Oh! and life is so beautiful; the air is so fresh and balmy; the heavens of so clear and transparent a blue; and he must leave it all, and descend into the dark and lonely grave.

The king brushed a tear from his eye, and turning his gaze from heaven and God's beautiful earth, looked upon the horses which a servant was leading to and fro in the court. As he did this, his countenance brightened, he forgot for the moment that death was near at hand, and looked with eager attention to see which of the horses the gentlemen would choose. When he saw the selection the Prince of Dessau had made, he smiled, with the pitying look of a connoisseur.

"That is a bad horse, my dear prince," he exclaimed; "take the other one, I will vouch for him."

After the prince had chosen the horse shown him by the king, and Baron Hacke the other, he ordered the most magnificent and costly saddles to be placed on them; and while this was being done, he looked on with eager interest. Behind him stood the minister Rodewills, and the secretary of state, whom the king had summoned to his presence to receive his resignation, by which he transferred the kingly authority to his son the prince royal. Behind him stood Frederick and the queen, the generals and the priests. The king was unconscious of their presence; he had forgotten that he was dying; he thought only of his horses, and a dark cloud settled on his face as the groom buckled a saddle covered with blue velvet over the yellow silk housing of Prince Anhalt's horse.

"Oh, if I were only well, how I would beat that stupid boy!" exclaimed the king, in a loud, menacing voice. "Hacke, have the kindness to beat him for me."

The horses pointed their ears and neighed loudly, and the servants trembled at the voice of their master, who was speaking to them as angrily as ever, but in a deep, sepulchral voice.

But his anger was of short duration, and he sank back into his chair, breathing heavily and brokenly. He had not the strength to sign his resignation, and demanded to be taken from his chair and placed upon the bed.

There he lay motionless, with half-closed eyes, groaning and sighing. A fearful stillness reigned in the chamber of death. All held their breath; all wished to hear the last death-sigh of the king; all wished to witness the mysterious and inscrutable moment when the soul, freeing itself from its earthly tenement, should ascend to the spring of light and life as an invisible but indestructible atom of divinity. Pale and trembling the prince leaned over his father; the kneeling queen prayed in a low voice. With earnest and sorrowful faces the generals and cavaliers, physicians and priests, looked at this pale and ghost-like being, who but a few moments before was a king, and was now a clod of the valley. But no, Frederick William was not yet dead; the breath that had ceased returned to his breast. He opened his eyes once more, and they were again full of intelligence. He ordered a glass to be given him, and looked at himself long and attentively.

"I don't look as badly as I thought," said he, with the last fluttering emotion of human vanity. "Feel my pulse, doctor, and tell me how long I have still to live."

"Your majesty insists on knowing?"

"I command you to tell me."

"Well, then, your majesty is about to die," said Ellert, solemnly.

"How do you know it?" he asked, composedly.

"By your wavering pulse, sire."

The king held his arm aloft, and moved his hand to and fro.

"Oh, no," said he, "if my pulse were failing I could not move my hand; if—"

Suddenly he ceased speaking, and uttered a loud cry, his uplifted arm sinking heavily to his side.

"Jesus, Jesus!" murmured the king, "I live and die in Thee. Thou art my trust."

The last fearful prayer died on his lips, the spirit had flown, and Frederick was no longer a living, thinking being, but senseless, powerless clay.

The prince royal conducted the weeping queen from the apartment. The courtiers remained, but their features were no longer sad and sympathetic, but grave and thoughtful. The tragedy here was at an end, and all were anxious to see the drama from which the curtain was now to be drawn in the apartments of the prince royal. Frederick William had breathed his last, and was becoming cold and stiff; he was only a corpse, with which one had nothing more to do.

In unseemly haste they all crowded through the widely-opened folding doors of the death-chamber, and hastened into the ante-room that led to the young king's apartments.

Who will be favored, who receive the first rays of the rising sun? They all see a sunny future before them. A new period begins, a period of splendor, abundance, and joy; the king is young, and fond of display and gay festivities; he is no soldier king, but a cavalier, a writer, and a learned man. Art and science will bloom, gallantry and fashion reign; the corporal's baton is broken, the flute begins her soft, melodious reign.

Thus thought all these waiting courtiers who were assembled in the young king's ante-chamber. Thus thought the grand chamberlain Pollnitz, who stood next to the door that led to the chamber within. Yes, a new period must commence for him; his would be a brilliant future, for the prince royal had always been loving and gracious to him, and the young king must remember that it was Pollnitz who induced Frederick William to pay the prince's debts. The king must remember this, and, for the services he had rendered, raise him to honor and dignity; he must be the favorite, the envied, feared, and powerful favorite, before whom all should bend the knee as to the king himself. The king was young, inexperienced, and easily led; he had a warm heart, a rich imagination, and an ardent love of pleasure and splendor. These qualities must be cultivated in the young king; by these reins he would control him; and while intoxicated with pleasure and delight, he lay on his sweet-scented couch, strengthening himself for new follies, Pollnitz would reign in his stead, and be the real king.

These were no chimeras, no vain dreams, but a well-considered plan, in which Pollnitz had a powerful abettor in the person of Fredersdorf, chamberlain of the young king, who had promised that he should be the first that the king should call for.

For this reason Pollnitz stood nearest the door; for this reason he so proudly regarded the courtiers who were breathlessly awaiting the opening of that door.

There, the door opens, and Fredersdorf appears.

"Baron Pollnitz!"

"Here I am," exclaimed Pollnitz, casting a triumphant look at his companions, and following Fredersdorf into the royal presence.

"Well, have I not kept my promise?" said Fredersdorf, as they passed through the first room.

"You have kept yours, and I will keep mine; we will reign together."

"Step in, the king is there," said Fredersdorf.

The young king stood at the window, his forehead resting on the sash, sighing and breathing heavily, as if oppressed. As he turned, Pollnitz noticed that his eyes were red with weeping, and the courtier's heart misgave him.

A young king, just come into power, and not intoxicated by his brilliant fortune, but weeping for his father's death! It augured ill for the courtier's plans.

"All hail and blessing to your majesty!" exclaimed Pollnitz, bowing with apparent enthusiasm to kiss the king's robe.

The king stepped aside, motioned him off, and said, with a slight smile, "Leave these ceremonies until the coronation. I need you now for other things. You shall be master of etiquette and ceremonies at my court, and you will commence your duties by making the necessary arrangements for my father's funeral. Unhappily, I must begin my reign by disobeying my father's commands. I cannot allow this simple and modest funeral to take place. The world would not understand it, and would accuse me of irreverence. No, he must be interred with all the honors due to a king. That is my desire; see that it is accomplished."

The grand chamberlain was dismissed, and passed out of the royal chambers lost in contemplation of his coming greatness, when, suddenly hearing his name, he turned and perceived the king at the door.

"One thing more, Pollnitz," said the king, his eye resting with a piercing expression on the smiling countenance of the courtier; "one thing more—above all things, no cheating, no bad jokes, no overrating, no accounts written with double chalk. I will never forgive any thing of this kind, remember that."

Without awaiting an answer, the king turned and re-entered his room.

Baron Pollnitz stared after him with widely-distended eyes; he felt as if a thunderbolt had destroyed his future.

This was not the extravagant, voluptuous, and confiding monarch that Pollnitz had thought him, but a sober, earnest, and frugal king, that even mistrusted and saw through him, the wily old courtier.



CHAPTER XV.

WE ARE KING.

Two days and nights had passed, and still no news from the prince royal. King Frederick William still lived, and the little court of Rheinsberg was consumed with impatience and expectation. All means of dissipation were exhausted. Time had laid aside its wing, and put on shoes of lead. She flew no longer, but walked like an aged woman. How long an hour seems, when you count the seconds! How terribly a day stretches out when, with wakeful but wearied eyes, you long for its close!

Kaiserling's wit and Chazot's merry humor, where are they? Why is Bielfeld's ringing laugh and the flute of Quantz silenced? All is quiet, all are silent and waiting, dreaming of the happiness in store for them, of the day of splendor, power, and magnificence that will dawn for the favorites and friends of the prince royal when he ascends the throne.

Is it not a proud and delightful thing to be the confidant and companion of a king—to spend with him his treasures and riches, to share with him the devotion and applause of the people?

Until now they had been forced to disguise their friendship and devotion for the prince royal. They trembled for fear of exciting the king's anger, and were in daily terror of being banished by him from the presence of their prince.

When the prince royal ascends the throne they will be his powerful and influential favorites, and their favor will be courted by all. They will be his co-regents, and through and with him will rule the nation.

It is, therefore, not astonishing that they look forward to his accession to the throne with longing and impatience; not astonishing that they curse these sluggish, slowly-passing hours, and would fain have slept, slept on until the great and blessed moment when they should be awakened with the news that their friend Prince Frederick had ascended the throne of his fathers, and was King of Prussia.

In the midst of this excitement the princess royal alone seemed quiet and unconstrained. She was calm and composed; she knew that the events of the next few days would determine her whole life; she feared that her happiness hung on the slender thread which bound the dying king to life.

But Elizabeth Christine had a brave heart and a noble soul; she had passed the night on her knees weeping and praying, and her heart was full of misery. She had at last become quiet and composed, and was prepared for any thing, even for a separation from her husband. If Frederick expressed such a wish, she was determined to go. Where? Anywhere. Far, far away. Whichever route she took, she was certain to reach her destination, and this destination was the grave. If she could not live with him, she would die! She knew this, and knowing it, she was tranquil, even happy.

"I invite all the ladies and gentlemen of the court to spend the evening in my room," she said, on the second day of this painful expectation; "we will endeavor to imagine that the prince royal is in our midst, and pass the hours in the usual manner; we will first go yachting; afterwards we will all take tea together, and Baron Bielfeld will read us a few chapters from the 'Henriade.' We will then play cards, and finish the evening with a dance. Does this programme meet with your approbation?" All murmured some words of assent and thanks, but their faces were nevertheless slightly clouded. Perceiving this, the princess royal said: "It seems that you are not pleased, that my suggestion does not meet with your approbation. Even the face of my little Louise von Schwerin is clouded, and the countenance of my good Countess Katsch no longer wears its pleasant smile. Well, what is it? I must know. Baron Bielfeld, I appoint you speaker of this discontented community. Speak, sir."

The baron smiled and sighed: "Your highness spoke a few days since of your gift of prophecy, and in fact you are a prophetess, and have seen through us. It is certainly a great happiness and a great honor to spend the evening in the apartments of the princess royal. But if your highness would allow us to ask a favor, it would be that our exalted mistress would condescend to receive us either in the garden saloon or music room, and not in your private apartments; for these apartments, beautiful and magnificent as they are, have one great, one terrible defect."

"Well," said the princess, as Bielfeld concluded, "I am curious to know what this defect is. I believed my rooms to be beautiful and charming; the prince royal himself regulated their arrangement, and Pesne and Buisson ornamented them with their most beautiful paintings. Quick then, tell me of this great defect!"

"Your highness, your apartments are in the right wing of the castle." The princess looked at him inquiringly, astonishment depicted in her countenance, and then laughed.

"Ah, now I see, my apartments are in the right wing of the castle; that is, from there you cannot watch the great bridge, over which all that come from Berlin or Potsdam must pass. You are right, this is a great defect. But the music room is in the left wing, and from there you can see both the bridge and the road. Let us, then, adjourn to the music room for our reading, and when it becomes too dark to see, we will play cards in my apartments."

They all followed the princess to the music room, where by chance or out of mischief the princess chose the seat farthest from the window, and thus compelled the company to assemble around her. As they followed her, they all looked longingly through the window and toward the bridge, over which the messenger of happiness might at any moment pass.

Bielfeld took the book selected by the princess, and commenced reading. But how torturing it was to road, to listen to these pathetic and measured Alexandrines from the "Henriade," while perchance in this same hour a new Alexander was placing the crown upon his young and noble head! In fact, but little was heard of these harmonious verses. All looked stealthily toward the window, and listened breathlessly to every sound that came from the road. Bielfeld suddenly ceased reading, and looked toward the window.

"Why do you not read on?" said the princess.

"Excuse me, I thought I saw a horse's head on the bridge!"

Forthwith, as if upon a given signal, they all flew to the windows; the princess herself, in the general commotion, hastened to one.

Yes! Between the trees something was seen moving. There it is coming on the bridge now! A peal of laughter resounded through the rooms. An ox! Count Bielfeld's courier had transformed himself into an ox!

They all stole back to their seats in confusion, and the reading was recommenced. But it did not last long; again Bielfeld came to a stop.

"Pardon me, your highness, but now there is positively a horse on the bridge."

Again they all rushed anxiously to the window. It certainly was a horse, but its rider was not a royal messenger, but a common peasant.

"I see," said the princess, laughing, "that we must discontinue our reading. Let us walk in the left wing of the garden, and as near the gate as possible."

"Will the sun never set?" whispered Bielfeld to Count Wartensleben, as they walked up and down. "I fear another Joshua has arrested its course."

But it set at last; it was now evening, and still no courier had passed the bridge. They accepted the princess' invitation, and hastened to her apartments and to the card-tables. And on this occasion, as heretofore, the cards exercised a magic influence over the inhabitants of Rheinsberg, for they were striving to win that, from the want of which, not only the prince but all his courtiers had so often suffered—gold! Count Wartensleben had lately arrived and brought with him a well-filled purse, which Bielfeld, Kaiserling, and Chazot were anxious to lighten.

The princess played with her maids of honor a game called Trisset, in her boudoir, while the rest of the company, seated at several tables in the adjoining room, played their beloved game of quadrille. The door suddenly opened, and a valet appeared. In passing the table at which Count Wartensleben, Bielfeld, and several ladies were playing, he stealthily showed them a letter with a black seal, which he was about to deliver to the princess.

"The king is then dead!" murmured they, hastily throwing their cards on the table; the counters fell together, but they looked at them in disdain. What cared they for a few lost pennies, now that their prince had become king?

Count Wartensleben arose and said in a solemn voice: "I will be the first to greet the princess as queen, and I will exert every effort to utter the word 'majesty' in a full, resounding tone."

"I will follow you," said Bielfeld, solemnly.

And both advanced to the open door, through which the princess could be seen still occupied in reading her letter. She seemed unusually gay, and a bright, smile played upon her lips. Accidentally looking up, she perceived the two cavaliers advancing slowly and solemnly toward her.

"Ah, you know, then, that a courier has at last crossed that fatal bridge, and you come for news of the prince royal?"

"Prince royal?" repeated Wartensleben, in amazement. "Is he still the prince royal?"

"You then thought he was king!" exclaimed the princess, "and came to greet me as your queen?"

"Yes, your highness, and the word 'majesty' was already on my lips."

They all laughed heartily, and jested over this mistake, but were nevertheless thankful when they were at last dismissed and were allowed to retire to their rooms. When entirely alone, the princess drew from her bosom the letter she had received, to read it once more; she cast a loving and tender glance at the characters his hand had traced, and as her eyes rested on his signature, she raised the paper to her lips and kissed it.

"Frederick," whispered she, "my Frederick, I love you so deeply that I envy this paper which has been touched by your hand, and upon which your glorious eyes have rested. No, no," said she, "he will not cast me off. Is it not written here—'In a few days I and the people will greet you as Queen.' No, he could not be so cruel as to set the crown on my head, and then cover it with ashes. If he acknowledges me as his wife and queen before his people, and before Germany, it must be his intention never to disown me, but to let me live on by his side. Oh, he must surely know how truly I love him, although I have never had the courage to tell him so. My tears and my sighs must have whispered to him the secret of my love, and he will have compassion with a poor wife who asks but to be permitted to adore and worship him. And who knows but that he may one day be touched by this great love, that he will one day raise up the poor woman who now lies trembling at his feet, and press her to his bosom. Oh, that this may be so, my God; let it be, and then let me die!"

She sank back on her couch, and, pressing the letter to her lips, whispered softly: "Good-night, Frederick, my Frederick!" She smiled sweetly as she slept. Perhaps she was dreaming of him.

A deep silence soon reigned throughout the castle. All the lights were extinguished. Sleep spread its wings over all these impatient and expectant hearts, and fanned them into forgetfulness and peaceful rest.

All slept, and now the long-expected courier is at last passing over the bridge, which trembled beneath his horse's feet, but none hear him, all are sleeping so soundly. His knocks resound through the entire castle. It is the herald of the new era, which sheds its first bright morning rays over the evening of the dark and gloomy past.

Now all are awake, and running to and fro through the halls, each one burning with eagerness to proclaim the joyful news: "Frederick is no longer prince royal. Frederick is king and the ruler of Prussia!"

Bielfeld is awakened by a loud knocking; he springs hastily out of bed and opens the door to his friend Knobelsdorf. "Up, up, my friend," exclaims the latter. "Dress quickly. We must go down and congratulate the queen; we must be ready to accompany her immediately to Berlin. Frederick William is dead, and we will now reign in Prussia."

"Ah, another fairy tale," said Bielfeld dressing hastily; "a fairy tale, by which we have been too often deceived to believe in its truth."

"No, no, this time it is true. The king is dead, quite dead! Jordan has received orders to embalm the corpse, and once in his hands, it will never come to life again."

Bielfeld being now ready, the two friends hurried to the ante-chamber that led to the princess royal's apartments. The entire court of the new queen had assembled in this chamber, and they were endeavoring to suppress their joy and delight, and to look grave and earnest in consideration of the solemnity of the occasion. They conversed in whispers, for the bed-chamber of the princess was next to this room, and she still slept.

"Yes, the princess royal sleeps, but when she awakes she will be a queen! She must be awakened, to receive her husband's letter."

The Countess Katsch, with two of Elizabeth's maids of honor, entered her bed-chamber, well armed with smelling-bottles and salts. Elizabeth Christine still slept. But on so important an occasion the sleep even of a princess was not considered sacred. The countess drew back the curtains, and Elizabeth was awakened by the bright glaring light. She looked inquiringly at the countess, who approached her with a low and solemn courtesy.

"Pardon me for waking your majesty—"

"Majesty, why 'your majesty?'" said the princess, quickly. "Has another ox or horse crossed the fatal bridge?"

"Yes, your majesty, but it was Baron Villich's horse, and he brought the news that King Frederick William expired yesterday at Potsdam. I have a smelling-bottle here, your majesty; allow me to hold—"

The young queen pushed back the smelling-bottle; she did not feel in the least like fainting, and her heart beat higher.

"And has the baron brought no letter for me?" said she, breathlessly.

"Here is a letter, your majesty."

The queen hastily broke the seal. It contained but a few lines, but they were in her husband's handwriting, and were full of significance. To her these few lines indicated a future full of splendor, happiness, and love. The king called her to share with him the homage of his subjects. It is true there was not a word of tenderness or love in the letter, but the king called her to his side; he called her his wife.

Away, then, away to Berlin, where her husband was awaiting her; where the people would greet her as their queen; where a new world, a new life would unfold itself before her; a life of proud enjoyment! For Elizabeth will be the queen, the wife of Frederick. Away, then, to Berlin!

The queen received the congratulations of her court in the music-room. And now to Berlin, where a new sun has risen, a King Frederick the Second!



CHAPTER XVI.

ROYAL GRACE AND ROYAL DISPLEASURE.

The cannon thundered, the bells rang loudly and merrily; the garrison in Berlin took the oath, as the garrison in Potsdam had done the day before.

The young king held his first great court to-day in the White Saloon. From every province, from every State, from every corporation, deputations had arrived to look upon the long-hoped-for king, the liberator from oppression, servitude, and famine. Delight and pure unqualified joy reigned in every heart, and those who looked upon the features of Frederick, illuminated with kindliness and intellect, felt that for Prussia it was the dawning of a new era.

But who was called to assist in organizing this new movement? Whom had the king chosen from amongst his friends and servants? whom had he set aside? upon whom would he revenge himself? Truth to tell, there were many now standing in the White Saloon who had often, perhaps, in obedience to the king's command, brought suffering and bitter sorrow upon the prince royal; many were there who had humbled him, misused his confidence, and often brought down his father's rage and scorn upon him.

Will the king remember these things, now that he has the power to punish and revenge his wrongs? Many had entered the White Saloon trembling with anxiety; timidly keeping in the distance; glad that the eye of the king did not rest upon them; glad to slip unseen into a corner.

But nothing escaped the eye of Frederick; he had remarked the group standing in the far-off window; he understood full well their restless, disturbed, and anxious glances. A pitiful and sweet smile spread over his noble features, an expression of infinite gentleness illumined his face; with head erect he drew near to this group, who, with the instinct of a common danger, pressed more closely together, and awaited their fate silently.

Who had so often and so heavily oppressed the prince as Colonel Derchau? who had mocked at him and persecuted him so bitterly? who had carried out the harsh commands of the king against him so unrelentingly? It was Derchau and Grumbkow who presided at the first cruel trial of "Captain Fritz," and had repeated to him the hard and threatening words of the king. "Captain Fritz" had wept with rage, and sworn to revenge himself upon these cruel men. Will the king remember the oath of the captain? The king stood now near the colonel; his clear eye was fixed upon him. This man, who had prepared for him so many woes, now stood with bowed head and loudly-beating heart, completely in his power. Suddenly, with a rash movement, the king extended his hand, and said, mildly:

"Good-day, Derchau." It was the first time in seven years that Frederick had spoken to him, and this simple greeting touched his heart; he bowed low, and as he kissed the outstretched hand, a hot tear fell upon it. "Colonel Derchau," said the king, "you were a faithful and obedient servant to my royal father; you have punctually followed his wishes and given him unconditional obedience. It becomes me to reward my father's faithful subject. From to-day you are a major-general."

As the king turned, his eye fell upon the privy councillor Von Eckert, and the mild and conciliating expression vanished from his features; he looked hard and stern.

"Has the coat-of-arms been placed upon the house in Jager Street?" said the king.

"No, your majesty."

"Then I counsel you not to have it done; this house is the property of the crown, and it shall not be sacrificed by such folly. Go home, and there you will receive my commands."

Pale and heart-broken, Eckert glided from the group; mocking laughter followed his steps through the saloons; no one had a word of regret or pity for him; no one remembered their former friendship and oft-repeated assurances of service and gratitude. He passed tremblingly through the palace; as he reached the outer door, Pollnitz stepped before him; a mocking smile played upon his lips, and his glance betrayed all the hatred which he had been compelled to veil or conceal during the life of Frederick William.

"Now," said he, slowly, "will you send me the wine which you promised from your cellar? You UNDERSTAND, the wine from your house in Jager Street, for which I arranged the coat-of-arms! Ah, those were charming days, my dear privy councillor! You have often broken your word of honor to me, often slandered me, and brought upon me the reproaches of the king. I have, however, reason to be thankful to you; this house which you have built in Jager Street is stately and handsome, and large enough for a cavalier of my pretensions. You have, also, at the cost of the king, furnished it with such princely elegance that it is in all things an appropriate residence for a cavalier. Do you not remember my description of such a house? The king called it then a Spanish air-castle. You, great-hearted man, have made my castle in the air a splendid reality, and now that it is finished and furnished, you will, in your magnanimity, leave that house to me. I shall be your heir! You know, my dear Eckert, that the privy councillor is dead, and only the chimney-builder lives; and even the adroit chimney-builder is banished from Berlin, and must remain twenty miles away from his splendid home. But tell me, Eckert, when one of my chimneys smokes, may I not send a messenger to you, will you not promise me to come and put things in order for me?"

Eckert muttered some confused words, and tried to force Pollnitz from the door, before which the hard-hearted, spiteful courtier had placed himself, like the angel with the avenging sword.

"You wish to go," said he, with assumed kindliness. "Oh, without doubt you wish to see the royal commands now awaiting you at your house. I can tell you literally the sentence of the king: you have lost your office, your income, your rank, and you are banished from Berlin! that is all. The king, as you see, has been gracious; he could have had you executed, or sent to Spandau for life, but he would not desecrate his new reign with your blood. For this reason was he gracious."

"Let me pass," said Eckert, trembling, and pale as death. "I am choking! let me out!"

Pollnitz still held him back. "Do you not know, good man, that a thousand men stand below in the courtyard? do you not hear their shouts and rejoicings? Well, these hurrahs will be changed into growls of rage when the people see you, my dear Eckert; in their wild wrath they might mistake you for a good roast, with which to quiet their hunger. You know that the people are hungry; you, who filled the barns of the king with grain, and placed great locks and bars upon the doors, lest the people, in their despairing hunger, might seize upon the corn! You even swore to the king that the people had enough, and did not need his corn or his help! Listen, the people shout again; I will not detain you. Go and look upon this happy people. The king has opened the granaries and scattered bread far and wide, and the tax upon meal is removed for a month.[8] Go, dear Eckert, go and see how happy the people are!"

[8] See King's "History of Berlin," vol. v. The king's own words.

With a wild curse Eckert sprang from the door; Pollnitz followed him with a mocking glance. "Revenge is sweet," he said, drawing a long breath; "he has often done me wrong, and now I have paid him back with usury. Eckert is lost. Would that I had his house! I must have it! I will have it! Oh, I will make myself absolutely necessary to the king; I will flatter, I will praise, I will find out and fulfil his most secret, his unspoken wishes. I will force him to give me his confidence—to make me his maitre de plaisir. Yes, yes, the house in Jager Street shall be mine! I have sworn it, and Fredersdorf has promised me his influence. And now to the king; I must see for myself if this young royal child can, like Hercules in his cradle, destroy serpents on the day of his birth; or, if he is a king, like all other kings, overcome by flattery, idle and vain, knowing or acknowledging no laws over himself, but those of his own conscience and his bon plaisir. But hark! that is the king's voice; to whom is he speaking?"

Pollnitz hastened into the adjoining room; the king was standing in the midst of his ministers, and a deputation of magistrates of Berlin, and was in the act of dismissing them.

"I command you," said the king, in conclusion, turning to his ministers, "as often as you think it necessary to make any changes in my orders and regulations, to make known your opinions to me freely, and not to be weary in so doing; I may, unhappily, sometimes lose sight of the true interests of my subjects; I am resolved that whenever in future my personal interest shall seem to be contrary to the welfare of my people, their happiness shall receive the first consideration."

"Alas, it will be very difficult to tame this youthful Hercules!" murmured Pollnitz, glancing toward the king, who was just leaving the apartment; "the serpents that we will twine about him must be strong and alluring; now happily Fredersdorf and myself are acquainted with some such serpents, and we will take care that he finds them in his path."

In the mean time the king had left the reception-room, and retired to his private apartments, where the friends and confidants from Rheinsberg awaited him with hopeful hearts. They were all ready to receive the showers of gold, which, without doubt, would rain down upon them. They were all convinced that the young king would lay upon them, at least, a corner of the mantle of ermine and purple with which his shoulders should be adorned. They alone would be chosen to aid in bearing the burden of his kingly crown and royal sceptre. They were all dreaming of ambassadorships, presidencies, and major-generals' epaulettes.

As the king entered, they received him with loud cries of joy. The Margrave Henry, who had often borne a part in the gay fetes at Rheinsberg, hastened to greet the king with gay, witty words, and both hands extended. Frederick did not respond to this greeting; he did not smile; looking steadily at the Margrave, he stepped back and said:

"Monsieur, now I am the king; no longer the gardener at Rheinsberg." The king read the pained astonishment in the faces of his friends who, one moment before, had been so HOPEFUL, so assured; he advanced and said, in a kindly tone, "We are no longer in Rheinsberg. The beautiful proverb of Horace belongs to our past. 'Folly is sweet in its season.' There I was the gardener and the friend—here I am the king; here all must work, and each one must use his talents and his strength in the service of the State, and thus prove to the people that the prince had reason to choose him for a friend."

"And may I also be a partaker of that grace and be counted amongst the friends of the king?" said the old Prince of Anhalt Dessau, who, with his two sons, had just entered and heard the last words of Frederick; "will your majesty continue to me and my sons the favor which your ever-blessed father granted to us during so many long and happy years? Oh, your majesty, I beseech you to be gracious to us, and grant us the position and influence which we have so long enjoyed." So saying, the old prince bent his knee to his youthful monarch. The king bowed his head thoughtfully, and a smile played upon his lips; he gave his hand to the prince, and commanded him to rise.

"I will gladly leave you your place and income, for I am sure you will serve me as faithfully and zealously as you did my father. As regards the position and influence which you desire, I say to you all, no man under my reign will have position but I myself, and not even my best friend will exercise the slightest influence over me."

The friends from Rheinsberg turned pale, and exchanged stolen glances with each other. There was no more jesting; the hand of ice had been laid upon their beating hearts, and the wings of hope were broken. The king did not seem to remark the change; he drew near to his friend Jordan, and taking his arm, walked to the window, and spoke with him long and earnestly.

The courtiers and favorites looked after their happy friend with envious glances, and observed every shade in the countenances of the king and Jordan. The king was calm, but an expression of painful surprise settled like a cloud upon Jordan. Now the king left the window, and called Bielfeld to him; spoke with him also long and gravely, and then dismissed him, and nodded to Chazot to join him; lastly he took the arm of the Duke of Wartensleben, and walked backward and forward, chatting with him. The duke was radiant with joy, but the other courtiers looked suspicious and lowering; with none of them had he spoken so long; no other arm had he so familiarly taken. It was clear that Wartensleben was the declared favorite of the king; he had driven them from the field.

The king observed all this; he had read the envy, malice, rage, and melancholy in the faces of his friends; he knew them all too well; had too long observed them, not to be able to read their thoughts. It had pleased him to sport awhile with these small souls, so filled with selfishness, envy, and every evil passion; he wished to give them a lesson, and bring them down from their dizzy and imaginary heights to the stern realities of life. The king had used Wartensleben as his instrument for this purpose, and now must the poor duke's wings be clipped. The mounting waves of his ambition must be quieted by the oil of truth.

"Yes," said the king, "I am the ruler of a kingdom; I have a great army and a well-filled treasury, you cannot doubt that it is my highest aim to make my country blossom as the rose; to uphold the reputation of my army, and to make the best use of my riches. The gold is there to circulate; it is there to reward those who faithfully serve their fatherland; but above all other things it is there for those who are truly my friends."

The features of the young duke were radiant with expectation; as the king saw this, a mocking smile flashed from his eye.

"I will, however, naturally know how to distinguish between my friends, and those who do not need gold will not receive it. You, for example, my dear duke, are enormously rich; you will content yourself, therefore, with my love, as you will naturally never receive a dollar from me." So speaking, he nodded kindly to the duke, passed into the next room, and closed the door behind him. Grave and dumb, the friends from Rheinsberg gazed upon each other; each one regarded the other as his successful rival, and thought to see in him what he had not become—a powerful favorite, a minister, or general. All felt their love growing cold, and almost hated the friends who stood in their way. Jordan was the first who broke silence. Reaching his hand to Bielfeld, he said:

"It must not be thought that disappointed hopes have hardened our hearts, and that envy blinds us to the advantages of our friends. I love you, Bielfeld, because of your advantages and talents; and I understand full well why the king advances you before me. Receive also my good wishes, and be assured that from the heart I rejoice in your success."

Bielfeld looked amazed. "My success!" said he. "Dear friend, you need not be envious; and as to my advancement, it is so small an affair that I can scarcely find it. The king said he intended me for a diplomatist, but that I needed years of instruction. With this view he had selected me to accompany Duke Truckfess to Hanover. When I returned from there, I would receive further orders. This is my promotion, and you must confess I make a small beginning. But you, dear Jordan, what important position have you received? You are the king's dearest friend, and he has without doubt advanced you above us all. I acknowledge that you merit this. Tell us also what are you?"

"Yes," cried they all eagerly, "what are you? Are you minister of State or minister of Church affairs?"

"What am I?" cried Jordan, laughing. "I will tell you, my friends. I am not minister of Church affairs; I am not minister of State. I am—ah, you will never guess what I am—I belong to the police! I must remove the beggars from the streets of Berlin, and found a workhouse for them. Now, dear friends, am I not enviable?" For a moment all were silent; then every eye was fixed upon Wartensleben.

"And you, dear duke, are you made happy? You have cut open the golden apple; you have the longed-for portfolio."

"I!" cried the duke, half angry, half merry. "I have nothing, and will receive nothing. I will tell you what the king said to me. He assured me earnestly and solemnly that I was rich enough, and would never receive a dollar from him."

At this announcement they all broke out in uproarious laughter. "Let us confess," said Bielfeld, "that we have played to-day a rare comedy—a farce which Moliere might have written, and which must bear the title of La Journee des Dupes. Now, as we have none of us become distinguished, let us all be joyful and love each other dearly. But listen! the king plays the flute; how soft, how melting is the sound!"

Yes, the king played the flute; he cast out with those melodious strains the evil spirit of ennui which the tiresome etiquette of the day had brought upon him. He played the flute to recover himself—to regain his cheerful spirit and a clear brow. Soon he laid it aside, and his eye rested upon the unopened letters and papers with which the table was covered. Yes, he must open all these letters, and answer them himself, he alone. Nobody should do his work; all should work only through him; no one should decree or command in Prussia but the king. Every thing should flow from him. He would be the heart and soul of his country.

Frederick opened and read the letters, and wrote the answer on the margin of the paper, leaving it to the secretary to copy. And now the work was almost done; the paper with the great seal, which he now opened, was the last.

This was a declaration from the Church department, which announced that, through the influence of the Catholic schools in Berlin, many Protestants had become Catholics. Did not his majesty think it best to close these schools? A pitiful smile played upon the lips of Frederick as he read. "And they say they believe in one God, and their priests and ministers preach Christian forbearance and Christian love, while they know nothing of either. They have not God, but the Church, always before their eyes; they are intolerant in their hearts, imperious, and full of cunning. I will bend them, and break down their assumed power. My whole life will be a battle with priests; they will mock at me, and call me a heretic. Let the Church be ever against me, if my own conscience absolves me. Now I will begin the war, and what I now write will be a signal of alarm in the tents of all the pious priests."

He took up the paper again and wrote on the margin, "All religions shall be tolerated. The magistrates must have their eyes open, and see that no sect imposes on another. In Prussia each man shall be saved in his own way."[9]

[9] Busching. The king's words.



BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

THE GARDEN OF MONBIJOU.

The excitement of the first days was quieted. The young king had withdrawn for a short time to the palace in Charlottenburg, while his wife remained in Berlin, anxiously expecting an invitation to follow her husband.

But the young monarch appeared to have no care or thought but for his kingdom. He worked and studied without interruption; even his beloved flute was untouched.

Berlin was, according to etiquette, draped with mourning for a few days; it served in this instance as a veil to the joy with which all looked forward to the coronation of the new king. All appeared earnest and solemn, but every heart was joyful and every eye beaming. The palace of the king was silent and deserted; the king was, as we have said, at Charlottenburg; the young queen was in the palace formerly occupied by the prince royal, and the dowager queen Sophia Dorothea had retired with the two princesses, Ulrica and Amelia, to the palace of Monbijou. All were anxious and expectant; all hoped for influence and honor, power and greatness. The scullion and the maids, as well as the counts and princes, and even the queen herself, dreamed of happy and glorious days in the future.

Sophia Dorothea had been too long a trembling, subjugated woman; she was rejoicing in the thought that she might at length be a queen. Her son would doubtless grant to her all the power which had been denied her by her husband; he would remember the days of tears and bitterness which she had endured for his sake; and now that the power was in his hands she would be repaid a thousandfold. The young king would hold the sceptre in his hands, but he must allow his mother to aid in keeping it upright; and if he found it too weighty, the queen was ready to bear it for him, and reign in his stead, while her dreamy son wrote poems, or played on the flute, or philosophized with his friends. Frederick was certainly not formed to rule; he was a poet and a philosopher; he dreamed of a Utopia; he imagined an ideal which it was impossible to realize. The act of ruling would be a weary trial to him, and the sounds of the trumpet but ill accord with his harmonious dreams.

But happily his mother was there, and was willing to reign for him, to bear upon her shoulders the heavy burdens and cares of the kingdom, to work with the ministers, while the king wrote poetical epistles to Voltaire.

Why should not Sophia Dorothea reign? Were there not examples in all lands of noble women who governed their people well and honorably? Was not England proud of her Elizabeth, Sweden of her Christina, Spain of Isabella, Russia of Catharine? and even in Prussia the queen Sophia Charlotte had occupied a great and glorious position. Why could not Sophia Dorothea accomplish as much or even more than her predecessor?

These were the thoughts of the queen as she walked up and down the shady paths of the garden of Monbijou, and listened with a proud smile to the flattering words of Count Manteuffel, who had just handed her a letter of condolence from the Empress of Austria.

"Her majesty the empress has sent me a most loving and tender letter to-day," said the dowager queen, with an ironical smile.

"She has then only given expression to-day, to those sentiments which she has always entertained for your majesty," said the count, respectfully.

The queen bowed her head smilingly, but said, "The houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg have never been friendly; it is not in their nature to love one another."

"The great families of Capulet and Montague said the same," remarked Count Manteuffel, "but the anger of the parents dissolved before the love of the children."

"But we have not arrived at the children," said the queen proudly, as she thought how her husband had been deceived by the house of Austria, and recalled that, on his death-bed he had commanded his son Frederick to revenge those treacheries.

"Pardon me, your majesty, if I dare to contradict you; we have most surely arrived at the children, and the difficulties of the parents are forgotten in their love. Is not the wife of the young king the deeply-loved niece of the Austrian empress?"

"She was already his wife, count, as my husband visited the emperor in Bohemia, and it was not considered according to etiquette for the emperor to offer his hand to the King of Prussia."[10]

[10] Seckendorf's Leben.

"She was, however, not his wife when Austria, by her repeated and energetic representations, saved the life of the prince royal. For your majesty knows that at one time that precious life was threatened."

"It was threatened, but it would have been preserved without the assistance of Austria; for the mother of Frederick was at hand, and that mother was sister to the King of England." And the queen cast on the count so proud and scornful a glance that his eyes fell involuntarily to the ground. Sophia Dorothea saw this, and smiled. This was her triumph; she would now show herself mild and forgiving. "We will speak no more of the past," she said, in a friendly manner. "The death of my husband has cast a dark cloud over it, and I must think only of the future, that my son, the young king, may not always behold me with tears in my eyes. No, I will look forward, for I have a great presentiment that Prussia's future will be great and glorious."

"Would that it might be thus for the whole of Germany!" cried the count. "It must be so, if the houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg will forget their ancient quarrels, and live together in love and peace."

"Let Hapsburg extend to us the hand of love and peace; show us her sympathy, her justice, and her gratitude, in deeds, not words."

"Austria is prepared to do so, your majesty! the question is, whether Prussia will grasp her hand and place upon it the ring of love."

The queen glanced up so quickly that she perceived the dark and threatening look of the count. "Austria is again making matrimonial plans," she said, with a bitter smile. "She is not satisfied with one marriage, such as that of her imperial niece, she longs for a repetition of this master-work. But this time, count, there is no dear one to be saved at any cost from a prison, this time the decision can be deferred until the arrival of all the couriers." And the queen, dismissing the count with a slight bow, recalled her ladies of honor, who were lingering at a short distance, and passed into one of the other walks.

Count Manteuffel remained where the queen had left him, looking after her with an earnest and thoughtful countenance. "She is prouder and more determined than formerly," he murmured; "that is a proof that she will be influential, and knows her power. What she said of the courier was without doubt an allusion to the one who arrived an hour too late, with the consent of England, on the betrothal day of the prince royal. Ah! there must be other couriers en route, and one of them was most probably sent to England. We must see that he arrives an hour too late, as the former one did." At this instant, and in his immediate vicinity, Manteuffel heard a soft and melodious voice saying, "No, count, you can never make me believe in your love. You are much too blond to love deeply."

"Blond!" cried a manly voice, with a tone of horror. "You do not like fair hair, and until now I have been so proud of mine. But I will have it dyed black, if you will promise to believe in my love." The lady replied with a light laugh, which brought an answering smile to the countenance of Count Manteuffel. "It is my ally, Madame von Brandt," he said to himself. "I was most anxious to see her, and must interrupt her tender tete-a-tete with Count Voss for one moment." So speaking, the count hurried to the spot from which he had heard the voices of Madame von Brandt and her languishing lover. The count approached the lady with the most delighted countenance, and expressed his astonishment at finding his beautiful friend in the garden of the dowager queen.

"Her majesty did me the honor to invite me to spend a few weeks here," said Madame von Brandt. "She knew that my physician had ordered me to the country, as the only means to restore my health; and as she knows of my great intimacy with Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, one of her ladies of honor, she was so kind as to offer me a few rooms at Monbijou. Now I have explained to you the reason of my presence here as minutely as if you were my father confessor, and nothing remains to be done but to present you to my escort. This is Count Voss, a noble cavalier, a sans peur et sans reproche, ready to sacrifice for his lady love, if not his life, at least his fair hair."

"Beware, my dear count," said Manteuffel, laughing, "beware that the color of your hair is not changed by this lovely scoffer—that it does not become a venerable gray. She is sufficiently accomplished in the art of enchantment to do that; I assure you that Madame von Brandt plays a most important role in the history of my gray hairs."

"Ah! it would be delightful to become gray in the service of Madame von Brandt," said the young count, in so pathetic a tone that his companions both laughed. "As often as I look at my gray hair I would think of her." And the young count gazed into the distance, like one entranced, and his smiling lips whispered low, unintelligible words.

"This is one of his ecstatic moments," whispered Madame von Brandt. "He has the whim to consider himself an original; he imagines himself a Petrarch enamored of his Laura. We will allow him to dream awhile, and speak of our own affairs. But be brief, I beg of you, for we must not be found together, as you are a suspicious character, my dear count, and my innocence might be doubted if we were seen holding a confidential conversation."

"Ah, it is edifying to hear Madame von Brandt speak like a young girl of sixteen, of her threatened innocence. But we will tranquillize this timidity, and be brief. In the first place, what of the young queen?"

"State of barometer: cold and damp, falling weather, stormy, with unfulfilled hopes, very little sunshine, and very heavy clouds."

"That means that the queen is still fearful of being slighted by her husband."

"She is no longer fearful—he neglects her already. The king is at Charlottenburg, and has not invited the queen to join him. As a husband, he slights his wife; whether as king he will neglect his queen, only time will reveal."

"And what of Madame von Morien?"

"The king seems to have forgotten her entirely since that unhappy quid pro quo with the poem at Rheinsberg; his love seems to have cooled, and he converses with her as harmlessly and as indifferently as with any other lady. No more stolen words, secret embraces, or amorous sighs. The miserable Morien is consumed with sorrow, for since she has been neglected she loves passionately."

"And that is unhappily not the means to regain that proud heart," said Count Mantcuffel, shrugging his shoulders. "With tears and languishing she will lose her influence, and only gain contempt. You who are the mistress of love and coquetry should understand that, and instruct your beautiful pupil. Now, however, comes the most important question. What of the marriage of the Prince Augustus William?"

Madame von Brandt sighed. "You are really inexorable. Have you no compassion for the noble, heartfelt love of two children, who are as pure and innocent as the stars in heaven?"

"And have you no compassion for the diamonds which long to repose upon your lovely bosom?" said Count Manteuffel; "no compassion for the charming villa which you could purchase? You positively refuse to excite the envy of all the ladies at court by possessing the most costly cashmere? You will—"

"Enough, Count Devil! you are in reality more a devil than a man, for you lead my soul into temptation. I must submit. I will become a serpent, reposing on the bosom of my poor Laura, poisoning her love and lacerating her heart. Ah, count, if you knew how my conscience reproaches me when I listen to the pure and holy confession of her love, when trembling and blushing she whispers to me the secrets of her youthful heart, and flies to me seeking protection against her own weakness! Remember that these two children love each other, without ever having had the courage to acknowledge it. Laura pretends not to understand the deep sighs and the whispered words of the prince, and then passes the long nights in weeping."

"If that is the case, it is most important to prevent an understanding between these singular lovers. You must exert all your influence with the young lady to induce her to close this romance with an heroic act, which will make her appear a holy martyr in the eyes of the prince."

"But, for example, what heroic act?"

"Her marriage."

"But how can we find a man so suddenly to whom this poor lamb can be sacrificed?"

"There is one," said the count, pointing to Count Voss, who appeared to have forgotten the whole world, and was occupied writing verses in his portfolio.

Madame von Brandt laughed aloud. "He marry the beautiful Laura!"

"Yes," said the count, earnestly, "he seeks a Laura."

"Yes, but you forget that he considers me his Laura."

"You can, therefore, easily induce him to make this sacrifice for you; he will be magnified in his own eyes, if, in resigning you, he gives himself to the lady you have selected."

"You are terrible," said Madame von Brandt. "I shudder before you, for I believe you have no human emotions in your heart of iron."

"There are higher and nobler considerations, to which such feelings must yield. But see, the count has finished his poem. To work now, my beautiful ally; today you must perfect your masterpiece; and now, farewell," said the count, kissing her hand, as he left her side.

Madame von Brandt approached the young count, who seemed to be again lost in thought. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, and whispered, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "Dreamer, where are your thoughts?"

"With you," said the count, who trembled and grew pale at her touch. "Yes, with you, noblest and dearest of women; and as that tiresome gossip prevented me from speaking to you, I passed the time he was here in writing."

"But you did not remember," said she, tenderly, "that you were compromising me before Count Manteuffel, who will not hesitate to declare in what intimate relationship we stand to one another. Only think of writing without apology, while a lady and a strange gentleman were at your side!"

"The world will only exclaim 'What an original!'" said Count Voss, with a foolish, but well-pleased smile.

"But it will also say that this original shows little consideration for Madame von Brandt; that he must, therefore, be very intimate with her. The reputation of a woman is so easily injured; it is like the wing of the butterfly, so soon as the finger touches it or points at it, it loses its lustre; and we poor women have nothing but our good name and unspotted virtue. It is the only shield—the only weapon—that we possess against the cruelty of man, and you seek to tear that from us, and, then dishonored and humiliated, you tread us under foot!"

"You are weeping!" cried the count, looking at his beloved, in whose eyes the tears really stood—"you are weeping! I am truly a great criminal to cause you to shed tears."

"No, you are a noble but most thoughtless man," said Madame von Brandt, smiling through her tears. "You betray to the world what only God and we ourselves should know."

"Heavens! what have I betrayed?" cried the poor frightened count.

"You have betrayed our love," whispered Madame von Brandt, as she glanced tenderly at the count.

"What! our love?" he cried, beside himself with delight; "you admit that it is not I alone who love?"

"I admit it, but at the same time declare that we must part."

"Never! no, never! No power on earth shall part us," said he, seizing her hand, and covering it with kisses.

"But there is a power which has the right to separate us—the power of my husband. He already suspects my feelings for you, and he will be inexorable if he discovers that his suspicions are correct."

"Then I will call him out, and he will fall by my hand, and I shall bear you in triumph as my wife to my castle."

"But if you should fall?"

"Ah! I had not thought of that," murmured the count, turning pale. "That would be certainly a most unhappy accident. We will not tempt fate with this trial, but seek another way out of our difficulty. Ah, I know one already. You must elope with me."

She said, with a sad smile, "The arm of the king extends far and wide, and my husband would follow us with his vengeance to the end of the world."

"But what shall we do?" cried the count, despairingly; "we love each other; separated, we must be consumed with grief and sorrow. Ah! ah! shall I really suffer the fate of Petrarch, and pass my life in an eternal dirge? Is there no way to prevent this?"

Madame von Brandt placed her hand with a slight but tender pressure on his. "There is one way," she whispered, "a way to reassure, not only my husband, but the whole world, which will cast a veil over our love, and protect us from the wickedness and calumny of man."

"Show me this way," he exclaimed, "and if it should cost half of my fortune I would walk in it, if I could hope to gain your love."

She bent her head nearer to him, and, with a most fascinating and tender glance, whispered, "You must marry, count."

He withdrew a step, and uttered a cry of horror. "I must marry! You desire it—you who profess to love me?"

"Because I love you, dearest, and because your marriage will break the bands of etiquette which divide us. You must marry a lady of my acquaintance, perhaps one of my friends, and then no one, not even my husband, will consider our friendship remarkable."

"Oh! I see it; there is no other way," sighed the count. "If I were only married now!"

"Oh! you ungrateful, faithless man," cried Madame von Brandt, indignantly. "You long already for your marriage with the beautiful young woman, in whose love I shall be forgotten."

"Oh! you are well aware that I only wish to be married because you desire it."

"Prove this by answering that you will not refuse to marry the lady I shall point out to you."

"I swear it."

"You swear that you will marry no other than the one I name? You swear that you will overcome all obstacles, and be withheld by no prayers or reproaches?"

"I swear it."

"On the word of a count?"

"On the word of a count. Show me the lady, and I will marry her against the will of the whole world."

"But if the lady should not love you?"

"Why should I care? Do I love her? Do I not marry her for your sake alone?"

"Ah! my friend," cried Madame von Brandt, "I see that we understand one another. Come, and I will show you your bride."

She placed her arm in his, and drew him away. Her eye gleamed with a wild, menacing light, and she said sneeringly to herself, "I have selected a rich husband for my beautiful Laura, and have bartered my soul for diamonds and cashmeres, and the gratitude of an empress."



CHAPTER II.

THE QUEEN'S MAID OF HONOR.

After her interview with Count Manteuffel, the queen Sophia Dorothea left the garden, and retired to her chamber. She dismissed her maids of honor for a few hours, requesting them to admit no one to her presence. She wished to consider and develop her plans in undisturbed quiet. She felt that Austria was again prepared to throw obstacles in the way of her favorite project—an English marriage for one of her children. She wished to sharpen her weapons, and marshal her forces for the approaching combat.

For a few hours, therefore, the maids of honor were free to follow their own inclinations, to amuse themselves as they thought fit.

Laura von Pannewitz had declined accompanying the other ladies in their drive. Her heart required solitude and rest. For her it was a rare and great pleasure to listen in undisturbed quiet to the sweet voices which whispered in her heart, and suffused her whole being with delight.

It was so sweet to dream of him—to recall his words, his smiles, his sighs; all those little shades and signs which seemed so unimportant to the careless, but which convey so much to the loving observer!

He had written to her yesterday, and she—she had had the cruel courage to return his letter unopened. But she had first pressed it to her lips and to her heart with streaming eyes, and had then fallen on her knees to pray to God, and to implore him to give her strength and courage to overcome her heart, to renounce his love.

Since then an entire day had passed, and she had not seen him, had heard nothing of him. Oh, he must be sad and very angry with her; he wished never to see her again. And because he was angry, and wished to hold himself aloof from her, he, the loving and attentive son, had even neglected to pay the accustomed morning visit to his royal mother, which he had never before omitted.

Her heart beating hurriedly, and weeping with anguish, Laura had been standing before her window curtain awaiting him, and had prayed to God that she might see him, or at least hear his voice in the distance. But the prince did not arrive, and now the time had passed at which he was accustomed to come. The queen had already retired to her study, and would admit no one.

Laura could, therefore, no longer hope to see the prince Augustus William on this day. As she thought of this, she felt as if a sword had pierced her bosom, and despair took possession of her heart. She threw herself on her knees, wrung her hands, and prayed to God, not for strength and courage to renounce him as before, but for a little sunshine on her sad and sorrowful love. Terrified at her own prayer, she had then arisen from her knees, and had hurried to the room of Madame von Brandt, to take refuge from her own thoughts and sorrows in the bosom of a friend.

But her friend was not there, and she was told that Madame von Brandt had gone down into the garden. Laura took her hat and shawl, and sought her. As she walked down the shady avenue, her glowing cheeks and burning eyes were cooled by the gentle breeze wafted over from the river Spree, and she felt soothed; something like peace stole into her heart. Laura had forgotten that she had come to the garden to seek her friend; she felt only that the calm and peace of nature had quieted her heart; that solitude whispered to her soul in a voice of consolation and of hope. Hurriedly she passed on to the denser and more solitary part of the garden, where she could give herself up to dreams of him whose image still filled her heart, although she had vainly endeavored to banish it.

She now entered the conservatory at the foot of the garden, which had been converted into a beautiful and charming saloon, for the exclusive use of the queen and her maids of honor. There were artificial arbors of blooming myrtle and orange, in which luxurious little sofas invited to repose; grottoes of stone had been constructed, in the crevices of which rare mountain plants were growing. There were little fountains which murmured and flashed pleasantly, and diffused an agreeable coolness throughout the atmosphere. Laura seated herself in one of the arbors, which was covered with myrtle, and, in a reclining position, her head resting on the trunk of an aged laurel-tree, which formed part of the framework of the arbor, she closed her eyes that she might see nothing but him.

It was a lovely picture, the beautiful and noble countenance of this young girl, enclosed as it were in a frame of living myrtle; her delicate but full and maidenly figure reclining against the trunk of the tree, to which the chaste and timid love of a virgin had once given life. She also was a Daphne, fleeing from her own desires, fleeing from the sweetly-alluring voice of her lover, who, to her, was the god of beauty and of grace, the god of learning and the arts—her Apollo, whom she adored and believed in, whom she feared, and from whom she fled like Daphne, because she loved him. For a woman flees only from him whom she loves; she fears him only who is dangerous, not because his words of tenderness and flattery are alluring, but because her own heart pleads for him.

Laura was still sitting in the arbor, in a dreamy reverie. His image filled her thoughts; her love was prayer, her prayer love. Her hands lay folded in her lap; a sweet, dreamy smile played about her lips, and from under her closed eyelids a few tears were slowly rolling down her soft, rosy cheeks. She had been praying to God to give her strength to conquer her own heart, and to bear, without murmuring and without betraying herself, the sorrow, the anger, and even the indifference of the prince. Still she felt that her heart would break if he should desert and forget her. An alluring voice whispered that it would be a more blissful end to die, after an hour of ecstatic and intoxicating happiness, than to renounce his love, and still die.

But the chaste Laura did not wish to hear this voice; she would drown it with her prayers; and still, even while she prayed, she thought how great and sublime a happiness it would be to kiss the lips of her beloved, to whisper in his ear the long-concealed, long-buried secret of her love. And then his kiss still on her lips, and in the sunshine of his eyes, to fall down and die!—exchanging heaven for heaven; redeeming bliss with bliss. And sweeter dreams and more painful fantasies came over her; heavier and heavier sank her eyelids; a weight of sorrow rested on her heart, and made it weary unto death; until at the last, like the disciples on the Mount, she slept for very sorrow.

The silence was profound. Suddenly stealthy footsteps could be heard, and the figure of a man appeared at the entrance of the grotto. Cautiously he stepped forward, and cast an inquiring glance through the trailing vines which overhung the grotto, to the young girl who still slumbered, reclining on the trunk of the laurel-tree. It was Fritz Wendel, the gardener of Rheinsberg. Queen Sophia Dorothea had desired to have her greenhouses and flower-beds arranged in the style of those at Rheinsberg. And, by command of the young king, several of the most expert gardeners of Rheinsberg had been sent to Berlin to superintend this arrangement in the garden of Monbijou. Fortune had favored the young gardener, and had again brought him near her he loved. For the little maid of honor, Louise von Schwerin, was not only the favorite of Queen Elizabeth, but Queen Sophia Dorothea also loved this saucy and sprightly young girl, who, because she was a child, and as such was excusable, was allowed to break in upon court etiquette with her merry laughter, and to introduce an element of freshness and vivacity into the stiff forms of court life. Moreover, by her thoughtless and presumptuous behavior at Rheinsberg, she had lost favor with the young couple who now reigned in Prussia. Queen Elizabeth could not forget that it was through Louise she had learned the name of her happy rival. And the king was angry with her, because, through her, the secret of his verses to Madame von Morien had been discovered. Louise von Schwerin was rarely with Queen Elizabeth. Sophia Dorothea, however, kept this young girl near her person for whole days. Her childish ways amused the queen, and her merry pranks drove the stiff and formal mistress of ceremonies, and the grave and stately cavaliers and ladies of the court, to despair. And the little maid of honor came to the queen willingly, for Monbijou had for her a great charm since the handsome gardener, Fritz Wendel, had been there. The romance with this young man had not yet come to an end; this secret little love affair had a peculiar charm for the young girl; and as no other admirer had been found for the little Louise, she for the present was very well pleased with the adoration of the young gardener, to whom she was not the "little Louise," but the bewitching fairy, the beautiful goddess. It was Fritz Wendel who appeared at the entrance of the grotto, and looked anxiously toward the sleeping Laura. He had been occupied in arranging the plants and flowers in this conservatory, which had been confided to his especial care. As the queen never entered the garden at this time, this hour had been set apart for his labors.

In the midst of his occupation he was interrupted by the entrance of Laura von Pannewitz, and had hastily retired to the grotto, intending to remain concealed until the lady should have left the conservatory. From his hiding-place, concealed by the dense Indian vines, he could see the myrtle arbor in which the beautiful Laura reposed; and now, seeing that she slept, he advanced slowly and cautiously from the grotto. He listened attentively to her slow and regular breathing—yes, she really slept; he might therefore stealthily leave the saloon.

"Ah, if it were she!" he murmured; "if it were she! I would not leave here so quietly. I would find courage to fall down at her feet and to clasp her to my arms, while pressing my lips to hers, to suppress her cry of terror. But this lady," said he, almost disdainfully, turning to the sleeping Laura, "is so little like her—that she is—"

The words died on his lips, and he hastily retreated to the entrance of the grotto. He thought he heard footsteps approaching the conservatory. The door of the vestibule creaked on its hinges, and again—Fritz Wendel slipped hastily into the grotto, and concealed himself behind the dense vines.

On the threshold of the saloon stood a young man, who looked searchingly around. His tall and graceful figure was clad in the uniform of the guards, which displayed his well-knit form to great advantage. The star on his breast, and the crape which he wore on his arm, announced a prince of the royal house; his beautifully-formed and handsome features wore an expression of almost effeminate tenderness. The glance of his large blue eyes was so soft and mild, that those who observed him long, were involuntarily touched with an inexplicable feeling of pity for this noble-looking youth. His broad brow showed so much spirit and determination that it was evident he was not always gentle and yielding, but had the courage and strength to follow his own will if necessary.

It was Prince Augustus William, the favorite of the deceased king, on whose account the elder brother Frederick had suffered so much, because the king had endeavored to establish the former as his successor to the throne in the place of his first-born.[11]

[11] Dr. Fred. Busching, page 172.

But the prince's inclinations were not in accordance with the wishes of his father; Augustus William desired no throne, no earthly power; in his retiring modesty he disliked all public display; the title of royal highness had no charm for him, and with the indifference of a true philosopher he looked down upon the splendor and magnificence of earthly glory.

In his brother Frederick, the disdain of outward pomp might be attributed to his superior mind and strength of understanding; while Augustus William was actuated by a depth of feeling, a passionate and ardent sensitiveness. He had come to pay the queen, his mother, the customary morning visit, but when told she had desired that no one should be admitted to her presence, he was not willing that an exception should be made in his favor. "He had time to wait," he said, "and should be announced and called up from the garden only when the queen was again at leisure."

After giving this order he had gone down into the garden, where a lover's instinct had conducted him to the conservatory, in which, to him, the most beautiful of all flowers, the lovely Laura von Pannewitz, reposed. He did not dream of finding her there, supposing she had accompanied the other ladies on their drive; he had sought this building that he might pass a few moments in undisturbed quiet—that he might think of her and the unrequited love which he had vainly endeavored to tear from his heart.

It was therefore not her he sought when, on entering the conservatory, he looked searchingly around. He only wished to know that he was alone, that no one observed him. But suddenly he started, and a deep red suffused his countenance. He saw the beautiful sleeper in the arbor. In the first ecstasy of his delight he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, and awakening her with his kisses. He started forward—but then hesitated, and stood still, an expression of deep melancholy pervading his features.

"She will not welcome me," murmured he, "she will repel me as she did my letter yesterday. She does not love me, and would never forgive me if I should desecrate her pure lips with mine." He bowed his head and sighed. "But I love her," said he, after a long pause, "and will at least look at and adore her, as the Catholics worship the Virgin Mary." And with a beaming smile, which illumined his whole countenance, the prince slowly and noiselessly stepped forward.

"Well," murmured Fritz Wendel in his hiding-place, "I have some curiosity to know what the prince has to say to this sleeping beauty; but, nevertheless, I would give a year of my life if I could slip away unobserved, for if the prince discovers me here I am lost!"

He retired to that part of the grotto where the foliage was thickest, still however securing a place from which he could observe all that took place in the myrtle arbor.



CHAPTER III.

PRINCE AUGUSTUS WILLIAM.

The prince entered the myrtle arbor, and, perceiving the lovely sleeper, he approached her with a joyful countenance.

"Madonna, my Madonna, let me pray to you, let me look at you," he murmured. "Listen to my pleadings, and let a ray of your love sink into my heart." Laura moved in her sleep, and uttered a few indistinct words. The prince kneeled motionless before her, and watched all her movements. The dreams that visited her were not bright; Laura moaned and sighed in her sleep; her countenance assumed an expression so sad and painful that the eyes of the prince filled with tears. "She is suffering," he murmured; "why should she suffer? what is it that causes my beloved to sigh?" Suddenly she opened her eyes, arose, and fastened her astonished and half-dreamy gaze upon the prince, who with folded hands was still kneeling before her, and gazing on her with tender, pleading eyes. A trembling seized her whole being, as the ocean trembles when touched by the first ray of the sun. A sweet, blissful astonishment was painted on every feature. "Am I still dreaming?" she murmured, passing her hand across her brow, and pushing aside her long dark hair—"am I still dreaming?"

"Yes, you are dreaming," murmured Prince Augustus, seizing her hands and pressing them to his lips, "you are dreaming, Madonna, let me dream with you, and be forever blessed. Oh! withdraw not your hand, be not angry, let us still dream for one blessed moment." But she hastily set her hands free and arose from her seat; grandly and proudly she stood before him, and her flashing eyes rested with a severe and reproachful expression upon the still kneeling prince.

"Arise, my prince; it is not proper that the brother of the king should kneel before me; arise, and have the kindness to inform me what circumstances procured me the rare and unsolicited favor of being sought by your royal highness. But no, I divine it; you owe me no explanation; the queen has asked for me, and your highness was so gracious as to seek for the tardy servant, who is sleeping while her mistress calls; allow me to hasten to her." Laura, feeling her strength failing, and suppressing with pain the tears that sprang from her heart to her eyes, endeavored to pass the prince.

But he held her back; the timidity that had so often made him appear shy and embarrassed had vanished; he felt that at this moment he faced his destiny, and that his future depended upon the result of this interview. "No," he said earnestly, "the queen did not call you, she does not need you; remain, therefore, mademoiselle, and grant me a few moments of your time." His solemn voice and determined expression made her tremble, but still entranced; her soul bowed in humility and fear before him. She had always seen him humble and pleading, always submissive and obedient; now his glance was commanding, his voice imperious; and she, who had been able to withstand the entreaties of a lover, found no courage to resist the angry and commanding man. "Remain," he repeated; "be seated, and allow me to speak to you honestly and truly."

Laura seated herself obediently and tremblingly; the prince stood before her, and looked at her with a sad smile.

"Yesterday you returned my letter unopened, but now you must hear me, Laura; I wish it, and no woman can withstand the strong will of the man who loves her."

Laura trembled and grew pale; she feared that if at this moment he bade her forsake all, cast away, and trample under foot her honor, her reputation, her innocence and pure conscience, she would obey him as a true and humble slave, and follow and serve him her whole life.

"Yes, you shall hear me; I will know my fate—know if you really despise my great and devoted love, if you are without pity, without sympathy for my suffering, my struggles and despair. I should think that true, genuine love would, like the music of Orpheus, have power to animate stones and flowers, and my love cannot even move the heart of a noble, feeling girl. What is the reason? why do you fly from me? Is it, Laura, because you deem me unworthy of your love? because your heart feels no emotion for me? are you cold and severe because you hold me for a bold beggar, who longs for the treasure belonging to another, whom you despise because he begs for what should be the free gift of your heart? Or has your heart never been touched by love? If this is so, Laura, and my love has not the power to awaken your heart, then do not speak, but let me leave you quietly. I will try to bear my misery or die; I shall have no one but myself to reproach, for God has denied me the power of winning love. But if this is not the reason of your coldness, if we are only separated by the vain prejudices of rank and birth, O Laura, I entreat you, if this is all that separate us, speak one single word of comfort, of hope, one single low word, and I will conquer the whole world, break down all prejudices and laws, and cast them from me. I will be as great and strong as Hercules, to clear the way, and make it smooth for our love. I will present you to the world as my betrothed, and before God and my king call you my wife. Speak, Laura, is it so? Do you fly from me because of this star upon my breast—because I am called a royal prince? I implore you, tell me, is it so? if not, if you cast me from you because you do not love me, say nothing and I will go away for ever."

A long, painful silence ensued. The prince watched the pained, frightened countenance of the young girl, who sat before him with bowed head, pale and motionless.

"It is decided," he sighed, after a long pause; "farewell, I accept my destiny, you have spoken my sentence; may your heart never accuse you of cruelty!" He bowed low before her, then turned and walked across the saloon.

Laura had remained motionless; she now raised her head; she followed him with a glance that, had he seen it, would have brought him back to her—a look that spoke more than words or protestations.

The prince had reached the door once more; he turned, their looks met, and a trembling delight took possession of her whole being; forgetting all danger, she longingly extended her arms toward him, and murmured his name.

With a cry of delight he sprang to her side, and folded her with impassioned tenderness in his arms. Laura concealed her tear-stained face upon his breast, and murmured, "God sees my heart, He knows how long I have prayed and struggled; may He be more merciful, more compassionate than man! I shall be cast off, despised; let it be, I shall think of this hour, and be happy."

"No one shall dare to insult you," he said proudly; "from this hour you are my affianced, and some day I shall present you to the world as my wife."

Smiling sadly, she shook her head. "Let us not speak of the future; it may be dark and sorrowful. I will not complain, I will bear my cross joyfully, and thank God for your love."

He kissed the tears from her eyes, and murmured sweet and holy promises of love and faith. It was a moment of blissful joy, but Laura suddenly trembled and raised her head from his breast to listen. The beating of drums and quickly-rolling carriages were heard without. "The king!" cried the young girl. "The king," murmured Prince Augustus, sadly, and he ventured no longer to hold the young girl in his arms. They were both awakened from their short, blessed dream, both were reminded of the world, and the obstacles that lay in their path. In their great happiness they had appeared small, but now were assuming giant-like proportions.

"I must hasten to the queen," said Laura, rising; "her majesty will need me."

"And I must go and meet the king," sighed the prince.

"Go quickly; let us hasten, and take different paths to the castle."

He took her hand and held it to his lips. "Farewell, my beloved, my bride; trust me, and be strong in love and hope."

"Farewell," she murmured, and endeavored to pass him.

Once more he detained her. "Shall we meet here again? will you let me enjoy here another hour of your dear presence? Oh, bow not your head; do not blush; your sweet confession has made of this place a temple of love, and here I will approach you with pure and holy thoughts." He looked long into her beautiful, blushing face.

"We will see each other here again," she murmured; "every day I shall await you here at the same hour; now hasten, hasten."

Both left the saloon; it was again silent and deserted; in a few moments Fritz Wendel stepped out from the grotto with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"This is a noble secret that I have discovered—a secret that will bring me golden fruits. Louise von Schwerin is not more widely separated from the poor gardener, Fritz Wendel, than Mademoiselle Pannewitz from Prince Augustus William. A gardener can rise and become a nobleman, but Mademoiselle Pannewitz can never become a princess, never be the wife of her lover. Louise von Schwerin shall no longer be ashamed of the love of Fritz Wendel; I will tell her what I have seen, I will take her into the grotto, and let her witness the rendezvous of the prince and his beloved, and whilst he is telling Laura of his love, I will be with my Louise."



CHAPTER IV.

THE KING AND THE SON.

Laura was not mistaken. It was the king whom the castle guard were saluting with the beat of the drum. It was the king coming to pay his first visit to his mother at Monbijou. He came unannounced, and the perplexed, anxious looks of the cavaliers showed that his appearance had caused more disturbance and terror than joy. With a slight laugh he turned to his grand chamberlain, Pollnitz.

"Go tell her majesty that her son Frederick awaits her." And followed by Kaiserling and the cavaliers of the queen, he entered the garden saloon.

Queen Sophia Dorothea received the king's message with a proud, beaming smile. She was not then deceived, her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled; the young king was an obedient, submissive son; she was for him still the reigning queen, the mother entitled to command. The son, not the king, had come, disrobed of all show of royalty, to wait humbly as a suppliant for her appearance. She felt proud, triumphant! A glorious future lay before her. She would be a queen at last—a queen not only in name, but in truth. Her son was King of Prussia, and she would be co-regent. Her entire court should be witness to this meeting; they should see her triumph, and spread the news far and wide.

He came simply, without ceremony, as her son, but she would receive him according to etiquette, as it beseemed a queen. She wore a long, black trailing gown, a velvet ermine-bordered mantle, and caught up the black veil that was fastened in her hair with several brilliants. All preparations were at last finished, and the queen, preceded by Pollnitz, arrived in the garden saloon.

Frederick, standing by the window, was beating the glass impatiently with his long, thin fingers. He thought his mother showed but little impatience to see her son who had hurried with all the eagerness of childlike love to greet her. He wondered what could be her motive, and had just surmised it as the door opened and the chamberlain announced in a loud voice—"Her majesty, the widowed queen." A soft, mocking smile played upon his lips for a moment, as the queen entered in her splendid court dress, but it disappeared quickly, and hat in hand he advanced to meet her.

Sophia Dorothea received him with a gracious smile, and gave him her hand to kiss.

"Your majesty is welcome," said she, with a trembling voice, for it grieved her proud heart to give her son the title of majesty. The king, perceiving something of this, said: "Continue to call me your son, mother, for when with your majesty I am but an obedient, grateful son."

"Well, then, welcome, welcome my son!" cried the queen, with an undisguised expression of rapture, and throwing her arms around him, she kissed his forehead repeatedly. "Welcome to the modest house of a poor, sorrowful widow."

"My wish, dear mother, is, that you shall not think of yourself as a sad widow, but as the mother of a king. I do not desire you to be continually reminded of the great loss we have all sustained, and that God sent upon us. Your majesty is not only the widowed queen, you belong not to the past, but to the present; and I beg that you will be called from this moment, not the widowed queen, but the queen-mother. Grand chamberlain Pollnitz, see that this is done."

For a moment the queen lost her proud, stately bearing; she was deeply touched. The king's delicate attentions made her all the mother, and for a moment love silenced all her proud, imperious wishes.

"Oh, my son, you know how to dry my tears, and to change the sorrowing widow into a proud, happy mother," said she, pressing his hand tenderly to her heart.

The king was so overjoyed at his mother's unfeigned tenderness that he was prepared to agree to all her demands, and humor her in every thing.

"Ah," said he, "I, not you, ought to render thanks that you are so willing to enter into my views. I will put your magnanimity still further to the test, and state a few more of my wishes."

"Let us hear them, my son," said the queen, "but first let me ask a favor."

"Let us be seated."

The king led her to an arm-chair near a window, from which there was a beautiful view of the garden. The queen seated herself, and the young king remained standing in front of her, still holding his hat. Sophia Dorothea saw this, and was enraptured at this new triumph. Turning to the king, she said:

"Let us now hear your wishes, and I promise joyfully to fulfil them."

"I wish," said he, "your majesty to surround herself with a larger and more brilliant court. Two maids of honor are not sufficient for the queen-mother, for if by chance one were sick, and the other fretful, there would be no one to divert and amuse your majesty. I therefore propose that you have six instead of two maids of honor."

The queen looked at him in tender astonishment.

"My son," said she, "you are a veritable magician. You divine all my wishes. Thanks—many, many thanks. But your majesty is not seated," said she, as if just perceiving this.

"Madame," said he, laughing, "I awaited your permission." He seated himself, and said, "You agree to my proposal, mother?"

"I agree to it, and beg your majesty to point out to me the ladies you have decided upon as my six maids of honor. Your majesty has free choice, and all I wish is, to be told when you have decided. I only fear," said the queen, "that with my enlarged court there will not be room for the ladies to have their separate apartments at Monbijou."

"Your majesty is no longer to live in this house," said the king; "it is large enough for a passing summer visit, but it does not answer for the residence of the queen-mother. I spoke some time since to Knobelsdorf, and already a magnificent palace is being built for you."

The queen blushed with pleasure; all her wishes seemed to be fulfilled to-day. She must know whether Sophia Dorothea was to be queen-regent as well as queen-mother. She thanked her son tenderly for this new proof of his love and kindness.

"And still," said she, sighing, "perhaps I ought not to accept of your kindness. My husband's death should remind me of the transitory nature of life, and should lead me to pass the remainder of my days in seclusion, devoting my time to God."