Frederick the Great and His Court by L. Muhlbach (page 7)

and I have still to dress.” And Madame von Brandt hastily took leave of her ally, and ran gayly to the castle.

But she had no need to dress for the rehearsal. The king was not able to act; the strong will was to-day conquered by an enemy who stands in awe of no one, not even of a king–an enemy who can vanquish the most victorious commander. Frederick was ill of a fever, which had tormented him the whole summer, which had kept him from visiting Amsterdam, and which confined him to his bed in the castle of Moyland, while Orttaire was paying his long expected visit, had again taken a powerful hold upon him and made of the king a pale, trembling man, who lay shivering and groaning upon his bed, scoffing at Ellart, his physician, because he could not cure him.

“There is a remedy,” said Ellart, “but I dare not give it to your majesty.”

“And why not?” said the king.

“Because its strength must first be tested, to see if it can be used without danger; it must first be tried by a patient upon whose life the happiness of millions does not depend.”

“A human life is always sacred, and if not certain of your remedy, it is as vicious to give it to a beggar as to a king.”

“I believe,” said Ellart, “as entirely in this remedy as Louis the Fourteenth, who bought it secretly from Talbot, the Englishman, and paid him a hundred Napoleons for a pound. The wife of the King of Spain was cured by it.”

“Give me this remedy,” said the king, with chattering teeth.

“Pardon me, your majesty, but I dare not, though I have a small quantity with me which was sent by a friend from Paris, and which I brought to show you as a great curiosity. This tiny brown powder is a medicine which was not distilled by the apothecary, but by Nature.”

“Then I have confidence in it,” said the king; “Nature is the best physician, the best apothecary, and what she brews is full of divine healing power. How is this remedy called?”

“It is the Peruvian bark, or quinine, the bark above all barks which, by a divine Providence, grows in Peru, the land of fevers.”

But the king had not the strength to listen to him. He now lay burning with fever; a dark purple covered his cheek, and his eyes, which, but a few moments before, were dull and lustreless, now sparkled with fire. The king, overpowered by the disease, closed his eyes, and occasionally unconnected, senseless words escaped his dry, burning lips.

Fredersdorf now entered, and through the open door the anxious, inquiring faces of Pollnitz, Bielfeld, Jordan, and Kaiserling could be seen.

On tip-toe Ellart approached the private chamberlain.

“How is the king?” said he, hastily. “Is he in a condition to hear some important news?”

“Not now. Wait an hour; he will then be free from fever.”

“We will wait,” said Fredersdorf to the four courtiers who had entered the room, and were now standing around the royal bed.

“Is it bad news? If so, I advise you to wait until tomorrow.”

“Well, I do not believe the king will think it bad,” said Kaiserling, laughing.

“And I am convinced the king will be well pleased with our news,” said Bielfeld. “I think so, because the king is a sleeping hero waiting to be roused.”

“If you speak so loud,” whispered Pollnitz, “it will be you who will wake this hero, and the thunder of his anger will fall upon you.”

“Pollnitz is right,” said Jordan; “be quiet, and let us await his majesty’s waking.” And the group stood in silence around the couch, with eyes fixed upon the king. He at last awoke, and a smile played upon his lip as he perceived the six cavaliers.

“You stand there like mourners,” said he; “and to look at you one would think you were undertakers!”

“Ah, sire, fever does not kill like apoplexy,” said Jordan, approaching his friend and pressing his hand tenderly.

“Your majesty called us undertakers,” said Pollnitz, laughing. “As usual, the divine prophetic mind of our king is in the right. There is certainly a funeral odor about us.”

“But God forbid that we should mourn,” said Bielfeld, “we are much better prepared to sound the battlesong.”

All this passed while the physician was feeling the king’s pulse, and Fredersdorf was tenderly arranging his pillows. The king looked at him inquiringly. “Listen, Fredersdorf,” said he, “what meaning have all these mysterious words and looks; why are you all so grave? Is one of my dogs dead? or are you only peevish because this abominable fever has cheated you of the rehearsal?”

“No, your majesty. The dogs are in excellent health.”

“The king’s pulse is perfectly quiet,” said Ellart, “you can communicate your news to him.” Baron Pollnitz approached the king’s couch.

“Sire, one hour ago a courier arrived who was the bearer of important information.”

“Whence came he?” said the king, calmly.

“From your majesty’s ambassador in Vienna, Count Borche.”

“Ah!” said the king, “is the empress, our noble aunt, suffering?”

“The empress is perfectly well, but her husband, the emperor–“

“Well, why do you not continue?” said the king, impatiently.

“Would your majesty not wish some restorative first?” said Fredersdorf; but the king pushed him angrily away.

“I wish your phrase, Pollnitz. What of the Emperor of Austria?”

“Sire, Emperor Charles the Sixth is no more, he died the twentieth of October.”

“Truly,” said Frederick, leaning back, “it was worth the trouble to make so much to do about such insignificant news. If the emperor is dead, Maria Theresa will be Empress of Germany, that is all. It does not concern us.” He stopped and closed his eyes.

The physician again felt his pulse. “It is perfectly quiet,” said he; “this prodigious news has not occasioned the slightest commotion or irregularity.”

“You are right,” said the king, looking up. “Neither is the death of the Emperor Charles to make the slightest change in our plans, but to execute them I must be perfectly well. It must not be said that a miserable fever changed my intentions and condemned me to idleness; I must have no fever on the day the news of the emperor’s death arrives, or the good people of Vienna will believe that I was made ill with fright. Give me that powder, Ellart, I will take it.”

“But I told your majesty that I cannot, dare not give it to you, for I have not tried its effect yet.”

“Then try it on me,” said the king, positively. “Give me the powder.”

It was in vain that Ellart called upon the cavaliers to support his opinion; in vain that they begged and implored the king not to take the powder, not to put his life in danger.

“My life is in God’s hands,” said the king, earnestly; “and God, who created me, created also this bark. I trust more in God’s medicine than in that of man. Quick, give me the powder!” And as Ellart still hesitated, he continued in a stern voice: “I command you, as your king and master, to give it to me. On my head rests the responsibility.”

“If your majesty commands I must obey, but I take these gentlemen to witness that I but do it on compulsion.”

And amid the breathless silence of the room, the king took the medicine.

“Now your majesty must rest,” said Ellart; “you must, by no means, return to Berlin; by my holy right of physician, I forbid it.”

“And why should I return to Berlin?” said the king, laughingly. “Why should our harmless pleasure and amusements be given up? Are we not to act Voltaire’s ‘Death of Caesar?’ No, I will not return to Berlin. A trifle such as the emperor’s death should not create such great disturbances. We will remain here and renew our former happy days, and forget that we have any duty but our enjoyment. Now, gentlemen, leave me, I am well. You see, Ellart, I did well to take that medicine; I will dress. Fredersdorf, remain here. Jordan, send me Secretary Eichel. I must dictate a few necessary letters, and then, gentlemen, we will meet in the music room, where I am to play a duet with Quantz. I invite you as audience.”

The king dismissed his friends with a gracious smile, jested gayly with Fredersdorf, and then dictated three letters to his secretary. One was to Marshal von Schwerin, the other to the Prince of Anhalt Dessau, and the third to Ambassador Podrilse. The three held the same words, the same command, telling them to come immediately to Rheinsberg. He then entered the music room, and never was Frederick so gay, so witty, and unconstrained; never did he play on his flute more beautifully than on the day he heard of the death of the Emperor of Germany. The following morning the three gentlemen arrived from Berlin and were at once admitted into the king’s library. Frederick met them with a proud, happy smile; his eye beamed with an unusual light; his forehead was smooth and free from care; he seemed inspired.

“The Emperor of Germany is dead,” said he, after the gentlemen were seated. “The emperor is dead, and I have sent for you to see what benefit we can derive from his death!”

“Oh, your majesty would not think of benefiting by a death which throws a royal house, nearly connected with you, into deep sorrow, and robs the reigning queen of Prussia of an uncle!” cried the old Prince of Dessau, solemnly.

“Oh, it is well known that you are an imperialist,” said the king, laughing.

“No, your majesty, but a difficulty with Austria would be a great misfortune for us.”

Frederick shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the other two.

“I also wish for your opinion, gentlemen,” said he; “you are all men of experience, soldiers, and statesmen, and you must not refuse to advise one of my youth and inexperience.”

With a quiet smile he listened to their wise, peaceful propositions.

“You then doubt my right to Silesia?” said he, after a pause. “You do not think I am justified in demanding this Silesia, which was dishonestly torn from my ancestors by the Hapsburger?”

“But your ancestors still kept the peace,” said the Prince of Dessau; “they left Silesia in the undisturbed possession of the Austrians.”

“Yes,” said the king, in a firm voice,–“and when my ancestors, outwitted by the cunning intrigues of the Austrian court, accommodated themselves to this necessity,–when for rendered services they were rewarded with base ingratitude, with idle, unmeaning promises, then they called upon their descendants to revenge such injustice, such insults to their honor and rights. Frederick William, the great Elector, cried prophetically when the Austrian house deserted him and denied her sworn promises–‘A revenger will rise from my ashes;’ and my father, when he had witnessed to the full the ingratitude of the Austrian court, felt that there could be no peace between the houses of Austria and Brandenburg, and he intrusted to me the holy mission of punishing and humiliating this proud, conceited court; he pointed me out to his ministers, and said: ‘There stands one who will revenge me!’ You see that my ancestors call me, my grandfather and father chose me for their champion and revenger; they call upon me to perform that which they, prevented by circumstances, could not accomplish; the hour which my ancestors designated has arrived–the hour of retribution! The time has come when the old political system must undergo an entire change. The stone has broken loose which is to roll upon Nebuchadnezzar’s image and crush it. It is time to open the eyes of the Austrians, and to show them that the little Marquis of Brandenburg, whose duty they said it was to hand the emperor after meals the napkin and finger-bowl, has become a king, who will not be humbled by the Austrians, and who acknowledges none but God as his master. Will you help me; will you stand by me in this work with your experience and your advice?”

“We will!” cried the three, with animation, borne away by the king’s noble ardor. “Our life, our blood, belong to our king, our country.”

Frederick laughingly shook hands with them. “I counted upon you,” said he, “nor will Zithen and Vinterfeldt fail us; we will not go to battle hastily and unprepared. All was foreseen, all prepared, and we have now but to put in execution the plans that have for some time been agitating my brain. Here is the map for our campaign; here are the routes and the plan of attack. We shall at last stand before these Austrians in battle array; and as they dared say of my father, that his gun was ever cocked but the trigger never pulled, we will show them that we are ready to discharge, and thrust down the double eagle from its proud pinnacle. The combat is determined and unalterable; let us be silent and prudent, no one must discover our plans; we will surprise the Austrians. And now, gentlemen, examine these plans, and tell me if there are any changes to be made in them.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE KING AND HIS FRIEND.

For several hours the king remained in earnest council with his advisers. As they left him he called Jordan, and advanced to meet him with both hands extended.

“Well, Jordan, rejoice with me; my days of illness are over, and there will be life and movement in this rusty and creaking machine of state. You have often called me a bold eagle, now we shall see if my wings have strength to bear me to great deeds, and if my claws are sharp enough to pluck out the feathers of the double eagle.” “So my suspicions are correct, and it is against Austria that my king will make his first warlike movement?”

“Yes, against Austria; against this proud adversary, who, with envious and jealous eyes, watches my every step; who is pleased to look upon Prussia as her vassal; whose emperor considered it beneath his dignity to extend his hand to my father, or offer him a seat; and now I will refuse the hand to Austria, and force her from her comfortable rest.”

“For you, also, my king, will the days of quiet be over; your holy and happy hours with poetry, philosophy, and the arts, must be given up. The favorite of Apollo will become the son of Mars; we who are left behind can only look after you, we can do nothing for you, not even offer our breasts as a shield against danger and death.”

“Away with such thoughts,” said Frederick, smiling; “death awaits us all, and if he finds me on the field of battle, my friends, my subjects, and history will not forget me. That is a comfort and a hope; and you, Jordan, you know that I believe in a great, exalted, and almighty Being, who governs the world. I believe in God, and I leave my fate confidently in His hands. The ball which strikes me comes from Him; and if I escape the battle-field, a murderous hand can reach me, even in my bed-chamber; and surely that would be a less honorable, less famous death. I must do something great, decisive, and worthy of renown, that my people may love me, and look up to me with confidence and trust. It is not enough to be a king by inheritance and birth, I must prove by my deeds that I merit it. Silesia offers me a splendid opportunity, and truly I think the circumstances afford me a solid and sure basis for fame.”

“Alas! I see,” sighed Jordan, that the love of your subjects, and the enthusiastic tenderness of your friends, is not sufficient for you; you would seek renown.”

“Yes, you are right; this glittering phantom, Fame, is ever before my eyes. I know this is folly, but when once you have listened to her intoxicating whispers, you cannot cast her off. Speak not, then, of exposure, or care, or danger; these are as dust of the balance; I am amazed that this wild passion does not turn every man’s head.”

“Alas! your majesty, the thirst for fame has cost thousands of men their reasons and their lives. The field of battle is truly the golden book of heroes, but their names must be written therein in blood.”

“It is true,” said the king, thoughtfully, “a field of battle is a sad picture for a poet and a philosopher; but every man in this world must pursue his calling, and I will not do my work half way. I love war for the sake of fame. Pity me not, Jordan, because these days of illness and peace and gayety are over; because I must go into the rough field, while you amuse yourself with Horace, study Pausanias, and laugh and make merry with Anacreon. I envy you not. Fame beckons me with her alluring glance. My youth, the fire of passion, the thirst for renown, and a mysterious and unconquerable power, tears me from this life of indolence. The glowing desire to see my name connected with great deeds in the journals and histories of the times drives me out into the battle-field. [Footnote: The king’s own words.] There will I earn the laurel-wreaths which kings do not find in their cradles, or upon their throne, but which as men, and as heroes, they must conquer for themselves.”

“The laurel will deck the brow of my hero, my Frederick, in all time,” said Jordan, with tears in his eyes. “Oh! I see before you a glorious future; it may be I shall have passed away–but where will my spirit be? When I stand near you and look upon you, I know that the spirit is immortal. The soul, noble and god-like, will be ever near you; so whether living or dead I am thine, to love you as my friend, to honor you as my sovereign, to admire you as a gifted genius, glowing with godly fire.”

“Oh, speak not of death,” said the king, “speak not of death; I have need of you, and it seems to me that true friendship must be strong enough even to conquer death! Yes, Jordan, we have need of each other, we belong to each other; and it would be cruel, indeed, to rob me of a treasure which we, poor kings, so rarely possess, a faithful and sincere friend. No, Jordan, you will be my Cicero to defend the justice of my cause, and I will be your Caesar to carry out the cause happily and triumphantly.”

Jordan was speechless; he shook his head sadly. The king observed him anxiously, and saw the deep, feverish purple spots, those roses of the grave, upon the hollow cheeks of his friend; he saw that he grew daily weaker; he heard the hot, quick breathing which came panting from his breast. A sad presentiment took possession of his heart, the smile vanished from his lips, he could not conceal his emotion, and walking to the window he leaned his hot brow upon the glass and shed tears which none but God should see. “My God! my God! how poor is a prince! I have so few friends, and these will soon pass away. Suhm lies ill in Marschau; perhaps I shall never see him again. Jordan is near me, but I see death in his face and he will soon be torn from my side.”

Jordan stood immovable and looked toward the king, who still leaned his head upon the window; he did not dare to disturb him, and yet he had important and sad news to announce. At last Jordan laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Pardon, my king,” said he, in trembling tones, “pardon that I dare to interrupt you; but a hero dare not give himself up to sad thoughts before the battle, and when he thinks of death he must greet him with laughter, for death is his ally and his adjutant; and even if his ally grasps his nearest and best beloved friend, the hero and the conqueror must yield him up as an offering to victory.”

The king turned quickly toward the speaker. “You have death news to give me,” said he curtly, leaning against the back of his chair. “You have death news for me, Jordan.”

“Yes, news of death, my prince,” said he, deeply moved; “fate will accustom your majesty to such trials, that your heart may not falter when your friends fall around you in the day of battle.”

“It is, then, a friend who is dead,” said Frederick, turning pale.

“Yes, sire, your best beloved.”

The king said nothing; sinking in the chair, and grasping the arms convulsively, he leaned his head back, and in a low voice asked, “Is it Suhm?”

“Yes, it is Suhm; he died in Marschau. Here is his last letter to your highness; his brother sent it to me, that I might hand it to your majesty.”

The king uttered a cry of anguish, and clasped his hands before his pallid face. Great tears ran down his cheeks; with a hasty movement he shook them from his eyes, opened and read the letter. As he read it he sighed and sobbed aloud: “Suhm is dead! Suhm is dead! the friend who loved me so sincerely, even as I loved him. That noble man, who combined intellect, sincerity, and sensibility. My heart is in mourning for him; so long as a drop of blood flows in my veins I will remember him, and his family shall be mine. Ah, my heart bleeds, and the wound is deep.”

The king, mastered by his grief, laid his head in his hand and wept aloud. Then, after a long pause, he raised himself; he was calm and stern. “Jordan,” said he, firmly, “death hath no more power over me, never again can he wring my heart; he has laid an iron shield upon me, and when I go to battle I must be triumphant; my friend has been offered up as a victim. Jordan, Jordan, my wound bleeds, but I will bind it up, and no man shall see even the blood-stained cloth with which I cover it. I have overcome death, and now will I offer battle and conquer as become a hero, and a king. What cares the world that I suffer? The world shall know nothing of it; a mask before my face, and silence as to my agony. We will laugh and jest while we sorrow for our friend, and while we prepare to meet the enemy. We will PLAY Caesar and Antonius now; hereafter we may really imitate them. Come, Jordan, come, we will try ‘The Death of Caesar.'”

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FAREWELL AUDIENCE OF MARQUIS VON HOTTER, THE AUSTRIAN AMBASSADOR.

This was to be a fete day in the royal palace of Berlin. The king intended giving a splendid dinner, after which the court would take coffee in the newly furnished rooms of the dowager queen, and a mask ball was prepared for the evening, to which the court, the nobility, and higher officials were invited.

The court mourning for the emperor was at an end, and every one was determined to enjoy the pleasures of the carnival. Never had the court led so gay, so luxurious a life. Even the good old citizens of Berlin seemed to appreciate this new administration, which brought so much money to the poorer classes, such heavy profits to tradesmen. They believed that this extravagant court brought them greater gains than an economical one, and were therefore contented with this new order of things.

The king had refurnished the palace with an unheard of splendor. In the apartment of the queen-mother there was a room in which all the ornaments and decorations were of massive gold. Even the French and English ambassadors were astonished at this “Golden Cabinet,” and declared that such splendor and magnificence could not be found in the palaces of Paris or London. The people of Berlin, as we have said, were becoming proud of their court and their king, and they thought it quite natural that this young ruler, who was only twenty- eight years old, should interest himself very little in the affairs of State, and should give his time to pleasure and amusement.

The king had accomplished his desire. No one suspected the deep seriousness that he concealed under this idle play. No one dreamed that this gay, smiling prince, on whose lips there was always a witty jest or bon mot; who proposed a concert every evening, in which he himself took part; who surrounded himself with artists, poets, and gay cavaliers, with whom he passed many nights of wild mirth and gayety–no one dreamed that this harmless, ingenuous young prince, was on the point of overthrowing the existing politics of the European states, and of giving an entirely new form to the whole of Germany.

The king had not raised his mask for a moment; he had matured his plans under the veil of inviolate secrecy. The moment of their accomplishment had now arrived; this evening, during the mask ball which had been prepared with such pomp and splendor, the king with his regiments would leave Berlin and proceed to Silesia. But even the troops did not know their destination. The journals had announced that the army would leave Berlin to go into new winter quarters, and this account was generally believed. Only a few confidants, and the generals who were to accompany the king, were acquainted with this secret. The king, after a final conference, in which he gave the last instructions and orders, said:

“Now, gentlemen, that we have arranged our business, we will think of our pleasure. I will see you this evening at the ball; we will dance once more with the ladies before we begin our war-dance.”

As the generals left him, his servant entered to assist at his toilet. Pelissier, the French tailor, had prepared a new and magnificent costume for this evening, made in the latest Parisian style. The king desired to appear once more in great splendor before exchanging the saloon for the camp. Never had he bestowed such care upon his toilet; never had he remained so patiently under the hands of the barber; he even went to the large mirror when his toilet was completed, and carefully examined his appearance and costly dress.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “if the Marquis von Botter is not deceived by this dandy that I see before me, it is not my fault. The good Austrian ambassador must be very cunning indeed if he discovers a warrior in this perfumed fop. I think he will be able to tell my cousin, Maria Theresa, nothing more than that the King of Prussia knows how to dress himself, and is the model of fashion.”

The king passed into the rooms of the queen-mother, where the court was assembled, and where he had granted a farewell audience to the Marquis von Botter, the ambassador of the youthful Empress of Austria. Frederick was right: the marquis had been deceived by the mask of harmless gayety and thoughtless happiness assumed by the king and court. He had been sent by the empress with private instructions to sound the intentions of the Prussian king, while his apparent business was to return her acknowledgments for the congratulations of the King of Prussia on her ascension to the throne.

The Marquis von Botter, as we have said, had been deceived by the gay and thoughtless manner of the king, and Manteuffel’s warnings and advice had been thrown away.

The marquis had withdrawn with Manteuffel to one of the windows, to await the entrance of the king; the ladies and gentlemen of the court were scattered through the rooms of the queen-mother, who was playing cards with Queen Christine in the golden cabinet.

“I leave Berlin,” said the marquis, “with the firm conviction that the king has the most peaceful intentions.”

“As early as to-morrow your convictions will be somewhat shaken,” replied Manteuffel, “for this night the king and his army depart for Silesia.”

At this moment the king appeared at the door of the golden cabinet. There was a sudden silence, and all bent low, bowing before the brilliant young monarch.

Frederick bowed graciously, but remained in the doorway, glancing over the saloon; it appeared to afford him a certain pleasure to exhibit himself to the admiring gaze of those present. He stood a living picture of youth, beauty, and manliness.

“Only look at this richly-dressed, elegant young man,” whispered Marquis von Botter; “look at his youthful countenance, beaming with pleasure and delight; at his hands, adorned with costly rings, so white and soft, that they would do honor to the most high-bred lady; at that slender foot, in its glittering shoe. Do you wish to convince me that this small foot will march to battle; that this delicate hand, which is only fitted to hold a smelling-bottle or a pen, will wield a sword? Oh! my dear count, you make me merry with your gloomy prophecies.”

“Still I entreat you to believe me. As soon as your audience is over, hasten to your hotel, and return to Vienna with all possible speed; allow yourself no hour of sleep, no moment for refreshment, until you have induced your empress to send her army to Silesia. If you do not, if you despise my advice, the King of Prussia will reach Silesia before you are in Vienna, and the empress will receive this intelligence which you do not credit from the fleeing inhabitants of her province, which will have been conquered without a blow.”

The deep earnestness of the count had in it something so impressive, so convincing, that the marquis felt his confidence somewhat shaken, and looked doubtfully at the young monarch, who was now smiling and conversing with some of the ladies.

But even in speaking the king had not lost sight of these two gentlemen who were leaning against the window, and whose thoughts he read in their countenances. He now met the eye of the marquis, and motioned to him to come forward. The marquis immediately approached the king, who stood in the centre of the saloon, surrounded by his generals.

Every eye was turned toward the glittering group, in which the young king was prominent: for those to whom the intentions of the king were known, this was an interesting piece of acting; while for the uninitiated, who had only an uncertain suspicion of what was about to happen, this was a favorable moment for observation.

The Austrian ambassador now stood before the king, making a deep and ceremonious bow. The king returned this salutation, and said:

“You have really come to take leave, marquis?”

“Sire, her majesty, my honored empress, recalls me, and I must obey her commands, happy as I should be, if I were privileged, to sun myself still longer in your noble presence.”

“It is true, a little sunshine would be most beneficial to you, marquis. You will have a cold journey.”

“Ah! your majesty, the cold is an evil that could easily be endured.”

“There are, then, other evils which will harass you on your journey?”

“Yes, sire, there is the fearful road through Silesia, that lamentable Austrian province. Ah! your majesty, this is a road of which in your blessed land you have no idea, and which is happily unknown in the other Austrian provinces. This poor Silesia has given only care and sorrow to the empress; but, perhaps, for that reason, she loves it so well, and would so gladly assist it. But even Nature seems to prevent the accomplishment of her noble intentions. Heavy rains have destroyed the roads which had, with great expense, been rendered passable, and I learn, to my horror, that it is scarcely possible for a traveller to pass them without running the greatest danger.”

“Well,” said the king, quietly, “I imagine that nothing could happen to the traveller that could not be remedied by a bath and a change of dress.”

“Excuse me, sire,” cried the marquis, eagerly, “he would risk his health, yes, even his life, in crossing the deep marshes, covered with standing water, which are common in that country. Oh! those are to be envied who need not expose themselves to this danger.”

The king was wearied with this crafty diplomatic play; he was tired of the piercing glances with which the ambassador examined his countenance. In the firm conviction of his success, and the noble pride of his open and truth-loving nature, it pleased him to allow the mask to fall, which had concealed his heroic and warlike intentions from the marquis. The moment of action had arrived; it was, therefore no longer necessary to wear the veil of secrecy.

“Well, sir,” said the king, in a loud, firm voice, “if you feel so great a dread of this journey, I advise you to remain in Berlin. I will go in your place into Silesia, and inform my honored cousin, Maria Theresa, with the voice of my cannon, that the Silesian roads are too dangerous for an Austrian, but are most convenient for the King of Prussia to traverse on his way to Breslau.” “Your majesty intends marching to Breslau?” asked the horrified marquis.

“Yes, sir, to Breslau; and as you remarked, the roads are too dangerous for a single traveller, and I intend taking my army with me to protect my carriage.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the marquis, “your majesty intends making a descent on the lands of my exalted sovereign?”

The king glanced proudly and scornfully at this daring man. An involuntary murmur arose among the courtiers; the hands of the generals sought their swords, as if they would challenge this presumptuous Austrian, who dared to reproach the King of Prussia.

The king quieted his generals with a slight motion of his hand, and turning again to the marquis, he said, composedly, “You express yourself falsely, marquis. I will make no descent upon the lands of the Empress of Austria; I will only reclaim what is mine–mine by acknowledged right, by inheritance, and by solemn contract. The records of this claim are in the state department of Austria, and the empress need only read these documents to convince herself of my right to the province of Silesia.”

“Your majesty, by this undertaking, may, perhaps, ruin the house of Austria, but you will most certainly destroy your own.”

“It depends upon the empress to accept or reject the propositions which I have made to her through my ambassador in Vienna.”

The marquis glanced ironically at the king, and said, “Sire, your troops are fair to see; the Austrian army has not that glittering exterior, but they are veterans who have already stood fire.”

“You think my troops are showy,” he said, impetuously; “eh bien, I will convince you that they are equally brave.”

Thus speaking, the king gave the Austrian ambassador a bow of dismissal. The audience was at an end. The ambassador made a ceremonious bow, and left the room, amid profound silence.

Scarcely had the door closed behind him before the noble countenance of the king had recovered its usual calm and lofty expression.

He said gayly: “Mesdames ei messieurs, it is time to prepare for the mask ball; I have thrown aside my mask for a moment, but you, doubtless, think it time to assume yours. Farewell until then.”

CHAPTER IX.

THE MASQUERADE.

The saloons were brilliantly illuminated, and a train of gayly intermingled, fantastically attired figures were moving to and fro in the royal palace. It seemed as if the representatives of all nations had come together to greet the heroic young king. Greeks and Turks were there in gold-embroidered, bejewelled apparel. Odalisks, Spanish, Russian, and German peasant women in every variety of costume; glittering fairies, sorceresses, and fortune-telling gypsies; grave monks, ancient knights in silver armor, castle dames, and veiled nuns. It was a magnificent spectacle to behold, these splendidly decorated saloons, filled with so great a variety of elegant costumes; and had it not been for the lifeless, grinning, and distorted faces, one might have imagined himself transported to Elysium, where all nations and all races are united in unclouded bliss. But the cold, glittering masks which concealed the bright faces, sparkling with animation and pleasure, somewhat marred the effect of this spectacle, and recalled the enraptured spectator to the present, and to the stern reality.

Only in the last of these saloons was there an unmasked group. In this room sat the two queens, glittering with gems, for it was no longer necessary for Sophia Dorothea to conceal her jewels; without fear she could now appear before her court in her magnificent diamonds; and Elizabeth Christine, who knew well that her husband loved to see his queen appear in a magnificence befitting her dignity on festive occasions, had adorned herself with the exquisite jewelry which excited the admiration of the entire court, and which Baron Bielfeld declared to be a perfect miracle of beauty. Next to the two queens and the princesses Ulrica and Amelia, stood the king in his magnificent ball costume. Behind the royal family stood their suite, holding their masks in their hands, for all were required to uncover their faces on entering the room in which the royal family were seated.

The king and the queen were about to fulfil the promises they had made each other; Sophia Dorothea was about to receive Count Neal, while the king was to welcome the recently married Countess Rhedern to court.

The loud and ironical voice of the master of ceremonies, Baron Pollnitz, had just announced to the royal family the arrival of Count and Countess Rhedern and Count Neal, and they were now entering the saloon, the sanctuary which was only open to the favored and privileged, only to those of high birth, or those whose offices required them to be near the king’s person. No one else could enter this saloon without special invitation.

The newly-made Countess Rhedern made her entrance on the arm of her husband. Her face was perfectly tranquil and grave; an expression of determination rested on her features, which, although no longer possessing the charm of youth and beauty, were still interesting. Her countenance was indicative of energy and decision. An expression of benevolence played around her large but well-formed mouth; and her dark eyes, which were not cast down, but rested quietly on the royal family, expressed so much spirit and intelligence that it was evident she was no ordinary woman, but a firm and resolute one, who had courage to challenge fate, and, if necessary, to shape her own destiny.

But the proud and imperious Queen Sophia Dorothea felt disagreeably impressed by the earnest glances with which the countess regarded her. If she had approached her tremblingly, and with downcast eyes, crushed, as it were, by the weight of this unheard-of condescension on the part of royalty, the queen would have been inclined to pardon her want of birth, and to forget her nameless descent: but the quiet and unconstrained bearing of the newly created countess enraged her. Moreover, she felt offended by the elegant and costly toilet of the countess. The long silver-embroidered train, fastened to her shoulders with jewelled clasps, was of a rarer and more costly material than even the robe of the queen; the diadem, necklace, and jewelled bracelets could rival the parure of the queen, and the latter experienced almost a sensation of envy at the sight of the large fan which the countess held half open in her hand, and with which the queen had nothing that could compare. The fan was of real Chinese workmanship, and ornamented with incomparable carvings in ivory, and beautiful paintings.

The queen acknowledged the thrice-repeated courtesy of Countess Rhedern, with a slight inclination of the head only, while Queen Elizabeth Christine greeted her with a gracious smile.

The king, who noticed the cloud gathering on his mother’s brow, and very well knew its cause, was amused to see the queen-mother, who had so warmly advocated the reception of Countess Rhedern at court, now receive her so coldly; and wishing to jest with his mother on the subject of this short-lived fancy, he greeted the countess very graciously, and turning to his mother, said:

“You have done well, madame, to invite this beautiful countess to court; she will be a great acquisition, a great ornament.”

“A great ornament,” repeated Sophia Dorothea, who now considered the quiet and unconstrained bearing of the countess as disrespectful to herself; and fixing her proud and scornful glances upon her as she contemptuously repeated the king’s words, she said: “What a singular train you wear!”

“It is of Indian manufacture,” said the countess, quietly; “my father is connected with several mercantile houses in Holland, and from one of these I obtained the curious cloth which has attracted your majesty’s attention.”

Sophia Dorothea reddened with shame and indignation. This woman had the audacity not only not to be ashamed of her past life, over which she should have drawn a veil, but she dared in this brilliant company, in the presence of two queens, to speak of her father’s business relations–even while the queen magnanimously wished to forget, and veil the obscurity of her birth.

“Ah!” said the queen-mother, “you wear an article from your father’s shop! Truly, a convenient and ingenious mode of advertising your father’s goods; and hereafter when we regard Countess Rhedern, we will know what is her father’s latest article of trade.”

The smile which the queen perceived upon the lips of her suite was a sufficient reward for her cruel jest. The eyes of all were scornfully fixed upon the countess, whose husband stood at her side, pale and trembling, and with downcast eyes. But the young countess remained perfectly composed.

“Pardon me, your majesty,” said she, in a full, clear voice, “for daring to contradict you, but my father’s business is too well known to need any such advertisement.”

“Well, then, in what does he deal?” said the queen, angrily.

“Your majesty,” said the countess, bowing respectfully, “my father’s dealings are characterized by wisdom, honor, generosity, and discretion.”

The queen’s eyes flashed; a shopkeeper’s daughter had dared to justify herself before the queen, and to defy and scoff at her anger.

She arose proudly. She wished to annihilate this newly-created countess with her withering contempt. But the king, who perceived the signs of a coming storm upon his mother’s brow, determined to prevent this outbreak. It wounded his noble and generous soul to see a poor, defenceless woman tormented in this manner. He was too noble-minded to take offence at the quiet and composed bearing of the countess, which had excited his mother’s anger. In her display of spirit and intelligence, he forgot her lowly birth, and laying his hand gently upon his mother’s shoulder he said, with a smile:

“Does not your majesty think that Countess Rhedern does honor to her birth? Her father deals in wisdom, honor, and generosity. Well, it seems to me that Countess Rhedern has inherited these noble qualities. My dear countess, I promise you my patronage, and will ever be a devoted customer of your house if you prove worthy of your father.”

“That I can promise your majesty,” said the countess, an expression of proud delight flitting over her countenance, and almost rendering it beautiful; “and will your majesty have the kindness, at some future time,” said she, taking her husband’s arm, “to convince yourself that the house of Rhedern and Company, to which your majesty has so graciously promised his patronage, is in a condition to satisfy his requirements?”

The queen-mother could hardly suppress a cry of anger and indignation. The countess had dared to give the king an invitation. She had committed a breach of etiquette which could only be accounted for by the most absolute ignorance, or the greatest impertinence, and one which the king would assuredly punish.

But Sophia Dorothea was mistaken. Bowing low, the king said, with that kindliness of manner which was peculiar to himself: “I will take the very first opportunity of paying your establishment a visit.”

Sophia Dorothea was very near fainting; she could stand this scene no longer; and giving herself up entirely to her anger, she was guilty of the same fault which the countess had committed through ignorance. Forgetful of etiquette, she assumed a right which belonged to the reigning king and queen alone. Arising hastily from her seat, she said, impatiently:

“I think it is time we should join the dancers. Do you not find the music very beautiful and enticing? Let us go.”

The king smilingly laid his hand on her arm. “You forget, madame, that there is another happy man who longs to bask in the sunshine of your countenance. You forget, madame, that Count Neal is to have the honor of an introduction.”

The queen gave her son one of those proud, resigned, and reproachful looks which she had been in the habit of directing toward Frederick William during her wedded life. She felt conquered, humbled, and powerless.

The imperious expression fled from her brow, and found refuge in her eyes only. “And this, too!” murmured she, sinking back on her seat. She barely heard Count Neal’s introduction. She acknowledged his respectful greeting with a slight inclination of the head, and remained silent.

The king, who to-day seemed to be in a conciliatory mood, again came to the rescue.

“Madame,” said he, “Count Neal is indeed an enviable man; he has seen what we will probably never see. He has been in the lovely, luxurious, and dreamy South; he has seen the sun of India; he was governor of Surinam.”

“Pardon me, your majesty,” said the count, proudly; “I was not only governor, but vice-regent.”

“Ah,” said the king, “and what are the prerogatives of a vice- regent?”

“I was there esteemed as your majesty is here. The governor of Surinam is approached with the same submission, humility, and devotion, he enjoys the same homage as the King of Prussia.”

“Ah, you are then an equal of the King of Prussia? Baron Pollnitz, you have been guilty of a great oversight; you have forgotten to provide a seat for my brother, the King of Surinam. You must be indulgent this time, my dear brother, but at the next ball we will not forget that you are a vice-regent of Surinam, and woe to the baron if he does not then provide a chair!”

He then took his mother’s arm, and signing to Prince Augustus William to follow him with the reigning queen, proceeded to the ball-room.

On arriving there he released his mother’s arm and said: “If agreeable to you, we will lay aside etiquette for a short time and mingle with the dancers.” And without awaiting an answer, the king bowed and hurried off into the adjoining room, followed by Pollnitz. He there assumed a domino and mask.

The entire court followed the king’s example. The prince, and even the reigning queen, took advantage of his permission.

The queen was deserted by her suite, and left almost entirely alone in the large saloon. Her marshal, Count Rhedern, his wife, and the page who held her train, were the only persons who remained. Sophia Dorothea heaved a deep sigh; she felt that she was no longer a queen, but a poor widow who had vacated the throne. Happily, Countess Rhedern, the wife of her marshal, was still there; upon her she could at least vent her rage.

“Madame,” said she, looking angrily at the countess “your train is too long; you should have brought some of the lads from your father’s store to carry this train for you, in order that it might be more minutely examined.”

The countess bowed. “Your majesty must pardon me for not having done so, but my father’s assistants are not at my disposal. But perhaps we can find a remedy if your majesty really thinks I need a train- bearer. I suggest that some of my father’s principal debtors should fill this place. I believe these gentlemen would willingly carry my train if my father would grant them a respite. If your majesty agrees to this proposition, I shall at once select two of your noblest cavaliers for my train-bearers, and will then no longer put your brilliant court to shame.”

The queen did not reply; she cast an angry glance at the quiet and composed countess, and then walked quietly toward the throne, around which the royal family had now assembled.

CHAPTER X.

THE MASKERS.

The king, with the assistance of Pollnitz, had now completed his toilet; he did not wish to be recognized, and his dress was similar to hundreds of others who were wandering through the rooms.

“Do you think I will be known?”

“No, sire, it is not possible. Now have the goodness to push your mask slightly over your eyes; they might perhaps betray you.”

“Well, these eyes will soon see some curious things. Did you ever stand upon a battle-field as a conqueror, surrounded by corpses, all your living enemies having fled before you?”

“Heaven in its mercy preserve me from such a sight! My enemies, sire, have never fled from me; they chase me and threaten me, and it is of God’s great mercy that I have always escaped them.”

“Who are these pursuing enemies of yours?”

“They are my creditors, your majesty, and you may well believe that they are more terrible to me than a battle-field of corpses. Unhappily, they still live, and the fiends torment me.”

“Well, Pollnitz, after I have seen my first battle-field, in the condition I have just described to you, and returned home victorious, I will assist you to kill off your rapacious enemies. Until then keep bravely on the defensive. Come, let us go, I have only half an hour left for pleasure.”

The king opened the door of the cabinet, and, jesting merrily, he mingled with the crowd, while Pollnitz remained near the door, and cast a searching glance around the room. Presently a mocking smile flitted over his face, and he said to himself: “There, there are all three of them. There is the modestly dressed nun who would not be recognized as Madame von Morien. There is the king of cards, Manteuffel, who is not yet aware that a quick eye has seen his hand, and his trumps are all in vain. There at last is Madame von Brandt, ‘The Gypsy,’ telling fortunes, and having no presentiment of the fate awaiting herself. A little scrap of paper carelessly lost and judiciously used by the lucky finder is quite sufficient to unmask three of the worldly wise.”

“Well, baron,” whispered the nun, “will you fulfil your promise?”

“Dear Madame von Morien,” replied Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders, “the king expressly commanded me not to betray him.”

“Pollnitz,” said the nun, with a tearful voice, “have pity upon me; tell me the disguise of the king; you shall not only have my eternal gratitude–but look, I know you love diamonds; see this costly pin, which I will give for the news I crave.”

“It is impossible for poor, weak human nature to resist you,” said Pollnitz, stretching out his hand eagerly for the pin; “diamonds have a convincing eloquence, and I must submit; the king has a blue domino embroidered with silver cord, a white feather is fastened in his hat with a ruby pin, and his shoe-buckles are of rubies and diamonds.”

“Thank you,” said the nun, handing the pin and mingling hastily with the crowd.

While Pollnitz was fastening the pin in his bosom, the king of cards approached, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Well, baron, you see I am punctual; answer the questions of yesterday, and I will give you all the information necessary to secure you a rich and lovely wife.”

“I accept the terms. You wish to know what route the king will take and the number of his troops: this paper contains the information you desire; I obtained it from a powerful friend, one of the confidential servants of the king. I had to pay a thousand crowns for it; you see I did not forget you.”

“Well, here is a draft for four thousand crowns,” said Manteuffel; “you see I did not forget your price.”

“And now for the rich and lovely wife.”

“Listen. In Nuremberg I am acquainted with a rich family, who have but one fair daughter; she will inherit a million. The family is not noble, but they wish to marry their daughter to a Prussian cavalier. I have proposed you, and you are accepted; you have only to go to Nuremberg and deliver these letters; you will be received as a son, and immediately after the wedding you will come into possession of a million.”

“A million is not such a large sum after all,” said Pollnitz. “If I must marry a citizen in order to obtain a fortune I know a girl here who is young, lovely, and much in love with me, and I think she has not less than a million.”

“Well, take the letters; you can consider the subject. Au revoir, my dear baron. Oh, I forgot one other small stipulation connected with your marriage with the Nuremberger; the family is Protestant, and will not accept a Catholic for their rich daughter; so you will have to become a Protestant.”

“Well, that is a small affair. I was once a Protestant, and I think I was just as good as I am now.”

Manteuffel laughed heartily, and withdrew.

Pollnitz looked thoughtfully at the letters, and considered the question of the Nuremberg bride. “I believe Anna Pricker has at least a million, and old Pricker lies very ill from the shock of his wife’s sudden death. If our plan succeeds, and Anna becomes a great singer, she will have powerful influence with the king; and it will be forgotten that she is a tailor’s daughter. I believe I would rather have Anna than the Nuremberger, but I will keep the latter in reserve.”

Pollnitz had reached this point in his meditations, when the gypsy stood before him; she greeted him with roguish words, and he was again the thoughtless and giddy cavalier. Madame von Brandt, however, had but little time for jesting.

“You promised to give me information of the letter I lost at the last court festival,” she said, anxiously.

“Yes, that very important letter, ruinously compromising two ladies and a nobleman. I suppose you would obtain the letter at any sacrifice?”

“Yes, at any sacrifice,” said Madame von Brandt. “You asked a hundred Louis d’ors for the letter; I have brought them with me; take them–now give me the letter.”

The baron took the money and put it in his pocket.

“Well, the letter, let me have it quickly,” said Madame von Brandt.

Pollnitz hunted through his pockets anxiously. “My God!” he cried, “this letter has wings. I know I put it in my pocket, and it has disappeared; perhaps like yourself I lost it in the saloon; I must hasten to seek it.” He wished to go immediately, but Madame von Brandt held him back.

“Have the goodness to give me my money until you have found the letter,” she cried, trembling with rage.

“Your money?” cried Pollnitz; “you gave me no money. Why do you keep me? allow me to go and seek this important letter.” He tore himself from her and mingled with the crowd.

Madame von Brandt looked after him in speechless rage; she leaned against the wall, to prevent herself from falling.

Pollnitz laughed triumphantly. “This evening has brought me a thousand crowns, two hundred Louis d’ors, a splendid diamond pin, and the promise of a rich wife. I think I may be content. Through these intrigues I have enough to live on for months. I stand now high in the king’s favor, and who knows, perhaps he may now give me a house, not the house in the Jager Street–that is, alas, no longer vacant. I see the king–I must hasten to him.” Suddenly he heard his name called, and turning he saw a lady in a black domino, the hood drawn over her head, and her face covered with an impenetrable veil.

“Baron Pollnitz, a word with you, if you please,” and slightly motioning with her hand, she passed before him. Pollnitz followed her, curious to know his last petitioner, but the dark domino covered her completely. They had now reached a quiet window; the lady turned and said:

“Baron Pollnitz, you are said to be a noble and gallant cavalier, and I am sure you will not refuse a lady a favor.”

“Command me, madame,” said Pollnitz, with his eternal smile. “I will do all in my power.”

“Make known to me the costume of the king.”

The baron stepped back in angry astonishment. “So, my beautiful mask, you call that a favor; I must betray his majesty to you. He has forbidden me positively to make known his costume to any one; you cannot desire me to be guilty of such a crime!”

“I implore you to tell me,” cried the mask; “it is not from idle curiosity that I desire to know: I have an ardent but innocent desire to say a few words to the king before he leaves for the wars, from which he may never return.”

In the excitement of deep feeling, the mask spoke in her natural voice, and there were certain tones which Pollnitz thought he recognized; he must be certain, however, before speaking; he drew nearer, and gazing piercingly at the lady, he said. “You say, madame, that it is not in idle curiosity that you desire to know the costume of the king. How do I know that you do not entertain dangerous designs? how do I know but you are an enemy, corrupted by Austria, and wish to lead the king to his destruction?”

“The only security I can offer is the word of a noble lady who never told an untruth. God omnipotent, God omnipresent knows that my heart beats with admiration, reverence, and love for the king. I would rather die than bring him into danger.”

“Will you swear that?”

“I swear!” cried the lady, raising her arm solemnly toward heaven.

Pollnitz followed all her movements watchfully, and as the long sleeve of the domino fell back, he saw a bracelet of emeralds and diamonds, which he recognized; there was but one lady at the Prussian court who possessed such a bracelet, and that was the reigning queen. Pollnitz was too old a courtier to betray the discovery he had made; he bowed quietly to the lady, who, discovering her imprudence, lowered her arm, and drew her sleeve tightly over it.

“Madame,” said the baron, “you have taken a solemn oath and I am satisfied; I will grant your request, but, as I gave my word of honor to tell no one the costume of his majesty, I must show it to you. I am now going to seek the king; I shall speak with no one but him; therefore the domino before whom I bow and whom I address will be the king; follow me.”

“I thank you,” said the lady, drawing her domino closely over her; “I shall remember this hour gratefully, and if it is ever in my power to serve you, I shall do so.”

“This is indeed a most fortunate evening! I have earned money and diamonds and the favor of the queen, who up to this time has looked upon me with cold dislike.”

Pollnitz approached the king and bowed low; the lady stood behind, marking well the costume of his majesty.

“I have waited a long time for Pollnitz,” said the king.

“Sire, I had to wait for three masks; I have seen them all–Madame von Morien, Madame von Brandt, and Baron von Manteuffel. The baron remains true to his character; he is in the costume of the king of cards.”

“And Madame von Morien?” asked the king.

“She is here as a nun, and burns with desire to speak with your majesty; and if you will step into the dark saloon, I do not doubt the repentant nun will quickly follow you.”

“Well, what is the costume of Madame von Brandt?”

“A gypsy, sire; a yellow skirt, with a red bodice embroidered in gold; a little hat studded with diamonds and a beauty spot on the left temple. She wished me to give her the letter I found, and I sold it to her for two hundred Louis d’ors.”

“You had not the letter, however, and could not receive the money?”

“Pardon, your majesty, I took the Louis d’ors, and then discovered that I had lost the letter, I came to seek it.”

The king laughed heartily, and said: “Pollnitz, Pollnitz, it is a blessed thing for the world that you are not married; your boys would be consummate rascals! Did you give Manteuffel the plan of the campaign and the number of the troops?”

“Yes, sire, I did; and the baron was so charmed that he made me a present of four thousand crowns! I took them, for appearance’ sake; your majesty must decide what I must do with them.”

“Keep the reward of your iniquity, baron. You hare a superb talent for thieving, and I would prefer you should practise it on the Austrians to practising it on myself. Go now, and see that I find my uniform in the cabinet.”

The king mingled again with the crowd, and was not recognized, but laughed and jested with them merrily as man to man.

CHAPTER XI.

REWARD AND PUNISHMENT.

Suddenly the king ceased his cheerful laughter and merry jests: he had for the moment forgotten that he had any thing to do but amuse himself; he had forgotten that he was here to judge and to punish. Frederick was standing by the once dearly loved Count Manteuffel, and as his eye fell upon him he was recalled to himself.

“Ah! I was looking for you,” said the king, laying his hand upon the count’s shoulder; “you were missing from my game, dear king of cards, but now that I have you, I shall win.”

The count had too good an ear not to recognize the king’s voice in spite of its disguise; but he was too nice a diplomatist to betray his discovery by word or look.

“What game do you wish to play with me, mask?” Said he, following the king into an adjoining and unoccupied room.

“A new game, the game of war!” said the king, harshly.

“The game of war,” repeated the count; “I have never heard of that game.”

The king did not answer at once; he was walking hastily up and down the room.

“Count,” said he, stopping before Manteuffel, “I am your friend. I wish to give you some good advice. Leave Berlin to-night, and never return to it!”

“Why do you advise this?” said the count, coolly.

“Because otherwise you are in danger of being imprisoned as a traitor and hung as a spy! Make no answer; attempt no defence. I am your friend, but I am also the friend of the king. I would guard you from a punishment, though a just one; and I would also guard him from embarrassment and vexation. The king does not know that you are an Austrian spy, in the pay of the imperial court. May he never know it! He once loved you; and his anger would be terrible if informed of your perfidy. Yes, Count Manteuffel, this prince was young, inexperienced and trusting; he believed in your love and gave you his heart. Let us spare his youth; let us spare him the humiliation of despising and punishing the man he once loved. Oh, my God! it is hard to trample a being contemptuously under foot whom you once pressed lovingly to your heart. The king is gentle and affectionate: he is not yet sufficiently hardened to bear without pain the blows inflicted by a faithless friend. A day may come when the work of such friends, when your work, may be accomplished, when King Frederick will wear about his heart a coat-of-mail woven of distrust; but, as I said, that time has not come. Do not await it, count, for then the king would be inexorable toward you; he would look upon you only as a spy and a traitor! Hasten, then, with flying steps from Berlin.”

“But how, if I remain and attempt to defend myself?” said the count, timidly.

“Do not attempt it; it would be in vain. For in the same moment that you attempted to excuse yourself, the king would hear of your cunning, your intrigues, your bribery, and your treachery; he would know that you corresponded with his cook; that Madame von Brandt kept a journal for you, which you sent to the Austrian court, and for which you paid her a settled sum; he would know that you watched his every word and step, and sold your information for Austrian gold! No, no, dare not approach the king. A justification is impossible. Leave here to-night, and never dare to tread again on Prussian soil! Remember I am your friend; as such I address you.”

“You then advise me to go at once, without taking leave of the king?” said the count, who could not now conceal his embarrassment.

“I do! I command you,” said the king; “I command you to leave this castle on the spot! silently, without a word or sign, as beseems a convicted criminal! I command you to leave Berlin to-night. It matters not to me where yon go–to hell, if it suits your fancy.”

The count obeyed silently, without a word; to the king he bowed and left the room.

The king gazed after him till he was lost in the crowd. “And through such men as that we lose our trust and confidence in our race; such men harden our hearts,” said he to himself. “Is that then true which has been said by sages of all times, that princes are condemned to live solitary and joyless lives; that they can never possess a friend disinterested and magnanimous enough to love them for themselves, and not for their power and glory? If so, why give our hearts to men? Let us love and cherish our dogs, who are true and honest, and love their masters whether they are princes or beggars. Ah, there is Manteuffel’s noble friend, that coquettish little gypsy; we will for once change the usual order of things: I will prophesy to her, instead of receiving her prophecies.” The king approached and whispered: “Pollnitz has found the precious letter, and is anxious to return it to you.”

“Where is he?” said the gypsy, joyously.

“Follow me,” said Frederick, leading her to the same room where he had dismissed Manteuffel. “Here we are, alone and unnoticed,” said the king, “and we can gossip to our heart’s content.”

Madame von Brandt laughed: “Two are needed for a gossip,” said she; “and how do you know that I am in the humor for that? You led me here by speaking of a letter which Baron Pollnitz was to give me, but I see neither Pollnitz nor the letter!”

“Pollnitz gave it to me to hand to you; but before I give it up I will see if I have not already learned something of your art, and if I cannot prophesy as well as yourself. Give me your hand: I will tell your fortune.”

Madame von Brandt silently held out her trembling hand; she had recognized the voice; she knew it was the king who stood by her side.

The king studied her hand without touching it. “I see wonderful things in this small hand. In this line it is written that you are a dangerous friend, a treacherous subject, and a cruel flirt.”

“Can you believe this?” said she, with a forced laugh.

“I do not only believe it, I know it. It is written in bold, imperishable characters upon your hand and brow. Look! I see here, that from a foreign land, for treacherous service, you receive large sums of gold; here I see splendid diamonds, and there I read that twenty thousand crowns are promised you if you prevent a certain divorce. You tremble, and your hand shakes so I can scarcely read. Keep your hand steady, madame; I wish to read not only your past but your future life.”

“I shall obey,” whispered Madame von Brandt.

“Here I read of a dangerous letter, which fell, through your own carelessness, into the wrong hands. If the king should read that letter, your ruin would be unavoidable; he would punish you as a traitor; you would not only be banished from court, but confined in some strong fortress. When a subject conspires with the enemy during time of war, this is the universal punishment. Be cautious, be prudent, and the king will learn nothing of this, and you may be saved.”

“What must I do to avert my ruin?” she said, breathlessly.

“Banish yourself, madame; make some excuse to withdraw immediately from Berlin; retire to your husband’s estate, and there, in quiet and solitude, think over and repent your crimes. When like Mary Magdalene you have loved, and deceived, and betrayed, like her you must repent, and see if God is as trusting as man; if you can deceive Him with your tears as you once deceived us with your well- acted friendship. Go try repentance with God; here it is of no avail. This reformation, madame, must commence at once. You will leave Berlin to-morrow, and will not return till the king himself sends for you.”

“I go!” said Madame von Brandt, weeping bitterly; “I go! but I carry death in my heart, not because I am banished, but because I deserve my punishment; because I have wounded the heart of my king, and my soul withers under his contempt.”

“Mary Magdalene,” said Frederick, “truly you have a wondrous talent for acting; a hint is enough for you, and you master your part at once. But, madame, it is useless to act before the king; he will neither credit your tears nor your repentance; he would remember your crimes and pronounce your sentence. Hasten, then, to your place of atonement. There you may turn saint, and curse the vain and giddy world. Here is your letter–farewell!”

The king hastened away, and Madame von Brandt, weeping from shame and humiliation, remained alone. The king passed rapidly through the crowded saloon and stepped on the balcony; he had seen the nun following him, and she came upon the balcony; he tore off his mask, and confronting the trembling woman, he said, in a harsh voice.

“What do you want with me?”

“Your love,” cried the nun, sinking upon her knees and raising her hands imploringly to the king; “I want the love you once promised me–the love which is my earthly happiness and my salvation–your love, without which I must die; wanting which, I suffer the tortures of purgatory!”

“Then suffer,” said the king, harshly; retreating a few steps–“go and suffer; endure the torments of purgatory, you deserve them; God will not deliver you, nor will I.”

“Alas! alas! I hear this, and I live,” cried Madame von Morien, despairingly. “Oh, my king, take pity on me; think of the heavenly past; think of the intoxicating poison your words and looks poured into my veins, and do not scorn and punish me because I am brought almost to madness and death by your neglect. See what you have made of me! see how poor Leontine has changed!” She threw back her veil, and showed her pale and sorrowful countenance to the king.

He gazed at her sternly: “You have become old, madame,” he said, coldly–“old enough to tread in the new path you have so wisely prepared for yourself. You who have so long been the votary of love, are now old enough and plain enough to become a model of virtue. Accept this order of virtue and modesty, promised you by the Empress of Austria. The king will not divorce his wife, and as this is supposed to be solely your work, the empress will not withhold the promised order.”

“My God! he knows all, and he despises me!” cried Madame von Morien, passionately.

“Yes, he despises you,” repeated the king; “he despises and he has no pity on you! Farewell!”

Without again looking toward the broken-hearted woman, he turned toward the dancing-saloon. Suddenly he felt a hand laid softly upon his shoulder; he turned and saw at his side a woman in black, and thickly veiled.

“One word, King Frederick,” whispered the lady.

“Speak, what do you wish?” said the king, kindly.

“What do I wish?” said she, with a trembling voice; “I wish to see you; to hear your voice once more before you go to the battle-field, to danger, perhaps to death. I come to entreat you to be careful of your life! remember it is a precious jewel, for which you are not only answerable to God, but to millions of your subjects. Oh, my king, do not plunge wantonly into danger; preserve yourself for your country, your people, and your family; to all of whom you are indispensable.”

The king shook his head, smilingly. “No one is indispensable. A man lost is like a stone thrown into the water; for a moment there is a slight eddy, the waters whirl, then all trace disappears, and the stream flows quietly and smoothly on. But not thus will I disappear. If I am destined to fall in this combat to which I am now hastening, my death shall be glorious, and my grave shall be known; it must, at least, be crowned with laurels, as no one will consecrate it with the tribute of love and tears. A king, you know, is never loved, and no one weeps for his death; the whole world is too busily engaged in welcoming his successor.”

“Not so; not so with you, my king! you are deeply, fondly loved. I know a woman who lives but in your presence–a woman who would die of joy if she were loved by you; she would die of despair if death should claim you; you, her youthful hero, her ideal, her god! For this woman’s sake who worships you; whose only joy you are; who humbly lays her love at your feet, and only asks to die there; for her sake I implore you to be careful of yourself; do not plunge wantonly into danger, and thus rob Prussia of her king; your queen of the husband whom she adores, and for whom she is ready at any hour to give her heart’s blood.”

The king clasped gently the folded hands of the veiled lady within his own; he knew her but too well.

“Are you so well acquainted with the queen that you know all the secrets of her heart?”

“Yes, I know the queen,” whispered she; “I am the only confidant of her sorrows. I only know how much she loves, how much she suffers.”

“I pray you, then, go to the queen and bid her farewell for me. Tell her that the king honors no other woman as he honors her; that he thinks she is exalted enough to be placed among the noble women of the olden times. He is convinced she would say to her warrior husband, as the Roman wives said to their fathers, husbands, and sons, when handing their shields, ‘Return with them or upon them!’ Tell Elizabeth Christine that the King of Prussia will return from this combat with his hereditary foe as a conqueror, or as a corpse. He cares little for life, but much for honor; he must make his name glorious, perchance by the shedding of his blood. Tell Elizabeth Christine this, and tell her also that on the day of battle her friend and brother will think of her; not to spare himself, but to remember gratefully that, in that hour, a noble and pure woman is praying to God for him. And now adieu: I go to my soldiers–you to the queen.”

He bowed respectfully, and hurried to the music-room. The queen followed him with tearful eyes, and then drawing her hood tightly over her face, she hurried through a secret door into her apartments. While the queen was weeping and praying in her room, the king was putting on his uniform, and commanding the officers to assemble in the court-yard.

Prince Augustus William was still tarrying in the dancing-saloon: he did not dance; no one knew he was there. He had shown himself for a few hours in a magnificent fancy suit, but unmasked; he then left the ballroom, saying he still had some few preparations to make for his journey. Soon, however, he returned in a common domino and closely masked; no one but Laura von Pannewitz was aware of his presence; they were now standing together in a window, whose heavy curtains hid them from view. It was a sad pleasure to look once more into each other’s eyes, to feel the warm pressure of loving hands, to repeat those pure and holy vows which their trembling lips had so often spoken; every fond word fell like glorious music upon their young hearts. The moment of separation had come; the officers were assembled, and the solemn beating of drums was heard.

“I must leave you, my beloved, my darling,” whispered the prince, pressing the weeping girl to his heart. Laura sobbed convulsively.

“Leave me, alas, perhaps never to return!”

“I shall return, my Laura,” said he, with a forced smile. “I am no hero; I shall not fall upon the battlefield. I know this; I feel it. I feel also that if this was to be my fate, I should be spared many sorrowful and agonizing hours; how much better a quick, glorious death, than this slow torture, this daily death of wretchedness! Oh, Laura, I have presentiments, in which my whole future is covered with clouds and thick darkness, through which even your lovely form is not to be seen; I am alone, all alone!”

“You picture my own sufferings, my own fears,” whispered Laura. “Alas! I forget the rapture of the present in the dim and gloomy future. Oh, my beloved, my heart does not beat with joy when I look at you; it overflows with despair. I am never to see you again, my prince; our fond farewell is to be our last! Oh, believe me, this sad presentiment is the voice of Fate, warning us to escape from this enchanting vision, with which we have, lulled our souls to sleep. We have forgotten our duty, and we are warned that a cruel necessity will one day separate us!”

“Nothing shall separate us!” said the prince; “no earthly power shall come between us. The separation of to-day, which honor demands of me, shall be the last. When I return, I will remind you of your oath; I will claim your promise, which God heard and accepted. Our love is from God, and no stain rests upon it; God, therefore, will watch over it, and will not withhold His blessing; with His help, we will conquer all difficulties, and we can dispense with the approbation of the world.”

Laura shook her head sadly: “I have not this happy confidence; and I have not the strength to bear this painful separation. At times when I have been praying fervently for help, it seems to me that God is standing by and strengthening me to obey the command of the dowager- queen and give my hand to Count Voss. But when I wish to speak the decisive word my lips are closed as with a band of iron; it seems to me that, could I open them, the only sound I should utter would be a cry so despairing as to drive me to madness.”

The prince pressed her fondly to his heart: “Swear to me, Laura, that you will never be so faithless, so cowardly, as to yield to the threats of my mother,” said he, passionately; “swear that you will be true to your oath; that oath by which you are mine–mine to all eternity; my wedded wife!”

“I swear it,” said she, solemnly, fixing her eyes steadily upon his agitated countenance.

“They will take advantage of my absence to torture you. My mother will overwhelm you with reproaches, threats, and entreaties; but, if you love me, Laura, you will find strength to resist all this. As yet my mother does not know that it is I whom you love; I who worship you; she suspects that the king or the young Prince of Brunswick possesses your heart. But chance may betray our love, and then her anger would be terrible. She would lose no time in separating us; would stop at nothing. Then, Laura, be firm and faithful; believe no reports, no message, no letter; trust only in me and in my word. I will not write to you, for my letters might be intercepted. I will send no messenger to you; he might be bribed. If I fall in battle, and God grants me strength in dying, I will send you a last embrace and a last loving word, by some pitying friend. In that last hour our love will have nothing to fear from the world, the king, or my mother. You will always be in my thoughts, darling, and my spirit will be with you.”

“And if you fall, God will have mercy on me and take me from this cruel world; it will be but a grave for me when no longer gladdened by your presence.”

The prince kissed her fondly, and slipped a ring on her finger. “That is our engagement ring,” said he. “Now you are mine; you wear my ring; this is the first link of that chain with which I will bind your whole life to mine! You are my prisoner; nothing can release you. But listen! what is that noise? The king has descended to the court; he will be looking for me. Farewell, my precious one; God and His holy angels guard you!”

He stepped slowly from behind the curtains and closed them carefully after him, so as to conceal Laura; he passed hastily through the rooms to his apartment, threw off the domino which concealed his uniform, and seizing his sword he hastened to the court. The king was surrounded by his generals and officers; all eyes were fixed upon him; he had silenced every objection. There was amongst them but one opinion and one will, the will and opinion of the king, whom all felt to be their master, not only by divine right, but by his mighty intellect and great soul. Frederick stood amongst them, his countenance beaming with inspiration, his eagle eye sparkling and glowing with the fire of thought, and a smile was on his lips which won all hearts. Behind him stood the Prince of Anhault Dessau, old Zeithen, General Vinterfeldt, and the adjutant-generals. Above them floated a magnificent banner, whose motto, “Pro gloria et patria,” was woven in gold. Frederick raised his naked sword and greeted the waving colors; he spoke, and his full, rich voice filled the immense square:

“Gentlemen, I undertake this war with no other ally than your stout hearts; my cause is just; I dare ask God’s help! Remember the renown our great ancestors gained on the battle-field of Ferbellin! Your future is in your own hands; distinction must be won by gallant and daring deeds. We are to attack soldiers who gained imperishable names under Prince Eugene. How great will be our glory if we vanquish such warriors! Farewell! Go! I follow without delay!”

CHAPTER XII.

THE RETURN.

The first campaign of the young King of Prussia had been a bloodless one. Not one drop of blood had been shed. A sentinel at the gate of Breslau had refused to allow the Prussian general to enter, and received for his daring a sounding box on the ear, which sent him reeling backward. The general with his staff entered the conquered capital of Silesia, without further opposition. Breslau was the capital of a province which for more than a hundred years had not been visited by any member of the royal house of Austria. The heavy taxes imposed upon her were the only evidence that she belonged to the Austrian dominions. Breslau did not hesitate to receive this young and handsome king, who as he marched into the city gave a kindly, gracious greeting to all; who had a winning smile for all those richly-dressed ladies at the windows; who had written with his own hand a proclamation in which he assured the Silesians that he came not as an enemy, and that every inhabitant would be secured in their rights, privileges, and freedom in their religion, worth, and service. The ties which bound the beautiful province of Silesia to Austria had long ago been shattered, and the prophecy of the king had already been fulfilled–that prophecy made in Krossen. As the king entered Krossen with his army, the clock of the great church tower fell with a thundering noise, and carried with it a portion of the old church. A superstitious fear fell upon the whole Prussian army; even the old battle-stained warriors looked grim and thoughtful. The king alone smiled, and said:

“The fall of this clock signifies that the pride of the house of Austria will be humbled. Caesar fell when landing in Africa, and exclaimed: ‘I hold thee, Africa!'”

Those great men would not allow themselves to be influenced by evil omens. Quickly, indeed, was Frederick’s prophecy fulfilled. The house of Austria was suddenly humbled, and the Prussian army was quietly in possession of one of her capitals. Frederick had been joyfully received, not only by the Protestants, who had so long suffered from the bitterest religious persecution, and to whom the king now promised absolute freedom of conscience and unconditional exercise of their religious worship, but by the Catholics, even the priests and Jesuits, who were completely fascinated by the intellect and amiability of Frederick. No man mourned for the Austrian yoke, and the Prussians became great favorites with the Silesians, particularly with the women, who, heart in hand, advanced to meet them; received the handsome and well-made soldiers as lovers, and hastened to have these tender ties made irrevocable by the blessing of the priest. Hundreds of marriages between the Prussians and the maidens of the land were solemnized during the six weeks Frederick remained in Silesia. These men, who, but a few weeks before, came as enemies and conquerors, were now adopted citizens, thus giving their king a double right to the possession of these provinces.

It soon became the mode for the Silesian girl to claim a Prussian lover, and the taller and larger the lover, the prouder and more happy was the lucky possessor. Baron Bielfeld, who accompanied the king to Breslau, met in the street one day a beautiful bourgeoise, who was weeping bitterly and wringing her hands; Bielfeld inquired the cause of her tears, and she replied naively:

“Alas! I am indeed an object of pity; eight days ago I was betrothed to a Prussian grenadier, who measured five feet and nine inches; I was very happy and very proud of him. To-day one of the guard, who measured six feet and two inches, proposed to me; and I weep now because so majestic and handsome a giant is offered me, and I cannot accept him.”

The king won the women through his gallant soldiers, the ladies of the aristocracy, through his own beauty, grace, and eminent intellect. Frederick gave a ball to the aristocracy of Breslau, and all the most distinguished and noble families, who had been before closely bound to the house of Austria, eagerly accepted the invitation; they wished to behold the man who was a hero and a poet, a cavalier and a warrior, a youth and a philosopher; who was young and handsome, and full of life; who did not wrap himself in stiff, ceremonious forms, and appeared in the presence of ladies to forget that he was a king. He worshipped the ladies as a cavalier, and when they accepted the invitation to dance, considered it a flattering favor. While winning the hearts of the women through his gallantry and beauty, he gained the voices of men by the orders and titles which he scattered broadcast through the province.

“I dreamed last night,” said he to Pollnitz, laughing, “that I created princes, dukes, and barons in Breslau; help me to make my dream a reality by naming to me some of the most prominent families.”

Pollnitz selected the names, and Prince von Pless, Duke Hockburg, and many others rose up proudly from this creative process of the king.

Silesia belonged, at this moment, unconditionally to Prussia. The king could now return to Berlin and devote himself to study, to friendship, and his family. The first act of that great drama called the Seven Years’ War was now finished. The king should now, between the acts, give himself up to the arts and sciences, and strengthen himself for that deep tragedy of which he was resolved to be the hero. Berlin received her king with shouts of joy, and greeted him as a demigod. He was no longer, in the eyes of the imperious Austrians, the little Margrave of Brandenburg, who must hold the wash-basin for the emperor; he was a proud, self-sustaining king, no longer receiving commands from Austria, but giving laws to the proud daughter of the Caesars.

The queen-mother and the young princesses met the king at the outer gates. The queen Elizabeth Christine, her eyes veiled with rapturous tears, received her husband tremblingly. Alas! he had for her only a silent greeting, a cold, ceremonious bow. But she saw him once more; she could lose her whole soul in those melting eyes, in which she was ever reading the most enchanting magical fairy tales. In these days of ceremony he could not refuse her a place by his side; to sit near him at table, and at the concerts with which the royal chapel and the newly-arrived Italian singers would celebrate the return of the king. Graun had composed a piece of music in honor of this occasion, and not only the Italian singer, Laura Farinelli, but a scholar of Graun and Quantz, a German singer, Anna Prickerin, would then be heard for the first time. This would be for Anna an eventful and decisive day; she stood on the brink of a new existence–an existence made glorious by renown, honor, and distinction.

It was nothing to her that her father lay agonizing upon his death- bed; it was nothing to her that her brother William had left his home three days before, and no one knew what had become of him. She asked no questions about father or brother; she sorrowed not for the mother lately dead and buried. She had but one thought, one desire, one aim–to be a celebrated singer, to obtain the hand of a man whom she neither loved nor esteemed, but who was a baron and an influential lord of the court. The object of Anna’s life was to become the wife of the baron, not for love. She wished to hide her ignoble birth under the glitter of his proud name; it was better to be the wife of a poor baron than the daughter of a tailor, even though he should be the court tailor, and a millionnaire.

The king had been in Berlin but two days, and Pollnitz had already made a visit to his beautiful Anna. Never had he been so demonstrative and so tender; never before had he been seriously occupied with the thought of making her his wife; never had he looked upon it as possible. The example of Count Rhedern gave him courage; what the king had granted to the daughter of the merchant, he could not refuse to the daughter of the court tailor, more particularly when the latter, by her own gifts and talents, had opened the doors of the palace for herself; when by the power of her siren voice she had made the barriers tremble and fall which separated the tailor’s daughter from the court circle. If the lovely Anna became a celebrated singer, if she succeeded in winning the applause of the king, she would be ennobled; and no one could reproach the baron for making the beautiful prima donna his wife. If, therefore, she pleased the king, Pollnitz was resolved to confess himself her knight, and to marry her as soon as possible– yes, as soon as possible, for his creditors followed him, persecuted him at every step, even threatened him with judgment and a prison. Pollnitz reminded the king that he had promised, after his return from Silesia, to assist him. Frederick replied that he had not yet seen a battle-field, and was at the beginning and not the end of a war, for which he would require more gold than his treasuries contained; “wait patiently, also,” he said, “for the promised day, for only then can I fulfil my promise.” It was, therefore, a necessity with Pollnitz to find some way of escape from this terrible labyrinth; and with an anxiously-beating heart he stood on the evening of the concert behind the king’s chair, to watch every movement and every word, and above all to notice the effect produced by the voice of his Anna.

The king was uncommonly gay and gracious; these two days in his beloved Berlin, after weeks of fatigue and weariness in Silesia, had filled his heart with gladness. He had given almost a lover’s greeting to his books and his flute, and his library seemed to him a sanctified home; with joy he exchanged his sword for a pen, and instead of drawing plans of battle, he wrote verses or witty letters to Voltaire, whom he still honored, and in a certain sense admired, although the six days which Voltaire had spent in Rheinsberg, just before the Silesian campaign, had somewhat diminished his admiration for the French author. After Frederick’s first meeting with Voltaire at the castle of Moyland, he said of him, “He is as eloquent as Cicero, as charming as Plinius, and as wise as Agrippa; he combines in himself all the virtues and all the talents of the three greatest men of the ancients.” He now called the author of the “Henriade” a FOOL; it excited and troubled his spirit to see that this great author was mean and contemptible in character, cold and cunning in heart. He had loved Voltaire as a friend, and now he confessed with pain that Voltaire’s friendship was a possession which must be cemented with gold, if you did not wish to lose it. The king who, a few months before, had compared him to Cicero, Plinius, and Agrippa, now said to Jordan, “The miser, Voltaire, has still an unsatisfied longing for gold, and asks still thirteen hundred dollars! Every one of the six days which he spent with me cost me five hundred and fifty dollars! I call that paying dear for a fool! Never before was a court fool so generously rewarded.”

To-day Frederick was expecting a new enjoyment; to-day, for the first time, he was to hear the new Italian singer. This court concert promised him, therefore, a special enjoyment, and he awaited it with youthful impatience.

At last Graun gave the signal for the introduction; Frederick had no ear for this simple, beautiful, and touching music; and the masterly solo of Quantz upon the flute drew from him a single bravo; he thought only of the singers, and at last the chorus began.

The heart of Pollnitz beat loud and quick as he glanced at Anna, who stood proud and grave, in costly French toilet, far removed from the Farinelli. Anna examined the court circles quietly, and looked as unembarrassed as if she had been long accustomed to such society.

The chorus was at an end, and Laura Farinelli had the first aria to sing. Anna Prickerin could have murdered her for this. The Italian, in the full consciousness of her power, returned Anna’s scorn with a half-mocking, half-contemptuous smile; she then fixed her great, piercing eyes upon the music, and began to sing.

Anna could have cried aloud in her rage, for she saw that the king was well pleased: he nodded his head, and a gay smile overspread his features; she saw that the whole court circle made up enchanted faces immediately, and that even Pollnitz assumed an entirely happy and enthusiastic mien. The Farinelli saw all this, and the royal applause stimulated her; her full, glorious voice floated and warbled in the artistic “Fioritures” and “Roulades,” then dreamed itself away in soft, melodious tones; again it rose into the loftiest regions of sound, and was again almost lost in the simple, touching melodies of love.

“Delicious! superb!” said the king, aloud, as Farinelli concluded.

“Exalted! godlike!” cried Pollnitz; and now, as the royal sign had been given, the whole court dared to follow the example, and to utter light and repressed murmurs of wonder and applause.

Anna felt that she turned pale; her feet trembled; she could have murdered the Italian with her own hands! this proud Farinelli, who at this moment looked toward her with a questioning and derisive glance; and her eyes seemed to say, “Will you yet dare to sing?”

But Anna had the proud courage to dare. She said to herself, “I shall triumph over her; her voice is as thin as a thread, and as sharp as a fine needle, while mine is full and powerful, and rolls like an organ; and as for her ‘Fioritures,’ I understand them as well as she.”

With this conviction she took the notes in her hand, and waited for the moment when the “Ritornelle” should be ended; she returned with a quiet smile the anxious look which her teacher, Quantz, fixed upon her.

The “Ritornelle” was ended. Anna began her song; her voice swelled loudly and powerfully, far above the orchestra, but the king was dull and immovable; he gave not the slightest token of applause. Anna saw this, and her voice, which had not trembled with fear, now trembled with rage; she was resolved to awake the astonishment of the king by the strength and power of her voice; she would compel him to applaud! She gathered together the whole strength of her voice and made so powerful an effort that her poor chest seemed about to burst asunder; a wild, discordant strain rose stunningly upon the air, and now she had indeed the triumph to see that the king laughed! Yes, the king laughed! but not with the same smile with which he greeted Farinelli, but in mockery and contempt. He turned to Pollnitz, and said:

“What is the name of this woman who roars so horribly?”

Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders; he had a kind of feeling as if that moment his creditors had seized him by the throat.

“Sire,” whispered he, “I believe it is Anna Prickerin.” The king laughed; yes, in spite of the “Fioritures” of the raging singer, who had seen Pollnitz’s shrug of the shoulders, and had vowed in the spirit to take a bloody vengeance.

Louder and louder the fair Anna shrieked, but the king did not applaud. She had now finished the last note of her aria, and breathlessly with loudly-beating heart she waited for the applause of the king. It came not! perfect stillness reigned; even Pollnitz was speechless.

“Do you know, certainly, that this roaring woman is the daughter of our tailor?” said the king.

Pollnitz answered, “Yes,” with a bleeding heart.

“I have often heard that a tailor was called a goat, but his children are nevertheless not nightingales, and poor Pricker can sooner force a camel through the eye of his needle than make a songstress of his daughter. The Germans cannot sing, and it is an incomprehensible mistake of Graun to bring such a singer before us.”

“She is a pupil of Quantz,” said Pollnitz, “and he has often assured me she would make a great singer.”

“Ah, she is a pupil of Quantz,” repeated the king, and his eye glanced around in search of him. Quantz, with an angry face, and his eyebrows drawn together, was seated at his desk. “Alas!” said Frederick, “when he makes such a face as that, he grumbles with me for two days, and is never pleased with my flute. I must seek to mollify him, therefore, and when this Mademoiselle Prickerin sings again I will give a slight sign of applause.”

But Anna Prickerin sang no more; angry scorn shot like a stream of fire through her veins, she felt suffocated; tears rushed to her eyes; every thing about her seemed to be wavering and unsteady; and as her listless, half-unconscious glances wandered around, she met the gay, triumphant eyes of the Farinelli fixed derisively upon her. Anna felt as if a sword had pierced her heart; she uttered a fearful cry, and sank unconscious to the floor.

“What cry was that?” said the king, “and what signifies this strange movement among the singers?”

“Sire, it appears that the Prickerin has fallen into a fainting- fit,” said Pollnitz.

The king thought this a good opportunity to pacify Quantz by showing an interest in his pupil. “That is indeed a most unhappy circumstance,” said the king, aloud. “Hasten, Pollnitz, to inquire in my name after the health of this gifted young singer. If she is still suffering, take one of my carriages and conduct her yourself to her home, and do not leave her till you can bring me satisfactory intelligence as to her recovery.” So saying, the king cast a stolen glance toward the much-dreaded Quantz, whose brow had become somewhat clearer, and his expression less threatening. “We will, perhaps,” whispered the king, “escape this time with one day’s growling; I think I have softened him.” Frederick seated himself, and gave the signal for the concert to proceed; he saw that, with the assistance of the baron, the unconscious songstress had been removed.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD TIME.

The music continued, while Pollnitz, filled with secret dread, ordered a court carriage, according to the command of the king, and entered it with the still insensible songstress.

“The king does not know what a fearful commission he has given me,” thought Pollnitz, as he drove through the streets with Anna Prickerin, and examined her countenance with terror. “Should she now awake, she would overwhelm me with her rage. She is capable of scratching out my eyes, or even of strangling me.”

But his fear was groundless. Anna did not stir; she was still unconscious, as the carriage stopped before the house of her father. No one came to meet them, although Pollnitz ordered the servant to open the door, and the loud ringing of the bell sounded throughout the house. No one appeared as Pollnitz, with the assistance of the servants, lifted the insensible Anna from the carriage and bore her into the house to her own room. As the baron placed her carefully