Berlin and Sans-Souci by Louise MuhlbachOr Frederick the Great and his friends (page 9)

At the same moment wrote Frederick, King of Prussia, to Algarotti: “Voltaire is here; he has of late, as you know, been guilty of an act unworthy of him. He deserves to be branded upon Parnassus. It is a shame that so base a soul should be united to so exalted a genius. Of all this, however, I shall take no notice; he is necessary to me in my study of the French language. One can learn beautiful things from an evil-doer. I must learn his French. I have nothing to do with his morals. He unites in himself the strangest opposites. The world worships his genius and despises his character.” [Footnote: Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand.]

CHAPTER III.

THE CONFIDENCE-TABLE.

“And now, friends, let us be joyful, and forget all the cares and sorrows of the world,” cried the king, with a ringing laugh; “raise your glasses and strike them merrily. Long life to mirth, to jest, to joy!”

The glasses were raised, and as they met they rang out cheerily; they were pressed to the lips and emptied at a draught; the guests then seated themselves silently at the table. Frederick glanced at the circle of his friends who sat with him at the round table; his eyes dwelt searchingly upon every laughing face, then turned to the garden of Sans-Souci, which sent its perfumed breath, its song of birds, its evening breeze, through the open doors and windows, while the moon, rising in cloudless majesty, shone down upon them and rivalled with her silver rays the myriads of wax-lights which glittered in the crystal chandeliers.

“This is a glorious evening,” said the king, “and we will enjoy it gloriously.”

He ordered the servants to close the doors, place the dessert and champagne upon the table, and leave the room. Noiselessly and silently this command was fulfilled. Frederick then greeted each one of his guests with a kindly nod.

“Welcome, thrice welcome are you all!” said he. “I have longed to have you all together, and now, at last, you are here. There sits Voltaire, whose divine Emile was delivered first of a book, then of a child, and then released from life before he was free to come to Berlin. There is Algarotti, the swan of Italy, who spreads his wings and would gladly fly to the land of oranges and myrtles. There is La Mettrie, who only remains here because he is convinced that my Cape wine is pure, and my pates de foie gras truly from Strasbourg. There is D’Argens, who sought safety in Prussia because in every other land in Europe there are sweethearts waiting and sighing for him, to whom he has sworn a thousand oaths of constancy. There is Bastiani, who only remains with us while the Silesian dames, who have frankly confessed their sins to him and been absolved, find time and opportunity to commit other peccadilloes, which they will do zealously, in order to confess them once more to the handsome Abbe Bastiani. And lastly, there is my Lord Marshal, the noblest and best of all, whose presence we owe to the firmness of his political principles and the misfortunes of the house of Stuart.”

“And there is the Solomon of the North,” cried Voltaire–“there is Frederick, the youngest of us all, and the wisest–the philosopher of Sans-Souci. There sits Apollo, son of the gods, who has descended from Olympus to be our king.”

“Let us not speak of kings,” said Frederick. “When the sun goes down there is no king at Sans-Souci; he leaves the house and retires into another castle, God only knows where. We are all equal and wholly sans gene. At this table, there are no distinctions; we are seven friends, who laugh and chat freely with each other; or, if you prefer it, seven wise men.”

“This is then the Confidence-Table,” said Voltaire, “of which D’Argens has so often spoken to me, and which has seemed to me like the Round-Table of King Arthur. Long live the Confidence-Table!”

“It shall live,” cried the king, “and we will each one honor this, our first sitting, by showing our confidence in each other. Every one shall relate something piquant and strange of his past life, some lively anecdote, or some sweet little mystery which we dare trust to our friends, but not to our wives. The oldest begins first.”

“I am afraid I am that,” said Voltaire, “but your majesty must confess that my heart has neither white hair nor wrinkles. Old age is a terrible old woman who slides quietly, grinning and threatening, behind every man, and watches the moment when she dares lay upon him the mask of weary years through which he has lived and suffered. She has, alas! fastened her wrinkled mask upon my face, but my heart is young and green, and if the women were not so short- sighted as to look only upon my outward visage, if they would condescend to look within, they would no longer call me the old Voltaire, but would love and adore me, even as they did in my youth.”

“Listen well, friends, he will no doubt tell us of some duchess who placed him upon an altar and bowed down and worshipped him.”

“No, sire, I will tell you of an injury, the bitterest I ever experienced, and which I can never forget.”

“As if he had ever forgotten an injury, unless he had revenged it threefold!” cried D’Argens.

“And chopped up his enemy for pastry and eaten him,” said La Mettrie.

“Truly, if I should eat all my enemies, I should suffer from an everlasting indigestion, and, in my despair, I might fly to La Mettrie for help. It is well known that when you suffer from incurable diseases, you seek, at last, counsel of the quack.”

“You forget that La Mettrie is a regular physician,” said the king, with seeming earnestness.

“On the contrary, he remembered it well,” said La Mettrie, smiling. “The best physician is the greatest quack, or the most active grave- digger, if you prefer it.”

“Silence!” said the king. “Voltaire has the floor; he will tell us of the greatest offence he ever received. Give attention.”

“Alas! my heart is sad, sire; of all other pain, the pain of looking back into the past is the most bitter. I see myself again a young man, the Arouet to whom Ninon de l’Enclos gave her library and a pension, and who was confined for twenty years to the Bastile because he loved God and the king too little, and the charming Marquise de Villiers and some other ladies of the court too much. Besides these exalted ladies, there was a beautiful young maiden whom I loved–perhaps because she had one quality which I had never remarked in the possession of my more noble mistresses–she was innocent! Ah, friends, you should have seen Phillis, and you would have confessed that no rose-bud was lovelier, no lily purer, than she. Phillis was the daughter of a gypsy and a mouse-catcher, and danced on the tight-rope in the city-gardens.”

“Ah, it appears to me the goddess of innocence dances always upon the tight-rope in this world,” said the king. “I should not be surprised to hear that even your little Phillis had a fall.”

“Sire, she fell, but in my arms; and we swore eternal love and constancy. You all know from experience the quality and fate of such oaths; they are the kindling-wood upon which the fire of love is sustained; but, alas, kindling and fire soon burnt out! Who is responsible? Our fire burned long; but, think you my Phillis, whom I had removed from the tight-rope, and exalted to a dancer upon the stage, was so innocent and naive, as to believe that our love must at last be crowned with marriage! I, however, was a republican, and feared all crowns. I declared that Ninon de l’Enclos had made me swear never to marry, lest my grandchildren should fall in love with me, as hers had done with her.”

“Precaution is praiseworthy,” said La Mettrie. “The devil’s grandmother had also a husband, and her grandsons might have fallen in love with her.”

“Phillis did not take me for the devil’s grandfather, but for the devil himself. She cried, and shrieked, and cast my oaths of constancy in my teeth. I did not die of remorse, nor she of love, and to prove her constancy, she married a rich Duke de Ventadour.”

“And you, no doubt, gave away the bride, and swore you had never known a purer woman!”

“No, sire, I was at that time again in the Bastile, and left it only as an exile from France. When at last I was allowed to return to Paris, I sought out my Duchess de Ventadour, my Phillis of former times. I found her a distinguished lady; she had forgotten the follies of her youth; had forgotten her father, the rope-dancer; her mother, the mouse-catcher. She had no remembrance of the young Arouet, to whom she had sworn to say only ‘tu’ and ‘toi.’ Now she was grave and dignified, and ‘Vous, monsieur,’ was on her fair lip. Thanks to the heraldry office, she had become the daughter of a distinguished Spaniard, blessed with at least seven ancestors. Phillis gave good dinners, had good wine, and the world overlooked her somewhat obscure lineage. She was the acknowledged and respected Duchess Ventadour. She was still beautiful, but quite deaf; consequently her voice was loud and coarse, when she believed herself to be whispering. She invited me to read some selections from my new work in her saloon, and I was weak enough to accept the invitation. I had just completed my ‘Brutus,’ and burned with ambition to receive the applause of the Parisiennes. I commenced to read aloud my tragedy of ‘Brutus’ in the saloon of the duchess, surrounded by a circle of distinguished nobles, eminent in knowledge and art. I was listened to in breathless attention. In the deep silence which surrounded me, in the glowing eyes of my audience, in the murmurs of applause which greeted me, I saw that I was still Voltaire, and that the hangman’s hands, which had burned my ‘Lettres Philosophiques,’ had not destroyed my fame or extinguished my genius. While I read, a servant entered upon tiptoe, to rekindle the fire. The Duchess Ventadour sat near the chimney. She whispered, or thought she whispered, to her servant. I read a little louder to drown her words. I was in the midst of one of the grandest scenes of my tragedy. My own heart trembled with emotion. Here and there I saw eyes, which were not wont to weep, filled with tears, and heard sighs from trembling lips, accustomed only to laughter and smiles. And now I came to the soliloquy of Brutus. He was resolving whether he would sacrifice his son’s life to his fatherland. There was a solemn pause, and now, in the midst of the profound silence, the Duchess Ventadour in a shrill voice, which she believed to be inaudible, said to her servant: ‘Do not fail to serve mustard with the pig’s head!'”

A peal of laughter interrupted Voltaire, in which he reluctantly joined, being completely carried away by the general mirth.

“That was indeed very piquant, and I think you must have been greatly encouraged.”

“Did you eat of the pig’s head, or were your teeth on edge?”

“No, they were sharp enough to bite, and I bit! In my first rage I closed my book, and cried out: ‘Madame–! Well! as you have a pig’s head, you do not require that Brutus should offer up the head of his son!’ I was on the point of leaving the room, but the poor duchess, who was just beginning to comprehend her unfortunate interruption, hastened after me, and entreated me so earnestly to remain and read further, that I consented. I remained and read, but not from ‘Brutus.’ My rage made me, for the moment, an improvisator. Seated near to the duchess, surrounded by the proud and hypocritical nobles, who acknowledged Phillis only because she had a fine house and gave good dinners, I improvised a poem which recalled to the grand duchess and her satellites the early days of the fair Phillis, and brought the laugh on my side. My poem was called ‘Le tu et le vous.’ Now, gentlemen, this is the story of my ‘Brutus’ and the pig’s head,”

“I acknowledge that it is a good story. It will be difficult for you, D’Argens, to relate so good a one,” said the king.

“I dare not make the attempt, sire. Voltaire was ever the child of good fortune, and his life and adventures have been extraordinary, while I was near sharing the common fate of younger sons. I was destined for the priesthood.”

“That’s a droll idea, indeed!” said Frederick. “D’Argens, who believes in nothing, intended for a priest! How did you escape this danger?”

“Through the example of my dear brother, who was of a passionate piety, and became in the school of the Jesuits so complete a fanatic and bigot that he thundered out his fierce tirades against all earthly joys and pastimes, no matter how innocent they were. To resemble the holy Xavier and the sanctified and childlike Alois Gonzago, was his highest ideal. In the extremity of his piety and prudery he slipped into the art-gallery of our eldest brother and destroyed Titian’s most splendid paintings and the glorious statues of the olden time. He gloried in this act, and called it a holy offering to virtue. He could not understand that it was vandalism. Our family had serious fears for the intellect of this poor young saint, maddened by the fanaticism of the Jesuits. They sought counsel of the oldest and wisest of our house, the Bishop of Bannes. After thinking awhile, the bishop said: ‘I will soon cure the young man of this folly; I will make him a priest.'”

“Truly, your uncle, the bishop, was a wise man; he drove out folly with folly. He knew well that no one had less reverence for the churches than those who have built them, and are their priests.”

“That was the opinion of my very worthy uncle. He said, with a sly laugh: ‘When he has heard a few confessions, he will understand the ways of the world better!’ The bishop was right. My brother was consecrated. In a short time he became very tolerant and considerate, as a man and as a father confessor.”

“But you have not told us, marquis, how the fanaticism of your brother liberated you from the tonsure?” said the king.

“My father found I would commence my priestly life with as much intolerance as my brother had done. He therefore proposed to me to consecrate myself to the world, and, instead of praying in the church, to fight for the cross. The thought pleased me, and I became a Knight of Malta.”

“Your first deed of arms was, without doubt, to seat yourself and write your ‘Lettres Juives,'” said the king; “those inspiring letters in which the knight of the cross mocks at Christianity and casts his glove as a challenge to revealed religion.”

“No, sire, I began my knightly course by entering the land of heathen and idolaters, to see if a man could be truly happy and contented in a land where there was neither Messiah nor crucifix–I went to Turkey.”

“But you carried your talisman with you?” said the Abbe Bastiani– “you wore the cross upon your mantle?”

“A remark worthy of our pious abbe,” said Frederick; “no one knows better the protecting power of the cross than the priest who founded it. Tell us, marquis, did your talisman protect you? Did you become an apostate to the true faith?”

“Sire, I wished first to see their temples and their mode of worship, before I decided whether I would be an unbelieving believer or a believing unbeliever.”

“I think,” said Voltaire, “you have never been a believer, or made a convert; you have made nothing but debts.”

“That is, perhaps, because I am not a great writer, and do not understand usury and speculation,” said D’Argens, quietly. “Besides, no courtesan made me her heir, and no mistress obtained me a pension!”

“Look now,” said the king, “our good marquis is learning from you, Voltaire; he is learning to scratch and bite.”

“Yes,” said Voltaire; “there are creatures whom all men imitate, even in their vile passions and habits; perhaps they take them for virtues.”

The face of the marquis was suffused; he rose angrily, and was about to answer, but the king laid his hand upon his arm. “Do not reply to him; you know that our great poet changes himself sometimes into a wicked tiger, and does not understand the courtly language of men. Do not regard him, but go on with your story.”

The king–drew back his hand suddenly, and, seemingly by accident, touched the silver salt-cellar; it fell and scattered the salt upon the table. The marquis uttered a light cry, and turned pale.

“Alas!” cried the king, with well-affected horror, “what a misfortune! Quick, quick, my friends! let us use an antidote against the wiles of the demons, which our good marquis maintains springs always from an overturned salt-cellar. Quick, quick! take each of you a pinch of salt, and throw it upon the burners of the chandeliers; listen how it crackles and splutters! These are the evil spirits in hell-fire, are they not, marquis? Now let each one take another pinch, and throw it, laughing merrily, over the left shoulder. You, Voltaire, take the largest portion, and cast it from you; I think you have always too much salt, and your most beautiful poems are thereby made unpalatable.”

“Ah, sire, you speak of the salt of my wit. No one remembers that the tears which have bathed my face have fallen upon my lips, and become crystallized into biting sarcasms. Only the wretched and sorely tried are sharp of wit and bitter of speech.”

“Not so,” said La Mettrie; “these things are the consequence of bad digestion. This machine is not acted upon by what you poets call spirit, and I call brain; it reacts upon itself. When a man is melancholy, it comes from his stomach. To be gay and cheery, to have your spirits clear and fresh, you have nothing more to do than to eat heartily and have a good digestion. Moliere could not have written such glorious comedies if he had fed upon sour krout and old peas, instead of the woodcock, grouse, and truffles which fell to him from King Louis’s table. Man is only a machine, nothing more.”

“La Mettrie, I will give you to-morrow nothing but grouse and truffles to eat: woe to you, then, if the day after you do not write me just such a comedy as Moliere’s! But we entirely forget that the marquis owes us the conclusion of his story; we left him a Knight of Malta, and we cannot abandon him in this position; that would be to condemn him to piety and virtue. Go on, dear marquis, we have thrown the salt and banished the demons–go on, then, with your history.”

“Well,” said the marquis, “to relate it is less dangerous than to live through it. I must confess, however, that the perils of life have also their charms. I wished, as I had the honor to say to you, to witness a religious service in the great mosque at Constantinople, and by my prayers, supported by a handful of gold pieces, I succeeded in convincing the Turk, who had the care of the key to the superb Sophia, that it was not an unpardonable sin to allow an unbelieving Christian to witness the holy worship of an unbelieving Mussulman. Indeed, he risked nothing but the bastinado; while I, if discovered, would be given over to the hangman, and could only escape my fate by becoming a Mussulman.”

“What an earnest and profitable Christian Holy Mother Church would thus have lost in the author of Les Lettres Juives!” said Frederick, laughing.

“But what an exquisite harem the city of Constantinople would have won!” cried Voltaire.

“What a happiness for you, my Lord Marshal, that your beautiful Mohammedan was not then born; the marquis would without doubt have bought her from you!”

“If Zuleima will allow herself to be bought, there will be nothing to pay,” said Lord Marshal, with a soft smile.

“You are right, my lord,” said the marquis, with a meaning side glance at Voltaire, “you are right; nothing is more despicable than the friendship which can be purchased.”

“You succeeded, however, in bribing the good Mussulman,” said Algarotti, “and enjoyed the unheard-of happiness of witnessing their worship.”

“Yes, the night before a grand fete, my Turk led me to the mosque, and hid me behind a great picture which was placed before one of the doors of the tribune. This was seemingly a safe hiding-place. The tribune was not used, and years had passed since the door had been opened. It lay, too, upon the southern side of the mosque, and you know that the worshippers of Mohammed must ever turn their faces toward Mecca, that is, to the morning sun; I was sure, therefore, that none of these pious unbelievers would ever look toward me. From my concealment I could with entire comfort observe all that passed; but I made my Turk most unhappy in the eagerness of my curiosity. I sometimes stepped from behind my picture, and leaned a little over the railing. My poor Mussulman entreated me with such a piteous mien, and pointed to the soles of his feet with such anguish, that I was forced to take pity on him and withdraw into my concealment. But at last, in spite of the solemnities, and my own ardent piety, the animal was roused within and overcame me. I was hungry! and as I had expected this result, I had placed a good bottle of wine and some ham and fresh bread in my pocket. I now took them out, spread my treasures upon the floor, and began to breakfast. The Turk looked at me with horror, and he would not have been surprised if the roof of the holy mosque had fallen upon the Christian hound who dared to desecrate it by drinking wine and eating ham within its precincts, both of which were strictly forbidden by the prophet. But the roof did not fall, not even when I forced my Mussulman to eat ham and drink wine with me, by threatening to show myself openly if he refused. He commenced his unholy meal with dark frowns and threatening glances, ever looking up, as if he feared the sword of the prophet would cleave him asunder. Soon, however, he familiarized himself with his sin, and forgot the holy ceremonies which were being solemnized. When the service was over, and all others had left the mosque, he prayed me to wait yet a little longer, and as the best of friends, we finished the rest of my bacon and drank the last drop of my wine to the health of the prophet, laughing merrily over the dangers we had escaped. As at last we were about to separate, my good Turk was sad and thoughtful, and he confessed to me that he had the most glowing desire to become a Christian. The bacon and wine had refreshed him marvellously, and he was enthusiastic for a religion which offered such glorious food, not only for the soul, but for the body. I was too good a Christian not to encourage his holy desires. I took him into my service, and when we had left Turkey, and found ourselves on Christian soil, my Mussulman gratified the thirst of his soul, and became a son of Holy Mother Church, and felt no remorse of conscience in eating ham and drinking wine. So my visit to the holy mosque was rich in blessed consequences; it saved a soul, and my wine and my ham plucked a man from the hell-fire of unbelief. That is, I believe, the only time I ever succeeded in making a proselyte.”

“The salvation of that soul will free you from condemnation and insure your own eternal happiness. When you come to die, marquis, you dare say, ‘I have not lived in vain, I have won a soul to heaven.'”

“Provided,” said Voltaire, “that the bacon with which you converted the Turk was not part of one of the beasts into which the devils were cast, as is written in the Holy Scriptures. If this was so, then the newly-baked Christian has certainly eaten of everlasting damnation.”

“Let us hope that this is not so,” said Frederick; “and now, my Lord Marshal, it is your turn to give us a piquant anecdote; or, if you prefer it, an heroic deed from your life, so rich in virtue, magnanimity, truth, and constancy. Ah, messieurs, let us now be thoughtful, cast down our eyes, and exalt our hearts. A virtuous man is about to speak: truly virtue is a holy goddess loved by few, to whom few altars are erected, and who has few priests in her service. My Lord Marshal is consecrated to her altar; you may well believe this when I assure you of it–I, who have been so often deceived, and often tempted to believe no longer in the existence of virtue. My noble Keith has forced me to be credulous. This faith comforts me, and I thank him.”

With a glance of inexpressible love he gave his hand to his friend, who pressed it to his breast. The faces of all present were grave, almost stern. The words of the king were a reproach, and they felt wounded. Frederick thought not of them; he looked alone upon the noble, handsome face of Lord Marshal, not remembering that the love and consideration manifested for him might excite the envy and jealousy of his other friends.

“Now, my lord, will you commence your history, or are we too impure and sinful to listen to any of the holy mysteries of your pure life?”

“Ah, sire, there are no mysteries in my simple life; it lies like an open book before the eyes of my king, and, indeed, to all the world.”

“In that pure book I am sure that all can learn wisdom and experience,” said Frederick. “It is a book of rarest value, in which every nobleman can learn how to be faithful to his king in dire misfortune and to the gates of death. Ah, my lord, there are few men like yourself, who can count it as imperishable fame to have been condemned to the scaffold. The Pretender must, indeed, be a most noble prince, as you were willing to give your life for him.”

“He was my rightful king and lord, and I owed him allegiance. That I was condemned for him, and pardoned, and banished from England, I cannot now consider a misfortune, as I have thereby enjoyed the great happiness of being near your majesty. But you must not think too highly of my constancy to ‘the Pretender;’ it was not pure loyalty, and if I carelessly and rashly cast my life upon a wild chance, it was because the world had but little value for me. In the despair and anguish of my heart I should have called Death a welcome friend. Had I been happier I should have been less brave.”

“And will you tell us, my lord, why you were unhappy?”

“Sire, mine is a simple little history, such as is daily acted out in this weary world. We are all, however, proud to think that none have suffered as we have done. There are many living hearts covered as with a gravestone, under which every earthly happiness is shrouded, but the world is ignorant, and goes laughing by. My heart has bled in secret, and my happiness is a remembrance; my life once promised to be bright and clear as the golden morning sun. The future beckoned to me with a thousand glorious promises and greeted me with winning, magic smiles. I saw a young, lovely, innocent, modest maiden, like a spring rose, with heaven’s dew still hanging untouched upon its soft leaves. I saw and loved; it seemed to me God had sent me in her His most wondrous revelation. I loved, I worshipped her. She was the daughter of a distinguished French noble. I went to Paris, a young and modest man, highly commended to many influential and powerful families of the court. We met daily; at first with wonder and surprise; then, with deep emotion, we heard each other’s voices without daring to speak together; and then, at last, I no longer dared to utter a word in her presence, because my voice trembled and I could not control it. One day, as we sat silently next each other in a large assembly, I murmured in low, broken tones: ‘If I dared to love you, would you forgive me?’ She did not look up, but she said, ‘I should be happy.’ We then sank again into our accustomed silence, only looking from time to time into each other’s happy eyes. This lasted six weeks, six weeks of silent but inexpressible happiness. At last I overcame my timidity and made known the sweet mystery of my love. I demanded the hand of my Victoire from her father; he gave a cheerful consent, and led me to my beloved. I pressed her to my heart, drunk with excess of joy. At this moment her grandmother entered with a stern face and scornful glance. She asked if I was a Protestant. This fearful question waked me from my dream of bliss. In the rapture of the last few months I had thought of nothing but my love. Love had become my religion, and I needed no other influence to lead me to worship God. But this, alas, was not sufficient! I declared myself a Protestant. Victoire uttered a cry of anguish, and sank insensible into her father’s arms. Two days afterward I left France. Victoire would not see me, and refused my hand. I returned to England, broken-hearted, desperate, almost insane. In this delirium of grief I joined ‘the Pretender,’ and undertook for him and his cause the wildest and most dangerous adventures, which ended, at last, in my being captured and condemned to the block. This, your majesty, was the only love of my life. You see I had, indeed, but little to relate.”

Frederick said nothing, and no one dared to break the silence. Even Voltaire repressed the malicious jest which played upon his lip, and was forced to content himself with a mocking smile.

“What were the words that your father spoke when he sent you forth as a man into the world? I think you once repeated them to me,” said Frederick.

“Quand vos yeux, en naissant, s’ouvraient a la lumiere, Chacun vous souriait, mon fils, et vous pleuriez. Vivez si bien, qu’un jour, a votre derniere heure, Chacun verse des pleurs, et qu’on vous voie sourire.”

“You have fulfilled your father’s wish,” said the king. “You have so lived, that you can smile when all others are weeping for you, and no man who has loved can forget you. I am sure your Victoire will never forget you. Have you not seen her since that first parting?”

“Yes, sire, I have seen her once again, as I came to Prussia, after being banished forever from England. Ah, sire, that was a happy meeting after twenty years of separation. The pain and grief of love were over, but the love remained. We confessed this to each other. In the beginning there was suffering and sorrow, then a sweet, soft remembrance of our love, for we had never ceased to think upon each other. It seems that to love faithfully and eternally it is only necessary to love truly and honorably, and then to separate. Custom and daily meeting cannot then brush the bloom from love’s light wings; its source is in heaven, and it returns to the skies and shines forever and inextinguishable a star over our heads. When I looked again. upon Victoire she had been a long time married, and to the world she had, perhaps, ceased to be beautiful. To me she will be ever lovely; and as she looked upon me it seemed to me that the clouds and shadows had been lifted from my life, and my sun was shining clear. But, sire, all this has no interest for you. How tenderly I loved Victoire you will know, when I tell you that the only poem my unpoetical brain has ever produced was written for her.”

“Let us hear it, my lord,” said the king.

“If your majesty commands it, and Voltaire will forgive it,” said Lord Marshal.

“I forgive it, my lord,” cried Voltaire. “Since I listened to you I live in a land of wonders and soft enchantments, whose existence I have never even guessed, and upon whose blooming, perfumed beauty I scarcely dare open my unholy eyes. The fairy tales of my dreamy youth seem now to be true, and I hear a language which we, poor sons of France, living under the regency of the Duke of Orleans, have no knowledge of. I entreat you, my lord, let us hear your poem.”

Lord Marshal bowed, and, leaning back in his chair, in a full rich voice, he recited the following verses:

“‘Un trait lance par caprice
M’atteignit dans mon printemps;
J’en porte la cicatrice
Encore, sous mes cheveux blancs. Craignez les maux qu’amour cause,
Et plaignez un insense
Qui n’a point cueilli la rose,
Et qui l’epine a blesse.’
[Footnote: Memoires de la Marquise de Crequi.]

“And now,” said Lord Marshal rapidly, wishing to interrupt all praise and all remark as to his poem; “I have yet a confession to make, and if you have not laughed over my verses, you will surely laugh at what I now state. Out of love for my lost mistress, I became a Catholic. I thought that the faith, to which my Victoire offered up her love, must be the true religion in which all love was grounded. I wished to be hers in spirit, in life, and in death. In spirit, in truth, I am a Catholic; and now, gentlemen, you may laugh.”

“Sublime!” whispered Voltaire.

“No one will smile,” said the king, sternly. “Joy and peace to him who is a believer, and can lay his heart upon the cross, and feel strengthened and supported by it. He will not wander in strange and forbidden paths, as we poor, short-sighted mortals often do. Will you tell us the name of your beloved mistress, or is that a secret?”

“Sire, our love was pure and innocent; we dare avow it to the whole world. My beloved’s name was Victoire de Froulay; she is now Marquise de Crequi.”

“Ah, the Marquise de Crequi!” said Voltaire, with animation: “one of the wittiest and most celebrated women of Paris.”

“She is still living?” said the king, thoughtfully. “would you like to meet her again, my lord?”

“Yes, your majesty, for one hour, to say to her that I am a Catholic, and that we shall meet in heaven!”

“I will send you as ambassador to Paris, my lord, and you shall bear the marquise my greetings.” [Footnote: Lord Marshal went to Paris, as an ambassador from Prussia, in 1751.]

“Your majesty will thus be acting an epigram for George of England,” said Voltaire, laughing. “Two of his noblest rebels will be cementing the friendship of France and Prussia. Lord Tyrconnel, the Irishman, is ambassador from France to Prussia, and my Lord Marshal Keith is to be ambassador from Prussia to France. All, my lord! how will the noble marquise rejoice when her faithful knight shall introduce to her his most beautiful possession–the young and lovely Mohammedan Zuleima! How happy will Zuleima be when you point out to her the woman who loved you so fondly! She will then know, my lord, that you also once had a heart, and have been beloved by a woman.”

“I will present my little Zuleima to the marquise,” said Lord Marshal; “and, when I tell her that she was a bequest of my dear brother, who, at the storming of Oschakow, where he commanded as field-marshal, rescued her from the flames, she will find it just and kind that I gave the poor orphan a home and a father. I wish first, however, to give Zuleima a husband, if your majesty will allow it. The Tartar Ivan, my chamberlain, loves Zuleima, and she shall be his wife if your majesty consents.”

“By all means,” said Frederick; “but I fear it will be difficult to have this marriage solemnized in Berlin. Your Tartar, I believe, has the honor to be heathen.”

“Sire, he is, in faith, a Persian.”

“A fire-worshipper, then,” said Frederick. “Well, I propose that Voltaire shall bless this marriage; where fire is worshipped as a god, Voltaire, the man of fire and flame, may well be priest.”

“Ah, sire, I believe we are all Persians; surely we all worship the light, and turn aside from darkness. You are to us the god Ormuzd, from whom all light proceeds; and every priest is for us as Ahriman, the god of darkness. Be gracious to me, then, your majesty, and do not call upon me to play the role of priest even in jest. But why does this happy son of the heathen require a priest? Is not the sungod Ormuzd himself present? With your majesty’s permission, we will place the loving pair upon the upper terrace of Sans-Souci, where they will be baptized in holy fire by the clear rays of the mid-day sun. Then the divine Marianna, Cochois, and Denys will perform some mystical dance, and so the marriage will be solemnized according to Persian rites and ceremonies.”

“And then, I dare hope your majesty will give a splendid wedding- feast, where costly wines and rich and rare viands will not fail us,” said La Mettrie.

“Look, now, how his eyes sparkle with anticipated delights!” cried the king. “La Mettrie would consent to wed every woman in the world if he could thereby spend his whole life in one continuous wedding- feast; but listen, sir, before you eat again, you have a story to relate. Discharge this duty at once, and give us a piquant anecdote from your gay life.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONFIDENTIAL DINNER.

“Your majesty desires a piquant anecdote out of my own life,” said La Mettrie. “Is there any thing on earth more piquant than a truffle-pie? Can any thing deserve more ardent praise, and fonder, sweeter remembrance, than this beautiful revelation of man’s genius? Yes, sire, a successful truffle-pie is a sort of revealed religion, and I am its devout, consecrated priest! One day I relinquished, for the love of it, a considerable fortune, a handsome house, and a very pretty bride, and I confess that even now a truffle-pie has more irresistible charms for me than any bride, even though richly endowed.”

“And was there ever a father mad enough to give his daughter to the ‘homme machine?'” said the king

“Sire, I had just then written my ‘Penelope.’ Monsieur van Swiet, of Leyden, a poor invalid, who had been for weeks confined to his bed by a cold, read it, and laughed so heartily over the mockery and derision at the gentlemen doctors, that he fell into a profuse perspiration–a result which neither the art of the physicians nor the prayers of the priests had been able to accomplish. The stiffness in his limbs was healed; in fact, he was restored to health! His first excursion was to see me, and he implored me to suggest a mode by which he could manifest his gratitude. ‘Send me every day a truffle-pie and a bottle of Hungarian wine,’ I replied. Swiet was greatly amused. ‘I have something better than a truffle- pie,’ said he. ‘I have a daughter who will inherit all my fortune. You are not rich in ducats, but largely endowed with wit. I wish that my grandchildren, who will be immensely wealthy, may have a father who will endow them richly with intellect. Wed my daughter, and present me with a grandson exactly like yourself.’ I accepted this proposition, and promised the good Van Swiet to become his son- in-law in eight days; to dwell with him in his house, and to cheer and enliven him daily for a few hours after dinner, with merry, witty conversation, that his liver might be kept in motion, and his digestion improved.”

“Just think of this tender Hollander, this disinterested father, who selects a husband for his daughter in order to improve his digestion!”

“Did you not see your bride before the wedding? Perhaps she was a changeling, whom the father wished to get rid of in some respectable manner, and therefore gave her to you.”

“I saw my bride, sire, and indeed Esther was a lovely girl, who had but one fault–she did not love me. She had the naivete to tell me so, and indeed to confess that she ardently loved another, a poor clerk of her father’s, who, when their love was discovered, a short time before, had been turned out of the house. They loved each other none the less glowingly for all this. I shrugged my shoulders, and recalled the wish of her father, and my promise to him. But when the little Esther implored me to refuse her hand, and plead with her father for her beloved, I laughed and jested no longer, but began to look at the thing gravely. I did go to her father, and informed him of all that had passed. He listened to me quietly, and then asked me, with a fearful grimace, if I preferred prison fare to truffle- pie, every day, at my own table. You can imagine that I did not hesitate in my choice.

“‘Well, then,’ said my good Swiet, ‘if you do not wed my daughter, I will withdraw my protecting hand from you, and your enemies will find a means to cast you into prison. A new book, “L’Homme Machine,” has just appeared, and every man swears it is your production, though your name is not affixed to the title-page. The whole city, not only the priests, but the worldlings, are enraged over this book. They declare it is a monster of unbelief and materialism. If, in spite of all this, I accept you as my son-in-law, it is because I wish to show the world that I despise it, and am not in the slightest degree influenced by its prejudices and opinions, but am a bold, independent, freethinker. Decide, then! Will you marry my daughter and eat truffle-pie daily, or will you be cast into prison?’

“‘I will marry your daughter! I swear that in eight days she shall be my wife!’

“Herr van Swiet embraced me warmly, and commenced his preparations for the wedding immediately. Esther, however, my bride, never spoke to me; never seemed to see me. Her eyes were swollen, and she was half-blind from weeping. Once we met alone in the saloon. She hastened to leave it; but, as she passed by me, she raised her arms to heaven, then extended them threateningly toward me. ‘You are a cruel and bad man. You will sacrifice a human soul to your greed and your irresistible and inordinate desires! If God is just, you will die of a truffle-pie! I say not that you will yield up your spirit, for you have none! You will, you must die like a beast–from beastly gluttony!'”

“The maiden possessed the wisdom of a sibyl,” said the king, “and I fear she has prophesied correctly as to your sad future. HATE has sometimes the gift of prophecy, and sees the future clearly, while Love is blind. It appears to me your Esther did not suffer from the passion of love.”

“No, sire, she hated me. But her lover, the young Mieritz, did not share this dislike. He seemed warmly attached to me; was my inseparable companion; embraced me with tears, and forgave me for robbing him of his beloved, declaring that I was more worthy of her than himself. He went so far in his manifestations of friendship as to invite me to breakfast on the morning of my wedding-day, at which time he wished to present me with something sumptuous he had brought from Amsterdam. I accepted the invitation, and as the wedding- ceremony was to take place at twelve o’clock, in the cathedral, we were compelled to breakfast at eleven. I was content. I thought I could better support the wearisome ceremony if sustained by the fond remembrance of the luxurious meal I had just enjoyed. Our breakfast began punctually at eleven, and I assure your majesty it was a rare and costly feast. My young friend Mieritz declared, however, that the dish which crowned the feast was yet to come. At last he stepped to the kitchen himself to bring this jewel of his breakfast. With a mysterious smile he quickly returned, bringing upon a silver dish a smoking pie. A delicious fragrance immediately pervaded the whole room–a fragrance which then recalled the hour most rich in blessing of my whole life. Beside myself–filled with prophetic expectation– I rushed forward and raised the top crust of the pie. Yes, it was there!–it met my ravished gaze!–the pie which I had only eaten once, at the table of the Duke de Grammont! Alas! I lost the good duke at the battle of Fontenoy, and the great mystery of this pasty went down with him into the hero’s grave. And now that it was exhumed, it surrounded me with its costly aroma; it smiled upon me with glistening lips and voluptuous eyes. I snatched the dish from the hands of my friend, and placed it before me on the table. At this moment the clock struck twelve.

“‘Miserable wretch!’ I cried, ‘you bring me this pie, and this is the hour of my marriage!’

“‘Well,’ said Mieritz, with the cool phlegm of a Hollander, ‘let us go first to the wedding, and then this pasty can be warmed up.’

“‘Warmed up!’ roared I; ‘warm up this pie, whose delicious odor has already brought my nose into its magic circle! Can you believe I would outlive such a vandalism, that I would consent to such sacrilege? To warm a pie!–it is to rob the blossom of its fragrance, the butterfly of the purple and azure of its wings, beauty of its innocence, the golden day of its glory. No, I will never be guilty of such deadly crime! This pie THIRSTS to be eaten! I will, therefore, eat it!’

“I ate it, sire, and it overpowered me with heavenly rapture. I was like the opium-eater, wrapped in elysium, carried into the heaven of heavens. All the wonders of creation were combined in this heavenly food, which I thrust into my mouth devoutly, and trembling with gladness. It was not necessary for Mieritz to tell me that this pie was made of Indian birds’-nests, and truffles from Perigord. I knew it–I felt it! This wonder of India had unveiled my enraptured eyes! A new world was opened before me! I ate, and I was blessed!

“What was it to me that messenger after messenger came to summon me, to inform me that the priest stood before the altar; that my young bride and her father and a crowd of relations awaited me with impatience? I cried back to them: ‘Go! be off with you! Let them wait till the judgment-day! I will not rise from this seat till this dish is empty!’ I ate on, and while eating my intellect was clearer, sharper, more profound than ever before! I rejoiced over this conviction. Was it not a conclusive proof that my theory was correct, that this ‘homme machine’ received its intellectual fluid, its power of thought through itself, and not through this fabulous, bodiless something which metaphysicians call soul? Was not this a proof that, to possess a noble soul, it was only necessary to give to the body noble nourishment? And where lies this boasted soul? where else but in the stomach? The stomach is the soul; I allow it is the brain that thinks, but the brain dares only think as his exalted majesty the stomach allows; and if his royal highness feels unwell, farewell to thought.” [Footnote: La Mettrie’s own words.]

The whole company burst out in loud and hearty laughter.

“Am I not right to call you a fou fieffe?” said the king. “There is an old proverb, which says of a coward, that his heart lies in his stomach; never before have I heard the soul banished there. But your hymns of praise over the stomach and the pie have made you forget to finish your story; let us hear the conclusion! Did the marriage take place?”

“Sire, I had not quite finished my breakfast when the door was violently opened, and a servant rushed in and announced that the good Van Swiet had had a stroke of apoplexy in the cathedral. The foolish man declared that rage and indignation over my conduct had produced this fearful result; I am, myself, however, convinced that it was the consequence of a good rich breakfast and a bottle of Madeira wine; this disturbed the circulation of the blood, and he was chilled by standing upon the cold stone floor of the church. Be that as it may, poor Swiet was carried unconscious from the church to his dwelling, and in a few hours he was dead! Esther, his daughter and heir, was unfilial enough to leave the wish of her father unfulfilled. She would not acknowledge our contract to be binding, declared herself the bride of the little Mieritz, and married him in a few months. I had, indeed, a legal claim upon her, but Swiet was right when he assured me that so soon as he withdrew his protection from me, the whole pack of fanatical priests and weak-minded scholars would fall upon and tear me to pieces, unless I saved myself by flight. So I obeyed your majesty’s summons, took my pilgrim-staff, and wandered on, like Ahasuerus.”

“What! without taking vengeance on the crafty Mieritz, who, it is evident, had carried out successfuly a well-considered strategy with his pie?” said the king. “You must know that was all arranged: he caught you with his pie, as men catch mice with cheese.”

“Even if I knew that to be so, your majesty, I should not quarrel with him on that account. I should have only said to my pie, as Holofernes said to Judith: ‘Thy sin was a great enjoyment, I forgive you for slaying me!’ For such a pie I would again sacrifice another bride and another fortune!”

“And is there no possible means to obtain it?” said the king. “Can you not obtain the receipt for this wonderful dish, which possesses the magic power to liberate young women from intolerable men, and change a miser into a spendthrift who thrusts his whole fortune down his throat?”

“There is a prospect, sire, of securing it, but you cannot be the first to profit by it. Lord Tyrconnel, who knows my history, opened a diplomatic correspondence with Holland, some weeks ago, on this subject, and the success of an important loan which France wishes to effect with the house of Mieritz and Swiet, through the mediation of Lord Tyrconnel, hangs upon the obtaining of this receipt. If Mieritz refuses it, France will not make the loan. In that case the war, which now seems probable with England, will not take place.”

“And yet it is said that great events can only arise from great causes,” cried the king. “The peace of the world now hangs upon the receipt of a truffle-pie, which La Mettrie wishes to obtain.”

“What is the peace of the world in comparison with the peace of our souls?” cried Voltaire. “La Mettrie may say what he will, and the worthy Abbe Bastiani may be wholly silent, but I believe I have a soul, which does not lie in my stomach, and this soul of mine will never be satisfied till your majesty keeps your promise, and relates one of those intellectual, piquant histories, glowing with wisdom and poesy, which so often flows from the lips of our Solomon!”

“It is true it is now my turn to speak,” said Frederick, smiling. “I will be brief. Not only the lights, but also the eyes of Algarotti, are burning dimly; and look how the good marquis is, in thought, making love-winks toward his night-cap, which lies waiting for him upon his bed! But be comforted, gentlemen, my story is short. Like La Mettrie, I will relate a miracle, in which, however the eyes were profited, the stomach had no interest. This miracle took place in Breslau, in the year 1747.

“Cardinal Zinzendorf was just dead, and the Duke Schafgotch, who some years before I had appointed his coadjutor, was to be his successor. But the Silesians were not content. They declared that Duke Schafgotch was too fond of the joys and pleasures of the world to be a good priest; that he thought too much of the beautiful women of this world to be able to offer to the holy Madonna, the mother of God, the sanctified, ardent, but pure and modest love of a true son of the church. The pious Silesians refused to believe that the duke was sufficiently holy to be their bishop. The sage fathers of the city of Breslau assured me that nothing less than a miracle could secure for him the love and consideration of the Silesiaus. I had myself gone to Silesia to see if the statement of the authorities was well-founded, and if the people were really so discontented with the new bishop. I found their statement fully confirmed. Only a great miracle could incline the pious hearts of the Silesians to the duke.

“And now remark, messieurs, how Providence is always with the pious and the just–this desired miracle took place! On a lovely morning a rumor was spread abroad, in the city of Breslau, that in the chapel of the Holy Mother of God a miracle might be seen. All Breslau–the loveliest ladies of the haute volee, and the poorest beggars of the street–rushed to the church to look upon this miracle. Yes, it was undeniable! The hair of the Madonna, which stood in enticing but wooden beauty upon the altar, whose clothing was furnished by the first modistes, and whose hair by the first perruquier–this hair, wonderful to relate, had grown! It was natural that she should exercise supernatural power. The blind, the lame, the crippled were cured by her touch. I myself–for you may well think that I hastened to see the miracle–saw a lame man throw away his crutch and dance a minuet in honor of the Madonna. There was a blind man who approached with a broad band bound over his eyes. He was led forward to this wonderful hair. Scarcely had the lovely locks touched his face, than he tore the band from his eyes, and shouted with ecstasy–his sight was restored! Thousands, who were upon their knees praying in wrapt devotion, shouted in concert with him, and here and there inspired voices called out: ‘The holy Madonna is content with her new servant the bishop! if she were not, she would not perform these miracles.’ These voices fell like a match in this magazine of excitement. Men wept and embraced each other, and thanked God for the new bishop, whom yesterday they had refused.

“In the meantime, however, there were still some suspicious, distrustful souls who would not admit that the growth of the Madonna’s hair was a testimony in favor of the bishop. But these stiff-necked unbelievers, these heartless skeptics, were at last convinced. Two days later this lovely hair had grown perceptibly; and still two days later, it hung in luxurious length and fulness over her shoulders. No one could longer doubt that the Holy Virgin was pleased with her priest. It had often happened that hair had turned gray, or been torn out by the roots in rage and scorn. No one, however, can maintain that the hair grows unless we are in a happy and contented mood. The Madonna, therefore, was pleased. The wondrous growth of her hair enraptured the faithful, and all mankind declared that this holy image cut from a pear-tree, was the Virgin Mary, who with open eyes watched over Breslau, and whose hair grew in honor of the new Bishop Schafgotch–he was now almost adored. Thousands of the believers surrounded his palace and besought his blessing. It was a beautiful picture of a shepherd and his flock. The Madonna no longer found it necessary to make her hair grow; one miracle had sufficed, and with the full growth of her hair the archbishop had also grown into importance.”

“But your majesty has not yet named the holy saint at whose intercession this miracle was performed,” said the Marquis D’Argens. “Graciously disclose the name, that we may pray for pardon and blessing.”

“This holy saint was my friseur” said the king, laughing. “I made him swear that he would never betray my secret. Every third day, in the twilight, he stole secretly to the church, and placed a new wig upon the Madonna, and withdrew the old one. [Footnote: Authentic addition to the “History of Frederick the Second.”] You see, messieurs, that not only happiness but piety may hang on a hair, and those holy saints to whom the faithful pray were, without doubt, adroit perruquiers who understand their cue.”

“And who use it as a scourge upon the backs of the pious penitents,” said Voltaire. “Ah, sire! your story is as wise as it is piquant–it is another proof that you are a warrior. You have won a spiritual battle with your miraculous wig, a battle against Holy Mother Church.”

“By which, happily, no soldiers and only a few wigs were left behind. But see how grave and mute our very worthy abbe appears–I believe he is envious of the miracle I performed! And now it is your turn, Bastiani: give us your story–a history of some of the lovely Magdalens you have encountered.”

“Ah, sire! will not your majesty excuse me?” said the abbe, bowing low. “My life has been the still, quiet, lonely, unostentatious life of a priest, and only the ever-blessed King Frederick William introduced storm and tempest into its even course. That was, without doubt, God’s will; otherwise this robust and giant form which He gave me would have been in vain. My height and strength so enraptured the emissaries of the king, that in the middle of the service before the altar, as I was reading mass, they tore me away without regarding the prayers and outcries of my flock. I was violently borne off, and immediately enrolled as a soldier.” [Footnote: Thiebault.]

“A wonderful idea!” cried Voltaire, “to carry off a priest in his vestments and make a soldier of him; but say, now, abbe, could you not, at least, have taken your housekeeper with you? I dare say she was young and pretty.”

“I do not know,” said Bastiani; “I am, as you know, very short- sighted, and I never looked upon her face; but it was a great misfortune for a priest to be torn from the Tyrolese mountains and changed into a soldier. But now, I look upon this as my greatest good fortune; by this means were the eyes of my exalted king fixed upon me; he was gracious, and honored me with his condescending friendship.”

“You forget there is no king here, and that here no man must be flattered,” said Frederick, frowning.

“Sire, I know there is no king present, and that proves I am no flatterer. I speak of my love and admiration to my king, but not to his face. I praise and exalt him behind his back; that shows that I love him dearly, not for honor or favor, but out of a pure heart fervently.”

“What happiness for your pure and unselfish heart, that your place of canonary of Breslau brings in three thousand thalers! otherwise your love, which does not understand flattery, might leave you in the lurch; you might be hungry.”

“He that eats of the bread of the Lord shall never hunger,” said Bastiani, in a low and solemn voice;” he that will serve two masters will be faithful to neither, and may fear to be hungry.”

“Oh, oh! look at our pious abbe, who throws off his sheep’s skin and turns the rough side out,” cried Voltaire, “It is written, ‘The sheep shall be turned into wolves,’ and you, dear abbe, in your piety fulfil this prophecy.”

“Your witty illusions are meant for me because I am the historian of the King of France, and gentleman of the bed-chamber to the King of Prussia. Compose yourself. As historian to the King of France, I have no pension, and his majesty of Prussia will tell you that I am the most useless of servants that the sun of royal favor ever shone upon. Yes, truly, I am a poor, modest, trifling, good-for-nothing creature; and if his majesty did not allow me, from time to time, to read his verses and rejoice in their beauty, and here and there to add a comma, I should be as useless a being as that Catholic priest stationed at Dresden, at the court of King Augustus, who has nothing to do–no man or woman to confess–there, as here, every man being a Lutheran. Algarotti told me he asked him once how he occupied himself. The worthy abbe answered: ‘Io sono il cattolica di sua maesta.’ So I will call myself, ‘Il pedagogue di sua, maesta.’ [Footnote: “Oeuvres Completes de Voltaire,” p. 376.] Like yourself, I serve but one master.”

“Alas! I fear my cattolica will not linger long by me,” said the king. “A man of his talent and worth cannot content himself with being canon of Breslau. No, Bastiani, you will, without doubt, rise higher. You will become a prelate, an eminence; yes, you will, perhaps, wear the tiara. But what shall I be when you have mounted this glittering pinnacle–when you have become pope? I wager you will deny me your apostolic blessing; that you will not even allow me to kneel and kiss your slipper. If any man should dare to name me to you, you would no longer remember this unselfish love, which, without doubt, you feel passionately for me at this moment. Ah! I see you now rising from St. Peter’s chair with apostolic sublimity, and exclaiming with praiseworthy indignation: ‘How! this heretic, this unclean, this savage from hell! I curse him, I condemn him. Let no man dare even to name him.'”

“Grace, grace, sire!” cried the abbe, holding his hands humbly, and looking up at the king.

The other gentlemen laughed heartily. The king was inexorable. The specious holiness and hypocrisy which the abbe had brought upon the stage incensed him, and he was resolved to punish it.

“Now, if you were pope, and I am convinced you will be, I should, without doubt, go to Rome. It is very important for me to ascertain, while I have you here, what sort of a reception you would accord me? So, let us hear. When I appear before your holiness, what will you say to me?”

The abbe, who had been sitting with downcast eyes, and murmuring from time to time in pleading tones: “Ah, sire! ah, sire!” now looked up, and a flashing glance fell upon the handsome face of the king, now glowing with mirth.

“Well?” repeated the king, “what would you say to me?”

“Sire,” said Bastiani, bowing reverently, “I would say, ‘Almighty eagle, cover me with your wings, and protect me from your own beak.'” [Footnote: Bastiani’s own words.–See Thiebault, p. 43.]

“That is an answer worthy of your intellect,” said the king, smiling, “and in consideration of it I will excuse you from relating some little history of your life.–Now, Duke Algarotti, your time has come. You are the last, and no doubt you will conclude the evening worthily.”

“Sire, my case is similar to Bastiani’s. There has been no mystery in my life; only that which seemed miraculous for a priest was entirely natural and simple in my case. I have travelled a great deal, have seen the world, known men; and all my experience and the feelings and convictions of my heart have at last laid me at the feet of your majesty. I am like the faithful, who, having been healed by a miracle, hang a copy of the deceased member upon the miraculous image which cured them. My heart was sick of the world and of men; your majesty healed it, and I lay it thankfully and humbly at your feet. This is my whole history, and truly it is a wonderful one. I have found a manly king and a kingly man.” [Footnote: Algarotti’s own words.]

“Truly, such a king is the wonder of the world,” said Voltaire. “A king, who being a king, is still a man, and being a man is still a noble king. I believe the history of the world gives few such examples. If we search the records of all people, we will find that all their kings have committed many crimes and follies, and but few great, magnanimous deeds. No, no! let us never hope to civilize kings. In vain have men sought to soften them by the help of art; in vain taught them to love it and to cultivate it. They are always lions, who seemed to be tamed when perpetually nattered. They remain, in truth, always wild, bloodthirsty, and fantastic. In the moment when you least expect it, the instinct awakens, and we fall a sacrifice to their claws or their teeth.” [Footnote: Thiebault.]

The king, who, up to this time, had listened, with a smiling face, to the passionate and bitter speech of Voltaire, now rose from his seat, and pointing his finger threateningly at him, said, good- humoredly: “Still, still, monsieur! Beware! I believe the king comes! Lower your voice, Voltaire, that he may not hear you. If he heard you, he might consider it his duty to be even worse than yourself. [Footnote: The king’s own words.] Besides, it is late. Let us not await the coming of the king, but withdraw very quietly. Good-night, messieurs.”

With a gracious but proud nod of his head, he greeted the company and withdrew.

CHAPTER V.

ROME SAUVEE.

The whole court was in a state of wild excitement, A rare spectacle was preparing for them–something unheard of in the annals of the Berliners. Voltaire’s new drama of “Catiline,” to which he had now given the name of “Rome Saved,” was to be given in the royal palace, in a private theatre gotten up for the occasion, and the actors and actresses were to be no common artistes, but selected from the highest court circles. Princess Amelia had the role of Aurelia, Prince Henry of Julius Caesar, and Voltaire of Cicero.

The last rehearsal was to take place that morning. Voltaire had shown himself in his former unbridled license, his biting irony, his cutting sarcasm. Not an actor or actress escaped his censure or his scorn. The poor poet D’Arnaud had been the special subject of his mocking wit. D’Arnaud had once been Voltaire’s favorite scholar, and he had commended him highly to the king. He had the misfortune to please Frederick, who had addressed to him a flattering poem. For this reason Voltaire hated him, and sought continually to deprive him of Frederick’s favor and get him banished from court.

This morning, for the first time, there was open strife between them, and the part which D’Arnaud had to play in “Rome Sauvee” gave occasion for the difficulty. D’Arnaud, it is true, had but two words to say, but his enunciation did not please Voltaire. He declared that D’Arnaud uttered them intentionally and maliciously with coldness and indifference.

D’Arnaud shrugged his shoulders and said a speech of two words did not admit of power or action. He asked what declamation could possibly do for two insignificant words, but make them ridiculous.

This roused Voltaire’s rage to the highest pitch. “And this utterance of two words is then beyond your ability? It appears you cannot speak two words with proper emphasis!” [Footnote: In a letter to Madarae Denis, Voltaire wrote: “Tout le monde me reproche que le roi a fait dos vers pour d’Arnaud, des vers qui ne sont pas ce qu’il a fait de micux; mais songez qu’a quatre cent lieues de Paris il est bien difficile de savoir si un homme qu’on lui recommende a du merite ou non; de plus c’est toujours des vers, et bien ou mal appliques ils prouvent que le vainqueur de l’Autriche aime les belles-lettres que j’aime de tout mon coeur. D’ailleurs D’Arnaud est un bon diable, qui par-oi par-la ne laisoe pas de rencontrer de bons tirades. Il a du gout, il se forme, et s’il aime qu’il se deforme, il n’y a pas grand mal. En un mot, la petite meprise du Roi de Prusse n’empeche pas qu’il ne soit le plus singulier de tous les homines.”–Voyez “Oeuvres Completes.”]

And now, with fiery eloquence, he began to show that upon these words hung the merit of the drama; that this speech was the most important of all! With jeers and sarcasm he drove poor D’Arnaud to the wall, who, breathless, raging, choking, could find no words nor strength to reply. He was dumb, cast down, humiliated.

The merry laughter of the king, who greatly enjoyed the scene, and the general amusement, increased the pain of his defeat, and made the triumph of Voltaire more complete.

At last, however, the parts were well learned, and even Voltaire was content with his company. This evening the entire court was to witness the performance of the drama, which Voltaire called his master-work.

Princess Amelia had the role of Aurelia. She had withdrawn to her rooms, and had asked permission of the queen-mother to absent herself from dinner. Her part was difficult, and she needed preparation and rest.

But the princess was not occupied with her role, or with the arrangement of her toilet. She lay stretched upon the divan, and gazed with tearful eyes upon the letter which she held in her trembling hands. Mademoiselle von Haak was kneeling near her, and looking up with tender sympathy upon the princess.

“What torture, what martyrdom I suffer!” said Amelia. “I must laugh while my heart is filled with despair; I must take part in the pomps and fetes of this riotous court, while thick darkness is round about me. No gleam of light, no star of hope, do I see. Oh, Ernestine, do not ask me to be calm and silent! Grant me at least the relief of giving expression to my sorrow.”

“Dear princess, why do you nourish your grief? Why will you tear open the wounds of your heart once more?”

“Those wounds have never healed,” cried Amelia, passionately. “No! they have been always bleeding–always painful. Do you think so pitifully of me, Ernestine, as to believe that a few years have been sufficient to teach me to forget?”

“Am I not also called upon to learn to forget?” cried Ernestine, bitterly. “Is not my life’s happiness destroyed? Am I not eternally separated from my beloved? Alas! princess, you are much happier than I! You know where, at least in thought, you can find your unhappy friend. Not the faintest sound in the distance gives answer to my wild questionings. My thoughts are wandering listlessly, wearily. They know not where to seek my lover–whether he lies in the dark fortress, or in the prison-house of the grave.”

“It is true,” said Amelia, thoughtfully; “our fates are indeed pitiable! Oh, Ernestine, what have I not suffered in the last five years, during which I have not seen Trenck?–five years of self- restraint, of silence, of desolation! How often have I believed that I could not support my secret griefs–that death must come to my relief! How often, with rouged cheeks and laughing lips, conversing gayly with the glittering court circle whose centre my cruel brother forced me to be, have my troubled thoughts wandered far, far away to my darling; from whom the winds brought me no message, the stars no greeting; and yet I knew that he lived, and loved me still! If Trenck were dead, he would appear to me in spirit. Had he forgotten me, I should know it; the knowledge would pierce my heart, and I should die that instant. I know that he has written to me, and that all his dear letters have fallen into the hands of the base spies with which my brother has surrounded me. But I am not mad! I will be calm; a day may come in which Trenck may require my help. I will not slay myself; some day I may be necessary to him I love. I have long lived, as the condemned in hell, who, in the midst of burning torture, open both eyes and ears waiting for the moment when the blessed Saviour will come for their release. God has at last been merciful; He has blinded the eyes of my persecutors, and this letter came safely to my hands. Oh, Ernestine, look! look! a letter from Trenck! He loves me–he has not forgotten me–he calls for me! Oh, my God! my God! why has fate bound me so inexorably? Why was I born to a throne, whose splendor has not lighted my path, but cast me in the shadow of death? Why am I not poor and obscure? Then I might hasten to my beloved when he calls me. I might stand by his side in his misfortunes, and share his sorrows and his tears.”

“Dear princess, you can alleviate his fate. Look at me! I am poor, obscure, and dependent, and yet I cannot hasten to my beloved; he is in distress, and yet he does not call upon me for relief. He knows that I cannot help him. You, princess, thanks to your rank, have power and influence. Trenck calls you, and you are here to aid and comfort.”

“God grant that I may. Trenck implores me to turn to my brother, and ask him to interest the Prussian embassy in Vienna in his favor; thereby hoping to put an end to the process by which he is about to be deprived of his only inheritance–the estate left him by his cousin, the captain of the pandours. Alas! can I speak with my brother of Trenck? He knows not that for five years his name has never passed my lips; he knows not that I have never been alone with my brother the king for one moment since that eventful day in which I promised to give him up forever. We have both avoided an interview; he, because he shrank from my prayers and tears, and I, because a crust of ice had formed over my love for him, and I would not allow it to melt beneath his smiles and kindly words. I loved Trenck with my whole heart, I was resolved to be faithful to him, and I was resentful toward my brother. Now, Ernestine, I must overcome myself, I must speak with the king; Trenck needs my services, and I will have courage to plead for him.”

“What will your highness ask? think well, princess, before you act. Who knows but that the king has entirely forgotten Trenck? Perhaps it were best so. You should not point out to the angry lion the insect which has awakened him, he will crush it in his passion. Trenck is in want; send him gold–gold to bribe the men of law. It is well-known that the counsellors-at-law are dull-eyed enough to mistake sometimes the glitter of gold for the glitter of the sun of justice. Send him gold, much gold, and he will tame the tigers who lie round about the courts of justice, and he will win his suit.”

Princess Amelia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. “He calls upon me for help; and I send him nothing but empty gold; he asks for my assistance, and I play the coward and hold my peace. No, no! I will act, and I will act to-day! You know that only after the most urgent entreaty of the king, I consented to appear in this drama. While my brother pleaded with me, he said, with his most winning smile, ‘Grant me this favor, my sister, and be assured that the first petition you make of me, I will accord cheerfully.’ Now, then, I will remind him of this promise; I will plead for Trenck, and he dare not refuse. Oh, Ernestine! I know not surely, but it appears to me that for some little time past the king loves me more tenderly than heretofore; his eye rests upon me with pleasure, and often it seems to me his soft glance is imploring my love in return. You may call me childish, foolish; but I think, sometimes, that my silent submission has touched his heart, and he is at last disposed to be merciful, and allow me to be happy–happy, in allowing me to flee from the vain glory of a court; in forgetting that I am a princess, and remembering only that I am a woman, to whom God has given a heart capable of love.” Amelia did not see the melancholy gaze with which her friend regarded her; she was full of ardor and enthusiasm, and with sparkling eyes and throbbing breast she sprang from the divan and cried out, “Yes, it is so; my brother will make me happy!”

“Alas, princess, do not dare to rely upon so false a hope! Never will the king consent that you shall be happy beneath your royal rank!”

“Tell me now, Ernestine,” said Amelia, with a smile, “is not the reigning Margravine of Baireuth as high in rank as I am?”

“Yes, your highness,” said Ernestine, with surprise, “for the reigning Margravine of Baireuth is your exalted sister.”

“I do not speak of her, but of the widow of the former margrave. She has also reigned. Well, she has just married the young Duke Hobitz. The king told me this yesterday, with a merry laugh. The little Duchess of Hobitz is his aunt, and I am his sister!”

“If the king had had power to control his aunt, as he has to control his sister, he would not have allowed this marriage.”

Amelia heard, but she did not believe. With hasty steps and sparkling eyes she walked backward and forward in her room; then, after a long pause, she drew near her friend, and laying her hands upon her shoulders, she said: “You are a good soul and a faithful friend; you have ever had a patient and willing ear for all my complaints. Only think now how charming it will be when I come to tell you of my great happiness. And now, Ernestine, come, you must go over my part with me once more, and then arrange my toilet. I will be lovely this evening, in order to please the king. I will play like an artiste in order to touch his cold heart. If I act my part with such truth and burning eloquence that he is forced to weep over the sorrows of the wretched and loving woman whom I represent, will not his heart be softened, will he not take pity upon my blasted life? The tragic part I play will lend me words of fire to depict my own agony. Come, then, Ernestine, come! I must act well my tragedy–I must win the heart of my king!”

The princess kept her word; she played with power and genius. Words of passion and of pain flowed like a stream of lava from her lips; her oaths of faith and eternal constancy, her wild entreaties, her resignation, her despair, were not the high-flown, pompous phrases of the tragedian, but truth in its omnipotence. It was living passion, it was breathing agony; and, with fast-flowing tears, with the pallor of death, she told her tale of love; and in that vast saloon, glittering with jewels, filled with the high-born, the brave, the beautiful, nothing was heard but long-drawn sighs and choking sobs.

Queen Elizabeth Christine forgot all etiquette in the remembrance of her own sad fate so powerfully recalled. She covered her face with her hands, and bitter tears fell over her slender fingers. The queen-mother, surprised at her own emotion, whispered lightly that it was very warm, and while fanning herself she sought to dry her secret tears unnoticed.

Even the king was moved; his eyes were misty, and indescribable melancholy played upon his lips. Voltaire was wild with rapture; he hung upon every movement, every glance of Amelia. Words of glowing praise, thanks, admiration flowed from his lips. He met the princess behind the scenes, and forgetting all else he cried out, with enthusiasm: “You are worthy to be an actress, and to play in Voltaire’s tragedies!”

The princess smiled and passed on silently–what cared she for Voltaire’s praise? She knew that she had gained her object, and that the king’s heart was softened. This knowledge made her bright and brave; and when at the close of the drama the king came forward, embraced her with warmth, and thanked her in fond arid tender words for the rich enjoyment of the evening, due not only to the great poet Voltaire, but also to the genius of his sister, she reminded him smilingly that she had a favor to ask.

“I pray you, my sister,” said Frederick, gayly, “ask something right royal from me this evening–I am in the mood to grant all your wishes.”

Amelia looked at him pleadingly. “Sire,” said she, “appoint an hour to-morrow morning in which I may come to you and make known my request. Remember, your majesty has promised to grant it in advance.”

The king’s face was slightly clouded. “This is, indeed, a happy coincidence,” said he. “It was my intention to ask an interview with you to-morrow, and now you come forward voluntarily to meet my wishes. At ten in the morning I shall be with you, and I also have something to ask.”

“I will then await you at ten o’clock, and make known my request.”

“And when I have granted it, my sister, it will be your part to fulfil my wishes also.”

CHAPTER VI.

A WOMAN’S HEART.

The Princess Amelia lay the whole of the following night, with wide- open eyes and loudly-heating heart, pale and breathless upon her couch. No soft slumber soothed her feverish-glowing brow; no sweet dream of hope dissipated the frightful pictures drawn by her tortured fantasy.

“What is it?” said she, again and again–“what is it that the king will ask of me? what new mysterious horror rises up threateningly before me, and casts a shadow upon my future?”

She brought every word, every act of the previous day in review before her mind. Suddenly she recalled the sad and sympathetic glance of her maid of honor; the light insinuations, the half- uttered words which seemed to convey a hidden meaning.

“Ernestine knows something that she will not tell me,” cried Amelia. At this thought her brow was covered with cold perspiration, and her limbs shivered as if with ague. She reached out her hand to ring for Fraulein von Haak; then suddenly withdrew it, ashamed of her own impatience. “Why should I wish to know that which I cannot change? I know that a misfortune threatens me. I will meet it with a clear brow and a bold heart.”

Amelia lay motionless till the morning. When she rose from her bed, her features wore an expression of inexorable resolve. Her eyes flashed as boldly, as daringly as her royal brother Frederick’s when upon the battle-field. She dressed herself carefully and tastefully, advanced to meet her ladies with a gracious greeting, and chattered calmly and cheerfully with them on indifferent subjects. At last she was left alone with Fraulein von Haak. She stepped in front of her, and looked in her eyes long and searchingly.

“I read it in your face, Ernestine, but I entreat you do not make it known in words unless my knowledge of the facts would diminish my danger.”

Ernestine shook her head sadly. “No,” said she, “your royal highness has no power over the misfortune that threatens you. You are a princess, and must be obedient to the will of the king.”

“Good!” said Amelia, “we will see if my brother has power to subdue my will. Now, Ernestine, leave me; I am expecting the king.”

Scarcely had her maid withdrawn, when the door of the anteroom was opened, and the king was announced. The princess advanced to meet him smilingly, but, as the king embraced her and pressed a kiss upon her brow, she shuddered and looked up at him searchingly. She read nothing in his face but the most heart-felt kindliness and love.

“If he makes me miserable, it is at least not his intention to do so,” thought she.–“Now, my brother, we are alone,” said the princess, taking a place near the king upon the divan. “And now allow me to make known my request at once–remember you have promised to grant it.”

The king looked with a piercing glance at the sweet face now trembling with excitement and impatience. “Amelia,” said he, “have you no tender word of greeting, of warm home-love to say to me? Do you not know that five years have passed since we have seen each other alone, and enjoyed that loving and confidential intercourse which becomes brothers and sisters?”

“I know,” said Amelia sadly, “these five years are written on my countenance, and if they have not left wrinkles on my brow, they have pierced my heart with many sorrows, and left their shadows there! Look at me, my brother–am I the same sister Amelia?”

“No,” said the king, “no! You are pallid–your cheeks are hollow. But it is strange–I see this now for the first time. You have been an image of youth, beauty, and grace up to this hour. The fatigue of yesterday has exhausted you–that is all.”

“No, my brother, you find me pallid and hollow-eyed today, because you see me without rouge. I have to-day for the first time laid aside the mask of rosy youth, and the smiling indifference of manner with which I conceal my face and my heart from the world. You shall see me to-day as I really am; you shall know what I have suffered. Perhaps then you will be more willing to fulfil my request? Listen, my brother, I–“

The king laid his hand softly upon her shoulder. “Stop, Amelia; since I look upon you, I fear you will ask me something not in my power to grant.”

“You have given me your promise, sire.”

“I will not withdraw it; but I ask you to hear my prayer before you speak. Perhaps it may exert an influence–may modify your request. I allow myself, therefore, in consideration of your own interest, solely to beg that I may speak first.”

“You are king, sire, and have only to command,” said Amelia, coldly.

The king fixed a clear and piercing glance for one moment upon his sister, then stood up, and, assuming an earnest and thoughtful mien, he said: “I stand now before you, princess, not as a king, but as the ambassador of a king. Princess Amelia, through me the King of Denmark asks your hand; he wishes to wed you, and I have given my consent. Your approval alone is wanting, and I think you will not refuse it.”

The princess listened with silent and intrepid composure; not a muscle of her face trembled; her features did not lose for one moment their expression of quiet resolve.

“Have you finished, sire?” said she, indifferently.

“I have finished, and I await your reply.”

“Before I answer, allow me to make known my own request. Perhaps what I may say may modify your wishes. You will, at least, know if it is proper for me to accept the hand of the King of Denmark. Does your majesty allow me to speak?”

“Speak,” said the king, seating himself near her.

After a short pause, Amelia said, in an earnest, solemn voice: “Sire, I pray for pardon for the Baron Frederick von Trenck.” Yielding to an involuntary agitation, she glided from the divan upon her knees, and raising her clasped hands entreatingly toward her brother, she repeated: “Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck!”

The king sprang up, dashed back the hands of his sister violently, and rushed hastily backward and forward in the room.

Amelia, ashamed of her own humility, rose quickly from her knees, and, as if to convince herself of her own daring and resolution, she stepped immediately in front of the king, and said, in a loud, firm voice for the third time: “Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck. He is wretched because he is banished from his home; he is in despair because he receives no justice from the courts of law, it being well known that he has no protector to demand his rights. He is poor and almost hopeless because the courts have refused him the inheritance of his cousin, the captain of the pandours whose enemies have accused him since his death, only while they lusted for his millions. His vast estate has been confiscated, under the pretence that it was unlawfully acquired. But these accusations have not been established; and yet, now that he is dead, they refuse to give up this fortune to the rightful heir, Frederick von Trenck. Sire, I pray that you will regard the interests of your subject. Be graciously pleased to grant him the favor of your intercession. Help him, by one powerful word, to obtain possession of his rights. Ah, sire, you see well how modest, how faint-hearted I have become. I ask no longer for happiness! I beg for gold, and I think, sire, we owe him this pitiful reparation for a life’s happiness trodden under foot.”

Frederick by a mighty effort succeeded in overcoming his rage. He was outwardly as calm as his sister; but both concealed under this cool, indifferent exterior a strong energy, an unfaltering purpose. They were quiet because they were inflexible.

“And this is the favor you demand of me?” said the king.

“The favor you have promised to grant,” said Amelia.

“And if I do this, will you fulfil my wish? Will you become the wife of the King of Denmark? Ah, you are silent. Now, then, listen. Consent to become Queen of Denmark, and on the day in which you pass the boundary of Prussia and enter your own realm as queen, on that day I will recall Trenck to Berlin, and all shall be forgotten. Trenck shall again enter my guard, and my ambassador at Vienna shall appear for him in court. Decide, now, Amelia–will you be Queen of Denmark?”

“Ah, sire, you offer me a cruel alternative. You wish me to purchase a favor which you had already freely and unconditionally granted.”

“You forget, my sister, that I entreat where I have the right to command. It will be easy to obey when through your obedience you can make another happy. Once more, then, will you accept my proposition?”

Amelia did not answer immediately. She fixed her eyes steadily upon the king’s face; their glances met firmly, quietly. Each read in the eyes of the other inexorable resolve.

“Sire, I cannot accept your proposition; I cannot become the wife of the King of Denmark.”

The king shrank back, and a dark cloud settled upon his brow. He pressed his hand nervously upon the arm-chair near which he stood, and forced himself to appear calm. “And why can you not become the wife of the King of Denmark?”

“Because I have sworn solemnly, calling upon God to witness, that I will never become the wife of any other man than him whom I love– because I consider myself bound to God and to my conscience to fulfil this oath. As I cannot be the wife of Trenck, I will remain unmarried.”

And now the king was crimson with rage, and his eyes flashed fiercely. “The wife of Trenck!” cried he; “the wife of a traitor! Ah, you think still of him, and in spite of your vow–in spite of your solemn oath–you still entertain the hope of this unworthy alliance!”

“Sire, remember on what conditions my oath was given. You promised me Trenck should be free, and I swore to give him up–never even to write to him. Fate did not accept my oath. Trenck fled before you had time to fulfil your word, and I was thus released from my vow; and yet I have never written to him–have heard nothing from him. No one knows better than yourself that I have not heard from him.”

“So five years have gone by without his writing to you, and yet you have the hardihood to-day to call his name!”

“I have the courage, sire, because I know well Trenck has never ceased to love me. That I have received no letters from him does not prove that he has not written; it only proves that I am surrounded by watchful spies, who do not allow his letters to reach me.”

“Ah,” said the king, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, “you are of the opinion that I have suppressed these letters?”

“Yes, I am of that opinion.”

“You deceive yourself, then, Amelia. I have not surrounded you with spies; I have intercepted no letters. You look at me incredulously. I declare to you that I speak the truth. Now you can comprehend, my sister, that your heart has deceived you–you have squandered your love upon a wretched object who has forgotten you.”

“Sire!” cried Amelia, with flaming eyes, “no abuse of the man I love!”

“You love him still!” said the king, white with passion, and no longer able to control his rage–“you love him still! You have wept and bewailed him, while he has shamefully betrayed and mocked at you. Yes, look on me, if you will, with those scornful, rebellious glances–it is as I say! You must and shall know all! I have spared you until now; I trusted in your own noble heart! I thought that, driven by a storm of passion, it had, like a proud river, for one moment overstepped its bounds; then quietly, calmly resumed that course which nature and fate had marked out for it. I see now that I have been deceived in you, as you have been deceived in Trenck! I tell you he has betrayed you! He, formerly a Prussian officer, at the luxurious and debauched court of Petersburg, has not only betrayed you, but his king. At the table of his mistress, the wife of Bestuchef, he has shown your picture and boasted that you gave it to him. The Duke of Goltz, my ambassador at the Russian court, informed me of this; and look you, I did not slay him! I did not demand of the Empress Anne that the Prussian deserter should be delivered up. I remembered that you had once loved him, and that I had promised you to be lenient. But I have had him closely watched. I know all his deeds; I am acquainted with all his intrigues and artifices. I know he has had a love-affair with the young Countess Narischkin–that he continued his attentions long after her marriage with General Bondurow. Can you believe, my sister, that he remembered the modest, innocent oaths of love and constancy he had exchanged with you while enjoying himself in the presence of this handsome and voluptuous young woman? Do you believe that he recalled them when he arranged a plan of flight with his beloved, and sought a safe asylum beyond the borders of Russia? Do you believe that he thought of you when he received from this ill-regulated woman her diamonds and all the gold she possessed, in order to smooth the way to their escape?”

“Mercy, mercy!” stammered Amelia, pale and trembling, and sinking upon a seat. “Cease, my brother; do you not see that your words are killing me? Have pity upon me!”

“No! no mercy!” said the king; “you must and you shall know all, in order that you may be cured of this unholy malady, this shameful love. You shall know that Trenck not only sells the secrets of politics, but the secrets of love. Every thing is merchandise with him, even his own heart. He not only loved the beautiful Bondurow but he loved her diamonds. This young woman died of the small-pox, a few days before the plan of flight could be fully arranged. Trenck, however, became her heir; he refused to give back the brilliants and the eight thousand rubles which she had placed in his hands.”

“Oh my God, my God! grant that I die!” cried the Princess Amelia.

“But the death of his beloved,” said the king (without regarding the wild exclamations of the princess)–“this death was so greatly to his advantage, that he soon consoled himself with the love of the attractive Bestuchef–this proud and intriguing woman who now, through the weakness of her husband, rules over Russia, and threatens by her plots and intrigues to complicate the history and peace of Europe. She is neither young nor beautiful; she is forty years of age, and you cannot believe that Trenck at four-and-twenty burns with love for her. But she adores him; she loves him with that mad, bacchantic ardor which the Roman empress Julia felt for the gladiators, whose magnificent proportions she admired at the circus. She loved him and confessed it; and his heart, unsubdued by the ancient charms, yielded to the magic power of her jewels and her gold. He became the adorer of Bestuchef; he worked diligently in the cabinet of the chancellor, and appeared to be the best of Russian patriots, and seemed ready to kiss the knout with the same devotion with which he kissed the slipper of the chancellor’s wife. At this time I resolved to try his patriotism, and commissioned my ambassador to see if his patriotic ardor could not be cooled by gold. Well, my sister, for two thousand ducats, Trenck copied the design of the fortress of Cronstadt, which the chancellor had just received from his engineer.”

“That is impossible!” said Amelia, whose tears had now ceased to flow, and who listened to her brother with distended but quiet eyes.

“Impossible!” said Frederick. “Oh my sister, gold has a magic power to which nothing is impossible! I wished to unmask the traitor Trenck, and expose him in his true colors to the chancellor. I ordered Goltz to hand him the copy of the fortress, drawn by Trenck and signed with his name, and to tell him how he obtained it. The chancellor was beside himself with rage, and swore to take a right Russian revenge upon the traitor–he declared he should die under the knout.”

Amelia uttered a wild cry, and clasped her hands over her convulsed face.

The king laughed, bitterly. “Compose yourself–we triumphed too early; we had forgotten the woman! In his rage the chancellor disclosed every thing to her, and uttered the most furious curses and resolves against Trenck. She found means to warn him, and, when the police came in the night to arrest him, he was not at home–he had taken refuge in the house of his friend the English ambassador, Lord Hyndforth.” [Footnote: Trenck’s Memoirs.]

“Ah! he was saved, then?” whispered Amelia.

The king looked at her in amazement. “Yes, he was saved. The next day, Madame Bestuchef found means to convince her credulous husband that Trenck was the victim of an intrigue, and entirely innocent of the charge brought against him. Trenck remained, therefore, the friend of the house, and Madame Bestuchef had the audacity to publicly insult my ambassador. Trenck now announced himself as a raging adversary of Prussia. He inflamed the heart of his powerful mistress with hate, and they swore the destruction of Prussia. Both were zealously engaged in changing the chancellor, my private and confidential friend, into an enemy; and Trenck, the Russian patriot, entered the service of the house of Austria, to intrigue against me and my realm. [Footnote: Trenck himself writes on this subject: “I would at that time have changed my fatherland into a howling wilderness, if the opportunity had offered. I do not deny that from this moment I did everything that was possible, in Russia, to promote the views of the imperial ambassador, Duke Vernis, who knew how to nourish the fire already kindled, and to make use of my services.”] Bestuchef, however, withstood these intrigues, and in his distrust he watched over and threatened his faithless wife and faithless friend. Trenck would have been lost, without doubt, if a lucky accident had not again rescued him. His cousin the pandour died in Vienna, and, as Trenck believed that he had left him a fortune of some millions, he tore his tender ties asunder, and hastened to Vienna to receive this rich inheritance, which, to his astonishment, he found to consist not in millions, but in law processes. This, Amelia, is the history of Trenck during these five years in which you have received no news from him. Can you still say that he has never forgotten you? that you are bound to be faithful to him? You see I do not speak to you as a king, but as a friend, and that I look at all these unhappy circumstances from your standpoint. Treat me, then, as a friend, and answer me sincerely. Do you still feel bound by your oath? Do you not know that he is a faithless traitor, and that he has forgotten you?”

The princess had listened to the king with a bowed head and downcast eyes. Now she looked up; the fire of inspiration beamed in her eye, a melancholy smile played upon her lips.

“Sire,” said she, “I took my vow without conditions, and I will keep it faithfully till my death. Suppose, even, that a part of what you have said is true, Trenck is young; you cannot expect that his ardent and passionate heart should be buried under the ashes of the vase of tears in which our love, in its beauty and bloom, crumbled to dust. But his heart, however unstable it may appear, turns ever back faithfully to that fountain, and he seeks to purify and sanctify the wild and stormy present by the remembrance of the beautiful and innocent past. You say that Trenck forgot me in his prosperity: well, then, sire, in his misfortune he has remembered me. In his misfortune he has forgotten the faithless, cold, and treacherous letter which I wrote to him, and which he received in the prison of Glatz. In his wretchedness, he has written to me, and called upon me for aid. It shall not, be said that I did not hear his voice–that I was not joyfully ready to serve him!”

“And he has dared to write to you!” said the king, with trembling lips and scornful eye. “Who was bold enough to hand you this letter?”

“Oh, sire, you will not surely demand that I shall betray my friends! Moreover, if I named the messenger who brought me this letter, it would answer no purpose; you would arrest and punish him, and to-morrow I should find another to serve me as well. Unhappy love finds pity, protection, and friends everywhere. Sire, I repeat my request–pardon for Baron Trenck!”

“And I,” cried the king, in a loud, stern voice, “I ask if you accept my proposition–if you will become the wife of the King of Denmark–and, mark well, princess, this is the answer to your prayer.”

“Sire, may God take pity on me! Punish me with your utmost scorn–I cannot break my oath! You can force me to leave my vows unfulfilled- -not to become the wife of the man I love–but you cannot force me to perjure myself. I should indeed be foresworn if I stepped before the altar with another man, and promised a love and faith which my heart knows not, and can never know.”

The king uttered a shrill cry of rage; maledictions hung upon his lips, but he held them back, and forcing himself to appear composed, he folded his arms, and walked hastily backward and forward through the room.

The princess gazed at him in breathless silence, and with loudly- beating heart she prayed to God for mercy and help; she felt that this hour would decide the fate of her whole life. Suddenly the king stood before her. His countenance was now perfectly composed.

“Princess Amelia,” said he, “I give you four weeks’ respite. Consider well what I have said to you. Take counsel with your conscience, your understanding, and your honor. In four weeks I will come again to you, and ask if you are resolved to fulfil my request, and become the wife of the King of Denmark. Until that time, I will know how to restrain the Danish ambassador. If you dare still to oppose my will, I will yet fulfil my promise, and grant you the favor you ask of me. I will make proposals to Trenck to return to Prussia, and the inducements I offer shall be so splendid that he will not resist them. Let me once have him here, and it shall be my affair to hold fast to him.”

He bowed to the princess and left the room. Amelia watched him silently, breathlessly, till he disappeared, then heaved a deep sigh and called loudly for her maid.

“Ernestine! Ernestine!” said she, with trembling lips, “find me a faithful messenger whom I can send immediately to Vienna. I must warn Trenck! Danger threatens him! No matter what my brother’s ambassador may offer him, with what glittering promises he may allure him, Trenck dare not listen to them, dare not accept them! He must never return to Prussia–he is lost if he does so!”

Frederick returned slowly and silently to his apartment. As he thought over the agitating scene he had just passed through, he murmured lightly, “Oh, woman’s heart! thou art like the restless, raging sea, and pearls and monsters lie in thy depths!”

CHAPTER VII.

MADAME VON COCCEJI.

The Marquis d’Argens was right. Barbarina and her sister had left England and returned to Berlin. They occupied the same expensive and beautiful hotel in Behren Street; but it was no longer surrounded by costly equipages, and besieged by gallant cavaliers. The elite of the court no longer came to wonder and to worship.

Barbarina’s house was lonely and deserted, and she herself was changed. She was no longer the graceful, enchanting prima donna, the floating sylph; she was a calm, proud woman, almost imposing in her grave, pale beauty; her melancholy smile touched the heart, while it contrasted strangely with her flashing eye.

Barbarina was in the same saloon where we last saw her, surrounded with dukes and princes–worshippers at her shrine! To-day she was alone; no one was by her side but her faithful sister Marietta. She lay stretched upon the divan, with her arms folded across her bosom; her head was thrown back upon the white, gold-embroidered cushion, and her long, black curls fell in rich profusion around her; with wide-open eyes she stared upon the ceiling, completely lost in sad and painful thoughts. At a small table by her side sat her sister Marietta, busily occupied in opening and reading the letters with which the table was covered.

And now she uttered a cry of joy, and a happy smile played upon her face. “A letter from Milan, from the impressario, Bintelli,” said she.

Barbarina remained immovable, and still stared at the ceiling.

“Binatelli offers you a magnificent engagement; he declares that all Italy languishes with impatience to see you. that every city implores your presence, and he is ambitious to be the first to allure you back to your fatherland.”

“Did you write to him that I desired an engagement?” said Barbarina.

“No, sister,” said Marietta, slightly blushing; “I wrote to him as to an old and valued friend; I described the restless, weary, nomadic life we were leading, and told him you had left the London stage forever.”

“And does it follow that I will therefore appear in Milan? Write at once that I am grateful for his offer, but neither in Milan nor any other Italian city will I appear upon the stage.”

“Ah, Barbarina, will we never again return to our beautiful Italy?” said Marietta, tearfully.

“Did I say that, sister? I said only, I would not appear in public.”

“But, Barbarina, he entreats so earnestly, and he offers you an enormous salary!”

“I am rich enough, Marietta.”

“No! no one is rich enough! Money is power, and the more millions one has to spend, the more is one beloved.”

“What care I for the love of men? I despise them all–all!” cried Barbarina, passionately.

“What! all?” said Marietta, with a meaning smile; “all–even Cocceji?”

Babarina raised herself hastily, and leaning upon her elbow, she gazed with surprise upon her sister. “You think, then, that I love Cocceji?”

“Did you not tell me so yourself?”

“Ah! I said so myself, did I?” said Barbarina, contemptuously, and sinking back into her former quiet position.

“Yes, sister, do you not remember,” said Marietta, eagerly; “can you not recall how sad you were when we left Berlin a year ago? You sobbed and wept, and looked ever backward from the carriage, then lightly whispered, ‘My happiness, my life, my love remain in Berlin!’ I asked you in what your happiness, your love, your life consisted. Your answer was, ‘Do you not know, then, that I love Cocceji?’ In truth, good sister I did not believe you! I thought you