He opened the door, and there stood not his father but a richly-dressed gentleman, who, with a friendly gesture, pushed the boy aside and entered the shop.

"I want some tobacco, my little fellow," said he; "therefore call Mr. Schommer to give me some from his best canister."

"My father is not at home," said the boy, staring at the handsome, friendly gentleman.

"Well, I did not come precisely on his account," said the gentleman, with a strange laugh. "Call your mother, Madame Schommer, and tell her I wish to make a purchase."

"Mother is lying in the back room on the floor, and I believe she is dead!" said Karl, sobbing.

The gentleman looked at him with amazement. "Did you say dead? That would be very inconvenient, for I have greatly counted on her life. What did she die of? Is a physician with her?"

"No one is with her but my little sister; you can hear her crying!"

"Yes, I can hear her; and it is in truth no edifying music. No one else, did you say? Where, then, are your friends? where is your father?"

"Father is at the ale-house, and friends we have none; we live all alone, for no one will live with us."

"Well, if you are alone, I may go to your mother," said he, with a careless laugh. "It is likely your mother has fainted; and as I am learned in these feminine swoons, it is very possible I may call her back to life. Show the way, little Cupid, and lead me to your mother, the fainting Venus." And laughing, he followed the astonished boy into the back room.

She still lay without movement on the floor, and little Anna, kneeling by her side, was praying for bread.

"That is your mother, Madame Schommer?" asked the strange gentleman, looking curiously at the pale woman.

"Yes, that is my mother," said the boy. "Mother, mother, wake up!" said he, covering her face with kisses. "Wake up, I do not believe what father said. I will love you! He was drunk! Ah, my dear, dear mother, only wake up!"

"She will awake," said the stranger, who was bending over her, laying his hand on her heart and temples, "she is, as I thought, not dead but in a swoon."

The boy laughed aloud with glee. "My mother is not dead," said he, crying and laughing at once. "She will wake up and love me; we will all be so happy!"

"Mother, mother, give me some bread!" whimpered poor little Anna.

"Are you then so hungry?" said the stranger, who was getting tired of this scene.

"Yes," said the boy, "she is hungry; we are both hungry. We have had nothing to eat all day. Mother gave us money before she went out to buy bread and milk, but father came and took it to buy brandy for himself."

"A worthy father," said the stranger, handing him something. "Here, my son, is some money. Take your sister, go to the baker's, and get something to eat, then seat yourselves and eat; and do not come back here until I call you. But if you see your father coming, then come and tell me."

The children joyfully hurried to the door; they were not now thinking of their poor, fainting mother, but of the bread they would buy to satisfy their hunger.

"But who," said the boy, turning around, "will watch the shop?"

"Well, I will," said the stranger; "I will watch your mother and your shop; go!"

The children hurried away, and the stranger was alone with the fainting woman.



CHAPTER X.

OLD AND NEW SUFFERING.

The cavalier stood quietly some minutes, showing no sympathy for the poor insensible woman, and making no effort to arouse her to consciousness; he examined her face searchingly and curiously, not from sympathy for her sad condition, but with cold egotism, thinking only of his own special object.

"Hum," murmured he, "in spite of pallor and attenuation, there are yet traces of great beauty. I am sure if well nourished and well clothed she may yet allure the heart which must be ever touched with pity for her mournful fate; besides, she is poor—hopelessly, despairingly poor. The husband is a drunkard, the children cry for bread; she is so poorly clad, so pale, so thin; hunger has been her only lover. Under these circumstances she will readily adopt my plans, and be my willing tool; she will acknowledge me as her master, and by God I will teach her how to bind this headstrong fool in chains. He has so far escaped all the pitfalls which Fredersdorf and myself have so adroitly laid for him. Dorris shall be the Delilah who will tame this new Samson. Truly," he continued, as he cast a look of contempt upon the senseless form lying before him, "truly it is a desperate attempt to transform this dirty, pale, thin woman into a Delilah. But the past is powerfully in her favor, and my Samson has a heart full of melting pity and sensibility; moreover all previous efforts have failed, and it is pardonable to seek for extraordinary means in our despair. So to work! to work!"

He took from his pocket a small phial of English salts, held it to her nose, and rubbed her temples with a small sponge. "Ah, she moves," he said, resting for a moment from his work, and looking coldly and curiously upon the poor woman, who, with a shudder of newly-awakened life, now turned her head, and whose convulsed lips uttered short sighs and piteous complaints. Pollnitz rubbed her temples again with the strong salts, and then, as he saw that consciousness was more and more restored, he raised her from the floor, and placed her softly in a chair. "Auso armes, auso armes," muttered he. "La battaille commencera."

The woman opened her eyes, and they wandered with an anxious and questioning look here and there, then fell upon the stranger, who, with a smiling and observant glance, followed every movement. Her eyes were fixed and staring, her features expressed terror and scorn, her whole form was convulsed, she was still half dreaming, half unconscious. But her eye was immovably placed upon him, and she murmured in low tones, "I know this face—yes, I know this cold, smiling face, I have FELT it twice! When was it? was it only in fearful dreams, or was it a frightful reality? When, where did I see this cold, devilish smile, this face so cold and heartless, so full of iron egotism?"

"Truly, she does not flatter," murmured Pollnitz, but without changing for one moment his watchful but friendly mien. "I am curious to see if she will at last recognize me."

"Pollnitz!" cried she at last, with flaming eyes. "Yes, it is you! I know you! you are Baron Pollnitz! Who gave you the right to enter this house? what brings you here?"

"I repeat your question," he replied, smiling, "what brought you here, here in this gloomy, miserable room; here where hunger and wailing have their dwelling; here where misery grins upon you with hollow-eyed terror? What do you here, Dorris Ritter?"

She trembled convulsively at this name, her cheeks were dyed purple, and in another moment became ghastly pale. "Why do you call me Dorris Ritter?" she cried, with gasping breath, "why remind me of the past, which stands like a dark spectre ever behind me, and grins upon me with bloody and shameful horrors?" Lost wholly in these fearful remembrances, she stared before her, thinking no more of Pollnitz, forgetting that his watchful and heartless eyes were ever fixed upon her. "Dorris Ritter!" she cried, slowly, "Dorris Ritter! where are you? why do they call you by thy name? Can they not remember that you are a sleep walker wandering on the edge of a precipice, into which you must fall headlong if awakened by the sound of your name, Dorris Ritter?" she said, more loudly, fixing her eye upon Pollnitz; "how dare you call my name, and tear me shrieking from my grave!"

"Now, that is exactly what I wish," said Pollnitz; "I will raise you from this lowly and forgotten grave; you shall forget what you have suffered; you shall be rich, happy, distinguished, and envied."

"I!" cried she, with mocking laughter, "and you will make that of me! You, Baron Pollnitz, you, who were partly the cause of my misery, and who looked smilingly upon my shame! What, then, what have I done to deserve so much shame and sorrow? My God!" cried she, in heartrending tones, "my heart was pure and innocent; I dared raise my head without fear, and look God and my parents in the face; even before HIM, my prince, I needed not to cast down MY eyes; I was innocent, and he loved me because he could also respect me. Alas! it was so silent, so resigned a love; it asked for nothing, it had no speech. Was it our fault that others saw and pointed out this love without words, and which eyes of innocence only expressed? We stood far removed from each other, and a gulf lay between us, but heavenly music formed a golden starry bridge over this abyss, and the holy and melodious tones whispered to our young hearts, the complaints and longings of a speechless, self-renouncing love. Only thus, only thus, a sweet dream, and nothing more! Then you came to awaken us, to accuse the prince of high treason, to make of me a miserable prostitute. You cast my love, which I had only confessed to my Father in heaven, like a dirty libel and foul fruit in my face; you wished to spot and stain my whole being, and you succeeded; you crushed my existence under your feet, and left me not one blossom of hope! Oh, I will never forget how you tore me from the arms of my poor father! how you cast me into prison and chained my hands, because in the anguish of my shame and my despair I tried to take that life which you had dishonored! They came at last, and dragged me before the king. Two men were with him, one with a common red and swollen visage, with thick, lascivious lips, with red and watery eyes—that was Grumbkow; the other, with the fine friendly face, with the everlasting deceitful smile, the cold, contemptuous, heartless glance, that was you, Baron Pollnitz. Ah, with what horrible glances did these three men look upon me! what mockery and contempt did their cruel voices express! I threw myself at the feet of the king; I prayed to him for mercy and grace; he kicked me from him, and shamed me with words and accusations which made my soul blush. I swore that I was innocent; that no sin lay upon me; that I had never been the beloved of the prince; that I had never spoken to him but in the presence of my father. Then laughed they, and mocked me, and loudest of all laughed Baron Pollnitz, and his words of scoffing and insult pierced my heart like a poisoned arrow, and checked my flowing tears."

"It is true," murmured Pollnitz; "she has forgotten nothing."

"Forgotten!" cried she, with a wild laugh, "can I forget that I was driven through the streets like a wild beast; that I was stripped by the rough hands of the hangman's boy; that I heard behind me the scoffings and insults of the wild mob hired for the occasion; that I felt upon my naked back the cruel blows of the executioner's whip? Oh, I have borne, and I have suffered; I did not become a maniac, I did not curse God, but I prayed to my Father in heaven as I ran like a baited wild beast through the streets. I saw that all the houses were closed, that no one stood at the windows; no one had the courage to look upon my path of martyrdom, and it comforted me even in the midst of my torture, and I blessed those men who were pitiful to me, and who appeared to bear testimony to my innocence by refusing to witness my cruel punishment, and I ran further, and the hot blood flowed down my back. Suddenly I came upon a house which was not closed, the door was open, before it stood the servants and pointed the finger of scorn at me, and mocked and jeered at me. On the balcony stood Baron Pollnitz, with his stony, heartless face! Then I uttered a cry of rage and revenge, then my prayers were hushed or changed into wild curses, and I yelled and howled in my heart: he is guilty of my shame, he with his cruel jests, his pitiless sneers, has poisoned the ear of the king, has destroyed the last doubt of my guilt in the heart of his majesty. Disgrace and shame upon Baron Pollnitz! may he be despised, lonely, and neglected in the hour of death; may remorse, the worm of conscience, feed upon his soul, and drive him hither and thither, restless and homeless all his life long!"

She uttered a wild cry, and sank back powerless and broken in her chair.

Baron Pollnitz was self-possessed and smiling throughout; he laid his hand upon the nerveless arm of the sobbing woman, and said with a soft, flattering tone:

"It is true I have done you injustice, but I have come to make amends for the past. You shall yet raise your head proudly, and no one shall doubt of your innocence."

She shook her head sadly. "How can that help me? My father died of shame; my husband, who married me from pity and because I had a poor two thousand crowns, could not bear that men should flee from me as from a branded culprit; this grief drove him to drink, and when he comes home drunk at night, he beats me and shames me; the next morning he prays, with strong crying and tears, for forgiveness, but goes again and begins anew the same sad existence. My children!"

She could say no more; her words were choked with tears, as she thought of the hard and frightful language her little boy had used to her that morning.

Pollnitz was weary of the complaints and sobs of this wretched woman.

"Weep no more," said he; "weeping makes the eyes red, and you must henceforth be lovely and attractive; if you will follow my advice you and your children will once more be joyful and happy. I will send you beautiful clothing, and I know an adroit person who will make you charmingly attractive, and at the same time arrange your toilet with such enchanting grace that you will pass for the 'Mater dolorosa' and the beautiful Magdalen in the same person. Then will I lead you to the king; then will he read in your lovely and noble face the touching and innocent story of his first love; it will then rest with you, who have so long been covered with dust and ashes, to kindle again the spark of your dead love, and find in his tenderness the reward and compensation for all the bitter past."

She looked at him with flaming eyes, and her glance was so piercing that even Pollnitz felt a little embarrassed, and involuntarily cast his eyes to the ground.

"Has the king sent you here with this message?"

"No, not the king; but I know that he thinks of you with love and pity, and that he would be happy to find you."

"If that is so, let him come to seek me. I will not go to him—I am the injured and dishonored one; it is his duty to repair my wrongs. But he will not come—I know it. I read it to-day in his face. The world has killed his heart; it has turned to stone in his breast—a gravestone for his dear-loved Katt and for Dorris Ritter."

"He will come; I say to you he will! Hear me, Dorris; you will not go to him? Well, then, expect him here, and prepare yourself in such a way to receive him as to make an impression upon his heart; study carefully your part; revolve every word which you will say to him; consider every glance with which you will look upon him; put on the clothes which I will send you, and banish your husband and your children."

"My children!" cried she, trembling; "no, no, only as a mother—only under the protection of their innocent presence will I ever see him; only for my children will I receive his sympathy and grace."

Pollnitz stamped involuntarily with his feet upon the floor, and muttered curses from between his tightly-pressed lips.

"Do you not understand that our whole scheme will fail unless you do exactly as I tell you; that you will attain nothing unless you begin wisely and prudently? You say the king has no heart; well, then, he has intellect, and this you must flatter; through this you may, perhaps, warm his stony heart; you must not trust wholly to the majesty of your misfortunes, but advance to meet him in the grace and glory of your beauty; by your soft eyes you must work upon his heart; not with your tears, but by enchanting smiles, he may be won."

She looked at him with proud and contemptuous glances.

"Go!" said she; "go! we have nothing to do with each other. I would curse you and seek to revenge myself upon you for the new dishonor which you have put upon me by your shameless words, but I know I have not the right to resent. I am a degraded, dishonored woman, and all men believe they have the right to insult me and to mock at my misfortunes. Go!"

"You command me, then, to leave you; you will not heed the voice of a well-meaning friend; you—"

"Baron Pollnitz," said she, with a voice tremulous with scorn, "I say go! drive me not to extremity. Shall I call upon the neighbors to relieve me from the presence of one I abhor, who disregards the sanctity of my poor house, and abuses and sneers at a woman who hates him? Go, and let me never see your face or hear your voice again!"

"Well, then, I will go; farewell, dear Madame Schommer; but I will come again, and perhaps I may be so happy as to find in your place the enchanting Dorris Ritter, that sentimental young maiden of the past, who loved the crown prince so passionately, and was so well pleased to receive his love and his presents."

He laughed aloud, and left the dreary room with a courtly pirouette; with quick steps he hastened through the shop, and opening the door which led into the street, he kicked the two children who were sitting on the threshold to one side, and rushed into the street.

"She is truly proud yet," murmured he, shrugging his shoulders. "The hangman's whip did not humble her—that pleases me; and I am more than ever convinced we will succeed with her; she must and shall be beloved of the king; and as she will not go to him, well, then, I will bring him to her. To-morrow the king will visit the site chosen for the palace of the queen-mother: that will be a glorious opportunity to induce him to enter her hut."

Dorris Bitter had risen, and with uplifted arm and a proud glance she had followed Pollnitz. Her whole being was in feverish excitement. In this hour she was no more a poor, disheartened woman, from whom all turned away with contempt, but a proud wife conscious of her honor and her worth, who commanded her persecutor from her presence; who asked no mercy or grace, and demanded a recognition of her purity.

As the steps of the baron faded away, and Dorris was again alone, her feverish excitement subsided, and she was again a poor, pallid, trembling, humble woman. With a cry of the most profound woe she sank back in her chair, and stared long before her. Suddenly she murmured from between her tightly-compressed lips: "Woe to him! woe to him! when he forgets what I have suffered for him; woe to him, if he does not remove the shame which crushes me! woe to him, if he despises me as others do! Then will Dorris Eitter be his irreconcilable enemy, and she will take vengeance so true as there is a God over us!"



CHAPTER XI.

THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

"Courage, my dear friend," said Madame von Brandt to Count Voss, who stood before her with the most mournful expression, and seemed so lost in grief as to be scarcely aware of the presence of his charming and bewitching Armida.

"I do not understand how you can laugh and be gay, if you love me," he said, sadly.

"I love you truly, and therefore I am gay. We have almost gained our end; soon the suspicions of the world will be lulled, for who would dream that the husband of the young and beautiful Laura von Pannewitz could possibly love the old and ugly Madame von Brandt?"

"You old! you ugly!" cried the young count, indignantly. "It is well that it is you who utter such a blasphemy; if any other did, I should destroy him."

"You would do very wrong, dear count, for that would betray our love to the world. No, no, if any one should speak so to you, you must shrug your shoulders, and say, 'I am not acquainted with Madame von Brandt, I am indifferent whether she is handsome or ugly. She may be as old as Methuselah, it does not concern me."

"Never will I say that, never will I be induced to utter so miserable and dishonorable a falsehood. No, dearest, you cannot demand that. You see your power over me, and treat me most cruelly. You condemned me to be married, and I have obeyed your commands, although my heart was breaking as I made my proposal to the queen. Now I entreat that you will not torture me by demanding that I shall revile and caluminate you. No, no, I pray on my knees that you will be kind and merciful!"

He threw himself on his knees before her, leaning his head upon the divan on which she was sitting.

She placed her hand upon his head and played with his fair hair. "I am not cruel, I am only cautious," she whispered, almost tenderly. "Trust me, Alexander, you must not doubt my boundless love."

"No, no, you do not love me," he sighed; "you are always hard and cruel, you have never granted me the smallest favor, you have never accepted one of my presents."

A slight but scornful smile played upon the lips of this beautiful woman, while the enthusiastic and impassioned young man spake thus. She turned aside her face, that he might not see its expression.

But he thought she was again angry with him. "Ah," he said, despairingly, "you will not allow me even to behold your heavenly countenance; do you wish to drive me to distraction? What have I done to deserve this new torture? Are you so offended because I entreated you to accept a gift from me? Oh, it is so sweet to compel the one we love to think of us; to place a ring upon her finger, and bid her dream of him who loves her when she looks upon it; to bind a chain upon her neck, and whisper, 'You are fettered, my love enchains you, you are mine!' A man can only believe in the affection of his beloved when she condescends to accept something from him."

"And would that give you faith in my love?" she said, in a tender, melting voice, as she turned smilingly toward him.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "it would increase my faith."

"Well, then, give me some little thing that will remind me of you, that I can wear, as the spaniel wears the collar which bears the name of its master."

She offered him her hand, which he covered with fervent kisses, and then drew from his bosom a large and heavy etui, which he placed in her hands.

"But this contains not merely a ring," she said, reproachfully; "you have deceived me, misused my kindness; instead of presenting me with a small souvenir, with the pride of a king you wish to overwhelm me with your rich gifts. Take back your case, count, I will not look at its contents; I will not behold how far your extravagance and pride have led you; take your treasures, and give me the simple ring that I promised to accept." She stood up, and handed him the etui with the air of an insulted queen, without once glancing at its contents, and only divining their value by the size and weight of the case.

Her poor lover regarded her with a truly despairing expression. "If you desire to destroy me, do it quickly and at once, not slowly, day by day, and hour by hour," he said, almost weeping. "I fulfil your smallest desire, I marry at your command, and you refuse to show me the slightest kindness." He was now really weeping, and turned aside that she might not behold his tears. Then suddenly recovering himself, he said with the boldness of despair: "I will learn from you the use of the word no. If you refuse to accept this case, then I will refuse to marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz. If you compel me to receive again those miserable stones, I will go at once to the queen, and tell her that I was mistaken, that I cannot and will not marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz; that I have given up my plan, and am determined to leave Berlin immediately."

"No! no! you must not go! you shall not leave me!" she cried, with every appearance of terror; "give me the case, I will accept it. You must not leave Berlin!"

The young count uttered a cry of delight, and hurried to her side.

"I will accept this etui," she said smiling, "but will not open it while we are together, for fear we might again disagree."

Count Voss was beside himself with joy and gratitude, and vowed he would marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz that very day, to obtain the kiss which Madame von Brandt had promised him at his wedding.

"Love might perhaps remove mountains," she said, "but it cannot give wings to the tongue of a queen. You have placed your proposals in the hands of her majesty, you selected this lofty lady to sue for you, and now you must wait until it pleases her to make your proposals known to the lady."

"The queen promised to do that to-day. It was necessary for me to make my proposals to her, for the family of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz demanded that I should obtain the consent of the queen to my marriage before I could hope for theirs."

"And Laura, have you obtained her consent?"

"Oh," said the vain count, shrugging his shoulders, "I am certain of that; she is poor and entirely dependent on the proud dowager-queen; I will make her a countess, and insure her freedom; she will live independently upon her estates, and be surrounded with wealth and luxury; she will have every thing but a husband."

"Poor Laura!" said Madame von Brandt, softly. "But you have been with me already too long; it might be remarked, and give rise to suspicion; go, now, I will work for you, and you must work for yourself. Let no difficulties frighten you."

The count left her slowly, while Madame von Brandt was scarcely able to conceal her impatience to be alone. She looked after him with a contemptuous smile, and murmured to herself: "Vain fool, he deserves to be deceived. But now at last I will see what this precious etui contains." She flew to the table and hastily lifted the cover of the case. A cry of astonishment arose to her lips, and her eyes beamed as clearly and brightly as the diamonds resting upon the satin cushion within. "Ah! this is really a royal present," she whispered, breathlessly, "more than royal, for I am confident King Frederick would never present any woman with such diamonds; but I deserve them for my wonderful acting. This poor count is convinced that I am the noblest, most unselfish, and most loving of women. How well conceived, how wise it was to decline his first gift! I knew that he would replace it with something more costly and elegant, hoping to move me to change my resolution. How my heart bounded with delight when he drew forth this great case! I could scarcely withhold my hands from grasping the costly treasure. I concealed my impatience, and would not open the case in his presence, fearful that he might read my delight in my eyes, and that might have undeceived the poor fool as to my disinterestedness. Truly it was very wise and very diplomatic in me; even Manteuffel could not have acted more discreetly." She bent again over the flashing diamonds, and pressed her burning lips to the cold stones. "Beautiful stones," she whispered tenderly, "your cold kiss animates my whole frame; I love you more than any human being, and when you are upon my neck I will desire no warmer embrace. Welcome, then, beloved, to my house and my bosom. You shall be well cared for, I shall exert myself to provide you with worthy companions; many of your family are lying loosely about in the world, and you doubtless desire the company of your brothers and sisters. I myself share that desire, and will seek to accomplish it by bringing together more and more of your relations; I will invite your cousins, the pearls, and you shall be united. My diamonds and pearls shall have a gayer and more splendid wedding than Count Voss and beautiful Laura von Pannewitz." She laughed aloud in the joy of her heart, then closed the case and locked it carefully in her writing-desk. "And now to the queen-mother," she said; "the train is laid, it is only necessary to apply the match and await the explosion. I must point out to the queen that this marriage of the lovely Laura with Count Voss is necessary to prevent a difficulty in the royal family, I must—EH BIEN! NOUS VERRONS. I hear the voice of the queen; she is taking her promenade, and I must not fail to be present." She took her hat and shawl, and hurried to the garden.



CHAPTER XII.

THE QUEEN AS A MATRIMONIAL AGENT.

The queen-mother was taking a walk in the garden of Monbijou. She was unusually gay today, and her countenance wore an expression of happiness to which it had long been a stranger. And the queen had good reason to be gay, for she seemed on the point of realizing the proud anticipations she had indulged in for so many weary years. Her son was carrying into execution the promises which he had made on his first visit, and in which she had hardly dared to believe. She had already received the first monthly payment of her income as queen-dowager, which her son had largely increased. New appointments had been made to her court, and it had been placed on a truly royal footing; and yesterday the king had told her that he had already chosen a site for her new palace. Moreover, the homage she received from the entire court, and more especially from the king's favorites, bore evidence to the fact that her influence was considered great, and that much importance was attached to her grace and favor. While Queen Elizabeth was passing her time joylessly at the Castle of Schonhausen, to which she had retired, the entire court was assembling at Monbijou, and hastening to do homage to the queen-mother. Even the young king, who had not yet paid a single visit to his wife at Schonhausen, waited on the queen his mother daily, accompanied by a brilliant suite of cavaliers.[13]

[13] Thiebault, ii., page 84.

The queen Sophia Dorothea had good reason to be gay, and to entertain the happiest anticipations in regard to the future. To-day for the first time she could take her morning walk attended by her brilliant suite, for the last appointments had only been made on the preceding day. When the queen now looked around, and she did so from time to time, she no longer saw the two maids of honor of earlier days walking languidly behind her. Six of the most beautiful ladies, all of the first nobility, had been appointed to the queen's service, and were now engaged in a merry conversation with the four cavaliers in attendance on the queen, who had been selected for this office by the king himself. While conversing with her marshal, Count Rhedern, she could hear the merry laughter of the newly-appointed maid of honor Louise von Schwerin, and the soft, melodious voice of the beautiful Laura von Pannewitz, whose grace and loveliness had even excited the admiration of her husband the king, and for a few weeks thrown him into a state to which he was entirely unaccustomed.[14]

[14] Memoires de Frederique Wilhelmine de Baireuth, vol. ii., p. 308.

The queen, as we have said, was unusually gay, for she had just received a new proof of her own importance, and of the influence she was supposed to exert on the young king her son.

Count Rhedern had solicited the assistance of the queen-mother in a very delicate and important matter, and had requested her to advocate his cause with King Frederick. The count desired to marry, but the permission of the king was still wanting, and would probably be very difficult to obtain, for the count's chosen was unfortunately not of a noble family, but had the misfortune to be the daughter of a Berlin merchant.

"But," said the queen, after this confidential communication, "I do not understand why it is that you wish to marry this girl. I should think the nobility of our kingdom was not so poor in beautiful and marriageable ladies that a Count Rhedern should find it necessary to stoop so low in search of a wife. Look behind you, count, and you will see the loveliest ladies, all of whom are of pure and unblemished descent."

"True, your majesty. These ladies are beautiful, of good birth, young and amiable, but one thing is wanting to make them perfect. Mademoiselle Orguelin is neither beautiful nor of good birth, neither young nor amiable, but she has the one thing which those fairies lack, and for the sake of this one thing I am forced to marry her."

"Count, you speak in riddles, and as it seems to me in riddles of doubtful propriety," said the queen, almost angrily. "What is this one thing which Mademoiselle Orguelin has, and on account of which you are compelled to marry her?"

"Your majesty, this one thing is money."

"Ah, money," said the queen, smiling; "really, it well becomes a cavalier to marry beneath him for the sake of money!"

"Your majesty, it is because I am mindful of the duties which my rank impose on me, and of the demands which a cavalier of my standing should meet, that I have determined to make this misalliance. Your majesty will be indulgent if I dare open before you the skeleton closet, and unveil the concealed misery of my house. The Counts Rhedern are an old and illustrious race. My ancestors were always rich in virtues but poor in gold. Economy seems to have been the one virtue they ever possessed; they were too generous to reject any appeal made to them, and too proud to limit their expenditures to their small income. Outwardly they maintained the pomp suitable to their standing, while they gnawed secretly and unseen at the hard crust of want. Thus from father to son the debts were constantly increasing, and the revenues becoming smaller and smaller. If I do not make an end of this, and sever the Gordian knot like Alexander, instead of attempting the wearisome task of untying it, I shall soon present to the court and nobility the sad spectacle of a Count Rhedern who is compelled to give up his hotel, his equipage, his furniture, and his servants, and live like a beggar."

"Ah, this is really a sad and pressing affair!" exclaimed the queen, sympathizingly, "but are there no heiresses among the nobility, whose fortunes might save you?"

"None, your majesty, who like Mademoiselle Orguelin would bring me a fortune of three millions."

"Three millions! That is a great deal, and I can now perfectly well understand why you are compelled to marry this Orguelin. You have my consent, and I think I can safely promise you that of my son the king. Make your arrangements and fear nothing. I guarantee that the king will not refuse your request."

"After what your majesty has said, I feel assured on this point," exclaimed Count Rhedern, with a sigh.

"How, and you still sigh, count?"

"Your majesty, I need the permission of one other person—the acceptance of the bride. And to this acceptance is appended a condition, the fulfilment of which again depends upon your majesty's kindness."

"Well, truly, this is a strange state of affairs. You speak gravely of your approaching marriage, and as yet are not even engaged. You speak of your bride, but Mademoiselle Orguelin has not yet accepted you, and whether she will or not, you say, depends on me."

"Yes, on your majesty, for this girl, who is as proud of her three millions as if it were the oldest and most illustrious pedigree, consents to be my wife only on the condition that she is acknowledged at court, and has access, as Countess Rhedern, to all court festivities."

"Truly this is a great pretension!" exclaimed the queen, angrily. "A pedlar's daughter who carries arrogance so far as to wish to appear at the court of the King of Prussia! This can never be, and never could I advocate such an innovation: it is destructive, and only calculated to diminish the prestige of the nobility, and to deprive it of its greatest and best privilege—that privilege which entitles it alone to approach royalty. It was this view which prevented me from receiving the so-called Count Neal at my court, although my son the king admits him to his presence, and desires that I also should recognize this count of his creation. But, as a queen and a lady, I can never do this. There must be a rampart between royalty and the low and common world, and a pure and unblemished nobility alone can form this rampart. You see, therefore, my poor count, that I cannot accede to this request."

"Have compassion on me, your majesty. If your majesty will but remember that I am ruined; but I am a beggar if this union does not take place, if I do not marry the three millions of Mademoiselle Orguelin."

"Ah, certainly, I had forgotten that," said the queen, thoughtfully.

"Moreover," continued the count, somewhat encouraged, "this is a different affair altogether, and I do not believe that a principle is here at stake, as was the case with the so-called Count Neal. A man represents himself and his house, and no power on earth can give him better or nobler blood than already flows in his veins. But with a woman it is different. She receives her husband's name and his rank; she becomes blood of his blood, and can in no manner affect his nobility. The sons of Countess Rhedern will still be the Counts Rhedern, although the mother is not of noble birth."

"True," said the queen, "this case is different from that of the adventurer Neal. The rank of her husband would be sufficient to permit us to draw a veil over the obscure birth of this new-made countess."

"And your majesty would then be the noble protectrice of our family," said the count, in a sweet and insinuating tone; "your majesty would not only restore my house to its ancient prestige, but you would retain the three millions of Mademoiselle Orguelin in Prussia; for if I should not be able to fulfil the condition which this lady has made, Mademoiselle Orguelin will marry a rich young Hollander, who is the commercial friend of her father, and has come here for the especial purpose of suing for the hand of his daughter."

"Ah, if that is the case, it becomes almost a duty to give you this girl, in order to prevent her millions from leaving the country," said the queen, smiling. "Be hopeful, count, your wish will be granted, and this little millionnaire, who longs to appear at court, shall have her desire. I will speak with my son on this subject to-day; and you may take it for granted that your request will meet with a favorable response."

And the queen, who was proud and happy to have an opportunity of showing the count how great was her influence with her royal son, graciously permitted him to kiss her hand, and listened well pleased to his exclamations of gratitude and devotion.

She then dismissed him with a gracious inclination of her head, requesting him to inform Madame von Brandt, whose laughing voice could be heard at a short distance, that she desired to see her.

While the count hurried off to execute the commission of his royal mistress, the queen walked on slowly and thoughtfully. Now that she was permitted to be a queen, her woman's nature again made itself felt; she found it quite amusing to have a hand in the love affairs which were going on around her, and to act the part of the beneficent fairy in making smooth the path of true love. Two of the first noblemen of her court had to-day solicited her kind offices in their love affairs, and both demanded of her the reestablishment of the prosperity and splendor of their houses.

The queen, as before said, felt flattered by these demands, and was in her most gracious humor when Madame von Brandt made her appearance. Their conversation was at first on indifferent subjects, but Madame von Brandt knew very well why the queen honored her with this interview, and kept the match in readiness to fire the train with which she had undermined the happiness and love of poor Laura von Pannewitz.

"Do you know," asked the queen suddenly, "that we have a pair of lovers at my court?"

"A pair of lovers!" repeated Madame von Brandt, and so apparent was the alarm and astonishment depicted in her countenance that the queen was startled.

"Is this, then, so astonishing?" asked the queen, smiling. "You express so much alarm that one might suppose we were living in a convent, where it is a crime to speak of love and marriage. Or were you only a little annoyed at not having heard of this love affair?"

"Your majesty," said Madame von Brandt, "I knew all about this affair, but had no idea that you had any knowledge of it."

"Certainly you must have known it, as Mademoiselle von Pannewitz is your friend, and has very naturally made you her confidant."

"Yes, I have been her confidant in this unhappy and unfortunate love," said Madame von Brandt, with a sigh; "but I can assure your majesty that I have left no arguments, no prayers, and even no threats untried to induce this poor young girl to renounce her sad and unfortunate love."

"Well, you might have saved yourself this trouble," said the queen, smiling; "for this love is not, as you say, a sad and unfortunate one, but a happy one! Count Voss came to me this morning as a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz."

"Poor, unhappy Laura!" sighed Madame von Brandt.

"How!" exclaimed the queen, "you still pity her, when I assure you that hers is not an unhappy, but a happy love, reciprocated by Count Voss, who is a suitor for her hand?"

"But what has Count Voss to do with Laura's love?" asked Madame von Brandt, with such well-acted astonishment that the unsuspecting queen might very well be deceived.

"Truly this is a strange question," exclaimed the queen. "You have just told me that Mademoiselle von Pannewitz entertains an unfortunate attachment for Count Voss; and when I inform you that so far from hers being an unfortunate attachment, it is returned by Count Voss, who is at this moment a suitor for her hand, you ask, with an air of astonishment, 'What has Count Voss to do with Laura's love?'"

"Pardon me, your majesty, I did not say that my poor friend loved Count Voss."

"How!" exclaimed the queen, impatiently; "it is then not Count Voss? Pray, who has inspired her with this unfortunate love? Who is he? Do you know his name?"

"Your majesty, I know him; but I have vowed on the Bible never to mention his name."

"It was very inconsiderate in you to make such a vow," exclaimed the queen, impatiently.

"Your majesty, she who demanded it of me was my friend, and in view of her sorrow and tears I could not refuse a request by the fulfilment of which she would at least have the sad consolation of pouring out her sorrow and anguish into the bosom of a true and discreet friend. But the very friendship I entertain for her makes it my bounden duty to implore your majesty to sustain the offer of Count Voss with all the means at your command, and, if necessary, even to compel my poor Laura to marry him."

"How! You say she loves another, and still desire that I should compel her to marry Count Voss?"

"Your majesty, there is no other means of averting evil from the head of my dear Laura; no other means of preserving two noble hearts from the misery their unfortunate passions might produce. Laura is a noble and virtuous girl, but she loves, and would not long be able to withstand the passionate entreaties of her lover; she would hear no voice but that of him she loves."

"This love is then returned?" asked the queen.

"Oh, your majesty, Laura's maidenly pride would preserve her from an unrequited love."

"And still you call this love an unfortunate one?"

"I call it so because there are insurmountable obstacles in its way; an abyss lies between these lovers, across which they can never clasp hands. In order to be united they would have to precipitate themselves into its depths! Every word of love which these unfortunates utter is a crime—is high treason."

"High treason!" exclaimed the queen, whose eyes sparkled with anger. "Ah, I understand you now. This proud, arrogant girl raises her eyes to a height to which a princess of the blood alone can aspire. In her presumption this girl thinks to play the role of a La Valliere or a Maintenon. Yes, I now comprehend every thing—her pallor, her sighs, her melancholy, and her blushes, when I told her I expected the king and his court here to-day. Yes, it must be so. Mademoiselle von Pannewitz loves the—"

"Your majesty," exclaimed Madame von Brandt, imploringly, "have the goodness not to mention the name. I should have to deny it, and that would be an offence to your majesty; but if I should acknowledge it, I would be false to my vow and my friendship. In your penetration, your majesty has divined what I hardly dared indicate, and my noble queen now comprehends why an early marriage with Count Voss would be the best means of preserving the happiness of two noble hearts."

"Mademoiselle von Pannewitz will have to make up her mind to become the bride of Count Voss within the hour!" exclaimed the queen, imperiously. "Woe to her if in her arrogance she should refuse to give up a love against which the whole force of my royal authority shall be brought to bear."

"May your majesty follow the suggestions of your wisdom in all things! I only request that your majesty will graciously conceal from poor Laura that you discovered her unhappy secret through me."

"I promise you that," said the queen, who, forgetful of her royal dignity, in her angry impatience turned around and advanced hastily toward her suite, who, on her approach, remained standing in a respectful attitude.

At this moment a lacquey, dressed in the royal livery, was seen advancing from the palace; he approached the maid of honor then on duty, Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, and whispered a few words in her ear.

Hurrying forward, this young lady informed the queen that her majesty the reigning queen had just arrived, and desired to know if her majesty would receive her. The queen did not reply immediately. She looked scornfully at the young girl who stood before her, humbly and submissively, with downcast eyes, and although she did not look up at the queen, she seemed to feel her withering and scornful glances, for she blushed deeply, and an anxious expression was depicted on her countenance.

The queen observed that the blushing Laura was wonderfully beautiful, and in her passionate anger could have trodden her under foot for this presumptuous and treasonable beauty. She felt that it was impossible longer to remain silent, longer to defer the decision. The queen's anger fairly flamed within her, and threatened to break forth; she was now a passionate, reckless woman, nothing more; and she was guided by her passion and the power of her angry pride alone.

"I am going to receive her majesty," said Sophia Dorothea, with trembling lips. "Her majesty has presented herself unceremoniously, and I shall therefore receive her without ceremony. All of you will remain here except Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, who will accompany me."



CHAPTER XIII.

PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

The greeting of the two queens was over; the inquiries of politeness and etiquette had been exchanged; Sophia had offered Queen Elizabeth her hand and conducted her into the small saloon, where she was in the habit of receiving her family.

The door leading to the conservatory was open, and the two maids of honor could be seen within, standing with Laura, and asking questions in a low tone, to which she replied almost inaudibly. She felt that the decisive hour of her destiny was at hand, and she prayed that God would strengthen her for the coming trial. She trembled not for herself, but for her lover; for his dear sake she was determined to bear the worst, and bravely meet the shock; she would not yield, she would not die, for he would perish with her; in her heart of hearts, she renewed the oath of eternal love and eternal faith she had taken, and nerved herself for persecution and endurance. Suddenly she heard the harsh voice of the queen calling her name; she looked up, and saw her standing in the door.

"I beg the maids of honor to join the ladies in the garden; you, mademoiselle, will remain here; I have a few words to say to you."

The ladies bowed and left the conservatory. Laura remained alone; she stood with folded hands in the middle of the room; her cheek was deadly pale, her lips trembled, but her eyes were bright, and filled with a heroic and dreamy excitement. As Sophia called her name, Laura laid her hand upon her heart, as if to suppress its stormy beating, and with her head bowed meekly upon her breast she advanced submissively at the call of her mistress. At the door of the second saloon she remained standing, and awaited the further commands of the queen. As Sophia did not speak, Laura raised her eyes and looked timidly at the two queens, who were seated on a sofa opposite the door; they were both gazing at her, the queen-mother severely, with a proud and derisive smile, but Queen Elizabeth regarded with unutterable pity this poor girl, who reminded her of a broken lily.

"Mademoiselle von Pannewitz," said Sophia, after a long silence, "I have a matter of great importance to communicate to you, and as it admits of no delay, her majesty has allowed me to speak to you in her presence. Listen attentively, and weigh well my words. I have treated you with affectionate kindness; you have always found in me a friend and mother. I therefore require of you unconditional and silent obedience—an obedience that as your queen and mistress I have a right to demand. You are of a noble but poor family, and your parents cannot support you in the style suitable to your birth. I have adopted you, and will now establish for you a future which will be both splendid and happy. A rich and gallant cavalier has proposed for your hand, and as it is a most fitting and advantageous offer, I have accepted it for you, and promised your consent."

The queen ceased and looked piercingly at the young girl, who was still leaning against the door, silent and dejected. This dumb submission, this weak resignation revolted the queen; instead of softening her anger, she took this silence for defiance, this humility for stubbornness.

"You are not at all anxious, it appears, to learn the name of your future husband," she said, sharply; "perhaps the rapture of joy binds your tongue, and prevents you from thanking me for my motherly care."

"Pardon, your majesty," said Laura, raising her soft eyes to the harsh and severe countenance of the queen; "it was not joy that closed my lips, but reverence for your majesty; I feel no joy."

"You feel no joy!" cried the queen, with the cruel rage of the lion who seizes his prey and tears it in pieces when there is none to deliver. "Well, then, you will marry without joy, that is decided; and as you are too far above all womanly weakness to appear curious, I shall be obliged to name the happy man whose loving bride you are soon to be, that you make no mistakes, and perhaps, in the tenderness of your heart, render another than your appointed husband happy in your embraces." Laura uttered a low cry of anguish, and her cheeks, colorless until now, were dyed red with shame.

"Have pity, your majesty," murmured Elizabeth Christine, laying her hand softly on the shoulder of the queen; "see how the poor girl suffers."

Sophia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "Nonsense! do we not all suffer? have not I suffered? Is there a woman on God's earth whose heart is not half melted away with hot and unavailing tears?"

"It is true," said Elizabeth; "we have but one exclusive privilege—to weep and to endure."

The queen-mother turned again to Laura, who had checked her tears, but was still standing bowed down, and trembling before her.

"Well," said Sophia, "it still does not suit you to inquire the name of your lover, then I shall name him; mark well my words: it is Count Voss who has chosen you for his wife, and to him alone you have now to direct your heart and your tenderness."

Laura now raised her eyes and fixed them steadily upon this cruel mistress; her glance was no longer soft and pleading, but determined. The imperious manner of the queen, instead of intimidating the pale and gentle girl, awakened her to the consciousness of her own dignity. "Majesty," she said, with cool decision, "love is not given by command, it cannot be bestowed arbitrarily."

"By that you mean to affirm that you do not, and cannot love Count Voss," said the queen, suppressing her fury with difficulty.

"Yes, your majesty. I do not, I cannot love Count Voss."

"Well, then," cried Sophia, "you will marry him without love, and that speedily!"

Laura raised her head passionately; her eye met the queen's, but this time not humbly, not timidly, but decisively. From this moment, Sophia Dorothea was to her no longer a queen, but a cruel, unfeeling woman, who was trampling upon her soul and binding it in chains.

"Pardon, your majesty, as I have said that I do not love Count Voss, it follows of course that I will never marry him."

The queen sprang from her seat as if bitten by a poisonous reptile. "Not marry him!" she shrieked; "but I say you shall marry him! yes, if you have to be dragged with violence to the altar!"

"Then at the altar I will say no!" cried Laura von Pannewitz, raising her young face, beaming with courage and enthusiasm, toward heaven.

The queen uttered a wild cry and sprang forward; the lion was about to seize upon its prey and tear it to pieces, but Elizabeth Christine laid her hand upon the raised arm of the queen and held her back. "Majesty," she said, "what would you do? you would not force this poor girl to marry against her will; she does not love Count Voss, and she is right to refuse him."

"Ha! you defend her?" cried Sophia, brought to extremities by the resistance of the queen; "you have then no presentiment why she refuses the hand of Count Voss; you do not comprehend that when a poor dependent maid of honor refuses to marry a rich and noble cavalier, it is because she believes she has secured her future in another direction—because in the haughtiness of her vain, infatuated heart, she hopes through her beauty and well-acted coquetry to secure for herself a more brilliant lot. But, mark me! however charming and alluring that prospect may appear outwardly, even in its success there would be found nothing but infamy! She can never have the madness to believe that any priest in this land would dare to bind with the blessings of the Holy Church a love so boldly impudent, so traitorous; she can never hope to set her foot where only the lawful wife of a king can stand—where the sister of the king of England has stood! yes, where she still stands, and from whence she is resolved to repulse this miserable coquette, who hopes to conquer a throne through her shameless allurements."

Laura uttered a piercing scream, and with hands raised to heaven, she exclaimed, "My God! my God! can I bear this and live?"

The queen broke into a wild, mocking laugh. Elizabeth Christine looked, questioningly, at this scene, which she did not comprehend, but which touched her heart by its tragic power.

"It is a hard and cruel accusation which your majesty is bringing against this young girl; let us hope that Laura will know how to defend herself."

"Defend herself! look at her! look how my words have crushed her! how her proud, aspiring soul is checked! Believe me, Elizabeth, she, whom you so generously pity, understands my words better than your majesty; and she knows well of what I accuse her; but you, my daughter, shall know also; you have a right to know."

"Mercy! your majesty, mercy!" cried Laura, falling upon her knees and raising her arms pleadingly toward the queen; "speak no more! humble me no further! Do not betray my secret, which in your mouth becomes a denunciation! Let me remain even on the brink of the precipice, where you have dragged me! that is appalling, but cast me not down! So low and dust-trodden a creature is no longer worthy of the honor of approaching your majesty, I see that, and beg humbly for my dismissal, not as your majesty supposes, to lead an independent and happy, if still a shameful life, but to flee to some corner of the world, where alone and unseen I may weep over the beautiful and innocent dreams of my life, from which your majesty has awakened me so cruelly."

She was wonderfully beautiful in this position; those raised arms, that noble, transparently pale, tear-stained countenance. Sophia Dorothea saw it, and it made her feel more bitter, more cruel.

"Ah, she dares to reproach me," she cried, contemptuously; "she still has a slight consciousness of her shame; she trembles to hear what she did not tremble to do! Listen, my daughter, you that have for her so warm, so pitiful a heart; you who, when I have spoken, will detest and curse her as I do, and as you are entitled to do. Believe me, Elizabeth, I know all your suffering, all your sorrow; I know the secret history of your noble, proud, and silent heart. Ask that girl there of your grief and misery; ask her the reason of your lonely, tearful nights; demand of her your broken happiness, your crushed hopes; demand of her your husband's love, your soul's peace. Mademoiselle von Pannewitz can return them all to you, as she has taken them from you, for she is the mistress of the king."

"Mistress of the king!" said Elizabeth, with a painful cry, while Laura let her hands glide from her face, and looked at the queen with an astonished expression.

"Yes," repeated Sophia Dorothea, whose hot blood rushed so violently through her veins that her voice faltered, and she was scarcely able to retain an appearance of self-control; "yes, she is the mistress of the king, and therefore refuses to marry Count Voss! But patience, patience, she shall not triumph! and if she dares to love my son, the son of the queen, King Frederick of Prussia, I will remind her of Dorris Ritter, who loved him, and was beloved by him! This Dorris was flogged through the streets of Berlin, and cast out from amongst men."

Laura uttered so loud and fearful a cry that even the queen-mother was startled, and for a moment touched with pity for the poor, broken-hearted girl who lay at her feet, like a poor, wounded gazelle in the convulsive agonies of death.

But she would not give way to this pity; would not betray a weakness, of which she was ashamed. Taking the hand of the young queen and casting a look of disdain at Laura, she said, "Come, my daughter, we will no longer bear the presence of this person, whose tears, I hope, spring from repentance and acknowledgment of her offence; may she obtain our pardon by resolving to-day, of her own free will, and without forcing us to harsher measures, to accept the hand of Count Voss; come, my daughter."

The two queens stepped to the door. Sophia threw it open violently, and passed immediately into the boudoir, but Elizabeth did not follow her. She looked back at the poor sobbing girl lying upon the floor. The pale and noble face touched her womanly heart.

"Pardon, your majesty, if I do not follow immediately; I should like to say a few words to Mademoiselle von Pannewitz; I think I have a right to do so."

The queen-mother experienced a cruel pleasure at these words.

"Oh, my daughter, even your forbearance is exhausted, and you feel that forgiveness is impossible; yes, speak to her, and let her feel the whole weight of your righteous indignation. Words of reproach and accusation from your gentle lips will have a crushing power. But no delay—you know the king will soon be here."

The queen closed the door. She wished to hear nothing that passed between Elizabeth and Laura; she needed rest, in order to receive the king with composure.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE MISUNDERSTANDING.

The young queen, the reigning queen, as she was called, was now alone with Laura von Pannewitz. She was for a moment speechless; strange, tempestuous feelings burned in the bosom of this gentle woman; she felt all the torments of rage and jealousy, and the humiliation of unrequited love.

Leaning against the wall, she looked frowningly at Laura, who was kneeling before her, wringing her hands and weeping piteously. How could a woman weep who could call that happiness her own—to possess which Elizabeth would cheerfully give years of her life? She had at last found the rival for whom she was despised; the destroyer of her happiness; the envied woman loved by Frederick!

As she saw this woman bathed in tears at her feet, an exulting joy for one moment filled her heart. But this violent emotion soon disappeared. Elizabeth was too true and noble a woman to give herself up long to such resentment. She felt, indeed, a melancholy pleasure in knowing that it was not coldness of heart, but love for another, which estranged the king from her; in the midst of her wild grief she was still just; and she acknowledged that this woman, whom the king loved, was more charming and more beautiful than herself.

The love Elizabeth bore her husband was so unselfish, so resigned, so magnanimous, that she felt grateful to the woman who could impart a happiness to the king it had never been in her power to bestow.

With a truly noble expression she approached the maid of honor, who, unconscious of the queen's presence, was still lying on the floor and weeping bitterly.

"Arise, Laura," said Elizabeth, gently. "How can a woman loved by the king be sad, or shed tears?"

Laura's hands fell slowly from her face; she checked her tears and looked piteously at the queen. "God, then, has heard my prayers," she said; "He does not wish your majesty to despise and condemn me; He permits me to clear myself before you!"

"Clear yourself," said Elizabeth. "Oh, believe me, in my eyes you need no justification. You are young, gay, beautiful, and witty; you have the rare art of conversation; you are cheerful and spirited. This has attracted Frederick; for this he loves you; in saying this, all is said. It is impossible for a woman to resist his love. I forgive you freely, fully. I have but one prayer to make you: resolve all your duties into one; fill your soul with one thought, make the king happy! This is all. I have nothing more to say; farewell!"

She was going, but Laura held her back. "Oh, your majesty," she cried imploringly, "listen to me! do not leave me under this cruel misconception—these insulting suppositions. Do not think I am so degenerate, so base, so entirely without womanly feeling, as not to feel myself amenable to the laws of the land and of the Church. Oh, believe me, the husband of my queen is sacred in my eyes! and even if I were so unhappy as to love the king, otherwise than as a true, devoted subject, I would rather die than cast one shadow on the happiness of your majesty. Unhappy and guilty as I am, I am no criminal. His majesty never distinguished me by word or look. I honored him, I revered him, and nothing more."

"Alas!" said the queen, "you are faint-hearted enough to deny him. You have not the courage to be proud of his love; you must, indeed, feel guilty."

"My God! my God!" cried Laura, passionately, "she does not believe me!"

"No, I do not believe you, Laura. I saw how you trembled and paled when the queen charged you with your love to her son, but I did not hear you justify yourself."

"Alas, alas!" murmured Laura, in so low a voice as not to be heard by the queen, "I did not know her majesty was speaking of her son Frederick."

"Deny it no longer," said Elizabeth; "acknowledge his love, for which all women will envy you, and for which I forgive you."

"Do not believe what the queen-mother told you!" cried Laura, passionately; "I have done you no wrong, I have no pardon to ask!"

"And I," said Elizabeth—"I make no reproaches; I do not wail and weep; I do not pass my nights, as the queen said, sleeplessly and in tears; I do not mourn over my lost happiness. I am content; I accept my fate—that is, if the king is happy. But if, perchance, this is not so, if you do not make his happiness your supreme object, then, Laura, I take back the forgiveness so freely given, and I envy you in my heart. Farewell."

"No, no, you must not, you shall not go! believe my words! have some pity, some mercy on me! O Heavenly Father, I have suffered enough without this! It needed not these frightful accusations to punish me for a love which, though unwise, yes, mad, is not criminal. As truly as God reigns, it is not the king I love. You turn away, you do not believe me still! Oh, your majesty." She stopped, her whole frame trembled—she had heard her lover's voice; God had sent him to deliver her, to clear her from these disgraceful suspicions.

The door opened, and Prince Augustus William entered; his countenance was gay and careless, he had come to see the queen-mother, and had been directed to this saloon. Already sportive and jesting words were on his lips, when he perceived this strange scene; Laura on her knees, pale and trembling, before the proud queen, who left her disdainfully in her humble position. It was a sight that the proud lover could not endure. The hot blood of the Hohenzollerns was raging. Forgetful of all consequences, he sprung to her side, raised her from the floor and clasped her to his heart. Then, trembling with anger, he turned to the queen. "What does this mean? Why were you in that position? Why were you weeping, Laura? You on your knees, my Laura! You, who are so innocent, so pure, that the whole world should kneel before and worship you! And you, Madame," turning to Elizabeth, "how can you allow this angel to throw herself in the dust before you? How dare you wound her? What did you say to bring anguish to her heart and flood her face with tears? Madame, I demand an answer! I demand it in the name of honor, justice, and love. Laura is my bride, it is my right to defend her."

"Now, now," said Laura, clinging wildly to her lover, "she will no longer believe that I love her husband."

"Your bride!" said the queen, with a sad sweet smile; "how young and trusting you are, my brother, to believe in the possibility of such a marriage."

"She will be my wife!" cried he passionately; "I swear it, and as truly as there is a God in Heaven I will keep my oath! I have courage to dare all dangers, to trample under foot all obstacles. I do not shun the world's verdict or the king's power. My love is pure and honest, it has no need to hide and veil itself; it shall stand out boldly before God, the king, and the whole world! Go, then—go, Madame, and repeat my words to the king; betray a love which chance, undoubtedly, revealed to you. It was, I suppose, the knowledge of this love which led you to wound and outrage this noble woman."

"It is true," said the queen, gently; "I did her injustice—I doubted her words, her protestations; but Laura knows that this offence was involuntary, it all arose from a mistake of the dowager-queen."

"How! my mother knows of our love!" said the prince, in amazement.

"No, she is convinced that Laura von Pannewitz loves and is beloved by the king; for this reason she heaped reproaches upon her, and commanded her to marry Count Voss, who has just proposed for her hand."

The prince clasped Laura more firmly. "Ah, they would tear you from me; but my arms will hold you and my breast will shield you, my darling. Do not tremble, do not weep, my Laura; arm in arm we will go to the king. I will lead you before my mother and the court, and tell them that you are my betrothed—that I have sworn to be true to you, and will never break my oath."

"Stop—be silent, for God's sake!" said Elizabeth; "do not let your mother hear you—do not let the king know your sad, perilous secret. If he knows it you are lost."

"Your majesty does not then intend to make known what you have heard," said the prince. "Have you the courage to conceal a secret from your husband?"

"Ah!" said the queen, with a sigh, "my life, thoughts, and feelings are a secret to him; I will but add this new mystery to the rest. Guard this secret, which will in the end bring you pain and sorrow. Be cautious, be prudent. Let the dowager queen still think that it is the king whom Laura loves, she will be less watchful of you. But now listen to my request; never speak to me of this love that chance revealed, and which I will seek to forget from this moment; never remind me of an engagement which in the eyes of the king and your mother would be unpardonable and punishable, and of which it would be my duty to inform them. As long as you are happy—that will be as long as your love is under the protection of secrecy—I will see nothing, know nothing. But when disaster and ruin break over you, then come to me; then you, my brother, shall find in me a fond, sympathizing sister, and you, poor, wretched girl, will find a friend who will open her arms to you, and will weep with you over your lost happiness."

"Oh, my queen!" cried Laura, pressing her hand to her lips; "how noble, how generous you are!"

Elizabeth drew the poor trembling girl to her heart and kissed her pale brow. "For those who weep and suffer there is no difference of rank, a strong bond of human sympathy unites them. I am for you, not the queen, but the sister who understands and shares your griefs. When you weary of hidden agony and solitary weeping come to me at Schonhausen; you will find there no gayeties, no worldly distractions, but a silent shady garden, in which I sometimes seem to hear God's voice comforting and consoling me. Here you can weep unnoticed, and find a friend who will not weary you with questions."

"I thank you, and I will come. Ah! I know I shall soon need this comfort, my happiness will die an early death!"

"And may I also come, my noble sister?" said the prince.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, smiling, "you may also come, but only when Laura is not with me. I now entreat you, for your own safety, to close this conversation. Dry your eyes, Laura, and try to smile, then go to the garden and call my maids of honor; and you, brother, come with me to the queen-mother, who is in her boudoir."

"No!" said the prince, fiercely; "I cannot see her now, I could not control myself. I could not seem quiet and indifferent while I am suffering such tortures."

"My brother," said the queen, "we princes have not the right to show how we suffer; it is the duty of all in our station to veil our feelings with a smile. Come, the queen, who is indignant and angry, will yet receive us with a smile; and we, who are so sorrowful, will also smile. Come."

"One word more to Laura," said the prince; and leading the young girl, who was endeavoring to suppress her emotion, to another part of the room, he threw his arm around her slender form, and pressed a kiss upon her fair cheek. "Laura, my darling, do you remember your oath? Will you be true and firm? Will my mother's threats and commands find you strong and brave? You will not falter? You will not accept the hand of Count Voss? You will let no earthly power tear you from me? They can kill me, Laura, but I cannot be untrue to myself or to you!" Augustus laid his hand upon her beautiful head; the whole history of her pure and holy love was written in the look and smile with which she answered him. "Do you remember that you promised to meet me in the garden?"

"I remember," said she, blushing.

"Laura, in a few days we will be separated. The king wishes to make an excursion incognito—he has ordered me to accompany him; I must obey."

"Oh, my God! they will take you from me! I shall never see you again!"

"We will meet again," said he encouragingly. "But you must grant me the comfort of seeing you once more before my departure, otherwise I shall not have the courage to leave you. The day for our journey is not yet determined; when it is fixed I will come to inform my mother of it in your presence. The evening before I will be in the conservatory and await you; will I wait in vain?"

"No," whispered Laura, "I will be there;" and as if fleeing from her own words, she hurried to the garden.

Prince Augustus William looked for his sister-in-law to accompany her to the queen; but she had withdrawn, she did not wish to witness their parting. Seeing this, the prince was on the point of following Laura to the garden, when the beating of drums was heard from without.



CHAPTER XV.

SOIREE OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER.

"The king is coming," whispered Augustus William, and he stepped towards the cabinet of the queen-mother. But the door was already opened, and the two queens hastened out; they wished to reach the garden saloon and there to welcome the king.

The expression of both ladies was restless and anxious. Sophia Dorothea feared the meeting with her son, who would, perhaps, in the inflamed, eyes of his beloved, read the history of the last hours; his kingly anger would be kindled against those who brought tears to her eyes. The queen confessed that she had gone too far—had allowed herself to be mastered by her scorn; she was embarrassed and fearful.

Elizabeth Christine was not restless, but deeply moved; her heart beat quickly at the thought of this meeting with her husband; she had not seen him since the day of the coronation, had not exchanged one single word with him since the ominous interview in her chamber at Rheinsberg. Not once on the day of the coronation had the king addressed her; and only once had he taken her hand. After the coronation he led her in the midst of the assembled court, and said with a clear and earnest voice: "Behold, this is your queen."

These ladies were so excited, so filled with their own thoughts that they hastened through the saloons, scarcely remarking the prince, who had stepped aside to allow them to pass. The queen-mother nodded absently and gave him a passing greeting, then turned again to Elizabeth, who had scarcely patience to conform her movements to the slow and measured steps of the queen-mother; she longed to look upon her husband's face once more.

"If Laura von Pannewitz complains to the king, we will have a terrific scene," said Sophia.

"She will not complain," replied Elizabeth.

"So much the worse, she will play the magnanimous, and I could less readily forgive that, than a complaint."

At this moment the door opened. The king, followed by his attendants and those of the two queens, entered the saloon. The two ladies greeted the king with smooth brows and thoughtless laughter. Nothing betrayed the restless anxiety reigning in their hearts. Frederick hastened to meet his mother, and bowing low he greeted her with loving and respectful words, and tenderly kissed her hand; then turning to his wife he bowed stiffly and ceremoniously; he did not extend his hand, did not utter a word. Elizabeth bowed formally in return, and forced back the hot tears which rushed into her eyes.

The face of the queen-mother was again gay and triumphant. The king knew nothing as yet; she must prevent him from speaking with Laura alone. She glanced around at the maid of honor, and saw that the young maiden, calm and unembarrassed, was conversing with the Prince Augustus William; her majesty was more than happy to see her son William entertaining the beautiful Laura. "Ah! now I know how to prevent the king from speaking to her alone," thought she.

Sophia was never so animated, so brilliant; her sparkling wit seemed even to animate the king. There was a laughing contest, a war of words, between them; piquant jests and intellectual bon mots, which seemed to the admiring courtiers like fallen stars, were scattered to right and left. The queen would not yield to her son, and indeed sometimes she had the advantage.

Queen Elizabeth stood sad and silent near them, and if by chance the eye of the king fell upon her, she felt that his glance was contemptuous; her pale cheeks grew paler, and it was with great effort she forced her trembling lips to smile.

The queen-mother proposed to her son and Elizabeth to walk in the garden, and then to have a simple dance in the brilliant saloons. The court mourning would not allow a regular ball at this time.

"But why should we seek for flowers in the garden," said the king; "can there be lovelier blossoms than those now blooming on every side?" His eye wandered around the circle of lovely maids of honor, who cast their eyes blushingly to the ground.

Six eyes followed this glance of Frederick with painful interest.

"He scarcely looked at Laura von Pannewitz," said the queen, with a relieved expression.

"He did not once glance toward me," thought Elizabeth, sighing heavily.

"His eye did not rest for more than a moment upon any woman here," thought Pollnitz; "so it is clear he has no favorite in this circle. I will, therefore, succeed with my beautiful Dorris."

Frederick wished to spare his mother the fatigue of a walk in the garden—she was lame and growing fleshy; he therefore led her to a seat, and bowing silently, he gave his left hand to his wife and placed her by his mother.

Sophia, who watched every movement and every expression of her royal son, observed the cruel silence which he maintained toward his wife, and she felt pity for the poor, pale, neglected queen. Sophia leaned toward the king, who stood hat in hand behind her divan, and whispered:

"I believe, my son, you have not spoken one word to your wife!"

The king's face clouded. "Madame," said he, in a low but firm tone, "Elizabeth Christine is my queen, but not my wife!" and, as if he feared a further explanation, he nodded to the Marquis Algarotti and Duke Chazot to come forward and take part in the conversation.

Suddenly a lady, who had not before been seen in the court circle, approached the two queens. This lady was of a wondrous pallor; she was dressed in black, without flowers or ornament; her deep sunken eyes were filled with feverish fire, and a painful smile played upon her lips, which were tightly pressed together, as if to force back a cry of despair.

No one recognised in this pale, majestic, gentle lady, the "Tourbillon," the joyous, merry, laughing Madame von Morien; no one could have supposed that her fresh and rosy beauty could, in a few months, assume so earnest and sad a character. This was the first time Madame von Morien had appeared at the court of the queen-mother; she was scarcely recovered from a long and dangerous illness. No one knew the nature of her disease, but the witty and ill-natured courtiers exchanged many words of mockery and double meaning on the subject.

It was said Madame von Morien was ill from the neglect of the king. She suffered from a chill, which, strange to say, had attacked the king, and not the beautiful coquette. Her disease was a new and peculiar cold, which did not attack the lungs, but seized upon the heart; the same disease, indeed, which prostrated Dido, upon the departure of the cruel AEneas.

The queen-mother received this pale, but still lovely woman, most graciously; gave her the royal hand to kiss, and smiled kindly.

"It is an age since we have seen you, fair baroness; it appears as if you will make yourself invisible, and forget entirely that we rejoice to see you."

"Your royal highness is most gracious to remind me of that," said Madame von Morien, in a low tone; "death had almost made me forget it, and assuredly I had not dared to approach you with this pale, thin face, had not your majesty's flattering command given me courage to do so."

There was something in the low, suffering voice of Madame von Morien which awakened sympathy, and even disarmed the anger of the queen Elizabeth. What bitter tears had she shed, what jealous agony endured, because of this enchanting woman! She saw her now for the first time since the fete at Rheinsberg. Looking into this worn and sorrowful face, she forgave her fully. With the instinct of a loving woman, the queen understood the malady of her rival; she felt that Madame von Morien was suffering from unrequited affection, and that despair was gnawing at her heart.

The king had now no glance, no greeting for his "enchanting Leontine;" he continued the conversation with Algarotti and Chazot quietly, and did not consider her profound and reverential salutation as worthy of the slightest notice.

Elizabeth Christine was pitiful; she gave her hand to be kissed, and spoke a few friendly, kindly words, which touched the heart of the beautiful Morien, and brought the tears to her eyes. The king, although standing near, did not appear even to see her.

"I have some news to announce to your majesty," he said, turning to the queen-mother. "We are about to make Berlin a temple of science and art, the seat of learning and knowledge. The Muses, should they desire to leave Olympus, shall receive a most hospitable reception. Now listen to the great news. In autumn Voltaire will visit us; and Maupertius, the great scholar, who first discovered the form of the earth, will come, as President of our Academy; and Buncauson, who understands some of the mysteries of God, will also come to Berlin. The celebrated Eulert will soon belong to us."

"This is indeed glorious news," said Sophia; "but I fear that your majesty, when surrounded with so many scholars, philosophers, and historians, will entirely forget the poor ignorant women, and banish them from your learned court."

"That would be to banish happiness, beauty, mirth, and the graces; and no one would expect such barbarism from the son of my noble and exalted mother," said Frederick. "Even the Catholic Church is wise enough to understand that in order to draw men into their nets, the Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost is not sufficient, they have also called a lovely woman to their assistance, whose beauty and pure mysterious maidenhood is the finest, most piquant and intoxicating perfume of their gaudy religion. And what would the great painters have been without women—without their lovely, their bewitching sweethearts, whom they changed into holy maidens? From luxurious women were designed the modest, shrinking Magdalens, before whose mysterious charms the wise children of men bow the knee in adoration. Ah, how many Madonnas has Raphael painted from his Fornarina! and Correggio had the art to change his bewitching wife into a holy saint. I must confess, however, we owe Correggio but small thanks; I should have been more grateful had he painted us a glowing woman, radiant with beauty, grace, and love. I, for my part, have a true disgust for weeping, sighing Magdalens, who, when wearied with earthly loves and passions, turn half way to heaven, and swear to God the same oaths they have a thousand times sworn to men and a thousand times broken. Now, if I were in God's place, I would not accept these wavering saints. For my part I hate these pale, tearful, sighing, self-destroying beauties, and the farcical exhibition of their sufferings would never soften my heart."

While the king was speaking his eye turned for the first time toward Madame von Morion, and his glance rested long, with a cold and piercing expression, upon her. She had heard every word he had spoken, and every word was like a cold poisoned dagger in her heart; she felt, although her eyes were cast down, that his stern look rested upon her; she was conscious of this crushing glance, although she saw it not; she had the power not to cry out, not to burst into passionate tears, but to reply quietly to the queen, who in fact questioned her, only with the good-humored intention of drowning the hard and cruel words of the king.

The queen wished to lead the conversation from the dangerous topic of religion and give it another direction. "My son," she said, "you have forgotten to mention another great surprise you have prepared for us. You say nothing of the German and French journals which you have presented to our good city of Berlin; but I assure you I await with true impatience the day on which these journals appear, and I am profoundly interested in these new and charming lectures which make of politics an amusing theme, and give us all the small events of the day."

"Let us hope," said Frederick, "that these journals will also tell us in the future of great events." Then assuming a gay tone he said: "But your majesty forgets that you promised the ladies a dance, and see how impatiently the little princesses look toward us; my sister Amelia is trying to pierce me with her scornful glances, because I have forced her to sit in her arm-chair like a maid of honor, for such a weary time, when she longs to float about like a frolicsome zephyr. To put a stop to her reproaches I will ask her to give me the first dance."

The king took his sister's hand and led her into the dancing saloon.

The queens and court followed. "Now without doubt he will seek an opportunity to speak to Laura von Pannewitz," thought the queen-mother; "I must take measures to prevent it." She called Prince Augustus William to her side. "My son," said she, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Oh, your majesty has only to command."

"I know that you are a good son, willing to serve your mother. Listen; I have important reasons for wishing that the king should not converse to-night, at least not alone, with Laura von Pannewitz; I will explain my reasons to you another time. I beg you, therefore, to pay court to Laura, and not to leave her side should the king draw near. You will appear not to see his angry glances, but without embarrassment join in the conversation, and not turn away from Laura until the king has taken leave. Will you do this for me, my son?"

"I will fulfil your royal commands most willingly," said the prince, "only it will be said that I am making love to Laura von Pannewitz."

"Well, let them say so, Laura is young and lovely, and does credit to your taste. Let the court say what it will, we will not make ourselves unhappy. But hasten, my son, hasten; it appears to me the king is even now approaching Laura."

The prince bowed to his mother, and with joy in his heart he placed himself by the side of his beloved.

The queen-mother, entirely at ease, took her seat at the card-table with her daughter-in-law and their cavaliers, while the king amused himself in the ball-room, and danced a tour with almost every lady. He did not dance with Leontine; not once did his eye meet hers, though her glances followed him everywhere with a tender, beseeching, melancholy expression.

"So sad!" whispered Madame von Brandt, who, glowing with beauty and merriment, having just danced with the king, now took a seat by her side.

Madame von Morien with a sigh held out her small hand. "Dear friend," said she, in a low voice, "you were right. I should not have come here; I thought myself stronger than I am; I thought my mourning would touch him, and awaken at least his pity."

"Pity!" laughed Madame von Brandt; "men never have pity for women: they worship or despise them; they place us on an altar or cast us in the dust to be trodden under foot. We must take care, dear Leontine, to build the altar on which they place us so high, that their arms cannot reach us to cast us down."

"You are right; I should have been more prudent, wiser, colder. But what would you? I loved him, and believed in his heart."

"You believed in the heart of a man! Alas! what woman can boast that she ever closed that abyss and always retained the keys?"

"Yes, the heart of man is an abyss," said Madame von Morien; "in the beginning it is covered with flowers, and we believe we are resting in Paradise; but the blossoms wither, and will no longer support us; we fall headlong into the abyss with wounded hearts, to suffer and to die."

Madame von Brandt laid her hand, glittering with jewels, upon the shoulder of her friend, and looked derisively into the poor pale face. "Dear Morien," said she, "we cannot justly cast all the blame upon the men, when the day comes in which they make themselves free from the bonds of love. The fault is often the woman's. We misuse our power, or do not properly use it. It is not enough to love and to be loved. With love we must also possess the policy of love. This policy is necessary. The women who do not know how to govern the hearts which love them will soon lose their power. So was it with you, my dear friend; in your love you were too much the woman, too little the politician and diplomatist; and instead of wisely making yourself adored, by your coldness and reserve you yielded too much to your feelings, and have fallen into that abyss in which, poor Leontine, you have for the moment lost your health and strength. But that must not remain the case; you shall rise from this abyss, proud, triumphant, and happy. I offer you my hand; I will sustain you: while you sigh I will think for you; while you weep I will see for you."

Madame von Morien shook her head sadly. "You will only see that he never looks at me—that I am utterly forgotten."

"But when I see that, I will shut my eyes that I may not see it; and when you see it, you must laugh gayly and look the more triumphant. Dear friend, what has love made of you? Where is your judgment and your coquetry? My God! you are a young maiden again, and sigh like a child for your first love. However tender we may be, we must not sacrifice all individuality; besides, being a woman you must still be a coquette, and in a corner of your most tender and yielding heart you must ever conceal the tigress, who watches and has her claws ready to tear in pieces those whom you love, if they ever seek to escape from you. Cease, then, to be the neglected, tear-stained Magdalen, and be again the revengeful, cruel tigress. You have, besides, outside of your love, a glittering aim—a member of the Female Order of Virtue. To wear the cross of modesty upon your chaste breast, what an exalted goal! And you will reach it. I bring you the surest evidence of it; I bring you, as you wished, a letter from the empress, written with her own hand. You see all your conditions are fulfilled. The empress writes to you and assures you of her favor; she assures you that the Order of Virtue will soon be established. The king has not separated from his wife, and for this reason you receive a letter from the empress. Now help to bring about the marriage of the Prince Augustus William with the Princess of Brunswick, and you will be an honored member of the Austrian Order of Virtue. Here, take at once this letter of the empress."

Madame von Brandt put her hand in her pocket to get the letter, but turned pale, and said, breathlessly: "My God! this letter is not in my pocket, and yet I know positively that I placed it there. A short time before I joined you I put my hand in my pocket, and distinctly felt the imperial seal. The letter was there, I know it. What has become of it? Who has taken it away from me? But no, it is not possible, it cannot be lost! I must have it; it must still be in my pocket."

Trembling with anxiety, with breathless haste Madame von Brandt emptied her pocket, hoping that the luckless letter might be sticking to her gold-embroidered handkerchief, or fastened in the folds of her fan. She did not remember that her anxiety might be observed; and truly no one noticed her, all were occupied with their own pleasures. All around her was movement, life, and merry-making; who would observe her? She searched again in vain, shook her handkerchief, unfolded the large fan; the letter could not be found. An indescribable anxiety overpowered her; had she lost the letter? had it been stolen from her? Suddenly she remembered that while engaged a short time before with Pollnitz she had drawn out her fan; perhaps at the same time the letter had fallen upon the floor, and Pollnitz might have found it, and might now be looking for Madame von Morien in order to restore it. She searched in every direction for Pollnitz.

Madame von Morien had not remarked the anguish of her friend, or had forgotten it. She was again lost in dreams; her eyes fastened on the face of the young king, she envied every lady whose hand he touched in the dance, to whom he addressed a friendly word, or gave a gracious smile. "I see him no more," said she sadly.

"Who?" said Madame von Brandt, once more searching her pocket.

"The king," Morien answered, surprised at the question; "he must have left the saloon; I saw him a few moments since in conversation with Pollnitz."

"With Pollnitz," said she eagerly, and she searched again in every direction for him.

Suddenly Madame von Morien uttered a low cry, and a rosy blush overspread her fair pale face; she had seen the king, their eyes had met; the sharp, observant glance of the king was steadily and sternly fixed upon her.

The king stood in a window corner, half hidden by the long, heavy silk curtains, and gazed ever steadily at the two ladies.

"I see the king," murmured Madame von Morien.

"And I see Pollnitz standing near him," said Madame von Brandt, whose eyes had followed the direction of her friend's. She thrust her handkerchief into her pocket and opened her fan in order to hide her reddened face behind it; the king's piercing look filled her with alarm. "Let us walk through the saloons, dear Morien," said she, rising up, "the heat chokes me, and I would gladly search a little for the letter; perhaps it may yet be found."

"What letter?" asked Madame von Morien, indifferently. Her friend stared at her and said:

"My God! you have not heard one word I have said to you!"

"Oh, yes, that you had a letter to give me from the Empress of Austria."

"Well, and this letter I have lost here in these saloons."

"Some one will find it; and as it is addressed to me, will immediately restore it."

"Dear Morien, I pray you in God's name do not seem so quiet and indifferent. This is a most important affair. If I did not leave this letter in my room, and have really lost it, we are in danger of being suspected; in fact, in the eyes of the king we will be considered as spies of Austria."

At the name of the king Madame von Morien was attentive and sympathetic.

"But no one can read this letter. Was it sealed?"

"Yes, it was sealed; but, look you, it was sealed with the private seal of the empress, and her name stands around the Austrian arms. Without opening the letter it will be known that it is from the Empress of Austria, and will awaken suspicion. Hear me further; this letter was enveloped in a paper which had no address, but contained some words which will compromise us both if it is known that this letter was addressed to me."

"What was written in this paper?" said Madame von Morien, still looking toward the king, who still stood in the window niche, and kept his eyes fixed upon the two ladies.

"The paper contained only the following words: 'Have the goodness to deliver this letter; you see the empress keeps her word; we must do the same and forget not our promises. A happy marriage is well pleasing in the sight of God and man; the married woman is adorned, the man crowned with virtue.'"

"And this letter was signed?"

"No, it was not signed; but if it falls into the hands of the king, he will know from whom it comes; he is acquainted with the handwriting of Manteuffel."

"Come! come! let us look to it!" said Madame von Morien, now full of anxiety; "we must find this unfortunate paper; come!"

She took the arm of her friend and walked slowly through the saloons, searching everywhere upon the inlaid floor for something white.

"You are right," said the king, coming from the window and following the ladies with his eyes; "you are right. They are both searching anxiously, and it was surely Madame von Brandt to whom the outer covering of this letter was directed. Let them seek; they will find as little as the eleven thousand virgins found. But now listen, baron, to what I say to you. This whole affair remains a secret known to no one. Listen well, baron; known to no one! You must forget that you found this letter and gave it to me, or you will believe it to be a dream and nothing more."

"Yes, your majesty," said Pollnitz, smiling; "a dream, such as Eckert dreamed, when he supposed the house in Jager Street to be his, and awaked and found it to belong to your highness!"

"You are a fool!" said the king, smiling; he nodded to Pollnitz and joined the two queens, who had now finished their game of cards and returned to the saloon.

The queen-mother advanced to meet her son, and extended her hand to him; she wished now to carry out her purpose and fulfil the promise given to Duke Rhedern. She did not doubt that the king, who received her with so much reverence and affection, would grant her request, and the court would be again witness to the great influence, and indeed the unbounded power which she had over her son. She stood with the king directly under the chandelier, in the middle of the saloon; near them stood the reigning queen and the princes and princesses of the royal house. It was an interesting picture. It was curious to observe this group, illuminated by the sharp light, the faces so alike and yet so different in expression; blossoms from one stem, and yet so unlike in greatness, form, and feature. The courtiers drew near, and in respectful silence regarded the royal family, who, bathed in a sea of light, were in the midst of them but not of them.