Frederick the Great and His Court by L. Muhlbach (page 5)

with a favorable response.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poor, unhappy Laura!” sighed Madame von Brandt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This love is then returned?” asked the queen.

“Oh, your majesty, Laura’s maidenly pride would preserve her from an unrequited love.”

“And still you call this love an unfortunate one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.

PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is true,” said Elizabeth; “we have but one exclusive privilege– to weep and to endure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MISUNDERSTANDING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I remember,” said she, blushing.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV.

SOIREE OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER.

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

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

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

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

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

“She will not complain,” replied Elizabeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six eyes followed this glance of Frederick with painful interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, your majesty has only to command.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see the king,” murmured Madame von Morien.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And this letter was signed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My son,” said the queen, in a clear, silvery voice, “I have a request to make of you.” The king kissed his mother’s hand.

“Madame, you well know you have no need of entreaty; you have only to command.” Sophia smiled proudly.

“I thank your majesty for this assurance! Listen, then, my chamberlain, Duke Rhedern, wishes to marry. I have promised him to obtain your consent.”

“If my royal mother is pleased with the choice of her chamberlain, I am, of course, also content; always provided that, the chosen bride of the duke belongs to a noble family. What is the rank of this bride?”

The queen looked embarrassed, and smiling, said: “She has no rank, your majesty.”

The king’s brow darkened, “She was not born, then, to be a duchess. Your chamberlain would do better to be silent over this folly than to force a refusal from me. I hate misalliances, and will not suffer them at my court.”

These loudly spoken and harsh words produced different impressions upon the family circle of the king; some were cast down, others joyful; some cheeks grew pale, and others red. Sophia blushed from pleasure; she was now convinced that the king would not seek a divorce from his wife, in order to form a morganatic marriage with Laura von Pannewitz; and the queen-mother was of too noble and virtuous a nature herself to believe in the possibility of a mistress at the court of Prussia. The love of the king for the lovely Laura appeared now nothing more than a poetical idyl, which would soon pass away–nothing more! The words of the king made a painful impression upon Augustus William; his brow clouded, his features assumed a painful but threatening expression; he was in the act of speaking, and opposing in the name of humanity and love those cruel words of the king, as Elizabeth Christine, who stood near him and observed him with tender sympathy, whispered lightly:

“Be silent, my brother; be considerate.”

The prince breathed heavily, and his glance turned for comfort toward the maids of honor. Laura greeted him with her eyes, and then blushed deeply over her own presumption. Strengthened by this tender glance from his beautiful bride, Augustus was able to assume a calm and indifferent mien.

In the meantime the queen-mother was not silenced by the words of the king. Her pride rebelled against this prompt denial in the face of her family and the court. Besides, she had given her royal word to the count, and it must be redeemed. She urged, therefore, her request with friendly earnestness, but the king was immovable. Sophia, angry at the opposition to her will, was even the more resolved to carry out her purpose. She had a few reserved troops, and she decided to bring them now into the field.

“Your majesty should, without doubt, protect your nobles from unworthy alliances; but there are exceptional cases, where the interest of the nobility would be promoted by allowing such a union.” Sophia Dorothea drew nearer to her son, and whispered lightly: “Count Rhedern is ruined, and must go to the ground if you forbid this marriage.”

The king was now attentive and sympathetic. “Is the lady very rich?”

“Immensely rich, sire. She will bring the duke a million dollars; she is the daughter of the rich silk merchant Orguelin.”

“Ah, Orguelin is a brave man, and has brought much gold into Prussia by his fabrics,” said the king, who was evidently becoming more yielding.

“It would be a great pity if this gold should be lost to Prussia,” said the queen.

“What do you mean, madame?”

“This Mademoiselle Orguelin, thanks to her riches, has many lovers, and at this time a young merchant from Holland seeks her hand; he has the consent of her father, and will also obtain hers, unless the count knows how to undermine him,” said the queen, thus springing her last mine.

“This must not be,” said the king; “this Orguelin shall not marry the rich Hollander! Those millions of crowns shall not leave Prussia!”

“But your majesty cannot prevent this girl from marrying the man of her choice, and you cannot forbid her father to give her a portion of his fortune.”

The king was silent a moment, and appeared to consider. He then said to his mother: “Madame, you are an eloquent advocate for your client, and no man can withstand you. I give way, therefore; Count Rhedern has my consent to marry the Orguelin.”

“But even THAT is not sufficient,” said the queen; “there is yet another condition, without the filling of which this proud millionnaire refuses to give her hand to the duke.”

“Ah, look you, the little bourgeoise makes conditions before she will wed a count.”

“Yes, sire, she will become the wife of the count only with the count’s assurance that she will be presented at court, and be received according to her new rank.”

“Truly,” said the king, with ironical laughter, “this little millionnaire thinks it an important point to appear at my court.”

“It appears so, sire; it seems that this is a greater glory than to possess a count for a husband.”

The king looked thoughtfully before him, then raised his eyes to his mother with a mocking smile. “Mother, you know I can refuse you nothing; and as you wish it, Mademoiselle Orguelin, when she is married, shall be received at my court as a newly baked countess. But petition for petition, favor for favor. I promise you to receive this new baked countess if you will promise me to receive the Count Neal at your court?”

“Count Neal,” said the queen, “your majesty knows–“

“I know,” said the king, bowing, “I know that Count Neal is of as good family as the new Countess of Rhedern; that he possesses many millions which I have secured to Prussia by granting him his title. So we understand each other. The new baked countess will be as well received at my court as Count Neal will at yours.”

He gave the queen his hand, she laid hers unwillingly within it, and whispered: “Ah, my son, you have cruelly overreached me.”

“Madame, we secure in this way three millions for Prussia, and they weigh more than a few countly ancestors. The Prussia of the future will triumph in battle through her nobles; but she will become greater, more powerful, through the industry of her people than by victory on the battle-field.”

CHAPTER XVI.

UNDER THE LINDENS.

Linden Street, of Berlin, which is now the most brilliant and most beautiful thoroughfare of that great city, was, in the year 1740, a wild and desolate region.

Frederick the First loved pomp and splendor. His wife, when told upon her death-bed how much the king would mourn for her, said, smiling: “He will occupy himself in arranging a superb funeral procession; and if this ceremony is very brilliant, he will be comforted.”

Frederick the First planted the trees from which this street takes its name, to render the drive to the palace of Charlottenburg more agreeable to the queen, and to conceal as much as possible the desolate appearance of the surroundings; for all this suburb lying between the arsenal and the zoological garden was at that time a desolate and barren waste. The entire region, extending from the new gate to the far-distant Behren Street, was an immense mass of sand, whose drear appearance had often offended Frederick while he was still the prince royal. Nothing was to be seen, where now appear majestic palaces and monuments, the opera house and the catholic church, but sand and heaps of rubbish. Frederick William the First had done much to beautify this poor deserted quarter, and to render it more fitting its near neighborhood to the palaces, which were on the other side of the fortifications; but the people of Berlin had aided the king very little in this effort. None were willing to banish themselves to this desolate and remote portion of the city, and the few stately and palatial buildings which were erected there were built by the special order of the king, and at his expense. Some wealthy men of rank had also put up a few large buildings, to please the king, but they did not reside in them, and the houses themselves seemed almost out of place. One of these large and stately houses had not been built by a Count Dohna, or a Baron von Pleffen, or any other nobleman, but by the most honorable and renowned court tailor Pricker; and for the last few days this house had rejoiced in a new and glittering sign, on which appeared in large gilt letters, “Court Tailor to her majesty the dowager queen, and to her majesty the reigning queen.” But this house, with its imposing inscription, was also surrounded by dirty, miserable cabins. In its immediate neighborhood was the small house which has already been described as the dwelling of poor Anna Schommer.

A deep and unbroken silence reigned in this part of Berlin, and the equipages of the royal family and nobility were rarely seen there, except when the king gave an entertainment at Charlottenburg.

But to-day a royal carriage was driven rapidly from the palace through this desolate region, and toward the Linden Avenue. Here it stopped, and four gentlemen alighted. They were the king; the royal architect, Major Knobelsdorf; the grand chamberlain, Von Pollnitz; and Jordan, the head of police and guardian of the poor.

The king stood at the beginning of the Linden Avenue, and looked earnestly and thoughtfully at the large desolate surface spread out before him; his clear bright glance flew like lightning here and there.

“You must transform this place for me, Knobelsdorf; you must show yourself a very Hercules. You have the ability, and I will furnish the money. Here we will erect a monument to ourselves, and make a glorious something of the nothing of this desert. We will build palaces and temples of art and of religion. Berlin is at present without every thing which would make it a tempting resort for the Muses. It is your affair, Knobelsdorf, to prepare a suitable reception for them.”

“But the Muses are willing to come without that,” said Pollnitz, with his most, graceful bow, “for they would discover here the young god Apollo, who, without doubt, found it too tiresome in heaven, and has condescended to become an earthly king.”

The king shrugged his shoulders. “Pollnitz,” he said, “you are just fitted to write a book of instructions for chamberlains and court circles; a book which would teach them the most honied phrases and the most graceful flatteries. Why do you not compose such a work?”

“It is absolutely necessary, your majesty, in order to write a book to have a quiet study in your own house, Where you can arrange every thing according to your own ideas of comfort and convenience. As I do not at present possess a house, I cannot write this book.”

The king laughed and said: “Well, perhaps Knobelsdorf can spare a small spot here, on which to erect your Tusculum. But we must first build the palace of the queen-mother, and a few other temples and halls. Do you not think, Jordan, that this is a most suitable place on which to realize all those beautiful ideals of which we used to dream at Rheinsberg? Could we not erect our Acropolis here, and our temples to Jupiter and Minerva?”

“In order to convince the world that it is correct in its supposition,” said Jordan, smiling, “that your majesty is not a Christian, but a heathen, who places more faith in the religion of the old Greeks than in that of the new Church fathers.”

“Do they say that? Well, they are not entirely wrong if they believe that I have no great admiration for popery and the Church. This Church was not built by Christ, but by a crafty priesthood. Knobelsdorf, on this spot must stand the temple of which I have so often dreamed. There is space to accomplish all that fancy could suggest or talent execute.”

“Then the palace of the dowager queen must not be placed here?” asked Knobelsdorf.

“No, not here; this place has another destination, of which I will speak further to you this evening, and learn if my plan has your approval. I dare say my most quarrelsome Jordan will make some objections. Eh bien, nous verrons. We will proceed and seek a situation for the palace of the queen.”

“If your majesty will permit me,” said Pollnitz, while the king with his three companions passed slowly down the Linden Avenue, “I will take the liberty of pointing out to you a spot, which appears most suitable to me for this palace. It is at the end of the avenue, and at the entrance to the park; it is a most beautiful site, and there would be sufficient room to extend the buildings at will.”

“Show us the place,” said the king, walking forward.

“This is it,” said Pollnitz, as they reached the end of the avenue.

“It is true,” said the king, “here is space enough to erect a palace. What do you think, Knobelsdorf, will this place answer?”

“We must begin by removing all those small houses, your majesty; that would, of course, necessitate their purchase, for which we must obtain the consent of the possessors, who would, many of them, be left shelterless by this sudden sale.”

“Shelterless!” said the king; “since Jordan has become the father of the poor, none are shelterless,” as he glanced toward his much- beloved friend. “This spot seems most suitable to me. The palace might stand on this side; on that a handsome public building, perhaps the library, and uniting the two a lofty arch in the Grecian style. We will convert that wood into a beautiful park, with shady avenues, tasteful parterres, marble statues, glittering lakes, and murmuring streams.”

“Only a Frederick could dream it possible to convert this desolate spot into such a fairy land,” said Jordan, smiling. “For my part, I see nothing here but sand, and there a wood of miserable stunted trees.”

The king smiled. “Blessed are they who believe without having seen,” he said. “Well, Knobelsdorf, is there room here to carry out our extensive plans?”

“Certainly; and if your majesty will furnish me with the requisite funds, the work can be begun without delay.”

“What amount will be required?”

“If it is all executed as your majesty proposes, at least a million.”

“Very well, a million is not too much to prepare a pleasure for the queen-mother.”

“But,” said Pollnitz, “will not your majesty make those poor people acquainted with their fate, and console them by a gracious word for being compelled to leave their homes? It has only been a short time since I was driven by the rain to take shelter in one of those houses, and it made me most melancholy, for I have never seen such want and misery. There were starving children, a woman dying of grief, and a drunken man. Truly as I saw this scene I longed to be a king for a few moments, that I might send a ray of happiness to brighten this gloomy house, and dry the tears of these wretched people.”

“It must have been a most terrible sight if even Pollnitz was distressed by it,” cried the king, whose noble countenance was overshadowed with sorrow. “Come, Jordan, we will visit this house, and you shall assist in alleviating the misery of its inhabitants. You, Knobelsdorf, can occupy yourself in making a drawing of this place. Lead the way, Pollnitz.”

“My desire at last attained,” thought Pollnitz, as he led the king across the common. “It has been most difficult to bring the king here, but I am confident my plan will succeed. Dorris Ritter doubtless expects us; she will have considered my words, and yielding to her natural womanly coquetry, she will have followed my counsel, and have made use of the clothing I sent her yesterday.”

They now stood before the wretched house which Pollnitz had indicated.

“This house has truly a most gloomy appearance,” said the king.

“Many sad tears have been shed here,” said Pollnitz, with the appearance of deep sympathy.

The door of the shop was merely closed; the king pushed it open, and entered with his two companions. No one came forward to meet them; silence reigned in the deserted room.

“Permit me, your majesty, to go into that room and call the woman; she probably did not hear us enter.”

“No, I will go myself,” said the king; “it is well that I should occasionally seek out poverty in its most wretched hiding-place, that I may learn to understand its miseries and temptations.”

“Ah! my king,” said Jordan, deeply touched, “from to-day your people will no longer call you their king, but their father.”

The king stepped quickly to the door which Pollnitz had pointed out; the two gentlemen followed, and remained standing behind him, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

The king crossed the threshold, and then stood motionless, gazing into the room. “Is it possible to live in such a den?” he murmured.

“Yes, it is possible,” replied a low, scornful voice; “I live here, with misery for my companion.”

The king was startled by this voice, and turned toward that side of the room from which it proceeded; only then seeing the woman who sat in the farthest corner. She remained motionless, her hands folded on her lap; her face was deadly pail, but of a singularly beautiful oval; the hair encircling her head in heavy braids, was of a light, shining blond, and had almost the appearance of a halo surrounding her clear, pale face, which seemed illumined by her wonderful eyes.

“She has not made use of the things which I sent,” thought Pollnitz; “but I see she understands her own advantages. She is really beautiful; she looks like a marble statue of the Virgin Mary in some poor village church.”

The king still stood gazing, with an earnest and thoughtful expression, at this woman, who looked fixedly at him, as if she sought to read his thoughts. But he remained quiet, and apparently unmoved. Did the king recognize this woman? did he hear again the dying melodies of his early youth? was he listening to their sweet, but melancholy tones? Neither Pollnitz nor Dorris Ritter could discover this in his cold, proud face.

Jordan broke this silence by saying gently, “Stand up, my good woman, it is the king who is before you.”

She rose slowly from her seat, but her countenance did not betray the least astonishment or pleasure.

“The king!” she said; “what does the king desire in this den of poverty and misery?”

“To alleviate both poverty and misery if they are undeserved,” said the king softly.

She approached him quickly, and made a movement as if she would offer him her hand. “My wretchedness is undeserved,” she said, “but not even a king can alleviate it.”

“Let me, at least, attempt to do so. In what can I assist you?”

She shook her head sadly. “If King Frederick, the son of Frederick William the First, does not know, then I do not.”

“You are poor, perhaps in want?”

“I do not know–it is possible,” she said absently; “how can I among so many pains and torments distinguish between despair and anguish, and want and privation?”

“You have children?”

“Yes,” she said, shuddering, “I have children, and they suffer from hunger; that I know, for they often pray to me for bread, when I have none to give them.”

“Why does not their father take care of them; perhaps he is not living?”

“He lives, but not for us. He is wiser than I, and forgets his grief in drink, while I nourish the gnawing viper at my heart.”

“You have, then, nothing to ask of me?” said the king, becoming indignant.

She gazed at him long and searchingly, with her great piercing eyes. “No,” she said harshly. “I have nothing to ask.”

At this moment the door was thrown open, and the two children, Karl and Anna, ran in, calling for their mother; but they became silent on perceiving the strangers, and crept shyly to her side. Dorris Ritter was strangely moved by the appearance of her children; her countenance, which had borne so hard an expression, became mild and gentle. She grasped the hands of the two children, and with them approached the king.

“Yes, your majesty, I have a petition to make. I implore your pity for my children. They are pure and innocent as God’s angels; let not the shame and misery of their parents fall upon their heads. King Frederick, have pity on my children!”

And overcome by her emotions and her anguish, this unhappy woman sank with her children at the feet of the king. The king regarded her thoughtfully, then turned to Jordan.

“Jordan,” said he, “to you I intrust the care of these children.”

The wretched woman started to her feet, and pressed her children to her arms with an expression as terrified and full of agony as that of the noble and touching statue of the Greek Niobe.

“Ah! you would tear my children from me! No, no, I ask nothing; we need no mercy, no assistance; we will suffer together; do not separate us. They would cease to love me; they would learn to despise me, their mother, who only lives in their presence; who, in the midst of all her sorrow and grief, thanks God daily upon her bended knees that he gave her these children, who alone have saved her from despair and death.”

“You have uttered very wild and godless words,” said the king. “You should pray to God to make your heart soft and humble. To be poor, to suffer from hunger, to have a drunken husband, are great misfortunes, but they can be borne if you have a pure conscience. Your children shall not be parted from you. They shall be clothed and taught, and I will also see what can be done for you. And now farewell.”

And the king, bowing slightly, turned toward the door, and in doing so placed a few pieces of gold on the table. Dorris had watched every movement; she started wildly forward and seized the gold, which she handed to the king.

“Your majesty,” she said, with flashing eyes, “I only implored mercy for my children; I did not beg for myself. My sufferings cannot be wiped out with a few pieces of gold.”

The countenance of the king assumed a most severe expression, and he threw an annihilating glance on this bold woman, who dared to oppose him.

“I did not give the gold to you, but to your children,” he said; “you must not rob them.” He then continued more gently: “If you should ever need and desire assistance, then turn to me; I will remember your poverty, not your pride. Tell me your name, therefore, that I may not forget.”

The poor, pale woman glanced searchingly at him. “My name,” she said thoughtfully, as if to herself, “King Frederick wishes to know my name. I am called–I am called Anna Schommer.”

And as she replied, she placed her hand upon the head of her little daughter, as if she needed a support. Thus she stood trembling, but still upright, with head erect, while the king and his suite turned toward the door. Her son, who had kept his eyes upon the king, now followed him and lightly touched his mantle.

His mother saw it, and raising her arm threateningly, while with the other she still supported herself by leaning on her child, she cried: “Do not touch him, my son. Kings are sacred.”

Frederick, already standing on the threshold, turned once more; his great, luminous eyes rested inquiringly on this pale, threatening figure. An indescribably sad smile played upon his features, but he spoke no word; and slowly turning, he passed through the door, and hurried silently from the shop.

Dorris Ritter uttered a low cry when she no longer saw him; her hands slid powerless from the head of her child, and hung heavily at her side. The child, thus set at liberty, hurried out to gaze at the king and his escort.

The poor woman was all alone–alone with her grief and painful memories. She stood for a long time motionless and silent, as if unconscious, then a dull, heavy groan escaped from her breast, and she fell as if struck by lightning. “He did not even know me,” she cried. “For him I suffer pain and misery, and he passes by, and throws me the crumbs of benevolence which fall from his bountiful table.” For many minutes she lay thus broken and trembling; then, suddenly excited by pride and revenge, she arose, with a wild gleam in her eyes. She raised her hand as if calling upon God to witness her words, and said solemnly, “He did not recognize me to-day, but a day will come on which he shall recognize me–the day on which I avenge my wretched and tormented life! He is a royal king and I a poor woman, but the sting of a venomous insect suffices to destroy even a king. Revenge I will have; revenge for my poisoned existence.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE POLITICIAN AND THE FRENCH TAILOR.

Without, the scene had changed in the meanwhile. The attention of the people had been attracted to the king’s presence by the royal equipage which was slowly driving down the street, and one and all hurried from their houses to see and greet their handsome young monarch. Men and women, young and old, were running about confusedly, each one inquiring of his neighbor why the king had come, and where he might now be, as his carriage was apparently awaiting him. And why was that fat man, who was seated on the sidewalk, sketching this sandy place with its poor little houses?

Even the proud and self-satisfied Mr. Pricker had not considered it beneath his dignity to descend to the street door, where he took his stand surrounded by his assistants and apprentices.

“It is said the king has gone into the house of Schommer, the grocer,” said one of his assistants, returning from a reconnoissance he had made among the noisy and gossiping multitude.

Mr. Pricker shook his head gravely. “He must have been misinformed, for he undoubtedly intended coming to this house and paying me a visit, an intention which would be neither novel nor surprising in my family. None of the rulers of the house of Hohenzollern have as yet neglected to pay a visit to the house of Pricker. The present king will not fail to observe this noble custom, for–“

The worthy Mr. Pricker was interrupted by the shouts of the people. The king had appeared upon the streets, and was greeted with vociferous cheers, amid the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

Mr. Pricker, observing with intense satisfaction that the king had turned and was advancing in the direction of his house, stepped forward with a self-gratulatory smile, and placed himself immediately at the side of the king’s path. But the king passed by without noticing him. On this occasion he did not return the greeting of the people in quite so gracious a manner as usual; his eye was dim, and his brow clouded. Without even favoring the smiling and bowing Pricker with a glance, he passed on to the carriage which awaited him in front of the court dressmaker’s. The king entered hastily, his cavaliers following him, and the carriage drove off. The shouting of the populace continued, however, until it disappeared in the distance.

“Why do these poor foolish people shout for joy?” grumbled Mr. Pricker, shrugging his shoulders. Now that the king had taken no notice of him, this man was enraged. “What do they mean by these ridiculous cries, and this waving of hats? The king regarded them as discontentedly as if they were vermin, and did not even favor them with a smile. How low-spirited he is! his not recognizing me, the court dressmaker of his wife, shows this conclusively. It must have been his intention to visit me, for his carriage had halted immediately in front of my door; in his depression he must have entirely forgotten it.”

The crowd had begun to disperse, and but a few isolated groups could now be seen, who were still eagerly engaged in discussing the king’s appearance.

At a short distance from Mr. Pricker were several grave and dignified citizens, dressed in long coats ornamented with immense ivory buttons, and wearing long cues, which looked out gravely from the three-cornered hats covering their smooth and powdered hair.

Mr. Pricker observed these citizens, and with a friendly greeting beckoned to them to approach. “My worthy friends, did you also come to see the king?”

“No, we were only passing, but remained standing when we saw the king.”

“A very handsome young man.”

“A very wise and learned young king.”

“And still–“

“Yes, and still–“

“Yes, that is my opinion also, worthy friends,” sighed Mr. Pricker.

“The many innovations and ordinances; it terrifies one to read them.”

“Every day something new.”

“Yes, it is not as it was in the good old times, under the late lamented king. Ah, we then led a worthy and respectable life. One knew each day what the next would bring forth. He who hungered to- day knew that he would also do so on the morrow; he who was rich to- day knew that he would still be so on the morrow. Ours was an honest and virtuous existence. Prudence and propriety reigned everywhere; as a husband and father, the king set us an exalted example.”

“It is true, one ran the risk of being struck occasionally; and if a man had the misfortune to be tall, he was in danger of being enrolled among the guards,” said another. “But this was all. In other respects, however, one lived quietly enough, smoked his pipe, and drank his pot of beer, and in these two occupations we could also consider the king as our model and ideal.”

“But now!”

“Yes, now! Every thing changes with the rapidity of the wind. He who but yesterday was poor, is rich to-day; the man who was rich yesterday, is to-day impoverished and thrown aside; this was the fate of the Privy Counsellor von Eckert. I worked for him, and he was a good customer, for he used a great many gloves, almost a dozen pair every month; and now I have lost this good customer by the new government.”

“But, then, Eckert deserved it,” said the fat beer brewer. “He oppressed the people, and was altogether an arrogant puffed-up fellow, who greeted nobody, not even myself. It serves him right that the king has taken the new house in Jager Street away from him; there was justice in that.”

“But the late lamented king had given it to him, and his last will should have been honored.”

“Yes, that is true; the last will of the late lamented monarch should have been honored,” they all exclaimed with earnest gravity.

“Oh, we will have to undergo a great many trials,” sighed Mr. Pricker. “Could you believe, my friends, that they contemplate depriving us of our respectable cue, and replacing it with a light, fantastic, and truly immoral wig?”

“That is impossible! That can never be! We will never submit to that!” exclaimed the assembled group, with truly Grecian pathos.

“They wish to give us French fashions,” continued Pricker; “French fashions and French manners. I can see the day coming when we will have French glovemakers and shoemakers, French hair-dressers and beer-brewers; yes, and even French dressmakers. I see the day coming when a man may with impunity hang out a sign with French inscriptions over his shop-door, and when he who intersperses his honest German with French phrases, will no longer be well beaten. Ah, the present king will not, like his lamented predecessor, have two girls arrested because they have said ‘charmant;’ he will not, with his own hands, belabor the young lads who have the assurance to appear on the streets in French costumes, as the deceased king so often did. Every thing will be different, but not better, only more French.”

“Yes, could it be believed,” exclaimed the fat beer-brewer, “that they think of crying down beer, the favorite beverage of the late lamented king, which, at all events, should be holy in the sight of his son? At court no more beer will be drank, but only French wines; and he who wishes to be modern and acceptable at court will turn up his nose at the beer-pot, and drink mean and adulterated wines. Yes, even coffee is coming into fashion, and the coffee-house keeper in the pleasure-garden, who, up to the present time, was only permitted to make coffee for the royal family and a few other rich people at court, has not alone received permission to serve coffee to everybody, but every innkeeper may do the same thing.”

“And have you heard,” asked the glovemaker gloomily, “that the two hotel-keepers in Berlin, Nicolai and St. Vincent, have their rivals, and will no longer keep the only houses where a good dinner can be had for money? Two French cooks have already arrived, and one of them has opened a house in Frederick Street, the other one in King Street, which they call ‘Restauration.'”

“Yes,” said the shoemaker with a sigh, “I went to the French house in Frederick Street yesterday, and ate a meal out of curiosity. Ah, my friends, I could have cried for rage, for I am sorry to say that it was a better meal than we could ever get at Nicolai’s or St. Vincent’s; moreover I paid less for it.”

“It is a shame. A Frenchman comes here and gives a better and cheaper dinner than a native of Berlin,” said Mr. Pricker. “I tell you we will all have much to endure; and even my title is insufficient to protect me from insult and humiliation, for it might happen that–“

Mr. Pricker suddenly became silent and stared toward the centre of the street, astonishment and curiosity depicted on his countenance and on that of his friends, who followed the direction of his glances.

And in truth a very unusual spectacle presented itself to these worthy burghers. A carriage was slowly passing along the street drawn by two weary and smoking horses. This carriage was of the elegant and modern French make, now becoming fashionable at court, and was called a chaise. As the top was thrown back, its occupants could very well be seen.

On the front seat were three persons. The first was a man of grave and earnest demeanor and commanding appearance. His tall and well- made figure was clad in a black velvet coat with little silver buttons, ornamented on the sleeves and breast with elegant lace ruffles. His hair, which was turning gray, was twisted in a knot at the back of his head, from which a ribbon of enormous length was pendant. A small three-cornered hat, of extraordinary elegance, rested on the toupet of curls which hung down on either side of his head and shaded the forehead, which displayed the dignity and sublimity of a Jupiter.

At his side sat two females, the middle one an elderly, grave- looking lady; the other a beautiful young girl, with smiling lips, glowing black eyes, and rosy cheeks. The elegant and graceful attire of these ladies was very different from the grave and sober costume of the women of Berlin. Their dresses were of lively colors, with wide sleeves bordered with lace, and with long waists, the low cut of which in front displayed in the one the beauty and freshness of her neck; and in the other, the richness of a guipure scarf with which her throat was covered. Their heads were covered with immense toupets of powdered hair, surmounted by little velvet hats, from which long and waving ribbons hung down behind.

On the back seat were three other young ladies dressed in the same style, but less richly. This first carriage was followed by a second, which contained six young men in French costumes, who were looking around with lively curiosity, and laughed so loudly that the worthy burgher who stood in front of Pricker’s house could hear every word they uttered, but unfortunately could understand nothing.

“Frenchmen!” murmured Mr. Pricker, with a slight shudder.

“Frenchmen!” echoed his friends, staring at this novel spectacle.

But how? Who was that standing by the first carriage which had halted in front of Mr. Pricker’s house? Who was that speaking with the young girl, who smilingly leant forward from the carriage and was laughing and jesting with him? How? Was this young man really the son and heir of Mr. Pricker? Was he speaking to these strangers, and that, too, in French? Yes, Mr. Pricker could not deceive himself, it was his son; it was William, his heir.

“How? Does your son speak French?” asked the glovemaker, in a reproachful tone.

“He so much desired to do so,” said Mr. Pricker, with a sigh, “that I was forced to consent to give him a French teacher.”

William, who had observed his father, now hurried across the street. The young man’s eyes glowed; his handsome face was enlivened with joy; his manner denoted eagerness and excitement.

“Father,” said he, “come with me quickly! These strangers are so anxious to speak with you. Just think how fortunate! I was passing along the Charlottenburg road when I met the travellers. They addressed me in French, and inquired for the best hotel in Berlin. It was lucky that I understood them, and could recommend the ‘City of Paris.’ Ah, father, what a beautiful and charming girl that is; how easy and graceful! In the whole city of Berlin there is not so beautiful a girl as Blanche. I have been walking along by the side of the carriage for half an hour, and we have been laughing and talking like old friends; for when I discovered who they were, and why they were coming to Berlin, I told them who my father was directly, and then the old gentleman became so friendly and condescending. Come, father, Mr. Pelissier longs to make your acquaintance.”

“But I do not speak French,” said Mr. Pricker, who, notwithstanding his antipathy to Frenchmen, still felt flattered by this impatience to make his acquaintance.

“I will be your interpreter, father. Come along, for you will also be astonished when you hear who this Mr. Pelissier is.” And William drew his father impatiently to the carriage.

Mr. Pricker’s friends stood immovable with curiosity, awaiting his return with breathless impatience. At last he returned, but a great change had taken place in Mr. Pricker. His step was uncertain and reeling; his lips trembled, and a dark cloud shaded his brow. He advanced to his friends and regarded them with a wild and vacant stare. A pause ensued. The hearts of all beat with anxiety, and an expression of intense interest was depicted on every countenance. At last Mr. Pricker opened his trembling lips, and spoke in deep and hollow tones:

“They are Frenchmen! yes, Frenchmen!” said he. “It is the new tailor sent for by the king. He comes with six French assistants, and will