The king looked so anxious, so shocked, that the queen repented having given the conversation this gloomy turn.

"It is cruel, mother," said he, "not to let me enjoy the pleasure of being with you without a drop of wormwood. But I see by your rosy cheeks and bright smile that you only wished to frighten me. Let the architects and masons continue their work: God will be merciful to me, and grant a long life to the noblest and best-beloved of mothers!"

He kissed her hand and rose; Sophia Dorothea was terrified. The king was leaving, and she still did not know how far her influence was to reach and what were to be its limits.

"You will already leave me, my son?" said she, lovingly.

"I must, your majesty. For from here I can hear the Government machinery creaking and groaning; I must hasten to supply it with oil, and set it in motion again. Ah! madame, it is no easy task to be a king. To do justice to all his obligations, a king must rise early and retire late; and I think truly it is much more pleasant to be reigned over than to reign."

The queen could scarcely suppress her delight; the king's words were balm to her ambitious heart.

"I can well see that it is as you say," said she, "but I think that the king has a right to amuse himself; I think that a mother has some claims on her son, even if he is a king. You must not leave now, my son. You must grant me the pleasure of showing you my new conservatory. Give me your arm, and comply with my request."

"Madame, you now see what power you have over me," said he, as she laughingly took his arm. "I forget that I am the servant of my country, because I prefer being the servant of my queen."

The large glass door was opened, and, leaning on the king's arm, the queen entered the garden.

At some distance the princesses with their brother and the rest of the court followed. They were all silent, eagerly listening to the conversation of the royal couple. But the queen did not now care to be heard by her court. They had seen her triumph, but they should not be witness to a possible defeat. She now spoke in a low tone, and hurried her steps, to put a distance between herself and the courtiers. She spoke with the king about the garden, and then asked if he thought of passing the summer at Rheinsberg.

"Alas," said he, "I will not have the time. For a king is but the first officer of his State, and as I receive my salary I must honestly fulfil the duties I have undertaken."

"But I think your majesty does too much," said the queen. "You should allow yourself more relaxation, and not let State matters rest entirely upon your own shoulders. To one who is accustomed to associate with poets, artists, and the sciences, it must be very hard suddenly to bury himself in deeds, documents, and all sorts of dusty papers; you should leave this occasionally to others, and not work the State machinery yourself."

"Madame," said the king, "this machine has secrets and peculiarities that its architect can intrust to no workman, therefore he must lead and govern it himself; and if at times the wheels creak and it is not in perfect order, he has only himself to thank."

"But you have your ministers?"

"They are my clerks—nothing more!"

"Ah, I see, you intend to be a rock and take counsel from no one," said the queen, impatiently.

"Yes, your majesty, from you always; and with your gracious permission I will now consult you."

"Speak, my son, speak," said the queen, in breathless expectation.

"I wish your advice upon theatrical matters. Where must the new opera-house be built?"

The queen's face darkened.

"I am not a suitable adviser for amusements," said she, pointing to her black gown. "My mourning garments do not fit me for such employment, and you well know I do not care for the theatre; for how many cold, dull evenings have I passed there with your father!"

"Ah, madame," said the king, "I was not talking of a German theatre, which I dislike quite as much as yourself. No, we will have a French theatre and an Italian opera. The French alone can act and only the Italians can sing, but we Germans can play; I have therefore charged Graun to compose a new opera for the inauguration of the new opera-house."

"And undoubtedly this inauguration will take place on a festive occasion," said the queen, going directly to the point. "Perhaps at the wedding of one of your sisters?"

"Ah," said he, "your majesty is thinking of a wedding?"

"Not I, but others. Yesterday I received from London a letter from my royal brother. And a few moments ago Count Manteuffel brought me letters of condolence from the Empress of Austria. It seems the count was, besides this, commissioned to sound me as to a possible marriage with Prince Augustus."

"It is very unnecessary for the count to burden you with matters which are happily beyond the reach of your motherly duties. For, alas! the marrying of princes is a political affair, and is not determined by the mother's heart, but by the necessities of the kingdom."

The queen bit her lip until it bled. "Your majesty is, undoubtedly, thinking of performing this political obligation, and have chosen a bride for the prince," said she, sharply.

"Forgive me," said the king laughing, "I am not now thinking of marrying, but of unmarrying."

Sophia Dorothea looked anxiously at the king. "How, my son, are you thinking of a divorce?" said she, tremblingly.

"Not of one, but of many, mother. Does your majesty know that I have abolished the torture?"

"No," said the queen impatiently, "I did not—politics do not concern me."

"That is in conformity with the true womanly character of my mother," said he. "There is nothing so insipid and tiresome as a woman who gives up the graces and muses to excite herself with politics."

"And still your majesty was just initiating me into politics."

"Ah, yes, I told you I had abolished the torture."

"And I ask, how does that concern me?"

"You ask why I am thinking of divorces? Well, I told you that I had abolished the torture, and in doing this it was but natural that I busied myself about marriage. For your majesty will grant me that there is no severer rack, no more frightful torture, than an unhappy marriage."

"It seems as if with the torture you will also abolish marriage," said the queen, terrified.

The king laughed. "Ah, no, madame, I am not pope, and have not received the right from God to decide over men's consciences, though perhaps the majority would be inclined to call me holy, and to honor me with godlike worship, if I would really abolish the torture of matrimony. But I am not ambitious, and renounce all claim to adoration. But while engaged in abolishing the torture, I could but see that when the marriage chains had ceased to be garlands of roses, and were transformed into heavy links of iron, there should be some means found to break them. I have therefore commanded that if two married people cannot live harmoniously, a divorce shall not be denied them. I hope that my royal mother agrees with me."

"Ah, there will soon be many divorce cases," said the queen, with a contemptuous smile. "All who are not thoroughly happy will hasten to the king for a divorce. Who knows but that the king himself will set the people a good example?"

"With God's help, madame," said the king, gravely. "My noble mother will always wish me to set my people a good example. A king is but the servant of a nation."

"That is, indeed, an humble idea of a king, a king by the grace of God."

"Madame, I do not crave to be called a king by the grace of God. I prefer being king by my own right and strength. But forgive me, mother. You see how these politics mix themselves up with every thing. Let them rest. You were speaking, I think, of the marriage of one of the princes?"

"We were speaking of the marriage of Prince Augustus William," said the queen, who, with the obstinacy of a true woman, always returned to the point from which she had started, and who, in the desire of gaining her point, had lost all consideration and presence of mind. "I was telling you that I received yesterday a letter from my royal brother, and that King George the Second is anxious to form an alliance between our children."

"Another marriage with England!" said the king, dejectedly. "You know there is no good luck in our English marriages. The courier who brings the English consent is always too late."

The queen was enraged. "You mean that you have decided upon a bride for my son, that again my darling wish of intermarrying my children with the royal house of England is not to be realized? Ah, your father's example must have been very satisfactory to you, as you follow so quickly in his footsteps."

"I truly find, madame, that the king acted wisely in not regarding in the marriage of the prince royal the wishes of his heart and his family, but political interests, which he was bound to consider. I will certainly follow his example, and take counsel over the marriage of the prince royal, not with my own heart, not even with the wishes of my royal mother, but with the interests of Prussia."

"But Augustus William is not prince royal," cried the queen, with trembling lips. "The prince is only your brother, and you may have many sons who will dispute with him the succession to the throne."

An expression of deep sorrow lay like a dark veil upon the handsome face of the king. "I will have no children," said he, "and Prince Augustus William will be my successor."

The queen had not the heart to reply. She looked at her son in amazement. Their eyes met, and the sad though sweet expression of the usually clear, sparkling eyes of her son touched her, and awoke the mother's heart. With a hasty movement she took his hands, pressed them to her heart, and said: "Ah, my son, how poor is this life! You are young, handsome, and highly gifted, you are a king, and still you are not happy."

The king's face was brighter, his eyes sparkled as before.

"Life," said he, smiling, "is not a pleasure, but a duty, and if we honestly perform this duty we will be happy in the end. It is now time to return to my prison and be king once more."

He embraced his mother tenderly, laughed and jested for a few moments with his sisters Ulrica and Amelia, then left, followed by his cavaliers. Sophia Dorothea remained in the garden, and Ulrica, her favorite daughter, followed her.

"Your majesty looks sad and grave," said she, "and you have every reason to look happy. The king was remarkably kind and amiable. Only think of it, you will have six maids of honor, and a beautiful palace is being built for you!"

"Oh, yes," said the queen, "I will be surrounded with outward glory."

"And how anxious the king seemed for you to forget the past!" said Princess Amelia, who, with Prince Augustus William, had joined her mother and sister, "you are not the widowed queen but the queen-mother."

"Yes," murmured Sophia Dorothea to herself, "I am queen-mother, but I will never be queen-regent. Ah, my children," cried she, passionately, "the king, your brother, was right. Princes are not born to be happy. He is not so, and you will never be!"



CHAPTER V.

THE QUEEN'S TAILOR.

A dreary silence had reigned for some time in the usually gay and happy family circle of the worthy court tailor. No one dared to speak or laugh aloud. M. Pricker, the crown and head of the house, was sad and anxious, and the storm-cloud upon his brow threw a dark reflection upon the faces of his wife and two children, the beautiful Anna, and the active, merry Wilhelm, Even the assistants in the work-room were affected by the general gloom; the gay songs of the apprentices were silenced, and the pretty house-maids looked discontented and dull.

A tempest lowered over the house, and all appeared to tremble at its approach. When Wilhelm, the son and heir of the house, returned from his work, he hastened to his mother's room, and casting a curious glance upon the old woman, who was seated on a sofa, grim-looking, and supporting her head upon her hand, he said, mysteriously—

"Not yet!"

Mother Pricker shook her head, sighed deeply, and replied:

"Not yet!"

The beautiful Anna was generally in her elegant room, painting or singing, and did not allow herself to be disturbed; but now when the bell rang, or a strange step was heard, she hastened to her mother, and said:

"Well, has it come?"

Again Mother Pricker sighed, shook her head, and answered—

"Not yet!"

M. Pricker asked nothing, demanded nothing; silent and proud he sat in the midst of his family circle; stoically listened to the ringing of the bell, and saw strangers enter his counting-room, too proud to show any excitement. He wrapped himself in an Olympian silence, and barricaded himself from the curious questions of his children by the stern reserve of parental authority.

"I see that he suffers," said his wife to her daughter Anna; "I see that he looks paler every day, and eats less and less; if this painful anxiety endures much longer, the poor man will become dangerously ill, and the king will be answerable for the death of one of his noblest and best subjects."

"But why does our father attach such importance to this small affair?" said Anna, with a lofty shrug of her shoulders.

Mother Pricker looked at her with astonishment.

"You call this a small affair, which concerns not only the honor of your father, but that of your whole family; which affects the position and calling enjoyed by the Pricker family for a hundred years? It is a question whether your father shall be unjustly deprived of his honorable place, or have justice done him, and his great services acknowledged!"

Anna gave a hearty laugh.

"Dear mother, you look at this thing too tragically; you are making a camel of a gnat. The great and exalted things of which you speak have nothing to do with the matter; it is a simple question of title. The great point is, will our father receive the title of 'court tailor' to the reigning queen, or be only the tailor of the queen-dowager. It seems to me the difference is very small, and I cannot imagine why so much importance is attached to it."

"You do not understand," sighed Mother Pricker; "you do not love your family; you care nothing for the honor of your house!"

"Pshaw! to be the daughter of a tailor is a very poor and doubtful honor," said Anna, drearily, "even if he is the tailor of one or even two queens. Our father is rich enough to live without this contemptible business; yes, to live in style. He has given his children such an education as nobles only receive; I have had my governess and my music-teacher; my brother his tutor; my father has not allowed him to walk through the streets, fearing that he might fall into the hands of the recruiting-officers. We have each our private rooms, beautifully furnished, and are the envy of all our friends. Why, notwithstanding all this, will he condemn us to be and to continue to be the children of a tailor? Why does he not tear down the sign from the door; this sign, which will be ever a humiliation, even though 'court tailor' should be written upon it! This title will never enable us to appear at court, and the noble cavaliers will never think of marrying the daughter of a tailor, though many would seek to do so if our father would give up his needlework, buy a country seat, and live, as rich and distinguished men do, upon his estate."

"Child, child, what are you saying?" cried Mother Pricker, clasping her hands with anguish. "Thy father give up his stand, his honorable stand, which, for more than a hundred years, has been inherited by the family! Thy father demean himself to buy with his honorably-earned gold a son-in-law from amongst the poor nobles, who will be ever thinking of the honor done us in accepting thee and thy sixty thousand dollars! Thy father buy a country-seat, and spend in idleness that fortune which his forefathers and himself have been collecting for hundreds of years! That can never be, and never will your father consent to your marriage with any other man than an honest burgher; and he will never allow Wilhelm to have any other calling than that of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, a court tailor."

The beautiful Anna stamped involuntarily upon the floor, and a flush of scorn spread itself over her soft cheek. "I will not wed a burgher," said she, tossing her head proudly back, "and my brother Wilhelm will never carry on the business of his father."

"Then your father will disinherit you—cast you out amongst strangers to beg your bread," said the old woman, wringing her hands.

"God be thanked," said Anna proudly, "there is no necessity for begging our bread; we have learned enough to carry us honorably through the world, and when all else fails, I have a capital in my voice which assures me a glittering future. The king will found an opera-house, and splendid singers are so rare that Prussia will thank God if I allow myself to be prevailed upon to take the place of prima donna."

"Oh! unhappy, wretched child!" sobbed Mother Pricker, "you will dishonor your family, you will make us miserable, and cover us with shame; you will become an actress, and we must live to see our respectable, yes, celebrated name upon a play-bill, and pasted upon every corner."

"You will have the honor of hearing all the world speak of your daughter, of seeing sweet flowers and wreaths thrown before her whenever she appears, and of seeing her praises in every number of every journal in Berlin. I shall be exalted to the skies, and the parents called blessed who have given me life."

"These are the NEW ideas," gasped out her mother—"the new ideas which are now the mode, and which our new king favors. Alas! wailing and sorrow will come over our whole city; honor and principle will disappear, and destruction like that of Sodom and Gomorrah will fall upon Berlin! These are the alluring temptations with which Baron Pollnitz fills your ear and crushes in your heart the worthy and seemly principles of your family. That,"—suddenly she stopped and listened; it seemed to her the bell rung; truly there was a step upon the stairs, and some one asked for M. and Madame Pricker.

"Pollnitz," whispered Anna, and a glowing blush overspread her face, throat, and neck.

"The Baron Pollnitz, the master of ceremonies," said Madame Pricker, with a mixture of joy and alarm.

The door flew open, and with a gay, frolicsome greeting, Pollnitz danced into the room; Anna had turned to the window, and made no reply to his greeting. Madame Pricker stepped toward him, and greeted him with the most profound reverence, calling him master of ceremonies and master of the bed-chamber.

"Not so," said Pollnitz; "why so much reverence and so many titles? I am indeed master of ceremonies, but without the title. His majesty, the young king, has no special fondness for renewing the titles lent to us by his blessed father, and every prayer and every representation to that effect has been in vain; he considers titles ridiculous and superfluous."

Madame Pricker turned pale, and murmured some incomprehensible words. Anna, however, who had up to this time been turned toward the window, suddenly looked at the two speakers, and fixed her great eyes questioningly upon the baron.

"Ah, at last I have the honor to see you, fair, beautiful Anna!" said Pollnitz; "I knew well some magic was necessary to fix those splendid eyes on me. Allow me to kiss your hand, most honored lady, and forgive me if I have disturbed you." Ho flew with an elegant pirouette to Anna, and took her hand, which she did not extend to him, and, indeed, struggled to withhold; he then turned again to Madame Pricker, and bowing to her, said, with a solemn pathos: "I am not here to-day simply as the friend of the house, but as the ambassador of the king; and I beseech the honored Madame Pricker to announce to her husband that I wish to speak to him, and to deliver a message from the queen."

Madame Pricker uttered a cry of joy, and forgetting all other considerations, hastened to the counting-room of her husband, to make known to him the important information.

Baron Pollnitz watched her till the door closed, then turned to Anna, who still leaned immovable in the window. "Anna, dearest Anna," whispered he tenderly, "at last we are alone! How I have pined for you, how happy I am to see you once again!"

He sought to press her fondly to his heart, but the maiden waved him proudly and coldly back. "Have you forgotten our agreement?" said she, earnestly.

"No, I have held your cruelty in good remembrance; only, when I have fulfilled all your commands, will you deign to listen to my glowing wishes; when I have induced your father to employ for you another singing-master, and arranged for your glorious and heavenly voice to be heard by the king and the assembled court?"

"Yes," cried Anna, with glowing eyes and burning cheeks, "that is my aim, my ambition. Yes, I will be a singer; all Europe shall resound with my fame; all men shall lie at my feet; and princes and queens shall seek to draw me into their circles."

"And I will be the happiest of the happy, when the lovely nightingale has reached the goal. From my hand shall she first wing her flight to fame. But, when I have fulfilled my word, when you have sung in the royal palace before the queen and the court, then will YOU fulfil your promise? Then Pollnitz will be the happiest of mortals."

"I will fulfil my word," she said, as proudly and imperiously as if she were already the celebrated and grace-dispensing prima donna. "On the day in which I sing for the first time before the king—the day in which the tailor's daughter has purified herself from the dishonor of her humble birth, and becomes a free, self-sustaining, distinguished artist—on that day we will have no reason to be ashamed of our love, and we can both, without humiliation, present our hearts to each other. Baron Pollnitz can take for his wife, without blushing, the woman ennobled by art, and Prima Donna Anna Pricker need not be humbled by the thought that Baron Pollnitz has forgotten his rank in his choice of a wife."

Baron Pollnitz, courtier as he was, had not his features so completely under control as to conceal wholly the shock conveyed by the words of his beautiful sweetheart. He stared for a moment, speechless, into that lovely face, glowing with enthusiasm, ambition, and love. A mocking, demoniac smile appeared one moment on his lips, then faded quickly, and Pollnitz was again the tender, passionate lover of Anna Pricker. "Yes, my dearly-beloved Anna," whispered he, clasping her in his arms, "on that blessed and happy day you will be my wife, and the laurels entwined in your hair will be changed into a myrtle-wreath." He embraced her passionately, and she resisted no longer, but listened ever to his words, which, like sweet opium, poisoned both the ear and heart of the young girl. But Pollnitz released her suddenly, and stepped back, colder and more self-possessed than Anna. He had heard a light, approaching step. "Some one comes; be composed, dear one; your face betrays too much of your inward emotion." He danced to the open piano and played a merry strain, while Anna hid her blushes in the branches of a geranium placed in the window, and tried to cool her glowing cheeks on the fresh green leaves.

Madame Pricker opened the door, and bade the master of ceremonies enter the adjoining room, where M. Pricker awaited him.



CHAPTER VI.

THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OF A TAILOR.

Pollnitz offered his arm to the lovely Anna, and followed Madame Pricker, laughing and jesting, into the next room. This was a long hall, which had an appearance of gloom and solemnity in its arrangements and decorations. The high walls, hung with dark tapestry, were poorly lighted by two windows. Several divans, covered with a heavy silken material, the same color as the tapestry, were placed against the sides of the room, and over them hung a few oil paintings in black frames, each representing the figure of a man with a most solemn expression and bearing. The remarkable resemblance which these pictures bore to each other convinced you that they must be the portraits of one family. In each appeared the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and only the costumes served to point out by their various styles the different periods at which they had been painted. A figure, closely resembling the pictures, stood in the centre of the hall; it had the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and even the same dress as that represented in one of the pictures. You might have supposed that some galvanic experiment had given life and motion to the painted form, and that as soon as this power was exhausted it would become lifeless, and return to its place among the other pictures. But this figure was certainly living, for it greeted the grand chamberlain, without, however, leaving the round table which stood in the centre of the room.

"I welcome you to the house of my fathers," it said, with great dignity. Pollnitz threw a laughing, jesting glance toward Anna, who had left his side on entering the room, and had withdrawn to one of the windows.

"Why are you so earnest and solemn to-day, my dear Pricker?" said he, turning to the old gentleman.

"Are you not here as the ambassador of the royal court?" he replied. "I wished to receive you with all honor, and therefore desired you to come into this hall, that I might hear the royal message in the midst of my ancestors. Tell me now how can I serve the house of my sovereign."

"You can serve it, my dear Pricker," said Pollnitz, smiling, as he displayed a large sealed paper, "by altering the sign upon your door. In the place of 'court tailor of the queen and princess royal,' it should read—'court tailor of the dowager and of the reigning queen.' Here is the patent, my dear sir."

The old man quietly took the paper; not a feature of his cold, solemn face moved.

Madame Pricker, however, could not conceal her joy. With a cry of delight she hurried to her husband, to embrace and congratulate him on his appointment.

Pricker waved her proudly back.

"Why do you congratulate me?" he said. "The house of Hohenzollern has only done justice to my house, that is all. The title of court tailor to the reigning queen has become an inheritance in my family, and it would be a great ingratitude in the house of Hohenzollern to withhold it from me. For more than a century the Hohenzollerns have been dressed by my family; we have prepared their apparel for every ball and wedding, every baptism or burial; and if they were arrayed with elegance, it was entirely owing to our taste and dexterity. The proverb says, 'The tailor makes the man,' and it is true. We made the coronation dresses of both the queens; it follows that they could not have been crowned without our assistance, for which we, of course, deserve their gratitude."

"I assure you, however, my dear friend," said Pollnitz, "that it was with much difficulty I obtained this appointment for you, and you owe me some acknowledgments. All of my eloquence was necessary to induce the queen to grant my prayer."

Pricker grew pale, and his countenance lost its calm dignity.

"Take back your patent," he said, proudly, handing the baron the sealed paper; "I will not accept this title if it is not given willingly."

"No, no, keep it," cried Pollnitz; "you merit it; it is your right; I only mentioned the difficulty with which I obtained it, that I might win your heart, and incline you to grant a request which I wish to make."

"I suppose you allude to the five hundred dollars which I lent you last month," said Pricker, smiling, "Speak of that no more—the debt is cancelled."

"Thank you," said Pollnitz, "but I was not thinking of that small affair; it was quite another request I wished to make."

"Let me hear it," said the tailor, with a most gracious inclination of the head.

"It concerns a young artist, who I would like to recommend to your protection," returned the crafty Pollnitz, with a side glance at Anna. "He is a young and talented musician, who desires to gain a livelihood by giving instruction, but unfortunately he is a stranger here, and has found but few patrons. I thought, therefore, that if you, who are so well known, would interest yourself in him, and give him your patronage, it would greatly benefit him, for doubtless many others would hasten to follow your example. If you will allow him to give singing-lessons to your daughter Anna, his fortune is assured."

"I grant your request," said Pricker, solemnly, not for an instant doubting the motive of the baron. "I will bestow my protection upon this young artist; he can give my daughter a daily lesson, that is, if Anna is willing to show this kindness to the poor young man."

Anna could scarcely restrain her laughter, as she replied:

"You have commanded it, and I will obey, as a daughter should do."

"Very well," said her father, majestically; "that matter is arranged. And now, baron, I beg you will inform me at what time the coronation will take place, that I may make my preparations, and not be the cause of any delay on that solemn occasion."

"The day of the coronation has not been decided, but it will certainly not be fixed before the first of August. You will have time to make all your preparations. Later we will hold a consultation with her majesty the queen, and decide the style, color, and material of the costumes. I will only give you a single word of counsel, my dear friend. Accommodate yourself to the new era. Remember that we have a new king, who is the counterpart of his father. The father hated and despised elegance and fashion—the son adores them; the father was the sworn enemy of French manners—the son has a perfect passion for them; and if you would please the son, you must lay aside your old German habits and customs, as we have all done, and walk in the new path. I tell you a new era is approaching, a period of glory and splendor. Every thing will be altered, but, above all, we will have new fashions. In the first place, you must rid yourself of your German apprentices, and replace them as quickly as possible with French workmen from Paris. That is the only means of retaining the court favor."

Pricker listened to all this with horror and astonishment. His cheeks were white, and his voice trembled with anger, as he cried:

"Never shall that happen! Never will I adopt the innovations which are now the fashion. Shall I lay aside my respectable dress, to replace it with a monkey-jacket, and become a laughing-stock to all honest men? Shall I so far forget my God, my forefathers, and my native land, as to call French workmen into my German work-room? Shame on me if I ever conduct myself in such a godless and unchristian manner! Never shall a French foot cross the threshold of my dwelling! never shall a French word be spoken there! I was born a German, and I will die a German. True to my fathers, and to the commands of my sainted sovereign, who hated and despised these frivolous French fashions, it shall be my pride to retain the good old German customs, and never shall a dress cut in the French style be made in my work-room."

"If you act in this manner, the time of your good fortune is past," said Pollnitz.

Pricker paid no attention to him, but looking at the pictures which hung on the wall, he bowed respectfully before one of them.

"Look!" he said, pointing to one of the portraits, "that is my great-great-grandfather. He was a German, and the best and ablest of men. With him began the connection between the houses of Hohenzollern and Pricker. For him the Prince George William created the title of court tailor, and he would wear no garment that was not made by his favorite. He remembered him in his will, and from that time began the importance of the Prickers.

"Then look at the next picture. It is the portrait of his son, who was the court tailor of Frederick William, the great elector. He made the suit worn by the elector at the battle of Fehrbellin; it was, however, the unhappy duty of his son to make the burial-dress of this great man.

"But with this portrait begins a new era for Prussia; this was the tailor of Frederick the Third, and he made the robe and mantle which Frederick wore on the day of his coronation. His son succeeded him, and now began a new era for the Prickers.

"The son did not follow the example of his father; he was of a softer, a more poetical nature. He loved flowers and poetry, and adored beauty; he therefore became a lady's tailor. The princess royal, Sophia Dorothea, appointed him her tailor. He made the coronation robe of the queen, and the wedding-dress of the Margravine of Baireuth.

"When he died he was succeeded by his son, the now living Pricker. I made the wedding-dress of the Duchess of Brunswick, and the mourning of the present dowager-queen. And now, in the very presence of my ancestors, you tempt me to become a traitor to them and to their customs. No, I am a German, and I remain a German, even should it cause my ruin!"

He bowed to the amused and astonished baron, and walked proudly through the hall to his work-room. His wife followed him with folded hands and heavy sighs.

Pollnitz and the lovely Anna were again alone.

"What an absurd man!" said Pollnitz, laughing. "If Moliere had known him he would have worked his character into a charming farce."

"You forget that this absurd man may soon be your father-in-law," said Anna, sternly, as she left his side.

"That is true," said Pollnitz, smiling; "we will spare him. Come, one last kiss, my beautiful Anna—one kiss as a reward for my successful acting. To-morrow you will have a singing-master, who is no poor wretch, but a celebrated and influential musician, who has undertaken to instruct you out of pure kindness for me, for he is not a teacher but a composer. Graun himself will be your instructor, and it rests with you to crown our love with the happiest results."



CHAPTER VII.

SOFFRI E TACI.

The most ardent desire of the young queen was about to be accomplished; she was to have a private and unconstrained interview with her husband. The days of resignation, of hope deferred, and of hidden sorrow, were now over. The dearly-beloved and longed-for husband had at last returned to her! She need no longer hide her head in shame from her own servants, who, she imagines, are secretly laughing at and mocking her, because the young king is so cold and indifferent. She need no longer envy the poor woman she saw in the street yesterday, carrying dinner to her laboring husband. She will also have a husband, and will feel the guiding and supporting arm of a strong man at her side. No longer will she be a poor, neglected queen, but a proud and happy wife, envied of all the world.

He had written that he desired to pay her a visit, and had requested her not to lock her door, as important business would prevent his coming until quite late. He would, however, certainly come, as he desired to have a private interview with her on this very evening.

How wearily the hours of this day have passed, how slowly the sun sank to rest! It is at last evening; night is coming on. Elizabeth can now dismiss her attendants, and retire to her private apartments to await her husband. He shall see how joyfully she will receive him, how happy he has made her. She will adorn herself, that he may be pleased; she will be beautiful, that he may smile upon her.

The queen, with the assistance of her astonished maids, attires herself for the first time in one of the charming negligees recently sent by the Empress of Austria; for the first time she dons her prettily-worked and coquettish little cap, and encloses her tiny feet in gold-embroidered white satin slippers. This neglige? is really charming, and the queen's waiting-maids assure her that she never looked better, and was never more becomingly attired. But the queen desires to assure herself of this fact, and stepping forward to the mirror, she examines her dress with the careful eye of a connoisseur; then bending down, she regards her face attentively, and an expression of satisfaction flits over her features. Elizabeth sees that she is young and pretty, and for the first time rejoices in her beauty. The maids regarded with astonishment these unusual preparations. Why was Elizabeth now so much rejoiced at the beauty of which she had never before seemed conscious?

The toilet is at an end; the queen seats herself on the light blue sofa, and dismisses her maids with a mute gesture. But when the first maid approaches the door, and as usual drew the key from the lock in order to secure it from the outside, Elizabeth awakes from her dreamy state and arises from her reclining position; a glowing color suffuses her cheek, and a happy smile plays around her lips.

"Do not lock the door to-day," said she, with emotion; "I await the king."

As if astonished at her new happiness, she sinks back on the cushions, and covers her glowing face with her handkerchief, as if to shut out the dazzling light. The waiting-maids courtesy respectfully, and leave the room. In the ante-chamber this respectful expression vanishes from their features, and they turn to each other with mocking and derisive laughter.

"Poor queen! she wishes to make us believe that the king, while he altogether neglects her in public, sometimes pays her a secret visit. She wishes to make us believe that she is really the wife of the handsome young king; and we all know—yes, we all know—"

And all three shrugged their shoulders derisively, and hurried off to their associates, to gossip with them about the poor, despised, neglected queen.

But what was that? Did they not hear a carriage driving into the inner court, and the guard presenting arms amid the rolling of drums? Could it be as the queen had said? was the king really coming to his wife? The waiting-maids stood and listened; they heard steps on the grand staircase. Yes, it was the king, who, preceded by his pages, carrying silver candelabras with wax candles, walked hastily down the corridor to his chambers, and from thence to those of the queen.

What the queen had said was therefore true. He did not despise her; perhaps he loved her! The astonished waiting-maids hurried off to inform their friends that the king loved his wife passionately, and the royal pair was the happiest couple on earth. Elizabeth Christine also heard the equipages drive in to the court. With a cry of delight she sprang from her seat and listened. A fervent glow of happiness shot through her veins. She pressed her hands to her heart to still its rapid beating; her countenance was illumined with joy. But these feelings were so novel they almost terrified her, and filled her heart with tremulous anxiety.

"My God," murmured she, "give me strength to bear this happiness, as I have borne misery!"

But her prayer died on her lips, for she heard the door of the corridor open. She was no longer the queen, no longer the resigned and timid wife; she was now the happy and joyful woman hurrying to meet the husband of her love. And with uplifted head and proud satisfaction she might now confess without shame that she loved him; for he loved her also. He had requested a rendezvous, and was coming as a lover-her first love meeting. She will not be shy and silent to-day, now that she knows he loves her; her tongue will no longer be chained; she will have courage to confess all, to tell him how ardently she loves him, and how long and vainly she has struggled with her heart; how the flames had ever broken out anew; how his glances had ever renewed the ardor of her love.

There—he knocked at the door—she could scarcely breathe; she could scarcely bid him enter; she could not move, and stood transfixed in the middle of the room; she could only stretch out her arms longingly, and welcome him with her smiles and tearful glances.

The door opened; now he entered. The light of the wax candles fell on his face. It was handsome as ever, but his eye was cold, and his lips uttered no loving greeting. He walked forward a few steps, stood still, and bowed in a stiff and formal manner. A chill of horror crept over Elizabeth; her arms sank down, and the smile vanished from her pallid face.

"Madame," said the king, and his voice sounded harsher and colder than she had ever before heard it—"madame, I must first beg your pardon for having disturbed you at so unseemly a time, and for having robbed you of an hour's sleep. But you see that I am a repentant sinner, and you will forgive me when I assure you that, as this is my first, it shall also be my last violation of your retirement!"

The queen uttered a low cry, and pressed her hand to her heart. She felt as if a sword had pierced her breast, as if she were dying.

The king raised his large blue eyes with a surprised look to the pale, trembling face of his wife.

"You are pale, you are ill," said he, "and my presence is undoubtedly annoying; I will retire and send your waiting-maids to your assistance."

While he was speaking the queen prayed to God for courage and strength; she called her womanly pride to her assistance, and struggled against her tears and her despair. The king, who in vain had waited for an answer, now hastily approached the door, murmuring a few impatient words.

But Elizabeth's courage had now returned, she had conquered her heart.

"Remain, sire," she said; "I beg you to remain; I feel well again. It was only a passing spasm from which I often suffer, and for which I crave your indulgence."

"If I may then remain," said the king, smiling, "permit me to conduct you to a seat."

She accepted the king's proffered arm and followed him to the sofa on which she had awaited him with such blissful anticipations, and on which he was now about to put her heart to the torture.

The king did not seat himself by her side, but rolling an arm-chair forward, seated himself at some distance in front of her.

"Madame," said he, "is it credible that we two have been married for seven long years, and still have never been as man and wife to each other? Our lips were forced to pronounce vows of which our hearts knew nothing. Having been forced into this marriage, you must have hated me. You can never have forgiven me for having led you to the altar. At the foot of the altar we did not vow eternal love to each other, but eternal coldness and indifference; and to this hour, madame, you, at least, have faithfully kept this vow."

The queen sank back, murmuring a few incomprehensible words, and her head fell wearily upon her breast.

The king continued: "I come to-day to solicit your forgiveness for the involuntary injustice which I committed. I have made you unhappy, for you were forced to give your hand to an unloved man, of whom you knew that he loved you not. Madame, it is unfortunately true, an abyss lies between us, and this abyss is filled with the blood of the dearest friend of my youth. Oh, madame, forgive me this wrong, for the sake of what I have suffered! I then had a soft and tender heart, but it was trodden under foot, and has become hardened. I placed full confidence in the world, and it has deceived me terribly. I have suffered more than the poorest beggar; I was forced to regard my own father as a cruel enemy, who watched me unceasingly, awaiting a favorable moment to give me a death-blow. It was necessary that I should be continually on my guard, for the smallest fault, the slightest thoughtlessness, a trifle, a mere nothing, was sufficient to condemn me. Oh, if you knew with what vermin I have been publicly calumniated and accused! After doing their utmost to make me odious to the world, and fearing they might perhaps still fail, they resorted to another expedient to compass my ruin, and endeavored to kill me with their ridicule. Soffri e taci, this Italian proverb was then the motto of my life. And believe me, it is hard to obey this seemingly so dry maxim; it has a grand significance."[12]

[12] The king's own words. See Oeuvres, etc., tom. xvi., p. 161.

The king, oppressed as it were by these reminiscences, leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. With downcast eyes and in silence the queen still sat before him, charmed by the music of his words, which found an echo in her heart like the dying wail of her youth.

"I do not tell you this," continued the king, after a pause, "in order to play the role of a martyr in your sight, but because I wish you to understand by what means my spirit was at last broken, and my will made subservient to that of my father. I purchased my freedom, madam, by chaining you to myself. But in doing this, I vowed you should no longer be bound when it should be in my power to release you. This moment has come, and true to my vow, I am here. I know that you do not, cannot love me, madame. The question arises, is your aversion to me so great that you insist on a separation?"

The queen raised her head and looked wonderingly into the mild and sorrowful countenance of her husband. She could no longer restrain the cry which trembled on her lips, no longer stem the tide of tears which gushed in torrents from her eyes.

"My God! my God!" she exclaimed, with a plaintive wail, "he asks me if I hate him!"

There was something in the tone of her voice, in this despairing cry of her soul, which ought to have betrayed the long-hidden secret of her love to the king. But perhaps he knew it already, and did not wish to understand. Perhaps, in the nobility and native delicacy of his soul, he wished to represent the indifference and coldness which he experienced for his wife, as coming from herself. However, the king did not seem to notice her tears.

"No, madame," said he, "I did not ask if you hated me, for I well know that your noble and womanly heart is not capable of this passion. I merely asked if your aversion to me was so great that it demanded a separation. I pray you to give me a short and decisive answer."

But Elizabeth Christine had lost the power of speech; tears rained down her cheeks, and she could only give a mute assent.

"You are, then, willing to be my wife before the world?" asked the king. "You are willing to remain Queen of Prussia, and nominally the wife of the king? You do not demand that my reign shall be inaugurated with the exposure of our domestic misfortunes, and that your chaste and virtuous name shall be branded about with mine before the calumniating world?"

"No," said the queen, with feverish haste, for she feared her strength might fail her. "No, I do not demand it; I desire no separation!"

"I thank you for this word," said the king, gravely. "It is worthy of a queen. You then feel with me that we princes have not even the right to cast off the burden which weighs us down, but must bear it patiently if it serve to secure the stability of our throne. Enviable are those who dare complain of their sufferings, and show their scars. But it becomes us to wrap ourselves in silence, and not to show to the miserable, pitiful, and drivelling world, which envies and abuses, even while applauding us, that a king can also suffer. I thank you, madame, and from this hour you will find in me a true friend, a well-meaning brother, ever ready to serve you. Give me your hand to this contract, which shall be more lasting and holier than that blessed by priests, to which our hearts did not say amen."

In his proffered hand Elizabeth laid her own slowly and solemnly. But when he clasped it in his own with a firm pressure, Elizabeth started and a cry escaped her lips. She hastily withdrew her hand, and sinking back on the sofa, burst into tears. Frederick allowed her tears to flow, regarding her with a look of deep sympathy.

"You weep, madame," said he, after a long and painful pause. "I honor your tears; you weep for your lost youth; you weep because you are a queen, and because reason has conquered your heart and forbids you to make yourself free as any other woman except a princess might do. Weep on, madame, I cannot dry your tears, for like yourself I have been cheated of my happiness; like yourself I am well aware of the sacrifice which we are both making to our royal standing. Ah, madame, if we were only private individuals, if we were not the rulers of Prussia, but her subjects, we might now be happy. Feeling our own unhappiness, and desiring to save our subjects from a like misfortune, I have made a divorce more easily attainable."

Elizabeth arose from her reclining position and regarded the king with a mournful smile.

"I thank your majesty," said she. "It is noble in you to alleviate that misfortune for others, which you have determined to endure."

"Ah, madame," exclaimed the king, smiling, "you forget that I have in you a noble friend and sister at my side, who will help me to bear this evil. And then we are not altogether unhappy; if we do not love, neither do we hate each other. We are brother and sister, not by blood, but united by the word of the priest. But never fear, madame, I will regard you only as a sister, and I promise you never to violate the respect due to your virtue!"

"I believe you," murmured the queen, blushing, and inwardly ashamed of the charming and coquettish negligee in which she had received the king.

"Before the world we are still married, but I promise that this chain shall gall you as little as possible. In your private life you will only be reminded that you are still my wife, when it is absolutely unavoidable. At the coronation I must request your presence at my side. When this is over you will be as free and independent as circumstances will admit. You will have a court of your own, a summer and a winter residence, in which I shall never intrude."

"I shall then never see you again!" said the queen, in the sad voice of resignation, which is often produced by an excess of pain.

"Oh, I pray you, madame, to permit me to meet you at times when etiquette demands it; but I shall take care that these meetings take place on official and neutral ground, and not in our private houses. I will never enter your house without your permission, and then only on particular fete days—your birthday for instance; and I trust that you will not refuse to receive me on such occasions."

"No, I will not refuse," replied the queen, regarding her husband with a sad and reproachful look. But Frederick did not see this look, or would not see it.

"I beg," said the king, smiling, "that you will permit me to present you with the castle of Schonhausen, as a reminiscence of the hour in which you found a faithful brother, and I a noble sister. Accept this little gift as an earnest of our new bond of friendship. It has been fitted up and prepared as a summer residence for your use, and you can retire to it immediately after the coronation, if you are so inclined."

"I thank you," said the queen in so low a voice that her words could scarcely be distinguished. "I thank you, and I will go there on the day after the coronation;" a sigh, almost a sob, escaped her breast.

The king regarded with a clear and penetrating glance the meek woman who sat before him, who accepted her joyless and gloomy future with such heroic resignation. Her mute anguish excited his compassion. He wished to throw a sunbeam into her dark future, to warm her heart with a ray of happiness.

"Well," said he, "I am on the point of making a little journey incognito, in the meanwhile you can go to Schonhausen; but when I return I desire to spend a few weeks in Rheinsberg in my family circle, and, as a matter of course, madame, you are a member of my family. I beg, therefore, that you will accompany me to Rheinsberg."

Elizabeth's countenance was illumined with so beautiful and radiant a smile that even the king saw it and admired her beauty. She held out both her hands and greeted him with a loving glance, but her trembling lips refused to utter the words which her heart prompted.

The king arose. "I must no longer deprive you of your repose, and I also need rest. We must both keep ourselves well and strong for the sake of our country and our subjects, for we both have a grand task to accomplish. You will administer consolation to the miserable and suffering; you will diffuse happiness and reap blessings; you will shine as a model of nobility and feminine virtue before all other women, and through your example will give noble wives and mothers to Prussia's sons! And I," continued the king, a ray of enthusiasm lighting up his handsome face, "I will make my people great; my country shall have a place in the counsels of mighty nations. I will enlarge Prussia and make her strong and powerful. My name shall be engraven in golden letters in the book of history. As fate has destined me to be a king, and will not permit me to spend my days in retirement and philosophic tranquillity like other and happier mortals, I will at least endeavor to accomplish my mission with honor to myself and advantage to my people. You will be a ministering angel to the needy and suffering of our subjects, and I will extend the boundaries of Prussia and diffuse prosperity throughout the land! Farewell, Elizabeth! our paths will seldom meet, but if I were so fortunate as to believe in a hereafter, and your noble and gentle nature would almost persuade me to do so, I would say: 'In heaven we will perhaps meet oftener, and understand each other better.' Pray to God in my behalf. I believe in God and in the efficacy of the prayers of the good and pious. Farewell!"

He bowed deeply. He did not see the deathly pallor and convulsive trembling of the queen. He did not see how she, after he had turned from her and was advancing toward the door, hardly knowing what she did, stretched out her arms after him, and whispered his name in a plaintive and imploring tone. He hurried on, and without once turning left the room. On the outside he stood still for a moment, and drew a long breath of relief.

"Poor woman! unfortunate queen!" he murmured, returning slowly to his chambers. "But why pity her? Is not her lot mine, and that of all princes? A glittering misery—nothing else!"

A few minutes later and the royal equipage again drove through the court yard.

The king was returning to his summer residence at Charlottenburg. The queen, who was on her knees, crying and sobbing, heard the carriage as it drove off. "Gone! he is gone!" she exclaimed, with a cry of anguish; "he has deserted me, and I am a poor discarded woman! He despises me, and I—I love him!" And wringing her hands, she sobbed aloud. For a while she was tranquil and prayed, and then again burst into tears. Her soul, which had suffered so long in silence, once mora rebelled. The voice of her youth made itself heard, and demanded in heart-rending accents a little sunshine, a little of the joy and happiness promised to mankind.

She was at last quieted; she accepted her destiny, and bowed her head in humility and patience. Morning was already dawning when Elizabeth Christine arose from her knees, pale and trembling, but resigned. "Soffri e taci!" said she, sadly. "This was the motto of his youth, and this shall be the motto of my whole life! Soffri e taci! how sad, and yet how grave are these words! Oh! Frederick, Frederick! why do you condemn me to such torture; why has your heart no pity with me, no pity with my love? But no!" she exclaimed, firmly, "I will weep no more. He shall not despise me. I have accepted my destiny, and will bear it as beseems a queen. Be still, my heart, be still. Soffri e taci!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE CORONATION.

Berlin was resplendent; the streets were filled with happy faces and gayly-dressed people, and the houses garlanded with flowers. To-day was the young king's coronation festival.

The citizens of Berlin were assembled to take the oath of allegiance, and the nobles and officials to do homage to Frederick as their king. Crowds were moving toward the castle; all were anxious to see the king in his coronation uniform, to see him step upon the balcony to greet the people with the queen at his side, the young and lovely lady with the sweet smile and cloudless brow; all wished to see the rich equipages of the nobility, and, if possible, to collect some of the coins which, according to an old and time-honored custom, were to be showered amongst the people. Thousands were standing before the castle, gazing intently upon the balcony where the king would soon appear. The windows of the surrounding houses were filled with lovely women richly dressed, holding wreaths and bouquets of fragrant flowers with which to greet their young and worshipped king. All were gay and joyous, all were eager to greet the new king with shouts of gladness. The people were ready to worship him who, during a few weeks of his reign, had done so much for them; had showered upon them so many blessings; had opened the granaries, diminished the taxes, and abolished the torture; who had recalled the religious sect so lately driven with derision from Berlin, and declared that every man in Prussia should worship God and seek his salvation in his own way. Yes, all wished to greet this high-minded, high-souled king, who, being himself a philosopher and a writer, knew how to reward and appreciate the scholars and poets of his own land. Frederick had recalled the celebrated philosopher Wolf, punished some time before by Frederick William. He had organized the Academy of Science, and filled it with learned and scientific men of the day. All this had been done in a few weeks. How much could still be hoped for?

The king loved pomp and splendor; this would promote the industry of the people. How much money would be conveyed through him and his gay court to the working classes! What a costly festal life would now become the fashion in Berlin and what a rich harvest would the manufacturers and tradesmen reap! Not only the people dreamed of a golden era, but the noblemen and high officials, who now crowded the palace, were hopeful and expectant, and saw a rare future of costly feasts and intoxicating pleasures. The stupid and frugal entertainments of Frederick William would give place to royal fetes worthy of the Arabian Nights.

Pollnitz, the Grand Chamberlain, was in his element; he was commissioned with the arrangements for all the court balls, was empowered to order every thing according to his own judgment and taste, and he resolved to lavish money with a liberal hand. Pollnitz wished to realize his great ideal; and he wished to see embodied in Frederick the picture he had drawn, for the benefit of the old king, of a true cavalier. The king had given him the power and he was resolved to use it. He thought and dreamed of nothing, now that the court mourning was drawing to a close, but the costly feasts which he would give. Pollnitz was ever searching, with an experienced and critical eye, amongst the ladies and maids of honor for the fascinating beauty who should charm the heart of the young king, and draw him into the golden net of pleasure—the net Pollnitz was so anxious to secure for him.

That the king did not love his wife was no longer a secret at court. Who, then, would win the love of this impassioned young monarch? This was the great question with Pollnitz. There was the lovely Madame Wreeckie, who had shown so much kindness to the prince during his imprisonment. Madame Wreeckie was still young, still bewitching; perhaps it was only necessary to bring them together in order to rekindle the old flame. There was Madame Morien, "Le Tourbillon," who had so often charmed the prince during his minority, and for whom he had manifested a passionate preference. To be sure, since his coronation he had not noticed her, she had not received a single invitation to court. Then Dorris Ritter, the poor innocent young girl who had been flogged through the streets of Berlin, her only fault being that she was the first love of the crown prince. Would the king, now that he was free to act, remember poor Dorris and what she had suffered for him; her sorrow, her shame, and her despair? Would not Dorris Ritter now rise to power and influence, be prayed to as a lovely saint, her shame being covered with a martyr's crown? Pollnitz determined to keep an eye on Dorris Ritter, and if the king showed no special interest in any other woman, to draw her from her exile and abasement. But, alas! the coronation threw no light upon this torturing subject. Pollnitz had hoped in vain that a round of intoxicating pleasures would begin with this day; in vain did he suggest to the king that a court ball should crown the solemnities of the day.

"No," said Frederick, "this shall be no day of thoughtless joy; it brings me sad retrospective thoughts and the consciousness of weighty duties. On this day my father seems to me to die anew. Dismiss, therefore, your extravagant fancies to a more fitting time. I cannot trust you, Pollnitz, with the decorations of the throne, your taste is too oriental for this occasion; I will therefore place this affair in the hands of M. Costellan, who will order the simple decorations which I deem most fitting."

The grand chamberlain could only shrug his shoulders contemptuously, and rejoice that he was not compromised by these contemptible arrangements; he grumbled to himself, and said scornfully: "This pitiful saloon, with no gilded furniture, no paintings, no works of art, with faded, shabby silk curtains: and that black, uncouth structure, is that really a throne—the throne of a young king? A long platform covered with cloth; an old arm-chair, black, worn, and rusty; a canopy covered with black cloth; faugh! it looks like a crow with his wings spread. Can this be the throne of a king who receives for the first time the homage of his subjects?" A contemptuous mocking smile was on the lips of Pollnitz as he saw the king and his three brothers enter the room.

Pollnitz could hardly suppress a cry of horror, as he looked at the king. What, no embroidered coat, no ermine mantle, no crown, nothing but the simple uniform of the guard, no decorations—not even the star upon his breast, to distinguish him from the generals and officials who surrounded him! Nevertheless, as Frederick stood upon that miserable platform with the princes and generals at his side, there was no one that could be compared with him; he seemed, indeed, to stand alone, his bearing was right royal; his countenance beamed with a higher majesty than was ever that lent by a kingly crown; the fire of genius was seen in the flashes of his piercing eye; proud and fearless thoughts were engraved upon his brow, and an indescribable grace played around his finely-formed mouth. There stood, indeed, "Frederick the Great;" he did not need the purple mantle, or the star upon his breast. God had marked him with elevated kingly thoughts, and the star which was wanting on his breast was replaced by the lustre of his eye.

The solemn address of the minister of state, and the reply of President Gorner, were scarcely listened to. Frederick, though silent, had said more than these two ministers, with all their rounded periods; his glance had reached the heart of every one who looked upon him, and said, "I am thy king and thy superior;" they bowed reverently before him, not because chance had made him their sovereign, they were subdued by the power of intellect and will. The oath of allegiance was taken with alacrity. The king stood motionless upon his throne, betraying no emotion, calm, impassive, unapproachable, receiving the homage of his subjects, not haughtily but with the composed serenity of a great spirit accepting the tribute due to him, and not dazzled by the offering.

The coronation was at an end. Frederick stepped from the throne, and nodded to his brothers to follow him; the servants hastily opened the doors which led to the balcony, and carried out the bags filled with the gold and silver coins. The air resounded with the shouts of the populace. The king drew near to the iron railing, and greeted his subjects with a cordial smile. "You are my children," he said, "you have a right to demand of your father love, sympathy, and protection, and you shall have them." Then taking a handful of coin he scattered it amongst the crowd. Shouts of merriment and a fearful scuffling and scrambling was seen and heard below; each one wished to secure a coin thrown by the king himself, and they scarcely noticed the silver and gold which the young princes were scattering with liberal hands; all these were worthless, as long as it was possible to secure one piece which had been touched by Frederick. The king saw this, and, much flattered by this disinterested mark of love, he again scattered the coin far and wide.

While the men were struggling roughly and angrily for this last treasure, a weak, pallid woman sprang boldly into the thickest of the surging crowd. Until now she had been cold and indifferent; the coins thrown by the young princes, and which had fallen at her feet, she had cast from her with disdain; now, however, as the king once more cast the coins in the midst of the gaping crowd, with a power which passion only gives she forced her way amongst the wild multitude, and with outstretched arms she shrieked out, "Oh! give me one of these small coins, only a silver one, give it to me as a keepsake! Oh! for God's sake, give me one!" Suddenly strange murmurs and whispers were heard from amongst those who now recognized this poor outcast; they looked askance at her, they shrank from her as from a leper; and she who a moment before had sued to them so humbly, now stood in their midst like an enraged lioness.

"It is she!—it is she!" they whispered; "she has come to see the king, for whom she suffered so much; for his sake she had been covered with shame; she has been driven from amongst the poor and innocent, and now she dares to come amongst us!" cried a harsh and pitiless voice.

"We know how cruelly she was insulted and abused," said another, "but we all know that she was innocent; my heart is full of pity for her, and she has a right to a coin touched by the king." The last speaker approached the poor woman, and offered both a gold and silver coin. "Take these coins, I beg you, and may they be to you an earnest of a better and happier future."

She gazed with a hard and tearless eye upon the good-natured, kindly face. "No, there is no happy future for me—nothing but want, and misery, and despair; but I thank you for your pity, and I accept these coins as a memento of this hour." She took them and laid them in her tattered dress, walked erect through the circle which gathered around, and was soon lost in the crowd.

She was soon forgotten. The king with his brilliant suite was still upon the balcony, they had not noticed the scene passing amongst the people below; none of them remarked this poor creature, who, having made her way through the crowd, now leaned against one of the pillars of the spire, and gazed earnestly upon the king. The money was exhausted, the king had shown himself to the people sufficiently, and now, according to etiquette, he must leave the balcony and make the grand tour of the saloons, greeting with kind and gracious words the assembled nobles. He motioned, however, to his followers to leave him, he wished to remain a few moments alone, and look thoughtfully upon this sea of upturned faces. Frederick gazed eagerly below. That was no inanimate and pulseless creation moved to and fro by the wind, which he now looked upon, but a living, thinking, immortal people; with hearts to hate or love, with lips to bless or curse, their verdict would one day decide the great question as to his fame and glory as a monarch, or his neglect of holy duty, and the eternal shame which follows. They seemed to Frederick to be pleading with him; they demanded but little—a little shade to rest in when weary with their daily labor; prompt justice and kindly protection, the right to live in peace, bearing the burden and sorrow of their lives patiently; pity for their necessities, forbearance for their weakness and folly. What did he, their king, demand of them? That alone, which a million of people, his people, could bestow, immortal fame!—they must give him the laurel of the hero, and crown him with the civic wreath; he would make his subjects strong, healthy, and happy—they must make his greatness known to all the world, and future ages.

Such were the thoughts of the king as he stood alone upon the balcony. His eye often wandered across to the spire, and as often as it did the wretched woman who was leaning against the pillar trembled fearfully, and her lips and cheeks became deadly pale. The king did not see her; he saw nothing of the outer world, his eye was turned within, reading the secrets of his own heart.

In the grand saloons the nobles stood waiting in grim and angry silence the return of Frederick; a cloud rested upon every brow; even Pollnitz could no longer retain his gracious and stereotyped smile; he felt it to be a bitter grievance that the king should keep the nobility waiting while he stood gazing at a dirty mass of insignificant creatures called human beings! Looking around the circle, Pollnitz saw displeasure marked upon every face but three. "Ah," said he to himself, "there are the three Wreeckies; no doubt they have come to be rewarded for services rendered the crown prince; they were doubtless dangerous rivals for us all; they suffered much for the prince, and were banished seven years from court on his account. The king must indemnify them for all this, and who knows, perhaps he may give them the house in Jager Street, the house I am in the habit of calling mine! Well, I must draw near them and hear all the king promises." So saying, Pollnitz drew quietly near the Messieurs Wreeckie. At this moment there was a movement in the vast assembly, and all bowed low; as the king stepped into the saloon he commenced the grand tour of the room; he had a kind and friendly word for all; at last he reached the Messieurs Wreeckie, and remained standing before them. All glances were now directed to this group; all held their breath, not wishing to lose a word which Frederick should say to these formidable rivals.

The king stood before them, his eye was severe, and his brow clouded. "Gentlemen," he said, "it has been a long time since I have seen you at the court of the King of Prussia. I suppose you seek the prince royal; I do not think you will find him here. At this court you will only find a king who demands, above all things, that his majesty should be respected; that you subjugate yourselves to him in silent obedience; even when his orders appear harsh and cruel they must not be questioned for a moment; he who opposes the will of the king deserves punishment; I will not bear opposition at my court. There is but one will, but one law; that is the will and law of the king!" And, without further greetings, he passed on.

The Wreeckies stood pale and trembling, and the face of Pollnitz was radiant with contentment. "Well, those poor fellows will not receive my house in Jager Street," he said to himself, "they have fallen into disgrace; it appears the king wants to punish all those who rendered good service to the prince royal. Louis the Fourteenth said: 'It is most unworthy of a French king to punish any wrong done to the crown prince;' here the rule is reversed—the King of Prussia deems it unworthy to reward the services rendered the prince royal. But what is the meaning of that crowd over there?" he exclaimed, interrupting himself, "why is the lord marshal approaching his majesty with such an eager, joyful air? I must know what is going on." Again Pollnitz made his way through the courtiers and arrived safely, right behind the king, just as my lord marshal was saying in an excited voice: "Your majesty, there is a young man in the next room who begs your highness to allow him to throw himself at your feet and take the oath of allegiance; he has come from America to greet you as king. So soon as he heard of the illness of your father, he left his asylum and has travelled night and day; he has finished his journey at a most fortunate moment."

The eye of the king rested coldly, unmoved on the speaker; and even after he ceased speaking, regarded him sternly. "What is the name of this young man, for whom you show so lively an interest?" said the king, after a pause.

The lord marshal looked perplexed and frightened; he thought the king's heart should have told him who stood without; who it was that had left his asylum in America and longed to greet the new king. "Sire," he said, hesitatingly, "your majesty demands to know the name of this young man?"

"I demand it."

The lord marshal breathed quickly. "Well, your majesty, it is my nephew; it is Lieutenant Keith, who has come from America to throw himself at your majesty's feet."

Not a muscle of the king's countenance moved. "I know no Lieutenant Keith," he said, sternly; "he who was once known to me by that name was stricken from the officers' roll with the stigma of disgrace and shame, and was hung by the hangman in effigy, upon the gallows. If Mr. Keith is still living, I advise him to remain in America, where no one knows of his crime, or of his ignominious punishment."

"Your majesty will not receive him, then?" said the lord marshal, with a trembling voice.

"You may thank God, sir, that I do not receive him—above all, that I ignore his being here; if I should know that he still lived, I should be forced to execute the sentence to which he was condemned by the court-martial." Slightly nodding to the lord marshal, the king passed on and spoke a few indifferent words to some gentlemen standing near.

"Well, Mr. Keith will not get my house in the Jager Street," said Pollnitz, laughing slightly. "What is the matter with this king, he seems to have lost his memory? God grant he may not forget who it was that induced Frederick William to pay the debts of the prince royal, and to present him with the Trakener stud."



CHAPTER IX.

DORRIS RITTER.

When the king had left the balcony, a poor young woman, who had been sitting on the steps of the cathedral, arose and looked fearfully around her. The sight of the king had carried her far away, she had been dreaming of the blissful days of the past. His disappearance brought her back to the present—the sad, comfortless present. The king had left the balcony. What had she to do in this mob, that might again mock, insult, or commiserate her! she could stand neither their sneers nor their pity, she must flee from both.

With a hasty movement she drew her shawl tighter around her poor slender figure, and hurried through the crowd. She came at last to a miserable small house. The low narrow door seemed unfriendly, inhospitable, as if it would permit no one to pass its threshold and enter its dreary, deserted rooms, from which no sound of life proceeded. But this small, quiet dwelling ought to have been a house of labor and occupation, and would not have been so poor and pitiful looking if the large iron bell hanging over the door had been oftener in motion, and filled the silent space with its cheerful sound.

Behind this door there was a shop, but the bell was generally silent, and purchasers rarely came to buy in this miserable little store the articles which could be purchased more reasonably in one of the large shops belonging to wealthy merchants. The house seemed to have seen better days. It had some claims to comfort and respectability. In the windows were placed bright shells and cocoanuts; there were the large blue china pots, in which the costly ginger is brought; there were quantities of almonds, raisons, citron, and lemons in glass shells; neat paper bags for coffee, and small Chinese chests that had held real Chinese tea. But these bags and chests were empty; the lemons and fruits were dried and hard; the ginger-pots held no more of their strengthening contents; even the dusty, faded sign over the door, which presented a wonderfully-ornamented negro engaged in unrolling dried tobacco leaves, was but a reminiscence of the past, for the tobacco had long since disappeared from the chests, and the little that was left had fallen to dust. The store contained but a few unimportant things: chicory for the poor, who could not pay for coffee; matches, and small home-made penny lights, with which poverty illuminated her misery and want; on the table, in glass cans, a few hardened, broken bits of candy; a large cask of old herring, and a smaller one of syrup. This was the inventory of the shop, these the possessions of this family, who alone occupied this house with their misery, their want, and their despair; whose head and only stay was the poor young woman now leaning wearily against the steps, dreading to enter her house of woe and wretchedness. She arose at length and hastily entered. The bells' hoarse creaking ring was heard, and a poor, pale boy hastened forward to inquire the comer's wants. He stopped and looked angrily at the poor woman who had entered.

"Ah, it is you, mother," said he, peevishly. "I hoped it was some one wishing to buy, then I could have bought some bread."

"Bread!" said the mother anxiously; "did I not, before I went out, give you the money to buy bread for you and your little sister?"

"Yes, but when father came home he threatened to beat me if I did not give up the money at once; I was frightened, and gave it; then he left, and Anna and I have been crying for bread, while our father is amusing himself at the alehouse and our mother has taken a holiday, and has been looking at the festivities which I also would have been glad to see, but could not, because I must stay at home and watch the shop into which no one has entered, and take care of my little sister, who cries for bread, which I cannot give her." As he finished he threw an angry look at his mother, who, deeply grieved, had fallen back on a wooden bench. She looked lovingly at her son, and holding out her arms to him, said:

"Come, give me a kiss, and reward me for all my pain and suffering."

"Give us bread, then perhaps I will kiss you," said he, harshly.

She looked terrified into his hard, cold face. She pressed her hand to her high, pale forehead, as if she would force back the madness that threatened her; she held the other hand to her heart, whose wild, feverish throbbings were almost choking her.

"My God! my God!" murmured she, "am I then already mad? Am I dreaming? Is this my son, my Karl, who loved me so dearly—my boy, who was the only comfort in my misery, the confidant of my tears and wretchedness? Can I, whom he looks at with such dark glances, be his mother—his mother, who joyfully bears for him the scorn of the world, who has suffered and hungered for him, worked for him during the long, cold winter nights—his mother, whose love for him was so great that she was willing not to die, but for his sake to live on in her woe? Karl, my son, come to your mother, for you well know how tenderly she loves you, and that she will die if you do not love her."

"No, mother," said he, not moving, "you do not love me, nor my little sister Anna; for if you loved us, you would not have left us to-day, and joined the gay people who were making merry while your poor children were at home groaning and crying."

"Oh, my child! my child! I did not go, out of idle curiosity," said she, sadly. "I went to consult the oracle of your future, and to see if there was not to be some hope, some comfort for my children; if this would not be the beginning of brighter days. I wished to read all this in a man's face; I wished to see if he still had a heart, or if, like all princes, he had become hard and pitiless."

She had forgotten that she was speaking to her son; she was addressing herself, and had entirely forgotten that he was present.

"Ah," said he, sneeringly, "you thought he would now give you money for your shame; but father told me that all the gold in the world would not wipe out this shame, and that brandy was the only way besides death that could make us forget that we are despised and accursed. Father told me—"

The boy stopped and retreated a few steps; his mother had risen from her seat and stood before him, deadly pale, with widely-opened, flashing eyes, with trembling lips; every muscle of her face in play; her whole form trembling in a paroxysm of rage and frightful torture. It was not the head of a woman, but a Medusa; not the look of a tender, loving mother, but of a wild, angry, threatening mad woman.

"What did your father tell you?" cried she, wildly, to the trembling boy before her. "What did he say? I will, I must know! You are silent; speak, or I dash my brains out against the wall, and you will be guilty of your mother's death."

"You will beat me if I tell you," said he insolently.

"No, no, I will not beat you," said she, breathlessly; and folding her hands as if to pray, she continued: "My child, my child, have mercy on your mother. Tell me what he said; with what words he poisoned your heart, and made the love for your poor mother die so quickly. Tell me all, my son; I will not beat but bless you, though your words should cut my heart like a knife."

She wished to press him to her heart, but he resisted passionately.

"No," said he, "you shall not kiss me; father said you made all you touched unhappy and despised, and that we would be well, happy, and rich if you were not our mother."

She shuddered; her arm fell powerless to her side, a hollow groan escaped her, her eyes were fixed and tearless.

"What more did he tell you?" murmured she; "with what other tales did he amuse my child?" She looked at him with such a sad, painful smile, that he trembled and glanced timidly down; he now saw what torture he was preparing for her.

"Father was drunk," said he; "when he heard that you had gone out, he was furious; he cursed you so dreadfully that Anna and I both cried, and I begged him not insult you so, for it hurt me, for then I still loved you."

"Then he still loved me!" said his mother, wringing her hands.

"But he laughed at me, and said you did not deserve our love; that you were the cause of all our misery and want; he had become poor and wretched because he had married you, and taken to drink so as not to hear or see men pointing and laughing at you when you passed. But, mother, you look so pale, you tremble so! I will say no more; I will forget all father said; I will love you, mother; but do not look at me so dreadfully, and do not tremble in that way."

The boy wept from grief and terror. His old love had awakened; he approached his mother to kiss her, but now she pushed him back.

"I do not tremble," said she, though her teeth were chattering. "I do not tremble, and you must not forget what your father said; you must tell me all again. Speak on, speak! I must hear all, know all. What more did he say?"

The boy looked at her sadly. His voice, which before had been insolent and rude, was now quiet and gentle, and his eyes were full of tears.

"He said he married you out of pity, and because you brought him a few thousand dollars. But this gold brought no blessing with it, but a curse; and that since then it had gone worse with him than with the executioner, whom all despise, and who dares not enter an honest man's house. But that you were more despised and disgraced than the miserable man who had stripped you in the open market and whipped you through the streets; that the boys had pelted you with mud, and that the streets became red with the blood that flowed down your back."

The poor woman gave a piercing shriek, and fell as if struck by lightning to the floor. The boy threw himself weeping by her side; and the little girl, who had been sleeping in another corner of the room, awakened by the scream, came running toward them crying for bread.

But the mother moved not; she lay there pale, with closed eyes; she was cold and lifeless; she did not hear her poor little girl cry; she did not feel the hot kisses and tears of her son, who was imploring her in anxious, tender, loving words, to open her eyes, to tell him that she was not angry, that she had forgiven him. But he suddenly stopped and listened eagerly; he thought he heard the well-known sound of the bell.

"There it was again; if it is father, he will beat me to death," murmured he, as he went toward the shop door. "He forbade me to repeat a word of all that to mother."