The queen thought of all this, and compared the entry of the bride, rejoicing in the dreams of her young love and in the reality of worldly power, with the entry of the mother and queen, disappointed in her hopes and robbed of her dominion.

"And yet it is better to-day," she murmured, "I am richer now than I was then. My heart is richer, my soul is stronger, I—"

"Mamma," exclaimed the Princess Charlotte, "I see already the Bernauer gate! Oh, hear the shouts, look at that triumphal arch!"

The queen turned her eyes toward the city. The cheers of the people sounded in her ears like the early greetings of her happiness, and filled her soul with ecstasy. As the king, between his sons, rode into the gateway, the bells rang, and the cannon shook the ground. When the queen's carriage entered, the soldiers formed in line on both sides of the street, and behind them surged a dense crowd of men and women. Nothing was to be seen but happy, smiling faces; love was beaming from every eye, and with bells, cannon, waving hands, and the cheers of her citizens, Berlin greeted the return of her sovereigns.

The king acknowledged these demonstrations with a grave, thoughtful face; he saluted the people affectionately, but his countenance grew sad. He thought of the many faithful subjects whom he had lost, of the cities and provinces which had been taken from him, of the grievous and bloody sacrifices of the last years; he remembered that he was returning to his ancestors, possessed only of the smaller portion of the inheritance which they had left him, and these reflections overshadowed his joy.

The queen only felt and thought of the happiness of her return. These thousands of hearts throbbing for her, this crowd of greeting men about her carriage to see her and shout words of welcome, filled her soul with profound emotion. She did not restrain her tears, and was not ashamed of this expression of her feelings. She wept, smiled, and rejoiced with her people.

When the cheers reechoed through the street as she passed, the queen exclaimed aloud: "What grateful music this is! It sounds in my ears as sacred, and the city seems a vast cathedral! Charlotte, my beloved daughter, listen! but with a devout heart. There is hardly any thing more solemn and yet delightful to a princess than the cheers of her subjects. She who deserves them must return the people's love, and sympathize in their joys and sufferings. My daughter, if you yourself should one day wear a crown, think of this hour, and let the affection of the people now occupy your heart.—But, my child, there is our house, the dear old house where you children were born! What persons are standing in front of it? Who are they waving their handkerchiefs toward us? The beloved sisters of your father, the Princesses of Orange and Hesse! Who is that tall gentleman at their side? It is my father, my honored father!" The carriage drove up to the portal of the royal palace. "Welcome!" cried the princesses. "Welcome!" shouted the crowd, filling the large square in front.

The queen did not utter a word; but, stretching out her arms toward her father, she greeted him with a smile, while the tears rolled over her cheeks.

The duke pushed the footmen aside and opened himself the door of her carriage, when the queen, disregarding all etiquette, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him. The people who witnessed this touching scene, became silent. With folded hands and tearful eyes they admired her who had ever been an affectionate and grateful daughter as well as a beneficent sovereign, and their prayers ascended to heaven for her welfare. Half carried in the arms of her father, Louisa entered the palace, and ascended the staircase. The doors of the large reception-room were open. The king met her; her two oldest sons stood behind him, and her two youngest children, held up by their nurses, stretched out their little arms toward her. She joyfully hastened into the room. "Come, my children," she exclaimed with a smile, "come, my seven radiant stars!"

She took the two youngest children, Albert, not yet three years, and Louisa, one year old, in her arms; the five other children walking by her side, and thus, in the midst of these "seven stars," she approached her father. Bending her knee before him, she exclaimed: "Grandfather! here are your grandchildren; here is your daughter, who, with her children, asks for your blessing, and here is the most faithful and beloved man, my husband! Oh, father, honor him, for he has preserved to your daughter her happiness!" She placed the two youngest ones at the feet of the duke, and took the king's hand, which she pressed to her bosom.

The king, who was afraid lest this excitement should become injurious to the feeble health of his wife, after saluting the duke and his own sisters in a cordial manner, proposed an inspection of the rooms of their so long deserted house.

"Yes!" exclaimed Louisa, "let us show my beloved father the temple of our happiness; and the good spirits around us no doubt welcome him and us. Come!" Walking between her father and her husband, and followed by the princesses and her oldest sons, the queen hastened through the suite of rooms, hallowed by the remembrances of other days, and which now seemed to her as beautiful as the halls of a fairy-palace. "How tasteful, how brilliant!" exclaimed Louisa. "Formerly, the magnificence of these rooms did not strike me at all; but now I am able to perceive and appreciate it. Our houses at Memel and Koenigsberg were much plainer, and I thought of the beauty of our residence at Berlin.—Ah, and there is my piano! Oh, how often have I longed for it! Will you grant me a favor, my king and husband?"

"The queen is in her own rooms; she has to ask no favors here, but only to command," said the king.

"You will then permit me to salute the good spirits of our house with music, and to sing a hymn of welcome to them?" asked the queen.

The king smilingly nodded, and Louisa, hastening to the piano, quickly took off her gloves, and sat down on a chair in front of the instrument. Her fingers swept over the keys in many brilliant cadences. Her face was cheerful, but gradually she became grave, and, turning her large eyes toward heaven, her concords were slow and solemn. She thought of the past—of the day when, seized with forebodings, she sang here a hymn which she repeated at the peasant's cottage during her flight to Koenigsberg, when her presentiments were fulfilled. Her hands played almost spontaneously that simple and beautiful air, and again she sang with emotion:

"Who never ate his bread with tears, Who never in the sorrowing hours Of night, lay sunk in gloomy fears, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers!"[49]

[Footnote 49:

"Wer nie sein Brot mit Thraenen ass, Wer nie die kummervollen Naechte Auf seinem Bette weinend sass, Der kennt Euch nicht, Ihr himmlischen Maechte!"



CHAPTER LIV.

THE EMPEROR FRANCIS AND METTERNICH.

The Emperor Francis was pacing his cabinet in evident uneasiness and excitement. Count Clement Metternich, since Stadion's withdrawal from the cabinet, prime minister and confidential adviser, was standing at the emperor's desk, and whenever Francis, in walking up and down, turned his back to him, a scornful smile overspread his handsome countenance; this manifestation of contempt disappeared, however, as soon as his master turned again toward him.

"It will stir up a great deal of ill-feeling throughout Germany," said the Emperor Francis, hastily. "No one will believe that I, who was hitherto the most implacable enemy of Bonaparte, should have suddenly done him so much honor."

"But at last every one will have to believe it, your majesty," said Metternich, in his gentle, melodious voice. "The facts will refute the surmises of the incredulous."

"But it is outrageous," cried the emperor, "and I can hardly think it possible that I am to assist Bonaparte in making a decent match, and that I am to stoop so low as to call the son of the Corsican lawyer my son-in-law! Let me tell you, it will never do; I should ever after be afraid of passing the church of the Capuchins; I should always imagine that the tombs of my ancestors opened, and their ghosts arose and asked me, 'How could you permit the imperial blood of the Hapsburgs to mingle with that of the little Corsican lawyer's son, the insurgent and revolutionary captain, who chances to be a successful warrior?' Yes, and I ask myself the question: How can I permit an archduchess, my daughter, to be married to a man seated on a throne which does not belong to him, and which the Bourbons, the legitimate rulers of France, will one day take from him?? How can I permit it, I ask, and how am I to bear it, if this fellow without a pedigree should some day take the liberty to call me his dear father-in-law? How is it possible for me to expose myself to such risk?"

"Will your majesty permit me to answer these just questions of your imperial conscience?" asked Metternich.

"Do so," exclaimed Francis. "Explain the whole matter to me as though I were not the emperor, but a common citizen offended at the idea that the Emperor of Austria should permit his daughter to be married to the revolutionary leader who has the impudence to assume the imperial title. What would you say? How would you excuse me?"

Metternich advanced a step toward the emperor, and replied: "I would say the Emperor Francis has acted as a wise statesman and ruler, and as a father of his people. In order to preserve Austria from new wars, he has sacrificed his most precious treasure, his only child. It is a pledge securing peace to his exhausted people. Austria is not now able to resist Napoleon in case he should again attack her. Our frontiers are defenceless; our finances are exhausted. Hitherto every war has caused us grievous losses in money, men, and territory; and so long as we stand alone, so long as Russia persists in her absurd policy of being the cat's-paw of France, it would be senseless and criminal again to endanger the existence of the monarchy. We have suffered such immense losses, that we must have peace to recover what we have lost. Hence we must be reconciled with France, and this reconciliation strengthens us against Russia. The very fact that Napoleon desires to conclude an alliance with Austria indicates a change in his political system, by which we should try to profit, and if (what is unavoidable) a rupture with Russia ensues, Austria ought to derive as much benefit therefrom as possible, and enlarge her territories. We ought to render our present position toward France as profitable as possible. The archduchess will be a precious guaranty to Napoleon, for he will feel convinced that the emperor will be unwilling to sacrifice his child, and this conviction will fill him with confidence and a feeling of security. Austria becomes closely connected with the political interests of Napoleon, and shares the hatred which all Europe feels against the Emperor of the French. But this very hatred incurred by Austria will be regarded by Napoleon as another surety for his fidelity. He will ally himself more closely with us, and become more hostile to Russia, the natural enemy of Austria; hence it is better for us to fight in company with France against Russia than to allow Russia and France to fight against us. Moreover, our finances are in such a deplorable condition, that a bankruptcy of the state would be the inevitable consequence of another war; not only the future of the emperor's dynasty, but the fortunes of his subjects would be endangered. In consideration of this, the emperor, in his wisdom, has preferred to secure peace, the source of prosperity, to his beloved subjects, and, like the patriarch, he sacrifices his own child willingly and joyously. The noble emperor ought to be blessed and praised for this, and his wisdom, which despises prejudice, and only weighs and respects the benefits to be secured by such a measure, should be gratefully acknowledged. That, sire," said Metternich, concluding his speech, "is what I would reply to him who would dare in my presence censure the marriage of the archduchess to the Emperor Napoleon."

"It sounds well enough," said the emperor, thoughtfully, "but it is still an unpalatable dish for me, and my tongue will cling to the roof of my mouth when I am to say, 'My son-in-law the Emperor Napoleon!' He is no real emperor, although he has placed three crowns on his head, and even had the impudence of dividing my order of the Golden Fleece, contrary to law, into three classes; he can never become a real emperor; he must always remain the son of a Corsican lawyer."

"Whom the pope, however, has anointed and crowned emperor," said Metternich, with a sneer.

"Yes, and, in return, this ungrateful fellow has deprived the holy father of his throne, and imprisoned him! In short, I detest the usurper. It always deeply pained me to hear of Bonaparte and his new victories; and since I saw him on that day after the battle of Austerlitz, he is more hateful to me than ever. Oh, how superciliously this fellow then looked at me! He talked to me so haughtily that I felt quite miserable, and did not know what to say. I shall never forgive M. Bonaparte, and yet I am to allow him to become my son-in-law! I tell you, Metternich, it will not do, for the end will be bad."

"But the commencement," said Metternich, smiling, "will be good for Austria, and that is the chief point. We shall take care that the end will not be bad for us either, and that Austria will not be the loser by it."

"It is all right," said Francis, nodding, "but the mischief is, that when the unhappy time comes, M. Bonaparte will be my son-in-law, and that it may be necessary for me to support him and his cause."

"Your majesty," said Metternich, in a low voice, and glancing cautiously over the room, "if you do not now hesitate to sacrifice your own child for the welfare of your country, at a later time you will not shrink from sacrificing your son-in-law. There are no relatives in politics; Austria has no sisters and brothers, no daughters and sons-in-law; that is what the august uncle of your majesty, the Emperor Joseph, often said, and he was right."

"Yes, indeed, my great uncle Joseph was right," exclaimed the emperor, laughing; "there are no sons-in-law in politics! Oh, it would do my heart good if I could revenge myself one day on M. Bonaparte for all the humiliations that I have to bear now."

"Your majesty," said Metternich, in a lower voice than before, "there is an excellent Italian proverb, 'Revenge must be eaten cold.' Your majesty knows it?"

"Of course I do," whispered the emperor. "I know it, and shall surely remember it. 'Revenge must be eaten cold;' he who wants to eat it hot, will burn his tongue. Let us wait, therefore."

"Yes, let us wait," whispered Metternich. He then added in a loud voice: "Your majesty, then, will graciously accept the proposals of the Emperor Napoleon as to his union with the archduchess, order the marriage contracts to be made out, and permit the Prince de Neufchatel, Marshal Berthier, to apply to your majesty and the archduchess for the hand of the imperial princess?"

"Yes, I will," said Francis, hesitatingly, "but let me tell you, I am afraid of what the empress, my consort, will say about the matter, and also of Maria Louisa herself. The empress never liked Bonaparte, and I do not know how I shall break the news to her, that the man for whose sake, but a few months since, so much Austrian blood was shed, and to whom I had to sacrifice the brave Tyrolese, Andrew Hofer, is to become my son-in-law. And Maria Louisa will be greatly surprised; I am afraid she will weep a good deal on hearing the news."

"I believe the archduchess will cheerfully submit to her fate," said Metternich. "I heard her imperial highness speak in terms of intense admiration of the heroism and marvellous deeds of the Emperor Napoleon."

"Yes, she did," replied Francis, "but I commanded her not to give expression to such sentiments. I explained to her how much misery and ignominy Bonaparte had brought upon Austria and our house, and what a cruel, tyrannical, and bloodthirsty man he is; and my words made so deep an impression on the mind of my dutiful daughter, that she has detested Bonaparte ever since, and is afraid of him, as though he were a monster."

"Perhaps, if your majesty were to tell the archduchess that the Emperor Napoleon is not so bad after all," said Metternich, smiling—"if you were to assure her imperial highness that he is a very great and admirable man, and that his laurels are as good as a long line of ancestors, the words of your majesty would not fail to impress themselves on her mind, and her hatred would disappear, particularly if you should show her a correct likeness of the emperor, for care has been hitherto taken to exhibit to the imperial princes and princesses only those representations of Napoleon in which he is horribly caricatured. I know that the mistress of ceremonies of the archduchess, Countess Colloredo, in her passionate hatred against him, and against France generally, tried this remedy to cure the imperial princess of her admiration for the conqueror, and the archduchess sees, hears, and reads nothing but what has been previously examined by the countess. I repeat, that if your majesty could have a really correct likeness of Napoleon brought to the young lady's notice, her ideas of him would be somewhat changed."

"But I have no good likeness of Bonaparte," said the emperor, somewhat embarrassed.

"Marshal Berthier brought one, which he is to present to the archduchess on solemnly applying for her hand. It is very costly and correct. The frame consists of twenty very large diamonds, for which one might buy a whole principality. I requested the marshal to let me have it an hour, when he permitted me to see it during the visit I paid to him. I told him frankly I wished to take it to the emperor, who would show it to the archduchess, that she might have some notion of the real emperor, and receive his suit. The marshal granted my request, and intrusted the miniature to me."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"I did, your majesty. Here it is." Metternich drew a morocco case from his bosom and handed it to the emperor.

Francis opened it hastily, and contemplated the precious locket a good while. "These are splendid diamonds, indeed," he said, "and I am convinced Bonaparte did not inherit them of his father. Not the slightest blemish, not a single imperfection in them; I believe I have no more beautiful diamonds in my crown!"

"And the resemblance?" asked Metternich. "Does not your majesty think that it is excellent?"

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Francis, laughing. "I had almost forgotten that, in admiring the precious stones. Yes, it is a good likeness; he looks precisely like that, but you must admit it is a revolting face, looking as though there were but one man in the world, and he were that man."

"But the expression of so much haughtiness impresses the ladies very favorably," said Metternich. "They like the man who loves to consider himself a god, and he is one in their eyes. I really believe it would be a good idea for your majesty to show this to the archduchess, and tell her afterward that it is the likeness of her future husband. If your majesty has no objection, I will, in the mean time, request an audience of the Empress Ludovica, and try to convince her majesty of the necessity of this marriage."

"Do so," exclaimed the emperor, joyously, "it will be very agreeable to me, and as soon as possible. In the mean time I will go to the archduchess, show her the miniature, and tell her plainly that it is that of her future husband. It is better to tell her so without circumlocution. The princess will not dare to oppose my wishes; she knows that it is the duty of an obedient daughter to accept the husband her father has selected for her. Go to the empress, Metternich; I shall go to the Archduchess Maria Louisa."



CHAPTER LV.

THE ARCHDUCHESS MARIA LOUISA.

The imperial princes and princesses had just dined together, as had been their custom since the reign of the Emperor Joseph, and were still in the large dining-hall, which was also the play-room of the imperial children. The Emperor Francis, who had recently married his fourth wife, had children by his second marriage only, but numerous enough to secure the continued existence of the dynasty, and, at the same time, furnish beautiful princesses to other sovereign houses. Of these five daughters and two sons, Maria Louisa, who was seventeen years old, was the eldest. But though a grown young lady, she liked to be together with her younger brothers and sisters, and remained sometimes with them after dinner, in order to participate in their merry play and conversation. On this occasion, instead of returning with the mistress of ceremonies to her room, she remained with her brothers and sisters in the dining-hall. While the younger princes and princesses were engaged in playing round a large table, the two oldest, the archduchesses Maria Louisa and Leopoldine, retired into one of the bay-windows to converse without being disturbed.

It was a charming sight—those two young ladies standing in the niche, surrounded by curtains as in a frame, and whose beauty seemed to have caught a celestial radiance from the light beaming through the windows. Both were in the morning of their age, but Maria Louisa, the older sister, was even more attractive than Leopoldine. Thick ringlets of light-brown hair floated around her forehead. She had large azure eyes, telling of her happiness and the kindly emotions of her soul. Her finely-cut nose gave an aristocratic expression to her countenance, while her crimson lips, in their voluptuous fulness, contrasted not unfavorably with the remarkable refinement of the rest of her features. An enchanting smile played about her mouth, and spoke of her noble simplicity and innocence.

She encircled the neck of her younger sister with her arms, and was gazing at her with a tender expression. "Ah, Leopoldine," she said to her in a sweet voice, "how happy I am that we are at length together again! When I remained here ill and alone, and the enemy was besieging our capital, I was always thinking of none but you, and yearned to be again with you. But when the shells struck our palace, I thanked Heaven that you were not here, and had not to undergo the fear and anguish which I was enduring. When this Bonaparte arrived, I was suffering of the scarlet fever, but the terror brought on an attack of intermittent fever. I shall never forgive him. But, thank God, these evil times are over! Now we need not be afraid of being expelled again from the palace of our ancestors by this bad man, and of seeing our dear Schoenbrunn degraded by the presence of his marshals. Now we can live happily and delightfully in undisturbed tranquillity."

"Yes, we can," said the Archduchess Leopoldine, smiling. "But do you not think, sister, that our life is indescribably monotonous and tedious at the present time? Our third mother, the Empress Ludovica, is certainly a very amiable, virtuous, and pious lady, but she really believes us still to be small children, who ought to remain in the nursery, and it does not occur to her that amusements are sometimes necessary for young princesses of our age. We have passed the whole winter in an intolerably quiet and wearisome manner; we are already in the latter part of February, and have not had a single ball at court. Ah, Louisa, it is, after all, not so very pleasant to be a princess. Other girls of our age are at liberty to indulge in a little pleasure, to attend balls, concerts, and parties, where they see new faces and interesting persons. We are forbidden all this. We must wait until diversion comes to us, and unfortunately we are not thought of at all! We are never allowed to pay visits or accept invitations. A formal court ball, where we may appear for a few hours, and dance with the most aristocratic cavaliers, is our only amusement, and at present we are deprived of that. We are guarded in our apartments like prisoners."

"Yes, it is true," sighed Maria Louisa, "and we have a very rigorous jailer in the Countess of Colloredo. Do you know, Leopoldine, that I have had a violent scene with the mistress of ceremonies to-day?"

"Ah, I am glad of it," exclaimed Leopoldine, laughing. "What was the matter?"

"I wanted to read, and requested the mistress of ceremonies to give me new books. She deferred it until to-day and brought me then one of the works I had asked for, 'the Maid of Orleans,' by Schiller, but it was mutilated and disfigured like all books that are given to us. Whole pages had been cut out, and on those remaining were to be found black spots rendering whole lines and words illegible—a liberty which the mistress of ceremonies is in the habit of indulging in, in reference to all the books we read."

"Yes, it is true," sighed the younger archduchess, "we cannot read a single good book from beginning to end; and we are thus deprived of much pleasure. What did you do, dear sister?"

"I cast the book aside with horror, and requested her to let me have the latest newspapers. She brought them to me, but everywhere the same foul marks; not only all the news from France, but even the local Vienna items were almost illegible to-day; lines had been cut out, words erased, and half a column had entirely disappeared. I was almost beside myself at this treatment. I returned the papers and said, 'Madame, this is doubtless a mistake. I am sure these papers were intended for the nursery, that the little archduchesses might learn to spell; as for myself, I can both spell and read, and I request you, therefore, to give me legible books and newspapers.'"

"Oh," exclaimed Leopoldine, merrily clapping her hands, "that was glorious! You acted like a heroine, my dear sister!"

Maria Louisa smiled and added, "'Madame,' I went on to say, 'I cannot bear any longer this system of surveillance. It is insulting and repugnant to me to be treated like a child, and considered so weakminded as to be forbidden books which thousands of girls of my age are allowed to read. Or do you want to make me believe that all books and newspapers come to Austria in this mutilated condition? Oh, I know full well that the people would not submit to such a system of tyranny, and that, in case such efforts should be made to deprive them of their mental food, assuredly a revolution would break out, as in France at the time when my unfortunate aunt, Marie Antoinette, was on the throne.'"

"Did you say so?" asked Leopoldine, in surprise. "But where did you find the courage and the words?"

"I must avow to you that I had reflected about the matter for three days, and drawn up, and learned by heart, this little speech in order to address it to the mistress of ceremonies at the first opportunity. I am really tired of being treated so childishly, when I am a woman, and may expect soon to be married."

"Ah, married!" sighed Leopoldine. "Who knows to what dreadful princes we may be married? For, as a matter of course, we shall not be asked whether we like the match or not, and we shall not be as well off as the daughters of common citizens, who, as my maid told me, marry only those whom they love. We princesses must marry men whom we have never seen, with whom we exchange the first word only after our marriage, and whom perhaps we may not like at all."

"No matter, our marriage makes us free," exclaimed Maria Louisa, impatiently. "We are then at least our own mistresses, and need submit no longer to the restraints imposed on us. The example of our third mother, the Empress Ludovica, shows it. She has taken the liberty to pay no attention to etiquette, and holds a reception at her rooms every night from eight to ten o'clock, when she does not admit the ladies and gentlemen of the court, but invited persons, among whom there are frequently those who do not even belong to the aristocracy."

"She does not invite us to the evening parties," exclaimed Leopoldine, sneeringly. "Maybe we are too aristocratic for her. But you are right, Louisa—as soon as we are married, we shall also have the right to change rules of etiquette and live as we please."

"Do you know the first thing I am going to do after my marriage?" asked Maria Louisa, quickly. "I shall buy all the books that I have now, and peruse the cut-out and illegible passages. I am sure they are the most interesting and beautiful in the books, and I believe they all treat of love. Ah, Leopoldine, I should like to read for once a work containing a very romantic love-story, and over which one might dream. But, good Heaven! what makes the children shout so merrily? Come, let us see what they are doing."

"Come, let us play with them," exclaimed Leopoldine.

The princesses stepped arm in arm from the bay-window and hastened to the table. The little archduchesses and their brothers, it seemed, were engaged in a highly-interesting game, which their governesses were witnessing with smiling attention. They were standing about the large round table, on which a small army of wax figures in green and blue uniforms had been placed in neatly-arranged rows. At the head of this army stood a somewhat larger figure of the most revolting appearance. It was a little fellow with hunched shoulders, a rotund stomach and an unnaturally large head. The face was of a black-and-green color, and had eyes of a ferocious expression, and a tremendous mouth without lips, showing rows of ugly yellow teeth. This figure was dressed in a green uniform, with broad white facings, and on his head was a little cocked hat. Opposite this army of wax figures a row of small brass cannon was placed, and at their side lay diminutive bows, and arrows furnished with pins. The ammunition-wagons were filled with black peas.

The game had just commenced. The imperial children had opened the campaign against the hostile army of wax-figures. The little Archdukes Ferdinand and Francis Charles stood as gunners at the field-pieces, while the Archduchesses Caroline, Clementine, and Amelia, were armed with small bows. The gunners fired at the ranks of the soldiers; the archduchesses aimed at the terrible captain of the little army. Whenever an arrow hit him, or a cannon-ball struck down one of the soldiers, the children burst into loud cheers.

"What game is this?" asked Maria Louisa, contemplating with evident delight the blushing cheeks and bright eyes of her young brothers and sisters.

"That is the Bonaparte game," exclaimed little Archduke Francis Charles. "Papa emperor presented the game to me when we were at Ofen, and taught me how to play it. It is a long while since we played it, but to-day we will try it again. Look, sister Louisa, that horrible fellow in front of the soldiers is the villain Bonaparte, who is stealing the states of all the princes, he is made entirely of brass, and no arrow can injure him, but he has a vulnerable spot on the breast, where the heart is, that is made of wax. On shooting at him, you always have to aim there; if you hit it, the arrow remains, and you win the game and obtain the reward. Oh, I am well versed in the Bonaparte game; papa emperor was so gracious as to play it often with me at Ofen, when we were fleeing from that man; and his majesty taught me also how to insult Bonaparte. See, sisters!" and he took the little bow from the hands of the Archduchess Marianne, and laid an arrow on the string. "Now, you miserable fellow," he shouted in an angry voice and with flashing eyes, "now I will kill you without mercy! You thief, you stole Venice and Milan from us—you must die!" He discharged the arrow, but it glanced off from the figure.

"You missed him! you missed him!" shouted the little group.

"It is my turn now," exclaimed the little archduchess, taking the bow from her brother. She put an arrow on it, and, contracting her eyebrows and making her laughing little face assume an angry and menacing air, shouted, "Now tremble, you bad man! for I will put you to death because you drove us twice from Vienna, and frightened us so badly that you compelled us to escape, while you were enjoying yourself in our fine palaces. Yes, I will kill you, because you shot our soldiers and took our cannon. You are a wretch, a miserable thief, and I will now shoot you that you may no longer murder our men and expel our princes, you robber and assassin!" She discharged her arrow, but with no better success than the little archduke, and the laughter of her brothers and sisters punished her for her lack of skill.

"Why, this is a very pretty game," exclaimed the Archduchess Maria Louisa, laughing. "Come, Leopoldine, let us try it, and see whether we are able to hit the monster." The princesses sat down laughingly between the little archdukes, and each took one of the bows.

"Pray let me shoot first, dear sister," exclaimed Leopoldine, eagerly. "Look, my arrow lies already on the string. Now I will aim at you, miserable Bonaparte, and take revenge for all the sufferings you have brought upon us. Your last hour has come; fold your hands and pray, if you can. But you cannot pray, for you have a conscience burdened with crimes; you have sinned grievously against God by insulting and imprisoning His representative on earth. The Holy Father has excommunicated you for this, and you are accursed, delivered over to the tortures of hell, and every honest Christian turns away from the wretch against whom the bolt of excommunication has been hurled. You must die without confession and absolution—in the midst of your sins." She discharged the arrow, but, like those of her little brother and sister, it glanced from the figure and dropped at its feet.

The little archduchesses and princes, who, on hearing the imprecations uttered by their sister, had assumed a very grave air, felt as though they had been relieved of an oppressive burden, and burst into loud laughter.

"It is my turn now!" exclaimed Maria Louisa. She took the bow and fixed her blue eyes with an expression of profound contempt on the repulsive figure. "You must die—ay, die!" she said, gravely. "Bonaparte, I will deliver the world from you, for you are as insatiable as the Minotaur, that required every day a human victim for breakfast. You devour men and countries, and the wails of whole nations are music to your ears. You must die, also, because you look so horrible! God has marked you, and given you a monstrous body, because your soul is that of a monster. I will kill you, therefore, that you may no longer frighten mankind!" She put the arrow on the string and shot.

A loud shout resounded. The arrow remained in the figure. Maria Louisa had hit Bonaparte.

"Hurrah, the Archduchess Maria Louisa has killed Bonaparte!" cried the little ones. "The monster is dead! The robber lives no more! The wretch and villain!"

"Why, what is going on here? Whom are you abusing so shockingly?" asked a voice behind them, and the children, turning around, saw their father, the Emperor Francis, who had entered unnoticed by them.

"We are abusing the malicious robber, papa emperor," exclaimed the Archduchess Marianne, pointing at the figure.

"Your majesty, dear papa emperor," exclaimed little Francis Charles, eagerly—"only think of it, Maria Louisa has hit the heart of Bonaparte. The monster is dead; he is unable now to steal any thing more from us!"

"Sancta Maria!" cried the emperor, "how can you use such language, my son? How can you utter such disrespectful epithets about the illustrious Emperor Napoleon?"

The boy looked at his father in dismay. "Your majesty," he said, timidly, "you yourself told me Napoleon could not be abused enough, and a genuine Hapsburg ought to execrate the infamous robber. Those were your majesty's own words, papa!"

"Oh, I was only joking," exclaimed the emperor, angrily, "and a clever prince, like you, ought to have noticed it at once. But I am talking in earnest now, and forbid you playing this stupid game any more, or uttering another word against the Emperor Napoleon. He is a very illustrious, and moreover an excellent man—a very great emperor—whom every one loves and praises."

"Papa emperor," cried the Archduke Francis Charles, wonderingly, "but your majesty told me at Ofen that every one was abhorring Bonaparte, and—"

"You are a pert little fool!" replied the emperor, vehemently. "What I said then has no sense now. For at that time we were at war, and Napoleon was our enemy. But now we have made peace, and he is our friend, and so dear a friend, that I would willingly intrust to him my most precious treasure; I am sure he would honor and cherish it! Listen to my orders, therefore, all of you: do not utter another word against the Emperor Napoleon. We all love and admire him, and that stupid game must never be played again. It must be laid aside forever."

The children were frightened and downcast; the emperor turned from them, and beckoned to the Archduchess Maria Louisa to follow him. "I came to see you at your rooms," he said; "the mistress of ceremonies told me that I would find you here. I want to speak to you."

"Your majesty was very gracious to come to me instead of sending for me," said the archduchess, bowing to her father. "Does your majesty command me to follow you to your cabinet?"

"No, just step with me into this window-niche," said the emperor; "I will not detain you long. I wish to show you something." He stepped with the princess into the last window-niche, and closed the curtain. "Now look," he said, "I want to show you a miniature, and you must tell me how you like it." He opened the locket and presented it to the archduchess. She gazed at it long and musingly, and a blush suffused her cheeks. "Well! what do you think of this man?"

"Your majesty, he must be a very great and distinguished man," exclaimed the archduchess. "It is a countenance that makes my heart throb; it is more than merely fine-looking, it is sublime! How much majesty is enthroned on that brow, and yet the smile seems petulant and childlike; but the eyes are magnificent."

"Look at him carefully," said the emperor, "and do not restrain your feelings, but fall in love with him. For let me tell you a secret, Louisa; it is the likeness of your future husband."

A deeper blush crimsoned the face of the archduchess, and half ashamed, half anxious, she fixed her eyes again on the miniature.

"Yes," added the emperor, in a graver tone, "it is the portrait of your husband, and you will receive this very day his ambassador, who will apply to you for your hand. He has already received my consent, and I am sure my daughter knows her duty, and will accept obediently the husband I have destined for her."

"Yes," whispered the archduchess, "I know that to be my duty, and shall humbly submit to the will and commands of my emperor and father."

"And it is a grand destiny that Providence offers you," said the emperor, gravely. "You are to preserve peace to the world, my daughter; you are to be the bond of reconciliation between those who have hitherto hated and waged war with each other."

"Sire," exclaimed the archduchess, anxiously, "your majesty did not tell me whose likeness this is?"

"And whom I have determined to become your husband," added the emperor. "I will tell you now, but be courageous and brave, my daughter, and remember that you must obey me unconditionally."

"I shall not forget to do so, your majesty."

"Well, then, did I not, on entering this room, hear the children rejoice at your having hit the heart of the Emperor Napoleon?"

"I was playing with the children, your majesty, and—"

"And your play is to become earnest now, and you are to take pains to conquer Bonaparte's heart, that he may love and trust you. For, my daughter, this miniature, which you pronounced so fine-looking, is a correct likeness of the Emperor Napoleon, who will become your husband."

The Archduchess Maria Louisa uttered a cry, and tottered to the wall.

Her father clasped her in his arms, and placed her gently on the easy-chair standing in the niche. The cheeks of Maria Louisa had turned livid, her eyes were closed, and her arms hung down by her side.

"It is strange how easily women faint!" muttered the emperor. "I found that to be the case with all my wives. When they do not know how to do any thing better, they faint. All four of mine did, but they always revived, and so will Louisa. I like it much better that she should faint than that she should weep. She knows now what she had to know, and will act accordingly." He opened the curtain, and stepped back into the room. "Leopoldine!" he shouted to the archduchess, "step in here to your sister, Maria Louisa. She has swooned, but it is of no consequence! Tell her to wake up, and conduct her to her room. She will tell you what has happened to her."



CHAPTER LVI.

THE QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY.

There were great rejoicings in Berlin. It was the 10th of March, the queen's birthday, and she celebrated it again at the capital for the first time in three years. Every one hastened to manifest his love and sympathy for the queen, and all classes had sent in requests for permission to choose committees to present their congratulations to her majesty. The queen had cheerfully granted these requests, and the deputations of the old aristocracy, the states, the clergy, the municipality, the academy, the painters, and other artists, the mechanics, and citizens, were assembled in the large hall of the royal palace, waiting her arrival.

The folding-doors at length opened, and the queen, preceded by the grand-marshal of the court, entered. She looked pale and exhausted, but received with affability and grace the cheers given by the assembly at her appearance, and walked slowly down the long line of the deputations, addressing a kind word or casting a grateful glance to every one, and charming all by her beauty, gentleness, and majesty. Suddenly her countenance brightened, and she approached a tall, stout gentleman standing in the midst of the committee of the artists. "M. Manager Iffland,"[50] she said, "let me bid you welcome. I expected to see you here to-day, in order to express once more my thanks for the joy you afforded me on my last birthday, and for the sufferings you underwent for my sake. But I should like to hear an account of the event from your own lips, and I ask of you, as a birthday present, to relate to me what happened to you last year on this day."

[Footnote 50: The celebrated German actor.]

While uttering these words, the queen stepped back into the middle of the hall, and thereby compelled Iffland to leave the committee, and follow her. "Your majesty is really too kind to remember so insignificant an occurrence," said Iffland, bowing respectfully. "I was on that day only so happy as to give expression to the feelings animating all. 'Queen Louisa, our royal lady!' that was the motto encouraging us to bear up under the foreign yoke; it was our consolation when we thought of his majesty, our beloved king. However galling our chains might have been, we felt comfort. 'The royal lady is with him!' we said to each other, and with grateful tears every one remembered his queen."

"Yes, it is true," exclaimed the queen with feeling, "we met with much love and fidelity during the years of affliction, and to-day I thank from the bottom of my heart all those who were faithful to us." Her eyes gazed long and affectionately on the brilliant circle of those assembled, and she then turned again to Iffland. "Well, how was it on my birthday last year?" she asked. "Tell me, but speak loudly, that every one may hear."

"Last year on this day we were not as happy as we are to-day," said Iffland. "Our queen was not with us, and we could not let her read in our eyes the love and fidelity which we had been forbidden from manifesting toward her by word or deed. The French authorities had issued stringent orders everywhere, that the citizens should abstain from any allusions to or recollections of our queen's birthday, and that no demonstrations whatever should be made. We were obliged to submit to the petty tyranny, but our hearts were filled with anger, and the love which we could not assert was strengthened in its concealment. It needed only a spark to bring about an explosion, and the theatre was so fortunate as to kindle this spark in the hearts of the loyal Prussians. On the evening of that 10th of March, a small family drama which I had written was to be performed. It was the simple and affecting history of a family celebrating happily the reunion of a mother and her children. The mother's name was Louisa, and this name was sufficient to fill the house with a distinguished audience. All felt that the theatre was on that day the only place where the public heart, devoted to the queen, was allowed to throb for her; where glances could be exchanged and understood, and where it was permitted to whisper, 'It is her birthday to-day! Heaven bless her!' Every seat was occupied in the galleries as well as in the dress-circle, in the orchestra stalls as well as in the pit, everywhere reigned the same joyous commotion. Only in the boxes of the French, faces were seen that cast an angry and hostile expression on that audience.—The curtain rose, and the performance commenced. The actor Lange and myself appeared in the first scene. Lange had to play the part of a friend of the house, happening to arrive there on that day. I represented the son of Louisa, the mother, and appeared on the stage with a large bouquet on my breast. 'Why do you look so happy and well-dressed to-day?' said Lange. 'I suppose you are celebrating a family festival?' 'Yes!' I exclaimed in a loud and joyous voice, 'we are celebrating a family festival, and it is a beautiful festival; we are celebrating the return of our beloved mother, God bless her! God bless the dear lady who is to receive these flowers!' Carried away by my enthusiasm, I tore the bouquet from my breast, and held it out toward the audience. Moved by one and the same feeling of love and admiration, the whole assembly rose, and thousands of voices shouted, as it were with one mouth and from one heart, 'God bless her! God bless the dear lady—the adored mother!' Oh, queen, it was a sublime moment, and God counted the tears and understood the prayers that we addressed to Him. He has restored to us our queen, the beloved mother of her country and people!"

The queen at first listened smilingly: gradually, however, her countenance became grave. She was standing with profound emotion in front of Iffland, when he concluded his narrative, and tears dropped from her downcast eyes. Silence reigned in the vast hall, and all faces were turned to the queen. She raised her eyes slowly, and directed them toward Iffland with an expression of indescribable kindness. "I thank you," said Louisa; "you stood faithfully by your queen at a time when many were deserting her. You have been a faithful knight of mine, and the king, therefore, wants you to retain always the title of knight. He permits me to give you to-day another decoration instead of the bouquet you wore on your breast a year ago. In the name of his majesty I have to present to you the insignia of the order of the Red Eagle."

A pallor overspread. Iffland's countenance, while he received the order which the queen handed to him. "O queen," he said, deeply affected, "such an honor to me, the actor! I thank your majesty in the name of all my colleagues, from whom you have removed at this moment the interdict excluding them from the honors and dignities of other men."

The queen smiled. "It is true," she said, "I believe you are the first actor who ever received an order in Prussia. And are you not indeed the first actor? However, you owe us still the conclusion of your narrative. You described to us the scene at the theatre, but not the disagreeable consequences of the occurrence."

"Ah! your majesty," exclaimed Iffland, smiling, "the consequences were easy to bear after the sublime moment which I had witnessed. I was imprisoned for forty-eight hours at the French guard-house, where they put me on a diet of bread and water. That was all."

"I thank you for suffering so cheerfully for me," said the queen, dismissing Iffland with a pleasant nod. "Would I were able to reward all those who have suffered for us, and endured persecution in love and patience, and to return days of joy for days of sorrow!"

Iffland, who looked proud and happy, stepped back among the members of his committee, and Louisa continued her walk, uttering words of gratitude and acknowledgment, and charming all by her winning and withal queenly bearing.

After the reception was over, she returned to her apartments. The smile disappeared from her lips, and her countenance assumed a melancholy expression. She motioned to her two ladies of honor to leave her, and remained alone with her confidante, Madame von Berg. "Oh, Caroline," sighed the queen, "I can bear it no longer. My heart succumbs under these tortures. They call this day a holiday, but to me it is a day of terror. To-night a party at the palace—a banquet previous to it,—and I must be gay, though suffering severe pain! My heart is bleeding, and yet I am to dance, address pleasant words to every one, and assume an appearance of happiness. I do not know whither to escape with my grief! To whom will Prussia belong a year hence? Whither shall we all be scattered? God have mercy on us!"

"Your majesty views the situation in too gloomy a light," said Madame von Berg, consolingly. "No further events have occurred that need alarm you."

"No further events!" exclaimed the queen, vehemently. "You do not know, then, Caroline, that Count Krusemark arrived from Paris this morning?"

"No," replied Madame von Berg, anxiously; "I do not know any thing about it. What is the meaning of this unexpected arrival of the ambassador?"

"A new calamity is threatening us. Count Krusemark is the bearer of a letter from Napoleon to the king. Oh, Caroline, what a letter it is! One cannot help blushing with shame and anger on reading it, and yet it is necessary for us to be silent. Napoleon menaces because the war contributions are not promptly paid: he talks as a superior to his inferior who neglects his duty; he scolds as a schoolmaster does his pupil who has not learned his task. And we must bear it, we must stoop so low as to beg him to be indulgent! Caroline, we must now solicit the forbearance of the man who has insulted us by every word he addressed to us, and by every look he cast upon us. For do you really know what he threatens to do? He writes that if the king does not immediately pay up the arrears of the war contributions, he will send an army to Prussia, to collect the money, and punish the king for his breach of faith. He will send another army to Prussia!—that is to say, the war is to begin anew, and, as we have become powerless, and cannot defend our frontiers, he means to crush us. He will take every thing, and Prussia will cease to exist. And we cannot pay, we have no means to obtain those millions so unjustly claimed!"

"But the ministers will devise means to pay the contribution, dearest queen; the minister of finance will be able to suggest a scheme to fulfil the engagements that have been entered into, and to discharge the claims which Napoleon has against us."

The queen laughed scornfully. "Baron von Altenstein, the minister of finance, is not of your opinion," she said. "The king asked him to suggest measures by which the liabilities we had incurred might be discharged. But Altenstein replied that he did not know of any, and he then proposed to the king to pay the debt by ceding the province of Silesia to Napoleon."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Madame von Borg, indignantly. "A Prussian minister does not shrink from advising the king, although we are at peace, to sacrifice the best province that has remained, and which even the defeats of Jena and Friedland, and the intriguing days of Tilsit did not endanger!"

"And if we do not consent to such a sacrifice (and we shall not), what next?" exclaimed the queen, despairingly. "Napoleon will send his army and expel or imprison us, as he treated the unfortunate royal family of Spain. Oh, Caroline, I shall be uneasy night and day. Dreadful apprehensions are constantly meeting me. I think of Spain, and fears oppress me lest my husband have the same fate as King Charles. Believe me, his life, his liberty is threatened, and he is every day in danger of being suddenly seized and taken away as a hostage, until we have fulfilled the behests of the tyrant, and given him all that still belongs to us—our honor, our crown, and, perhaps, our lives. We are surrounded by French spies: every word, every look, is watched; only a pretext is sought to ruin us, and it will be found, as it was in Spain. Oh, he will take my husband from me! he will drag him as a prisoner from one place to another as he did the King of Spain; he will sow the seeds of discord in our family as he did in that unhappy country. He, the tyrant Napoleon, brought about a quarrel between the Infante and his father; he compelled, with his iron hand, the unfortunate King Charles to write that his son's guilt had raised a barrier between father and son. But whose hand was it that constructed it? Can there be any doubt? It was his alone! Oh, will there be a time, and shall I live to see it, when the hand of God will at length write the 'Mene, mene, tekel,' on his wall?"

"Your majesty will live to see that time," exclaimed Madame von Berg. "You will witness the judgment of Heaven and of the nations overthrowing the tyrant."

The queen shook her head. "No," she whispered, "I shall not live to see it. I think this will be the last time that I celebrate my birthday here."[51]

[Footnote 51: The queen's own words.]

"Oh, Louisa," cried Madame von Berg, bursting into tears, "do not titter such cruel, heart-rending words. You will live, you must live, for the consolation and joy of us all. It would be an injustice, and we should despair of divine equity, if our queen depart without having seen again the days of deliverance and happiness."

"My dear, Providence permits such acts of injustice," said Louisa, with a mournful smile. "Was it just that noble Palm should be shot, that Schill had to fall, and to be stigmatized as a deserter for his heroic actions? Was it just that Andrew Hofer had to expiate his glorious struggle for freedom by his death? The Emperor of Austria was in the same position as we were. He had to sacrifice Andrew Hofer as we Ferdinand von Schill. The cruel hand of the tyrant rested on him as it did on us. And now they have shot the brave, heroic leader of the Tyrolese at Mantua! My soul mourns for him, for I hoped in him. It is but recently that I understood Schiller's words, 'On the mountains there is freedom!' They resounded in my heart like a prophecy, when in my thought I looked over to the mountaineers who had risen at Hofer's call. My heart fought at his side! And what a man this dear, honest, simple Andrew Hofer was! A peasant who had become a general, and what a general! His weapon—prayer! His ally—God! He fought with folded hands, with bended knees, and struck down the enemy as with a cherub's sword. And the brave Tyrolese were fighting with him—children in the simplicity of their hearts, they fought like Titans, by hurling down rocks from the summits of their fastnesses. And yet it was all in vain! They were sacrificed, and their leader was shot by the man who to-morrow marries the daughter of their emperor. And you doubt that Providence permits acts of injustice? Oh, I do not doubt that God is just, but we mortals are often unable to comprehend his justice, because our life is too short to witness the result of that of which we have seen only the inception; but He knows the end from the beginning. And an end will come for Napoleon with all his glory. But shall I or any of us ever live to witness it?"

"All of us will," said Madame von Berg; "our belief in the final retribution of Divine justice will give us our strength, I hope, for many years."

"I shall not live to see that blessed time," said the queen, solemnly. "This man, who is to be married to a German princess to-morrow, has wounded my heart so that it will at last destroy me. I do not speak figuratively, but mean what I say. There is something in my heart that leaves me no rest night and day. Its palpitations strike like a death-watch. There is something gnawing there incessantly; at times I feel that it has nearly pierced my life, that death is surely near. And I am dying of the wretchedness and disgrace which he who is enthroned in France has brought upon Prussia! I am dying, and he will win further triumphs; the whole of Europe will lie prostrate at his feet, and his songs of victory will be my dirge, leaving me no rest even in my grave. But hush, hush! Let us say no more. I have allowed you to look into the depths of my soul. You, my friend, are the only one to whom I sometimes raise the veil covering my bleeding heart. But tell no one what you have seen; keep my secret a little while longer, my dear Caroline.—And how is your friend, excellent Baron von Stein? You told me yesterday you had received letters from him. What does he write? Where does he live?"

"He lives in Bruenn; his wife and children have joined him, and his life therefore is outwardly at least less sad than formerly. He is in constant communication with the prominent statesmen of Germany; all patriots hope in him, and receive advice and consolation from him. He is preparing quietly and secretly the great work of deliverance, which, when completed, will delight the eyes of my queen and receive her blessing. His eyes are constantly turned toward Prussia, and it is his profoundest sorrow that he is not permitted in these times to devote his services to the king."

"Yes," said the queen, sighing, "it is the terrible misfortune of the king that, in times so calamitous as these, he is deprived of the assistance of the patriotic men who alone would be able to save him and the state. The tyrannous decrees of Napoleon have taken his noblest and best servants from him. Stein is in exile. Hardenberg has to keep aloof from us because the emperor so ordered it. We might have ministers competent to hold the helm of the ship of state and take her successfully into port, but we are not allowed to employ them. Our interests are consequently intrusted to weak and ill-disposed ministers, who will ruin them, and we shall perish, unless assistance come soon—very soon! Stein and Hardenberg are exiled, and we have only Minister Altenstein, who is bold enough to propose the voluntary cession of Silesia to the king! Oh, my beloved, unfortunate Prussia, where is there a prospect of safety for thee?—Ah, the worm is again at my heart—oh, it oppresses me so that I can scarcely breathe! Tell me, Caroline, what else has Baron von Stein written to you?"

"He describes the deep and painful impression which the marriage of the Archduchess Maria Louisa with the Emperor Napoleon has made throughout Austria. There was no rejoicing, for all regarded it as another humiliation of Austria—as a chain by which she fastens herself to France, and makes herself a vassal of a powerful enemy. The Viennese particularly received the intelligence with profound indignation, and even seditious gatherings took place, which had to be dispersed by the troops. In their sorrow, the inhabitants of the Austrian capital consoled themselves with a little wit; for, on the day when the Viennese had to illuminate their city in honor of the betrothal, the populace, marching through the streets, reached the residence of the French ambassador, and shouted in a loud and scornful tone: 'Napoleon is now ruined! We have at last played him a trick! We have inoculated him with Austrian bad luck and Austrian stupidity!'"[52]

[Footnote 52: Hormayr, vol. I., p. 89, and other historians relate this occurrence.]

The queen laughed. "That sounds very silly, and does not indicate much self-esteem, but there is a deep meaning in it after all. A connection with Austria has always been disastrous to France. Louis XVI. died of his marriage with Marie Antoinette, and Napoleon will not derive much benefit from his with the archduchess. He intends to strengthen his empire by this step, but it will alienate his own people from him. By this connection with an old dynasty he recedes from the people and from the liberal ideas of the revolution, which enabled him to ascend the throne. If this throne should ever be shaken, he would find that Austria will not support him."

"It will be shaken and fall!" exclaimed Madame von Berg. "There is an ominous commotion everywhere. Spain is the first fruit of the new era about to dawn upon us. She has not yet been conquered, nor will she be, notwithstanding Napoleon's high-sounding phrases and so-called victories. She is as a rock that will first break the waves of his haughty will. As a proof of the hatred prevailing in Spain, Baron von Stein sent me a page from the catechism, which the priests are teaching the people at the present time, and he added to it a few passages from the new French catechism. Will your majesty permit me to read them?"

"Read," exclaimed the queen; "pray, dear Caroline, let me hear them!"

Madame von Berg drew several papers from her pocket. "Let us first be edified by the Spanish catechism, if it please your majesty," and she read:

"Who are you, my child?"

"A Spaniard, by the grace of God."

"What does that mean?"

"A man of honor."

"Who is our enemy?"

"The Emperor of the French."

"What is the Emperor of the French?"

"A villain, the source of all evil."

"How many natures has he?"

"Two. A human and a diabolical nature."

"How many Emperors of the French are there?"

"One emperor in three."

"What are their names?"

"Napoleon, Murat, and Manuel Godoy."

"Which is the worst?"

"They are all equally bad."

"Whence does Napoleon come?"

"From sin."

"Murat?"

"From Napoleon."

"Godoy?"

"From both."

"What are the French?"

"Christians who have become heretics."

"What punishment deserves the Spaniard who neglects his duties?"

"The death and disgrace of a traitor."

"Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman?"

"No, a man gains heaven by killing one of the heretical dogs."

"Horrible!" exclaimed the queen, shuddering. "But that is their catechism, and these are the doctrines which are actually taught the people, and which filled them with such desperate courage at Saragossa. And now, Caroline, let me hear something of the French catechism."

"Here is a passage reading: 'To honor and serve our Emperor Napoleon, is to honor and serve God Himself, for it is he whom the Lord has given to us, that he may restore the holy faith of our fathers and to rule over us with wisdom and firmness. He is the anointed of the Lord, owing to the consecration he has received at the hands of the pope, the head of the Holy Catholic Church. Those who would not fulfil their duties to the Emperor Napoleon would rebel against the will of God, and be doomed eternally.'"

"That is the fanaticism of a man who believes in nothing but himself, and whom this self-deification nevertheless will one day hurl into the abyss," exclaimed the queen. "But hark, it strikes twelve! The king will soon be here to take me to the palace. I will dress, for I must not keep him long waiting. Ah, there he is already!" Louisa rose quickly from the sofa and hastened toward the king, who entered the room. Madame von Berg withdrew quietly, and the king and the queen remained alone.

The king took the hands which the queen extended toward him, and pressed them tenderly to his lips. "I come, perhaps, earlier than you expected," he said, "but I wished to see my beloved Louisa on this festive day, before she again becomes the queen. It seems to me I have not yet seen you to-day. Since early morning the people offering congratulations and presents have perfectly besieged the house."

"That is the consequence of celebrating my birthday in Berlin, my friend," exclaimed the queen laughing; "it is your just punishment for refusing to spend the day with me and the children quietly at our dear Parez, as we always used to do."

"I could not do that," said the king, gravely. "I had to give our subjects an opportunity to manifest their love for you and to indemnify them for the last three years, when they were unable to do so. But do you know, Louisa, why I come now? I should like to present you two acceptable gifts."

"More gifts?" exclaimed the queen, almost reproachfully. "Your love has lavished so many costly and beautiful presents on me to-day that I hardly know what you may give me."

"You need not be afraid, for the gifts are not very expensive; they are only two pieces of paper. They will not make your casket heavier, but I hope they will render your heart lighter. Here is the first." He drew a letter from his bosom and handed it to the queen. "Read the address," he said.

The queen read: "'To his excellency, Count von Hardenberg, at present at the farm of Grohnde.'"—"What?" she asked, looking joyously at the king. "My friend, you have yourself written to Hardenberg?"

The king nodded, "I myself," he said.

"And what did you write to him?"

"I requested him to come to me without delay, if he feel strong enough, and resume his former position at the head of the government."

"But you know Napoleon does not want Hardenberg to be your minister."

"I am now again, and intend remaining, master in my own country."

"Napoleon ordered that Hardenberg should not come within twenty leagues of the place where the king resides. Remember, dear friend, he is proscribed."

"But I disregard this proscription, and call Hardenberg to my side. If he is courageous enough he will come, and when he is here we shall take pains to pacify the emperor's wrath. He is at present too busily engaged in arranging his wedding festivities, and in preparing for the reception of his young wife; he will not have time to notice that the little King of Prussia has chosen another minister. We shall try to manage the matter as prudently as possible, and prevail upon Napoleon to leave Hardenberg at the head of my cabinet. I cannot do any thing with a minister who proposes to me to sacrifice the province of Silesia, and to sell loyal subjects like cattle. I will dismiss Altenstein, and appoint Hardenberg in his place. I have called him. If he is a good patriot, he will come; he must write a penitent letter to the emperor, that he may permit him to remain with us."[53]

[Footnote 53: Hardenberg complied immediately with the king's request, and came to Potsdam, where he had a long interview with him, and declared his readiness to resume his position at the head of the administration. He submitted also to the galling necessity of conciliating Napoleon by an humble letter, in which he assured the emperor of his devotedness to France, and promised that the war-contributions should be promptly paid. Napoleon was favorably impressed with this letter, and ceased to object to Hardenberg's appointment.]

"Oh, he will come, my friend, and also write the letter," exclaimed the queen.

"And do you approve my resolution to intrust Hardenberg with Altenstein's department?" asked the king.

"Approve it? My heart rejoices at it! Now I have hopes again of Prussia; now I look full of confidence into the future, for Hardenberg is a true German patriot, who has the honor and dignity of his country at heart, who does not want us to become mere vassals of France, and who will not propose to sacrifice provinces when we may discharge our liabilities with money. Oh, my dear, beloved friend, how grateful I am to you for this joyful surprise! This paper is my most precious birthday gift, and it really makes my heart glad."

"But I have another paper which will afford you pleasure," said the king, drawing it from his bosom. "Here, my dear, affectionate Princess of Mecklenburg, here is my second gift!"

He placed a folded paper into the hands of the queen. She opened it, and a joyous cry burst from her lips. "'Passenger ticket for Queen Louisa, good for a trip to Mecklenburg-Strelitz,'" she read, laughing. "'First travelling companion: Frederick William.' I am to go to Mecklenburg," cried the queen, joyously, "and you will accompany me? Oh, my beloved husband, you have divined, then, the most secret and ardent wish of my heart, and you grant it even before my lips have uttered it! Oh, how shall I thank you, my own dear friend?" She encircled the king's neck with her arms, with passionate tenderness, and pressed a long kiss on his lips. "Dear, dear husband, how shall I thank you?" she whispered, once more with tearful eyes.

The king looked at her long and lovingly. "That you are with me is my greatest happiness. I was thinking to-day of a poem written by good old Claudius; it expresses my own feelings. It is an echo of my heart's gratitude!"

"What poem is it?" asked the queen.

Frederick William laid his hand on her head, raised his eyes toward heaven, and said aloud:

"Ich danke dir mein Wohl, mein Glueck in diesem Leben, Ich war wohl klug, dass ich dich fand; Doch ich fand nicht, Gott hat dich mir gegeben, So segnet keines Menschen Hand!"[54]

[Footnote 54:

"On thee my joy, my hopes rely! How wise to win thee mine! But surely it was Heaven—not I, That made me ever thine.

To thee, my loving spouse, I owe Whate'er of good may be, Nor could a human hand bestow This priceless gift on me."



CHAPTER LVII.

LOUISA'S DEATH.

The happy and long-yearned-for day, the 25th of June, had dawned at last. The queen's wish was to be fulfilled; she was to set out for her old Mecklenburg home, for her paternal roof at Neustrelitz. The king intended to follow her thither in a few days, for he was detained in Berlin by state affairs; they were then to go with her family to the ducal country-seat of Hohenzieritz, and thence to return to Berlin.

How had the queen longed for this day! how joyously had she awaited the moment when she was to see her old home again! Even her separation from her beloved children, from her husband, did not shade her beautiful countenance. She was to miss her children but for a short time, and her husband was to join her at the earliest moment; she could therefore yield to the joy with which the prospect of seeing her father and his family, and of returning to her old home, filled her heart.

Home! The carriage rolled from the palace-gate of Charlottenburg, and the green fields as she passed had never seemed so beautiful. But her eyes were often turned to the sky, and she gazed on the white clouds floating over it as swans on an azure lake. "Precede me, clouds! inform my father and my brothers that I am coming!" she exclaimed, smiling. "Oh, why does not my soul unfold its wings, and carry me home through the air? The horses are too slow!"

And yet the horses were running along the turnpike, swiftly passing towns and villages, fields and meadows. The queen, in her impatience, counted the relays. "We are already at Gransee; the next town will be on Mecklenburg soil. The frontier of my father's state is between Gransee and Fuerstenberg. Forward! home! home!"

"Queen, here we are on the frontier! Here is Mecklenburg!" exclaimed Madame von Berg.

"Mecklenburg!" said the queen, smiling. "Hail my native country!" And she kissed her hands to the landscape spread out before her in all its summer beauty. "I greet and kiss thee, my Mecklenburg! I return with a faithful heart!"

Why did the queen start up so suddenly, and press her hands so anxiously against her heart? "Oh, Caroline," she whispered, "the death-worm, the death-worm! Could it not be still at this moment? Could it not let me enjoy the bliss of this hour? Oh, how it tortures my heart!"

"O queen, why such gloomy thoughts now? Look at the sky, how bright it is!—how mild and pleasant the air—the air of Mecklenburg!"

"The air of my native country is fanning my face, but the death-worm is at work in my heart. The gates of my home above will soon be thrown open for me! But hush! Why put this drop of wormwood into the cup of joy? I will not drink it, I will not listen to my palpitating heart! Let us see whether I am stronger than my pain. I will laugh and be happy!"

And the queen, leaning forward with smiling countenance, said: "I greet thee, my Mecklenburg, with thy waving wheat-fields and fragrant meadows, thy transparent lakes and forest oaks, and, above all, thy ruddy sons and daughters! Look, Caroline, what sunny waves are passing over those ripening fields, bringing to the farmer the fruits of his labor. Look at that pretty scene yonder! At the door of the lonely cottage, in the middle of the rye-field, sits a peasant's wife; her babe is resting on her breast, and three flaxen-haired children are playing at her feet. She does not see us; she sees nothing but her children, and sings to them. Stop, that I may hear the song of the good young mother!" The carriage halted. The wind swept across the plain, and played with the white veil of the queen, who listened with bated breath to the lullaby of the peasant's wife:

"Oh, schlop, mihn lewes, luettes Kind, Oh, schlop un droehm recht schoen! Denn alle Engel bi di suend Un Gott, de het di sehn. Leev Gott het alle Minschen gihrn, De Kinner doch am leevsten, Druem wenn wi man wi Kinner wirn, Denn har uns Gott am leevsten! Oh, schlop, mihn lewes, luettes Kind, Oh, schlop, und droehm recht schoen!"[55]

[Footnote 55: Oh sleep! my darling baby, sleep! And dream without a tear, For loving angels round thee keep Their watch, and God is near! O baby mine, Sweet dreams be thine!

If we as little children were The Lord would love us best; Of such he said, with tender care, Is heaven's eternal rest! O baby mine, Sweet dreams be thine!

]

The queen laughed with delight. "That is a Mecklenburg patois song," she exclaimed, "and yet how sweetly it sounds; how gentle and winning, as though it were the language of the heart! My native country has greeted me now with its most tender notes, with the song that the mother sings to her children! Forward! I am also a child of Mecklenburg, and long for my father's kiss and the embrace of my dear old grandmother!"

"There are the spires of a town in Mecklenburg! the spires of Fuerstenberg!"

The carriage rolled through the gloomy old gate, and halted in front of the palace.

"My father! My beloved father!"

"My daughter! My beloved Louisa! Welcome!—a thousand times welcome!" They embraced each other and wept with joy. He is no duke, she is no queen; he is a father, and she is his child!

From the arms of her father she sank into those of her brother—her darling George. "Oh, thanks, dear father and brother, thanks for this surprise! Now I shall have two hours of happiness more than I hoped for, for I thought I would meet you only at Neustrelitz."

"Come now, my daughter, come; the horses are ready, and your old grandmother is longing for you."

"Grandmamma, I am coming!" exclaimed the queen, and entered the carriage as merrily as a light-hearted child. Her father and brother were at her side, and the ladies of the queen took seats in the duke's coach.

"Forward, home!" Her hands clasping those of her father and her brother, the queen rode across the meadows and waving fields. Was the death-worm still at her heart? Which will triumph, that or the queen? She did triumph for a season—for holy love conquers all, even death.

The face of the queen beamed with happiness. Smiles played upon her lips; greetings flashed from her eyes to the people standing at the roadside, and loudly cheering her. She reached her destination! There is Neustrelitz, there is the palace! At the gate stood the old grandmother who had charge of Louisa in her childhood, the old landgravine, now eighty years of age. She stretched out her arms toward the queen; she called with tender words for her foster-child, her Louisa! And Louisa rushed into the arms of her grandmother. They remained locked in a long embrace, weeping. The duke himself wiped tears from his eyes. Happiness also has tears, and sometimes sadness.

"Grandmother," whispered the queen, "I have wept a great deal in grief and anguish. Now I am weeping in delight, and my tears are praising God!" The queen was at home with her father, and under the roof of her ancestors. The storms of adversity had spent their fury. Gladness beamed from her face as she welcomed the friends and acquaintances of former times.

A brilliant party was given at court on the second day. A ball took place in the evening. Numerous guests were assembled in the festive halls; all were waiting for the arrival of the queen. Suddenly the folding doors opened; she entered the ball-room leaning on her father's arm, and greeted the assembled guests. How beautiful she was! Her whole bearing had an indescribable mildness and majesty. She had adorned herself, for the first time since her adversity, as it became a queen. Her noble figure was wrapped in a white satin dress, and her bare arms and neck were magnificently adorned.

"Oh, queen, how charming you are to-day!" exclaimed one of her early friends, transported with admiration. "And how splendid these pearls are!"

"Yes!" said the queen, "they are. I value them very highly, and retained them when I was obliged to part with my other jewelry. Pearls are more suitable to me, for they denote tears, and I have shed many." And as the queen uttered these words, she started and pressed her hand against her heart. Was the death-worm there again? Was it penetrating her heart? Was it, after all, stronger than the queen? No! Louisa triumphed over it! Joy was in her face; merry words dropped from her lips, and she glided in the mazes of the dance.

And this day was followed by another of still greater happiness. The king came to see again his longed-for consort and take her back to her second home, his house, and heart. She was again united with her most faithful friend. She gazed with delight at his fine, manly countenance; she was proud of his regal form, and his constant and earnest love transported her with gratitude. As she looked toward the king, who was leaving the room with the duke, in order to look at the old palace church,—"Oh, George," she said to the hereditary prince, who had remained with his sister in the duke's sitting-room, "now I am altogether happy! I would like to repeat it to all of you!" And, as if these words were not sufficient, as if she ought to write them down—the queen hastened to her father's desk. She took a scrap of paper and a pen, and wrote in a hasty hand: "My dear father! I am very happy to-day as your daughter, and as the wife of the best of husbands. Louisa."[56] "So," she exclaimed, "I have written it down. My father will not find it to-day, for we shall immediately set out for Hohenzieritz; but when he returns the day after to-morrow, and steps to his desk, he will find this greeting from his Louisa, and it will gladden him, and—"

[Footnote 56: These were the last words the queen ever wrote. The king preserved the scrap as a sacred relic, and carried it constantly in his memorandum-book.]

"Why do you start so suddenly, my sister? Your lips are quivering, and you look so pale! What ails you, dear sister?"

"It is nothing, brother—it is nothing! An insignificant passing pain in my heart; it was sudden, but it is nothing, it is over now. And if you love me, George, you will forget it. You will not mention it to any one, and, least of all, to my husband. They are already returning, our dear ones! Let us meet them!"

They went from Neustrelitz to Hohenzieritz, the charming country-seat of the duke on the shore of Lake Tollen. The carriages halted in front of the palace-gate; Louisa, leaning on the king's arm, entered; suddenly a shudder shook her frame; a mortal pallor covered her cheeks, and she clung convulsively to her husband.

"What ails you, Louisa? Why do you look so ill, and tremble so violently? What is the matter?"

"I am quite well, my beloved friend, but I am cold, and the air here seems close and oppressive to me; and it is as silent and lonely as if death were dwelling here. Come, let us go into the garden. Come!" She hastened into the life and sunshine of the garden. The color came to her cheeks again, and her eyes assumed their serenity. She walked with her husband through the long, delightful avenues, and accompanied him to the lake. It lay before them, beautiful Lake Tollen, shining like silver, and fringed with gigantic oaks.

"Oh, my dear Mecklenburg, my dear native country, how beautiful thou art!" exclaimed the queen, and an echo replied from the opposite shore, "Beautiful thou art!"

"The echo is right," said the king. "And, as I am gazing at you, you seem to me again the young princess whom I saw seventeen years ago for the first time. Your return to your native country has made you once more a girl."

"But the girl of seventeen years ago was not so happy as is the matron and mother of to-day," said the queen. "At that time I did not have you, my husband, nor my beloved children! I am younger in my heart to-day than then, for love imparts and preserves youthfulness."

"God preserve you this youth, my Louisa, to the delight of myself and our children! But come, it is cool here by the lake, and you look pale again." They returned to the palace, and the queen spent in the midst of her family a day of unalloyed pleasure. The last day!

When the next morning's sun shone into the queen's bedroom, Louisa attempted to raise herself; her head fell back heavily, and she pressed her hands convulsively against her bosom, exclaiming: "Oh, my heart!" Poor queen! The death-worm was conquering!

"It is nothing!" she whispered to her husband, when the struggle was over. "Nothing but a cold!" she repeated, when the doctors, who had been called from Neustrelitz, came to her bedside.

It was a cold, but the queen was unable to leave her bed to accompany the king to Berlin, when, a few days afterward, pressing state affairs called him back to the capital. She was obliged to remain a few days at Hohenzieritz, in order to rest and recover her strength. But the few days became weeks. She was still ill, and suffered as she had never suffered. Often, in the night, when her friend Caroline von Berg was sitting at her bedside, she beckoned to her and whispered in her ear: "The conquering death-worm! Did I not tell you, Caroline, that it was attacking my heart? Oh, I would the king, my beloved husband, were with me!"

Couriers went to Charlottenburg to the king, and they came every day to Hohenzieritz and inquired in his name for Louisa's health. He himself was unable to come; he was also ill with fever, confining him to his bed.

"And I am not with him!" lamented the queen. "I cannot nurse him, and smile away his cares! I am myself an object of anxiety to him! Oh, shall I not soon be well again? Tell me, dear Doctor Heim, you whom the king has sent, shall I not soon be well, that I may nurse my husband?"

"Yes, your majesty, if it please God, you will soon be well. But now let me deliver to you a letter from the king, which his majesty has intrusted to me."

Louisa's eyes beamed with joy; she opened the letter and read it. The words of tender love and ardent longing which the king addressed to her brought tears to her eyes. "What a letter!" she exclaimed. "How happy is she who receives such!" She kissed the paper and then laid it on her heart. "It shall remain there, and will cure me better than all your medicine, doctor. If the spasms would only leave me, I should be well! When they seize me, I cannot help thinking that my end is drawing nigh."

Doctor Heim made no reply; he turned and prescribed cooling beverages and anodynes. No one but God was able to help her. Her spasms became frequent and violent, and she of ten cried—"Air! air! I am dying!" She yearned more and more for her husband and children.

"Doctor! must I die, then? Shall I be taken from the king and from my children?" The doctor made no reply.

"My God, I am young to die!" groaned the queen. "Life has still to fulfil many promises to me; I have shed many tears and suffered much! Oh, there are these dreadful spasms again! Doctor, help me! Ah, nothing but death can help me!"

It was in the night of the 18th of July that the queen uttered these complaints to her physicians. It was a stormy night, and the gigantic trees in the garden of Hohenzieritz rustled weirdly and dark. The silence of the palace was broken only by low groans.

It was dawning when a carriage rolled into the palace-yard. The duke hastened out. A pale man alighted and rushed toward him. "How is she? How is Louisa?"

The duke was unable to make a reply. He took the king's arm and conducted him into the palace. The two sons of the king, who had arrived with their father, followed them in silence and with bowed heads. The duke conducted the king into his room, where he found the old landgravine and the three physicians of the queen.

Frederick William saluted the princess only with a silent nod; he then turned his quivering face toward the physicians. "How is the queen?" he asked. "What hopes have you?"

They made no reply, standing before him with gloomy faces and downcast eyes. The king's face turned livid, and, pressing his hand upon his forehead, covered with perspiration, he said, sternly and imperiously, "Reply to me, I want to know the truth! How is the queen? What hopes have you?"

"No hopes whatever, your majesty," said Dr. Heim, solemnly. "It is an organic disease of the heart, and in such cases our skill is powerless. The queen has but a few hours to live!"

The king staggered back to the wall. He neither spoke nor wept, so great was his sorrow. The venerable old landgravine went to him and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Hope still, my son," she said, solemnly, "Louisa still lives, and so long as she lives there is hope. God in His mercy may yet preserve her to us!"

The king shook his head despairingly. "Ah," he cried in a husky, sombre voice, "if she were not mine, she would live. But as she is my wife, she will surely die! But I will see her, I must see her! So long as she lives she belongs to me!"

"I will go and inform the queen that the king has arrived," said Heim, and hastened into the sick-room.

A few minutes elapsed, and Louisa's voice exclaimed: "My Frederick! my beloved husband, come to me!"

The king rushed to her room, the door of which had just been opened by Dr. Heim. The queen lay on her couch, pale and beautiful as a broken lily.

"My husband! my beloved friend!" she exclaimed, raising herself and endeavoring to stretch out her arms toward the king, who stood at her bedside, but alas, she was unable to do so. "Oh," whispered Louisa, sadly, "I am a queen, but cannot move my arms!"

The king bent over, and, pressing her against his breast, kissed her beloved face. Louisa smiled, laid her head on his shoulder and looked at him long and tenderly. "You are here! You are mine again! But how are the children? Have you come alone?"

"No," said the king, "our two oldest sons accompany me."

"My sons! Where are they?" exclaimed the queen. "Let me see them, oh, pray let me see my sons!"

Heim hastened out and returned with the Princes Frederick and William. With eyes filled with tears, they stepped on tiptoe to the bedside of the queen.

"My children!" exclaimed Louisa, in a loud, powerful voice, and she raised herself up. Her maternal love gave her strength to extend her arms.

"Oh, my children, my beloved children!" She pressed them to her bosom, kissing them with the passionate tenderness of a mother.

The two young princes, entirely overcome by grief, sank on their knees at the bedside of their mother. She laid her hands on their heads, as if to bless them, and lifted her eyes to the king, who, pale and silent, was gazing at her in unutterable despair.

"Now I am happy," breathed the queen. "You are with me, and my beloved sons!"

The king's sorrow was overpowering him, and he quickly turned and left the room. Heim approached the princes and begged them in a low voice to withdraw, because the queen was unable to bear so much excitement. They rose from their knees and kissed their mother's hands. Louisa was so faint that she could greet her children only with a smile, and was unable to bear their presence longer. But her eyes followed them steadfastly until they had withdrawn.

She lay long silent and motionless, and then whispered to her sister, the Princess of Solms: "The king acted as though he wished to take leave of me. Tell him not to do so, else I shall die immediately. But where is he? Where is my husband? Oh, why is he not with me?"

Frederick William stood in a corner of the anteroom, his head leaning against the wall, his hands pressed against his breast, in order to suppress the sobs which escaped from it in spite of him. His eyes were tearless; his quivering lips were murmuring: "My wife is dying! She is dying!"

"Louisa wishes to see you," whispered the Princess of Solms, approaching him. "But, pray be gentle; do not manifest your grief; Louisa says that else she would die immediately."

"No," said the king, sternly, "she shall not die. I will endeavor to be calm!" And, restraining his grief, he stepped to the queen's bedside. "I just had a conference with the physicians," he said, almost smilingly. "They make me hope for the best. Indeed, I never believed that you were in danger; I was only deeply moved because I saw you suffering so intensely."

The queen looked him full in the face, and made no reply. The king sat down on her bed and took her right hand. Louisa pressed his hand gently, and fixed her eyes with a thoughtful and grave expression on his countenance. Suddenly a dark shadow passed over her face. "It is coming! It is coming!" she cried in a tone of heart-rending anguish, and started up in excruciating pain.

The king went to the door and called the physicians, who hastened into the room, followed by the duke, the princes, and the whole family. Madame von Berg raised the groaning sufferer. The physicians were standing in the middle of the room. "We cannot help her. It is the last convulsion!"

"Air! air!" cried the queen.

Frederick William bent over her with tearless eyes. The agony she was suffering paralyzed his heart.

"Lord, end my sufferings!" cried the queen, with a last effort, and her head sank back into the arms of Madame von Berg. Another sigh—a long, tremulous sigh. The clock struck nine. A solemn silence reigned in the palace. The queen was dead!

THE END.