Hasty steps drew near, and a voice whispered her name. Madame du Trouffle drew back, and a glowing blush suffused her cheek, and as she advanced from the grotto she was again the gay, imperious coquette–the beautiful woman, with the cloudless brow and the sparkling eyes, which seemed never to have been over-shadowed by tears. The conscience-stricken, self-accusing mother was again the worldly-wise coquette.
Her name was called the second time, and her heart trembled, she knew not if with joy or horror.
“For God’s sake, why have you dared to seek me here? Do you not know that my husband may return at any moment?”
“Your husband is entertaining Prince Henry while the princess dances the first waltz with Count Kalkreuth. All the world is dancing, playing, and chatting, and, while looking at the prince and princess, have for one moment forgotten the beautiful Louise du Trouffle. I alone could not do this, and as I learned from Lady Elliot that you were here, I dared to follow you, and seek in one glance a compensation for what I have endured this day. Ah, tell me, worshipped lady, must I be forever banished from your presence.”
The words of the young man would have seemed insincere and artificial to every unprejudiced ear, but they filled the heart of the vain Louise du Trouffle with joy; they convinced her that she was yet beautiful enough to excite admiration.
“All will be well, Emil,” said she; “I have convinced my husband that I am wise as Cato and virtuous as Lucretia. He believes in me, and will cast all slander from his door. Remain here, and let me return alone to the saloon. Au revoir, man ami.”
She threw him a kiss from the tips of her rosy fingers, and hastened away.
CHAPTER IV.
THE KING IN SANS-SOUCI.
The ceremonies and festivities of the reception were ended. The king could at length indulge himself in that quiet and repose which he had so long vainly desired. At length, he who had lived so many years to perform the duties of a king, who had in reality lived for his country, might after so many cares and sorrows seek repose. The warrior and hero might once more become the philosopher; might once more enjoy with his friends the pleasure of science and art.
The king entered the carriage which was to bear him to Sans-Souci with a beaming countenance–his deeply-loved Sans-Souci, which had seemed a golden dream to him during the dreary years of the war–a bright goal before him, of which it consoled and strengthened him even to think. Now he would again behold it; now he would again enter those beautiful rooms, and the past would once more become a reality.
He seemed enraptured with the road which led him to Sans-Souci. Every tree, every stone appeared to welcome him, and when the palace became visible, he was entirely overcome by his emotions, and sank back in his carriage with closed eyes.
The Marquis d’Argens, however, the only one who had been allowed to accompany the king in this drive, sprang from his seat, and waving his hat in greeting, exclaimed:
“I greet you, Sans-Souci, you temple of wisdom and happiness! Open wide your portals, for your lord is returning to you. Let your walls resound as did Memnon’s pillar, when the sun’s rays first greeted it, after a long night. Your night is passed, Sans-Souci; you will be again warmed by the sunbeams from your master’s eyes!”
The king smilingly drew his enthusiastic friend back to his seat.
“You are, and always will be a child–an overgrown child.”
“Sire,” said D’Argens, “that is because I am pious. It is written, ‘If you do not become as little children you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven!’ Now, Sans-Souci is my kingdom! I have become as the children, that I might be received at the side of my king, and begin once more the days of happiness.”
The king gently shook his head. “Oh, I fear, my friend, that the days of happiness will not recommence; the sun which once illumined Sans-Souci has set. Our lips have forgotten how to smile, and joy is dead in our hearts. How many illusions, how many hopes and wishes I still indulged, when I last descended the steps of Sans-Souci; how poor, and weak, and depressed I shall feel in ascending them!”
“What? your majesty poor! You who return so rich in fame, crowned with imperishable laurels?”
“Ah, marquis, these laurels are bathed in blood, and paid for bitterly and painfully with the lives of many thousands of my subjects. The wounds are still gaping which my land received during the war, and they will require long years to heal. Do not speak to me of my laurels; fame is but cold and sorrowful food! In order to prize fame, one should lay great weight on the judgment of men; I have lost all faith in them. Too many bitter experiences have at length destroyed my faith and confidence. I can no longer love mankind, for I have ever found them small, miserable, and crafty. Those for whom I have done most have betrayed and deceived me the most deeply. Think of Chafgotch, he whom I called friend, and who betrayed me in the hour of danger! Remember Warkotch, whom I preferred to so many others, whom I overloaded with proofs of my love, and who wished to betray and murder me! Think of the many attempts against my life, which were always undertaken by those whom I had trusted and benefited! Think of these things, marquis, and then tell me if I should still love and trust mankind!”
“It is true, sire,” said the marquis, sadly; “your majesty has had a wretched experience, and mankind must appear small to you, who are yourself so great. The eagle which soars proudly toward the sun, must think the world smaller and smaller, the higher he soars; the objects which delight us poor earth-worms, who are grovelling in the dust, and mistake an atom floating in the sunshine for the sun itself, must indeed appear insignificant to you.”
“Do not flatter me, marquis! Let us, when together, hear a little of that truth which is so seldom heard among men, and of which the name is scarcely known to kings. You flattered me, because you had not the courage to answer my question concerning the unworthiness of mankind, when I said I could no longer love or trust them! You feel, however, that I am right, and you will know how to pardon me, when I appear to the world as a cold, hard-hearted egotist. It is true my heart has become hardened in the fire of many and deep sufferings! I loved mankind very dearly, marquis; perhaps that is the reason I now despise them so intensely; because I know they are not worthy of my love!”
“But, sire, you love them still; for your heart is possessed of that Godlike quality–mercy–which overlooks and pardons the faults and failings of mankind. Intolerance is not in the nature of my king, and forgiveness and mercy are ever on his lips.”
“I will endeavor to verify your words, dear friend,” said the king, offering D’Argens his hand. “And should I not succeed, you must forgive me, and remember how deeply I have suffered, and that my heart is hardened by the scars of old wounds. But I will indulge such sad thoughts no longer. Only look how Sans-Souci gleams before us! Every window which glitters in the sunlight seems to greet me with shining eyes, and the whispering leaves appear to bid me welcome. There are the windows of my library, and behind them await the great spirits of my immortal friends, who look at me and shake their gray heads at the weak child who has returned to them old and bowed down. Csesar looks smilingly at the laurels I have brought, and Virgil shakes his curly locks, and lightly hums one of his divine songs, which are greater than all my victories. Come, marquis, come! we will go, in all modesty and humility to these gifted spirits, and entreat them not to despise us, because we are so unlike them.”
As the carriage reached the lowest terrace, Frederick sprang out with the elasticity of youth, and began to ascend the steps so lightly and rapidly, that the marquis could scarcely follow him.
From time to time the king stood still, and gazed around him, and then a bright smile illumined his countenance, and his eyes beamed with pleasure. Then hastening onward, he turned his head toward the house that looked so still and peaceful, and seemed, with its open doors, ready to welcome him.
At length, having reached the summit, he turned once more with beaming eyes to look at the lovely landscape which was spread before him in smiling luxuriousness. He then hastily entered the house and the beautiful room in which he had spent so many gay and happy hours with his friends. Now his footsteps echoed in the lonely room, and none of his friends were there to welcome the returning king–none but D’Argens, the dearest, the most faithful of all.
The king now turned to him, and a shadow overspread his countenance, which had been so bright.
“D’Argens,” he said, “we are very poor; the most of our friends have left us forever. The prior of Sans-Souci has returned, but his monks have all left him but you, marquis!”
“Does your majesty forget my Lord Marshal, the most amiable and intellectual of your monks? It needs but a sign from his beloved prior to recall him from Neufchatel!”
“It is true,” said the king, smiling; “I am not so deserted as I thought. Lord Marshal must return to us, and he must live here in Sans-Souci, as you will. I must surround myself with those who deserve my confidence; perhaps, then, I can forget how bitterly I have been deceived by others. Come, marquis, give me your arm, and we will make a tour of these rooms.”
He placed his hand upon the arm of the marquis, and they passed through the silent, deserted rooms, which seemed to greet the king with a thousand remembrances. Perhaps it was that he might the more distinctly hear the whispers of memory that he had commanded that no one should receive him in Sans-Souci, that no servant should appear until called for. Without noise or ceremony, he desired to take possession of this house, in which he had not been the king, but the philosopher and poet. He wished to return here, at least, as if he had only yesterday left the house. But the seven years of care and sorrow went with him; they crept behind him into these silent, deserted halls. He recognized them in the faded furniture, in the dusty walls, and in the darkened pictures. They were not merely around, but within him, and he again felt how utterly he had changed in these years.
As they entered the room which Voltaire had occupied, Frederick’s countenance was again brightened by a smile, while that of the marquis assumed a dark and indignant expression.
“Ah, marquis, I see from your countenance that you are acquainted with all the monkey-tricks of my immortal friend,” said the king, gayly; “and you are indignant that so great a genius as Voltaire should have possessed so small a soul! You think it very perfidious in Voltaire to have joined my enemies when I was in trouble, and then to send me his congratulations if I happened to win a victory!”
“Does your majesty know that also?” asked the astonished marquis.
“Dear marquis, have we not always good friends and servants, who take a pleasure in telling bad news, and informing us of those things which they know it will give us pain to hear? Even kings have such friends, and mine eagerly acquainted me with the fact that Voltaire wished all manner of evil might befall his friend ‘Luc,’ as it pleased him to call me. Did he not write to D’Argental that he desired nothing more fervently than my utter humiliation and the punishment of my sins, on the same day on which he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in honor of my victory at Leuthen? Did he not write on another occasion to Richelieu, that the happiest day of his life would be that on which the French entered Berlin as conquerors, and destroyed the capital of the treacherous king who dared to write to him twice every month the tenderest and most flattering things, without dreaming of reinstating him as chamberlain with the pension of six thousand thalers? He wished that I might suffer ‘la damnation eternelle,’ and proudly added. ‘Vous voyez, que dans la tragedie je veux toujours que le crime soit puni.'”
“Yes,” replied D’Argens, “and at the same time he wrote here to Formay: ‘Votre roi est toujours un homme unique, etonnant, inimitable; il fait des vers charmants dans de temps ou un autre ne pourrait faire un ligne de prose, il merite d’etre heureux.'”
The king laughed aloud. “Well, and what does that prove, that Voltaire is the greatest and most unprejudiced of poets?”
“That proves, sire, that he is a false, perfidious man, a faithless ungrateful friend. All his great poetical gifts weigh as nothing in the scale against the weakness and wickedness of his character. I can no longer admire him as a poet, because I despise him so utterly as a man.”
“You are too hard, marquis,” said Frederick, laughing. “Voltaire has a great mind, but a small heart, and that is, after all, less his fault than his Creator’s. Why should we wish to punish him, when he is innocent? Why should we demand of a great poet that he shall be a good man? We will allow him to have a bad heart, he can account to Madame Denis for that; and if we cannot love him, we can at least admire him as a poet. We can forgive much wickedness in men, if it is redeemed by great virtues.”
“Ah, sire, that is very sad,” sad D’Argens, “and could only be uttered by one who had the most profound love or the greatest contempt for mankind.”
“Perhaps the two are combined in me,” said the king. “As Christ said of the Magdalen, ‘She has loved much, much will be forgiven her,’ so let us say of Voltaire. He has written much, much will be forgiven him. He has lately rendered an immortal service, for which I could almost love him, were it possible to love him at all. He undertook with bold courage the defence of the unhappy Jean Calas, who was murdered by fanatical French priests. The priests, perhaps, will condemn him; we, however, honor him.”
“Did not your majesty do the same thing?” asked D’Argens. “Did you not also take pity on the unhappy family of Jean Calas? Did you not send them a considerable amount of money and offer them an asylum in your dominions?”
“That I did, certainly; but what is that in comparison with what Voltaire has done? He gave them the strength of his mind and his work, his best possession, while I could only give them gold. Voltaire’s gift was better, more beautiful, and I will now take a vow for his sake, that the persecuted and oppressed shall always find aid and protection in my land, and that I will consider liberty of spirit a sacred thing as long as I live. Freedom of thought shall be a right of my subjects. I will call all free and liberal minded persons to come to me, for liberty of thought brings liberty of will, and I prefer to rule a thinking people, to a mass of thoughtless slaves, who follow me through stupid obedience. Prussia shall be the land of liberty and enlightenment. The believers and the unbelievers, the pietists and the atheists may speak alike freely; the spirit of persecution shall be forever banished from Prussia.”
“Amen,” cried D’Argens solemnly, as he glanced at the excited, beaming countenance of the king. “The spirit of love and of freedom hears your words, my king, and they will be written with a diamond- point in the history of Prussia.”
“And now, marquis,” said the king, “we will visit my library, and then we will repose ourselves that we may enjoy our meal. In the evening I invite you to the concert. My musicians are coming from Berlin, and we will see if my lips, which have been accustomed so long to rough words of discipline, are capable of producing a few sweet notes from my flute.”
Thus speaking, the king took the arm of the marquis, and they passed slowly through the room, whose desolate silence made them both sad.
“The world is nothing more than a great, gaping grave, on the brink of which we walk with wild courage,” said the king, softly. “There is no moment that some one does not stumble at our side and fall into the abyss, and we have the courage to continue in the path until our strength fails and we sink, making room for another. Almost all of those who formerly occupied these rooms have vanished. How long will it be ere I shall follow them?”
“May that wretched moment be very distant!” exclaimed D’Argens, with a trembling voice. “Your majesty is still so young and full of life- -you have nothing to do with death.”
“No,” said the king; “I am very old, for I have become indifferent to the world. Things which would have deeply distressed me formerly, now pass unheeded over my soul. I assure you, marquis, I have made great progress in practical philosophy. I am old; I stand at the limits of life, and my soul is freeing itself from this world, which, it is to be hoped, I will soon leave.”
“Ah, sire,” said D’Argens, smiling, “you are ten years younger than I am, and each time that you speak of your rapidly advancing age, I ask myself how it is possible that a man so much younger than I should complain of old age. Only wait, sire; here, in the quiet of Sans-Souci, in a few months you will feel ten and I fifteen years younger. In the happiness and comforts of our existence, you will live to the age of Abraham and I to that of Jacob.”
“But I am much older than you, marquis. During the last seven years, I have had nothing but destroyed hopes, undeserved misfortunes, in short, all that the caprice of Fortune could discover to distress me. After such experiences it is allowable, when one is fifty years old, to say that he is old, that he will no longer be the play-thing of Fortune, that he renounces ambition and all those follies which are merely the illusions of inexperienced youth. But no more of these sad thoughts, for here we are at last at the door of my tusculum. Fold your hands, you unbelieving son of the Church; the gods and heroes await us in this temple, and you will at least believe in these.”
They entered the library, and as the door closed behind them and they were separated from the whole world, as they stood in the centre of the room whose only ornament consisted of rows of books, upon which glittered in golden letters the names of the great minds of all ages, whose only splendor consisted in the marble busts of Caesar and Virgil, of Cicero and Alexander, the king said, with beaming eyes:
“I am at last in the republic of minds, and I, as a humble citizen, approach the great presidents, who look down so graciously upon me.”
And, as the king seated himself in his arm-chair before his writing table, he recovered his sparkling humor, his gay wit, and recounted with a bright smile to the marquis that he intended to work most industriously, that he would certainly write a history of this war which he had just closed, and that he intended always to live at Sans-Souci, as its quiet and repose seemed more agreeable to him than the noise and turmoil of the great city. He then dismissed the marquis for a short time, that he might rest before going to the table.
But the king did not rest. Too many and too powerful thoughts were surging in his breast. Leaning back in his arm-chair, he thought of the future. He recalled his own life and arranged his future course. After sitting thus for a long time, he suddenly arose, his countenance bright with a firm and energetic expression.
“Yes, thus it shall be,” he said aloud. “I will be the father of my people. I will live for them, forgetting the wickedness of men, or only avenging myself on them by the prickings of a needle. I have no family, therefore my people shall be my family. I have no children, therefore every one who needs my aid shall become my child, and for them I will do the duties of a father. My country bleeds from a thousand wounds–to heal these wounds shall be the task of my life.”
True to this resolution, the king called together his ministers the next day, and commanded them to obtain exact accounts of the condition of his provinces; to inform him of the wants and necessities of the people; and to assist him in relieving them. True to this resolution, the king was untiring in his work for the good of his people. He wished to see all, to prove all. He desired to be the source from which his subjects received all their strength and power.
Therefore he must know all their griefs–he must lend an open ear to all their demands.
His first command was, that any one who asked for an interview should be admitted. And when one of his ministers dared to express his astonishment at this order. “It is the duty of a king,” said Frederick, “to listen to the request of the most insignificant of his subjects. I am a regent for the purpose of making my people happy. I do not dare close my ears to their complaints.” And he listened sympathizingly to the sorrows of his people, and his whole mind and thoughts were given to obtain their alleviation. He was always willing to aid with his counsel and his strength. Untiring in the work, he read every letter, every petition, and examined every answer which was written by his cabinet council. He and he alone, was the soul of his government.
A new life began to reign in this land, of which he was the soul. He worked more than all of his ministers or servants, and music and science were his only pleasure and recreation. He was a hero in peace as well as in war. He did not require, as others do, the distraction of gay pleasures. Study was his chief recreation– conversation with his friends was his greatest pleasure. Even the hunt, the so-called “knightly pleasure,” had no charms for him.
“Hunting,” said the king, “is one of the senseless pleasures which excites the body but leaves the mind unemployed. We are more cruel than the wild beasts themselves. He who can murder an innocent animal in cold blood, would find it impossible to show mercy to his fellow-man. Is hunting a proper employment for a thinking creature? A gentleman who hunts can only be forgiven if he does so rarely, and then to distract his thoughts from sad and earnest business matters. It would be wrong to deny sovereigns all relaxation, but is there a greater pleasure for a monarch than to rule well, to enrich his state, and to advance all useful sciences and arts? He who requires other enjoyments is to be pitied.”
CHAPTER V.
THE ENGRAVED CUP.
Princess Amelia was alone in her boudoir–she was ever alone. She lay upon the sofa, gazed at the ceiling, and in utter despair reflected upon her miserable fate. For years she had looked anxiously forward to the conclusion of this unhappy war in which Austria and Prussia were so fiercely opposed. So long as they were active enemies, Trenck must remain a prisoner. But she had said to herself, “When peace is declared, the prisoners of war will be released, and Maria Theresa will demand that her captain, Frederick von Trenck, be set at liberty.”
Peace had been declared four months, and Trenck still lay in his subterranean cell at Magdeburg. All Europe was freed from the fetters of war. Trenck alone was unpardoned and forgotten. This thought made Amelia sad unto death, banished sleep from her couch, and made her a restless, despairing wanderer during the day. Amelia had no longer an object–the last ray of hope was extinguished. Peace had been concluded and Trenck was forgotten! God had denied her the happiness of obtaining Trenck’s freedom; He would not even grant her the consolation of seeing him released through others. For nine years Trenck had languished in prison–for nine years Amelia’s only thought, only desire, was to enable him to escape. Her life was consecrated to this one object. She thought not of the gold she had sacrificed–she had offered up not only her entire private fortune, but had made debts which her income was utterly inadequate to meet. Money had no value except as it was consecrated to her one great aim. She felt now that her heart had been crushed and broken in her useless efforts-that her hopes were trampled in the dust, and her existence worthless. Peace had visited all hearts but hers with new assurance of hope. It brought to her nothing but despair and desolation. While all others seemed to recommence life with fresh courage and confidence, Amelia withdrew to her apartments, brooding in dark discontent–hating all those who laughed and were glad- spurning from her with angry jealousy the contented and happy. The world was to her a vast tomb, and she despised all those who had the mad and blasphemous courage to dance on its brink.
Amelia avenged herself on those who avoided her, by pursuing them with spiteful jests and bitter sarcasm, hoping in this way to be relieved wholly from their presence. She wished to be alone and always alone. Her soul within her was desolate, and the outward world should take the same dark hue. She lived like a prisoner secluded in her own apartments; and when some great court festival compelled her to appear in public, she revenged herself by wounding all who approached her. The sufferings of others were a balsam to her heart, and she convinced herself that the pain she inflicted assuaged her own torments.
Amelia was alone; her maid of honor had just read aloud one of Moliere’s biting, satirical comedies, and received leave of absence for a few hours. The princess had also dismissed her chamberlain till dinner, and he had left the castle; only two pages waited in the anteroom, which was separated by two chambers from the boudoir. Amelia had the happy consciousness of being alone in her grief, and, fearing no disturbance, she could sigh and lament aloud. She dared give words to her rage and her despair; there were no other listeners than these dead, voiceless walls–they had been long her only confidants. The stillness was suddenly broken by a gentle knock at the door, and one of the pages entered.
With a frightened look, and begging earnestly to be pardoned for having dared to disturb the princess, he informed her that a stranger was without, who pleaded eagerly to be admitted.
“What does he wish?” said Amelia, roughly. “I have neither office nor dignity to bestow, and, at present, I have no money! Tell him this, and he will go away cheerfully.”
“The stranger says he is a jeweller, your highness,” said the page. “It is of great importance to him that you should look at his collection of gems; and if you will have the goodness to purchase a few trifles, you will make them the fashion in Berlin, and thus make his fortune.”
“Tell him he is a fool!” said Amelia, with a coarse laugh; “I have no desire to see his jewels! Dismiss him, and do not dare disturb me again. Well, why do you hesitate? Why are you still here?”
“Ah, princess, the poor man begs so earnestly for admittance; he says your highness knew him at Magdeburg, and that the governor, the Landgrave of Hesse, expressly charged him to show the jewels to your highness.”
These magical words aroused Amelia from her apathy. With a quick movement she arose from the sofa; she was endowed with new energy and vitality; she advanced toward the door, then paused, and looked silent and thoughtful.
“Admit the stranger!” said she, “I will see his treasures.”
The page left the room, and Amelia gazed after him breathlessly, and with a loudly-beating heart. It seemed to her an eternity before the stranger entered.
A tall, slender man, in simple but elegant costume, approached. He stood at the door, and bowed profoundly to the princess. Amelia looked at him steadily, and sighed deeply; she did not know this man. Again her hopes had deceived her.
“You said the Landgrave of Hesse sent you to me?” said she, roughly.
“Yes, princess,” said the man; “he commanded me to seek your highness as soon as I arrived in Berlin, and show you my collection, in order that you might have the privilege of selecting before all others.”
Amelia looked once more questioningly and fiercely upon the stranger, but he remained cold and indifferent.
“Well, sir, show me your gems!”
He placed a large casket upon a table in the middle of the room; he then unlocked it, and threw back the lid. In the different compartments, splendid jewels of wondrous beauty were to be seen– rings, pins, bracelets, and necklaces of rare workmanship and design.
“Diamonds,” cried Amelia, contemptuously; “nothing but diamonds!”
“But diamonds of a strange fire and wondrous design,” said the strange jeweller. “Will not your highness graciously draw nearer, and observe them?”
“I have no use for them: I wear no diamonds!” said Amelia: “if you have nothing else to show me, close the casket; I shall make no purchase.”
“I have, indeed, other and rarer treasures; some beautiful carved work, by Cellini, some ivory carving of the middle ages, and a few rare and costly cameos. Perhaps these may please the taste of your highness?”
The jeweller raised the first compartment, and taking out a number of beautiful and costly articles, he laid them upon the table, explained the workmanship and design of each piece, and called the attention of the princess to their wondrous beauty.
Amelia listened carelessly to his words. These things had no interest for her; she looked only at one object–a round packet, rolled in paper, which the stranger had taken with the other articles from the casket; this must be something particularly costly. It was carefully wrapped in silk paper, while every thing else lay confusedly together, and yet this seemed the only treasure which the jeweller did not seem disposed to exhibit. Amelia, however, remarked that he raised this mysterious packet several times, as if it was in his way; changed its place, but every time brought it nearer to her. It now lay immediately in front of her.
“What does that paper contain?” said she.
“Oh, that has no interest for your royal highness; that is a worthless object! Will you have the goodness to examine this seal? It represents the holy Saint Michael, treading the dragon under his feet, and it is one of the most successful and beautiful works of Benvenuto Cellini.”
Amelia did not look at the seal; she stretched out her hand toward the mysterious packet, and giving a searching look at the jeweller, she raised and opened it.
“A cup! a tin cup!” she exclaimed, in astonishment.
“As I remarked to your highness, a worthless object; unless the rare beauty of the workmanship should give it some value. The carving is indeed beautiful and most wonderful, when you know that it was done with a common nail, and not even in daylight, but in the gloom and darkness of a subterranean cell.”
Amelia trembled so violently, that the cup almost fell from her hand. The stranger did not remark her emotion, but went on quietly.
“Observe, your highness, how finely and correctly the outlines are drawn; it is as artistically executed as the copperplate of a splendid engraving. It is greatly to be regretted that we cannot take impressions from this tin cup; they would make charming pictures. The sketches are not only well executed, but they are thoughtfully and pathetically conceived and illustrated with beautiful verses, which are worthy of a place in any album. If your highness takes any interest in such trifles, I beg you will take this to the light and examine it closely.”
The princess did not answer: she stepped to the window, and turning her back to the jeweller, looked eagerly at the cup.
It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art and industry. The surface was divided by small and graceful arabesques into ten departments, each one of which contained an enchanting and finely-executed picture. No chisel could have drawn the lines more correctly or artistically, or produced a finer effect of light and shade. Under each picture there was a little verse engraved in such fine characters, that they could only be deciphered with difficulty.
Amelia’s eyes seemed to have recovered the strength and power of earlier days. A youthful, vigorous soul lay in the glance which was fixed upon this cup; she understood every thing.
There was a cage with an imprisoned bird; beneath this a verse:
“Ce n’est pas un moineau,
Garde dans cette cage,
C’est un de ces oiseaux,
Qui chantent dans L’orage.
Ouvrez, amis des sages,
Brisez fers et verroux;
Les chants dans vos bocages,
Rejailliront pour vous.”
[Footnote:
“This is not a sparrow
Kept in this cage.
It is one of those birds
Who sing in storms.
Open, friend of the wise,
Break iron and bolts,
The songs in your woods
Shall fly back to you.”]
In the next compartment was again a cage, containing a bird, and on the branch of a tree under which the cage was placed, perched another bird, with fluttering wings and open beak; underneath was written–
“Le rossignol cbante, voici la raison, Pourquoi il est pris pour chanter en prison; Voyez le moineau qui fait tant de dommage, Jouir de la vie sans craindre la cage. Voila un portrait,
Qui montre l’effet
Du bonheur des fripons du desastre des sages.”
[Footnote:
“The nightingale sings, and this is the reason That he is taken to sing in a prison. See now the sparrow, who does so much evil, Plays with life without fear of cages. See in this portrait,
Which shows the effect
Of the good luck of rogues, and the misfortune of sages.”]
Amelia could not control herself; she could look no longer. She rarely wept, but now her eyes were filled with tears. They fell upon the cup, as if to kiss the letters which had recalled so many touching and sad remembrances. But she had no time for tears, she must read on! With an involuntary movement, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and fixed them steadily upon the cup.
Here was another picture. In a cell lay a skeleton form, the hands and the feet bound with heavy chains. The figure had raised itself slightly from the straw bed and gazed with an agonized expression at the grating in the wall, behind which the grim-bearded face of a soldier was seen, who, with wide-open mouth seemed to be calling angrily to the prisoner. Beneath this stood some verses in German. [Footnote: See memoirs of Trenck, Thiebault, in which Trenck describes one of these cups and the fate which befell it. One of them was engraved for the Landgrave of Hesse, and in this way fell into the hands of the Emperor Joseph the Second, who kept it in his art cabinet. Another, which had been once in possession of the wife of Frederick the Great, Trenck afterward recovered in Paris. Some of these cups are still to be seen in art collections in Germany, and some are in the museum in Berlin.] “Oh fearful! most fearful!” sobbed Amelia; and, completely overcome, her head sank upon her breast. She cared not that the strange jeweller saw her tears and heard the despairing cry of her heart; she had nothing to fear; she had no more to lose. The assembled world might hear and see her great grief. But no, no; this must not be. His agony, his tortures, might perhaps be increased to punish her through him! She must not weep; she must not complain. Trenck lived; although in prison and in chains, he still lived; so long as he lived, she must conquer the despair of her heart.
As she thought thus, she dried her tears, and raised her head with proud resolve. She would be calm and self-possessed; perhaps this man, sent to her by the landgrave, had something still to say to her. She half turned her head toward him; he appeared not to be thinking of her, but was quietly engaged placing his treasures again in his casket.
“Can you tell me who engraved this cup?”
“Certainly, your royal highness. A poor prisoner, who has been confined for nine years in a subterranean cell in the fortress of Magdeburg, engraved it. He is called Frederick von Trenck. Your highness has perhaps never heard the name, but in Magdeburg every child knows it, and speaks it with wonder and admiration! No one has seen him, but every one knows of his daring, his heroism, his unfaltering courage, and endurance, his herculean strength, and his many and marvellous attempts to escape. Trenck is the hero of the nursery as well as the saloon. No lady in Magdeburg is acquainted with him, but all are enthusiastic in his praise, and all the officers who know him love and pity him. Many are ready to risk their lives for him!”
The princess sighed deeply, and a ray of joy and hope lighted up her countenance. She listened with suppressed breath to the jeweller’s words–they sounded like far-off music, pleasant but mournful to the soul.
The stranger continued: “Some time since, in order to dispel the tediousness of his prison-life, he began to engrave poems and figures upon his tin cup with a nail which he had found in the earth while making his last attempt to undermine the floor of his cell. During one of his visits of observation, the commandant discovered this cup; he was delighted with the engravings, took the cup and sent Trenck another, hoping he would continue the exercise of his art. Trenck seized the occasion joyfully, and since then he has been constantly occupied as an engraver. Every officer desires to have a cup engraved by him, as a souvenir. Every lady in Magdeburg longs for one, and prefers it to the most costly jewel. These cups are now the mode–indeed, they have become an important article in trade. If one of the officers can be induced to sell his cup, it will cost twenty louis d’or. Trenck gets no money for his work, but he has gained far greater advantages. These cups give him the opportunity of making known to the world the cruel tortures to which he is subject; they have given him speech, and replaced the writing materials of which they have deprived him. They have answered even a better and holier purpose than this,” said the jeweller, in a low voice, “they have procured him light and air. In order to give him sufficient light for his work, the officers open the doors into the first corridor, in which there is a large window; one of the upper panes of this window is open every morning. As the days are short in the casemates, the commandant looks through his fingers, when the officers bring lights to the poor prisoner. Trenck feels as if his wretched prison-cell was now changed into the atelier of an artist.”
Amelia was silent and pressed the cup tenderly to her lips; the stranger did not regard her, but continued his recital quietly.
“An officer of the garrison told me all this, your highness, when he sold me this cup. They make no secret of their admiration and affection for Trenck; they know they would be severely punished if the higher authorities discovered that they allowed Trenck any privileges or alleviations, but they boast of it and consider it a humane action.”
“May God reward them for it!” sighed Amelia. “I will buy this cup, sir. I do not wish to be behind the ladies of Magdeburg, and as it is the mode to possess a cup engraved by Trenck, I will take this. Name your price.”
The jeweller was silent for a moment, then said:
“Pardon me, your highness, I dare not sell you this cup, or rather I implore your highness not to desire it. If possible, I will make it an instrument for Trenck’s release.”
“How can this be done?” said Amelia, breathlessly.
“I will take this cup to General Riedt, the Austrian ambassador in Berlin. As all the world is interesting itself for Trenck, I do not see why I should not do the same, and endeavor to obtain his release. I shall therefore go to General Riedt with this cup. I am told he is a noble gentleman and a distant relation of Trenck; he cannot fail to sympathize with his unfortunate cousin. When he hears of his cruel sufferings he will certainly strive to deliver him. General Riedt is exactly the man to effect this great object; he is thoroughly acquainted with all the by-ways and intrigues of the court of Vienna. Maria Theresa classes him among her most trusted confidants and friends. Whoever desires to free Trenck must consult with General Riedt and win him.”
Amelia raised her head and looked up quickly at the stranger; his eyes were fixed upon her with a searching and significant expression; their glances met and were steadily fixed for one moment, then a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over the face of the jeweller, and the princess nodded her head. Each felt that they were understood.
“Have you nothing more to say?” said Amelia.
“No, your highness, I have only to beg you will pardon me for not selling you this cup. I must take it to General Riedt.”
“Leave it with me,” said Amelia, after a few moments’ reflection. “I myself will show it to him and seek to interest him in the fate of his unhappy relative. If I succeed, the cup is mine, and you will not wish to sell it to General Riedt Do you agree to this? Go, then, and return to me at th is hour to-morrow, when I will either pay you the price of the cup, or return it to you, if I am so unhappy as to fail.”
The jeweller bowed profoundly. “I will punctually obey your highness’s commands. To-morrow at this hour I will be here.”
The stranger took his casket and left the room. The princess gazed after him till the door closed.
“That man is silent and discreet, I believe he can be trusted,” she murmured. “I will write at once, and desire an interview with General Riedt.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE PRINCESS AND THE DIPLOMATIST.
An hour later the page of the princess announced General von Riedt, Austrian ambassador at the court of Berlin. Amelia advanced to meet him, and gazed with a sharp, piercing glance at the general, who bowed respectfully before her.
“I have sent for you, general,” said the princess, “to repair an injury. You have been announced twice, and both times I declined receiving you.”
“That was no injury, your royal highness,” said the general, smiling. “I ventured to call on you because etiquette demands that a new ambassador should introduce himself to every member of the royal house. Your royal highness declined to receive me, it was not agreeable, and you were perfectly justifiable in closing your doors against me.”
“And now you must wonder why I have sent for you?”
“I never allow myself to wonder. Your order for me to come has made me happy–that is sufficient.”
“You have no suspicion why I sent for you?”
“Your royal highness has just informed me you kindly wished to indemnify me for my two former visits.”
“You are a good diplomatist; you turn quickly about, are as smooth as an eel, cannot be taken hold of, but slip through one’s fingers. I am accustomed to go at once to the point–I cannot diplomatize. See here, why I wished to see you–I wished to show you this cup.”
She took the cup hastily from the table, and gave it to the ambassador. He gazed at it long and earnestly; he turned it around, looking at every picture, reading every verse. Amelia watched him keenly, but his countenance betrayed nothing. He was as smiling, as unembarrassed as before. When he had looked at it attentively, he placed it on the table.
“Well, what do you think of the workmanship?” said Amelia.
“It is wonderful, worthy of an artist, your royal highness.”
“And do you know by what artist it was made?”
“I suspect it, your royal highness.”
“Give me his name?”
“I think he is called Frederick von Trenck.”
“It is so, and if I do not err, he is your relative?”
“My distant relative–yes, your royal highness.”
“And can you bear to have your relative in chains? Does not your heart bleed for his sufferings?”
“He suffers justly, I presume, or he would not have been condemned.”
“Were he the greatest criminal that lived, it would still be a crime to make him suffer perpetually. A man’s sleep is sacred, be he a criminal or a murderer. Let them kill the criminal, but they should not murder sleep. Look at this picture, general; look at this prisoner lying upon the hard floor; he has been torn from his dreams of freedom and happiness by the rough voice of the soldier standing at his door. Read the verse beneath it–is not every word of it bathed in tears? Breathes there not a cry of terror throughout so fearful, so unheard-of, that it must resound in every breast? And you, his relative, you will not hear him? You will do nothing to free this unfortunate man from his prison? You, the Austrian ambassador, suffer an officer of your empress to remain a prisoner in a strange land, without a trial, without a hearing.”
“When my empress sent me here, she gave me her instructions, and she informed me of the extent and character of my duties. She did not request me to exert myself for the release of this unfortunate prisoner, that is entirely beyond my sphere of action, and I must be discreet.”
“You must be careful and discreet when the life of a man, a relative, is concerned? You have, then, no pity for him?”
“I pity him deeply, your royal highness, but can do nothing more.”
“Perhaps not you! Perhaps another! Perhaps I?”
“I do not know if your royal highness interests herself sufficiently in the prisoner to work for him.”
“You know not whether I interest myself sufficiently in Trenck to serve him,” cried Amelia, with a harsh laugh. “You well know it; the whole world knows it; no one dares speak of it aloud, for fear of the king’s anger, but it is whispered throughout the whole land why Trenck languishes in prison. You, you alone, should be ignorant of it! Know, then, that Trenck is imprisoned because I love him! Yes, general, I love him! Why do you not laugh, sir? Is it not laughable to hear an old, wrinkled, broken-down creature speak of love–to see a wan, trembling form, tottering to her grave on a prop of love? Look at this horribly disfigured countenance. Listen to the rough, discordant voice that dares to speak of love, and then laugh, general, for I tell you I love Trenck. I love him with all the strength and passion of a young girl. Grief and age have laid a fearful mask upon my countenance, but my heart is still young, there burns within it an undying, a sacred flame. My thoughts, my desires are passionate and youthful, and my every thought, my every desire is for Trenck. I could tell you of all the agony, all the despair I have endured for his sake, but it would be useless. There is no question of my sufferings, but of his who through me has lost his youth and his freedom–his all! Nine years he has lain in prison; for nine years my one aim has been to release him. My existence, my soul, my heart, are bound up in his prison walls. I only live to release him. Though I have ceased to look for human assistance, my heart still prays earnestly to God for some way of escape. If you know any such, general, show it to me, and were it strewed with thorns and burning irons, I would wander upon it in my bare feet.”
She raised her hands and fixed an imploring glance upon the general, who had listened to her in silence. When she had ceased speaking, he raised his head and looked at her. Amelia could have cried aloud for joy, for two bright, precious tears gleamed in his eye.
“You weep,” cried she; “you have some pity.”
The general took her hand, and kneeling reverentially before her he said: “Yes, I weep, but not over you. I weep over your great, self- sacrificing soul. I do not pity you–your grief is too great, too sacred–it is above pity. But I bow profoundly before you, for your suffering is worthy of all reverence. To me you appear much more beautiful than all the women of this court who dance giddily through life. It is not the diplomatist but the man who kneels before you and offers you his homage.”
Gently Amelia bade him rise. “With a sweet, happy smile upon her lip she thanked him for his sympathy, and hoped they would be good friends and counsel with each other.”
The general was silent for a few moments. “The feelings of the empress must be worked upon–she must intercede with King Frederick for Trenck. He cannot refuse her first request.”
“Will you undertake to effect this?” said Amelia, hastily. “Will you intercede for your unfortunate relative?”
“I had done so long ago had it been possible. Alas, I dared not. Trenck is my relative–my request would, therefore, have been considered as that of a prejudiced person. My exalted empress possesses so strong a sense of right that it has become a rule of hers never to fulfil a request made by any of her own intimate and confidential friends for their families or relatives. She would have paid no attention to my request for Trenck’s release. Moreover, I would have made enemies of a powerful and influential party at court–with a party whose wish it is that Trenck may never be released, because he would then come and demand an account of the gold, jewels, and property left him by his cousin, the colonel of the pandours, thus causing a great disturbance amongst several noble families at court. These families are continually filling the ear of the empress with accusations against the unfortunate prisoner, well knowing that he cannot defend himself. You must appear to have forgotten that poor Trenck is languishing in prison while his property is being guarded by stewards who pay themselves for their heavy labor with the old colonel’s money. It is dangerous, therefore, to meddle with this wasp’s nest. To serve Trenck, the interceder must be so harmless and insignificant that no one will consider it worth while to watch him, so that Trenck’s enemies, not suspecting him, can place no obstacles in his path.”
“Lives there such a one?” said the princess.
“Yes, your royal highness.”
“Where is he? What is his name? What is he?”
“The fireman in the apartments of the empress. He is a poor Savoyard, without name, without rank, without position, hut with credit and influence.”
“A fireman?” cried the princess, with amazement.
“An old, ugly, deformed fellow, called by the other servants Gnome because of his stubborn silence, his want of sociability, his rough manner and voice, his caring for nothing but his service, which he performs with great method. Every morning at six he enters her majesty’s apartment, makes the fire, throws back the curtain to admit the light, arranges the chairs, and then withdraws without the least noise. All this he does without committing the slightest indiscretion; always the same; never lingering beyond his time– never leaving before. He is like a clock that maintains always the same movement and sound. The empress, accustomed for thirty years to see him enter daily her apartments, has become used to his homeliness, and often in the kindness of her heart enters into conversation with him. His answers are always laconic, in a tone of perfect indifference–at times brusque, even harsh–but they have a sensible and often a deep meaning. When the empress speaks with him, he does not cease his work for a moment, and when he has finished he does not remain a minute longer, but goes without asking if she desires to continue the conversation. For thirty years he has had the same duties and has fulfilled them in the same manner. He has never been accused of a mistake–he has never been guilty of inquisitiveness or intrigue. Thus the empress has great and firm confidence in him. She is so convinced of his truth, disinterestedness, and probity, that he has gained a sort of influence over her, and as she knows that he is to be won neither by gold, flattery, promises of position and rank, she constantly asks his opinion on matters of importance, and not seldom is biassed by its strong, sensible tone.”
“But if this man is so honest and disinterested, how are we to influence him?”
“We must seek to win his heart and his head. He must become interested in the fate of the unfortunate prisoner–he must become anxious for his release. When we have done this much, we can question his self-interest and offer him gold.”
“Gold? This wonder of probity and truth is susceptible to bribes?”
“He never has, perhaps never may be. He himself has no desires, no necessities; but he has one weakness–his daughter. She is a young and lovely girl, whom he, in his dark distrust of all at court in the form of men, has had educated in a convent far from Vienna. She is now living with some respectable family in Vienna, but she never visits him, never enters the castle to inquire for him for fear she should be seen by some of the court gentlemen. This girl has now formed an attachment to a young doctor. They would like to marry, but he has no practice, she no money. Her father has saved nothing, but spent all his wages on her education, and has no dowry for his daughter.”
“And he intends to plead with the empress for this dower?”
“If such a thought came to him he would put it away with contempt, for his only ambition consists in making no requests, receiving no gifts from the empress. Nor would he now act for this gold alone contrary to his idea of right, were his daughter to die of sorrow. As I said before, his heart and head must first be won, then only must we speak of reward.”
“If this man has a heart, we cannot fail to win it when we tell him all that Trenck has suffered and still endures,” cried the princess. “The agony and despair that have been heaped upon the head of one poor mortal will surely touch both head and heart. When we have succeeded, we will give his daughter a handsome dower. God has so willed it that I am right rich now, and can fulfil my promises. My pension as abbess and my salary as princess were both paid in yesterday. There is a little fortune in my desk, and I shall add more to it. Do you think four thousand louis d’or will be sufficient to win the Savoyard’s heart?”
“For any other it would be more than sufficient; but to win this honest heart, your offer is not too great.”
“But is it enough?”
“It is.”
“Now, all that we need is some sure, cunning messenger to send to him; a man whose heart and head, soul and body are bound up in the cause he advocates. General, where shall we find such a man?”
General Riedt laughed. “I thought your royal highness had already found him.”
The princess looked at him in amazement.
“Ah,” cried she, “the jeweller; the man who brought me the cup; who referred me to you in so wise and discreet a manner.”
“I think you desired him to return early to-morrow morning?”
“How do you know that? Are you acquainted with him?”
General Riedt bowed smilingly. “I ventured to send him to your royal highness.”
“Ah! I now understand it all, and must acknowledge that the jeweller is as great a negotiator as you are a diplomatist. The cup I showed you, you sent to me?”
“I received it from the Governor of Magdeburg, the Landgrave of Hesse; as I could do nothing with it, I ventured to send it to your royal highness.”
“And I thank you, general, for sending it in so discreet, so wise a manner. We may, perhaps, succeed in keeping all this secret from my brother, so that he cannot act against us. Hasten away, general, and give the jeweller, or whatever else he may be, his instructions. Send him to me early in the morning for his reward.” [Footnote: The princess succeeded in winning the influence of the fireman. How he succeeded with the empress, can be seen in “Thiebault’s Souvenirs de Vingt Ans,” vol. iv.]
CHAPTER VII.
THE ROYAL HOUSE-SPY.
The next morning, a carriage drew up before the garden of Sans- Souci, and a gentleman, in a glittering, embroidered court uniform, crept out slowly and with much difficulty. Coughing and murmuring peevish words to himself, he slipped into the allee leading to the terraces. His back was bent, and from under the three-cornered hat, ornamented with rich gold lace, came sparsely, here and there, a few silver hairs. Who could have recognized, in this doubled-up, decrepit form, now with tottering knees creeping up the terrace, the once gay, careless, unconcerned grand-master of ceremonies, Baron von Pollnitz? Who could have supposed that this old weatherbeaten visage, deformed with a thousand wrinkles, once belonged to the dashing cavalier? And yet, it was even so. Pollnitz had grown old, and his back was bowed down under the yoke which the monster Time lays at last upon humanity; but his spirit remained unchanged. He had preserved his vivacity, his malice, his egotism. He had the same passion for gold–much gold; not, however, to hoard, but to lavish. His life was ever divided between base covetousness and thoughtless prodigality. When he had revelled and gormandized through the first days of every month, he was forced, during the last weeks, to suffer privation and hunger, or to borrow from those who were good-natured and credulous enough to lend him. There was also one other source of revenue which the adroit courtier knew how to use to his advantage. He was a splendid ecarte player; and, as it was his duty, as grand- master of ceremonies, to provide amusements for the court, to choose places and partners for the card-tables, he always arranged it so as to bring himself in contact with wealthy and eager card-players, from some of whom he could win, and from others borrow a few louis d’or. Besides this, since the return of the king, Pollnitz had voluntarily taken up his old trade of spy, and informed Frederick of all he saw and heard at court; for this, from time to time, he demanded a small reward.
“Curious idea,” he said, as, puffing and blowing, he clambered up the terrace. “Curious idea to live in this wearisome desert, when he has respectable and comfortable castles in the midst of the city, and on a level plain. One might truly think that the king, even in life, wishes to draw nearer to heaven, and withdraws from the children of man, to pray and prepare himself for paradise.”
The baron laughed aloud; it seemed to him a droll idea to look at the king as a prayerful hermit. This conception amused him, and gave him strength to go onward more rapidly, and he soon reached the upper platform of the terrace, upon which the castle stood. Without difficulty, he advanced to the antechamber, but there stood Deesen, and forbade him entrance to the king.
“His majesty holds a cabinet council,” said he, “and it is expressly commanded to allow no one to enter.”
“Then I will force an entrance,” said Pollnitz, stepping boldly to the door. “I must speak to his majesty; I have something most important to communicate.”
“I think it cannot be more important than that which now occupies the king’s attention,” said the intrepid Deesen. “I am commanded to allow no one to enter; I shall obey the order of the king.”
“I am resolved to enter,” said Pollnitz, in a loud voice; but Deesen spread his broad figure threateningly before the door. An angry dispute arose, and Pollnitz made his screeching voice resound so powerfully, he might well hope the king would hear him, and in this he was not deceived; the king heard and appeared at once upon the threshold.
“Pollnitz,” said he, “you are and will always be an incorrigible fool; you are crowing as loud as a Gallic cock, who is declaring war against my people. I have made peace with the Gauls, mark that, and do not dare again to crow so loud. What do you want? Do your creditors wish to cast you in prison, or do you wish to inform me that you have become a Jew, and wish to accept some lucrative place as Rabbi?”
“No, sire, I remain a reformed Christian, and my creditors will never take the trouble to arrest me; they know that would avail nothing. I come on most grave and important matters of business, and I pray your majesty to grant me a private audience.”
Frederick looked sternly at him. “Listen, Pollnitz, you are still a long-winded and doubtful companion, notwithstanding your seventy-six years. Deliberate a moment; if that which you tell me is not important, and requiring speedy attention, I will punish you severely for having dared to interrupt me in my cabinet council; I will withhold your salary for the next month.”
“Your majesty, the business is weighty, and requires immediate attention; I stake my salary upon it.”
“Come, then, into my cabinet, but be brief,” said Frederick, stepping into the adjoining room. “Now speak,” said he, as he closed the door.
“Sire, first, I must ask your pardon for daring to allude to a subject which is so old that its teeth are shaky and its countenance wrinkled.”
“You wish, then, to speak of yourself?” said Frederick.
“No, sire; I will speak of a subject which bloomed before the war, and since then has withered and faded in a subterranean prison; but it now threatens to put forth new buds, to unfold new leaves, and I fear your majesty will find that undesirable.”
“Speak, then, clearly, and without circumlocution. I am convinced it is only some gossiping or slander you wish to retail. You come as a salaried family spy who has snapped up some greasy morsels of scandal. Your eyes are glowing with malicious pleasure, as they always do when you are about to commit some base trick. Now, then, out with it! Of whom will you speak?”
“Of the Princess Amelia and Trenck,” whispered Pollnitz.
The king gazed at him fiercely for a moment, then turned and walked silently backward and forward.
“Well, what is your narrative?” said Frederick, at last, turning his back upon Pollnitz, and stepping to the window as if to look out.
“Sire, if your majesty does not interfere, the Princess Amelia will send a negotiator to Vienna, who undertakes to induce the Empress Maria Theresa to apply to you for the release of Trenck. This negotiator is richly provided with gold and instructions; and the Austrian ambassador has pointed out to the princess a sure way to reach the ear of the empress, and to obtain an intercessor with her. She will appeal to the fireman of the empress, and this influential man will undertake to entreat Maria Theresa to ask for Trenck’s release. This will take place immediately; an hour since the messenger received his instructions from General Riedt, and a quarter of an hour since he received four thousand louis d’or from the princess to bribe the fireman. If the intrigue succeeds, the princess has promised him a thousand louis d’or for himself.”
“Go on,” said the king, as Pollnitz ceased speaking.
“Go on!” said Pollnitz, with a stupefied air. “I have nothing more to say; it seems to me the history is sufficiently important.”
“And it seems to me a silly fairy tale,” said Frederick, turning angrily upon the grand-master. “If you think to squeeze gold out of me by such ridiculous and senseless narratives, you are greatly mistaken. Not one farthing will I pay for these lies. Do you think that Austria lies on the borders of Tartary? There, a barber is minister; and you, forsooth, will make a fireman the confidential friend of the empress! Why, Scheherezade would not have dared to relate such an absurd fairy tale to her sleepy sultan, as you, sir, now seek to impose upon me!”
“But, sire, it is no fairy tale, but the unvarnished truth. The page of the princess listened, and immediately repeated all that he heard to me.”
“Have you paid the page for this intelligence, which he asserts he overheard?”
“No, sire.”
“Then go quickly to Berlin and reward him by two sound boxes on the ear, then go to bed and drink chamomile tea. It appears to me your head is weak.”
“But, sire, I have told you nothing but the pure truth; no matter how fabulous it may appear.”
Frederick gazed at him scornfully. “It is a silly tale,” he cried, in a loud commanding voice. “Do not say another word, and do not dare to repeat to any one what you have now related. Go, I say! and forget this nonsense.”
Pollnitz crept sighing and with bowed head to the door, but, before he opened it, he turned once more to the king.
“Sire, this is the last day of the month, this wretched October has thirty-one days. Even if in your majesty’s wisdom you decide this story to be untrue, you should at least remember my zeal.”
“I should reward you for your zeal in doing evil?” said Frederick, shaking his head. “But truly this is the way of the world; evil is rewarded and good actions trodden under foot. You are not worth a kick! Go and get your reward; tell my servant to give you ten Fredericks d’or–but on one condition.”
“What condition?” said Pollnitz, joyfully.
“As soon as you arrive in Berlin, go to the castle, call the page of the princess, and box him soundly for his villany. Go!”
The king stood sunk in deep thought in the window-niche, long after Pollnitz had left the room; he appeared to forget that his ministers were waiting for him; he thought of his sister Amelia’s long, sad life, of her constancy and resignation, and a profound and painful pity filled his heart.
“Surely I dare at length grant her the poor consolation of having brought about his release,” said he to himself. “She has been so long and so terribly punished for this unhappy passion, that I will give her the consolation of plucking a few scentless blossoms from the grave of her heart. Let her turn to the fireman of the empress, and may my pious aunt be warmed up by his representations and prayers! I will not interfere; and if Maria Theresa intercedes for Trenck, I will not remember that he is a rebellious subject and a traitor, worthy of death. I will remember that Amelia has suffered inexpressibly for his sake, that her life is lonely and desolate–a horrible night, in which one feeble ray of sunshine may surely be allowed to fall. Poor Amelia! she loves him still!”
As Frederick stepped from the window and passed into the other room, he murmured to himself:
“There is something beautiful in a great, rich human heart. Better to die of grief and disappointment than to be made insensible by scorn and disdain–to be turned to stone!”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CLOUDS GATHER.
While the king lived alone and quiet in Sans-Souci, and occupied himself with his studies and his government, the gayeties and festivities continued uninterrupted in Rheinsberg. It seemed that Prince Henry had no other thought, no other desire than to prepare new pleasures, new amusements for his wife. His life had been given up for so many years to earnest cares, that he now sought to indemnify himself by an eager pursuit after pleasure. Fete succeeded fete, and all of the most elegant and accomplished persons in Berlin, all those who had any claim to youth, beauty, and amiability, were invariably welcome at the palace of the prince.
It was late in the autumn, and Prince Henry had determined to conclude the long succession of wood and garden parties by a singular and fantastic entertainment. Before they returned to the saloons, the winter-quarters of pleasure, they wished to bid farewell to Nature. The nymphs of the wood and the spring, the hamadryads of the forests, the fauns and satyrs should reign once more in the woods before they placed the sceptre in the hands of winter. The guests of Rheinsberg should once more enjoy the careless gayety of a happy day, before they returned to the winter saloons, on whose threshold Etiquette awaited them, with her forced smile, her robes of ceremony and her orders and titles.
The ladies and gentlemen had been transformed, therefore, into gods and goddesses, nymphs, and hamadryads, fauns, satyrs, and wood- spirits. The horn of Diana resounded once more in the wood, through which the enchanting huntress passed, accompanied by Endymion, who was pursued by Actaeon. There was Apollo and the charming Daphne; Echo and the vain Narcissus; and, on the bank of the lake, which gleamed in the midst of the forest, the water-nymphs danced in a fairy-circle with the tritons.
The prince had himself made all the arrangements for this fantastic fete; he had selected the character, and appointed the place of every one, and, that nothing should fail, he had ordered all to seek their pleasures and adventures as they would–only, when the horn of the goddess Diana should sound, all must appear on the shore of the lake to partake of a most luxurious meal. The remainder of the day was to be given to the voluntary pleasures which each one would seek or make for himself, and in this the ladies and gentlemen showed themselves more ingenious than usual. In every direction goddesses were to be seen gliding through the bushes to escape the snares of some god, or seeking some agreeable rendezvous. At the edge of the lake lay charming gondolas ready for those who wished to rest and refresh themselves by a sail upon the dancing waves. For the hunters and huntresses targets were placed upon the trees; all kinds of fire-arms and cross-bows and arrows lay near them. Scattered throughout the forest, were a number of small huts, entirely covered with the bark of trees, and looking like a mass of fallen wood, but comfortably and even elegantly arranged in the interior. Every one of these huts was numbered, and at the beginning of the fete every lady had drawn a number from an urn, which was to designate the hut which belonged to her. Chance alone had decided, and each one had given her word not to betray the number of her cabin. From this arose a seeking and spying, a following and listening, which gave a peculiar charm to the fete. Every nymph or goddess could find a refuge in her cabin; having entered it, it was only necessary to display the ivy wreath, which she found within, to protect herself from any further pursuit, for this wreath announced to all that the mistress of the hut had retired within and did not wish her solitude disturbed. That nothing might mar the harmony of this fete, the prince and his wife had placed themselves on an equal footing with their guests; the princess had declined any conspicuous role, and was to appear in the simple but charming costume of a wood-nymph, while the prince had selected an ideal and fanciful hunter’s costume. Even in the selection of huts the Princess Wilhelmina had refused to make any choice, and had drawn her number as the others did, even refusing a glimpse of it to her husband.
This day seemed given up to joy and pleasure. Every countenance was bright and smiling, and the wood resounded with merry laughter, with the tones of the hunter’s horn, the baying of the hounds, which were in Diana’s train, and the singing of sweet songs. And still on how many faces the smile was assumed, how many sighs arose, with how many cares and sorrows were many of these apparently happy creatures weighed down? Even the noble brow of the goddess Diana was not so unruffled as Homer describes it, her countenance expressed care and unrest, and in her great black eyes there glowed such fire as had never shone in the orbs of the coy goddess.
See, there is the goddess Diana crossing the wood breathlessly, and hurriedly, looking anxiously around her, as if she feared the approach of some pursuers; then seeing that no one is near, she hastens forward toward the hut, which stands amidst those bushes. The ivy wreath is hanging before this cabin, but Diana does not notice this, she knows what it means and, besides, no one has a right to enter this hut but herself, for it bears the number which she drew.
As she entered, Endymion, the beautiful hunter, advanced to greet her. “At length you have come, Camilla,” he whispered, gently; “at length you grant me the happiness of a private interview. Oh, it is an eternity since I beheld you. You are very cruel to me to refuse me all intercourse with you, and to leave me languishing in the distance for one glance from you.”
“As if it depended on me to allow you to approach me. As if I was not guarded with argus eyes as a prisoner that is expected to break loose and vanish at any moment. How much trouble, how much cunning and deftness have I been compelled to exercise to come here now. It was a detestable idea of the princess to give me the /role/ of Diana, for I have behind me a band of spies, and I assure you that my coy huntresses are so fearfully modest, that the sight of a man fills them with dread, and they flee before him into the wildest thicket of the woods.”
“Perhaps because they have a lover concealed in the thicket,” said Endymion.
Camilla laughed aloud. “Perhaps you are right. But when my huntresses fly, there still remains that horrible argus who guards me with his thousand eyes and never leaves my side. It was from pure malice that the prince gave that /role/ to my detestable stepfather, and thus fastened him upon me.”
“How did you succeed in escaping the watchfulness of your argus to come here?”
“I escaped at the moment the princess was speaking to him, and my huntresses were pursuing Actaeon, which character the Baron von Kaphengst was representing with much humor. I wanted to speak with you, for I have so much to relate to you. I must open to you my broken, my unhappy heart. You are my dear, faithful cousin Kindar, and I hope you will not leave your poor cousin, but give her counsel and assistance.”
Baron von Kindar took Camilla’s offered hand and pressed it to his lips. “Count upon me as upon your faithful slave, who would gladly die for you, as he cannot live for your sake.”
“Listen then, beau cousin,” whispered Camilla, smiling. “You know that my stern, upright husband has left Berlin in order to receive the post of an ambassador at Copenhagen. I would not accompany him because I was daily expecting the birth of my child, and the little creature was so sensible as not to enter the world until after the departure of its honored father, who, before leaving, had delivered me a lecture on the subject of his fidelity and tenderness, and of my duties as a lonely wife and young mother. I was compelled to swear to him among other things that I would not receive my beau cousin at my house.”
“And you took that oath?” interrupted Kindar, reproachfully.
“I was forced to do so, or he would not have gone, or he would have taken me with him. Besides this, he left behind his old confidant the tutor, and told him that you should never be allowed to visit me. And to place the crown upon his jealousy, he betrayed the secret of his suspicions to my stepfather, and demanded of him the friendly service of accompanying me to all fetes and balls, and to prevent you from approaching me.”
“Am I then so dangerous?” said Kindar, with a faint smile.
“These gentlemen at least appear to think so; and if I did not care so much for you, I should really hate you, I have suffered so much on your account.”
Baron von Kindar covered her hand with burning kisses for an answer to this.
“Be reasonable, beau cousin, and listen to me,” said Camilla, as she laughingly withdrew her hand. “My husband has been, as I said, in Copenhagen for eight weeks, and has already entreated me to join him with the child, as I have entirely recovered.”
“The barbarian!” murmured Kindar.
“I have declined up to this time under one pretext or another. But yesterday I received a letter from my husband, in which he no longer entreats me, but dares, as he himself expresses it, to command me to leave Berlin two days after the receipt of his letter.”
“But that is tyranny which passes all bounds,” cried Kindar. “Does this wise lord think that his wife must obey him as a slave? Ah, Camilla, you owe it to yourself to show him that you are a free-born woman, whom no one dare command, not even a husband.”
“How shall I show him that?” asked Camilla.
“By remaining here,” whispered Kindar. “You dare not think of leaving Berlin, for you know that the hour of your departure would be the hour of my death. You know it, for you have long known that I love you entirely, and that you owe me some recompense for the cruel pain I suffered when you married another.”
“And in what shall this recompense consist?” asked Camilla with a coquettish smile.
Baron von Kindar placing his arm around her, whispered: “By remaining here, adored Camilla, for my sake–in declaring to your hated husband that you will leave Berlin on no account–that your honor demands that you should prove to him in the face of his brutal commands, that these are no commands for you–and that you will follow your own will and inclination. Therefore you will remain in Berlin.”
“Will you write this letter for me?”
“If I do so, will you consent to remain here, and to open your door to me in spite of the orders of your husband, or the argus-eyes of your stepfather?”
“Write the letter, the rest will arrange itself,” said Camilla.
“I will write it to-night. May I bring it to you myself to-morrow morning?”
“If I say no, will you then be so kind as to give it to my maid?”
“I swear by my honor that I will only give the letter into your own hands.”
“Well, then, my tyrannical cousin, you force me to open my door to you in spite of my husband and my stepfather, and in the face of this Cerberus of a tutor who guards my stronghold.”
“But what do I care for these open doors so long as your heart remains closed against me, Camilla? Ah, you laugh–you mock at my sufferings. Have you no pity, no mercy? You see what I suffer, and you laugh.”
“I laugh,” she whispered, “because you are so silly, beau cousin. But listen, there is the call of my huntresses–I must hasten to them, or they will surround this cabin and they might enter. Farewell. To-morrow I will expect you with the letter. Adieu.” Throwing him a kiss with the tips of her fingers, she hastily left the hut.
Baron von Kindar looked after her with a singular smile. “She is mine,” he whispered. “We will have a charming little romance, but it will terminate in a divorce, and not in a marriage. I have no idea of following up this divorce by a marriage. God protect me from being forced to marry this beautiful, frivolous, coquettish woman.”
While this scene was taking place in one part of the forest, the fete continued gayly. They sang and laughed, and jested, and no one dreamed that dark sin was casting its cold shadow over this bright scene–that the cowardly crime of treachery had already poisoned the pure air of this forest. None suspected it less than Prince Henry himself. He was happy and content that this fete had succeeded so well–that this bright autumn day had come opportunely to his aid. The sun penetrated to his heart and made it warm and joyous. He had just made a little tour through the forest with some of his cavaliers, and had returned to the tent on the bank of the lake, where he had last seen the princess amid a bevy of nymphs, but she was no longer there, and none of the ladies knew where she had gone.
“She has retired to her hut,” said the prince to himself, as he turned smilingly toward the thick woods. “The only thing is to discover her hut; without doubt she is there and expects me to seek her. Now, then, may fortune assist me to discover my beloved. I must find her if only to prove to her that my love can overcome all difficulties and penetrate every mystery. There are twenty-four huts–I know their situation. I will visit each, and it will be strange indeed if I cannot discover my beautiful Wilhelmina.”
He advanced with hasty steps in the direction of the huts. By a singular coincidence they were all vacant, the ivy wreath was displayed on none, and the prince could enter and convince himself that no one was within. He had visited twenty-three of the huts without finding the object of his search. “I will go to the last one,” said the prince, gayly; “perhaps the gods have led me astray only that I might find happiness at the end of my path.” He saw the last hut in the distance. It nestled in the midst of low bushes, looking quiet and undisturbed, and on the door hung the ivy wreath. The heart of the prince beat with joy, and he murmured, “She is there–I have found her,” as he hastened toward the hut. “No,” he said, “I dare not surprise her. I must consider the law sacred which I made. The ivy wreath is before the door–no one dare enter. But I will lie down before the door, and when she comes out she roust cross my body or fall into my arms.” The prince approached the hut quietly, careful to avoid making any noise. When he had reached it, he sank slowly upon the grass, and turned his eyes upon the door, which concealed his beloved one from his view.
Deep silence reigned. This was a charming spot, just suited for a tender rendezvous, and full of that sweet silence which speaks so eloquently to a loving heart. In the distance could be heard the sound of the hunter’s horn, whilst the great trees rustled their leaves as though they wished to mingle their notes in the universal anthem. The prince gavo himself up for a long time to the sweet pleasures of this solitude, turning his smiling glance first to the heavens where a few white clouds were floating, and then again to earth, where some glittering insect attracted his gaze.
But what was it which pierced through him with a deadly horror– which made him become so pale, and turn his flashing eyes with an indescribable expression of dread toward the hut? Why did he partially arise from his reclining position as the hunter does, who sees the prey approach that he wishes to destroy? What was it that made him press his lips so tightly, one against the other, as if he would repress a cry of agony, or an execration? And why does he listen now with bated breath, his gaze fixed upon the hut, and both hands raised, as if to threaten an approaching enemy? Suddenly he sprang up, and rushed trembling to the door, and, while in the act of bursting it open, he fell back, pale as death, as if his foot had trodden upon a poisonous serpent. Thus retreating, with wildly staring eyes, with half-open lips, which seemed stiffened in the very act of uttering a shriek, he slowly left the hut, and then suddenly, as if he could no longer look at any thing so frightful, he turned and fled from the spot as if pursued by furies. Farther, always farther, until his strength and his breath were exhausted; then he sank down.
“It was cowardly to fly,” he murmured; “but I felt that I should murder them, if they came out of the hut before my eyes. A voice within whispered, ‘Fly, or you will be a murderer!’ I obeyed it almost against my will. It was cowardly–an unpardonable error, but I will return to the hut.”
He sprang forward like a tiger, ready to fall upon his prey. His hand involuntarily sought his side for his sword.
“Ah, I have no weapon,” he said, gnashing his teeth, “I must murder them with my hands.”
He advanced with uplifted head, defiant as a conqueror, or as one who has overcome death and has nothing to fear. The hut was again before him, but it no longer smiled at him; it filled him with horror and fury. Now he has reached it, and with one blow he bursts open the door; but it is empty. The prince had not remarked that the ivy-wreath was no longer displayed, and that the hut was therefore vacant.
“They are gone,” he murmured. “This time they have escaped punishment, but it surely awaits them.”
CHAPTER IX.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
A month had passed since Amelia dispatched her emissary to the queen’s fireman, and she had as yet received no definite intelligence. General Riedt had called but once; he told her he had succeeded in interesting the Savoyard in Trenck’s fate, and he had promised to remind the empress of the unfortunate prisoner. But a condition must be attached to this promise: no one must approach him again on this subject; it must be kept an inviolable secret. Only when Trenck was free would the fireman receive the other half of the stipulated sum; if he failed in his attempt, he would return the money he now held.
This was all that the princess had heard from Vienna; her heart was sorrowful–almost hopeless. Trenck still sat in his wretched prison at Magdeburg, and she scarcely dared hope for his release.
It was a dark, tempestuous November day. The princess stood at the window, gazing at the whirling snow-flakes, and listening to the howling of the pitiless storm. They sounded to her like the raging shrieks of mocking, contending spirits, and filled her heart with malignant joy.
“Many ships will go down to destruction in the roaring sea; many men will lose all that they possess,” she murmured, with a coarse laugh. “God sends His favorite daughter, the bride of the winds; she sings a derisive song to men; she shows them how weak, how pitiful they are. She sweeps away their possessions–touches them on that point where alone they are sensitive. I rejoice in the howling, whistling tempest! This is the voice of the great world-spirit, dashing by in the thunder, and making the cowardly hearts of men tremble. They deserve this punishment; they are utterly unworthy and contemptible. I hate, I despise them all! Only when I see them suffer can I be reconciled to them. Aha! the storm has seized a beautifully-dressed lady. How it whirls and dashes her about! Look how it lifts her robe, making rare sport of her deceitful, affected modesty. Miserable, variegated butterfly that you are, you think yourself a goddess of youth and beauty. This wild tempest teaches you that you are but a poor, pitiful insect, tossed about in the world like any other creeping thing–a powerless atom. The storm first takes possession of your clothes, now of your costly hat. Wait, my lady, wait! one day it will take your heart; it will be crushed and broken to pieces–there will be none to pity. The world laughs and mocks at the wretched. Misfortune is the only disgrace which is never forgiven. You may be a thief, a murderer, and you will be pardoned if you are adroit enough to slip your head from the noose. Criminals are pitied and pardoned, unfortunates never. Ah, this is a mad, gay world, and they are fools who take it earnestly; who do not laugh– laugh even as I do.”
The princess laughed aloud–if that could be called a laugh, from which she shuddered back herself in terror.
“It is bitter cold here, “she said, shuddering; “I think I shall never be warm again. I am always freezing, and this miserable frost has turned my heart and soul to ice. I would like to know if they will thaw in the grave?”
She stepped slowly from the window, and crept through the large, empty room to the chimney, where a large wood-fire was burning–now flickering up in clear flames, now breaking into glowing coals.
Amelia took the poker, and amused herself by dashing the coals apart, and watching the flashing, dancing flames. The fire seemed to embrace her whole figure, and threw a rosy shimmer over her wan and fallen cheeks. She gazed deep down into the glowing coals, and murmured broken, disconnected words. From time to time a mocking smile trembled on her lips, then heavy sighs wrung her breast. Was she perhaps telling the fire of the flames which raged within her bosom? Was she perhaps a magician, who understood the language of these mysterious tongues of flame, and answered their burning questions? The hasty opening of the door aroused her from her dreams, and a page entered and announced in a loud voice–“His majesty the king!”
Amelia bowed her head, and advanced slowly and with a stern countenance to meet the king, who now appeared at the threshold.
“May I enter, my sister, or do you command me to withdraw?” said Frederick, smiling.
“The king has no permission to ask,” said Amelia, earnestly; “he is everywhere lord and master. The doors of all other prisons open before him, and so also do mine.”
Frederick nodded to the page to leave the room and close the door, then advanced eagerly to meet his sister. Giving her his hands he led her to the divan, and seated himself beside her.
“You regard me then as a kind of jailer?” he said, in a gentle, loving voice.
“Can a king be any thing but a jailer?” she said, roughly. “Those who displease him, he arrests and casts into prison, and not one of his subjects can be sure that he will not one day displease him.”
“You, at least, my sister, have not this to fear, and yet you have just called this your prison.”
“It is a prison, sire.”
“And am I, then, your jailer?”
“No, sire, life is my jailer.”
“You are right, there, Amelia. Life is the universal jailer, from whom death alone can release us. The world is a great prison, and only fools think themselves free. But we are involuntarily commencing an earnest, philosophical conversation. I come to you to rest, to refresh myself; to converse harmlessly and cheerfully, as in our earlier and happier days. Tell me something, dear sister, of your life, your occupations, and your friends?”
“That is easily done, and requires but few words,” said Amelia, hoarsely. “Of my life I have already told you all that can be said. Life is my jailer, and I look longingly to death, who alone can release me. As to my well-being, there is nothing to say; all is evil, only evil continually. My occupations are monotonous, I am ever asleep. Night and day I sleep and dream; and why should I awake? I have nothing to hope, nothing to do. I am a superfluous piece of furniture in this castle, and I know well you will all rejoice when I am placed in the vault. I am an old maid, or, if you prefer it, I am a wall-frog, who has nothing to do but creep into my hole, and, when I have vitality enough, to spit my venom upon the passers-by. As to my friends, I have nothing to relate; I have no friends! I hate all mankind, and I am hated by all. I am especially on my guard with those who pretend to love me; I know that they are deceitful and traitorous, that they are only actuated by selfish motives.”
“Poor sister,” said the king, sadly; “how unhappy must you be to speak thus! Can I do nothing to alleviate your misfortune?”
Amelia laughed loudly and scornfully. “Forgive me, your majesty, but your question reminds me of a merry fairy tale I have just read of a cannibal who is in the act of devouring a young girl. The poor child pleaded piteously for her life, naturally in vain. ‘I cannot, of course, give you your life,’ said the cannibal, ‘but I will gladly grant you any other wish of your heart. Think, then, quickly, of what you most desire, and be assured I will fulfil your request.’ The pretty maiden, trembling with horror and despair, could not collect her thoughts. Then, after a short pause, the cannibal said, ‘I cannot wait; I am hungry! but in order to grant you a little longer time to determine upon the favor you will ask, I will not, as I am accustomed to do, devour the head first, I will commence with the feet.’ So saying, he cut off the legs and ate them, and on cutting off each limb he graciously asked the poor shuddering, whimpering being, ‘Well, why do you not think? Is there, then, no favor I can show you?’ Confess now, sire, that this was a most magnanimous cannibal.”
Frederick laughed heartily, and appeared not to understand his sister’s double meaning.
“You are right,” said he; “that is a merry fairy tale, and brings the tears to my eyes–I scarcely know whether from laughter or weeping. Where did you read it, my sister?”
“The fire-spirits who spring up and down in the chimney so lustily, related it to me. Oh, sire, these are merry sprites; and often in my solitude, when I am sitting in my arm-chair in the chimney-corner, they nod to me, and chat freely of by-gone times, and the days which are to come.”
“I fear they have not much that is cheerful or encouraging, certainly not much that is interesting to tell you,” said Frederick.
“To those who, like us, have passed the meridian of life, and are going rapidly down-hill, the surroundings become ever duller and more drear; for us there are no more great and agreeable surprises; the farther they advance, the more lonely and desolate it appears; life has no more to offer, and they are glad at last to reach the valley and lie down in quiet graves. But while we live and are still wanderers, Amelia, we must not fold our hands in idleness; we must work and achieve. You also, my sister, must be active and energetic; an unusual opportunity is now offered you. The Abbess of Quedlinberg is dead, and you can now enter upon her duties.”
“And your majesty thinks it is really a worthy vocation for me to go to Quedlinberg and become the shepherdess of that fearful flock of old maids who took refuge in a nunnery because no man desired them? No, your majesty, do not send me to Quedlinberg; it is not my calling to build up the worthy nuns into saints of the Most High. I am too unsanctifled myself to be an example to them, and, in fact, I feel no inclination to purify them from their sins.”
“Well, that might be found a difficult task,” said the king, laughing, “and it would not make you beloved. Men love nothing so much as their vices, and they hate those who would free them from their cherished yoke. You can, however, remain in Berlin and still accept this office, once so worthily rilled by the lovely Aurora of Konigsmark. King Augustus gave her, at least, with this refuge, provided by his love, a rich widow’s income; and you can now, Amelia, enjoy the fruit of that love which at one time filled all Europe with admiration. The salary of the abbess amounts to seventeen thousand thalers, and I think this addition to your fortune will be welcome. Your income will now be forty thousand thalers.”
“Lodging and fuel included,” said Amelia, with a sarcastic laugh. “Look you, sire, I see that I have nothing to complain of. My hospital is splendidly endowed, and if I should ever become miserly, I may be able to lay aside a few thalers yearly.”
“I will gladly put it in your power to lay aside a larger sum, if you become covetous,” said the king; “and I beg you, therefore, to allow me the pleasure of raising your salary as princess, six thousand thalers.” [Footnote: History of Berlin and Court.]
Amelia looked at him distrustfully. “You are very gracious to me to- day, my brother. You grant favors before I ask them. I confess to you this alarms and agitates me. You have perhaps some bad news to disclose, and fearing I will be crushed by it, you desire, beforehand, to apply a balsam.”
The king’s glance was tender and sympathetic. “Poor Amelia! you will, then, never believe in my affection,” said he, mildly. “You distrust even your brother! Oh, Amelia! life has hardened us both. We entered upon the stage of life with great but fleeting illusions. How gloriously grand and beautiful did the world appear to us; now we look around us soberly, almost hopelessly! What remains of our ideals? What has become of the dreams of our youth?”
“The storm-winds have shattered and scattered them,” cried Amelia, laughing. “The evil fiend has ploughed over the fair soil of your youth and turned it to stone and ashes. I am content that this is so I would rather wander amongst ruins and dust and ashes than to walk gayly over a smooth surface with whose dark caves and pitfalls I was unacquainted, and which might any day ingulf me. When both foundation and superstructure lie in ruins at your feet, you have nothing more to fear. But I say this for myself, sire, not for you, the fame-crowned king, who has astonished the world by his victories, and now fills it with admiration by the wisdom with which he governs his subjects and advances the glory of his kingdom!”
“My child,” said the king, mildly, “fame has no longer any attraction for me. Nero was also renowned; he burned cities and temples, and tortured Seneca to death. Erostratus succeeded in making his name imperishable I am utterly indifferent as to the world’s admiration of my wisdom and power to govern. I try to do my duty as a king. But I tell you, child, in one little corner of the king’s heart there remains ever something human, and the poor creature man sometimes cries out for a little personal comfort and happiness. One may be very rich as a king, but poor–oh, how poor– as a man! Let us, however, dismiss these sad thoughts. I was speaking to you of money, Amelia. We will return to this theme. I cannot prevent your heart from suffering, but I can secure to you every outward good. Your income, until now, has been small; tell me what debts you have contracted, and I will pay them!”
“Your majesty falls into my room like a shower of gold,” cried Amelia; “you will find no Danae here, only an ugly old maid, who is, however, ready to receive the glittering treasure; but you give me credit for too good a memory when you think I know the amount of my debts. I only know the sum now in my casket.”
“And what is the amount, Amelia?”
“A cipher, sire; your majesty knows this is the end of the month.”
“I know it, my sister; and I therefore beg you to accept from me to- day a small sum in advance. I dreamt last night that you had recently been called upon to pay out four thousand louis d’or. This dream was significant; it seemed to me a suggestion to give you this sum. I therefore sent, in your name, an order on my treasurer for four thousand louis d’or.”
Amelia looked at him and trembled with terror. “Do you know the use to which I have applied this sum?” said she, breathlessly.
“My dream was silent on this point,” said Frederick, rising; “it only told me that you needed this amount, nothing more. If I had been curious, I might have asked your page, who has an acute ear, and for whom no key-hole is too small.”
“Ah, he has betrayed me, then,” murmured Amelia.
Frederick did not appear to hear her; he took his hat, and offered his sister his hand. Amelia did not see it, she stood as if turned to stone in the middle of the room, and as the king advanced toward the door, she stepped slowly and mechanically after him.
Suddenly the king turned and looked at his sister.
“I had almost forgotten to tell you a piece of news,” said he, carelessly; “something which will perhaps interest you, Amelia. Even at this moment a prisoner is being released from his cell and restored to life and liberty. The Empress Maria Theresa, influenced by her fireman, it is said, has appealed to me–“
Princess Amelia uttered a heart-rending shriek, and rushing forward she seized the arm of the king with both her trembling hands.
“Brother! oh, brother, be merciful! do not make cruel sport of me. I acknowledge I appealed to the fireman of the empress. I offered him four thousand louis d’or if he would intercede for Trenck. I see that you know all; I deny nothing. If I have committed a crime worthy of death, condemn me; but do not inflict such fearful tortures before my execution. Do not mock at my great grief, but be pitiful. Look upon me brother; look at my withered limbs, my deformed visage; is not my punishment sufficient? torture me no longer. You return me the sum of money I sent to Vienna; does that mean that you have discovered and destroyed my plot? Is this so, brother? Have you the heart to play this cruel jest with me? Having thus made my last attempt fruitless, do you tell me in mockery that Trenck is free?” She held the arm of the king firmly, and half sinking to her knees, she looked up at him breathlessly.
“No, Amelia,” said Frederick, and his voice trembled with emotion. “No, I have not that cruel courage. The hand of your clock points now to twelve; at this moment Trenck leaves Magdeburg in a closed carriage, accompanied by two soldiers. To-morrow he will reach