had peacefully lived with his wife for more than twenty
years. On the hearth in the cottage a merry fire was burning, and
Katharine, the forest-keeper's wife, was industriously occupied with it,
while the young servant-girl, seated on a low cane chair near the
hearth, her hands clasped on her lap, had fallen asleep.

"Martha," exclaimed the old woman, in an angry voice, "--are you asleep
again?"

The girl opened her eyes lazily and yawned. "Why should I not sleep?"
she asked. "It is time to do so, and every Christian has long since gone
to bed. Let me also go to my bedchamber and sleep!"

"No, you must stay here," said Katharine, quickly; "I do not want to be
alone in such a night. The wind is roaring in the chimney so fearfully
that we might almost fancy Old Nick or the French were coming down to
carry us away, or, at any rate, our last piece of bread and meat!"

"Meat!" ejaculated the servant-girl, laughing scornfully. "Old Nick, or
even the French, would be unable to find any meat in your house. Would
that I could only get the wages you owe me for the last six months, I
should leave forthwith this miserable place, where one has so little to
eat, and where it is so dreadfully tiresome!"

"You have not suffered hunger as yet, Martha," said the old woman,
deprecatingly. "It is true, we have no meat left; the last ham we had
has been consumed, and our last chickens had to be taken to town to be
sold there--"

"And your husband has taken away your only cow," cried Martha, half
angrily, half sadly; "he is going to sell the good animal that always
gave us such excellent milk and butter. I tell you it is a shame that he
should do so, and I shall never go back to the stable where my dear
cow's lowing will no more greet me!"

"You will, nevertheless, have to go back, Martha, for the two goats are
still there; you must give them fodder, so that they may give us milk.
They are all we have left! Do you think it did not grieve me to part
with our fine cow which I had raised myself? I wept for her all last
night, and would have given away my hand rather than sell her. But no
one would have paid any thing for my old hand. We had to have money to
pay your wages, so as not to be obliged to listen longer to your
continued importunities. That was the reason why my good old man took
the cow to town. It cut him to the quick to hear you dunning us all the
time for a few dollars."

The servant-girl cast down her eyes and blushed. "I did not mean any
harm, Mde. Katharine," she said, in confusion. "It was mere talk; I
always hoped master would take a lesson from me and dun the count in the
same manner for his own wages. But the great lords are living
sumptuously, and do not care whether their servants are starving to
death or not!"

"Our count, Martha, does not live sumptuously," said Katharine, heaving
a sigh. "The French destroyed his palace, and--but hush! Did you not
hear something outside? I thought I heard some one call."

The two women were silent and listened; but nothing was to be heard. The
storm was howling, and rattling the windows. At times an iron hand
seemed to pass across the panes--it was the snow which the wind lashed
against the house as if intending to awaken the inmates from their
slumbers.

"A terrible night!" murmured Katharine, shuddering. "I hope that my dear
old man won't return in such a storm, but stop with one of his friends
at the neighboring village. Heaven preserve any human being out in such
a night as this on the highway, and from--"

A loud knock at the window-panes interrupted her, and a voice outside
shouted imperiously, "Open the door!"

The two women uttered a shrill scream, and Martha clung anxiously and
with both her hands to Katharine's arm.

"I beseech you, Mde. Katharine," she whispered with quivering lips,
"don't open. It is assuredly Old Nick or the French that want to come
in!"

"Fiddlesticks! The devil does not wait for the door to open, but comes
down the flue," said Katharine; "and as to the French, the
_Parlez-vous_, why, they cannot speak German. Just listen how they are
commanding and begging outside. 'Open the door!' Well, yes, yes! I am
coming. No one shall say that old Katharine suffered people to freeze to
death in the forest while she had fire on her hearth." Disengaging
herself from Martha's grasp, she hastened to the door, and opening it
quickly, said, "Whoever you may be, you are welcome!"

The storm rushed in with a terrible noise, driving the snow into the
house, and blowing up the fire on the hearth into a still brighter
blaze.

There appeared on the threshold a tall lady, wrapped in a dark velvet
cloak, trimmed with fur; her head covered with a silken cape, to which a
white lace veil was fastened. Behind her were another richly-dressed
lady, and two men in blue coats, splendidly embroidered with silver.

"You permit us, then, my dear woman, to enter your house and stop here
overnight?" asked the veiled lady, in a gentle, sonorous voice.

Old Katharine stood staring at her. She felt as frightened as if a
sorceress had entered her house. "First let me see your face," she said,
growing bold notwithstanding her inward terror; "I must see who you
are."

An indignant murmur arose among the attendants of the lady, but she
ordered them to be quiet with a wave of her hand. She then turned once
more to Katharine. "Well, my good woman, look at me," she said, drawing
back her veil.

A pale, wondrously beautiful face was visible, and eyes more lustrous
than the old woman had ever seen before, looked at her gently and
kindly.

"Do you know me now?" asked the lady, with a smile full of touching
melancholy.

"No," said Katharine, "I do not know you, but you are as beautiful as
the angels that sometimes appear to me in my dreams, or as the fairies
of whom my mother used to tell me when I was a little child. Come in,
you as well as the others. There is room at the hearth for all who are
cold."

The strange lady smiled and advanced into the cottage; before doing so,
however, she turned around. "M. von Schladen," she said, in French,
"pray, give orders to all not to betray my incognito. I am here the
Countess von Hohenzieritz; please inform the servants of it."

The gentleman, who had just appeared on the threshold, bowed and stepped
back. She and her companion approached the fire; the two servants, in
their gorgeous liveries, stood in silence at the open door. The lady
took off her fur gloves with a hasty motion, and held her small white
hands toward the fire. A ring with large diamonds was sparkling on her
forefinger. Old Katharine had never before seen any thing like it--she
stood staring at the lady, and dreaming again of the fairy-stories of
her childhood, while Martha sat on her cane chair as if petrified, and
afraid lest the slightest noise should dispel the enchanting apparition.

"Oh, how pleasant this is!" said the lady, drawing a deep breath; "my
hands were quite chilled. Countess Truchsess, come here and follow my
example!"

The young lady, who was standing near in a silent and respectful
attitude, approached the fire, and eagerly stretched her small hands
toward it.

"How comfortable, is it not?" asked the lady who had styled herself
Countess von Hohenzieritz. "Oh, after suffering from the cold a whole
day, we learn to appreciate the boon of the fire which otherwise we fear
as a dangerous element." And thoughtfully looking into the warm glow,
she muttered to herself, "We are now wandering about in the cold, and
are chilled; will no hospitable fire warm our hearts again?" She bent
forward without uttering a complaint, or heaving a sigh.

Katharine could not avert her eyes; she gazed at the lady's sparkling
jewels, and then looked at her face. Suddenly she noticed two diamond
drops roll slowly over her transparent cheeks; but they were no diamonds
like those flashing on her hands--they were tears. She shook them off
with an impetuous motion, and turned to old Katharine, who, clasping her
hands, asked herself wonderingly whether angels could weep.

"My good woman," said the countess, "will you permit us to stay here
until daybreak? We have lost our way in the snow-storm. We thought to
reach Königsberg before nightfall, but, I suppose, the city is yet quite
distant?"

"Ten hours, at least," said Katharine, timidly. "You have lost your way,
indeed--probably at the cross-roads, two miles from here. Instead of
following the main one, you took the side-road. Well, such things may
happen to the most skilful driver, in a snow-storm, when he cannot see
his hand before him."

"I believe that such things may happen, and do not blame any one for
what has occurred," said the countess, gently. "Tell me now, have you
room and beds for all of us?"

"The two ladies may sleep in my bed, provided they occupy it together.
But I have no others," said Katharine.

"I need no bed," exclaimed the younger lady, quickly; "I shall content
myself with sitting at the fireside."

"And I," said M. von Schiaden, who had just entered, "I beg leave to be
allowed to pass the night in the travelling-coach."

"You will catch cold in the carriage, sir," said Katharine, "and there
is danger, moreover, that, falling asleep, you might never wake again.
But in the hay-loft it is warm and soft; you and the other gentleman may
sleep there, if you please."

The Countess Hohenzieritz smiled. "Well," she said, "a high-chamberlain
in a hay-loft! That is a melancholy adventure, I should think?"

"No, gracious countess, it sounds quite ludicrous," said the
high-chamberlain, "and if only your--if only the gracious countess had a
good bed, I should have no reason whatever for being melancholy. There
are thousands nowadays sleeping on the hard ground, without a bunch of
hay for a pillow!"

"Our dead of Jena and Auerstadt, for instance," said the countess,
sighing. "But they are well: the dead sleep gently! At times I feel
like envying them, for their rest is more peaceful than that of the
living. Let us not murmur, but rejoice at having found shelter for the
night! We shall remain, then, in this room, and the high-chamberlain
will sleep in the hay-loft. But where shall we place our servants, and
what is to become of our horses?"

"How many horses have you?" asked Katharine.

"Six horses and an outrider," said M. von Schiaden.

"What!" exclaimed Katharine, in dismay. "Six horses! How extravagant in
times so wretched as these, when the king himself would be glad to have
two horses to his carriage, and--"

"Silence!" interrupted the high-chamberlain in great excitement.

"You are right, my dear woman," said the countess, smiling. "The king
will certainly be glad to have two horses left, especially if they
always draw him in the right way. But it was no wanton arrogance on our
part to take so many horses; we did so only on account of the bad roads,
and in order to travel as rapidly as possible."

"Well, the horses can stand in the cow-stable and the wood-shed," said
Katharine. "Go, Martha, light the lanterns, and show the coachman to the
stable, and the gentleman to the hay-loft. I will make the bed for the
ladies." And, drawing back the blue-striped linen curtains covering the
large old family-bed, she muttered to herself: "It is very lucky that my
old man has not come home; otherwise I should really be at a loss where
to place my high-born guests."

Half an hour afterward tranquillity again reigned in the cottage. The
horses, the servants, and the high-chamberlain, had been conducted to
their quarters in the cow-stable, wood-shed, and hay-loft. Katharine and
Martha had withdrawn to the servant-girl's small chamber, and on the
lower floor, which served, at the same time, as a kitchen, hall, and
sitting-room, a couch had been prepared for the two ladies. But the
young Countess von Truchsess could not be prevailed upon to occupy
one-half. She placed the cane chair against the high bedstead, and,
sitting on it as on a tabouret at the foot of a throne, she supported
her head on the cushions of the bed, over which the crimson satin
blanket, lined with fur, that the ladies had wrapped around their feet
in the carriage, had been spread. The Countess von Hohenzieritz was
reposing on this, her noble form still wrapped in the fur robe, falling
down to her feet in ample folds; her head was leaning back on the
cushions, and the crimson of the blanket contrasted strikingly with her
white cheeks and light-brown hair. She had clasped her small, slender
hands on her lap; her large eyes looked upward in devotion, and her lips
uttered fervent words, which no one heard and understood but He to whom
they were addressed.

The fire on the hearth, to which large logs of wood had been added,
continued blazing merrily; at times, when the wind came down the chimney
violently, the flames rose high, and the beautiful figure in the
miserable room was illuminated by the red light as by a halo. Her
countenance was as pale and peaceful as that of the blessed dead, and
yet an ardent vitality was beaming in her unclosed eyes. On the wretched
bed in the peasant's cottage she was dreaming of her former
happiness--of the magnificent days which she had seen, and which, she
believed, would never return. But she did not bewail her departed glory,
and her menaced welfare caused her no regret.

"Preserve to me, merciful God! the love of my husband," she whispered;
"let my children grow great in name and in soul. Oh, if I could purchase
happiness for them by sacrificing my life, I would gladly let my heart's
blood ebb away drop by drop--if by my death I could restore to my
husband his former power, how cheerfully I would die! O my God, save and
protect Prussia: but if such should not be Thy will, teach us how to
fall and die with her in an honorable manner! Preserve us from disgrace
and despondency; teach us how to bear great disasters with dignified
resignation, and grant that we may never be so faint-hearted as to sink
beneath petty calamities!"

She paused, and looked upward with radiant eyes; just then the storm
outside was howling with awful violence, and made the cottage tremble.
"Such a storm without, and peace within! Let it always be so, my God,"
she whispered, gently pressing her hand against her breast. "O peace,
sweet peace, when will it descend to us from heaven!" Gradually the
words died away on her lips; her eyelids drooped. Heaven sent to her the
brother of peace--sleep--that it might comfort her weary eyes and
invigorate her after the troubles and exertions of the previous day. The
storm continued all night long, but the beautiful sleeper heard it only
as a lullaby hushing her to sweet repose.

At daybreak there was a stir in the cottage. Katharine came to rekindle
the extinct fire, and the two ladies rose, chilled and shuddering, to
prepare for their journey. The travelling-coach, drawn by the six
horses, rolled up to the door, and High-chamberlain von Schladen rapped
timidly and begged leave to enter. The countess bade him come in, and
replied with a sweet smile to his inquiries as to her night's rest. "I
have slept," she said, "and feel sufficiently invigorated now to
continue the journey."

"In four hours we shall be in Königsberg," said M. von Schladen. "It is
a clear morning; the storm is over, and the sun will soon burst forth
from behind the clouds."

"'The sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds,'" repeated the
countess, musingly. "Those are cheering words; could they but be
fulfilled for all of us! Let us hasten to reach Königsberg; for there at
least will be one sunbeam for me--I shall see my children again, and my
husband also will join us on returning from the Russian camp."

M. von Schladen advanced a few steps, and said in a low and hurried
voice: "The king is already in Königsberg. I have seen a peasant, the
owner of this cottage, who has come from Königsberg. He walked all
night, and left the city just at the moment when the king with his suite
returned."

"And did the man bring other news?" asked the lady, hastily.

"A rumor was in circulation in Königsberg that the French were advancing
from Posen, and, the Russian columns being also on the move, it was
generally believed that a battle would soon take place."

The lady walked rapidly to the door. "Let us set out as soon as
possible," she said; suddenly, however, she turned pale and leaned
against the wall to prevent herself from falling.

"Oh," she murmured faintly, "what weak, pitiful beings we are, after
all! The soul is strong enough to bear the heaviest burden, but the body
is so weak that a twelve hours' fast is sufficient to overpower it!"

Just then Katharine entered the room; on seeing the lady looking so
faint, she hastened to her, and asked sympathizingly for the cause of
her pallor and exhaustion.

"I will tell you, my dear woman," whispered the lady, with a sad smile,
"I am hungry!"

"Oh," sighed M. von Schladen, "and we have no refreshments with us!"

"But I have some for the beautiful lady," said Katharine, proudly. "I
was right in thinking that high-born people must eat sometimes, and are
not refreshed merely by their magnificent dresses and the splendor
surrounding them, but are obliged to put something into their mouths,
like us common people. Look, there is Martha with the breakfast!" And,
in truth, Martha was just entering the door, holding in her hand a
pitcher filled with fresh, smoking milk.

Katharine took an earthen cup from the shelf near the hearth, and filled
it to the brim. "Now drink," she said, handing the cup to the countess;
"it will strengthen you; it is splendid goat's milk, so fine and warm
that city folks never get any thing like it; no fire warmed this milk,
but God, who gave life and warmth to my dear goat. Drink, then, in His
name!"

"No refreshment has ever been presented to me in so cordial a manner,"
said the countess, nodding kindly to the old peasant-woman. "I shall
carefully remember your heart-felt words, and drink the milk in the name
of the good Lord, but only provided you, Countess Truchsess, and you,
too, M. von Schiaden, can likewise have a cup of this splendid milk."

"We shall have some," said the Countess von Truchsess; "please your--,
the gracious countess will please drink her milk." The countess placed
the cup on the window-sill without having touched it with her lips. "You
see I am waiting," she said--"make haste!" She herself then hastened to
the cupboard near the hearth, and took from it two small earthen jars,
which she handed to Katharine to fill with milk.

"And have you not something to eat with the milk, my dear woman?" asked
M. von Schladen, in a low voice.

"I have but a loaf of stale brown bread," said Katharine, "but I am
afraid it will be too hard for the fine teeth of the countess."

"Give it to me at all events," said the countess, "my teeth will be able
to manage it."

Old Katharine took a large loaf of bread from the cupboard, cut off a
thick slice, and presented it on the bright pewter plate, the principal
ornament of her house. The countess broke off a piece, and, leaning
against the window, commenced eating her frugal breakfast.

The Countess von Truchsess and the high-chamberlain had retired to the
hearth to partake of the strange and unwonted food. Katharine and Martha
stood at the door, staring admiringly at the lady who was leaning
against the window, and just lifting the stale brown bread to her
mouth. She did not notice that the two were looking at her; she was
gazing thoughtfully at the large bedstead in which she had passed the
night in tears and prayers. Her glance then turned to the piece of bread
which she held in her hand, and from which she had vainly tried to eat.
The bread and the bed reminded her of an hour long past, when she was a
happy queen--an hour when her mental eye descried the future, and the
words of a beautiful and melancholy song aroused in her anxious
forebodings, and seemed to her a prophecy of her own destiny. As she
thought of those golden days, her eyes filled with tears, which rolled
over her cheeks and trickled down on the bread in her hand. "Oh," she
murmured, "now I shall be able to eat it; I am softening it with my
tears!" And to conceal them she averted her head, and looked out at the
forest, whose lofty pines were adorned with snow-wreaths. Her tears
gradually ceased--she drew the large diamond ring from her finger, and,
using the pointed stone as a pen, wrote rapidly on the window-pane.

Old Katharine and Martha stared at her in dismay; the characters
appearing on the glass filled them with astonishment and superstitious
awe, and they thought the handsome lady who knew how to write with a
precious stone might after all be a fairy, who, persecuted by some evil
sorcerer, had fled thither into the dark forest, and was writing some
exorcising words on the window-pane, lest her enemy should pursue and
have power over her.

The lady replaced the ring on her finger, and turned to the young
countess and the high-chamberlain. "Now, I am ready," she said, "let us
set out." She walked to the door, and shaking hands with old Katharine,
thanked her for the hospitable reception she had met with in her
cottage, and then stepped out of the low door for the carriage, at which
the high-chamberlain was awaiting her.

"I beg leave, gracious countess, to take upon myself the functions of
our outrider. The road is broken and full of holes, and as I have a keen
eye, I shall see them in time, and call the attention of the coachman to
them."

The countess thanked him with a kind glance. "I accept your offer," she
said--"may a time come when I shall be able to thank my faithful friends
for the attachment and devotion they manifest toward me during
affliction, and which are engraven in diamond letters on my heart! But
let us thank the good woman who received us so hospitably last night. I
request you to give this to her in my name." She handed her purse filled
with gold-pieces to the high-chamberlain, and entered the carriage. M.
von Schladen stood still until the carriage rolled away. Before mounting
he hastened into the house.

Old Katharine and Martha stood in the room, and were looking in silent
astonishment at the neat characters on the pane, the meaning of which
they were unable to decipher. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Katharine, when the
high-chamberlain entered the room, "tell us the meaning of this--what
did the lady write here?"

M. von Schladen stepped to the window. When he had read the lines, his
eyes filled with tears, and profound emotion was depicted in his
features. "Enviable inmates of this humble cottage," he said, "from this
hour it has become a precious monument, and, when better times arrive,
the Germans will make a pilgrimage to this spot to gaze with devout eyes
at this historical relic of the days of adversity. Preserve the window
carefully, for I tell you it is worth more than gold and diamonds."

"Is it really, then, an exorcism which the beautiful fairy has written
there?" asked Katharine, anxiously.

"Yes, those are magic words," replied M. von Schladen, "and they read as
follows:

    'Who never ate his bread with tears--
      Who never in the sorrowing hours
     Of night lay sunk in gloomy fears--
      He knows ye not, O heavenly powers!'"[29]

[Footnote 29:

    "Wer nie sein Brot mit Thränen ass,
      Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte
     Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,
      Der kennt euch nicht. Ihr himmlischen Mächte."

                  Göthe.

]

"Ah, she ate her bread with tears to-day. I saw it," murmured Katharine.
"But who is she, and what is her name? Tell us, so that we may pray for
her, sir."

"Her name is Louisa," said M. von Schladen, in a tremulous voice. "At
present she is a poor, afflicted woman, who is fleeing from town to town
from her enemy, and eating her bread with tears, and weeping at night.
But she is still the Queen of Prussia, and will remain so if there be
justice in heaven!"

"The Queen of Prussia!" cried Katharine, holding up her hands in dismay.
"She was here and wrote that?"

"Yes, she wrote that, and sends this to you as a reward for your
trouble," said M. von Schladen, emptying the contents of the purse on
the table. The purse itself he placed in his bosom. Without waiting for
the thanks of the surprised woman, he departed, vaulted into the saddle,
and followed the queen at a full gallop.




CHAPTER XX.

COUNT BÜCKLER.


Perfidy and treachery everywhere! Magdeburg, Küstrin, the most important
fortresses of Prussia, had fallen. Not only the hand of the triumphant
conqueror had brought about their downfall, but the timidity and
cowardice prevailing among the Prussians themselves. Magdeburg, although
abundantly supplied with ammunition, and garrisoned by more than ten
thousand men, had surrendered. Küstrin, Hameln, and a large majority of
the other fortresses, had voluntarily capitulated, almost without a show
of resistance, on receiving the first summons to surrender; the first
cities of Prussia were now French; the French were lawgivers everywhere,
and the humiliated Prussians had to bow to the scornful arrogance of the
victors.

Still, there were at this time of sorrow and disgrace shining examples
of courage, of bold energy, and unwavering fidelity--there were
fortresses that had not voluntarily opened their gates to the enemy, and
that, regardless of hunger and privation, were struggling bravely for
honor and victory. As yet Colberg had not fallen; this fortress was
courageously defended by Scharnhorst, the skilful and experienced
colonel, by bold Ferdinand von Schill, and that noble citizen,
Nettelbeck, who by word and deed fired the hearts of the soldiers and
citizens to persist in their patient resistance and in the determined
defence of the place.

Graudenz had not surrendered to the besieging forces. The commander of
this fortress, M. de Courbières, had not yielded either to the threats
or the flatteries of the enemy. "If it be true, as you assure me, that
there is no longer a King of Prussia, I am King of Graudenz, and shall
not surrender," he replied to the bearer of the French flag of truce,
who summoned him in the name of the Duke de Rovigo to capitulate.

Silesia also had remained faithful, notwithstanding the action of
Minister Count Hoym, who, in a public manifesto, had called upon the
Silesians to meet the foe in the most amicable manner in case of an
invasion, and to satisfy as much as possible all the demands of the
hostile troops. The Silesians, more courageous and resolute than their
minister, were unwilling to bend their neck voluntarily under the French
yoke; they preferred to struggle for their honor and independence. It is
true, the fortress of Glogau had fallen, but Breslau and Schweidnitz
were still holding out. Twice had Breslau repulsed Jerome Bonaparte with
his besieging troops--twice had the determination of the courageous in
the place triumphed over the anxiety of the timid and of the secret
friends of the French. At the head of these bold defenders of Breslau
was a man whose glorious example in the hour of danger had inspired
all--infused courage into the timid, and brought comfort to the
suffering. This man was Count Frederick von Pückler. He did not take
time to recover from the wounds he had received in Jena. Faithful to his
oath, he devoted his services to his country, that stood so much in need
of its sons. After a short repose on his estate at Gimmel, he repaired
to the headquarters of King Frederick William at Ortelsburg.

It is true, he could not bring him a regiment, or any material help;
still he was able to assist him with his ideas, and to show him the
means of obtaining efficacious help.

Count Frederick von Pückler believed the king might derive assistance
from the military resources of Silesia. He described to him, in ardent
and eloquent words, the extensive means of defence retained by this rich
province; he assured him its inhabitants were faithful and devoted, and
ready to shed their blood for their king. He told his majesty, freely
and honestly, that the old civil and military bureaucracy alone was to
blame--that Silesia had not long an organized effective system of
resistance--that this government had paralyzed the patriotic zeal of the
citizens, instead of stimulating it--nay, that, by means of its
insensate and ridiculous decrees, it had impeded in every way the
development of the military resources of the province. He had not come,
however, merely to find fault and to accuse, but, in spite of his
sickness and his wounds, performed the long journey to the king's
headquarters in order to indicate to his sovereign the remedies by which
the mischief might be counteracted, and the country preserved from utter
subjugation. He communicated a plan by which new forces might be raised,
and be enabled to take the field in a few days. All the old soldiers
were to be recalled into the service; the forest-keepers and their
assistants were to be armed, and from these elements the _landwehr_ was
to be organized, and intrusted with the special task of defending the
fortresses.

The king listened to the ardent and enthusiastic words of the count with
growing interest, and finally Pückler's joyful confidence and hopeful
courage filled him also with hope and consolation.

"You believe then that we could really obtain, by these new levies,
brave troops for the defence of the fortress?" asked he.

"I am convinced of it," replied Count Pückler. "Ardent love for their
fatherland and their king is glowing in the hearts of the Silesians, and
they will be ready when called upon to defend the fortresses. Hitherto,
however, nobody has thought of appealing to the able-bodied men. Count
Hoym has retired to the most remote part of Silesia, and is now
wandering about from city to city. The military governor of Silesia,
General Lindener, visited all the fortresses and told their commanders
that every thing was lost--that it only remained for them to protect
themselves against a _coup de main_, so as to obtain good terms on their
surrender."

The king started up, and an angry blush mantled his face for a moment.
"If he said that, he is an infamous scoundrel, who ought to lose his
head!" he exclaimed, vehemently.

Count Pückler smiled mournfully. "Alas!" he said, "your majesty would
have to sign many death-warrants if you punish in these days of terror
all who are wavering because their faith and hopes are gone. Possibly,
only an admonishing, soul-stirring word may be required to invigorate
the timid, and to encourage the doubtful. Sire, utter such a word! Send
me back with it to Silesia! Order the governor to accept the
propositions which I had the honor to lay before your majesty, and which
I have taken the liberty to write down in this paper, and instruct him,
in accordance with them, to garrison the fortresses with fresh
defenders. Oh, your majesty, all Silesia is yearning for her king; she
is longingly stretching out her hands toward you; permit her to fight
for you!"

"You imagine, then, that Schweidnitz, and, above all, Breslau, in that
case, would be able to hold out?" asked the king.

"I do not imagine it, I am convinced of it!" exclaimed the count. "I
pledge my life that it is so; I say that Breslau, permitted to defend
itself, would be impregnable; I am so well satisfied of it that I swear
to your majesty that I will die as a traitor if I should be mistaken.
Sire, send me to Breslau--permit me to participate in the organization
of the new levies, and to arouse the zeal and energy of the authorities,
and I swear to your majesty the Silesian fortresses shall be saved!"

"Well, then, I take you at your word," said the king, nodding kindly to
the count. "I will send you to Breslau. Wait; I will immediately draw up
the necessary orders." The king went to his desk and hastily wrote a few
lines, Count Pückler stood near him, and smilingly said to himself, "I
will defend Breslau as Schill is defending Colberg! Both of us,
therefore, will fulfil the oath we have taken!"

"Read!" said the king, handing him the paper--"read it aloud!" Count
Pückler read:

"The enclosed proposition of Count Pückler to reënforce the garrisons of
the Silesian fortresses deserves the most serious and speedy
consideration. Hence, I order you to carry it out without delay, and to
save no expense in doing so. The fortresses must be defended at any
price, and to the last man, and I shall cause such commanders to be
beheaded as fail to do their duty.

"FREDERICK WILLIAM."

"Are you satisfied?" asked the king, when the count had finished.

"I thank your majesty in the name of Silesia," said the count, solemnly.
"Breslau will not fall into the hands of the enemy. I pledge you my head
that it will not. I now request your majesty to let me withdraw."

"When do you intend to set out?"

"This very hour."

"But you told me you had arrived only an hour ago. You ought to take
rest till to-morrow."

"Your majesty, every day of delay exposes your Silesia to greater
dangers. Permit me, therefore, to set out at once."

"Well, do so, and may God be with you!"

The king gazed after the count with a long, musing glance. "Oh," he
sighed, mournfully, "if _he_ had been commander of Magdeburg, it would
be mine still!"

Count Pückler hastened back to Silesia with the king's written order. He
visited all the fortresses and saw all the commanders. The king, to give
more weight to the count's mission, had instructed the provisional
authorities and the chief executive officers of the districts, in a
special rescript, to gather the old soldiers at the headquarters of the
recruiting stations; he had ordered all the commanders to confer
personally with Count Pückler as to the best steps to be taken for the
defence of the fortresses, by the addition of the new soldiers and
riflemen to the regular garrisons.

Count Pückler, therefore, had accomplished his purpose; he was able to
assist his country and to avenge himself for the disastrous day of Jena.
A proud courage animated his heart; his eye was radiant with joy and
confidence; his face was beaming with heroic energy. All who saw him
were filled with his own courage; all who heard him were carried away by
his enthusiasm, and gladly swore to die rather than prove recreant to
the sacred cause of the country. Every one in Breslau knew Count
Pückler, and confided in him. Always active, joyous, and indefatigable,
he was to be found wherever there was danger; he encouraged the soldiers
by standing at their side on the outworks, by toiling with them, and
exposing himself to the balls which the enemy was hurling into the city.
He maintained the enthusiasm of the citizens by patriotic speeches, so
that they did not despair, but bore their sufferings patiently, and
provided compassionately for the men standing on the ramparts in the
storm and cold, in the face of an uninterrupted artillery-fire. A
generous rivalry sprang up among the citizens and soldiers: the former
contributed all they had to provide the troops with food and comforts of
every description; and the latter vowed in their gratitude to fight as
long as there was a drop of blood in their veins, and not suffer the
inhabitants, in return for the privations they had undergone, and for
the sacrifices they had made, to be surrendered to the tender mercies of
the enemy. But this enthusiasm at last cooled. Every one would have
borne days of privation and suffering courageously and joyously enough,
but long weeks of anxiety and distress deadened the devotion of the
besieged.

"Every thing is going on satisfactorily," said Count Pückler, on coming
to the governor of the fortress, General Thile, on the morning of the
30th of December. "We shall hold out till the Prince von Pless, who has
lately been appointed by the king governor-general of Silesia, arrives
with his troops to succor us and to raise the siege of Breslau."

The governor shrugged his shoulders. "There will be no succor for us,
and every thing will turn out wrong," he said.

"But the soldiers are faithful, and the citizens do not waver as yet."

The governor looked almost compassionately at the count. "You see none
but the faithful, and hear none but the undaunted," he said. "I will
show you the reverse of your bright medal!" He took a paper from his
desk and beckoned the count to approach. "Just look at this; it is the
morning report. Do you want to know how many soldiers deserted last
night? Over a hundred, and in order to put a stop to further desertions,
the countersign had to be changed three times."

"The deserters are the perfidious, treacherous Poles!" exclaimed
Pückler, angrily.

"Yes, the Poles were the first to desert, and, unfortunately, more than
half the garrison consists of Poles. They are the old soldiers who were
organized in accordance with your proposition, my dear count. They are
yearning for home, and long to obtain, in place of the scanty rations
they receive here, the fleshpots which the Emperor Napoleon has promised
to happy Poland."

"But they need not starve here; they are provided with sufficient food,"
exclaimed Pückler. "Only yesterday I saw a subscription-paper
circulating among the citizens for the purpose of raising money to
furnish the men on duty on the ramparts with meat, whiskey, and hot
beer."

"How many had signed it?"

"More than a hundred, general."

"Well, I will show you another subscription-paper," said the governor,
taking it from his desk. "A deputation of the citizens were here last
night and presented this to me. It contains a request to give them,
amidst so many sufferings, the hope of speedy succor, lest they be
driven to despair. Over two hundred signed this paper. I could not hold
out any hopes, and had to dismiss them without any consolation
whatever."

"But succor will come," exclaimed Pückler.

"It will not come," said the governor, shrugging his shoulders.

At that moment the door opened, and an orderly entered. "Lieutenant
Schorlemmer, in command of the forces at the Schweidnitz Gate, sent me
here," he said. "He instructed me to inform the governor that the firing
of field and siege artillery was to be heard, and the village of Dürgoy
was burning!"

"The enemy is manoeuvring, and, no doubt, set the village
unintentionally on fire. Tell Lieutenant Schorlemmer that is my reply."

No sooner had the orderly withdrawn than the officer in command of the
engineers entered the room. "Your excellency," he exclaimed, hastily, "I
have just come from the Ohlau Gate. The enemy is hurrying with his
field-pieces and many troops from the trenches toward the Schweidnitz
road, and the firing that began an hour ago is gradually approaching the
fortress."

"The succoring troops are drawing near," exclaimed Count Pückler,
joyfully. "The Prince von Pless at the head of his regiments has
attacked the enemy!"

The governor cast an angry glance on the rash speaker. "It is true you
know all these things a great deal better than old, experienced
soldiers" he said; "you will permit me, however, to be guided by my own
opinion. Now, I think that the enemy is only manoeuvring for the purpose
of decoying the garrison from the city. We shall not be so foolish,
however, as to be caught in such a manner. But I will go and satisfy
myself about this matter. Come, Mr. Chief-Engineer, and accompany me to
the Ohlau Gate. And you, Count Pückler, go to General Lindener to
ascertain his opinion. He has good eyes and ears, and if he view the
matter in the same light as I do, I shall be convinced that we are
right."

Count Pückler hastened away, and while the governor, with the
chief-engineer, was walking very leisurely to the Ohlau Gate, Pückler
rushed into the house of General Lindener, determined to make the utmost
efforts to induce the governor to order a sally of the garrison. But
General Lindener had already left his palace and gone to the Taschen
bastion for the purpose of making his observations. Count Pückler
followed him; he could make but slow headway, for the streets were
densely crowded; every one was inquiring why the enemy had suddenly
ceased shelling the city.

Count Pückler rushed forward toward the Taschen bastion, and the
constantly increasing multitude followed him. General Lindener stood
amidst the superior officers on the rampart of the Taschenberg. He was
scanning the horizon with scrutinizing glances. The officers now looked
at him in great suspense, and now at the open field extending in front
of them. Count Pückler approached, while the people, who had almost
forcibly obtained admission, advanced to the brink and surveyed the
enemy's position. The crowd, however, did not consist of vagabond
idlers, but of respectable citizens--merchants and mechanics--who wished
for the consolation the governor had refused them--the hope of succor!
Gradually their care-worn faces lighted up. They saw distinctly that the
enemy had left the trenches. Here and there they descried straggling
French soldiers running in the direction of the fight in front of the
fortress. They heard the booming of artillery and the rattling of
musketry, and they beheld the shells exchanged between the opposing
troops, exploding in the air. Keen eyes discovered Prussian cavalry in
the neighborhood of the Jewish burial-ground, near the Schweidnitz
suburb, and at this sight tremendous cheers burst from the citizens.

"Succor has come!" they shouted. "The Prince von Pless is coming to
deliver us!"

All now looked to the general, expecting he would utter the decisive
word, and order the garrison to make a sortie. But this order was not
given.

General Lindener turned with the utmost composure to his officers. "I
have no doubt," he said, "that the enemy Is merely manoeuvring for the
purpose of drawing us out of the fortress. It is an ambush in which we
should not allow ourselves to be caught."

"Your excellency," exclaimed Pückler, in dismay, "it is impossible that
you can be in earnest. That is no manoeuvre; it is a combat. The
long-hoped-for succor has come at last, and we must profit by it!"

"Ah," said the general, shrugging his shoulders, "you think because his
majesty permitted you to participate in organizing the defence of the
city, and to confer with the commander in regard to it, you ought to
advise everywhere and to decide every thing!"

"No; I only think that the time for action has come," exclaimed Pückler.
"Opinions and suppositions are out of the question here, for we can
distinctly see what is going on in the front of Breslau. I beg the other
officers to state whether they do not share my opinion--whether it is
not a regular cannonade that we hear, and a real fight between hostile
troops that we behold?"

"Yes," said one of the officers, loudly and emphatically--"yes, I am of
the same opinion as Count Pückler; there is a combat going on; the
Prince von Pless is approaching in order to raise the siege."

"That is my opinion too!" exclaimed each of the officers, in succession;
"the succoring troops have come; the enemy has left the trenches in
order to attack them."

"And as such is the case," exclaimed Count Pückler, joyfully, "we must
make a sortie; prudence not only justifies, but commands it."

"Yes, we must do so!" exclaimed the officers. The citizens standing at
some distance from them heard their words, and shouted joyously: "A
sortie, a sortie! Succor has come! Breslau is saved!"

General Lindener glanced angrily at the officers. "Who dares advise the
commanding general without being asked?" he said, sharply. "None of you
must meddle with these matters; they concern myself alone, and I am
possessed of sufficient judgment not to need any one's advice, but to
make my own decisions!" With a last angry glance at Count Pückler, he
left the bastion to return to his palace. Governor Thile was awaiting
him there, and the two ascended to the roof of the building to survey
the environs. The fog, which had covered the whole landscape until now,
had risen a little, and even the dim eyes of the general and of the
governor could not deny the truth any more. A combat was really going
on. The smoke rising from the ground, and the flashes of powder from
field-pieces, were distinctly to be seen. It was a fact: succor was at
hand: a Prussian corps was approaching the city. The two generals left
the roof, arm-in-arm, in silence, absorbed in their reflections, and
descended to the ground-floor, where a luncheon had been served up for
them. An hour later, they assembled the garrison, in order to make an
attack, "in case the enemy should be defeated!"

But it seemed as if the enemy had not been defeated. The firing in front
gradually died away; the sally did not take place, and in the evening
the French recommenced throwing red-hot shot into the city.

"We have been betrayed," murmured the citizens, as they despondingly
returned to their homes.

"The general did not want to make a sortie--he had no intention to save
Breslau," groaned Count Pückler, when he was alone in his room. "All is
lost, all is in vain! The wish of the timid sacrifices our honor and our
lives! Oh, my unhappy country, my beloved Prussia, thou wilt
irretrievably perish, for thy own sons are betraying thee! Thy
independence and ancient glory are gone; conquered and chained, thou
wilt prostrate thyself at the feet of the victor, and with scorn he will
place his foot upon thy neck, and trample thy crown in the dust! I shall
not live to see that disgrace! I will fulfil my oath, and, not being
able to save my country, I must die with it! But not yet! I will wait
patiently, for there is a faint glimmer of hope left. The Prince von
Pless may make another attempt to raise the siege, and the citizens and
soldiers may compel General Lindener to order an attack, and not to
surrender. That is my last hope."




CHAPTER XXI.

THE PATRIOT'S DEATH.


Great excitement reigned in the streets of Breslau on the following day.
The people were standing in dense groups, and each of them was addressed
by speakers, who recapitulated the sufferings that had already been
undergone, and the agony in store for them if the city should persist in
its resistance.

"Who will dare to resist the Emperor Napoleon and his army?" exclaimed
one. "We were audacious enough to do so, and what has become of us! Our
houses have been demolished--our money is gone--our sons, brothers, and
fathers, have been crippled or killed! When Napoleon once stretches out
his hand toward a country, and says, 'I will have it!' it is useless to
resist him, for he always accomplishes what he intends. God or the devil
has given him the power to do so!"

"Why torment ourselves by further efforts?" cried another. "We shall
have to submit. Heaven itself is against us. See the ice-crust on the
Oder. This cold weather is a fresh ally of the French! So soon as the
Oder and the ditches are firmly frozen over, they will cross, and take
the city by assault. Of course, we shall be required again to risk our
lives in breaking the ice amid bullets and shells. The only question is,
whether you will do so."

"No! no!" shouted the crowd. "We have suffered enough! We will neither
break the ice in the Oder, nor extinguish the numerous fires. Too many
of our countrymen have fallen already; it is time for us to think of
saving the lives that remain!"

"No!" cried a powerful voice--"no! it is time for you to think of saving
your honor!"

"Count Pückler!" murmured the people, looking at the tall, imperious
man, who had mounted the curb-stone at the corner of the market-place,
and cast angry glances on the crowd.

"Will you listen to me?" asked the count, almost imploringly.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed a hundred voices, "we will listen to you!" And all
approached and encircled him.

"Now speak, count," said one of the men, standing closest to him. "We
know that you are a good patriot, and a noble friend of the people. Tell
us what we ought to do. Tell us whether you think that there is hope for
us!"

"There is," replied Count Pückler. "There is hope of succor."

"Ah, succor will not come," cried the people, scornfully, "and though it
should, the generals would act again as if they could not see any thing,
keep the gates shut, and fail to make a sortie. Speak of other hopes
that you think are still left to us, count!"

"Well, there is the hope that the weather will relax--that the Oder and
the ditches will not freeze, and that the enemy, consequently, will be
unable to cross them. By bombardment alone Breslau cannot be taken. Our
fortifications will resist the enemy's artillery a long while; and, if
you do not waver, but struggle on bravely, you may preserve to your king
his most beloved province and one of his best fortresses. Think of the
honor it would reflect on you if the whole world should say: 'The
citizens of Breslau preserved to their king the great capital of
Silesia! During the days of danger and distress they hastened fearlessly
to the ramparts, not only to carry food and refreshments to the
defenders, but to transform themselves into soldiers, to man the guns,
and hurl balls at the enemy!'"

"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and
their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were
grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts--we will
become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"

"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd;
"you will be crippled--die of hunger--ruin yourselves and your children;
and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau,
for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened
too much."

"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to
rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.

"No!" exclaimed Count Pückler, ardently--"no, he is not right! It is not
true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would
it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city,
than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of
Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole
of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of
Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire
to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush
for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your
wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"

"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight--fight for our honor and
our king."

"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a
procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was
headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded
paper in his hands.

The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Pückler,
now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and
wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most
venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.

"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What
is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your
hands?"

Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up
by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and
privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to
them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too
great; we have borne all we can--we must think of ourselves for the sake
of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor;
self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our
petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit
it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign
it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then,
to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees
that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands
and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this
morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on
the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do
not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to
set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and
sensible citizens will sign this petition."

The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Pückler was
still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at
the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many
left him and joined those marching to the city hall.

"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and
horror--"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many
tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for
Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and
that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful
now--faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long
years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the
whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let
us go together to the city hall--let us demand the petition that we may
tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not
capitulate, but resist till--"

"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall,
broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to
the count. "Count Pückler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue
talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a
miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your
high-sounding words.--Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary
of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been
ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list
of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only
twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel
left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation
will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish
to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will
be deposited there."

At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a
glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which
flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set
fire to several houses on the market-place.

"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are
firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the
petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent
wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled
the lame to walk.

Count Pückler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted
against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his
brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at
the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that
moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low
voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his
full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling
around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached
the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and
with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing,
and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible
influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering,
his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to
the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he
muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently,
and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"

"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the
parlor. Shall I announce you?"

"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and
hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without
waiting, he opened it and entered.

A joyful cry was heard--a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him
with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been
restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning--how
my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing
over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But
now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any
more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage
in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on
his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she
had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her
bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she
asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your
face?"

He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at
her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice--"Camilla, will you die
with me?"

"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why
should we die, Frederick?"

"Because I do not wish to live without honor," he exclaimed, with sudden
vehemence. "Because our misfortunes are so terrible that we must escape
from them into the grave. All is lost! Breslau will fall, and we shall
be obliged to prostrate ourselves at the conqueror's feet! But I will
not, cannot survive the disgrace of Prussia. 'Victory or death!' was the
motto which I once exchanged with Schill. I swore to him to live and die
with my country; I swore to the king, if Breslau fell, that I would die
the death of a traitor. Breslau falls; therefore I die!"

"No, no," exclaimed Camilla, clinging firmly to him, "you shall not
die--you must not die! You are mine; you belong to me, and I love you!
Hitherto you have lived for your honor as a man--now live for your heart
and its love! Listen to me, Frederick! How often have you implored me to
accelerate the day of our wedding, and I always refused! Well, I beseech
you to-day, give me your hand! Let us go together to my parents, and ask
them to send for a priest, and let our marriage take place to-day. And
then, dearest, when the gates of Breslau open to the enemy, we can find
a refuge at your splendid estate. The horrible turmoil of war and the
clashing of arms will not follow us thither. There, amidst the charms of
peaceful nature, let us commence a new life; with hearts fondly united,
we shall belong only to ourselves, and, forgetful of the outside world,
devote ourselves to our friends--to art and literature. Oh, my beloved,
is it not a blissful future that is inviting you and promising you
undisturbed happiness?" She laid her arms, from which the white lace
sleeves had fallen back, on his shoulders, and held her glowing face so
close to his own that her breath fanned his cheek; her ruby lips almost
touched his own, and her dark eyes were fixed on him with an expression
of unutterable tenderness.

The count pushed her back almost rudely. "The happiness you are
depicting to me is only given to the innocent, to the pure, and to those
who have no desires," he said, gloomily; "it is the happiness of gentle
doves, not of men. And I am a man! As a man of honor I have lived, and
as such I will die. My life harmonizes no more with yours. Will you go
with me, Camilla, into the land of eternal honor and liberty? Does not
this world of treachery and cowardice fill you with disgust as it does
myself? Does not your soul shrink with dismay at the infamy we behold
everywhere at the present time? Oh, I know your heart is noble and pure,
and despises the baseness which is now the master of the world. Let us,
therefore, escape from it. Come, dearest, come! I have two pistols at my
rooms. They are loaded, and will not fail us. A pressure of my
finger--and we are free! Say one word, and I will bring them--say, my
Camilla, that you will die with me!"

"I say that I will live with you!" she cried, in terror.

"Then you will not die with me?" he asked, harshly.

"No, Frederick, why should I die? I am so young, and love life; it has
given me nothing but joy--it has given you to me--you, whom I love, for
whom I will live, whom I will render happy! What do I care for the
misfortunes of Prussia--what do I care whether Breslau surrenders to the
enemy or not, while I am free to follow you--free to devote myself
entirely to my love!"

"A woman's heart!--a woman's love!" said Pückler, with a contemptuous
shrug of his shoulders. "I wish I resembled you; we then might be like
cooing doves in the myrtle-tree. But my heart is rather that of an
eagle--longing for the sun; and as he has set on earth, I shall fly
after him. Farewell, Camilla, farewell! Forget me not, and be happy!" He
imprinted a hasty, glowing kiss on her lips, and then turned toward the
door.

Camilla rushed after him, and, clinging to him with both her hands,
exclaimed: "Frederick, what are you going to do?"

"I go to the land of liberty, and will do what honor commands," he said,
disengaging himself from her grasp, and rushing from the room.

"Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, in the utmost terror, running to the
door; she could not open it, for he had locked it outside. "I must
follow and save him," she exclaimed, and gliding across the room, she
opened a small secret door in the opposite wall; scarcely touching the
floor, she passed through the parlor, without taking any notice of her
parents, who were sitting on the divan, and asked her in surprise for
the cause of her hurry and agitation. She did not see that they were
following her; nor did she hear them call her. Onward, onward she went
through the room to the corridor, into the hall, and up the staircase.
She rushed to the upper floor, and rang the bell violently, when the
footman of Count Pückler opened the door, and stared surprised at the
young countess. She passed him impetuously, and ran down the corridor
leading into the sitting-room of her betrothed. But it was locked.
Uttering a cry of despair, she sank breathless on her knees, and laid
her burning forehead against the door.

The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Pückler's footman, now
approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending
over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you
weep?"

Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed,
in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"

"Who?" asked her father, aghast.

"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous
regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not
survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die!
As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up
to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish!
Help me to save him!"

"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he
in this room?"

"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without
saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."

The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it
violently. "Count Pückler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your
father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your
door, and ask to be admitted!"

"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of
your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy--to have compassion on me!
Oh, do not close your heart against me--oh, let me come in, my dear
friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement
inside. But every thing remained silent.

"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by
force," exclaimed the count.

"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at
least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert
her."

"My Frederick, I love you so tenderly--do not repel me!" wailed Camilla.

All was silent. "I must use force," said the count, concealing his
anguish under the guise of anger. "Hasten to a locksmith," he added,
turning to the footman; "he is to come here at once, and bring his tools
with him. Notify also the officers at the neighboring police-station."
The footman withdrew.

"My beloved," cried Camilla, wringing her hands, and her face bathed in
a flood of tears, "my Frederick, I love you better than my life! Your
wish shall be complied with. Open your door, and admit me. If I cannot
live I will die with you! Oh, do not remain silent--give me a sign that
you are still living--tell me at least that you forgive me--that--"

She paused, for a song suddenly resounded in the room; it was not a song
of sorrow, but of wrath and manly courage. The words were as follows:

    "Tod du süsser, für das Vaterland!
    Süsser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen
    Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,
    Sei mir willkommen!

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert,
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften,
    Von der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!"[30]

[Footnote 30: See p. 18.]

The voice died away. Camilla was on her knees, with clasped hands; her
parents stood behind her in devout silence. Suddenly noisy footsteps
drew near. At the entrance of the corridor appeared the footman with the
locksmith, who came with his tools to open the door. The old count made
a sign to him to stand aloof. He had heard a movement in the room, and
he hoped Camilla's lover would voluntarily admit them.

A pause ensued--then a terrible report was heard in the room. Camilla
uttered a loud shriek, and sank senseless to the floor.

An hour later, the locksmith succeeded in opening the door, which had
been strongly bolted inside. Count Pückler sat in the easy-chair in
front of his desk, immovable, with his face calm and uninjured, the
pistol still in his hand. He had aimed well. The bullet had pierced his
heart. On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of paper, containing the
following words:

"Last greeting to Ferdinand von Schill, who took an oath with me that we
would live and die as faithful sons of our country! Our country is
sinking ignominiously into the dust; I will not, cannot survive the
disgrace, and, therefore, I die. Farewell, you who took that oath with
me--farewell Schill and Staps! I hope you will be happier than myself! I
am the first of us three who dies because he despairs of his country.
Will you survive me long? May God give you strength to do so! Farewell
until we meet again!

"FREDERICK VON PÜCKLER."

On the following day the governor of Breslau commenced negotiations with
the enemy, and on the 7th of January, 1807, Breslau opened its gates to
the French troops, and the Prussian garrison laid down its arms.




CHAPTER XXII.

PEACE NEGOTIATIONS.


General von Zastrow, who had temporarily taken charge of the Prussian
department of foreign affairs, was pacing his room. His whole appearance
was indicative of care and anxiety. Whenever he passed the door leading
into the anteroom, he stood still and listened, and then, heaving a sigh
and muttering angry words, continued his walk. But at length it seemed
as if his expectations were to be fulfilled; he heard approaching steps.
The door opened, and the footman announced General von Köckeritz.

General von Zastrow quickly went to meet his visitor, and offered him
both his hands. "I thank your excellency from the bottom of my heart for
having yielded to my urgent supplications," he said, passionately, "and
at the same time I beg your pardon for having been so bold as to
request you to call upon me. But as you reside in the same house as
their majesties, and as the king comes to see you frequently and
unexpectedly, I believe we can converse here more freely and without
fear of being disturbed."

"You are right, my dear general," said Köckeritz; "it is better for us
to hold our little conferences at your house. My room, moreover, has
walls so thin that every word spoken there can be heard outside. Alas,
it is on the whole a miserable barrack in which the royal couple and
myself are obliged to stay here in Memel! Low, dark rooms--no elegance,
no accommodations, no comfort. Every thing is as narrow, gloomy, and
smoky as possible and then this fearfully cold weather! Yesterday,
during the heavy storm, an inch of snow lay on the window-sill in the
queen's room, and, I assure you, it did not melt! Nevertheless, her
majesty is perfectly calm and composed; she never complains, never
utters any dissatisfaction, but always tries to prove to the king that
she likes Memel very well, and that it is as beautiful a capital as
Berlin."

"Ah, my respected friend," said General von Zastrow, mournfully, "this
composure of the queen is very injurious to us. If she were more
melancholy--if she bewailed her misfortunes more bitterly--if she
manifested a more poignant sorrow, we should not be doomed to sit here
on the extreme frontier of Prussia, but might hope to make our triumphal
entry into Berlin, perhaps, in two weeks."

"Into Berlin?" asked General von Köckeritz, greatly surprised. "Why, you
are talking of a miracle which I am unable to comprehend."

"Oh, your excellency will understand it soon enough," replied General
von Zastrow, smiling, "if you will only be so kind as to listen to me a
little."

"I assure you, my friend, I am most anxious to hear your explanations; I
am burning with the desire to know how we are to bring it about to leave
this accursed, cold Memel and return to Berlin within so short a time."

"Well, what is the cause of our sojourn here?" asked General von
Zastrow. "What has driven us hither? What has deprived the king, our
august master, of his states, of his happiness--nay, almost of his
crown? What is the cause that our beautiful and amiable queen has to
undergo all sorts of privations and inconveniences, and is compelled to
reside, instead of in her palace at Berlin, in a miserable, leaky house
in Memel, where she is closer to the Bashkirs than to civilized people?
The war is the cause of all this!"

"Yes, if my advice had been followed, these calamities would never have
befallen us," replied General von Köckeritz, sighing; "we would have
remained on terms of friendship and peace with the great man whom Heaven
has sent to subjugate the world, and resistance against whom is almost
equivalent to blasphemy. He frequently and magnanimously offered us his
friendship, but at that time more attention was paid to the vain
boastings of the lieutenants of the guard; and the rhodomontades of
Prince Louis Ferdinand unfortunately found an echo in the heart of the
queen. The advice of older and more prudent officers was disregarded,
and the king, in spite of himself, was dragged into this war, which we
have had to expiate by the defeats of Jena and Auerstadt, and by the
loss of so many fortresses and provinces. And who knows what may be in
store for us yet? Who knows what mischief may yet threaten the crown and
life of Frederick William!"

"Well," said General von Zastrow, with a sarcastic smile, "it looks as
though the fortune of war were now turning in favor of the Russians.
Think of the great victories which the Russian General Benningsen has
already won. Did not twenty-four trumpeting postilions proclaim to us at
Königsberg, on new-year's-day, the Russian victory of Pultusk?"

"Yes, but those twenty-four postilions and that emphatic announcement
were the most brilliant parts of the victory," said General von
Köckeritz, shrugging his shoulders. "Benningsen was not defeated by
Napoleon at Pultusk, but honorably maintained his position on the
battle-field--that is what the whole amounted to."

"Yes, but we are celebrating again a great and brilliant triumph. On the
7th and 8th of February the Russian General Benningsen and our General
Lestocq claim to have obtained another advantage over Napoleon and his
marshals. I suppose you are aware that Benningsen himself has arrived
here in order to communicate the news of the victory of Eylau to the
royal couple?"

"Yes, I know," said Köckeritz. "But I know also what this new success
really amounts to. The Russians are very liberal in issuing victorious
bulletins, and if they have not been massacred in a battle to a man, the
last ten survivors shout invariably, 'Victory! We have won the battle!'
That of Eylau is even more problematic than that of Pultusk. Pray tell
me, who held the battle-field of Eylau?"

"Napoleon with his French, of course."

"And who retreated from Eylau toward Königsberg?"

"General Benningsen with his Russians."

"And these Russians, nevertheless, are audacious enough to claim a
victory!" exclaimed General von Köckeritz. "These fellows regard it such
when Napoleon, instead of pressing them on their retreat, remains where
he is, and gives them time to escape."

"They are in ecstasies, because they infer from this delay of Napoleon,
and from his unwonted inactivity, that he also stands in need of repose
and recreation," said General von Zastrow. "The severe winter, bad
quarters, hunger, and thirst, have greatly exhausted the strength of the
grand army, and the lion would like to rest a little. For this
reason--and now I come to the point concerning which I requested your
excellency to call on me--for this reason, the great Napoleon desires to
make peace. The conqueror of Jena himself offers it to the vanquished
King of Prussia."

"What? Do you really think that to be true?" asked General von
Köckeritz.

"I do not only think, but know it to be true," said Zastrow. "General
Bertrand arrived here an hour ago, and called on me with the request to
present him to the king, that he might deliver him an autograph letter
from the Emperor Napoleon. I told the general that I should return his
visit in half an hour, and then conduct him to his majesty. I wished to
profit by this half hour, my dear friend, to confer with you about this
matter."

"And did General Bertrand inform you that Napoleon would offer peace to
our king?"

"Yes, your excellency. He communicated to me the contents of the
imperial letter. The lion of Jena magnanimously offers once more to make
peace."

"We must strain every nerve to induce the king to accept these
overtures," exclaimed Köckeritz, quickly.

"Your excellency is the only man sufficiently powerful to induce the
king to come to such a decision," said Zastrow. "You must be so kind as
to prove to him that to continue the war with France is to bring about
the ruin of Prussia. If he does not accept the offer of Napoleon, he is
ruined, for the emperor would not forgive such obstinate hostility; and,
if Prussia will not live with him on terms of friendship, he will
annihilate her in order to be done with her."

"I shall not threaten the king by laying too much stress on the strength
of his enemy," said Köckeritz, "for that would wound the pride of his
majesty, and provoke his sense of honor to renewed resistance. But I
shall call his attention to the weakness and fickleness of Russia,
informing him that our friends, the Russians, are behaving in the most
shameful manner in those parts of Prussia which they are occupying, and
committing so many outrages that the inhabitants are praying on their
knees to God to grant victory to the French, so that they might deliver
them from the Russians. I shall tell him that the distress and the
extortions the Prussian farmers have to suffer at the hands of our
allies are perfectly incredible; that the peasants in the villages have
been stripped of every thing, to such an extent that they beg the
Cossacks, who have robbed them of their provisions, for their daily
bread; that many of them are dying of hunger, and that unburied corpses
have been found in the houses of several villages now occupied by our
troops. And, above all, I shall beseech his majesty to repose no
confidence in the Russian friendship! Whatever the czar may say about
his fidelity, he has not the power of carrying his point, and all his
resolutions will be frustrated by the resistance of his generals and of
his brother. The Grand-Duke Constantine and the larger and more powerful
part of the Russian nobility are anxious for peace; and Constantine,
whose views are shared by Benningsen, will leave no intrigues, no cabals
untried in order to gain the czar over to his opinion, and plunge him
into difficulties from which he will finally be able to extricate
himself only by making peace--a peace concluded at the expense of
Prussia. Russia and France will be reconciled over the corpse of
Prussia! Even now it is distinctly to be seen what we have to expect
from the czar's assistance. Our allies are doing nothing really to help
us, but whatever steps they are taking are exclusively for their own
safety. It is true, they advanced at first, but only in order to prevent
the French from approaching their frontier. Since that time, however, in
spite of the battle of Pultusk, the Russians have steadily retreated,
although the enemy did not compel them to do so. They accomplished thus
their own purpose, that is, to devastate a province of Prussia, and
protect themselves by this desert from a French invasion."

"It is true," said General von Zastrow, "our friends are ruining us by a
mere semblance of aid. If they really were honest and faithful allies,
would they not strain every nerve to preserve Dantzic to us? General
Benningsen did promise to succor the fortress and raise the siege, if
Dantzic held out only two months longer. But what is he doing to redeem
his promise? Absolutely nothing! We reproached him with his inactivity,
and he excused it by asserting that the army would first have to be
reënforced. He admits that the fall of that seaport would be a great
disaster, but refuses to do any thing decisive for its safety.
Therefore, if we do not give up the equivocal friendship of the
Russians--if we do not now make peace with France, Dantzic will be lost,
and Colberg and Graudenz will likewise fall, in spite of the efforts of
their heroic defenders, Schill and Colomb. Oh, I beg you induce the king
to accept the peace if the terms offered to him be not utterly
inadmissible. These Russians will never deliver us. Suppose even another
general than Benningsen, and better disposed than he, should advance
after his so-called victories in the same manner as Benningsen is
retreating now, he would restore to us no state, only a desert. The king
ought to believe us that they are utterly unwilling to render us
assistance, and that they only intend devastating our country in order
to protect themselves. Whatever the noble and generous Emperor Alexander
may order, it is certain that nothing will be done. Even though we
should protest and clamor against it in the most heart-rending manner,
we should be unable to bring about a change."

"But should we succeed in convincing the king," said General von
Köckeritz, "how are we to persuade the queen? Her heart, otherwise so
gentle and generous, is filled with hatred against Napoleon, and she
believes in the friendship of the Russian emperor."

"Will you take it upon yourself, your excellency, to persuade the king
to make peace with France?"

"I believe I shall be able to do it," said General von Köckeritz, after
a brief reflection.

"Well, for my part, I undertake to persuade the queen to acquiesce, at
least in silence, and not advocate so warmly the alliance with Russia."

"I should like to know by what charm you intend to accomplish such a
miracle."

"By a very simple one, your excellency. I shall cause my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, who is not merely lady of honor, but also reader
to the queen, to read to her majesty the last numbers of the _Berlin
Telegraph_, which I have just received. This seems like a riddle, but it
is not. That journal contains charges against the queen, which, it
appears to me, render it impossible for her to declare so loudly and
publicly in favor of a continued alliance with the Russian emperor. Her
majesty, therefore, must be informed of the contents of those articles;
she must know in what sense public opinion--or, if you prefer, the
wicked world--is interpreting her enthusiasm for the Russian alliance.
She must learn it this very hour, that, at this momentous crisis, she
may not try to stem the tide of events. We must tie her hands in order
to prevent her from destroying the work we are taking so much pains to
accomplish. While your excellency goes to the king in order to take his
heart by storm with your convincing eloquence, and I am afterward
conducting General Bertrand to his majesty (to whom he will present the
pacific overtures and the autograph letter from Napoleon), my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, will read to the queen the articles published in
the _Telegraph_, and if the king should really hesitate, and desire to
hear the opinion of his wife, she, in her just indignation, will
assuredly not advocate his cause for whose sake she has to bear the
slanders of the public press."

"Heaven grant that you may be a true prophet, general!" said Köckeritz,
heaving a sigh. "The queen, however, is so magnanimous that she might
even overlook her personal wrongs, and the slanders heaped on her, if
she thought the welfare of the country was at stake. I believe she
esteems the honor of Prussia even higher than her own, and in case she
should believe the former to be endangered, would be willing to
sacrifice herself."

"I believe your excellency is mistaken, so far as that is concerned,"
said General von Zastrow, smiling. "The wife of Frederick William, aside
from being a high-minded queen, is a woman who has the utmost regard for
her reputation and virtue, and who, for the sake of her husband and
children, would not suffer a breath of suspicion upon her honor. Well,
we shall see whether you are right or not. It is high time for us to go
to work. As you have promised me your assistance, I am quite hopeful,
and believe we shall succeed in restoring peace to poor tormented
Prussia. Go, then, your excellency, to perform your part; I will go to
the Countess von Truchsess, to bring her the newspapers, and then it
will be high time to conduct General Bertrand to the king. Well, Heaven
bless us all, and cause Prussia to make peace at last with the Corsican
lion!"




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SLANDEROUS ARTICLES.


Queen Louisa was in her cabinet, engaged in reading the letters and
journals brought by the courier, who had just arrived from Berlin. She
glanced hastily over the papers, and then turned to the letters that lay
unopened before her. On the other side of the small table, standing in
front of the divan, sat the young Countess von Truchsess, who was
occupied in arranging the journals. The queen meantime was reading her
letters; during the perusal her features lighted up more and more, and a
delicate blush mantled her pale cheeks.

Louisa had but just recovered from a severe and dangerous illness, which
had attacked her soon after her arrival at Königsberg. The suffering
which her courageous soul was enduring with so much constancy and
heroism had undermined her body; weaker than her mind, it had succumbed
to the burden of her grief. A nervous fever had confined her to her bed
for weeks; it had afforded her at least some consolation by rendering
her unconscious of misfortune, and causing her, in her delirious
moments, to live again through the joyful days of the past. While she
was dreaming and believing herself happy in the splendors of a former
life, real and fearful disasters had befallen her cause. She had not
learned that the French were approaching nearer to Königsberg, and that
the unfortunate royal family were no longer safe there. She had not been
conscious in her fever that she had been lifted from her couch into the
travelling-coach, to be conveyed to Memel--that her carriage had been
transformed into a sick-bed, and that she had lain on the cushions with
burning cheeks, singing sweet lullabies, and rejoicing in her fancied
happiness.

But at length her fever subsided, and consciousness returned. All the
mournful news which during her illness had been concealed from her,
overwhelmed her as soon as she recovered, and for this reason her health
had improved but very slowly. At this hour, as we have said, the blush
had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were beaming again with the
fire of former days. The letters gave a glimmer of hope to her soul.
They told her of the brave defenders of the fortresses that had not
surrendered, and of heroic Ferdinand von Schill, who, with his soldiers,
was doing so much injury to the enemy, and who had succeeded in
capturing one of the commanding generals of the besieging army, Marshal
Victor. They told her of Graudenz, the commander of which had sworn to
be buried under the ruins of that fortress rather than open its gates to
the enemy; they told her also of Dantzic, which was still courageously
holding out and hoping for the succor the Russians had promised. And
these letters contained still other hopeful news: that Berlin, which,
according to former statements, was said to have already submitted to
Napoleon, was bowing very reluctantly to the behests of the autocrat,
and still waiting for the hour of deliverance.

"Oh, I knew well enough," said the queen, laying aside the last of her
letters, "I knew well enough that the inhabitants of Berlin are
affectionately devoted to us. I never doubted their constancy, and how
should I? Those whom you meet with a heart full of love are compelled,
as it were, to return your love. The king and I always loved Berlin, and
always counted on its fealty. I am glad, therefore, to hear that our
hopes will be fulfilled one day! It is still a dark, stormy night, but
daylight will come--the rising sun will dispel the storm and scatter the
darkness. You shake your head, Countess Truchsess? You do not believe in
my prophecies?"

"I do not believe in the fidelity of the inhabitants of Berlin, your
majesty," sighed the countess, "they are a frivolous, fickle people, who
revile those to-day whom they admired but yesterday."

"Oh!" exclaimed the queen, sinking back upon the sofa, "the throbbing of
my heart tells me that you have to communicate bad news! What is it?"

"No, most gracious queen, command me rather to be silent," said the lady
of honor, imploringly. "Your majesty looks so pale that I am afraid any
excitement would injure your weak nerves. You need repose and ought not
to be irritated; besides, what does your majesty care for the slanders
of the populace? Such arrows recoil from the pure."

"Ah," said the queen, with a faint smile, "you are dealing with me as
did Robert the hunter with the count in Schiller's 'Walk to the Forge.'
You are stimulating my curiosity by mysterious words--you are talking
about slanders, and yet you do not tell me what they are."

"Only with the difference, your majesty, that Robert the hunter told
falsehoods, which he himself had invented, while I alluded only to those
of others, and despise them from the bottom of my heart."

"Then you mean to say that I have been slandered," exclaimed the queen,
in a low voice. "Tell me, countess, what did your friends write to you?
What stories have been disseminated? I desire to know!"

"Gracious queen, my friends did not write any thing on the subject. I
saw only what, unfortunately, thousands have already seen."

"What did you see?" said the queen, angrily. "What do you refer to? Do
not speak any longer in riddles, if you please."

"Your majesty, I have glanced at the pamphlets and journals lying there,
and request you not to insist to-day on my reading to you the articles
contained in them."

"Ah, that is it!" exclaimed Louisa, laying both her hands on the
periodicals which the countess seemingly wished to withhold from her.
"These contain the slanders. I must know what they are. Read them to me,
countess." And the queen folded her arms with a resolute air.

"Have mercy on me, your majesty! I am really afraid--my lips cannot
easily recite those vile lines, and your majesty, besides, will be angry
with me for complying."

"No, no," exclaimed the queen, impatiently, "I am not angry with you.
You only did your duty in calling my attention to these things, and
having taken upon yourself the task of being my reader, perform it now!
What pamphlets are those sent to us?"

"Your majesty," said the countess, in an embarrassed tone of voice,
"there is, first, a pamphlet entitled 'A True Account of the Interview
of the Emperor Alexander with the King of Prussia at the Grave of
Frederick the Great.'"

"Read it," replied the queen, dryly, "it is always good to listen to the
true account of events in which we have taken part." And without
uttering a word--without even a frown, she listened to the comments on
the scene at the grave of Frederick. They were malicious and scornful,
representing it as a farce.

"Well," said the queen, when the countess had finished, "if that is the
worst, I feel at ease again. We must submit to abuse, and I sincerely
pardon all those who expose me to the derision of the world by depicting
me as a martial Joan of Arc. It has not been permitted me to live
quietly in the shade of domestic happiness. A queen stands alone on a
summit; she is seen and watched by every one, and it is, therefore, but
natural that she should be hated and abused more relentlessly than other
women, particularly if she be unhappy. For sovereigns are never
pardoned, although they are subject to human failings, and their
misfortunes are always regarded as their own faults. Let the malicious,
therefore, deride us as much as they please; the good will only love and
respect us the more. Proceed, countess! What else did we receive?"

"Nothing, your majesty, but a few numbers of the _Telegraph_."

"Ah, read them," exclaimed the queen. "I know that journal will not
slander me. Its editor, Professor Lange, is a patriot, and, for this
reason, I had promised to lend him the portrait of the king which I am
wearing in a locket, that he might give his readers a good likeness of
their beloved monarch. The disastrous events of the war, and my
departure from Berlin, prevented me from fulfilling my promise. But
there will be better times for us, perhaps, and I shall then be able to
reward all those who remain faithful to us."

"And I hope your majesty will also be able to punish those who prove
treacherous," exclaimed the countess, vehemently.

The queen shook her head. "No," she said, "those who wrong me I will
pardon, and those who are faithless I will leave to their own
conscience. Now, countess, read to me the articles of the _Telegraph_."

"Does your majesty command me?"

"I do!"

The countess took one of the sheets and read in a tremulous voice: "'A
reliable account of the reasons why the queen compelled her husband, in
spite of his reluctance, to conclude an alliance with the Emperor of
Russia, and why she herself entered into a love-affair with Alexander of
Russia--'"

Louisa started, and a deathly pallor covered her face like a veil.

"Oh, my queen!" exclaimed the countess, imploringly, "do not insist on my
reading any further. I have not courage to do so."

"If I have courage enough to listen, you must have courage enough to
read," said the queen, almost harshly, "Read--I command you."

And the countess, in a low and tremulous voice, read the disgraceful
charge preferred by that journal, which accused the queen of loving the
Emperor Alexander in the most passionate manner. "Queen Louisa," said
the editor, "was in favor of the alliance with Russia, because her
heart had concluded an alliance with the handsome emperor, and she met
with her 'fine-looking' friend for the last time in the presence of her
husband at the grave of Frederick the Great. The alliance of their
hearts was sealed there by a glowing kiss, which Alexander imprinted on
the lips of Louisa."

The queen uttered a cry, and sprang up like an angry lioness. "That is
not true--that cannot be in the paper!" she cried, almost beside
herself.

The lady of honor silently handed her the paper. Louisa seized it, but
she trembled so violently that she was hardly able to decipher the
characters. She at last read the slanderous article herself.
Heart-rending groans escaped her, and a strange twitching and quivering
distorted her features. "It is indeed true, I have been wickedly
reviled!" she exclaimed, throwing the paper aside. "My enemies will rob
me of the only thing remaining--my honor--my good name. They desire to
expose me to the scorn of the world. Oh, this disgrace is more shocking
than all my other sufferings. It will kill me!" She covered her face
with her hands and wept piteously. The tears trickled between her
fingers, and fell on her black dress as if adorning it with diamonds.

The Countess von Truchsess was touched by the queen's grief. She softly
gathered up the other papers, and was about to leave the room, but the
noise of her footsteps aroused Louisa from the stupor of her despair.
She quickly dropped her hands from her face and dried her tears. "Stay
here," she said; "read the remainder. I want to hear it all." And as the
lady of honor remonstrated against this order--as she implored the queen
to spare herself, and to close her ears against such slanders, Louisa
said, gravely and imperiously: "I want to know it all! Unknown terrors
are even worse than those which we do know. Read!"

The countess, therefore, was obliged to read. The remaining numbers of
the journal repeated the same charge. They stated, though in different
words, that the queen alone was in favor of the alliance with Russia;
that the king would be quite willing to make peace with France, but that
his wife would never permit it, because she was passionately enamoured
of the emperor of Russia, and maintained a tender _liaison_ with him.
The queen listened as immovable and cold as a statue; her whole vitality
seemed suspended; she then pressed her right hand firmly against her
heart; with her left she clung convulsively to the back of the sofa, on
which she was sitting, as though she wished to prevent herself from
falling. Her eyes stared wildly, as if strange and fearful visions
passed before them. Thus she sat, long after the countess had paused,
an image of grief and horror. The lady of honor dared not interrupt her;
but clasping her hands, and weeping softly, she gazed at the queen, who,
in her grief-stricken beauty, seemed to her a martyr. Nothing was heard
but the monotonous ticking of the clock, and, at times, a low whistling
of the canary-bird, in its gilt cage at the window.

But suddenly Louisa seemed to awake from her stupor; a tremor pervaded
her whole frame; the flash of: life and consciousness returned to her
eyes. "That is his work," she muttered; "this attack comes from
him--from my mortal enemy. It is Napoleon who has aimed this poisoned
arrow at my heart, because he knew that nothing could hurt me and my
husband more fatally than this dreadful calumny." And uttering a loud
cry of despair, and wringing her hands, she exclaimed: "Oh, my God, what
did I do, to deserve so terrible a disgrace! What did my husband do that
he should be thus exposed to the relentless malice of his foe? Was not
the measure of our wretchedness full? Could not that cruel man, who
calls himself Emperor of the French, content himself with hurling us
into the dust, and with robbing my husband of his states? Is the honor
of his wife also to be sacrificed?"

A flood of tears burst from her eyes, and lifting up her arms to heaven,
she cried: "My God, why didst Thou desert me! Have mercy on me, and send
death to me, that I may conceal my reviled head in the grave! I am
accused of an ignominious, sinful love, although I love no one on earth
but my husband and my children! And a German pen was bought to write
that slander--German eyes did not shrink from reading it, and German men
and women permitted it to be repeated in this journal time and again!
They did not feel that they were disgraced and reviled in my
person--that all Germany was calumniated! For, in my grief as well as in
my love, I am the representative of Germany, and to insult me is to
insult all German wives and mothers. Woe to you, Napoleon, for stooping
to such an outrage! I pardon your attempts to rob me of my crown, but so
long as I breathe, I will not forgive your attacks upon my honor!"

She rose slowly and proudly, and lifted her arms and eyes as if to utter
a solemn imprecation. "Woe to you, Napoleon!" she cried, in a loud,
ringing voice, "woe to you that you did not respect the innocence of the
wife, and had no mercy on the honor of a mother! The tears which I am
shedding at this hour will one day fall like burning coals on your
heart, and for this torment I am now enduring I shall call you to
account above! You think you are master of the earth, and, like fate
itself, can dispose of empires; but you will be crushed at last--you
will one day feel that you are only a weak creature--only dust, like all
of us. You will yet sink down in your affliction, and cry for mercy. Let
me live to see that day, my God: then my tears will be avenged!"

She paused, her eyes still directed toward heaven, her whole appearance
breathing a sublime enthusiasm. She looked like a prophetess with her
beaming face and uplifted arms. But after a while her arms dropped, her
eyes turned to earth again, and the inspired prophetess was once more
transformed into the unhappy woman, who feared she would die beneath the
burden of her grief. She burst again into tears, and repeated again and
again that terrible accusation, although every word of it struck her
heart like a dagger. Gradually, however, the reviled woman, conscious of
her innocence, became the proud and pure queen! With quiet dignity she
stretched out her hand toward the countess, who rushed to her, pressed
her lips on the royal hand, and sobbing asked to be forgiven.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Louisa, with a faint smile. "I know
your intentions were good. Oh, believe me, during hours of great
affliction the soul sees and comprehends many things that were hitherto
concealed from it. Thus I understood in the outburst of my despair why
all this had occurred, and why I had to undergo all these sufferings.
Napoleon's poisoned arrow might have fallen powerless at my feet, if
your uncle had not instructed you to pick it up and make me feel it.
Hush! Do not utter a word of apology! Your uncle, General von Zastrow,
is a patriot in his way, and intended to teach me by your intervention
how to become a good patriot in his sense--that is to say, to hate
Russia, and to turn away from this alliance, for the sake of which I
have been insulted. It was policy that induced the Emperor Napoleon to
invent these calumnies, and it was policy again that induced your uncle
to have you communicate them to me. This is a consolation; for, as it
is, I am suffering only for the sake of my people, and you made me a
martyr of the German cause. But I will bear all without complaining,
however painful it may be; I do not wish it to cease if the welfare and
happiness of Prussia should be delayed thereby but a single hour. I
shall not ask the king to break off the alliance with Russia. Queen
Louisa yesterday believed an alliance with Russia to be necessary and
advantageous to the welfare and honor of Prussia; she will not change
her mind to-day because Louisa, the woman, is charged with a
dishonorable love for the Emperor of Russia. The woman may die of this
calumny, but dying she will still be a queen, and say, 'I die for my
country, and for my people! May my death be advantageous to Prussia!' Go
to your uncle, countess, and tell him so! And now give me the numbers
of the journal, and the pamphlet too; I will take them to the king. My
fate, as well as that of Prussia, is in his hands. He alone can absolve
me from the charge preferred against me. Give me the papers!"




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE JUSTIFICATION.


The king sat at his desk, assiduously engaged in writing, when the door
opened, and the queen entered. Her whole bearing breathed an unwonted,
solemn earnestness; her head was proudly erect, her cheeks pale, and a
melancholy smile was playing on her lips. In her left hand she held a
roll of papers. The king rose hastily to meet his wife with a kindly
greeting. Louisa gave him her right hand, and laid her head for a moment
on his shoulder. Looking into her husband's face with a sweet, touching
expression, "Do you love me, Frederick?" she asked in so low and gentle
a voice that he scarcely heard it. Frederick William smiled, and,
instead of replying to her, imprinted a kiss on her fair brow.

"Do you believe in me?" said Louisa. "Oh, my lord and king, I implore
you by every thing that is sacred--by the memory of our children--tell
me, sincerely and frankly, as if standing before God, do you believe in
me? Do you believe in my love--in my virtue?"

"Louisa," exclaimed the king, indignantly and almost aghast, "this
question is too grave to be a jest, and too ludicrous to be grave."

"And yet I am in earnest," exclaimed the queen, in an outburst of
excitement, which she was no longer able to restrain. "Look at these
papers, Frederick. They contain a terrible charge against your wife--the
mother of your children--the queen of our people. They accuse the wife
of a disgraceful _liaison_, and the queen of the most infamous
selfishness. Frederick, they charge me with loving the Emperor
Alexander, and with having induced you, for the purpose of gratifying
this passion, to enter into the alliance with Russia. Now, you know the
disgrace weighing me down, of which all Germany is aware by this time,
and in which the malicious and evil-disposed will surely believe, even
though the virtuous and compassionate may refuse to credit it. Read
these papers, my husband; read them in my presence, and if your
features express but a shadow of doubt--if you fix your eyes but for a
moment on me with an uncertain expression--let me die, and hide my head
in the grave!"

She offered the papers to the king, but Frederick William only glanced
at them, and then laying them on the table, took from one of its drawers
other papers. "See, Louisa," he said in his blunt, dry manner, "these
are the same numbers of the _Telegraph_; I have already had them for a
week, and read every word of them."

The queen unfolded them. "It is true," she said, shuddering; "they are
the same papers; I read there again the terrible words, 'Queen Louisa
insists on continuing the alliance with Russia, only because her heart
has formed an alliance with the fine-looking Emperor Alexander, and
because she is passionately enamoured of him.' Oh, my husband, these
words have engraved themselves as a stigma on my forehead, and should
your eyes behold it also, let me expunge it by sacrificing my life. Tell
me the truth, Frederick! Have I deserved it--have I ever sinned by a
word--nay, by a look? I have often thought and said, that there is a
vestige of truth at the bottom of every rumor--that it may be greatly
exaggerated, but cannot be entirely false. Is there any foundation
whatever for this slander? Consider well, my husband, and if you should
find that I have sinned by a gesture, by a smile, banish me from your
presence. Tell me that I am unworthy of being called your wife; tear the
bonds of friendship that unite you with the Emperor Alexander, and
oppose him as an enemy, menacing and demanding satisfaction. There must
be no stain on your honor, and if you believe the statements of these
papers, show to the world that you will punish the faithless wife and
spurn the treacherous friend!"

The king put his hands on the glowing cheeks of his wife, and, raising
her head, gazed at her with a long and tender look. "Your friends had no
mercy on you, then?" he asked. "They had to inform you pitilessly of
what I wished so anxiously to conceal from you? I would willingly have
cut off my right hand if I could have expunged with the blood trickling
from the wound those lies from the public mind. But the world has now as
little mercy on us as fate. Affliction has hitherto surrounded your
beauty with the glory of a martyr; but mean men have been instigated to
make you a penitent sinner--a Magdalen of the martyr."

"My beloved Frederick," cried the queen, "you evade my question; you do
not reply to me! Tell me the truth. Do you believe in me? Or do you deem
me guilty?"

At this moment a low rap at the door interrupted them. The king
listened, and then turned smilingly to his wife. "It is Minister von
Zastrow, who comes with General Bertrand," he said. "I have granted an
audience to the Frenchman at this hour, to receive the letter and the
peace offers of Napoleon. He is proposing to me an alliance with France,
and he, as well as his adherents here, I suppose, count on my having
read those papers, knowing in what sense malicious men are interpreting
our alliance with Russia. The reply that I shall make to Napoleon's
envoy will be also a reply to your question; hence you shall hear it,
Louisa. Enter my cabinet; the _portière_ will conceal you from the eyes
of my visitors while you will hear every thing that is said." He took
the queen's arm and conducted her quickly into the adjoining room;
hastily rolled an easy-chair toward the door, and requested her by a
wave of his hand to sit down on it. He then lowered the thick velvet
_portière_, and, taking leave of his wife with a smile, returned to his
room.

Louisa gazed after him. "Oh," she whispered, "how could I deceive and
betray him?--him whom I love as the cause of all my happiness, and who
has rendered my life sacred and glorious! Oh, my husband and my
children! my conscience is clear, and accuses me of no guilt! Will you
believe it, Frederick? Will those infamous slanders not leave a vestige
of mistrust in your mind? But hush, hush! the envoy is there already! I
will listen to what the king replies to him." She bent her head closer,
and her large blue eyes with their searching glances seemed to pierce
the heavy velvet, so that she might not only hear but see what was going
on in the room.

In obedience to a sign made by the king, the door of the anteroom had
opened, and General Bertrand, accompanied by General von Zastrow,
entered. The king, standing in the middle of the room, returned the
deep, respectful obeisances of the two gentlemen by a careless nod, and
fixed his quiet eyes searchingly on the French general.

"Sire," said General von Zastrow, in a loud and solemn voice, "General
Bertrand, adjutant of his majesty the Emperor Napoleon, in accordance
with the gracious leave of your majesty, has appeared here in order to
deliver to you an autograph letter from his imperial master."

"I am glad to see General Bertrand, and to make his acquaintance," said
Frederick William, composedly; "I like the brave; and not merely the
French army, but all men, know you to be a brave officer."

General Bertrand blushed. "Ah, sire," he said, "if I have not deserved
this praise hitherto, your royal and kindly words will stimulate me in
the future to strive with unflagging zeal to become worthy of it. I deem
myself happy because my august master the emperor selected me to be the
bearer of his letter and of his proposition, for he thereby enables me
to do homage to the noblest and best of kings--to the exalted sovereign
who bears prosperity and adversity with equal dignity. Your majesty will
permit me to deliver the letter of my emperor into your hands." He
approached the king, and, presenting to him the large letter to which
the imperial seal had been affixed, reverentially bent his knee.

"Oh, no," said Frederick William, quickly, "a brave soldier must not
humble himself in this manner; rise, general!"

General Bertrand rose, holding the imperial letter still in his hands,
for the king had not yet taken it. Looking at him inquiringly, "Sire,"
he said, "may I request your majesty to receive the letter of my
emperor?"

"Ah, I forgot," exclaimed the king. "You are the bearer of a letter the
Emperor Napoleon has addressed to me. Let me confess my want of skill: I
am unable to read your emperor's handwriting very rapidly, and it is
disagreeable slowly to decipher such a letter. Moreover, what the
emperor has to say to me will, doubtless, sound better when uttered by
your lips, than in the black words on the paper. I, therefore, request
you to read it to me."

"Sire," exclaimed General Bertrand, "I shall not dare to break the seal
of a letter addressed to your majesty, and not to me."

"Oh, you may do so," said the king, "I permit you to break the seal.
What the Emperor Napoleon and I have to write to each other need not be
sealed. Everybody may know it. And, I suppose his letters will be only a
sort of continuation of the bulletins he issued in Potsdam and Berlin.
Such bulletins and letters belong to the world and history, which will
judge them."

"Oh," whispered the queen, who had heard every word, "oh, why cannot I
see him in his proud calmness and dignity, and thank him for his noble
words!" She seized the _portière_ with her slender fingers and pushed it
aside a little, so as to be able to see what was going on in the other
room. The king, perhaps, had noticed the slight rustling, for he;
glanced quickly at the curtain; it opened immediately, the noble and
beautiful face of the queen appeared; she nodded with radiant eyes a
smiling greeting to her husband, and kissed her hand to him; her head
then disappeared from the aperture, and the folds of dark velvet closed
again. General Bertrand and General von Zastrow had seen nothing. Both
stood with their backs toward the door, and respect prevented them from
looking around toward the slight noise that reached their ears for a
moment.

A smile illuminated the king's face. "Well," he asked, almost jestingly,
turning to General Bertrand, "you have not broken the seal yet? Do so,
for you ought to understand that I am anxious to hear the contents of
this letter."

"Sire, inasmuch as you command me, I obey," said Bertrand. With a quick
pressure of his hand he broke the seal and opened the letter.

"Now let me hear it," said the king, gliding slowly and carelessly into
the easy-chair standing at the side of the desk. "There are two chairs;
take seats, gentlemen!"

"Your majesty will permit me to stand. My master the emperor is not
accustomed to have his letters read in another position."

"Yes, he may require his subjects to pay to him the deference of
standing when one of his letters is being read," said the king. "You may
stand, therefore, if you please. General von Zastrow, sit down." The
king said this in so stern and imperious a tone that General von Zastrow
felt resistance impossible, and that he would have to obey the king's
order. He took a chair in silence, inwardly aghast at this disrespectful
breach of etiquette.

"Read," said the king, dryly. General Bertrand unfolded the letter and
read as follows:

"Your majesty will receive this letter at the hands of my
Adjutant-General Bertrand, who enjoys my friendship. I, therefore,
request you to repose entire confidence in every thing that he says, and
I flatter myself that his mission will be agreeable to you.

"Bertrand will communicate to your majesty my views about the present
state of your affairs. I desire to set bounds to the misfortunes of your
family, and to organize, as soon as possible, the Prussian monarchy,
whose mediating power is necessary for the tranquillity of Europe.

"Bertrand will also communicate to you the easiest and quickest way in
which this can be brought about, and I hope your majesty will let me
know that you have taken the step which will accomplish this purpose in
the best manner, and which, at the same time, will agree with the
welfare of your subjects; that is to say, that you accept the peace
which I am offering to you. At all events, I beg your majesty to feel
convinced that I am sincerely disposed to resume our former relations,
and that I also wish to come to an understanding with Russia and
England, provided these powers should be animated with the same desire.
I should detest myself if I were to be the cause of so much bloodshed.
But how can I help it? The conclusion of peace is therefore in the hands
of your majesty, and it would be the happiest day of my life if you
accept my present propositions.

"NAPOLEON."

"You have to make oral explanations to this letter of your emperor?"
asked the king, when Bertrand paused.

"Yes, sire, my master the emperor intrusted me with further
communications to you," said Bertrand. "But, in the first place, I beg
leave of your majesty to deliver the imperial letter into your hands."
He approached the king and presented the paper to him with a respectful
bow.

The king did not take it, but pointed to his desk. "Lay it there," he
said, carelessly. "The purpose of this letter is accomplished; I know
its contents, and that is all I care about. And now, general,
communicate to me as briefly as possible the verbal commissions with
which the emperor has intrusted you."

"Sire, his majesty the emperor authorized me to repeat to you that it
was his liveliest wish to resume his former amicable relations with
Prussia, and that he would shrink from no sacrifice to effect it. The
emperor longs for nothing more ardently than to restore your states to
your majesty, and to conduct you back to your capital."

"As his vassal?" asked the king, smiling sarcastically.

"No, sire, as a free and independent king."

"Not as Napoleon's ally, then?"

"Yes, sire, as the emperor's ally, but as free and independent as he is
himself. It is true, the emperor hopes and wishes that Prussia will be
friendly toward France; he relies on your majesty's assistance in his
struggle with Russia, which, in that case, will soon bow to the united
will of France and Prussia, and be compelled to accept a treaty of
peace. In return, the emperor will surrender to the just wishes of your
majesty seditious Poland, which, as the emperor has become satisfied,
is unable to bear an independent existence. The rebellious provinces of
Prussian Poland shall speedily be compelled to yield unconditional
obedience to the Prussian sceptre, and your country shall occupy once
more the position due to her in the council of European nations. It will
be unnecessary for her to make for this purpose any sacrifices to the
friends and allies of France; all her fortresses and provinces shall be
fully restored, and so soon as the treaty of peace will have been
definitively concluded, the French troops will evacuate the Prussian
territory."

While General Bertrand was speaking, the face of Minister von Zastrow
had brightened, and was now really radiant with joy. Animated by the
cheering words of the Frenchman, he rose from his seat, and looked at
the king with clasped hands and imploring eyes. But the countenance of
Frederick William remained impenetrable and cold; not the slightest
expression of joy or gratification was to be read in it.

"Are you done, general?" asked the king, after a pause.

"Yes, sire. I am waiting for your majesty's reply."

"This reply will be brief and decisive," exclaimed Frederick William,
loudly, rising slowly and with truly royal dignity. "I will not accept
this alliance and this peace!"

"Your majesty," said General von Zastrow, in dismay, forgetful of the
requirements of etiquette, "your majesty, that is impossible! You cannot
be in earnest; I beseech you first to hear the opinion of your
ministers, and to consult a cabinet council."

"Silence!" said the king, indignantly; "the only voices that I ought to
consult with regard to this question are not those of my ministers, but
those of my conscience and honor. It behooves the king alone to decide
upon war or peace. I repeat, therefore, I will not accept this peace nor
enter into the alliance offered under such circumstances. I might
content myself with this declaration, but I shall tell you the reasons
of my refusal that you may repeat them to your emperor. I cannot accept,
for it would be a defeat and disgrace more humiliating than the loss of
a battle. What, sir! I am to receive by the grace and _bon plaisir_ of
your emperor the gift of a position to which I am entitled by my birth!
The Emperor Napoleon condescends to restore my states after forcibly
expelling me from them! If I were to accept this offer, I should thereby
condemn myself; and this war, into which I entered so reluctantly,
because I foresaw its disastrous consequences, would be nothing but a
reckless adventure, abandoned by myself because unsuccessful. If I
allowed Napoleon to reinstate me in my rights, what would I be but his
vassal? Not a king by the grace of God, but a king by the grace of
Napoleon--not the ruler of a free and independent German state, but the
governor of a French province--the despised oppressor of an enslaved
people, robbed of their honor, independence, and nationality. Now, I
commenced this war for the sake of my own honor and that of my people. I
commenced it to set bounds to French cupidity and thirst for conquest;
to preserve to Germany her German and to Prussia her Prussian character,
and to drive back the Confederation of the Rhine beyond the frontier of
the Rhine. The fortune of war has not sustained me in these efforts, and
victory perched upon the eagles of France. But the Prussian eagle is not
yet dead; he may still hope to rise again, and, endowed with renewed
vigor, reconquer what belongs to him. What was taken by the sword can be
reconquered only by the sword. My honor, as well as that of my army and
people, was wounded on the battle-fields of Jena and Auerstadt; it
cannot be healed by the balm of Napoleon's grace; it can only be
redeemed by blood!"

"Sire, I beseech you, do not allow yourself to be carried away by the
ardor of your heroism," exclaimed General Bertrand, feelingly. "Remember
that after the rejection of this peace the Emperor Napoleon will be a
relentless enemy of yours, and leave nothing undone in order to
annihilate Prussia. Your majesty ought also to take into consideration
that you lack an army--that your forces have been dispersed, and that
your fortresses have surrendered."

"Colberg and Graudenz are still holding out," exclaimed the king, "and
so is Dantzic."

"Sire, if you reject this peace, the first step of the emperor will be
to take Dantzic by assault," said General Bertrand.

"Your majesty, have mercy on Dantzic," exclaimed General von Zastrow,
imploringly; "have mercy on your blockaded fortresses--on your poor
distressed subjects! So soon as your majesty accepts this peace, the
Emperor Napoleon intends withdrawing all the French troops from Prussian
territory. Oh, pray take into consideration how dreadfully your people
have suffered by the heavy contributions, and the enormous supplies to
the troops! Remember that they are overwhelmed with wretchedness, and
are kneeling and crying to God and to their king to restore peace."

"O my God," murmured the queen, "inspire him with the true decision,
and grant that he may perceive and choose what is right!" She knelt down
behind the curtain as if to hear better the king's words, that to her
were the words of God. The king did not seem to notice his minister's
supplication; his eyes glanced at him coldly and disdainfully, and were
then fixed gravely on the face of the French general.

"I am not quite done with my reply to your propositions," he said. "I
have told you the reasons why I cannot accept peace. It only remains to
explain why, though the terms were honorable, I could and would not be
allowed to enter into this alliance. By virtue of it I should be obliged
to espouse the cause of France against her enemies, and to wage war
against Russia, my ally. I am to violate the only sure compact remaining
to me in order to become a mere cipher in the hands of Napoleon! I am to
betray him who has been faithful to me! The Emperor of Russia is my
personal friend. At the grave of Frederick the Great I swore with him to
maintain the alliance of both our hearts and our states, and no other
voice induced me to take this step but my inclination, my policy, and my
reason. The Emperor of Russia, true to our mutual oath, renewed his
protestations of friendship in the hour of danger, and his army is ready
to uphold our common cause. If, now that France is offering peace to me
at the expense of Russia, I were to accept it, I should commit a
perfidious act, and, as a Prussian soldier, as a friend of the Emperor
Alexander, I must decidedly reject any idea of such a desertion. A
German keeps his word, and does not trifle with treaties he has sworn
to. German fealty has not yet become an empty sound, and France will be
obliged to admit that she is struggling with an adversary who does not
sell his honor for provinces or for money. Now you know all I had to
communicate. Tell Napoleon that intrigues and slanders cannot separate
me from my alliance with the Emperor of Russia any more than adulation
and advantageous offers. My resolution will remain as firm as a rock.
And now, good-by, general!"

He waved his hand to Bertrand, and received with proud calmness the
respectful bows with which the French general withdrew.

No sooner had the door closed than the queen appeared. Her eyes filled
with tears, and stretching out her arms toward her husband, seemed a
picture of beauty, grace, and love. The king hastened to her and pressed
her firmly against his heart. "Are you satisfied with my answer,
Louisa?" he asked. "Do you know now what I think of those wretched
calumnies?"

The queen bent and kissed his hand. "I thank you, my beloved husband,"
she whispered tenderly. "Wise and kind as you always are, you knew how
to comfort my heart, and by your heroic words to fill my soul with
enthusiasm and delight. My husband and king, you have restored my honor.
I care no longer for the abuse of the world, but shall always think of
this sacred hour, for my king believes in me, and my husband still loves
his Louisa; he knows that the mother of his children is innocent, and
may freely raise her eyes to heaven."

"I know more than that," said the king, laying his hand on his wife's
head, as if blessing her; "I know that in these times of adversity you
are the only hope left me; I know that I derive courage and consolation
from you, and that in my misfortunes I still deem myself fortunate,
because you are by my side--the angel of my life!"

"Ah, Frederick," exclaimed the queen, bursting into tears, "Frederick,
how rich and happy you make me! Am I not an enviable wife, possessed as
I am of such a husband!" In passionate tenderness, she threw her arms
about him, and in loving embrace rested long on his breast.

Some one rapped repeatedly and discreetly at the door. Louisa, blushing,
raised her head and dropped her arms. The king ordered the person to
walk in. It was General von Zastrow who entered, pale and gloomy.
Frederick William smilingly beckoned him to approach.

"You are dissatisfied with me, Zastrow?" he said, in a pleasant tone;
"you believe it would be better to make peace?"

"Your majesty, I am afraid you have rejected an advantageous alliance,
and will, perhaps, be compelled soon to accept by far more rigorous
terms."

"You do not know, then, that large Russian forces are advancing, and
that the Emperor Alexander himself probably leads his troops against the
enemy?"

"Pardon me, sire, but I do not believe in the friendship of Russia. Your
majesty uttered words so generous to-day, that my eyes filled with tears
of admiration, and I felt proud as a man and subject, although my heart
as a general and minister was overwhelmed with sorrow. May Russia
deserve your fidelity! may she not disappoint your hopes, and commit as,
you said, a perfidious act, by entering into an alliance with France at
the expense of Prussia! But may your majesty, above all, get an army
courageous and strong enough to brave all your enemies, and restore the
greatness of Prussia!"

"You do not believe, then, in this army?" asked the king, gloomily.

"Your majesty, in order to organize an army, money--a great deal of
money--is indispensable."

"And you mean to say we have none?"

"Your majesty, not only your privy purse is entirely exhausted, but
there is also no money in the state and district treasuries. Gold and
silver seem to have wholly disappeared; stocks and commercial paper are
depreciating every day, and the bankruptcy of the state will be
inevitable!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, indignantly, "do not utter such a word! Never
shall I permit such distress to be inflicted upon my poor subjects!"

He commenced rapidly pacing the room; suddenly, however, he stood still
in front of the queen, who had softly withdrawn into a window-niche,
where she had watched every movement of the king. "Louisa, will your
repasts be as agreeable to you on porcelain plates as on gold and
silver?"

The queen smiled. "The little Princess of Mecklenburg was accustomed to
take her meals off porcelain," she said, "and I honestly confess that
the Queen of Prussia at times envied her her plain white plates."

The king, turning again to his minister, said: "We are not yet so poor
as you seem to believe; our large golden dinner-set, the heirloom of our
ancestors, was safely removed from Berlin, and is now here at Memel. It
embraces pieces of the highest value, for which millions have been paid.
May my ancestors pardon my giving away what they collected! I am not
doing so in a reckless and extravagant manner, but with profound sorrow
and with a mournful heart. But it cannot be helped! General von Zastrow,
I shall issue the necessary orders to have my large golden dinner-set
either sold or pawned. We shall receive at least a million dollars for
it."

"And the privy purse of your majesty stands greatly in need of this
million," said General von Zastrow, drawing a sigh.

The king shrugged his shoulders. "Not a dollar of it shall be paid into
my privy purse," he said. "The money shall be distributed among the
public treasuries, that the lack of funds may be temporarily relieved,
and that my poor suffering subjects need not fear that the state become
bankrupt."

"But if your majesty should carry out this generous resolution,"
exclaimed the general, "you may soon be in danger yourself of
privations."

The king cast a long, inquiring glance on his wife. Louisa smiled and
nodded kindly to him. "If questions of economy and family matters are to
be considered," she said, "a woman may be permitted to say a word in the
council of men, and to give her opinion as a housewife. I think we are
tolerating a great many superfluous and very expensive things in our
private household, and, if my husband does not object, I should like to
ask for a few changes."

"I shall never dare to contradict you," said Frederick, kindly. "Let me,
therefore, know the changes you wish to make."

"In the first place, I think that we have too many servants, considering
our present circumstances, and the small house in which we are living.
As we do not give dinners, the people attached to the kitchen may be
greatly diminished; most of the cooks, as well as the legion of footmen,
may be discharged. It is necessary, too, to reduce the number of
carriages, and to sell most of the horses standing uselessly in the
stable. A plain vehicle, drawn by two good horses, is sufficient for my
children, and whenever I want a ride, I believe my husband will lend me
his yellow travelling-coach."

"Provided you allow me a seat at your side," said the king, smiling.
"Are there any other suggestions you deem necessary?

"I wish the servants surrounding us to appear in a plain dress, and the
expensive liveries, covered with gold and silver lace, to disappear. A
plain black cloth coat, trimmed with white, is sufficient. It is not,
however, to signify that we are in mourning, but only to represent the
Prussian colors, and on looking at them I shall always feel proud and
happy, while now, on beholding the liveries covered with gold and
silver, I cannot suppress my shame, for I think of the distress of our
subjects, and of the misery of our country. Let us begin, therefore, a
plain, unpretending existence, my husband; let us set an example of
simplicity to our people, and show them that one may be contented,
though deprived of the splendors of wealth and position."

The king took her hand and pressed it against his lips. "I consent to
all your wishes, Louisa," he said; "I will issue to-day the necessary
orders to the steward.--You see, general, our privy purse will not lack
money, for we shall realize a handsome sum by the sale of our horses,
carriages, and the gold and silver lace of the liveries. Moreover, the
war will not last forever, and we may, perhaps, look soon for a final
decision."

"Your majesty, war, then, is absolutely unavoidable?"

"You still ask this question? Yes, the war will be continued. I will
hear nothing further about peace."

"In that case," said General von Zastrow, trembling, "I must humbly
request your majesty to accept my resignation; the continuation of the
war, and the rejection of the peace offered to Prussia, are so contrary
to my conviction, that my conscience does not permit me to assist in
carrying out your plans."

"The first duty of every faithful servant is to comply with his master's
orders," said the king, sternly. "I cannot accept your resignation, for
I know that you are an honest servant, and that only your momentary
anger has misled you. I give you, therefore, time to collect your
thoughts and regain your temper. Work and activity are the best remedies
for that purpose, and possibly there may soon be a favorable turn in our
affairs, proving to you that you were wrong, and causing you to change
your mind. Until further orders, therefore, you will remain my minister
of war, but I shall give you an assistant. I shall appoint Hardenberg
minister without portfolio, and give him a seat and vote in the new
ministerial council which I am about to organize."

General von Zastrow started, and his face became paler. "Your majesty,"
he faltered in a low voice, "I--"

"The matter is settled," said the king, calmly. "I do not wish to hear
further objection, general. We shall hold a meeting of the ministerial
council to-morrow, and Hardenberg must be present. Good-by!"

General von Zastrow dared not contradict; he bowed in silence to the
royal couple and tottered to the door.

When he had retired, the queen, turning to her husband, exclaimed, "You
touched his sorest spot. He hates Hardenberg, and it will greatly
torment him to have him at his side."

"He deserved some punishment," said the king, gravely. "For it was
certainly owing to him that