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“And was there no one else to think of, my child?”

“Yes,” she gently murmured, “I thought of him. Tell me all you know about him, and hide nothing from me in this hour.”

“I thought you would ask me, and I went to Director Gedicke yesterday, to inform myself.”

“What did you hear? Tell me the most important. Does he live? Is he restored to health?”

“He lives, but, for one year, he was so wretched that he could not teach; now he is better. Herr Gedicke went himself to Spandau, immediately after the wedding, and brought him back with him, relating as forbearingly and carefully as possible the circumstances of your marriage, and of your sacrificing yourself for him alone.”

“How did he receive it? What did he say?”

“Nothing. His eyes were fixed, and his lips uttered not a sound. This lasted for weeks, and suddenly he became excited, enraged, and they were obliged to bind him to keep him from injuring himself.”

“Tell me no more, cried Marie, shuddering. “I thought myself stronger, nay, heartless, and yet it seems as if a hand of iron were tearing, rending my soul!”

“That is well,” said Trude, gently; “you must awaken from this hardened indifference; giving way to your grief in tears will soften your heart, and it will again be penetrated with the love of God and mankind. I will tell you every thing; you ought to know how poor, dear Moritz suffered. After he vented his rage he became melancholy, and withdrew to Halle in solitude, living in a hay-loft. His favorite books and an old piano were his only companions; no one presumed to intrude him, and they even conveyed his food secretly to him, shoving it through a door. He talked aloud to himself for hours long, and at night sang so touchingly, accompanying himself upon the piano, that those who listened wept.”

Marie wept also–scalding tears trickled through her fingers as she lay upon the floor.

Trude continued: “Moritz lived in this way one year; his friends knew how he was suffering, and they proved in their deeds how much they loved and esteemed him. The teachers at the Gymnasium divided his hours of instruction among them, that he should not forfeit his place and lose his salary. Even the king showed great sympathy for him, sending to inquire for him. Herr Gedicke visited him frequently at Halle; and once when about to mount the ladder to the hay-loft he met Moritz descending, carefully dressed, in a reasonable, gentle mood, and then he returned with him to Berlin. There was great rejoicing in the college over his return, and they feted him, witnessing so much love for him that it was really touching. He has been promoted to professor, and at the express command of the king he teaches the young Prince Frederick William in Latin and Greek. Oh, he is so much esteemed and–“

“And is married I hope,” murmured Marie. “Is he not happily married, Trude?”

“No. Herr Gedicke says he could marry a wealthy girl, for he is a great favorite, and is invited into the most distinguished society. He repels every one, and has become a woman-hater.”

“He hates them–does that mean that he hates me?”

“Yes, he thoroughly scorns and despises you; so much so that Herr Gedicke says you should know of it, and keep out of his way. He has sworn to publicly show his contempt for you, and therefore his friends wish you to be apprised of it, and not encounter him in society.”

“It is well, I thank you,” said Marie, rising; “I will act accordingly. Kiss me once more, my dear mother, and let me repose my weary head upon your bosom. Ah, Trude, what a sorrow life is!”

“You will yet learn to love it again, Marie.”

“If I thought that I could sink so low, I would kill myself this very hour. I know myself better, and only for revenge do I live. Hush! say nothing more. Look at me! I am cursed, and there in those gaudy rooms in my purgatory; here is my paradise, and here the wicked demon may dare to change into the sad, wretched wife, who mourns the happy days already flown, and weeps the inconsolable future. Oft will I come here in the night when those sleep who think me so proud and happy, and you alone shall behold me as I am. Now I must back to purgatory.–Farewell!”

A half hour later a splendid carriage drove from the house of Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. The people upon the street stood in wondering admiration of the beautiful Arab horses with the costly silver-mounted harness, and sought to catch a glimpse of the occupants of the carriage, an insignificant, meagre, blond-haired man, who appeared like a servant beside the lovely pale wife, though proud and indifferent, who kept her eyes fixed steadily before her.

The chasseur, with his waving plumes, sat upon the box beside the rich-liveried coachman.

As the married couple returned from their drive, having left their cards at the most distinguished houses in Berlin, the baroness handed the list of guests to he invited to the baron to examine. He glanced hastily over it, assuring her that every thing should be directed as she desired, deferring all to her superior knowledge. Suddenly he seemed confused, even frightened. “What is the matter? What were you about to remark?” asked Marie, indifferently.

“I was in error. I have, without doubt, read it wrong. I beg pardon for a foolish blunder, but will you tell me this name?”

Marie bent forward to look at the paper which her husband handed her, and, pointing with her finger, read “Professor Philip Moritz.”

“Do you intend to invite him?” asked Ebenstreit, quite alarmed.

“Why should I not? He belongs to the circle of friends and acquaintances, and it is natural that I should include him. Moreover, there is not a little gossip, and it is necessary to silence it. If you are not of my opinion, strike out the name.”

“Not at all, dearest. On the contrary, you are perfectly right, and I admire you for it.”

“Then give the list to the butler, for it is quite time that the invitations were given out.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE CURSE.

The evening of the soiree had arrived. In quick succession drove the carriages up the broad entrance to the mansion of Herr Ebenstreit, The curious street public pressed in compact masses near the gate to peep in, or at least catch a fugitive glance of the ladies alighting from their carriages, who were received by the butler at the foot of the carpeted steps. A host of gold-bespangled footmen lined the entrance upon each side, which was ornamented with the most exquisite hot-house plants, filling the air with perfume.

Two tall, stately footmen, with broad gold shoulder-bands and large gilt batons, stood at the door of the anteroom, which was brilliantly illuminated with chandeliers and side-lights, reflected in the numerous mirrors. The anteroom led into the reception-room by wide folding-doors, where the names were given to the usher, who announced them in a stentorian voice in the drawing-room. There stood the Baron von Ebenstreit to receive the guests, all smiles, and with bustling assiduity accompany them to the adjoining drawing- room to present them to the baroness.

Among the select company were conspicuous the most distinguished names of the aristocracy. Generals and staff-officers, countesses and baronesses were crowded together, with the ladies of the financial world, near ministers and counsellors in this gorgeous saloon, which was the delight and admiration of the envious, and excited the tongues of the slanderous. Those acquainted gathered in the window-niches and cosy corners, maliciously criticising the motley crowd, and eminently consoled with the sure prospect of the ruin of the late banker, surrounding himself with such unbecoming splendor and luxury, the bad taste of his arrogant, overdressed, and extravagant wife.

“Have you noticed her parure of diamonds?” whispered the Countess Moltke to Fran von Morien. “If they are real, then she wears an estate upon her shoulders.”

“The family estate of Von Leuthen,” laughingly replied Frau von Morien. “You know, I suppose, that the father of General von Leuthen was a brick-burner, and he may have succeeded in changing a few bricks into diamonds.”

“You are wicked, sweet one,” replied the countess, smiling. “One must acknowledge that her toilet is charming. I have never seen its equal. The gold lace over the rose-colored satin is superb,”

“Yes, and the mingling of straw feathers, diamonds, flowers, lace, and birds is truly ridiculous in her head-dress.”

“It must have been copied exactly from the one which the Queen Marie Antoinette wore at the ball at Versailles a fortnight since. The baroness was present at this court ball with her greyhound of a husband, and created quite a sensation with her costly recherchee toilet, as the French ambassador told us yesterday.”

“Certainly not by her manner,” said Frau von Morien. “She is insupportably arrogant and self-sufficient. What do you think of this pretentious manner of announcing our names as if we were at an auction where they sold titles?”

“It is a very good French custom,” remarked the countess. “But it does not become a lady of doubtful nobility and uncertain position, to introduce foreign customs here. She should leave this to others, and modestly accept those already in use by us.”

“One remarks the puffed-up parvenue,” whispered Frau von Morien. “Every thing smells of the varnish upon the newly-painted coat-of- arms.”

“Hush, my friend! I there comes the baroness leaning upon the arm of the French ambassador. She is indeed imposing in appearance, and one could mistake her for a queen.”

“Could any one ever suppose that this queen once made flowers to sell? Come, countess, I have just thought of a charming scene to revenge myself upon this arrogant personage.”

Giving her arm to the countess, she approached her hostess leaning upon the arm of the Marquis de Treves, the French ambassador, as they were standing beneath the immense chandelier of rock crystal, which sparkled above them like a crown of stars, causing her diamonds to look as if in one blaze of different hues.

“Oh, permit us to sun ourselves in your rays, ma toute belle,” said the Countess Moltke. “One could well fancy themselves in a fairy palace, so enchanting is everything here.”

“And the baroness’s appearance confirms this impression,” remarked the gallant Frenchman. “Fancy could not well paint a more lovely fairy in one’s happiest dreams.”

“Yes, truly I wander around as if in an enchanted scene. I feel as if I must seize myself by the head and be well shaken, to convince myself that I am really awake and not dreaming a chapter from Aladdin. I made the effort, but felt the wreath of roses in my hair, and–“

“And that convinced you of your wakefulness,” said the baroness, a little haughtily. Turning to the ambassador, she added: “Do you observe, monsieur le marquis, what a delicate attention this lady shows me in wearing a wreath of flowers which I manufactured?”

“Comment! The baroness is truly a fairy! She causes flowers to grow at her pleasure, and vies with Nature. It seems impossible. I can scarcely believe it.”

“And yet it is true,” said Frau von Morien. “The baroness, indeed, fabricated these roses three years since, when she had the kindness to work for me. You will acknowledge that I have kept them well?”

“It was no kindness of mine, but a necessity,” said the baroness, “and I must confess that I would not have undertaken so troublesome a piece of work from pure goodness or pleasure. You will remember that I was very poor before my marriage, and as Frau von Morien was one of my customers, it is very natural that she possesses my flowers. She gave me many orders, and paid me a very small price, for she is very practical and prudent, and understands bargaining and cheapening, and when one is poor they are obliged to yield to the shameless parsimony of the rich. I thank you, my dear benefactress, for the honor you have shown me in wearing my flowers, for it has been a pleasant occasion to explain ourselves and recognize each other. Have the kindness to recall other remembrances of the past.”

“I do not remember possessing any other souvenirs,” replied the countess, confused.

Have you forgotten that I gave French lessons to your niece, the present Frau von Hohenthal? She came to me three times weekly, because the lessons were a few groschen cheaper at the house.”

At this instant the usher announced in a loud voice, “Professor Philip Moritz.”

A gentleman of slight proportions, in an elegant fashionable dress, appeared and remained standing in the doorway, his large black eyes wandering searchingly through the drawing-room. Herr von Ebenstreit approached, extending him his hand, uttering a few unintelligible words, which his guest appeared not to notice, but, slightly inclining, asked if he would present him to the lady of the house.

“Have the kindness to follow me,” said Ebenstreit, leading Moritz through the circle of jesting, slandering ladies and gentlemen, to the centre of the room, where Marie was still standing with the French ambassador and the two ladies.

“My dear,” said her husband, “I have brought you an old acquaintance, Professor Moritz.”

As Ebenstreit would retreat, Moritz commanded him to remain, placing his white-gloved hand upon his arm, and holding him fast. “I would ask you one question before I speak with the baroness.”

Moritz spoke so loud, and in such a strange, harsh, and repulsive manner, that every one turned astonished, asking himself what it meant. Conversation was hushed, and the curious pressed toward the peculiar group in the centre to the baroness, who regarded her husband perfectly composed, and the pale man, with the flashing eyes, the glance of which pierced her like daggers.

A breathless silence reigned, broken only by Ebenstreit’s trembling voice. “What is it, professor? How can I serve you?”

“Tell me who you are?” replied Moritz, with a gruff laugh.

“I am the Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen!”

“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since, who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me–are you this gentleman?”

Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent.

“Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?”

Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard, saying, “Yes, it is he!”

“Who replied to me?” asked Moritz, turning his angry glance away from Ebenstreit.

“I,” said Marie. “I reply for my husband!”

“You? Are you the wife of this man?” thundered Moritz.

“I am,” Marie answered.

“Is this invitation directed to me from you?” he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket. “Did you permit yourself to invite me to your house?”

“Yes, I did,” she calmly answered.

“And by what right, madame? This is the question I wish answered, and I came here for that purpose.”

“I invited you because I desired to see you.”

“Shameless one!” cried Moritz, furious.

“Sir,” cried the ambassador, placing himself before Moritz, defying his anger, “you forget that you are speaking to a lady. As her husband is silent, I declare myself her knight, and I will not suffer her to be injured by word or look.

“How can you hinder me?” cried Moritz, with scorn. “What will you do if I dash this paper at her feet, and forbid her to ever write my name again?” Making a ball of it, he suited the action to the word, casting a defiant look at the marquis.

“I shall order the footmen to thrust you out of the house. Here, servants, remove this man; he is an escaped lunatic, undoubtedly.”

Two footmen pressed forward through the circle which crowded around Moritz.

“Whoever touches me, death to him!” thundered Moritz, laying his hand upon a small sword at his side.

“Let no one dare lay a hand on this gentleman,” cried Marie, with a commanding wave of her hand to the lackeys. “I beseech you, marquis, and you, honored guests, to quietly await the conclusion of this scene, and to permit Herr Moritz to finish speaking.”

“Do you mean to defy me, madame?” muttered Moritz, gnashing his teeth. “You perhaps count upon my magnanimity to keep silent, and not disclose the secrets of the past to this aristocratic assembly. I stand here as its accusing spirit, and condemn you as a shameless perjurer.–I will ask you who are here rendering homage to this woman, if you know who she is, and of what she has been guilty? As a young girl she was as sweet and innocent as an angel, and seemed more like a divine revelation. To think of her, inspired and elevated one’s thoughts, and heaven was mirrored in her eyes. She was poor, and yet so infinitely rich, that if a king had laid all his treasures at her feet, as the gift of his love, he would receive more than he gave, for in her heart reposed the wealth of the whole human race. Oh! I could weep tears of blood in reflecting upon what she was, and what she has become. Smile and mock, ladies and gentlemen; my brain is crazed, and I weep for my lost angel.”

Moritz dashed his hands to his face, and stood swaying backward and forward, sobbing.

Sighs and regrets were heard in the room. The ladies pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes; others regarded with lively sympathy the handsome young man, who deeply interested them, and gazed reproachfully at the young baroness, expecting her to be crushed with these reproaches and tears, but who, on the contrary, stood with proud composure, her face beaming with joy, gazing at Moritz.

“It is past–my last tear is shed, and my last wail has been uttered,” cried Philip, uncovering his face. “My angel has changed into a despicable woman. I loved her as the wretched, disconsolate being adores the one who reveals paradise to him; and she fooled me into the belief that she loved me. We exchanged vows of eternal constancy and affection, and promised each other to bear joyfully every ill in life, and never separate until death. I should have doubted myself, rather than she who stood above me, like a divine revelation. I wished to win her by toil and industry, by my intellect, and the fame by which I could render my name illustrious. It was, indeed, nothing in the eyes of her grasping parents; they repulsed me with scorn and pride, but Marie encouraged me to perfect confidence in her affection. Whilst I wandered on foot to Silesia, like a poor pilgrim toward happiness, to humble myself before the king, to beg and combat for my angel, there came temptation, sin, and vulgarity, in the form of this pale, cowed-down man, who stands beside my betrothed gasping with rage. The temptation of riches changed my angel into a demon, a miserable woman bartered for gold! She betrayed her love, yielding it up for filthy lucre, crushing her nobler nature in the dust, and driving over it, as did Tullia the dead body of her father. She sold herself for riches, before which you all kneel, as if worshipping the golden calf! After selling her soul to a man whom she despised, even if he were not rich, she has had the boldness to summon me, the down-trodden and half-crazed victim, to her gilded palace, as if I were a slave to be attached to her triumphal car. I am a free man, and have come here only to hurl contempt in her face, to brand her before you all as a perjurer and a traitress, whom I never will pardon, but will curse with my latest breath! Now I have relieved my heart of its burden, I command this woman to deny what I have said, if she can.”

With a dictatorial wave of the hand, he pointed excitedly Marie. A deathlike stillness reigned. Even the lights seemed to grow dim, and every one was oppressed as if by excessive sultriness.

Again Moritz commanded Marie to acknowledge the truth of his accusations before the honored assembly.

She encountered his angry glance with calmness, and a smile was perceptible upon her lip. Yes, said she, I acknowledge that I am a perjurer and a traitor. I have sold myself for riches, and yielded my peace of soul and my love for mammon. I might justify myself, but I refrain from it, and will only say that you have told the truth! One day you will cease to curse me, and, perhaps a tear of pity will glisten in the eye now flashing with scorn and anger. The poor wife who lies in the dust implores for the last blessing of your love!”

“Marie!” he cried, with heart-rending anguish, “oh, Marie!” and rushed toward her, kneeling before her, and clinging to her, pressing a kiss upon her hand and weeping aloud. Only for a moment did he give way, and then sprang up wildly, rushing through the crowd, out of the room.

A fearful silence ensued. No one had the courage to break it. Every one hoped that Marie, through a simulated fainting, would end the painful scene, and give the guests an opportunity to withdraw. No such thoughtfulness for her friends occurred to her.

She turned to the Marquis de Treves, who stood pale and deeply agitated behind her, and burst into a loud laugh.

“How pale you are! Have you taken this comedy for truth? Did you think this theatrical performance was a reality? You have forgotten what I told you a month since in Paris, that I had a native talent for acting. You would contest the matter with me, and I bet you that I could introduce an impromptu scene in my house, with such artistic skill, that you would be quite deceived.”

“Indeed I do recall it; how could I have forgotten it?” replied the marquis, with the ready tact of the diplomat.

“Have I won?” asked Marie, smiling.

“You have played your role, baroness, like an artiste of consummate talent, and to-morrow I shall have the honor to cancel the debt in your favor.”

“Now, then, give me your arm, marquis, and conduct me to the dancing-room, and you, worthy guests, follow us,” said. Marie, leading the way.

The merry music even was not sufficient to dissipate the awkward oppression, and by midnight the guests had taken leave, and Marie stood under the chandelier, pale and rigid, opposite her husband. He had summoned courage to bewail the terrible scene, weeping and mourning over her cruelty and his shame. Marie, with chilling indifference, regarded him without one visible trace of pity.

“You realized what you were doing when you imposed the scorn of this marriage upon me,” she said. “I have never deceived you with vain hopes! You have sown dragons’ teeth, and warriors have sprung up to revenge me upon you. Serve yourself of your riches to fight the combatants. See if you can bargain for a quiet conscience as easily as you purchased me! My soul is free though, and it hovers over you as the spirit of revenge.–Beware!”

She slowly turned and quitted the room. Her diamonds sparkled and blazed in the myriads of lights. The large mirrors reflected the image of a haughty woman, who swept proudly past like a goddess of revenge!

Ebenstreit stood gazing after her. He had a horror of the lonely still room, so gorgeous and brilliantly illuminated–a shudder crept over him, and he sank, weeping bitterly.

In the little room, the buried happiness of the past, Marie knelt, with outstretched arms, imploring heaven for mercy. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that I have been permitted to see him again! My sacrifice was not in vain–he lives! He is free, and his mind is clear and bright. I thank Thee that he still loves me. His anger is but love!”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE KING AND THE ROSICRUCIANS.

The joy which Bischofswerder said, reigned in heaven and upon earth over the return of the crown prince to the path of virtue, in having forsaken Wilhelmine Enke, was of but short duration.

The Invisibles and the pious Rosicrucians soon learned that sagacious and cunning woman defied the spirits and abjured the oaths.

Since the night of his communion with the departed, Frederick William had never visited Charlottenburg–never seen the house which contained all that he held most dear; he had returned Wilhelmine’s letters unopened, and had even had the courage to refuse himself to the children, who came to see him.

If he had been left to consult his own heart, he would not probably have had sufficient resolution to have done this; Bischofswerder and Woellner never left him for a moment, as they said the Invisible Fathers had commanded them to tarry with the much-loved brother in these first days of trial and temptation, and to elevate and gladden him with edifying conversations and scientific investigations.

The prayers and exhortations were the duty of Woellner, who, besides this, continued his daily discourses upon the administration of government, preparing the prince for the important command of the royal regiments, which they hoped favorable destiny would soon grant him.

The scientific researches were the part of Bischofswerder, and he entered upon his duties with the zeal and pleasure of an inquiring mind, itself hopeful and believing.

In the cabinet arranged in the new palace at Potsdam, the prince and his dear Bischofswerder worked daily, many hours, to discover the great hope of the alchemist–the philosopher’s stone. Not finding it, unfortunately, they brewed all sorts of miraculous drinks, which were welcome to the prince as the elixir of eternal youth and constant love. In the evenings they communed with the spirits of the distinguished departed, which, moved at the earnest prayers of Woellner, and the fervent exhortation of the crown prince, always had the goodness to appear, and witness their satisfaction for their much-loved son, as they called him, for continuing brave and faithful, and not falling into the unholy snares of the seductress.

The crown prince, however, experienced not the least self- contentment. Each day renewed the yearning for the beloved of his youth and for his children, for which those of his wife were no compensation–neither the silent, awkward Prince Frederick William, nor his crying little brother. In his dreams he saw Wilhelmine dissolved in tears, calling upon him in most tender accents, and when he awoke, it was to an inconsolable grief. He wept with heart- felt sorrow; his oath alone kept him from hastening to her; it bound him, and fettered his earnest wish to see her, making him sad and melancholy.

The spirits had no pity nor mercy upon him. His two confidants encouraged his virtue and piety from morning till night, exalting his excited fancy with their marvellous relations and apparitions.

One day as they were on the point of commencing the morning prayers to the Invisibles, a royal footman appeared, with the command to betake themselves to Sans-Souci, where the king awaited them.

A royal carriage was in attendance to convey them. There was no alternative but obedience.

“Perhaps Fate destines us to become martyrs to the holy cause,” said Woellner, devoutly folding his hands.

“We may never enjoy the happiness of seeing our dear brothers of the confederacy again,” sighed Bischofswerder. “Our spirits will always be with you, my prince, and the Invisible Fathers will protect you in all your ways.”

The crown prince, deeply moved, separated from his friends with tears in his eyes; but as the carriage rolled away he felt relieved as of an oppressive burden, and breathed more freely.

At the same time a footman entered, bearing upon a golden salver a letter for the prince. Unobserved and free to act, he read it, and as he sat musingly thinking over its contents, so tender and affectionate, he re-read it, and rising, made a bold resolve, his face beaming with happiness, to order his carriage, which he did, and in a few moments more drove at full speed away from the palace.

Bischofswerder and Woellner, in the mean time, arrived at Sans- Souci. The footman awaiting them conducted them at once through the picture-gallery, into the little corridor leading to the king’s cabinet, and there left them to announce them to his majesty. Both gentlemen heard their names called in a loud voice, and the response of the king: “Let them wait in the little corridor until I permit them to enter.”

The footman returned and with subdued voice made known the royal command, and departed, carefully closing the door.

There was no seat in the narrow, little corridor, and the air was close and oppressive.

They could hear voices in mingled conversation; sometimes it seemed as if the king were communicating commands; again, as if he dictated in a suppressed voice. The Rosicrucians knew very well it was the hour of the cabinet council, and they waited patiently and steadfastly, but as their watches revealed the fact that three hours had passed, and every noise was hushed, they concluded they were forgotten, and resolved to remind the lackey of their presence.

“Indeed, this standing is quite insupportable,” whispered Woellner.

They both slipped to the entrance and tried the bronze knob, but although it turned, the door opened not, and was evidently fastened upon the outside. They looked alarmed at each other, asking what it could mean. “Can it be intentional? Are we imprisoned here? We must be resigned, although it is a severe experience.” At last, patience exhausted, they resolved to bear it no longer, and tapped gently at the door of the king. The loud bark of a dog was their only response, and again all was still.

“Evidently there is no one there,” sighed Bischofswerder. “It is the hour of dining of the king.”

“I wish it were ours also,” whined Woellner. “I confess I yearn for bodily nourishment, and my legs sink under me.”

“I am fearfully hungry,” groaned Bischofswerder; “besides, the air is suffocating. I am resolved to go to extremes, and make a noise.”

He rushed like a caged boar from one door to the other, shrieking for the lackey to open the door; but as before, a loud bark was the only response.

“The Lord has forsaken us,” whimpered Woellner. “The sublime Fathers have turned their faces away from us. We will pray for mercy and beg for a release!” and he sank upon his knees.

“What will that avail us here, where neither prayers nor devotion are heeded? Only energy and determination will aid us at Sans-Souci. Come, let us thump and bang until they set us free!” cried Bischofswerder, peevishly.

Their hands were lame, and their voices hoarse with their exertions; and no longer able to stand, they sank down upon the floor hungry and exhausted, almost weeping with rage and despair.

At last, after long hours of misery, they heard a noise in the adjoining room. The king had again entered his cabinet. The door opened, and the lackey motioned to the two gentlemen to enter. They rose with difficulty and staggered into the room, the door being closed behind them.

His majesty was seated in his arm-chair, with his three-cornered hat on, leaning his chin upon his hands, crossed upon his staff. He fixed his great blue eyes, with a searching glance, upon the two Rosicrucians; then turned to his minister, Herzberg, who was seated at the table covered with documents.

“These are, then, the two great props of the Rosicrucians?” asked Frederick–“the two charlatans whom they have told me make hell hot for the crown prince, continually lighting it up with their prayers and litanies.”

“Your majesty, answered Herzberg, smiling, “these gentlemen are Colonel Bischofswerder and the councillor of the exchequer, Woellner, whom your majesty has commanded to appear before you.”

“You are the two gentlemen who work miracles, and have the effrontery to summon the spirit of our ancestor, the great elector, and the Emperor Marcus Aurelius?”

“Sire,” stammered Bischofswerder, “we have tried to summon spirits.”

“And I too,” cried the king, “only they will not come; therefore I wished to see the enchanters, and would like to purchase the secret.”

“Pardon me, most gracious sire,” said Woellner, humbly, “you must first be received in the holy order of the Rosicrucians.”

“Thanks,” cried the king, “I am not ready for the like follies, and whilst I live the Invisibles must take heed not to become too visible, or they will be taken care of. I will not permit Prussia to retrograde. It has cost too much trouble to “enlighten the people, bring them to reason, and banish hypocrisy. Say to the Rosicrucians that they shall leave the crown prince in peace, or I will chase them to the devil, who will receive them with open arms! It could do no harm to appeal to the prince’s conscience to lead an honorable life, and direct his thoughts more to study than to love, but you shall not make a hypocrite of him and misuse his natural good- nature. If the Rosicrucians try to force the prince and rule him, I will show them that I am master, and will no longer suffer their absurdities, but will break up the whole nest of them! I have been much, annoyed at the deep despondency of the crown prince. You shall not represent to him that baseness and virtue are the same, and that he is the latter when he betrays those to whom he has sworn fidelity and affection. An honorable man must, above all, he cognizant of benefits, and not forsake those who have sacrificed their honor and love to him, and have proved their fidelity. Have you understood me, gentlemen?”

“It will be my holy duty to follow strictly your majesty’s commands,” said Bischofswerder.

“And I also will strive to promote the will of my king,” asserted Woellner.

“It will be necessary to do so, or you two gentlemen may find yourselves at Spandau. I would say to you once for all, I will not suffer any sects; every one can worship God in his own way. No one shall have the arrogant presumption to declare himself one of the elect. We are all sinners. The Rosicrucians are not better than the Illuminati or Freemasons, and none are more worthy than the tailor and cobbler who does his duty. Adieu!”

The king nodded quickly and pointed to the door out of which the two brothers were about to disappear, when he called them back.

“If the prince is not at the palace on your return, I advise you not to pursue him, but reflect that the Invisibles may have summoned him to a communion of spirits; I believe, too, that I kept you waiting; but without doubt you were comforted by the Fathers, who bore you away upon their wings, and gave you food and drink! Those who are protected by the spirits, and can summon them at pleasure, can never want. If you are hungry, call up the departed Lucullus, that he may provide for you to eat; and if you have no earthly seat, summon Semiramis that she may send you her hanging gardens for the quiet repose of the elect! I am rejoiced that you have enjoyed such celestial refreshments in the corridor. Adieu!”

The king gazed sadly after them. Approaching Herzberg, he said: “I felt, as I looked at the two rogues, that it was a pity to grow old. Did you think that I would let them off so easily?”

“Sire, I really do not understand you,” replied Herzberg, shrugging his shoulders. “I know not, in your most active youthful days, how you could have done otherwise.”

“I will tell you that, if I were not an old man, void of decision and energy, I would have had these fellows taken to Spandau for life!” said the king, striking the table with his staff.

“Your majesty does yourself injustice,” said Herzberg, smiling. “You were ever a just monarch in your most ardent youth, and never set aside the law. These men were not guilty of any positive crime.”

“They are daily and hourly guilty of enticing away from me the crown prince, and making the future ruler of my country an obscurer, a necromancer, and at the same time a libertine! I was obliged to overlook his youthful preference for Wilhelmine Enke, and wink at this amour, for I know that crown prince is human, and his affections are to be consulted. If he cannot love the wife which diplomacy chooses for him, then he must be permitted the chosen one of his heart to console him for the forced marriage. At the same time this person was passable, and without the usual fault of such creatures, a desire to rule and mingle in politics. She seems to be unambitious and unpretentious. These Rosicrucians would banish her by increasing the number of favorites, that they may rule him, and make the future King of Prussia a complete tool in their hands. They excite his mind, which is not too well balanced, and rob him by their witchcraft of the intellect that he has. They promise him to find the philosopher’s stone, and make a fool of him. Am I not right?”

“I must acknowledge that you are,” sighed Herzberg.

“And admit also that it would be just to send these in, famous fellows as criminals to Spandau.”

“Sire, unfortunately, there are crimes and offences which the law does not reach, and which cannot be judged.”

“When I was young,” said the king, “I tore up and stamped upon every weed that I found in my garden. Shall I now let these two grow and infect the air, because the law gives me no right to crush them? Formerly I would have torn them leaf from leaf, but now I am old and useless, my hand is weak, and lacks the strength to uproot them, therefore I suffer them to stand, and all the other abominable things which these rogues bring to pass. A cloud is rising, from which a storm will one day burst over Prussia; but I cannot dissipate it, for the little strength and breath that remains I have need of for the government; and, moreover, I have no superfluous time for the future, but must live and work only for the present.”

“But the blessing of your exertions will be felt in the future. The deeds of a great man are not extinguished with his death, but shine like a star, disseminating light beyond his grave!”

“This light is just what the Rosicrucians will take care to extinguish like a tallow candle with too long a wick, and it is good fortune that the astronomers have awarded me a little glorification in the heavens, and accorded me a star, for the Rosicrucians would not let it shine here below. I must console myself with this, and recall that when it is dark and lowering here, I have a star above in the sky!”

“This star is Frederick’s honor,” cried Herzberg. “It will beam upon future generations, and become the guiding light of the sons and nephews of your house, and they will learn to be as sagacious and wise as the Great Frederick.”

“There you have made a great error, Herzberg,” replied the king, quickly. “Future generations are newer taught by the past– grandchildren think themselves wiser than their grandparents. The greatest of heroes is forgotten, and his deeds buried in the dust of ages. You have given me a glorious title of honor, and I know how little I deserve it.”

“A title which will be confirmed in centuries to come, for every history will speak of Frederick the Second as Frederick Great.”

“In history it may be, but the people will speak of me as ‘Old Fritz’–that will be on the lips of those who love me, and expression of endearment; on the lips of those who hate me, one of disaffection. I am, indeed, ‘Old Fritz,’ which the Bischofswerders and Woellners also call me, and try to make the crown prince believe that I have outlived my period, and do not understand or esteem the modern time. In their eyes I am a dismantled ship of state, which the storms of life have rendered unseaworthy. They would refit the vessel, and give it a new flag, sending Old Fritz, the helmsman, to the devil! The day of my death they will hoist this flag, with ‘Modern Time’ inscribed upon it in large letters. I shall then be united in Elysium with Voltaire, Jordan, Suhm, and all my other friends, as we were wont to be at Sans-Souci, and look down with a pitying smile upon the Modern Time and Old Folly!–Vale!”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE ESPOUSALS.

Both Bischofswerder and Woellner hastened to avail themselves of the commanding “adieu,” and quit the royal presence. Without, the carriage was ready to reconvey them to the new palace. They were so exhausted that neither of them uttered a word, the last injunctions of the king ringing in their ears.

Silently they alighted upon arriving, but as the footman came out to meet them they asked, simultaneously, if his royal highness had dined.

“His highness is not here, having departed immediately after the two gentlemen, and is not yet returned,” he answered.

“You may serve us something to eat as quickly as possible in the little dining-room. Let it be ready in a quarter of an hour,” commanded Bischofswerder.

“Now that we are alone, what do you think of this affair?” asked Woellner.

“I cannot vouchsafe a reply until I have eaten a pheasant’s wing, and drunken my champagne,” replied Bischofswerder.

He kept his word, preserving a solemn silence until a good half of the bird had disappeared, and many glasses of iced champagne.

Then Bischofswerder leaned back in his comfortable armchair with infinite ease, whilst his friend occupied himself with the most pious zeal with the pheasant, rejoicing at this revelation of the Invisibles. Bischofswerder let him enjoy it, and ordered the footman to serve the dessert and withdraw.

“Now I am prepared to reply to you, my dear friend, that we are alone. I believe the king would have sent us to Spandau at once if we had opposed his free-thinking opinions.”

“I am convinced of it,” sighed Woellner, eyeing the remains of the bird with a melancholy glance. “We shall have much to endure for the holy cause which we serve.”

“That is to say, we will have much to suffer if we, in fanatical indiscretion, do not submit to circumstances,” said Bischofswerder.

“You cannot traduce the sublime Fathers!” cried Woellner;–“for the body’s security, we cannot endanger the salvation of our souls, and, like Peter, deny our master.”

“No, my much-loved and noble friend. But we must be wise as serpents, and our duty to the holy order is to preserve its useful tools that they may not be lost. You will agree with me in this?”

“Indeed, I do admit it,” replied Wollner, pathetically.

“Further, you will acknowledge that we are very useful, and I might say indispensable tools of the Sublime Order of the Rosicrucians and the Invisible Fathers of the Order of Jesus? It is our task to secure an abiding-place to the proscribed and, cursed, to plough and sow the field, which will yield good fruit for humanity entire, and particularly our order, when the crown prince ascends the throne. We will here erect a kingdom of the future, and it is all-important to lay so secure a corner-stone in the heart of his highness that nothing can shake or dislodge it. Who could perfect this work if we were not here? Who would dare to undertake the difficult task if we should fail? Who would carry on a secret and continued warfare with this artful and powerful seductress if we were conquered?”

“No one would do it,” sighed Woellner, “no one would sacrifice themselves like Samson for this Delilah.”

“We will together be the Samson,” replied Bischofswerder, drawing a glass of sparkling champagne. “We will be the Samson which the Philistines drove out, but this woman shall not practise the arts of Delilah upon us in putting our eyes out or cutting off our hair. Against two Samsons the most artful and beautiful Delilah is not wary enough; and if we cannot conquer her, we must resort to other means.”

“What may they be, dear brother?”

“We must compromise the matter.”

Woellner sprang up, and a flush of anger or from champagne overspread his face “Compromise with the sinful creature!” he cried, impetuously. “Make peace with the seductress, who leads the prince from the path of virtue!”

“Yes, we must be on friendly terms with this woman, who could greatly injure us as an enemy, and aid us infinitely as a friend. This is my intention, and I am the more convinced that we must accept this middle course, as she is protected by the king.”

“Because he knows from his spies that she mingles with the Illuminati and the Freemasons, and that she is our opponent,” said Woellner.

“The more the reason, my noble zealot, to win her friendship, who will have validity and power until the crown prince reigns, and this old godless freethinker of a king is in his gravel Then Prussia will commence a new era, and we shall be lords, and guide the machine of state. For such lofty aims one ought to be ready to compromise with his Satanic majesty even. Then why not with this little she-devil, whose power is fading every year with her youth and beauty?”

“It is quite true, we should be mindful of the device of our Invisible Fathers. The end sanctifies the means,” sighed Woellner.

“I believe it to be indispensable, and you will grant that I am right. Do you not see that the prince has availed himself of our absence to go there, and has not yet returned?”

“What!” shrieked Woellner, clasping his hands–” you do not mean that–“

“That Rinaldo has returned to the enchanted garden of Armida.”

“Oh, let us hasten to release him at once, and revue his soul from perdition!” cried Woellner, springing up.

“On the contrary, let us await him here without a word of reproach upon his return. This will touch his tender heart which we must work upon, if we would get him into our power, for to us he must belong. Fill our glasses with the sparkling wine, and drink to the contract with Wilhelmine Enke.”

Just as merrily they quaffed the champagne in the little cosy dining-room at Charlottenburg, where the prince and Wilhelmine were rejoicing over a reconciliation, no one being present but the two children. Their joyous laugh and innocent jests delighted the father, and the beaming eyes, sweet smile, and witty conversation of his favorite, filled his heart with pleasure.

Not a word of reproach escaped her, but exultant and joyous she hastened with outstretched arms to meet him, kissing away all his attempts to implore pardon, and thanking him that he had returned to her.

At first the prince gave himself up to the joy of the reunion with his beloved Wilhelmine sad children; but now, as the first outburst had passed, the quiet, happy dinner being finished, and they had returned to the sitting-room, a tinge of melancholy earnestness overshadowed his amiable face.

Wilhelmine threw her arms gently around his neck as she sat beside him upon the divan, and looked up to him with a tender questioning glance. “Your thoughts are veiled, dearest; will you not confide to me that which lies concealed there?”

“Ah, Wilhelmine, it is a mourning veil, and hides the sorrow of renunciation.”

“I do not understand you, Frederick,” she smilingly replied. “Who could compel you to an abnegation which would cause you grief?”

“Listen to me, Wilhelmine, and understand that I am suffering from circumstances–an oath taken in the pressure of the moment. Try to comprehend me, my dear child.”

Drawing her closer to him, he faithfully related to her the night of the communion of the spirits, and his consequent oath.

“Is that all, my dear?” she replied, smiling, as he finished.

“What do you mean?” he asked, astonished.

“Nothing more than I would know if you have only sworn to renounce Wilhelmine Enke!”

“What could I have done more prejudicial to you?” he cried, not a little irritated.

“Surely you could not injure or grieve me more, and therefore I am not a little surprised that the pious Fathers could so carelessly word their oaths. You have sworn to renounce your affection to and separate from Wilhelmine Enke; so it follows that the Invisibles only demand that you give up my name, not myself, and that is easily changed, and my dear prince will not become a perjurer.”

“I do not quite understand you; but I perceive by the arch expression of your face that you have conceived a lucky escape for your unhappy Frederick William. Explain to me, dearest, your meaning.”

“I must change my name by marrying some one!” she whispered.

“Marry! and I give you to another? I will never consent to that,” he cried, alarmed.

“Not to a husband, only a name,” said she. “These Rosicrucians are such extraordinarily virtuous and pure beings, loving you so infinitely and disinterestedly, that it grieves them that my love for you does not shun the light, and throw over itself the mantle of hypocritical virtue! We will yield to the zealous purity of the Rosicrucians,” continued Wilhelmine, her eyes sparkling, “and wrap this Wilhelmine Enke in a mantle of virtue by giving her a husband; and then, when she walks out with her children the passers-by will not have to blush with shame, and cry, ‘There goes the miss with her children!’ I have conceived and planned during this long and painful separation, and I am resolved to submit humbly to the pious Fathers, who are so zealously watchful for the salvation of your soul and my good fame.”

“That is to say, you are determined to snap your fingers at them! Your plan is a good one, but you will find no one to aid you in a sham marriage!”

“I have already found one,” whispered Wilhelmine, smiling. “Your valet de chambre Rietz is willing to stand with me in a sham marriage.”

“My body-servant!”

“Yes, Frederick William! You will confess that I am not ambitious, and only consent to it to secure our happiness from the persecution of these virtuous men. Here is the contract,” said she, drawing from her dress-pocket a paper, which she unfolded. “He promises to give me his name, and regard me as a stranger always, for the sum of four hundred thalers annually, with the promise of promotion to confidential servant when the noble crown prince shall ascend the throne. [Footnote: Historical.–See F Forster, “Latest Prussian History,” vol. 1., p. 74] Will you sign it?”

“I will do any thing that will grant me your affection, in spite of my unhappy oath. Give me the paper. I will sign it. When is the wedding?”

“The moment that you, my dear lord and master, have inscribed your name,” said Wilhelmine, handing him the pen, and pointing to the paper.

The prince wrote the desired signature, quickly throwing the pen across the room, shouting, “Long live Wilhelmine Rietz, who has rescued me from perjury and sin! Come to my arms, outstretched to press to my heart the most beautiful, most intelligent, and most diplomatic of women!”

Two days later it was related in Berlin that Wilhelmine Enke had married the princely valet de chambre Rietz, the crown prince being present at the ceremony, which took place at a small village near Potsdam.

Under the head of marriages, the Berlin newspapers announced “Wilhelmine Enke to Carl Rietz.”

“Ah, my Rosicrucians,” cried Wilhelmine, laughingly, as she read this notice, a mischievous triumph sparkling in her eyes; “ah, my heroes in virtue, for once you are outwitted, and I am victorious! I would like to witness their surprise. How they will laugh and swear over it! The favorite of a prince married to a valet de chambre! Wait until the prince becomes a king, then Wilhelmine Rietz will develop into a beautiful butterfly, and the wife of the valet de chambre will become a countess–nay, a princess. The Great Kophta has promised it, and he shall keep his word. I wear his ring, which sparkles and glistens, although the jeweller declares the diamond has been exchanged for a false stone. No matter, if it only shines like the real one. Every thing earthly is deception, falsehood, and glitter. Every one is storming and pressing on in savage eagerness toward fortune, honor, and fame! I will have my part in it. The storm and pressure of the world rage in my own heart. The fire of ambition is lighted in my soul, and the insatiable thirst for fortune consumes me. Blaze and burn until the day that Frederick William ascends the throne; then the low-born daughter of the trumpeter will become the high-born countess. The false stone will change to the sparkling diamond and Cagliostro shall then serve me.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

REVENGE FULFILLED.

Since the soiree at the house of the rich banker, Ebenstreit, an entire winter had passed in pleasures and fetes. The position of Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen had been recognized in aristocratic society, thanks to his dinners, soirees, balls, fetes, and particularly to his lovely, spirited, and proud wife. Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen had reached the acme of his ambition; his house was the resort of the most distinguished society; the extravagance and superb arrangements of his dinners and fetes were the theme of every tongue. This excessive admiration flattered the vain, ambitious parvenu extremely, and it was the happiest day of his life when Prince Henry of Prussia, brother of Frederick the Great, did him the unspeakable honor to dine with him. This gratifying day he owed to his wife, and, as he said, it ought to be kept as the greatest triumph of money over prejudice and etiquette– the day upon which a royal prince recognized the rich and newly- created noble as his equal. Ebenstreit’s entrance into the highest circle of aristocracy was due to the management and tone of the world of his wife, who understood the elegancies of life, passing as an example and ideal of an elegant woman, of which her husband was very proud. He lauded his original and crafty idea of devoting his money to such a satisfactory purchase as a sensible and ladylike wife, although the union was not a happy one, and, in the proper acceptation of the word, no marriage at all.

Whilst all were entertained at the fetes, and envied the splendor and wealth of Baron von Ebenstreit, there were many sinister remarks as to the possibility of sustaining this expenditure upon such a grand scale. It was whispered about that the banking-house, conducted under another name, had lost in extensive speculations, and that the baron lived upon his principal instead of his interest. The business community declared that the firm entered into the most daring and senseless undertakings, and that it must go to ruin. The old book-keeper, Splittgerber, who had for many years conducted the business, had been pensioned by the baron, and commenced for himself. His successor had once ventured to warn the nobleman, and represent to him the danger which threatened him, for which he was immediately dismissed, and the fact communicated to the entire house, at a special assemblage of the clerks for the purpose, with the warning of a like fate for every subordinate who should presume to criticise the acts of the principals, or proffer advice to them. Since this no one had ventured to repeat the offence, but every member of the house occupied himself in drawing a profit from the general and daily increasing confusion, and save something from the wreck which would inevitably ensue. The baron, with pretentious unconcern, dazzled by his unusual honors, permitted his business affairs to take their course with smiling unconcern, and when unsuccessful, to hide the mistakes of the banker under the pomp of the baron.

Marie, indulging in the style of a great lady, appeared not to notice or trouble herself at all about these things. She entertained most luxuriantly, and spent enormous sums upon her toilet, changed the costly livery of her numerous retinue of servants every month, as well as the furniture of the drawing-rooms; and presented with generous liberality her superfluous ornaments, dresses, and furniture to her dear high-born friends, who greedily accepted them, and were overflowing in their tender protestations and gratitude, whilst they in secret revolted at the presumption of the arrogant woman, who permitted herself to send them her cast-off things.

They rejoiced to receive them, however, and reappeared in her splendid drawing-rooms, enduring the pride and neglect of the baroness, and calling her their dear friend, whom they in secret envied and hated.

Did Marie know this, or did she let herself be deceived by these friendly protestations? Occasionally, when her friends embraced and kissed her, a languid smile flitted over her haughty face; and once as she wandered through the suite of rooms, awaiting her guests, she caught the reflection of a beautiful woman in the costly Venetian mirrors, sparkling with diamonds and wearing a silver-embroidered dress with a train. She gazed at this woman with an expression of ineffable scorn, and whispered to her: “Suffer yet awhile, you shall soon be released. This miserable trash will disappear. Only be firm- -I hear already the cracking of the house which will soon fall a wreck at your feet!”

Others heard it also. As preparations were being made for a grand dinner, with which the Baron and Baroness von Ebenstreit would close the season, the former head bookkeeper of the baron appeared at the palace, demanding, with anxious mien, to see the principal.

Just at the moment the baron and his wife were in the large reception-room, which the decorator was splendidly arranging, under the direction of the baroness, with flowers, festoons, columns, and statues. Ebenstreit was watching admiringly the tasteful and costly display as the footman announced the former book-keeper and present banker, Splittgerber.

“He must come at another time,” cried Ebenstreit, impatiently, “I am busy now; I–“

“Excuse me, baron,” replied an earnest, gentle voice behind him, “that I have followed the lackey and entered unbidden. I come on urgent business, and I must indeed speak with you instantly!”

“Be brief then, at least,” cried Ebenstreit, peevishly. “You see that my wife is here, and we are very busy arranging for a grand dinner to-day.”

Herr Splittgerber, instead of replying, cast a peculiarly sad, searching glance through the beautifully-adorned room, and at the two lackeys, who stood on each side of the wide folding-doors.

“Permit that these servants withdraw, and order them to close the doors,” said the book-keeper, almost commandingly. Ebenstreit, overruled by the solemn earnestness, obeyed against his will.

“Would you like me to leave also, sir?” said Marie, with a calm, haughty manner. “You have only to ask it and the baron will, undoubtedly, accord your request.”

“On the contrary, I beg you to remain,” quietly replied Splittgerber, “for what I have to say concerns you and your husband equally.”

“Now, then, I beg you to say it quickly,” cried Ebenstreit, impatiently; “I repeat, that we are very busy with preparing for to- day’s festival.”

“You will not give any fete to-day,” said Splittgerber, solemnly.

Ebenstreit, cringing and frightened, gazed at the old man who looked sadly at him.

The baroness laughed aloud, sneeringly. “My dear sir, your tone and manner remind me of the wicked spirit at the horrible moment in the story when be comes to demand the bartered soul, and the enchanted castle falls a wreck!”

“Your comparison is an apt one, baroness,” sighed the old man.–“I came to you, baron, because I loved your father. I have served your house thirty years, and amassed the little I had to commence business with in your service. Moreover, when you so suddenly dismissed me, you not only gave me my salary as a pension, but you funded the annuity with a considerable sum, which makes me, through your house, independent in means.”

“You may thank my wife for that. She demanded, when I dismissed you, that I should compensate you with the liberality of a true nobleman.”

“Oh, would that you had not done it, baroness!” cried Splittgerber– “would that you had permitted the old faithful pioneer in the business to remain by your husband! He might have warded off this misfortune and saved you by his experience and advice.”

“For this very reason I demanded your removal. You permitted yourself to proffer advice which I felt did not become you,” replied Marie, with a strange smile of triumph.

“And, I repeat, would that you had not done it!” sighed the old man. “I came to warn you, to conjure you, to save yourselves–to flee while there is yet time.”

“Oh, mercy! what has happened?” cried Ebenstreit, terrified.

“The banking-house of Ebenstreit, founded under the name of Ludwig, associated with Ehlert of Amsterdam, four months since, to buy and load ships for the Calcutta market. Herr Ebenstreit gathered together the last wrecks of his fortune remaining from his ruinous speculations, to win enormously in this investment. Besides, he indorsed the notes of the Amsterdam house for the sum of eighty thousand dollars, which has been drawn, so that their notes are protested there. Herr Ebenstreit will have to pay this sum!”

“What else?” asked Ebenstreit, almost breathless.

“The house of Ehlert, in Amsterdam, has failed; the principal has fled with the coffers; the notes for eighty thousand dollars were protested, and you, baron, must pay this sum to-day, or declare yourself a bankrupt, and go to prison for debt.”

Instantaneously a suppressed cry and a laugh were heard. Ebenstreit sank upon a seat, concealing his pallid face with his hands, while Marie stood at his side, her face beaming with joy.

“I am lost, I do not possess the eighth part of that sum! I cannot pay it. I must submit, for there are no further means to prevent it.”

“No,” replied Marie, with haughty tranquillity, “you have no further means to prevent it. The rich banker Ebenstreit will leave this house, no longer his own, to enter the debtor’s prison poor as a beggar–nay, worse, a defrauder!”

“Oh, how cruel you are!” groaned Ebenstreit.

“Did you say, baroness, that this house is no longer his?” asked Splittgerber, alarmed.

“No,” she triumphantly cried. “It belongs to me, and all that is in it–the pictures, statues, silver, diamonds, and pearls. Oh, I am still a rich woman!”

“And do you mean to retain this wealth if your husband becomes bankrupt? Do you not possess a common interest?” asked Splittgerber.

“No, thank Heaven, the community of interest was given up a year since,” cried Ebenstreit, joyfully. “Baroness von Ebenstreit is the lawful possessor of this house and furniture. I was not so indiscreet as you supposed. I have at least secured this to my wife, and she will be a rich woman even if I fail, and will not let me starve. I shall divide about ten per cent with my creditors, but my wife will be rich enough for us both.”

“This gives me to understand that you intend to make a fraudulent bankruptcy. You have settled every thing upon your wife to save yourself from the unhappy consequences of your failure. You will still be a rich man if your wife should sell her house, works of art, diamonds, gold and silver service, and equipages.”

“Yes, indeed, a very rich man,” said Marie. “In the last few weeks I have had my property estimated, and it would at least bring three hundred thousand dollars.”

“If the baron only possessed this, he could pay his creditors, and have a small amount over, sufficient to live upon economically and genteelly. But you would rather enjoy splendor, and are not particular about living honorably. You will undoubtedly sell your property, and go to Paris, to revel in luxury and pleasure, while your defrauded creditors may, through you come to poverty and want.- -Baron, I now see that your wife did well to bring about my removal. I should have, above all things, given you the unwelcome advice to sustain your honor unblemished, and dispose of your costly surroundings for the benefit of your creditors, that when you die it may be with a clear conscience. You prefer a life of luxury and ease, rocking your conscience to sleep until God will rouse it to a fearful awaking. But do as you like. I came here to offer you assistance, thinking that you would dispose of this property, and after paying your creditors have sufficient to live upon. Then I could be permitted to prove my fidelity to you. I now see that I was a fool. Yet in parting I will still beg of you to avoid the unfavorable impression of this dinner. The bill of exchange will be presented at four o’clock, and the bearer will not be satisfied with the excuse of your non-payment on account of dinner-company. You will be obliged to settle at once or be arrested. I have learned this from your chief creditor, and I begged him to have forbearance for you. I shall now justify him in showing you none, as you do not deserve it!–Farewell!”

The old book-keeper turned with a slight nod, and strode away through the drawing-room.

“Have you nothing to say to him? Will you let him go thus?” asked Marie, impetuously.

“Nothing at all. What should I say?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Then I will speak with him.” Marie called loudly after Splittgerber, saying, “I have a word to speak to you.”

The book-keeper remained standing near the door, and turning with downcast face, demanded of Marie what she wished.

“I have something to tell you,” she replied, with her usual tranquil, proud demeanor, approaching Splittgerber, who regarded her with severity and contempt, which she met with a gentle, friendly expression, a sweet smile hovering on her lips.

Marie came close up to the old man, who awaited her with haughty defiance, and never advanced one step to meet her–a lady splendidly bedecked with diamonds and gold-embroidered satin. She whispered a few words in his ear. He started, and, astonished, looked into her face, as if questioning what he heard. She nodded, smiling, and bent again to say a few words.

Suddenly Splittgerber seemed metamorphosed. His gloomy face brightened a little, and his insolent glance was changed to one of deep emotion, Bowing profoundly as he held the baroness’s proffered hand to take leave, he pressed it most respectfully to his lips.

“You will return in an hour?” Marie asked.

“Yes; I shall seek the gentlemen, and bring them with me,” he graciously replied.

“Thanks; I will then await you.”

Splittgerber departed, and Marie returned to Ebenstreit who, amazed, muttered some unintelligible words, having listened to her mysterious conversation with the old book-keeper.

“Now to you, sir!” said she, her whole tone and manner changing to harsh command; “the hour for settling our accounts has arrived–the hour that I have awaited, purchasing it by four years of torture, self-contempt, and despair. This comedy is at an end. I will buy of you my freedom. Do you hear me? I will cast off these galley-chains. I will be free!”

“Oh, Marie!” he cried, retreating in terror, “with what fearful detestation you regard me!”

“Do you wonder at it? Have I ever concealed this hate from you, or ever given you hope to believe that a reconciliation would be possible between us?”

“No, truly you have not, but now you will forgive me, for you know how I love you, and have provided for your future. You will remain rich, and I shall be poor.”

Marie regarded him with unspeakable contempt. “You are more despicable than I thought you were. You do not deserve forbearance or pity, for you are a dishonorable bankrupt, who cares not how much others may suffer, provided his future is secured. I will not, however, suffer the name which I have borne against my will, to be defamed and become a mark for scorn. I will compel you to remain an honest man, and be just to your creditors. I propose to pay the bills of exchange, which will be presented to you to-day, provided you will consent to my conditions.”

“Oh, Marie, you are an angel!” he cried, rushing toward her and kneeling at her feet, “I will do all that you wish, and consent to every thing you propose.”

“Will you swear it?” she coldly replied.

“I swear that I accept your conditions.”

“Bring the writing-materials from the window-niche, and seat yourself by this table.”

Ebenstreit brought them, and seated himself by the Florentine mosaic table, near which Marie was standing.

She drew from her pocket a paper, which she unfolded and placed before him to sign. “Sign this with your full name, and add, ‘With my own free will and consent,'” she commandingly ordered him.

“But you will first make known to me the contents?”

“You have sworn to sign it,” she said, “and unless you accept my conditions, you are welcome to be incarcerated for life in the debtor’s prison. You have only to choose. If you decide in the negative, I will exert myself that your creditors do not free you. I should trust in the justice of God having sent you there, and that man in miserable pity should not act against His will in freeing you. Now decide; will you sign the paper, or go to prison as a dishonorable bankrupt?”

He hastily seized the pen and wrote his name, handing the paper to Marie, sighing.

“You have forgotten to add the clause, ‘With my own free will and consent,'” she replied, hastily glancing at it, letting the paper drop like a wilted leaf, and her eyes flashing with scorn.

Ebenstreit saw it, and as he again handed her the paper, he exclaimed, “I read in your eyes the intense hate you bear me.”

“Yes,” she replied, composedly, “not only hate, but scorn. Hush! no response. You knew it long before I was forced to stand at the altar with you. I warned you not to unite yourself to me, and you had the impious audacity to defy me with your riches. The seed of hate which you then sowed, you may to-day reap the fruits of. You shall recognize now that money is miserable trash, and that when deprived of it you will never win sympathy from your so-called friends, but they will turn from you with contempt, when you crave their pity or aid.”

“I think that you exaggerate, dearest,” said Ebenstreit, fawningly. “You have many devoted friends among the ladies, and I can well say that I have found, among the distinguished gentlemen who visit our house, many noble, excellent ones who have met me with a warmth of friendship–“

“Because they would borrow money of the rich man,” interrupted Marie.

“Of course my coffers have always been accessible to my dear friends, and I prized the honor of proving my friendship by my deeds.”

“You will realize to-day how they prove their gratitude to you for it. Go, receive the good friends whom you have invited. It is time that they were here, and I perceive the carriages are approaching,”

Marie motioned to the door, with a dictatorial wave of her hand, and Ebenstreit betook himself to the reception-room. Just as he crossed the threshold, the usher announced “Herr Gedicke! Ebenstreit greeted him hastily in passing, and the old man went on to meet the baroness, who was hastening toward him.

“You have most graciously invited me to your house to-day, and you will excuse me that my earnest wish to see you has brought me earlier than any other guest.”

“I begged you to come a quarter of an hour sooner, for I would gladly speak with you alone a few moments,”

“I thought so, and hastened up here.”

“Did not my old Trude go to see you some days since?” asked Marie, timidly.

“She did, and you can well understand that I was much affected and surprised at her visit. I thought that you had forgotten me, baroness, and that every souvenir of the past had fled from your memory. I now see that your noble, faithful heart can never forget, and therefore has never ceased to suffer, which I ought to regret, for your sake, but for my own it pleased me to receive your kind greeting.”

Marie pressed her hand to her eyes and sighed audibly. “Pray do not speak so gently to me–it enervates me, and I would force myself to endure to-day. Only tell me, did Trude communicate to you my wishes, and will it be possible for you to fulfil them?”

“Your brave, good friend brought me a thousand dollars, praying me to convey this to Herr Moritz in order to defray the expenses of a journey to Italy.”

“Have you accomplished it, and in such a manner that he does not suspect the source from whence it came? He would not receive it if he had the least suspicion of it. I have seen him secretly several times as he passed to and fro from the Gymnasium, and he appeared to me to grow paler and more languid every day.”

“It is true that since you have come back he has changed. The old melancholy seems to have returned.”

“He needs distraction; he must go away and forget me. It has always been his earnest wish to travel in Italy. You must tell him that you have succeeded in getting the money for him.”

“I bethought myself of Moritz’s publisher, represented to him how necessary it was for the health of Professor Moritz to travel, begged of him to order a work upon Italy, and particularly the works of art of Rome, and propose to Moritz the acceptance of the money for that object, as he was quite too proud to receive it as a present.”

“That was an excellent idea,” cried Marie. “Has it been accomplished?”

“Yes, as Herr Maurer made the proposal, and Moritz replied, sighing, that he had not the means for such a journey, the publisher immediately offered him half of the remuneration in advance; consequently he starts to-morrow for Italy, unknowing of the thousand dollars being your gift.” [Footnote: This work, which was published after his return, still excites the highest interest, and is entitled “Travels of a German in Italy during 1786 and 1787.– Letters of Philip Carl Moritz,” 8 vols., Berlin, published by Frederick Maurer.]

“How much I thank you!” she joyfully cried. “Moritz is saved; he will now recover, and forget all his grief in studying the objects of interest in the Eternal City.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Herr Gedicke. “Were you not also in Italy?”

“I was indeed there two years, but it was very different with me. It is difficult to forget you are a slave, when listening all the while to the clanking of your chains.”

“My poor child, I read with sorrow the history of the past years in your grief-stricken face. It is the first time we have met since your marriage.”

“See what these years have made of me!–a miserable wife, whom the world esteems, but who recoils from herself. My heart has changed to stone, and I feel metamorphosed. The sight of you recalls that fearful hour, melting my heart and causing the tears to flow. At that time you blessed me, my friend and father. Oh, grant me your blessing again in this hour of sorrow! I implore you for it, before an important decision! I long for the sympathy of a noble soul!”

“I know not, my child, with what grief this hour may be laden for you; but I lay my hand again upon your head, imploring God in His divine mercy to sustain you!”

“Countess von Moltke and Frau von Morien!” announced the usher. In brilliant toilets the ladies rustled in, hastening toward the baroness, who had now regained her wonted composure, and received them in her usual stately manner.

“How perfectly charming you look to-night!” cried Countess Moltke. “To me you are ever the impersonation of the goddess of wealth and beauty strewing everywhere with lavish generosity your gifts, and turning every thing to gold with your touch.”

“But whose heart has remained tender and gentle,” added Frau von Morien.–“You are indeed a goddess, always enhancing the pleasures of others. To-day I wear the beautiful bracelet which you sent me because I admired it.”

“And I, ma toute belle,” cried the countess, “have adorned myself with this superb gold brocade which you so kindly had sent from Paris for me.”

“You have forgotten, countess, that you begged of me to give the order for you.”

“Ah, that is true! Then I am your debtor.”

“If you are not too proud to receive it as a present?”

“Oh, most certainly not; on the contrary, I thank you, my dear.– Tell me, my dear Morien, is not this woman an angel?”

At this instant the French ambassador, Marquis Treves, appeared among the numerous guests, whom the baroness stepped quickly forward to welcome, withdrawing with him into the window-niche.

“Welcome, marquis,” she said, quickly, in a low voice, “Have you brought me the promised papers?”

Drawing a sealed packet from his coat-pocket, he handed it to the baroness with a low bow, saying: “I would draw your attention to the fact once more, dear madam, that I have abided by the price named by yourself, in making this sale, although I am still of the opinion that it is below its value.”

“The sum is sufficient for my wants, and I rated its value according as it is taxed.”

“There are a hundred thousand dollars in bills of exchange, payable at the French embassy at any moment,” said the marquis.

“I thank you, sir, for this proof of friendly attention; and as it may be the last time we meet, I would assure you that I shall always remember your many and thoughtful kindnesses.”

“You speak, baroness, as if you would forsake the circle of which you are the brightest ornament.”

“No, the friends will forsake me,” she replied, with a peculiar smile. “Ere an hour shall pass not one of all these numerous guests will remain here.–Ah, there comes the decision! See there, marquis!”

The usher announced “Banker Splittgerber.” The old man entered followed by two men of not very presentable appearance, and whose toilet was but little in keeping with the brilliantly-decorated room and the aristocratic guests.

Never heeding the sneers nor contemptuous smiles, the faithful book- keeper wound his way, through the crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by the two men, up to Ebenstreit, who, with instinctive politeness, had placed himself near Marie.

“Gentlemen,” said Splittgerber, in a loud voice, “this is Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen, principal of the banking-house Ludwig.”

The two gentlemen approached, one of them saying, “They sent us here from your office.”

“This is not the place for business,” replied Ebenstreit. “Follow me!”

“No, gentlemen, remain here,” cried Marie. “Our guests present are such intimate, devoted friends that we have nothing to conceal from them; but on the contrary, I am convinced they will only be too happy of the occasion to prove their friendship, of which they have so often assured us.–These gentlemen demand the payment of a bill of exchange for eighty thousand dollars. Take my portfolio, Ebenstreit; there is a pencil in it. Go around and make a collection; undoubtedly the entire sum will be soon noted down.”

Ebenstreit approached the Baron von Frankenstein, saying: “Pardon me if I recall to your memory the sum of one thousand louis d’ors, due for four black horses three months since.”

“My dear sir,” cried the baron, “this is a strange manner to collect one’s debts. We were invited to a feast, and a pistol is pointed at us, demanding our debts to be cancelled!”

“How strange! How ridiculous!” heard one here and there among the guests, as they, with one accord, pressed toward the door to make their exit, which they found fastened.

“Remain,” cried Marie, with stately dignity. “I wish you honored guests to be witness of this scene in the hour of justification, as you were also present at the one when one of the noblest and best of men cursed me.–Banker Splittgerber, take these bills of exchange for one hundred thousand dollars. Pay these gentlemen, and devote the remainder to the other debts as far as it will go.”

As the three men withdrew by a side-drier, Marie exclaimed: “I will now explain to you that Baron von Leuthen is ruined–poor as a beggar when he will not work.”

“Marie,” cried Ebenstreit, terrified, rushing toward her, and seizing her by the arm. “Marie–“

She threw off his hand from her in anger. “Do not touch me, sir, and do not presume either to address me with any endearments. You have yourself said that our marriage was not a veritable one, but was like the union of associates in business, and now I would inform you it is dissolved: the one is a bankrupt; the other a woman whom you cursed, and who reclaims of you four years of shame and degradation. You wonder at my speaking thus, but you do not know this man, my friends.”

As she spoke, a door opened at the farther end of the room, and Trude entered in her simple dress, followed by Philip Moritz. Unobserved the two glided behind the charming grotto which had been arranged with flowers and wreaths in one of the niches. Every eye was turned upon the pale, stately beauty, erect in the centre of the room.

“Stay here, for no one can see us,” whispered Trude. “I could not bear to have you leave Berlin without hearing the justification of my dear Marie, and may God pardon me for letting you come here unbeknown to her! Listen, and pray to Him to forgive you the great injustice that you have done her. Be quiet, that no one may see you, and Marie be angry with her old Trude.”

“Yes,” continued Marie, with chilling contempt, “you should know this man before whom you have all bowed, pressed the hand, and called your friend, because he was rich, and, thanks to his wealth alone, became a titled man–a baron, buying the hand of a poor but noble maiden, whom he knew despised him, and passionately loved another, having sworn eternal constancy to him. I am that young girl. I begged, nay implored him, not to pursue me, but he was void of pity, mocked my tears, and said he could buy my love, and my heart would at last be touched by the influence of his wealth. I should have preferred to die, but Fate ordered that the one I loved, by my fault, should by imprisonment atone our brief dream of bliss. I could only save him by accepting this man; these were the conditions. I became his wife before the world, and took my oath in his presence to revenge myself, and after four years I shall accomplish it. I have spent his money, and of the rich man made a beggar. God be praised, I can now revenge myself in freeing myself!”

“Free yourself? It is not true! You are my wife still,” replied Ebenstreit, alarmed.

A radiant smile flitted over Marie’s face as she defied Ebenstreit with the law of the Great Frederick, who had decided that every unhappy couple without offspring could separate by their own free will and consent, having signed a paper to that effect.

“Is that the paper which you have made me sign?” cried Ebenstreit, alarmed.

“Yes, drawn up by my notary, and both of our names are signed to it.”

“It is a fraud!” cried Ebenstreit. “I will protest against it.”

“Do it, and you will find it a vain effort. I promised to pay your debt if you would put your name to the document then placed before you, which you did. Ask the Marquis Treves how I paid your debts: he will answer you that he has given me the money.”

“I had the honor to pay to the baroness one hundred thousand dollars, as she rightly informs you.”

“Yes,” continued Marie, “the marquis is the present possessor of this house and all that it contains–furniture, statues, and pictures; also the equipages and silver. To my mother I sent my diamonds, costly laces, and dresses, to indemnify her for the annuity which Herr von Ebenstreit settled upon her as purchase-money which he cannot pay, now that he is ruined.”

“Marquis,” cried Ebenstreit, pale with anger, “have you really bought this house and its contents?”

“I have done so, and the one hundred thousand dollars the baroness has paid over to Herr Splittgerber.”

“Oh! I am ruined,” groaned Ebenstreit–” I am lost!” and, covering his face with his hands, he rushed from the room.

Marie gazed at him with a sad expression, saying: “Ladies and gentlemen, you now know to whom this house belongs. You can no longer say that I am the daughter whom the late General von Leuthen sold to a rich man. I am free!”

At this moment a side-door opened, and Frau von Leuthen was heard saying to old Trude: “Let me in! it is in vain to hold me back. I will have an explanation from my daughter, and learn what all this means.” As she pushed herself into the room, she exclaimed: “Ah, it is a fete day! There is the baroness in all her glory and splendor. She is not crazed, as I feared this morning, when she sent me all her ornaments and fine dresses and laces, with a note, sealed with black, inscribed upon it, ‘Will Of the Baroness Ebenstreit von Leuthen.’ I opened it, and read: ‘I give to my mother my precious ornaments, laces, and dresses, to secure to her the pension which she has lost.–Marie. ‘I came here to learn if my daughter were dead, and what the conclusion of this lost pension may be, and I find–“

“You find the confirmation of all that I wrote to you,” replied Marie, coldly. “Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen is ruined. I have secured to you, in the sum which my jewels and laces will bring you, the annuity, so that you have not lost the money promised you for your daughter, and the marriage you have arranged has at least borne good fruit to you.”

“You are a cruel, ungrateful child,” cried the mother. “I have long known it, and rejected you from my heart, and from all shame I will yet protect the name you bear. I have just seen a sign in the Friedrich-strasse, ‘Flower manufactory of Marie von Leuthen.’ What does this mean? Terrified, I stared speechless at these fearful words, and at the busy workmen preparing the house.”

“I will explain it to you,” cried Marie, with radiant mien. “I have again become the flower-maker, and beg your favor, Countess von Moltke, Frau von Morien, and all the other ladies. I am free, and no longer the wife of a hated husband–no longer the distinguished and wealthy woman. All delusion and mockery have vanished. The costly dress and jewels that I now wear I will cast of from me as the last souvenir of the past.”

Unclasping the diamond necklace and bracelets, she handed them to her mother, saying: “Take them, and also this dress, the last finery I possess.” She unloosed the band, and the long white satin train fell at her feet. Emerging from it as from a silvery cloud, she stood before them in a simple white dress, as she was clothed in her girlhood. “Take them all,” she joyfully cried. “Take them, mother, it is all past. I am now myself again. Farewell, witnesses of this scene! I now quit your circle; and you, my mother, I forgive you; may the thoughts of your unhappy child never trouble you, waking or sleeping; may you forget that your daughter lives, and is wretched. Revenge has not softened my grief, or removed your curse from my head!”

“I will lift it off your brow, Marie!” cried Moritz, suddenly appearing from the window-niche, with beaming face and outstretched arms, approaching Marie, whom surprised and alarmed, retreated. “Oh, noble, courageous woman, forgive me that I have been an unbidden witness to this scene, though by this means I now clearly recognize your strength of mind, and elevation of soul, and the wrong that I have committed in doubting and cursing you during these four years of gloom and despair. I bow before you, Marie, and implore you, upon my knees, to forgive me all the cruel, harsh words that I have uttered–that I have dared as a wretched fool to doubt you in this long night of despair. The day is dawning again upon us; a new sun will yet cheer us with its rays. Do not turn from me, but look at me, and grant me forgiveness.–My dear friend and father, speak for me, for you know what I have suffered. Beg of her to forgive me.”

“Marie,” said the venerable old man, approaching her, gently putting his arm around her, “God has willed that you, my poor, long-tried child, should pass through a season of extreme sorrow. You are now released, and all that belonged to you has vanished!”

As he spoke, he signed to the guests to withdraw. Many had already escaped the painful scene by the side-door. Marie was now alone in the magnificent apartment, with Herr Gedicke and Moritz. She still stood, with concealed face, in the centre of the room.

“Oh, Marie,” implored Moritz, “hide not your dear face from me! Read in mine the deep grief of the past and the bliss of the future. I thank God that this unnatural union is severed, and that you are free. Be courageous to the end!” Moritz impetuously drew her hand away, revealing her tearful countenance, as her head sank. upon his shoulder. “Can you not forgive me, Marie?” he cried, with deep emotion. “We have both wandered through a waste of grief, and now approach life radiant with happiness. Oh, speak to me, Marie; can you not love me and forgive me?”

She gazed into his eyes, and in their depths read that which gradually softened her hardened features, and caused a smile to play upon her lip. “I love you dearly, devotedly; let this be our parting word. Go forth into the world, Moritz; my affection will follow you whithersoever you wander, and my soul will be true to you through all eternity, though we are forever separated. The poor wife, with her dismal retrospections, must not cast a shadow upon your future. Go, my beloved–Italy awaits you, and art will console you!”

“Follow me, dear Marie; only by your side am I happy. You are free and independent,” cried Moritz.

“Oh, father,” cried Marie, leaning upon the venerable old man, “explain to him that I am still the wife of that hated man!”

“She is right, Philip; do not urge her further. She must first be legally separated, and this weary heart must have time to recover its wonted calm. Go to Italy, and confide your future and happiness to my care. Marie has lost a mother, but she shall find a father in me. I will watch over her until your return.”

Just then the door opened, and Trude entered. “Every thing is ready; all the things which used to stand in the little garret-room are packed and sent to the manufactory. Shall we go, too, dear child?”

“Yes,” she cried, embracing the faithful old woman. “Farewell, Philip–Italy calls you!”

“I will go, but when I return will you not be my wife?”

Marie gazed at Moritz, radiant with happiness, saying: “The answer is engraven upon my heart. Return, and then I will joyfully respond to your love before God and man!”