"No," he said, tenderly and firmly. "No, Anna, you shall live with me! My children are my life and my heart; they will live with you. Every morning I shall greet you from the eyes of our children, and when they embrace you, think it were my arms encircling you. Live for our children, Anna; teach them to love their father who, it is true, will be no longer with them, but whose soul will ever surround you and them! Swear to me that you will live and bear your fate firmly and courageously!"

"I swear it," she said in a low voice.

"And now, beloved Anna, leave me! My last moments belong to God!"

He kissed her lips, which were as cold as marble, and led her gently to the door.

Anna now raised her head in order to fix a long, last look on him.

"You want me to live," she said; "I shall do so long as it pleases God. I bid you, therefore, farewell, but not forever, nor even for a very long while. All of us are nothing but poor wanderers whom God has sent on earth to perform their pilgrimage. But at length He opens to us again the doors of our paternal house and calls us home! I long for my return home, my beloved! Farewell, then, until we meet again!"

"Farewell until we meet again!"

They shook hands once more, and gazed at each other with a smile which lighted up their faces like the last beam of the setting sun.

Then Anna, walking backward in order to see him still, and to engrave his image deeply on her heart, crossed the threshold as the jailer hastily closed the door behind her.

Palm heard a heart-rending cry outside; then every thing was silent.

A few minutes later the door opened again, and a Catholic priest entered.

"My wife has fainted, I suppose?" asked Palm.

"No, a sudden vertigo seemed to seize her when the door closed, but she overcame her weakness and hurried away. May the Lord God have mercy on her!"

"He will," said Palm, confidently.

"May He have mercy on you, too, my son," said the priest. "Let us pray; open to me your soul and your heart."

"My soul and my heart lie open before God; He will see and judge them," said Palm. "I do not belong to your church, my father; I am a Protestant. But if you will pray with me, do so; if you will give me your blessing, I shall thankfully accept it, for a dying man always likes to feel a blessing-hand on his forehead."

The clock struck two, and now the drums commenced rolling, and the death-knell resounded from the church-steeple. An awful silence reigned in the whole city of Braunau. All the houses were closed; all the windows were covered.

Nobody wanted to witness the dreadful spectacle which the despotism of the foreign tyrant was preparing for the citizens of Braunau. The women and children had returned to their houses, and were kneeling and praying in their darkened rooms. The men concealed themselves in order not to show their shame and rage.

Nobody was, therefore, on the street when the terrible procession approached. A miserable cart rumbled along in the midst of soldiers and gens-d'armes, Palm was seated in this cart, backward, and his hands tied on his back; opposite him sat the priest, holding the crucifix in his hand and muttering prayers.

The German inhabitants of Braunau had done well to close their doors and cover their windows, for the disgrace and humiliation of Germany were at this hour rumbling through their streets.

But not all of them had been so happy as to be permitted to stay at home. The will of the foreign despot had forbidden it, and the members of the municipality and other authorities, in their full official robes, had repaired to the place of execution.

There they stood, dumb with shame, astonishment, and horror, with downcast eyes, like slaves passing under the yoke.

About a hundred spectators stood behind them, but not persons to whom executions are merely a piquant spectacle, a rare amusement, but men with sombre, angry eyes—men who had come to swear secretly in their hearts, on this spot where the last remnant of German honor was to bleed to death, a terrible oath of vengeance to the foreign despot. The blood of the martyr was to stir up their enthusiasm for the long-deferred, sacred deed of atonement.

Palm had alighted from the cart, and walked with rapid, resolute steps to the spot which was indicated to him, and behind which an open grave was yawning.

Refusing the assistance of the provost, he himself took off his coat and threw it into the open grave. He then turned his eyes to the side where the authorities of Braunau and his German brethren were standing.

"Friends," he said, aloud, "may my death be a blessing to you; may my blood not be shed in vain, but make you—"

A loud roll of the drum drowned his words.

The general waved his hand; six guns were discharged.

Palm sank to the ground, but he rose again. Only one bullet had struck him; the blood was gushing from his heart, but he still lived.

Another file of soldiers stepped forward, and once more six guns were discharged at him.

But the soldiers, who were accustomed to aim steadily in battle, had here, where they were to be executioners, averted their eyes, and their hands, which never had trembled in battle, were trembling now.

Palm rose again from the ground, a panting, bleeding victim, and seemed, with his uplifted and blood-stained hands, to implore Heaven to avenge him on his murderers.

A third volley resounded.

This time Palm did not rise again. He was dead! God had received his soul. His bleeding remains lay on the German soil, as if to fertilize it for the day of retribution.



CHAPTER LX.

PRUSSIA'S DECLARATION OF WAR.

King Frederick William III. had not yet left his cabinet to-day. He had retired thither early in the morning in order to work. Maps, plans of battles, and open books lay on the tables, and the king sat in their midst with a musing, careworn air.

A gentle rap at the door aroused him from his meditations. The king raised his head and listened. The rap was repeated.

"It is Louisa," he said to himself, and a smile overspread his features as he hastened to the door and opened it.

He had not been mistaken. It was the queen who stood before the door. Smiling, graceful, and merry as ever, she entered the cabinet and gave her hand to her husband.

"Are you angry with me, my dear friend, because I have disturbed you?" she asked, tenderly. "But, it seemed to me, you had worked enough for the state to-day and might devote a quarter of an hour to your Louisa. You know whenever I do not see you in the morning, my day lacks its genuine sunshine, and is gray and gloomy. For this reason, as you have not yet come to me to-day, I come to you. Good- morning, my king and husband!"

"Good-morning, my queen!" said the king, imprinting a kiss on the white, transparent forehead of the queen. "Add to it, good-day, my dear Louisa, for a wish from so beautiful and noble lips I hope will exorcise all evil spirits, and cause this day to become a really good one. I hope much from it."

The king's forehead, which the queen's appearance had smoothed a little, became clouded again, and he assumed a grave and sombre air.

The queen saw it, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"You are downcast, my friend," she said, affectionately. "Will you not let me have my share of your grief? Is not your wife entitled to it? Or will you cruelly deprive me of what is my right? Speak to me, my husband. Let me share your grief. Confide to me what is the meaning of those clouds on your noble brow, and what absorbs your soul to such an extent that you even forgot me and your children, and deprived us of your kind morning greeting."

But even these tender words of the queen were unable to light up the king's forehead; he avoided meeting her beautiful, lustrous eyes, which were fixed on him inquiringly, and averted his head.

"Government affairs," he said, gravely. "Nothing interesting and worthy of being communicated to my queen. Let us not embitter thereby the happy minutes of your presence. Let us sit down."

The queen knew her husband's peculiarities to perfection. She knew that no one was allowed to contradict him whenever he assumed this forbidding tone, and that it was best then not to take any notice of his moroseness, or, if possible, to dispel it.

She, therefore, followed him silently to the sofa and sat down, inviting him, with a charming smile, to take a seat by her side.

The king did so, and Louisa leaned her head tenderly against his shoulder. "How sweet it is to lean one's weak head against the breast of a strong man!" she said. "It seems to me, as long as I am near you, no misfortune can befall me, and I cling to you trustingly and happily, like the ivy covering the strong oak."

"The comparison is not correct," said the king. "Ivy does not bloom, nor is it fragrant. But you are a peerless rose, the queen of flowers!"

"What! my king condescends to flatter me?" said the queen, laughing merrily, while she raised her head from the king's shoulder and looked archly at him. "But, my king, your comparison is not correct either. Roses have thorns, and wound whosoever touches them. But I would not pain and wound you for all the riches of the world! Were I a rose, I should shake off all my fragrant leaves to make of them a pillow on which your noble head should repose from the toils and vexations of the day, and on which you should find dreams of a happy future."

"Only DREAMS of a happy future," said Frederick William, musingly. "You may be right; our hopes for a happy future may be but a dream."

"No," exclaimed the queen, raising her radiant eyes toward heaven, "I firmly believe in the happiness of our future; I believe and know that God has selected you, the most generous and guiltless of princes, to break the arrogance of that daring tyrant, who would like to chain the whole world to his despotic yoke, and who, in his ambitious thirst after conquest, raises his hands against the crowns of all the sovereigns. YOUR crown he shall not touch! It is the rock on which his power will be wrecked, and at the feet of which his proud waves will be broken. Prussia will avenge the disgrace of Germany; I am sure of it, and for this reason I am so happy and confident since you, my king and husband, have cast off the mask of that false friendship for the tyrant, and have shown him your open, angry, and hostile face. A heavy cloud weighed down my heart so long as we still continued mediating, occupying neutral ground, trying to maintain peace, and hoping to derive advantages from that man so devoid of honesty, sincerity, and fidelity."

"Still, who knows whether I was right, after all, in taking such a course!" sighed the king. "Peace is a very precious thing, and the people need it for their prosperity."

"But your people do not want peace!" exclaimed the queen. "They are enthusiastic and clamorous for war, and long for nothing so much as to see an end put to this deplorable incertitude. You have now caused your army to be placed on the war footing, and all faces have already brightened up, and all hearts feel encouraged; announce to your people that you will declare war against the usurper, and all Prussia will rise jubilantly and hasten to the battlefield, as if it were a festival of victory."

"You refer to the army, but not to the people," said the king. "It is true, the army is ready for the fray, and it is satisfied also that it will conquer. But who can tell whether it may not be mistaken? It is long since we have waged war, while the armies of Napoleon are experienced and skilled, and ready to take the field at any moment."

"The army of Frederick the Great, the army of my king has nothing to fear from the hordes of the barbarian!" exclaimed the queen, with flaming eyes.

The king shrugged his shoulders. "I stand in need of allies," he said; "alone I am not able to sustain such a struggle. If the courts of Northern Germany should comply with my invitation, if they should ally themselves with me, finally, if Austria should accept my proposition and unite with me, in that case I should hope for success. All this will be decided to-day, for I am now looking for the return of two important envoys—for the return of Hardenberg, who has delivered my propositions in Vienna, and for the return of Lombard, whom I have sent to the smaller German courts to offer them an offensive and defensive alliance in opposition to Napoleon's Confederation of the Rhine. I confess to you, Louisa, I await their replies tremblingly; I cannot think of any thing else; this feeling has haunted me all day, and now you know why I even forgot to greet you this morning. I intended not to betray the uneasiness filling my heart, but who is able to withstand such an enchantress as you? Now you know every thing!"

"And do you know already the new misdeed which the tyrant has committed?" asked the queen. "Do you know that he is ruling and commanding on German soil as if Germany were nothing but a French province, and all princes nothing but his vassals? In a time of peace he has caused a German citizen to be dragged from his house; in a German state he has ordered a court-martial to meet, and this court-martial has dared to pass sentence of death upon a German citizen merely because he, a German bookseller, had circulated a pamphlet deploring Germany's degradation!"

"I have already known it for three days," said the king, gloomily. "I concealed it from you in order not to grieve you."

"But public opinion now-a-days conceals nothing," exclaimed Louisa, ardently, "and public opinion throughout Germany cries for vengeance against the tyrant who is murdering German honor and German laws in this manner! In every city subscriptions have been opened for Palm's family, for his young wife and his little girls. The poor as well as the rich hasten to offer, according to their means, gifts of love to the widow and orphans of the martyr; and believe me, the money which Germany is now collecting for Palm's family will be dragon's seeds from which armed warriors will spring one day, and Germany's vengeance will blossom from this blood so unjustly shed. Permit me, my friend, to contribute my share to these seeds of love and vengeance. They brought to me this morning a list on which the most distinguished families had subscribed considerable sums for Palm's family, and I was asked whether my ladies of honor and the members of my household would be allowed to subscribe for the same purpose. I should like to allow it and do even more—I should like to contribute my mite, too, to the subscriptions. Will you permit me to do so?"

"They will take that again for a demonstration," said the king, uneasily; "they will say we were stirring up strife and discontent among the Germans. I believe it would be prudent not to make a public demonstration prematurely, but to wait and keep quiet till the right time has come."

"And when will the right time come, if it has not come now?" exclaimed the queen, mournfully. "Remember, my beloved husband, all the mortifications and humiliations which you have received of late at the hands of this despot, and which, in your noble and generous resignation, did not resent in order to preserve peace to your people. Remember that he alone prevailed on you to occupy Hanover, that he warranted its possession to you, and then when your troops had occupied it, applied secretly, and without saying a word to you, to England, offering to make peace with her by proposing to restore Hanover to her."

"It was a grievous insult," exclaimed the king, with unusual vivacity; "I replied to it by placing my army on the war footing."

"But our armies remain inactive," said the queen, sadly, "while General Knobelsdorf is negotiating for peace with Bonaparte in Paris."

"He is to negotiate until I am fully prepared," said Frederick William—"until I know what German princes will be for and against me. Above all, it is necessary to know our forces in order to mature our plans. Hence, I must know who is on my side."

"God is on your side, and so is Germany's honor," exclaimed the queen; "moreover, you may safely rely at least on one faithful friend."

"You refer to the Emperor of Russia?" asked the king. "True, I received yesterday a letter from the emperor, in which he announced 'that he would come to my assistance with an army of seventy thousand men under his personal command, as a faithful friend and neighbor, and appear in time on the battle-field, no matter whether it be on the Rhine or beyond it.'"

"Oh, the noble and faithful friend!" exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

"Yes," said the king, thoughtfully, "he promises a great deal, but Russian promises march more rapidly than Russian armies. I am afraid events will carry us along so resistlessly that we cannot wait until the Emperor of Russia has arrived with his army. As soon as Napoleon suspects that my preparations are meant for him, he will himself declare war against me. He is always prepared; his army is always ready for war. Whatever he may be, we cannot deny that he is a brave and great general; and I do not know," added the king, in a low voice, "I do not know whether we have got a general able to cope with him. Oh, Louisa, I envy your courage, your reliance on our cause. Do you feel then, no uneasiness whatever?"

"Uneasiness?" exclaimed the queen, with a proud smile. "I believe and feel convinced that now only one thing remains to be done. We must struggle with the monster, we must crush it, and then only will we be allowed to speak of uneasiness! [Footnote: The queen's own words—Vide Gentz's "Writings," vol. iv., p. 169.] I believe, besides, in divine Providence—I believe in you, my noble, high- minded, and brave king and husband, and I believe in your splendid army, which is eager for war! I believe in the lucky star of Prussia!"

"Oh, it seems to me that many clouds are veiling that star," said the king, mournfully.

"The thunder of battle will dispel them!" exclaimed Louisa, enthusiastically. "The smoke of powder purifies the air and destroys its noxious vapors."

Just then the door opened, and the king's valet de chambre entered.

"Your majesty," he said, "his excellency, Minister Baron von Hardenberg, requests you to grant him an audience."

"You see the decision is drawing near," said the king, turning to his wife. "I shall request the minister to come in directly."

The valet de chambre withdrew. The king paced the room several times, his hands folded on his back, and without uttering a word. Louisa dared not disturb him, but her radiant eyes followed him with an expression of tender anxiety and affectionate sympathy.

All at once, the king stopped in the middle of the room and drew a deep breath. "I do not know," he said, "I feel almost joyful and happy now that the decisive moment is at hand. Francis von Sickingen was right in saying, 'Better an end with terror, than a terror without end!'" [Footnote: The motto of the celebrated knight, Francis von Sickingen: "Besser ein Ende mit Schrecken, als ein Schrecken ohne Ende!"]

"Oh," exclaimed the queen, joyfully, "now I recognize my noble and brave husband. When no longer able to avert terrors by mild words and gentle prudence, he raises his chivalrous arm and crushes them. But as we must not keep your minister waiting, I will withdraw. One word more. Will you permit me to add my subscription to the list of contributions for Palm's widow? I do not wish to do so as Queen of Prussia, but as a woman sympathizing with the misfortunes of one of her German sisters, and anxious to comfort her in her distress. I shall not mention my name, but cause our dear mistress of ceremonies to subscribe for me. Will you permit it, my friend?"

"Follow your noble and generous heart, Louisa," said the king, "contribute for the relief of the poor woman!"

"Thanks, my friend, a thousand thanks," exclaimed Louisa, offering her hand to her husband. He kissed it tenderly, and then accompanied the queen to the door.

Louisa wanted here to withdraw her hand from him and open the door, in order to go out, but her husband kept her back, and his features assumed an air of embarrassment.

"I want you to do me a favor," he said, hastily. "When you have caused the mistress of ceremonies to subscribe in your name, please order your grand-marshal to contribute the same sum. I will return it to him from my privy purse." [Footnote: Palm's widow received large sums of money, which were subscribed for her everywhere in Germany, England, and Russia. In St. Petersburg the emperor and empress headed the list.—Vide "Biography of John Philip Palm," Munich, 1842.]

The queen made no reply; she encircled the king's neck with her beautiful white arms, and imprinted a glowing kiss on his lips; she then hastily turned around and left the room, perhaps, in order not to let her husband see the tears that filled her eyes.

The king, who had gazed after her with a long and tender look, said in a low voice to himself: "Oh, she is the sunshine of my life. How dreary and cold it would be without her! But now I will see the minister."

He hastened to the opposite door and opened it. "Request Minister von Hardenberg to come in," he said to the valet de chambre, waiting in the anteroom.

After a few minutes Hardenberg entered. The king went forward to meet him, and looked at him inquiringly.

"Good news?" he asked.

"Your majesty, 'good' has a very relative meaning," replied Hardenberg, shrugging his shoulders. "I believe an open and categorical reply to be good."

"Then you are the bearer of such a reply," said the king, quietly; "first tell me the result of your mission. You may afterward add the particulars of the negotiations."

"I shall comply with your majesty's order. The result is that Austria wants to remain neutral, and will, for the present, engage in no further wars. Her finances are exhausted, and her many defeats have demoralized and discouraged her armies. Napoleon has vanquished Austria, not only militarily, but also morally. The Austrian soldiers look on the Emperor of the French and his victorious armies with an almost superstitious terror; the emperor is discouraged and downcast, and his ministers long for nothing more ardently than a lasting peace with France. His generals, on the other hand, are filled with so glowing an admiration for Napoleon's military genius, that the Archduke Charles himself has said: 'he would deem it a crime to continue the war against Napoleon, instead of courting his friendship.'" [Footnote: Vide "Libensbilder aus dem Befreiungskriege," vol. iii.]

"He may be right," said the king, "but he ought to have called it an imprudence instead of a crime. I know very well that we are unable to retrace our steps, and that the logic of events will compel us to draw the sword and risk a war, but I do not close my eyes against the serious dangers and misfortunes in which Prussia might be involved by taking up arms without efficient and active allies. I have taken pains for years to save Prussia from the horrors and evils of war, but circumstances are more powerful than I, and I shall have to submit to them."

"On the contrary, circumstances will have to submit to your majesty and fate."

"Fate!" the king interrupted him, hastily. "Fate is no courtier, and never flattered me much."

"Your majesty, I was going to imitate fate,—I did not want to flatter you, either," said Hardenberg. "I was merely going to say that fate seems to favor us suddenly. I have received letters from Mr. Fox, the English minister. King George the Third, now that he sees that Prussia is in earnest, and is preparing for war, is more inclined to form an alliance with Prussia. The first favorable symptom of this change of views is the fact that England has raised the blockade of the rivers of northern Germany; a British envoy will soon be here to make peace with Prussia, and to conclude an alliance, by virtue of which England will furnish us troops and money."

"Would to God the envoy would arrive speedily," sighed the king, "for we need both, auxiliaries as well as money." [Footnote: The British envoy, Lord Morpeth, unfortunately arrived too late; it was only on the 19th of October that he reached the king's headquarters at Weimar. But the French party, Minister Haugwitz, Lombard, and Lucchesini, managed to prevent him from obtaining an interview with the king; and dismissed him with the reply, that the results of the negotiations would depend on the issue of the battle which was about to be fought.—Vide Hausser's "History of Germany," vol. ii., p. 766.]

When Minister von Hardenberg left the king's cabinet, his face was radiant with inward satisfaction, and he hastened with rapid steps to his carriage.

"To Prince Louis Ferdinand," he said to the coachman. "As fast as the horses will run!"

Prince Louis Ferdinand was in the midst of his friends in his music- room when Minister Hardenberg entered. He was sitting at the piano and playing a voluntary. His fancy must have taken a bold flight to- day, for in the music he evoked from the keys there was more ardor, vigor, and enthusiasm than generally, and the noble features of the prince were radiant with delight. Close to him, her head leaning gently on his shoulder, sat Pauline Wiesel, the prince's beautiful and accomplished friend, and listened with a smile on her crimson lips, and tears in her eyes, to the charming and soul-stirring melodies. In the middle of the room there stood a table loaded down with fiery wines and tropical fruits, and twelve gentlemen, most of them army officers, were seated around it. They were the military and learned friends of the prince, his daily companions, who, like Hardenberg, were always allowed to enter his rooms without being announced.

The minister hastily beckoned the gentlemen who were going to rise and salute him, to keep their seats, and hurried quickly and softly across the room toward the prince, whose back was turned to the door, and who consequently had not noticed his arrival.

"Prince," he said, gently placing his hand on his shoulder, "it is settled now: we shall have war!"

"War!" shouted the prince, jubilantly, and rose impetuously to embrace the minister and imprint a kiss on the lips which had uttered the precious word.

"War!" exclaimed the gentlemen at the table, and emptied their glasses in honor of the news.

"War!" sighed fair Pauline Wiesel, and clinging closely to the prince's shoulder, she whispered: "War, that is to say, I shall lose you!"

"No, it is to say that I shall gain every thing," exclaimed the prince, with flashing eyes." I beseech you, Pauline, no weakness now, no sentimentality, no tears. The great moment is come. Let us appreciate it. At length, at length we shall avenge our disgrace, at length we shall be able to raise our humiliated heads again, and need not feel ashamed any longer of saying, 'I am a German!'"

"Your royal highness will now be able to say, 'I am a German hero!'" said Hardenberg.

"Would to God you were right!" exclaimed the prince. "May He grant me an opportunity to earn a small laurel-wreath, even had I to atone for it with my blood, nay, with my life! To die for the fatherland is a sublime death; and should I fall thus, Pauline, you ought not to weep, but sing jubilant hymns and envy my happy fate. Tell me, friend Hardenberg, when is the war to commence?"

"As soon as the various army corps can be concentrated," replied Hardenberg. "We know positively that Napoleon is arming for the purpose of attacking us, and that he intends to declare war against us. We shall hasten and try to outstrip him. Prussia has been insulted too often and too grievously; hence, the challenge ought to come from her."

"And we will take revenge on M. Bonaparte," exclaimed the prince, with flaming eyes. "It shall be an American duel, and only the death of either of the duellists shall put an end to it! Friends, take your glasses and fill them to overflowing. Hardenberg, take this glass; Pauline shall present it to you. Now, let us drink to the honor of Prussia and shout with me, three cheers for the war, for an heroic victory, for an heroic death!"

"Three cheers for the war, for an heroic victory, for an heroic death!" shouted the friends. They emptied their glasses; the eyes of the men were radiant, but Pauline's eyes were filled with tears. [Prince Louis Ferdinand was killed in the first battle of the war, at Saalfeld, on the 10th of October, 1806.]

On the evening of that day the king went, as usual, to the queen to take a cup of tea which she herself served up to him. Notwithstanding the objections of the mistress of ceremonies, they paid at this hour no attention to the rules of etiquette, and their intercourse was as cordial and unceremonious as that of a common citizen's family.

The queen, therefore, was alone when her husband entered the room. None of her ladies of honor were allowed to disturb the enjoyment of this pleasant tea-hour; only when the king wished it, the royal children were sent for to chat with their parents and to receive their supper at the hands of their beautiful mother.

The queen went to meet her husband with a pleasant salutation, and offered him her hands. "Well," she asked, tenderly, "your brow is clouded still? Come, let me kiss those clouds away."

She raised herself on tip-toe, and smiled when she still was unable to reach up to her husband's forehead.

"You must bend down to me," she said, "I am too small for you."

"No, you are great and sublime, and must bend down to me as angels bend down to the poor mortals," said the king. "Ah, Louisa, I am afraid, however, your kiss will no longer be able to drive the clouds from my brow."

"Have you received bad news?" asked the queen. "Have your ambassadors returned?"

"They have. No assistance from Austria! That is the news brought by Hardenberg. No league of the princes of Northern Germany! That is the news brought by Lombard. Every one of them pursues his separate interests, and thinks only of himself. The Elector of Saxony would like to be at the head of a Saxon league; the Elector of Hesse promises to ally himself with us if, above all, we secure to him a considerable enlargement of his territory; Oldenburg is going to wait and see what the other states will do; Waldeck and Lippe desire to join the Confederation of the Rhine, because they might derive greater advantages from it; and the Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin replied, quite haughtily, he would remain neutral: if he were in danger, he would gratefully accept the protection of Prussia, but he would have to reject any application for supplies in the most decided manner." [Hausser's "History of Germany," vol. ii., p. 770.]

"Oh, those narrow-minded, egotistic men," exclaimed the queen, indignantly. "They dare to call themselves princes, and yet there is not a single exalted thought, not a trace of the spirit of majesty in their minds. Bad seeds are being sown by the cowardly spirit of the princes. Woe unto Germany if these seeds should ripen one day in the hearts of the people! But you did not say any thing about my father; what did Mecklenburg-Strelitz reply?"

"She is on our side; your father is faithful to us."

"But, ah, he is able only to give us his great, true heart and brave, friendly advice!" sighed the queen. "His state is too small to furnish us any other aid. Oh, my husband, I could now give my heart's blood if I only were the daughter of a mighty king, and if my father could hasten to your assistance with an army."

"A single drop of your heart's blood would be too high a price for the armies of the whole world," said the king. "Your father has given to me the most precious and priceless treasure earth contains: a noble, beautiful wife, a high-minded queen! Your father was the richest prince when he still had his daughter, and I am the richest man since you are mine."

He clasped the queen in his arms, and she clung to him with a blissful smile.

"For the rest," said the king, after a pause, "there is at least one German prince who stands faithfully by us, and that is the Duke of Saxe-Weimar."

"The friend of Goethe and Schiller!" exclaimed the queen.

"The duke places his battalion of riflemen at our disposal, and will accept a command in the war."

"There will be war, then?" asked the queen, joyfully.

"Yes, there will be war," said the king, sadly.

"You say so and sigh," exclaimed Louisa.

"Yes, I sigh," replied the king. "I am not as happy as you and those who are in favor of war. I do not believe in the invincibility of my army. I feel that we cannot be successful. There is an indescribable confusion in the affairs of the war department; the gentlemen at the head of it, it is true, will not believe it, and pretend that I am still too young and do not understand enough about it. Ah, I wish from the bottom of my heart I were mistaken. The future will soon show it." [Footnote: The king's own words.—Vide Henchel von Donnersmark.]



CHAPTER LXI.

A BAD OMEN.

The decisive word had been uttered! Prussia was at length going to draw the sword, and take revenge for years of humiliation.

The army received this intelligence with unbounded exultation and the people embraced every opportunity to manifest their martial enthusiasm. They demanded that Schiller's "Maid of Orleans" should be performed at the theatre, and replied to every warlike and soul- stirring word of the tragedy by the most rapturous applause. They again broke all the windows in Count Haugwitz's house, and serenaded Prince Louis Ferdinand, Minister von Hardenberg, and such generals as were known to be in favor of war.

All the newspapers predicted the most brilliant victories, and gloated already in advance over the triumphant battles in which the Prussian army would defeat the enemy.

But the proudest and happiest of all were the officers who, in the intoxication of their joy, saw their heads already wreathed with laurels which they would gain in the impending war, and whose pride would not admit the possibility of a defeat. The army of Frederick the Great, they said, could not be vanquished, and there was but one apprehension which made them tremble: the fear lest war should be avoided after all, and lest the inevitable and crushing defeat of Bonaparte should be averted once more by the conclusion of a miserable peace. [Footnote: Vide Varnhagen's "Denkwurdigkeiten," vol. i., pp. 389, 390.]

The old generals who had served under Frederick the Great were the heroes in whom the officers believed. "We have got generals who know something about war," said the haughty Prussian officers; "generals who have served in the army from their early youth. Those French tailors and shoemakers who have gained some distinction only in consequence of the revolution, had better take to their heels as soon as such generals take the field against them." [Footnote: Hausser's "History of Germany," vol. ii., p. 358.]

And in the enthusiasm inspired by their future victories, the officers gave each other brilliant farewell festivals, and indulged in liberal potations of champagne and hock in honor of the impending battles, singing in stentorian voices the new war-songs which E. M. Arndt [E. M. Arndt, the celebrated author of the German hymn, "Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland?"] had just dedicated to the German people. When their passions had been excited to the highest pitch by dreams of victory, by wine and soul-stirring songs, they went in the evening to the residence of the French minister to whet their sword- blades on the pavement in front of his door.

"But what should we need swords and muskets for?" shouted the officers up to the windows of the French minister; "for when the brave Prussians are approaching, the French will run away spontaneously; cudgels would be sufficient to drive the fellows back to their own country." [Bishop Eylert, "Frederick William III.," vol. iii., p. 8.]

But there were among the officers, and particularly among the generals, some prudent and sagacious men who shared the king's apprehensions, and who looked, like him, anxiously into the future.

These prudent men were aware of the condition of the Prussian army, and knew that it was no longer what it had been in the Seven Years' War, and that there was no Frederick the Great to lead it into battle.

It is true, there were still in the army many generals and officers who had served under Frederick the Great, and these, of course, were experienced and skilled in warlike operations. But they were weighed down by the long number of their years; old age is opposed to an adventurous spirit, and in favor of the comforts of life. Nevertheless, these men believed in themselves and felt convinced that victory would adhere to them, the warriors of Frederick the Great, and that no army was able to defeat soldiers commanded by them.

The more prudent men looked with feelings of reverence on these ruins of the magnificent structure which the great king had erected, but they perceived at the same time that they were decayed and crumbling. They well knew that the Prussian army was behind the times in many respects, and not equal to the occasion. Not only were the leaders too old, but the soldiers also had grown hoary—not, however, in wars and military camps, but in parading and garrison life. They knew nothing of active warfare, and were only familiar with the duties of parade-soldiers. They were married, and entered sullenly into a war which deprived their wives and children of their daily bread.

The Prussian army, moreover, was still organized in the old- fashioned style, and none of the improvements rendered indispensable by the rapid progress of the art of war had been adopted by the Prussian ministers of war.

The arms of the infantry were defective and bad; the muskets looked glittering and were splendidly burnished, but their construction was imperfect. They were calculated only for parades, but not for active warfare. Besides, the infantry was drilled in the old tactics, which looked very fine on parade, but were worse than useless in battle. ["The War of 1806 and 1807." By Edward von Hopfner, vol. 1., p. 46.]

The artillery was well mounted, but its generals were too old and disabled for field service; the youngest of them were more than seventy years of age.

The clothing of the army was of the most wretched description; it was made of the coarsest and worst cloth, and, moreover, entirely insufficient. The rations were just as scanty, and fixed in accordance with the economical standard of the Seven Years' War.

Besides, there was no enthusiasm, no military ardor in the ranks of the army. The long period of peace and parade-service had diminished the zeal of the soldiers, and made them consider their duties as mere play and unnecessary vexations, requiring no other labor than the cleaning of their muskets and belts, the buttoning of their gaiters, and the artistic arrangement of their pigtails. Every neglect of these important duties was punished in the most merciless manner. The stick still reigned in the Prussian army, and while cudgelling discipline into the soldier, they cudgelled ambition and self-reliance out of him. Not military ardor and manly courage, but discipline and the everlasting stick accompanied the Prussian soldiers of 1806 into the war. [Ibid., vol. i., p. 86.]

The commander-in-chief of this dispirited and disorganized army in the present war was intrusted to the Duke of Brunswick, a man more than seventy years of age, talented and well versed in war, but hesitating and timid in action, relying too little on himself, and consequently without energy and determination. His assistant and second in command was Field Marshal Mollendorf. One of the bravest officers of the Seven Years' War, but now no less than eighty years of age.

Such was the army which was to take the field and defeat Napoleon's enthusiastic, well-tried, and experienced legions!

The apprehensions of the prudent were but too well founded, and the anxiety visible in the king's gloomy mien was perfectly justified.

But all these doubts were now in vain; they were unable to stem the tide of events and to prevent the outbreak of hostilities.

The force of circumstances was more irresistible than the apprehensions of the sagacious; and if the latter said in a low voice this war was a misfortune for Prussia, public opinion only shouted the louder: "This war saves the honor of Prussia, and delivers us from the yoke of the hateful tyrant!"

Public opinion had conquered; war was inevitable. General von Knobelsdorf was commissioned to present to the Emperor of the French in the name of the King of Prussia an ultimatum, in which the king demanded that the French armies should evacuate Germany in the course of two weeks; that the emperor should raise no obstacles against the formation of the confederation of the northern princes; and give back to Prussia the city of Wesel, as well as other Prussian territories annexed to France.

This ultimatum was equivalent to a declaration of the war, and the Prussian army, therefore, marched into the field.

The regiments of the life-guards were to leave Berlin on the 21st of September, and join the army, and the king intended to accompany them.

In Berlin there reigned everywhere the greatest enthusiasm.

All the houses had been decorated with festoons and flowers, and the inhabitants crowded the streets in their holiday-dresses to greet the departing life-guards with jubilant cheers and congratulations.

The king had just reviewed the regiments, and now repaired to his wife to bid her farewell and then leave Berlin at the head of his life-guards.

The queen went to meet him with a radiant smile, and a wondrous air of joy and happiness was beaming from her eyes. The king gazed mournfully at her beautiful, flushed face, and her cheerfulness only increased his melancholy.

"You receive me with a smile," he said, "and my heart is full of anxiety and sadness. Do you not know, then, why I have come to you? I have come to bid you farewell!"

She placed her hands on his shoulders, and her whole face was radiant with sunshine.

"No," she said, "you have come to call for me!"

The king looked at her in confusion and terror. "How so, to call for you!" he asked. "Whither do you want to go, then?"

Louisa encircled her husband's neck with her arms, and clinging to him she exclaimed, in a loud and joyous voice:

"I want to go with you, dear husband!"

"With me?" ejaculated the king.

"Yes, with you," she said. "Do you believe, then, my friend, I should have been so merry and joyful if this had not been my hope and consolation? I have secretly made all the necessary preparations, and am ready now to set out with you. I have arranged every thing; I have even," she added, in a low and tremulous voice— "I have even taken leave of the children, and I confess to you I have shed bitter tears in doing so. Part of my heart remains with them, but the other, the larger part, goes with you, and remains with you, my friend, my beloved, my king. Will you reject it? Will you not permit me to accompany you?"

"It is impossible," said the king, shaking his head.

"Impossible?" she exclaimed, quickly. "If you, if the king should order it so?"

"The king must not do so, Louisa. I shall cease for a while to be king, and shall be nothing but a soldier in the camp. Where should there be room and the necessary comforts for a queen?"

"If you cease to be king," said Louisa, smiling, "it follows, as a matter of course, that I cease to be a queen. If you are nothing but a soldier, I am merely a soldier's wife, and it behooves a soldier's wife to accompany her husband into the camp. Oh, Frederick, do not say no!—do not deprive me of my greatest happiness, of my most sacred right! Did we not swear an oath at the altar to go hand in hand through life, and to stand faithfully by each other in days of weal and woe? And now you will forget your oath? You will sever our paths?"

"The path of war is hard and rough," said the king, gloomily.

"Therefore I must be with you, to strew sometimes a few flowers on this path of yours," exclaimed the queen, joyfully. "I must be with you, so that you may enjoy at least sometimes a calm, peaceful hour in the evening, after the toils and troubles of the day! I must be with you to rejoice with you when your affairs are prosperous, and to comfort you when misfortunes befall you. Do you not feel, then, dearest, that we belong indissolubly to each other, and that we must walk inseparably through life, be it for weal or for woe?"

"I am not allowed to think of myself, Louisa," said the king, greatly affected, "nor of the joy it would afford me in these turbulent and stormy days to see you by my side—you, my angel of peace and happiness; I must only think of you, of the queen, of the mother of my children, whom I must not expose to any danger, and whom I would gladly keep aloof from any tempest and anxiety."

"When I am no longer with you, anxiety will consume me, and grief will rage around me like a tempest," exclaimed the queen, passionately. "I should find rest neither by day nor by night, for my heart would always long for you, and my soul would always tremble for you. I should always see you before me wounded and bleeding, for I know you will not regard your safety, your life, when there is a victory to be gained or a disgrace to be averted. Bullets do not spare the heads of kings, and swords do not glance off powerlessly from their sacred persons. In time of war a king is but a man! Permit the queen, therefore, at this time, to be but a woman—your wife, who ought to nurse you if you should be wounded, and to share your pain and anxiety! Oh, my beloved husband, can you refuse your wife's supplication?"

She looked at him with her large, tearful, imploring eyes; her whole beautiful and great soul was beaming from her face in an expression of boundless love.

The king, overwhelmed, carried away by her aspect, was no longer strong enough to resist her. He clasped her in his arms, and pressed a long and glowing kiss on her forehead.

"No," he said, deeply moved, "I cannot refuse your supplication. We will, hand in hand, courageously and resolutely bear the fate God has in store for us. Nothing but death shall separate us. Come, my Louisa, my beloved wife, accompany me wherever I may go!"

The queen uttered a joyful cry; seizing the king's hand, she bent over it and kissed it reverentially, before the king could prevent her from doing so.

"Louisa, what are you doing?" exclaimed the king, almost ashamed, "you—"

Loud shouts resounding on the street interrupted him. The royal couple hastened hand in hand to the window.

On the opposite side of the street, in front of the large portal of the arsenal, thousands of men had assembled; all seemed to be highly excited, and, with shouts and manifestations of wild curiosity, to throng around an object in the middle of the densest part of the crowd.

Some accident must have happened over yonder. Perhaps, a stroke of apoplexy had felled a poor man to the ground; perhaps, a murder had been committed, for the faces of the bystanders looked pale and dismayed; they clasped their hands wonderingly, and shook their heads anxiously.

The king rang the bell hastily, and ordered the footman, who entered immediately, to go over to the arsenal and see what was the matter.

In a few minutes he returned, panting and breathless.

"Well," said the king to him, "has an accident occurred?"

"Yes, your majesty, not to anybody in the crowd, however. The statue of Bellona, which stood on the portal of the arsenal, has suddenly fallen from the roof."

"Was it shattered?" asked the queen, whose cheeks had turned pale.

"No, your majesty, but its right arm is broken."

The king beckoned him to withdraw, and commenced pacing the room. The queen had returned to the window, and her eyes, which she had turned toward heaven, were filled with tears.

After a long pause, the king approached her again. "Louisa," he said, in a low voice, "will you still go with me? The day is clear and sunny; not a breath is stirring, and the statue of Bellona falls from the roof of our arsenal and breaks its arm. That is a bad omen! Will you not be warned thereby?"

The queen gave him her hand, and her eyes were radiant again with love and joyfulness. "Where you go, I shall go," she said, enthusiastically! "Your life is my life, and your misfortunes are my misfortunes. I am not afraid of bad omens!" [Another bad omen occurred on that day. Field-Marshal von Mullendorf, who was to accompany the troops, after being lifted on the left side of his charger, fell down on the other.]



CHAPTER LXII.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

It was long after nightfall. A cold and dismal night. The mountains of the forests of Thuringia bordered the horizon with their snow- clad summits, and a piercing wind was howling over the heights and through the valleys.

The Prussian army seemed at length to have reached its destination, and here, on the hills and in the valleys of Jena and Auerstadt, the great conflict was to be decided, for the Prussian army was now confronting the legions of Napoleon.

The principal army, with the commander-in-chief, the Duke of Brunswick, the king, and the staff, was encamped at Auerstadt.

The second army, commanded by the Prince von Hohenlohe, was in the immediate neighborhood of Jena.

It was still firmly believed that Prussia would accomplish her great purpose, and defeat Napoleon. The disastrous skirmish of Saalfeld, and the death of Prince Louis Ferdinand, had made a bad impression, but not shaken the general confidence.

It is true, the Prussians were cold, for they had no cloaks; it is true, they were hungry, for, owing to the sudden lack of bread, they had received only half rations for the last few days; but their hearts were still undismayed, and they longed only for one thing— for the decisive struggle. The decision, at all events, could not but put an end to their hunger, either by death or by a victory, which would open to them large army magazines and supplies.

The Prussian troops encamped at Jena stood quietly before their tents and chatted about the hopes of the next day; they told each other that Bonaparte with his French, as soon as he had heard that the Prussians were already at Jena, had hastily left Weimar again and retreated toward Gera.

"Then it will be still longer before we get hold of the French," exclaimed several soldiers. "We thought we had got him sure at last, and that he could not escape any more, and when he scented us, he again found a mouse-hole through which he might get away."

"But we will close this mouse-hole for him, so that he cannot get out of it," said a powerful voice behind them, and when the soldiers turned anxiously around, they beheld their general, the Prince von Hohenlohe, who, walking with his adjutants through the camp, just reached their tents.

The soldiers faced about and respectfully saluted the general, who kindly nodded to them.

"You would be glad then to meet the French soon?" he asked the soldiers, whose conversation he had overheard.

"Yes, we should be glad," they exclaimed; "it would be a holiday for us."

"Well, it may happen very soon," said the prince, smiling, and continued his walk.

"Long live the Prince von Hohenlohe!" shouted the soldiers. The prince walked on, everywhere greeting the soldiers and receiving their salutations; everywhere filling the men with exultation by promising them that they would soon have a battle and defeat the French.

Now he stopped in front of the grenadiers, who were drawn up in line before him.

"Boys," he said, loudly and joyously, "you will have to perform the heaviest part of the work. If need be, you must make a bayonet charge, and I know you will rout the enemy wherever you meet with him. I am sure you will do so!"

"Yes, we will!" shouted the grenadiers; "most assuredly we will! Would we had already got hold of the French!"

"We will soon enough," exclaimed the prince; and when he then walked along the ranks, he asked a tall, broad-shouldered grenadier. "Well, how many French soldiers will you take?"

"Five," said the grenadier.

"And you?" said the prince, to another grenadier.

"Three," he replied.

"I shall not take less than seven!" shouted another.

"I shall not take less than ten!" said still another.

The prince laughed and passed on.

When the night had further advanced, he rode with his staff to a hill near Kapellendorf, where he had established his headquarters.

From this hill he closely scanned the position of the enemy, whose camp was marked only by a few lights and bivouac-fires.

"We shall have nothing to do to-morrow," said the prince, turning to his officers. "It seems the principal army of the French is moving toward Leipsic and Naumburg. At the best, we shall have a few skirmishes of no consequence to-morrow. We may, therefore, calmly go to bed, and so may our soldiers. Good-night, gentlemen."

And the prince rode with his adjutants down to his headquarters at Kapellendorf, to go to bed and sleep. An hour later, profound silence reigned in the Prussian camp near Jena. The soldiers were sleeping, and so was their general.

And profound silence reigned also in the Prussian camp at Auerstadt. The king had held a council of war late in the evening, and conferred with the Duke of Brunswick, Field-Marshal von Mullendorf, and the other generals about the operations of the following day. The result of this consultation had been that nobody believed in the possibility of a battle on the following day; and hence, it had been decided that the army was quietly to advance, follow the enemy, who seemed to retreat, and prevent him from crossing the Saale.

The council of war had then adjourned, and the Duke of Brunswick hastened to his quarters, in order, like the Prince von Hohenlohe, to go to bed and sleep.

An hour lafer, profound silence reigned also in the Prussian camp at Auerstadt. The Duke of Brunswick slept, and so did his soldiers.

The king alone was awake.

With a heavy heart and a gloomy face, he was walking up and down in his tent. He felt indescribably lonesome, for his wife was no longer with him. Yielding, with bitter tears, to the supplications of her husband, she had left the camp to-day and gone toward Naumburg.

The king had implored her to go, but his heart was heavy; and when he at last, late at night, repaired to his couch, slumber kept aloof from his eyes.

At the same time, while the Prussian army and its generals were sleeping, a wondrous scene took place not far from them, and a singular procession moved across the fields at no great distance from Jena.

Silence, darkness, and fog reigned all around. But suddenly the fog parted, and two torch-bearers, with grave faces, appeared accompanying a man clad in a green overcoat, with white facings, with a small three-cornered hat on his head, and mounted on a white horse. The blaze of the torches illuminated his pale face; his eyes were as keen as those of an eagle, and seemed to command the fog to disappear, so that he might see what it was concealing from him. At his side, whenever the torches blazed up, two other horsemen, in brilliant uniforms, were to be seen; but their eyes did not try to pierce the fog, but to fathom the face of the proud man at their side; their eyes were fixed on him, on his pale face, on which, even at this hour of the night, the sun of Austerlitz was shedding his golden rays.

While the Prussian army and its generals were sleeping, Napoleon was awake and was arranging the plans for the impending battle. The postmaster of Jena and General Denzel were his torch-bearers; Marshal Lannes and Marshal Soult were his companions.

The Emperor Napoleon was reconnoitering, in the dead of night, the ground on which he was to gain a battle over the Prussians on the morrow, as he had recently gained a battle over the Austrians.

Austria had had her Austerlitz; Prussia was to have her Auerstadt and Jena.

Napoleon had fixed his plan; to-morrow was the day when he would take revenge on the King of Prussia for the treaty of Potsdam and the alliance with Russia.

Arriving at the foot of the hill of Jena, the emperor stopped and alighted, in order to ascend it on foot. When he reached the summit, he stood for a long while absorbed in his reflections. The two torch-bearers were at his side; the two marshals stood a little behind them. The emperor's eyes were fixed on the mountains, especially on the Dornberg which he had previously passed.

The mountain lay dark and silent before him—a lonely, sleeping giant.

The emperor raised his arm and pointed at the Dornberg. "The Prussians have left the heights," he said, turning slowly to Marshal Lannes; "they were probably afraid of the cold night-air, and have descended into the valley to sleep. They believe we shall not take advantage of their slumber. But they will be dreadfully mistaken, those old wigs! [Napoleon said: "Ils se tromperent formidablement ces vieux perruques."] As soon as the fog has descended a little post your sharpshooters on the heights of the Dornberg, that they may bid the Prussians good-morning when they want to march up again!"

He turned his eyes again to the gorge; suddenly his eyes flashed fire and seemed to pierce the darkness.

"What is going on in the gorge below?" he asked, hastily.

The torch-bearers lowered their torches; the emperor and the marshals looked anxiously at a long black line moving forward in the middle of the gorge, illuminated here and there by a yellow pale light which seemed to burn in large lanterns.

Napoleon turned with an angry glance to Marshal Lannes. His face was pale—his right shoulder was quivering, a symptom that he was highly incensed. "It is the artillery of your corps," he said. "It has stuck in the gorge! If we cannot get it off, we shall lose tomorrow's battle! Come!"

And he hastened down-hill in so rapid and impetuous a manner that the torch-bearers and marshals were scarcely able to follow him.

Like an apparition, with flashing eyes, with an angry, pale face, his form suddenly emerged from the darkness before the artillerists who vainly tried to move the field-pieces, the wheels of which sank deeply into the sand. The whole column of cannon and caissons behind them had been obliged to halt, and an inextricable confusion would have ensued unless immediate and energetic steps had been taken to open a passage.

This was to be done immediately, for Napoleon was there.

He called in a loud voice for the general commanding the artillery; he repeated this call three times, and every time his voice became more threatening, and his face turned paler.

But the officers he called for did not appear. The emperor did not say a word; his right shoulder was quivering, and his eyes flashed fire.

He commanded all the gunners in a loud voice to come to him, and ordered them to get their tools and light their large lanterns.

The emperor had himself seized the first lantern that was lighted.

"Now take your pick-axes and spades," he shouted. "We must widen the gorge in order to get the field-pieces off again."

It was hard and exhausting work. Large drops of perspiration ran down from the foreheads of the gunners, and their breath issued painfully from their breasts. But they worked on courageously and untiringly, for the emperor stood at their side, lantern in hand, and lighted them during their toilsome task.

At times the gunners would pause and lean on their spades—not, however, for the purpose of resting, but of looking with wondering eyes at this strange spectacle, this man with his pale marble face and flaming eyes, this emperor who had transformed himself into an artillery officer, and, lantern in hand, lighted his gunners. ["Memoires du Duc de Rovigo," vol. ii., p. 278.]

Only when the wagons and field-pieces, thanks to the energy of the gunners, had commenced moving again, the emperor left the gorge and returned to his bivouac. He took his supper hastily and thoughtfully; then he summoned all his generals and gave them their instructions for to-morrow's battle as lucidly and calmly as ever.

"And now let us sleep, for we must be up and doing to-morrow morning at four o'clock!" said the emperor, dismissing his generals with a winning smile.

A few minutes later profound silence reigned all around; the emperor lay on his straw and slept. Roustan sat at some distance from him, and his dark eyes were fixed on his master with the expression of a faithful and vigilant St. Bernard's dog. The flames of the bivouac- fire enveloped at times, when they rose higher, the whole form of the emperor in a strange halo, and when they sank down again the shades of the night shrouded it once more. Four sentinels were walking up and down in front of the emperor's bivouac.

Morning was dawning; it was the morning of the 14th of October, 1806.

The Prussians were still asleep in their tents. But the French were awake, and the emperor was at their head.

At four o'clock, according to the orders Napoleon had given, the divisions that were to make the first attack were under arms.

The emperor on his white horse galloped up; an outburst of the most rapturous enthusiasm hailed his appearance.

"Long live our little corporal! Long live the emperor!" shouted thousands of voices.

The emperor raised his hat a little and thanked the soldiers with a smile which penetrated like a warm sunbeam into all hearts. He waved his right hand, commanding them to be silent, and then his powerful, sonorous voice resounded through the stillness of the autumnal morning.

"Soldiers," he shouted in his usual imperious tone, "soldiers, the Prussian army is cut off, like that of General Mack a year ago at Ulm. That army will only fight to secure a retreat and to regain its communications. The French corps, which suffers itself to be defeated under such circumstances, disgraces itself. Fear not that celebrated cavalry; meet it in square and with the bayonet!"

"Long live the emperor! Long live the little corporal!" shouted the soldiers jubilantly, on all sides. The emperor nodded smilingly, and galloped on to give his orders here and there, and to address the soldiers.

It was six o'clock in the morning; the Prussians were still asleep! But now the first guns thundered; they awakened the sleeping Prussians.



CHAPTER LXIII.

THE GERMAN PHILOSOPHER.

Profound silence reigned in the small room; books were to be seen everywhere on the shelves, on the tables, and on the floor; they formed almost the only decoration of this room which contained only the most indispensable furniture.

It was the room of a German SAVANT, a professor at the far-famed University of Jena.

He was sitting at the large oaken table where he was engaged in writing. His form, which was of middle height, was wrapped in a comfortable dressing-gown of green silk, trimmed with black fur, which showed here and there a few worn-out, defective spots. A small green velvet cap, the shape of which reminded the beholder of the cap of the learned Melancthon, covered his expansive, intellectual forehead, which was shaded by sparse light-brown hair.

A number of closely-written sheets of paper lay on the table before him, on which the eyes of the SAVANT, of the philosopher, were fixed.

This SAVANT in the lonely small room, this philosopher was George Frederick William Hegel.

For two days he had not left his room; for two days nobody had been permitted to enter it except the old waitress who silently and softly laid the cloth on his table, and placed on it the meals she had brought for him from a neighboring restaurant.

Averting his thoughts from all worldly affairs, the philosopher had worked and reflected, and heard nothing but the intellectual voices that spoke to him from the depths of his mind. Without, history had walked across the battle-field with mighty strides and performed immortal deeds; and here, in the philosopher's room, the mind had unveiled its grand ideas and problems.

On the 14th of October, and in the night of the 14th and 15th, Hegel finished his "Phenomenology of the Mind," a work by which he intended to prepare the world for his bold philosophical system, and in which, with the ringing steps of a prophet, he had accomplished his first walk through the catacombs of the creative intellect.

All the power and strength of reality, in his eyes, sprang from this system, which he strove to found in the sweat of his intellectual brow,—and his system had caused him to forget the great events that had occurred in his immediate neighborhood.

Now he had finished his work; now he had written the last word. The pen dropped from his hands, which he folded over his manuscript as if to bless it silently.

He raised his head, which, up to this time, he had bent over the paper, and his blue eyes, so gentle and lustrous, turned toward heaven with a silent prayer for the success of his work. His fine, intellectual face beamed with energy and determination; the philosopher was conscious of the struggle to which his work would give rise in the realm of thought, but he felt ready and prepared to meet his assailants.

"The work is furnished," he exclaimed, loudly and joyfully; "it shall now go out into the world!"

He hastily folded up his manuscript, wrapped a sheet of paper around it, sealed it and directed it.

Then he looked at his watch.

"Eight o'clock," he said, in a low voice; "if I make haste, the postmaster will forward my manuscript to-day."

He divested himself of his gown, and dressed. Then he took his hat and the manuscript and hastened down into the street toward the post-office. Absorbed as he was in his reflections, he saw neither the extraordinary commotion reigning in the small university town, nor the sad faces of the passers-by; he only thought of his work, and not of reality.

He now entered the post-office; all the doors were open; all the employes were chatting with each other, and no one was at the desk to attend to the office business and to receive the various letters.

Hegel, therefore, had to go to the postmaster, who had not noticed him at all, but was conversing loudly and angrily with several gentlemen who were present.

"Here is a package which I want you to send to Hamburg," said the philosopher, handing his package to the postmaster. "The stage-coach has not set out yet, I suppose?"

The postmaster stared at him wonderingly. "No," he said, "it has not set out yet, and will not set out at all!"

It was now the philosopher's turn to look wonderingly at the postmaster.

"It will not set out?" he asked. "Why not?"

"It is impossible, in the general confusion and excitement. There are neither horses nor men to be had to-day. Everybody is anxious and terrified."

"But what has happened?" asked the philosopher, in a low voice.

"What? Then you do not know yet the terrible events of the day, Mr. Professor?" exclaimed the postmaster, in dismay.

"I do not know any thing about them," said the philosopher, timidly, and almost ashamed of himself. "Perhaps you did not hear, in your study, the thunders of the artillery?"

"I heard occasionally a dull, long-continued noise, but I confess I did not pay any attention to it. What has occurred?"

"A battle has occurred," exclaimed the postmaster, "and when I say a battle, I mean two battles; one was fought here at Jena, and the other at Auerstadt; but here they did not know that a battle was going on at Auerstadt, and at Auerstadt, like you, Mr. Professor, they did not hear the artillery of Jena."

"And who has won the battle?" asked Hegel, feelingly.

"Who but the conqueror of the world, the Emperor Napoleon!" exclaimed the postmaster. "The Prussians are defeated, routed, dispersed; they are escaping in all directions; and when two French horsemen are approaching, hundreds of Prussians throw their arms away and beg for mercy! The whole Prussian army has exploded like a soap-bubble. The king was constantly in the thickest of the fray; he wished to die when he saw that all was lost, but death seemed to avoid him. Two horses were killed under him, but neither sword nor bullet struck him. He is retreating now, but the French are at his heels. God grant that he may escape! The commander-in-chief, the Duke of Brunswick, was mortally wounded; a bullet struck him in the face and destroyed his eyes. Oh, it is a terrible disaster! Prussia is lost, and so is Saxe-Weimar, for the Emperor Napoleon will never forgive our duke that, instead of joining the Confederation of the Rhine, he stood by Prussia and fought against France. Our poor state will have to atone for it!"

Hegel had listened sadly to the loquacious man, and his features had become gloomier and gloomier. He felt dizzy, and a terrible burden weighed down his breast. He nodded to the postmaster and went out again into the street.

But his knees were trembling under him. He slowly tottered toward his residence.

All at once a brilliant procession entered the lower part of the street. Drums and cheers resounded. A large cavalcade was now approaching.

At its head, mounted on a white horse with a waving mane and quivering nostrils, rode the man of the century, the man with the marble face of a Roman IMPERATOR, the Julius Caesar of modern history.

His eyes were beaming with courage and pride; a triumphant smile was playing on his lips. It was the TRIUMPHATOR making his entry into the conquered city.

The philosopher thought of the history of ancient Rome, and it seemed to him as though the face of the modern Caesar were that of a resuscitated statue of antiquity.

Napoleon now fixed his flashing eyes on the philosopher, who felt that this glance penetrated into the innermost depths of his heart. [The writer heard the account of this meeting with the Emperor Napoleon from the celebrated philosopher himself in 1829. He described in plain, yet soul-stirring words, the profound, overwhelming impression which the appearance of the great emperor had made upon him, and called this meeting with Napoleon one of the most momentous events of his life. The writer, then a young girl, listened at the side of her father with breathless suspense to the narrative which, precisely by its simplicity made so profound an impression upon her, that, carried away by her feelings, she burst into tears. The philosopher smiled, and placed his hand on her head. "Young folks weep with their hearts," he said, "but we men wept at that time with our heads." The authoress.]

Seized with awe, Hegel took off his hat and bowed deeply.

The emperor touched his hat smilingly, and thanked him; then he galloped on, followed by the whole brilliant suite of his marshals and generals.

The German philosopher stood still, as if fixed to the ground, and gazed after him musingly and absorbed in solemn reflections.

He himself, the Napoleon of ideas, had yet to win his literary battles in the learned world of Germany.

The emperor, the Napoleon of action, had already won his battles, and Germany lay at his feet. Vanquished, crushed Germany seemed to have undergone her last death-struggle in the battles of Jena and Auerstadt.

THE END