"And for this political conviction you receive Austrian gold and Austrian decorations," observed Madame von Brandt, laughing. "For the sake of your political conviction you have spies at all points, at the court of Potsdam, at the court of Dresden, and even here at the little court at Rheinsberg. Not satisfied with having bought over the prince royal's cook, and induced him to keep a diary for your inspection,[3] you have also succeeded in securing the services of that humble and modest little person, Madame von Brandt, who well knows that all this costs your Grace a considerable amount of money. And now you wish to make me believe that you do these things on account of your political conviction. Softly, my dear count! I, too, am a little diplomat, and have my convictions, and one of these is, that Count Manteuffel has but one passion, and that is, to play a political role, and to make as much money in that way as he possibly can. And to the good Count Manteuffel it is a matter of perfect indifference whether this money comes from Prussian or from Austrian sources."

[3] "Youth of Frederick the Great," by Preuss, page 132.

"And why these amiable pleasantries?" said the count, with a forced smile.

"They mean, my dear count, that this miserable acting should cease; that we should lay aside our masks, and deal with each other truly and sincerely, when alone, as we are at present. I serve you, because I am paid for it; you serve Austria, because you are paid for it. If, in time of need, you were not at hand with a well-filled purse, I would cease to serve you; and you would no longer be enthusiastic on the subject of Austrian dominion, if Austria's money should cease to flow into your coffers. And now, my dear count, I believe we understand each other; and, without further circumlocution, what do you require of me—what have you to communicate?"

"I must speak with you on matters of very grave importance."

"I knew it! your flattery betrayed you," said Madame Brandt, "Well, begin."

"First of all, my dear baroness, you must know that the prince royal will in a few days be king."

"Not so, count; a courier arrived yesterday evening with the intelligence that his majesty was much better. The prince royal is so rejoiced that he has determined to give a fete in honor of Madame von Morien to-day."

"Does the prince royal still love this lady?"

"I told you before that he loved his flute alone," said Madame Brandt.

"Does he not, then, love the princess royal?"

"No! And perhaps he would not love her even if she were changed into a flute. He would probably say to Quantz, 'It is not made of good wood, and has a bad tone,' and would lay it aside."

"And do you believe he would do that with the princess? although she is no flute, do you believe he would cast her aside?"

"The princess dreads it."

"And so does the empress!"

"But why was a woman, who not only knows nothing about music, but has a hoarse and discordant voice, and who articulates so indistinctly that the prince royal could not understand her were she to say the wittiest things imaginable, why should such a woman have been given as a wife to a prince of such remarkable musical proclivities? One does not marry a woman merely to look at her."

"Then you believe the prince royal will separate himself from his wife as soon as he obtains his freedom, that is, when he becomes king?" observed Count Manteuffel, thoughtfully.

"Of that I know nothing, count. The prince never speaks of his wife, even to his most intimate friends; and in his tenderest moments Madame Morien herself endeavors in vain to obtain some information on this subject."

"The prince is very discreet and very suspicious. Madame Morien must be bought over," murmured the count.

"That will be a difficult task," said Madame Brandt. "She is unfortunately very rich, and attaches but little importance to money. I know of but one means. Procure for her a lover who is handsomer, more ardent, and more passionate than the prince royal, and she can be won! For it is well known that Madame Morien has a very susceptible heart."

"Baroness, no jesting, if you please; the matters under discussion are of the gravest importance, and our time is limited. Madame Morion must be won over. She alone can influence the prince through his heart, and her influence must be exerted to prevent a separation of the prince royal from his wife. You, my dear baroness, must induce Madame Morien to do this; you, with your bewitching eloquence, must make Madame Morien comprehend that this is the only means of doing penance for her sinful life, and that her only chance of reconciliation with Heaven depends upon her restoration of the faithless husband to the arms of his noble wife. She could, perhaps, save the princess royal and the imperial court the disgrace of a separation. The princess must remain the wife of the king. This is the only tie which can bind the king to Austria. The prince is surrounded by the enemies of Austria, of whom Suhm is the most dangerous."

"Well, he, at least, is not near the prince. You know that he is the ambassador of Saxony at the court of Petersburg."

"Therein lies the main difficulty! The prince royal places unlimited confidence in him, they correspond in characters which we have vainly endeavored to decipher; and the result of this correspondence is, that Suhm has already procured the prince royal a loan of ten thousand dollars from the Duke of Courland, and that he has now secured him the annual sum of twenty-four thousand dollars from the Empress Anne. These payments will continue until the prince ascends the throne; the first has just been received."[4]

[4] Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand, vol. xvi., pp. 340, 356, 360, 384.

"That is a fable," exclaimed Madame Brandt, laughing. "The prince is as poor as Job, and for some time past has been literally besieged by his creditors!"

"And it can be no other than Russia who assists him in these difficulties!" exclaimed Count Manteuffel, in despair. "We must leave nothing undone to lessen the influence of this dangerous enemy, and to win Prussia to Austrian interests. Germany wishes for peace, and Prussia and Austria must be on good terms. If Prussia and Austria were to take up arms against each other, the balance of power in Europe would be destroyed, and a war would be inaugurated which, perhaps, for years would deluge Germany with blood and tears! Austria will do all that lies in her power to avoid this; and we, my dear friend, will be Austria's allies, and will assist her to the best of our ability. Russia has given Prussia money, it is true, but an indebtedness of this kind ceases the moment the money is returned. When the prince royal ascends the throne, he will pay to Russia what he owes her, and with that all obligations will be at an end. Then another tie must be found to bind Austria more firmly to Prussia. And you must help to weave this tie. The prince royal must never be separated from his wife! The future queen of Prussia will then be the niece of the empress. The duties of a nephew will consequently devolve on the king. To unite the two houses more closely, another marriage must be brought about. The Prince Augustus William, the presumptive heir of the prince royal, must, like the latter, espouse a princess of the house of Brunswick—a sister of the princess royal."

"That is impossible!" exclaimed Madame Brandt, with vivacity.

"Impossible? Why impossible?"

"Because the heart of the Prince Augustus William is already filled with a deep and passionate love—a love which would even touch you, that is, if you are susceptible to pity."

"My dear madame, we are speaking of affairs of State, and you discourse of love! What have politics to do with love? The prince may love whom he will, provided he marries the Princess of Brunswick."

"But his is a great and noble, a real love, count—a love over which we have no power, in which the devil had no hand; a love as pure as Heaven, and deserving of Heaven's blessing! You must give this plan up, count; the Prince Augustus William will never marry the Princess of Brunswick. He is far too noble to give his hand without his heart, and that is devoted to the beautiful Laura von Pannewitz."

"A prince of the blood who loves a little maid of honor, and wishes to marry her?" exclaimed von Manteuffel, laughing loudly. "How romantic! how sublime! what excellent materials for a sentimental romance! My dear baroness, I congratulate you! This discovery does all honor to your poetical temperament."

"Mock me, if you will, count; but I repeat, nevertheless, Prince Augustus William will not marry the Princess of Brunswick, for he loves the beautiful maid of honor of the queen, and is determined to make her his wife."

"We will know how to break this determination," said Count Manteuffel. "The prince royal will assist us, depend upon it. He is not an enthusiastic lover, like Augustus William, and will never consent to his brother's making a misalliance."

"And I tell you, the prince would rather die than give up the beautiful Laura."

"Well, then she must give him up," said Count Manteuffel, with cruel composure.

"Poor Laura," said Madame Brandt, with a sigh, "she loves him so dearly! it will break her heart to lose him."

"Pshaw! the heart of every woman is broken one or more times, but it always heals again, and when warmed by a new love, the old scars disappear entirely. You, dear baroness, have experienced this in yourself. Have you no recollection of the days of our ardent and passionate love? Did we not expect to die when we were separated? Did we not wring our hands, and pray for death as a relief? And are we not still living, to smile pityingly at the pangs we then endured, and to remember how often we have experienced delight, how often love has since triumphed in our hearts?"

"It is true," sighed Madame Brandt, "we outlive our sorrows; the heart of women resembles the worm—it still lives and quivers, although cut in pieces."

"Well," said Count Manteuffel, laughing, "the heart of Laura von Pannewitz is merely a worm, and we will not hesitate to cut it in pieces, as it will still live merrily on. You, my dear friend, shall be the knife which performs the operation. Are you willing?"

For a moment Madame Brandt looked down sadly, and seemed lost in thought.

"True," she murmured, "we outlive it, but the best part of our being is destroyed! I should never have become what I am, if I had not been ruthlessly torn from my first dream of love. We will not kill Laura von Pannewitz's body, but her soul will suffer!"

"And as it is not our province to look after souls, that need give us no care; a political necessity demands that Prince Augustus William shall marry the Princess of Brunswick. It demands, moreover, that the prince royal shall not be divorced from his wife, but that the niece of the empress shall be Queen of Prussia. In both of these affairs we need your assistance. You must closely watch the Prince Augustus William and his lady love, and, at the proper time, bring the affair to light. By your eloquence you must convince Madame Morien that it is her duty to exert her influence with the prince royal to prevent his separation from his wife. This is your task, and a noble task it is. Its objects are—to protect the peace of married life; to recall two noble hearts to the duties which they owe to the world; and lastly, to create a new bond of union between two mighty German powers. The wife of the Emperor Charles VI., the noble empress, will not be ungrateful to her ally, Madame Brandt. On the day on which Prince William espouses the Princess Louisa Amelia of Brunswick, Madame Brandt will receive a present of twenty thousand dollars from the empress."

The countenance of Madame Brandt was radiant with pleasure and delight.

"The prince shall and will marry the Princess Louisa Amelia—my word for it. I am then to be the demon who, with his poisonous breath, destroys this romantic, this beautiful love; the evil genius who drives fair Laura to despair. But why should I pity her? She suffers the fate of all women—my fate. Who pitied, who saved me? No one listened to my cry of anguish, and no one shall heed the wailing cry of the fair Laura von Pannewitz. Count, she is condemned! But, hark! Do you not hear faint tones of distant music? The prince royal has arisen, and is playing the flute at his open window. We must now separate; the garden will soon be full of people, and we are no longer safe from intrusion. A boat-ride on the lake is in contemplation for the early morning hours, and then Chazot will read Voltaire's last drama to the assembled court."



CHAPTER IX.

FREDERICK, THE PRINCE ROYAL.

Madame Brandt was not mistaken; the prince royal was awake, and was bringing a tribute to beautiful, sunny Nature in return for the sweetly-scented air that came through his window. There he stood, with the flute at his lips, and looked out at God's lovely, laughing world with a sparkling eye and joyful countenance. A cheerful quiet, a holy peace radiated from his beautiful face; his whole being seemed bathed in perfect harmony and contentment, and the soft, melting tones of his flute but echoed his thoughts. Suddenly he ceased playing, and slightly bowed his head to catch the sweet, dying notes that were still trembling in the air.

"That was good," said he, smiling, "and I believe I can note it down without exciting the anger of Quantz." He took his flute again, and softly repeated the air he had just finished. "I will write it immediately, and play it this evening before my critical musicians."

While speaking, Frederick left his bedroom, and passed into his library. On entering this room, a beautiful smile flitted over his face, and he bowed his head as if saluting some one. It would be impossible to imagine a more charming and tasteful room. It had been arranged according to the directions of the prince royal, and was in a great degree a true portrait of himself, a temple which he had erected to art, science, and friendship.

This room was in the new tower, and its circular form gave it a peculiar appearance. It was most appropriately compared to a temple. High glass cases around the walls contained the works of Voltaire, Racine, Moliere, and Corneille; those of Homer, Caesar, Cicero, and Ovid; also the Italian poets Dante, Petrarch, and Machiavel. All that had a good name in the literary world found its way into the library of the royal prince—all, excepting the works of German authors.

Between the book-cases, the shelves of which were ornamented here and there with busts of celebrated writers, were alcoves, in which stood small satin damask sofas, over which hung, in heavily-gilt frames, the portraits of Frederick's friends and contemporaries.

The largest and most beautiful was one of Voltaire. He had received the honored place; and when Frederick raised his eyes from his work, while sitting at his escritoire, they rested upon the smiling face of the talented French writer, whom the prince royal had selected as his favorite, and with whom he had for many years corresponded.

The prince went with hasty steps to his table, and, without noticing the sealed letters that were lying there, he took a piece of lined paper, and began to write, humming softly the melody he had just composed. He occasionally threw down his pen, and took the flute that was lying at his side, to try, before noting them, different accords and passages.

"It is finished at last," said the prince, laying aside his pen. "My adagio is finished, and I think Quanta will have no excuse for grumbling to-day; he must be contented with his pupil. This adagio is good; I feel it; I know it; and if the Bendas assume their usual artist airs, I will tell them—; no, I will tell them nothing," said the prince, smiling. "It is useless to show those gentlemen that I care for their approval, or court their applause. Ours is a pitiful race, and I see the time approaching when I shall despise and mistrust the whole world; and still my heart is soft, and gives a warm approval to all that is great and beautiful, and it would make me very happy to love and trust my fellow-men; but they do not desire it—they would not appreciate it. Am I not surrounded by spies, who watch all my movements, listen to every word I utter, and then pour their poison into the ear of the king? But enough of this," said the prince, after a pause. "This May air makes me dreamy. Away with these cobwebs! I have not time to sigh or dream."

He arose, and walked hastily up and down his room, then approached the escritoire, and took the letters. As his eye fell on the first, he smiled proudly.

"From Voltaire," he murmured softly, breaking the seal, and hastily opening the enclosure, which contained two letters and several loose scraps of printed matter. The prince uttered a cry of joyful astonishment, and scarcely noticing the two letters, he gazed with a half-tender, half-curious expression on the printed papers he held in his hand.

"At last! at last!" exclaimed the prince, "my wish will be accomplished. The first step toward fame is taken. I shall no longer be unknown, or only known as the son of a king, the inheritor of a throne. I shall have a name. I shall acquire renown, for I will be a poet, an author, and shall claim a place in the republic of genius. I shall not need a crown to preserve my name in history. The first step is taken. My 'Anti-Machiavel' is in press. I will tread under foot this monster of knavish and diabolic statecraft, and all Europe shall see that a German prince is the first to break a lance against this Machiavel, who is making the people the slaves of princes. By his vile principles, he is moulding princes into such monsters that all mankind must curse them."

And again looking at the paper, the prince read a few lines, his voice trembling with displeasure:

"If it is a crime to destroy the innocence of a private individual who exercises a limited influence, is it not far worse to undermine the moral character of princes who should exhibit to their subjects an example of goodness, greatness, kindness, and love? The plagues sent by Heaven are but passing, and destroy only in certain localities; and although most disastrous, their effects pass away in time. But the vices of kings create incurable misery; yes, misery enduring for generations. How deplorable is the condition of nations who have every evil to fear from their ruler, their property exposed to the covetousness of a prince, their freedom to his humor, and their lives to his cruelty!"

Frederick ceased, and turned over a few pages of his "Anti-Machiavel," and then continued to read:

"Machiavel speaks in his 'Principe' of miniature sovereigns, who, having but small states, can send no armies to the field. The author advises them to fortify their capitals, and in time of war to confine themselves and their troops to them.

"The Italian princes, of whom Machiavel speaks, only play the part of men before their servants. Most of the smaller princes, and especially those of Germany, ruin themselves by spending sums far exceeding their revenues, and thus by vanity are led to want. Even the youngest scion of the least important salaried prince imagines himself as great as Louis. He builds his Versailles, and sustains his army. There is in reality a certain salaried prince of a noble house, who has in his service all the varieties of guards that usually form the households of great kings, but all on so minute a scale that it is necessary to employ a microscope to distinguish each separate corps, and whose army is perhaps strong enough to represent a battle on the stage of Verona."

Prince Frederick laughed aloud. "Well, I think my most worthy cousin, Ernest Augustus, of Saxe-Weimar, will understand this allusion, and in gratitude for my giving his name to posterity in my 'Anti-Machiavel,' will unravel the mystery, and inform the world how it is possible, with the annual income of four hundred dollars, to keep a retinue of seven hundred men, a squadron of one hundred and eighty, and a company of cavalry; if he is capable of accomplishing this, without plunging into debt, he is certainly my superior, and I could learn a great deal from him. I could learn of him how to rid myself of this torment that I endure from day to day, from hour to hour. What could be a greater degradation to an honorable man than to be compelled to flatter the base pride of these vile usurers to whom I am forced to resort for the money I need; this money pressed, perhaps, from widows and orphans? To think that I, the inheritor of a kingdom, am in this condition—that I must lower myself to sue and plead before these men, while millions are lying in the cellars of my father's palace at Berlin! But what! Have I the right to complain? am I the only one who suffers from the closeness of the king? are not the people of Berlin crying for bread, whilst the royal larder is filled to overflowing? But patience! the day will come when the keys will be in my hands—on that day I will give the people what rightly belongs to them, bread. I will unlock the treasury, and set free the imprisoned millions. But what noise is this?" said the prince, approaching the door.

Loud and angry voices were heard from without. "I tell you I must and will speak with the prince royal," cried a threatening voice; "I have waited in vain for two months, in vain addressed to him the most modest and respectful letters; I have not even been deemed worthy to receive an answer. Now I have come to receive it in person, and I swear I will not leave this spot without an explanation with the prince royal."

"It is Ephraim," muttered Frederick, with a deep frown.

"Well, you can stand here until you become a pillar of salt, like your great-grandmother of old," cried another voice.

"This is Knobelsdorf," said Frederick.

"The idea is good," said the first voice, "but it is not I who will become a pillar of salt, but others will from fright and terror, when I come with my avenging sword; for justice I will have, and if I do not obtain it here, I shall go and demand it of the king."

"From the king! you do not know, then, that his majesty is dying?"

"Not so, not so! if that were so, I would not be here; I would have waited quietly for that justice from the new king which I demanded in vain from the prince royal. The king is recovering; I saw him in his arm-chair in the garden; for this reason I insist on speaking to the prince."

"But if I tell you his royal highness is still asleep?"

"I would not believe you, for I heard him playing on his flute."

"That was Quantz."

"Quantz! he is not capable of playing such an adagio; no, no, it could only have been the prince royal."

"Ah! this man wishes to bribe me with his flattery," said the prince, smiling, "and make me believe I am an Orpheus. Orpheus tamed lions and tigers with his music, but my flute is not even capable of taming a creditor."

"But I say it was Quantz," cried the poor frightened Knobelsdorf; "the prince still sleeps, or is in bed, for he is not well, and gave orders to admit no one."

"Ah! I know all about that; noble gentlemen are always ill if they have to breathe the same air with their creditors," said Ephraim, with a mocking smile; "but I tell you I will stay here until I have spoken to the prince, until he returns me four thousand dollars that I lent to him, more than a year ago, without interest or security. I must and will have my money, or I shall be ruined myself. The prince cannot wish that; he will not punish me so severely for the kindness and pity I showed to him in his greatest need."

"This is really too much," cried Knobelsdorf, "you are shameless; do you dare to speak of pity for the prince royal? do you dare to boast of having lent him money, while you only did it knowing he could and would repay you with interest?"

"If Ephraim knows that, he is cleverer than I am," said Frederick, smiling sadly; "although I am a prince, I do not know how to get the miserable sum of four thousand dollars. But I must leave poor Knobelsdorf no longer in this condition; I must quiet this uproar." And he hastened toward the door, as the noise without became louder and louder.



CHAPTER X.

THE PRINCE ROYAL AND THE JEW.

At this moment, while Knobelsdorf was threatening the Jew and calling the servants to thrust him out, the prince royal opened the door and showed his smiling face to the two combatants.

"Come in," said the prince, "I grant you the audience you so importunately demand."

Frederick stepped quietly back in his room, while Ephraim, confused and humiliated by the calm dignity of the prince, advanced with bowed head and downcast eyes.

"Dear Knobelsdorf," said Frederick, turning to his gasping secretary, who stood amazed behind the Jew, "I pray you to assemble all the ladies and gentlemen in the garden; we are going yachting; I will be with you in five minutes."

"Five minutes," said Ephraim to himself, as Knobelsdorf withdrew, "only one moment's audience for every thousand dollars! This is a proud debtor; I would have done better not to place myself in his power. But I will not be frightened, I will stand up boldly for my rights!"

"And now, what have you to say to me?" said the prince, fixing his angry eyes upon Ephraim.

"What have I to say to your highness!" said Ephraim, astonished. "More than a year ago I lent your highness four thousand dollars! I have as yet received neither principal nor interest."

"Well, what more?"

"What more!" said Ephraim.

"Yes, what more? It is impossible that you have come from Berlin to Rheinsberg to tell me what I have known for a year as well as yourself."

"I thought your highness had forgotten," said the Jew, fixing his eyes upon the prince, but casting them suddenly to the floor, as he met the flashing glance of Frederick.

"Forgotten," said he, shrugging his shoulders; "I have a good memory for every act of kindness, and also for every offence against the respect and reverence due to the son of the king."

His voice was so harsh and threatening, that Ephraim trembled in his inmost heart, and stammered some words of apology.

"My prince," said he, "I am a Jew, that is to say a despised, reviled, and persecuted man! no—not a man, but a creature—kicked like a dog when poor and suffering, and even when the possessor of gold and treasures, scarcely allowed human rights. It is better for the dogs than for the Jews in Prussia! A dog dare have its young, and rejoice over them, but the Jews dare not rejoice over their children! The law of the land hangs like a sword over them, and it may be that a Jewess may be driven out of Prussia because a child is born to her, only a specified number of Jews being allowed in this enlightened land! Perhaps the father is not rich enough to pay the thousand dollars with which he must buy the right to be a father every time a child is born to him! For this reason is gold, and again gold, the only wall of protection which a Jew can build up between himself and wretchedness! Gold is our honor, our rank, our destiny, our family, our home. We are nothing without gold, and even when we extend a golden hand, there is no hand advanced to meet it that does not feel itself contaminated by the touch of a Jew! Judge, then, your royal highness, how much we love, how highly we prize one to whom we give a part of our happiness, a part of our honor. I have done for you, my prince, what I have done for no other man. I have given you four thousand dollars, without security and without interest. I lent to Knobelsdorf, for the prince royal, upon his mere word, my honest gold, and what have I received? My letters, in which I humbly solicit payment, remain unanswered. I am mocked and reviled—the door contemptuously shut in my face, which door, however, was most graciously opened when I brought my gold. Such conduct is neither right nor wise; and as the worm turns when it is trodden upon, so is there also a limit to the endurance of the Jew. He remembers at last that he is also one of God's creatures, and that God himself has given him the passion of revenge as well as the passion of love. The Jew, when too long mishandled, revenges himself upon his torturers, and that will I also do, if I do not receive justice at your hands. That will I also do, if you refuse me my gold to-day."

"You have made a lengthy and impertinent speech!" said Frederick. "You have threatened me! But I will forgive you, because you are a Jew; because the tongue is the only weapon a Jew has, and knows how to use. I now advise you to put your sword in its sheath, and listen calmly to me. It is true, you have lent me four thousand dollars without security and without interest. You need not extol yourself for this, for you well know it is not the wish or the intention of the prince royal to oppress even the most pitiful of his subjects, or to withhold the smallest of their rights. You knew this; then why were you not satisfied to wait until I sent for you?"

"I can wait no longer, your highness," cried Ephraim, passionately. "My honor and credit are at stake. Count Knobelsdorf gave me his sacred promise that at the end of six months my money with interest should be returned. I believed him, because he spoke in the name of the prince royal. I now need this money for my business. I can no longer do without it. I must have it to-day."

"You must? I say you shall not receive one penny of it to-day, nor to-morrow, nor for weeks!"

"If your highness is in earnest, I must go elsewhere and seek redress."

"That means you will go to the king."

"Yes, your highness, I will!"

"Are you ignorant of the law by which all are forbidden to lend money to the princes of the royal house?"

"I am not ignorant of that law; but I know that the king will make an exception—that he will pay the money I lent to his successor. It is possible I may feel his crutch upon my back, but blows will not degrade me. The Jew is accustomed to blows and kicks—to be daily trodden under foot. Even if the king beats me, he will give me back my honor, for he will give me back my gold."

"Suppose that he also refuses you?"

"Then I will raise my voice until it is heard over the whole earth," cried Ephraim, passionately.

"Well, then, raise your voice and cry out. I can give you no gold to-day."

"No gold!" said Ephraim. "Am I again to be paid with cunning smiles and scornful words? You will withhold my gold from me? Because you are great and powerful, you think you can oppress and mistreat a poor Jew with impunity, but there is a God for the just and unjust, and He—"

He stopped. Before him stood Frederick, blazing with anger. His lips were pallid and trembling, his arm uplifted.

"Strike, your highness!—strike!" cried Ephraim, fiercely. "I deserve to be beaten, for I was a fool, and allowed myself to be dazzled with the glory of lending my gold to an unhappy but noble prince! Strike on, your highness! I see now that this prince is but a man like the rest; he scorns and loathes the poor Jew, but he will borrow his money, and defraud him of his rights."

Frederick's arm had fallen, and a soft smile played about his lips.

"No," said he, "you shall see that Frederick is not a man like other men. This day you shall have your money. I cannot pay you in money, but I will give you jewels, and horses from the stud that the king lately gave me."

"Then your highness has really no money?" said Ephraim, thoughtfully. "It was not then to frighten and torment the poor Jew that my gold was denied me. Can it be possible that the great Prince Frederick, on whom the hopes of the people rest, and who is already dearly loved by his future subjects, can be without money? Is it possible that he suffers like other men? My God! how dare we poor Jews complain when the heir to a throne is harassed for money, and must endure privations?"

The prince was not listening to Ephraim; he had opened a closet, and taken from it a silver-bound casket, and was gazing intently at its contents. He drew forth a large diamond cross and some solitaires and approached the Jew.

"Here are some jewels, I think, well worth your four thousand dollars; sell them and pay yourself," said the prince, handing him the sparkling stones.

Ephraim pushed the prince's hand gently back. "I lent gold, and gold only will I accept in payment."

The prince stamped impatiently upon the ground. "I told you I had no gold!"

"Then I cannot receive any," said Ephraim, passively. "The poor Jew will wait still longer; he will give to the prince royal the gold which he needs, and of which the poor Jew still has a little. I humbly ask your highness if you would not like to borrow another thousand, which I will gladly lend upon one condition."

"Well, and this condition?"

"Your highness is to pay me upon the spot the interest upon the four thousand in ready money? Does your highness understand? Just now you wished to pay my capital with diamonds and horses. Will you give me as interest a few costly pearls—pearls which lie hidden in that flute, and which appear at your magical touch? I will count this as ready money!"

Frederick came nearer to Ephraim, and eyeing him sternly, he said:

"Are you mocking me? Would you make of the prince royal a travelling musician, who must play before the Jew, in order to soften his heart?—would you—? Ah, Fredersdorf," said he, interrupting himself, as his valet approached him in a dusty travelling-suit, "have you just arrived from Berlin?"

"Yes, your highness; and as I was told who was importuning your highness, I came in without changing my dress. The banker gave me this package for you. I believe it is from Petersburg."

"From Suhm," said the prince, with a happy smile, and hastily breaking the seal, he drew from the package a letter and several books. Casting a loving glance at the letter, he laid it on his writing-table; then turning away, so as not to be seen by Ephraim, he took up the two books, and looked carefully at their heavily-gilded covers. Frederick smiled, and, taking a penknife, he hastily cut off the backs of the books, and took out a number of folded papers. As the prince saw them, a look of triumph passed over his expressive face.

"Ten thousand dollars!" said he to himself. "The empress and the Duke Biron have fulfilled their promise!"

Frederick took some of the papers in his hand, and walked toward Ephraim.

"Here are your four thousand dollars, and one hundred interest. Are you satisfied?"

"No, your royal highness, I am not satisfied! I am not satisfied with myself. When I came to Rheinsberg I thought I had been wronged. It now seems to me that I have wronged your highness!"

"Let that pass," said Frederick. "A prince must always be the scapegoat for the sin-offering of the people. They make us answerable for all their sufferings, but have no sympathy for us in our griefs. I owe you nothing more—you can go."

Ephraim bowed silently, and turned slowly toward the door. The eyes of the prince followed him with a kindly expression. He stepped to the table, and took up his flute. Ephraim had reached the door of the ante-chamber, but when he heard the soft melting tones of the flute, he stopped, and remained listening breathlessly at the outer door. The piercing glance of the prince rested on him; but he continued to play, and drew from his flute such touching and melancholy tones that the poor Jew seemed completely overcome. He folded his hands, as though engaged in fervent prayer; and even Fredersdorf, although a daily hearer of the prince, listened in breathless silence to those sweet sounds.

When the adagio was ended, the prince laid down his flute, and signed to Fredersdorf to close the door; he wished to give Ephraim an opportunity of slipping away unobserved.

"Did your highness know that the Jew was listening?" said Fredersdorf.

"Yes, I knew it; but I owed the poor devil something; he offered to lend me still another thousand dollars! I will remember this. And now, Fredersdorf, tell me quickly how goes it in Berlin? How is the king?"

"Better, your highness. He set out for Potsdam a few days since, and the pure fresh air has done him good. He shows himself, daily upon the balcony, in full uniform. The physicians, it is true, look very thoughtful; but the rest of the world believe the king is rapidly improving."

"God grant that the physicians may be again mistaken!" said the prince. "May the king reign many long and happy years! If he allow me to live as I wish, I would willingly give an arm if I could thereby lengthen his life. Well, now for mirth and song! We will be gay, and thus celebrate the king's improvement. Make, therefore, all liberal arrangements. Give the cook his orders, and tell the ladies and gentlemen assembled in the garden that I will be with them immediately."

The prince was now alone; he opened the letter he had received with the gold; his eye rested lovingly upon the handwriting of his distant friend, and his heart glowed as he read the words of friendship, admiration, and love from Suhm.

"Truly," he said, raising his eyes devoutly to heaven, "a faithful friend is worth more than a king's crown. In spite of all my brilliant prospects in the future, what would have become of me if Suhm had not stood by me for the second time and borrowed this money for me in Russia—this paltry sum, which I have in vain sought to obtain in my own land? My heart tells me to write a few lines at once to Suhm, expressing my unshaken friendship, my enduring love."

Frederick seated himself, and wrote one of those soul-inspiring letters for which he was so celebrated, and which ended thus: "In a short time my fate will be decided! You can well imagine that I am not at ease in my present condition. I have little leisure, but my heart is young and fresh, and I can assure you that I was never more a philosopher than now. I look with absolute indifference upon the future. My heart is not agitated by hope or fear, it is full of pity for those who suffer, of consideration for all honest men, and of tenderness and sympathy for my friends. You, whom I dare proudly count among the latter, may be more and more convinced that you will ever find in me what Orestes was to his Pylades, and that it is not possible for any one to esteem and love you more than your devoted Frederick."

"Now," said the prince, as he arose, "away with the burdens, the gravities and cares of life! Come, now, spirit of love! spirit of bliss! We will celebrate a feast this day in thy honor, thou goddess of youth and hope! Come, lovely Venus, and bring with thee thy son Cupid! We will worship you both. To you belongs this day, this night. You, goddess of love, have sent me the little Morien, that fluttering, light gazelle, that imperious, laughing fairy—that 'Tourbillon' of caprice and passion. Here is the poem I composed for her. Madame Brandt shall hand it to her, and shall lead the 'Tourbillon' into the temple of love. Away with earnest faces, dull eyes, and the wisdom of fools! Come over me, spirit of love, and grant me one hour of blessed forgetfulness."

The prince rang for his valet, and commanded him to lay out his latest French suit; he entered his boudoir, and with a comic earnestness, and the eager haste of a rash, impatient lover, he gave himself to the duties and arts of a royal toilet.



CHAPTER XI.

THE PRINCESS ROYAL ELIZABETH CHRISTINE.

The princess royal had not yet left her rooms; she still waited for the prince, whose custom it was to give her his arm every morning and lead her to the saloon. On these occasions only did the Princess Elizabeth ever see her husband alone, then only did he address one word to her, touch her hand, or allow her to lean upon his arm. A sweet and sad happiness for this young wife, who lived only in the light of her husband's countenance; who had no other wish, no other prayer, no other hope than to please him. She felt that the eye of Frederick never rested upon her with any other expression than that of cold friendship or absolute indifference. The reason for this she could never fathom. Elizabeth would have given her heart's blood to be beloved by him for one single day, yes, for one short, blessed hour; to be clasped to his heart, not for form or etiquette, but as a loving and beloved wife, to receive in her ear the sweet whispers of his tenderness and his fondness. She would have given years of her life to have bought this man, whom she so passionately loved; he was her earthly god, the ideal of her maiden dreams. This man was her husband; he belonged to her; he was bound to her by the holiest ties, and yet there was an impassable gulf between them, which her unbounded love, her prayers, her sighs, could not bridge over. The prince loved her not; never had the slightest pulse of his heart belonged to her! He endured her, only endured her by his side, as the poor prisoner, sighing for fresh air, permits the presence of the jailer, when he can only thus buy a brief enjoyment of God's gay and sunny world. The prince royal was a prisoner, her prisoner. Not love, but FORCE had placed that golden ring upon his hand, that first link in the long, invisible heavy chain, which from that weary hour had bound his feet, yes, his soul; from which even his thoughts were never free. Elizabeth knew that she was an ever-present, bitter memento of his sad, crushed, tortured, and humbled youth—a constant reminder of the noble friend of his early years, whose blood had been shed for him, and to whose last wild death-cry his tortured heart had been compelled to listen. Her presence must ever recall the scorn, the hatred, the opposition of his stern father; the hardships, the abuse, the humiliations, yes, even the blows, all of which had at last bowed the noble mind of the prince and led him to take upon himself the slavery of this hated marriage, in order to be free from the scorn and cruelty of his father. To escape from his dreary prison in Ruppin, he rushed into the bonds of wedlock. How could he ever forgive, how could he ever love this woman forced upon him, like drops of wormwood, and swallowed only with the hope of thereby escaping the torturous pains and last struggles with death?

Elizabeth had been ignorant of all these bitter truths. The prince had been ever considerate and kind, though cold, when they met: she had had one single confidential interview with him, and in that hour he had disclosed to her what had forced them together, and at the same time forever separated them. Never could he love the wife associated in his mind, though innocently, with such cruelties and horrors; he was fully convinced that she, also, could not love a husband thus forced upon her; could entertain no feeling for him but that of respectful consideration and cold indifference.

Frederick did not know with what deadly wounds these words had pierced the princess; she had the strength to veil her passion and her shame with smiles, and in her modest maidenly pride she buried both in her heart. Since that interview years had gone by, and every year the love of the princess royal for her husband became more ardent; his eyes were the sun which warmed and strengthened this flower of love, and her tears were the dew which nourished and gave it vitality.

Elizabeth hoped still to ravish the heart of her husband; she yet believed that her resigned, modest, but proud and great love, might conquer his coldness; and yet, in spite of this hope, in spite of this future trust, Elizabeth trembled and feared more than formerly. She knew that the hour of decision was drawing nigh; she felt with the instinct of true love that a new storm was rising on the ever-clouded horizon of her marriage, and that the lightning might soon destroy her.

Frederick had been forced by the power of the king, his father, to marry her; how would it be when this power should cease, when her husband should be king? by no one held back; by no one controlled; free himself, and free to give laws to the world; to acknowledge no man as his judge; to be restrained by nothing but his conscience. Might not even his conscience counsel him to dissolve this unnatural marriage, which had within itself no spark of God's truth, no ray of God's blessing? might not her husband cast her off and take this English princess for his wife? had she not been the choice of his heart? had not King George, although too late, declared his willingness for the betrothal? had they not loved each other with the enthusiasm of youth, although they had never met? did not Sophia Amelia's portrait hang in the library of the crown prince? did not the English princess wear his picture constantly near her heart? had she not sworn never to be the wife of another man?

As Elizabeth thought of these things she trembled, and it seemed to her that her whole life would go out in one great cry of anguish and horror.

"No," she said, "I cannot live without him! I will never consent! he can kill me, but he cannot force me to break the solemn oath I have sworn on God's holy altar. He shall not cast me out into the wild wilderness, as Abram did Hagar, and choose another wife!"

He could not force her to leave him, but he could beseech her, and Elizabeth knew full well there was nothing in the world she could refuse to her husband, which he would condescend so far as to entreat; for one loving, grateful word from his lips, she would give him her heart's blood, drop by drop; for one tender embrace, one passionate kiss, she would lay down her life joyfully. But she would not believe in this separation; she would yet escape this unblessed fate—would find a way to his love, his sympathy, at least to his pity.

It was a struggle for life, for happiness, for her future, yes, even for honor; for a divorced wife, even a princess, bears ever a stain upon her fair name, and walks lonely, unpitied, ever despised through the world.

For these reasons the poor princess of late redoubled her efforts to please her husband; she entered more frequently into the gayeties of the court circle, and sometimes even took part in the frivolous and rather free jests of her husband's evening parties; sometimes she was rewarded by a smile and a glance of applause from Frederick. This was for Elizabeth the noblest jewel in her martyr crown of love, more costly, more precious than all her pearls and diamonds.

To-day one of these joyous and unrestrained circles was to meet. The prince loved these fetes; he was more charming, witty, talented, and unrestrained, than any of his guests. Princess Elizabeth resolved to be no quiet silent member of this circle to-day; she would force her husband to look upon her and admire her; she would be more beautiful than all the other ladies of the court; more lovely than the gay and talented coquette, Madame Brandt; more entrancing than the genial 'Tourbillon,' Madame Morien; yes, even the youthful Schwerin, with her glancing eye and glowing cheek, should not excel her.

She was also young and charming, might be admired, loved—yes, adored, not only as a princess, not only as the wife of the handsome and genial prince royal, but for her own lovely self. She had dismissed her maid, her toilet was completed, and she waited for the prince royal to lead her into the saloon. The princess stepped to the glass and examined herself, not admiringly, but curiously, searchingly. This figure in the mirror should be to her as that of a stranger to be remarked upon, and criticised coldly, even harshly; she must know if this woman might ever hope to enchain the handsome prince royal. "Yes," whispered she to herself, "this form is slender and not without grace; this white satin robe falls in full voluptuous folds from the slender waist over the well-made form; it contrasts well with these shoulders, of which my maids have often said 'they were white as alabaster;' with this throat, of which Madame Morien says 'it is white and graceful as the swan's.' This foot, which peeps out from the silken hem of my robe, is small and slender; this hand is fair and small and well formed. I was constrained yesterday to promise the painter Pesne to allow him to paint it for his goddess Aurora; and this face! is it ugly to look upon? No, this face is not ugly; here is a high, clear forehead; the eyebrows well formed and well placed, the eyes are large and bright, the nose is small but nobly formed, the mouth good, the lips soft and red: yes, this face is handsome. O my God! why can I not please my husband?—why will he never look upon me with admiration?"

Her head sank upon her breast, and she was lost in sad and melancholy dreams; a few cold tears dropping slowly upon her cheeks aroused her; with a rash movement, she raised her head, and shook the tears from her eyes; then looked again in the glass. "Why does not the prince love me?" whispered she again to herself with trembling lips. "I see it, I know it! It is written in unmistakable lines in this poor face. I know why he loves me not. These great blue eyes have no fire, no soul; this mouth has no magical, alluring smile. Yes, alas! yes, that is a lovely form; but the soul fails!—a fine nature, but the power of intellect is wanting. My Father, my heavenly Father, I sleep; my soul lies dead and stiffened in the coffin with my secret sorrows; the prince could awaken it with his kisses, could breathe a new life into it by a glance."

The princess raised her arms imploringly on high, and her trembling lips whispered, "Pygmalion, why come you not to awaken thy Galatea? Why will you not change this marble statue into a woman of flesh and blood, with heart and soul? These lips are ready to smile, to utter a cry of rapture and delight, and behind the veil of my eyes lies a soul, which one touch of thine will arouse! O Frederick! Frederick! why do you torture me? Do you not know that your wife worships, loves, adores you; that you are her salvation, her god? Oh, I know these are unholy, sinful words! what then? I am a sinner! I am ready to give my soul in exchange for thee, Frederick. Why do you not hear me?—why have not my sighs, my tears the power to bring you to my side?"

The poor, young wife sank powerless into her chair, and covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly. Gay voices and loud laughter, sounding from beneath her window, aroused her from this trance of grief.

"That is Madame Brandt and the Duke of Brunswick," said Elizabeth, hastening to the window, and peeping from behind the curtains into the garden. Yes, there stood the duke in lively conversation with Jordan Kaiserling Chazot, and the newly-arrived Bielfeld; but the ladies were nowhere to be seen, and the princess concluded they were already in the ante-room, and that the prince would soon join her.

"He must not see that I have wept; no one must see that." She breathed upon her handkerchief, and pressed its damp folds upon her eyes. "No, I will smile and be gay like Madame Brandt and Morien. I will laugh and jest, and no one shall guess that my heart is bleeding and dying with inexplicable grief. Yes, gay will I be, and smiling; so only can I please my husband." She gave a sad, heart-breaking laugh, which was echoed loudly and joyously in the ante-room.



CHAPTER XII.

THE POEM.

The ladies of the court, and those who were guests at the palace of Rheinsberg, were assembled, and waiting in the ante-room, as the princess royal had supposed. A few of them had withdrawn to one of the windows with Madame von Katch, the first lady of honor, and were conversing in low voices, while Madame von Brandt and Madame von Morien held an earnest but low-toned conversation in another part of the room.

Madame von Morien listened anxiously to her friend, arid the varying emotions of her soul were clearly mirrored on her speaking countenance. At one moment a happy smile overspread her lovely features, but the next a cloud lay on that pure, fair brow, and darkened those black and glorious eyes.

"As I told you," whispered Madame von Brandt, "the empress desires you to understand that, if you will assist in carrying out her wishes, you may depend upon her gratitude. You must employ all your eloquence and influence to induce the prince royal to dismiss from his mind the idea of divorcing his wife at the death of the king."

"I do not blame the empress," said Madame von Morien, with a roguish smile. "It remains to be seen, however, whether the wishes of the prince royal and those of the empress coincide. You are well aware that Prince Frederick is not the man to be led by the will of others."

"Not by the will of the empress, dearest, but by yours."

"Well how does this good empress expect to bribe me, for I hope she does not think me so silly and childish as to consider her words commands, merely because they fall from the lips of an empress. No, the little Morien is at this moment a more important person to the empress than the empress is to me, and it is, therefore, very natural that I should make my conditions."

"Only name them, my dear friend, and I assure you in advance that they will be fulfilled, unless you should demand the moon and the stars; these the empress cannot obtain for you."

"Ah, you have divined my condition," said Madame von Morien, smiling. "I demand a star—one that is brighter and more beautiful than those in the sky—one that the empress can give."

"I do not understand you," said her astonished friend.

"You will soon understand—only listen. Have you not heard that the Austrian empress intends to establish a new order—an order of virtue and modesty?"

Madame von Brandt burst into a clear, silvery laugh. "And do you wish to belong to this order?"

"Yes; and if the empress will not present me with the star of this order, I shall enter into no further arrangements."

Madame von Brandt, still laughing, replied: "This is a most edifying idea. Le Tourbillon desires to become a member of the 'Order of Virtue.' The beautiful Morien, whose greatest pride was to despise the prudish, and to snap her fingers at morality, now wishes to be in the train of modesty."

"Dear friend," said Madame von Morien, with a bewitching smile, which displayed two rows of the most exquisitely white teeth, "dear friend, you should always leave open a way of retreat; even as Aesop in descending the mountain was not happy in the easy and delightful path, but already sighed over the difficulties of the next ascent, so should women never be contented with the joys of the present moment, but prepare themselves for the sorrows which most probably await them in the future. A day must come when we will be cut off by advancing years from the flowery paths of love and pleasure, and be compelled to follow in the tiresome footsteps of virtue. It is wise, therefore, to be prepared for that which must come as certainly as old age, and, if possible, to smooth away the difficulties from this rough path. To-day I am Le Tourbillon, and will remain so a few years; but when the roses and lilies of my cheek are faded, I will place the cross of the 'Order of Virtue' on my withered bosom, and become the defender of the God-fearing and the virtuous."

The two ladies laughed, and their laughter was as gay and silvery, as clear and innocent as the tones of the lark, or the songs of children. Le Tourbillon, however, quickly assumed an earnest and pathetic expression, and said, in a snuffling, preaching voice: "Do I not deserve to be decorated with the star of the 'Order of Virtue?' Am I not destined to reunite with my weak but beautiful hands two hearts which God himself has joined together? I tell you, therefore, procure this decoration for me, or I refuse the role that you offer me."

"I promise that your caprice shall be gratified, and that you will obtain the star," said Madame von Brandt, earnestly.

"Excuse me, my dear, that is not sufficient. I demand the assurance, in the handwriting of the Empress of Austria, the exalted aunt of our princess royal, that this order shall be established, and that I shall become a member. It would do no harm for the empress to add a few words of tenderness and esteem."

"I shall inform the empress of your conditions immediately, and she will without doubt fulfil them, for the danger is pressing, and you are a most powerful ally."

"Good! thus far we are agreed, and nothing fails now but the most important part," said Madame von Morien, with a mischievous smile; "that is to discover whether I can accomplish your wishes—whether the prince royal considers me any thing more than 'Le Tourbillon,' 'the pretty Morien,' or the Turkish music to which he listens when he is gay. Nothing is wanting but that the prince royal should really love me. It is true that he makes love to me; he secretly presses my hand; he occasionally whispers a few loving, tender words in my ear; and yesterday, when I met him accidentally in the dark corridor, he embraced me so passionately, and covered my lips with such glowing, stormy kisses, that I was almost stifled. But that is all—that is the entire history of my love."

"No, that is not all. This history has a sequel," said Madame von Brandt, triumphantly, as she drew a sealed letter from her bosom, and gave it to her companion. "Take this, it is a new chapter in your romance."

"This letter has no address," returned Madame von Morien, smiling.

"It is intended for you."

"No, it is mine," suddenly cried a voice behind them, and a small hand darted forward, and tore the sealed paper from Madame von Morien.

"Mine, this letter is mine!" cried Louise von Schwerin, the little maid of honor, who, without being remarked, had approached the two ladies, and seized the letter at this decisive moment. "The letter belongs to me; it is mine," repeated the presumptuous young girl, as she danced laughingly before the two pale and terrified ladies. "Who dares affirm that this letter, which has no address, is not intended for me?"

"Louise, give me the letter," implored Madame von Morien, in a trembling voice. But Louise found a pleasure in terrifying her beautiful friend, who invariably laughed at her, and called her a child when she spoke of her heart, and hinted at a secret and unhappy passion. Louise wished to revenge herself by claiming the privileges of a child.

"Take the letter if you can," cried the young girl, as she flew through the room as lightly as a gazelle, waving her prize back and forth like a banner, "take the letter!"

Madame von Morien hurried after her, and now began a merry race through the saloon, accompanied by the laughter of the ladies, who looked on with the liveliest interest. And in reality it was a charming picture to see these beautiful figures, which flew through the hall like two Atalantas, radiant with eagerness, with glowing cheeks and smiling lips, with fluttering locks and throbbing breasts.

The young girl was still in advance; she danced on, singing and laughing, far before the beautiful Morien, who began already to be wearied.

"The letter is mine!" sang out this impudent little maiden, "and no one shall take it from me."

But fear lent wings to Madame von Morien, who now made a last despairing effort, and flew like an arrow after Louise. Now she was just behind her; Louise felt already her hot, panting breath upon her cheek; saw the upraised arm, ready to seize the letter—when suddenly the door opened, before which Louise stood, and the princess royal appeared. The youthful maid of honor sank laughing at her feet, and said breathlessly, "Gracious princess, protect me!"

Madame von Morien remained motionless at the appearance of the princess royal, breathless not only from her rapid race, but also from fear, while Madame von Brandt, concealing, with a smile, her own alarm, approached her friend, that she might not remain without assistance at this critical moment. The rest of the company stood silent at a respectful distance, and looked with curious and inquiring glances at this singular scene.

"Well, and from what shall I protect you, little Louise?" said the princess royal, as she bent smilingly over the breathless child.

Louise was silent for one instant. She felt that the princess would reprove her for her naughtiness; she did not wish to be again treated as a child before the whole court. She hastily resolved to insist upon the truth of her assertion that the letter was hers.

"Madame von Morien wished to take my letter from me," said Louise, giving the latter a perverse look.

"I hope your royal highness knows this impudent child well enough not to put any faith in her words," said Madame von Morien, evasively, not daring to claim the letter as her property.

"Child! She calls me a child!" murmured Louise, enraged, and now determined to revenge herself by compromising Madame von Morien.

"Then the letter does not belong to Louise?" asked the princess royal, turning to Madame von Morien.

"Yes, your royal highness, it is mine," declared Louise; "your royal highness can convince yourself of it. Here is the letter; will you have the kindness to read the address?"

"But this letter has no address," said the astonished princess.

"And still Madame von Morion asserts that it is intended for her," cried Louise, wickedly.

"And Mademoiselle von Schwerin declares it belongs to her," said Madame von Morien, casting a furious look on Louise.

"I implore your royal highness to be the judge," said Louise.

"How can I decide to whom the letter belongs, as it bears no name?" said the princess, smiling.

"By opening and reading it," said the young girl, with apparent frankness. "The letter is from my mother, and I do not care to conceal its contents from your royal highness."

"Are you willing, Madame von Morien? shall I open this letter?"

But before the amazed and terrified young woman found time for a reply, Madame von Brandt approached the princess with a smiling countenance. She had in this moment of danger conceived a desperate resolution. The prince royal had informed her that this paper contained a poem. Why might not this poem have been intended for the princess as well as for Madame von Morien? It contained, without a doubt, a declaration of love, and such declarations are suitable for any woman, and welcome to all.

"If your royal highness will permit me, I am ready to throw light on this mystery," said Madame von Brandt.

The princess bowed permission.

"This letter belongs neither to Madame von Morien nor to Mademoiselle von Schwerin," said Madame von Brandt.

"You promised to enlighten us," exclaimed the princess, laughing, "and it appears to me you have made the mystery more impenetrable. The letter belongs neither to Madame von Morien nor to little Louise. To whom, then, does it belong?"

"It belongs to your royal highness."

"To me?" asked the astonished princess, while Madame von Morien gazed at her friend with speechless horror, and Mademoiselle von Schwerin laughed aloud.

"Yes, this letter belongs to your royal highness. The prince royal gave it to me, with the command to place it upon your table, before you went to your dressing-room; but I was too late, and understood that your highness was occupied with your toilet. I dared not disturb you, and retained the letter in order to hand it to you now. As I held it in my hand, and said jestingly to Madame von Morien that the prince royal had forgotten to write the address, Mademoiselle von Schwerin came and tore it from me in a most unladylike manner, and declared it was hers. That is the whole history."

"And you say that the letter is mine?" said the princess, thoughtfully.

"It is yours, and it contains a poem from his royal highness."

"Then I can break the seal?" said the princess, tearing open the paper. "Ah!" she cried, with a happy smile, "it is a poem from my husband."

"And here comes his royal highness to confirm the truth of my statement," cried Madame von Brandt, stepping aside.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE BANQUET.

Madame von Brandt was right. The prince royal, surrounded by the cavaliers of his court, entered the saloon just as the princess had commenced reading the poem.

On his entrance a murmur of applause arose, and the countenance of his wife was radiant with pleasure and delight on beholding this handsome and engaging young prince, whom she, emboldened by the love-verses which she held in her hand, joyfully greeted as her husband. On this day the prince did not appear as usual in the uniform of his regiment, but was attired in a French costume of the latest fashion. He wore a snuff-colored coat of heavy moire-antique, ornamented at the shoulders with long bows of lace, the ends of which were bordered with silver fringe. His trousers, of the same color and material, reached to his knees, and were here ornamented with rich lace, which hung far down over his silk stockings. On the buckles of his high, red-heeled shoes, glittered immense diamonds. These gems were, however, eclipsed by the jewelled buttons which confined his long, silver-brocaded waistcoat.[5]

[5] Bielfeld, vol. ii., page 82.

The costume of the cavaliers who accompanied the prince was of the same style, but less rich.

As this group of handsome and richly-attired gentlemen entered the saloon, the bright eyes of the ladies sparkled, and their cheeks colored with pleasure.

The princess royal's countenance was illumined with delight; never had she seen the prince so handsome, never had he looked so loving. And this was all for her, the chosen one, whom he now blessed with his love. Yes, he loved her! She had only read the commencement of the poem which he had written, but in this she had seen words of tender and passionate love.

While she was gazing at her husband in silent ecstasy, Madame von Brandt approached the prince, and gracefully recounting the scene which had just occurred, requested him to confirm her statement.

The prince's quick glance flitted for a moment from the beautiful Morien, who trembled with consternation and terror to his wife, and, judging by the pleased expression of her face, he concluded that she believed this poem had been really addressed to herself. She had, therefore, not read it to the end; she had not yet arrived at the verse which contained a direct appeal to the beautiful Tourbillon, the charming Leontine. She must not be permitted to read the entire poem. That was all!

The prince approached his wife with a smile, to which she was unaccustomed, and which made her heart beat high with delight.

"I crave your indulgence," said he, "for my poor little poem, which reached you in so noisy a manner, and is really scarcely worth reading. Read it in some solitary hour when you are troubled with ennui; it may then possibly amuse you for a moment. We will not occupy ourselves with verses and poems to-day, but will laugh and be merry; that is, if it pleases you, madame."

The princess murmured a few low and indistinct words. As usual, she could find no expression for her thoughts, although her heart was full of love and delight. This modest shyness of the lips, this poverty of words, with her rich depth of feeling, was the great misfortune of the princess royal. It was this that made her appear awkward, constrained, and spiritless; it was this that displeased and estranged her husband. Her consciousness of this deficiency made her still more timid and constrained, and deprived her of what little power of expression she possessed.

Had she at this moment found courage to make a ready and witty reply, her husband would have been much pleased. Her silence, however, excited his displeasure, and his brow darkened.

He offered her his arm; and, exchanging glances with Madame Morien, he conducted his wife to the dining-saloon, to the magnificently arranged and glittering table.

"The gardener of Rheinsberg, Frederick of Hohenzollern, invites his friends to partake of what he has provided. For the prince royal is fortunately not at home; we can, therefore, be altogether sans gene, and follow our inclinations, as the mice do when the cat is not at home."

He seated himself between his wife and Madame Morien, whispering to the latter: "Beautiful Tourbillon, my heart is in flames, and I rely upon you to quench them. You must save me!"

"Oh, this heart of yours is a phoenix, and arises from its ashes renewed and rejuvenated."

"But only to destroy itself again," said the prince. Then taking his glass and surveying his guests with a rapid glance, he exclaimed: "Our first toast shall be youth—youth of which the old are envious!—youth and beauty, which are so brilliantly represented here to-day, that one might well imagine Venus had sent us all her daughters and playmates, as well as her lovers, the deposed and discarded ones as well as those whom she still favors, and only proposes to discard."

The glasses rang out merrily in answer to this toast, and all betook themselves with evident zest to the costly and savory dishes, prepared by the master-hand of Duvall the French cook, and which the prince seasoned with the Attic salt of his ever-ready wit.

They all gave themselves up to gayety and merriment, and pleasure sparkled in every eye.

The corpulent Knobelsdorf related in a stentorian voice some amusing anecdotes of his travels. Chazot recited portions of Voltaire's latest work. The learned and witty Count Kaiserling recited verses from the "Henriade," and then several of Gellert's fables, which were becoming very popular. He conversed with his neighbor, the artist Pesne, on the subject of the paintings which his masterly hand had executed, and then turning to Mademoiselle von Schwerin, he painted in glowing colors the future of Berlin—the future when they would have a French theatre, an Italian opera, and of all things, an Italian ballet-corps. For the latter the most celebrated dancers would be engaged, and it should eclipse every thing of the kind that had ever been seen or heard of in Germany.

At the lower end of the table sat the two Vendas, the two Grauns, and Quantz, the powerful and much-feared virtuoso of the flute and instructor of the prince royal, whose rudeness was almost imposing, and before whom the prince himself was somewhat shy. But to-day even Quantz was quiet and tractable. His countenance wore the half-pleased, half-grumbling expression of a bull-dog when stroked by a soft and tender hand. He is inclined to be angry, but is so much at his ease that he finds it absolutely impossible to growl.

In their merriment the gentlemen were becoming almost boisterous. The cheeks of the ladies glowed with pleasure, and their lovers were becoming tender.

The princess royal alone was silent; her heart was heavy and sorrowful. She had carefully reconsidered the scene which had occurred, and the result was, she was now convinced that the poem which she had received was not intended for her, but for some other fair lady. She was ashamed of her credulity, and blushed for her own vanity. For how could it be possible that the handsome and brilliant man who sat at her side, who was so witty and spirited, who was as learned as he was intelligent, as noble as he was amiable, how could it be possible that he should love her?—she who was only young and pretty, who was moreover guilty of the great, unpardonable fault of being his wife, and a wife who had been forced upon him.

No, this poem had never been intended for her. But for whom, then? Who was the happy one to whom the prince had given his love? Her heart bled as she thought that another could call this bliss her own. She was too mild and gentle to be angry. She ardently desired to know the name of her rival, but not that she might revenge herself. No, she wished to pray for her whom the prince royal loved, to whom he perhaps owed a few days of happiness, of bliss.

But who was she? The princess royal's glance rested searchingly on all the ladies who were present. She saw many beautiful and pleasing faces. Many of them had intelligence, vivacity, and wit, but none of them were worthy of his love. Her husband had just turned to his fair neighbor, and, with a fascinating smile, whispered a few words in her ear. Madame Morien blushed, cast down her eyes, but, raising them again and looking ardently at the prince royal, she murmured a few words in so low a tone that no one else heard them.

How? Could it be this one? But no, that was impossible. This giddy, coquettish, and superficial woman could by no possibility have captivated the noble and high-toned prince; she could not be Elizabeth's happy rival.

But who, then? Alas, if this long and weary feast were only at an end! If she could but retire to her chamber and read this poem, the riddle would then be solved, and she would know the name of his lady-love.

It seemed, however, that the prince had divined his wife's wish, and had determined that it should not be gratified.

They had taken their seats at table at a very late hour to-day, at six o'clock. It had now become dark, and candelabras with wax candles were brought in and placed on the table.

"The lights are burning," exclaimed the prince; "we will not leave the table until these lights are burned out, and our heads have become illuminated with champagne."[6]

[6] Bielfeld, vol i., page 84. The prince's own words.

And amid conversation, laughter, and recitations, all went merrily on. But the heart of the princess royal grew sadder and sadder.

Suddenly the prince turned to her. "I feel the vanity of an author," said he, "and beg permission to inquire if you have no curiosity to hear the poem which I had the honor of sending you to-day by Madame Brandt?"

"Indeed I have, my husband," exclaimed the princess, with vivacity. "I long to become acquainted with its contents."

"Then permit me to satisfy this longing," said the prince, holding out his hand for the poem. The princess hesitated, but when she looked up and their eyes met, his glance was so cold and imperious, that she felt as if an icy hand were at her heart. She drew the poem from her bosom and handed it silently to her husband.

"Now, my little maid of honor, von Schwerin," said the prince royal, smiling, "this sagacious, highly respectable, and worthy company shall judge between you and me, and decide whether this paper is a letter from her dear mother, as this modest and retiring child asserts, or a poem, written by a certain prince, who is sometimes induced by his imaginative fancy to make indifferent verses. Listen, therefore, ladies and gentlemen, and judge between us. But that no one may imagine that I am reading any thing else, and substituting the tender thoughts of a lover for the fond words of motherly affection, Madame Morien shall look at the paper I am reading, and bear witness to my truth."

He read off the first verses as they were written, and then improvising, recited a witty and humorous poem, in which he did homage to his wife's charms. His poem was greeted with rapturous applause. While he was reciting the improvised verses, Madame Morien had time to read the poem. When she came to the verses which contained a passionate declaration of love, and in which the prince half-humbly, half-imperiously, solicited a rendezvous, her breast heaved and her heart beat high with delight. After the prince had finished he turned to his wife with a smile, and asked if the poem had pleased her.

"So much so," said she, "that I pray you to return it. I should like to preserve it as a reminiscence of this hour."

"Preserve it? By no means! A poem is like a flower. It is a thing of the present, and is beautiful only when fresh. The moment gave it, and the moment shall take it. We will sacrifice to the gods, what we owe to the gods."

Having thus spoken, the prince tore the paper into small pieces, which he placed in the palm of his hand.

"Go ye in all directions and teach unto all people that nothing is immortal, not even the poem of a prince," said he, and blowing the particles of paper, he sent them fluttering through the air like snowflakes. The ladies and gentlemen amused themselves with blowing the pieces from place to place. Each one made a little bellows of his mouth, and endeavored to give some strip of paper a particular direction or aim—to blow it on to some fair one's white shoulders or into some gentleman's eye or laughing mouth.

This caused a great deal of merriment. The princess was still sad and silent. Now and then a scrap fell before her; these she blew no further, but mechanically collected and gazed at them in a listless and mournful manner. Suddenly she started and colored violently. On one of these strips of paper she had read two words which made her heart tremble with anger and pain. These Words were, "Bewitching Leontine!"

The secret was out. The prince royal's poem had been addressed to Leontine, to a bewitching Leontine, and not to Elizabeth! But who was this Leontine? which of the ladies bore that name? She must, she would know! She called all her courage to her assistance. Suddenly she took part in the general merriment, commenced to laugh and jest; she entered gayly into a conversation with her husband, with Madame Morien and the young Baron Bielfeld, who was her vis-a-vis.

The princess had never been so gay, so unconstrained, and so witty. No one suspected that these jests, this laughter, was only assumed; that she veiled the pain which she suffered with a smiling brow.

The candles had burnt half way down, and some of the gentlemen had begun to light the first tapers of the champagne illumination which the prince had prophesied. Chazot no longer recited, but was singing some of the charming little songs which he had learned of the merry peasants of Normandy, his fatherland. Jordan improvised a sermon after the fashion of the fanatical and hypocritical priests who for some time past had collected crowds in the streets of Berlin. Kaiserling had risen from his seat and thrown himself into an attitude in which he had seen the celebrated Lagiere in the ballet of the Syrene at Paris. Knobelsdorf recounted his interesting adventures in Italy; and even Quanta found courage to give the prince's favorite dog, which was snuffling at his feet, and which he hated as a rival, a hearty kick. The prince royal alone had preserved his noble and dignified appearance. Amid the general excitement he remained calm and dignified. The candles were burning low, and the champagne illumination was becoming intense in the heads of all the gentlemen except the prince and the Baron Bielfeld.

"Bielfeld must also take part in this illumination," said the prince, turning to his wife, and calling the former, he proposed to drink with him the health of his fiancee, whom he had left in Hamburg.

After Bielfeld had left his seat and was advancing toward the prince royal, the princess hurriedly and noiselessly gave her instructions to a servant. She had observed that Bielfeld had been drinking freely of the cold water which had been placed before him in a decanter. The servant emptied this decanter and filled it with sillery, which was as clear and limpid as water. Bielfeld returning to his seat, heated by the toast he had been drinking, filled his glass to the brim, and drank instead of water the fiery sillery.[7]

[7] Bielfeld, vol. i., page 85.

The princess royal, whose aim was to discover which of the ladies was the bewitching Leontine, determined to strike a decisive blow. With an ingratiating smile she turned to Bielfeld and said:

"The prince royal spoke of your fiancee; I may, therefore, congratulate you."

Bielfeld, who did not dare to acknowledge that he was on the point of shamefully deserting this lady, bowed in silence.

"May I know the name of your fiancee?" asked she.

"Mademoiselle von Randau," murmured Bielfeld, drinking another glass of sillery to hide his confusion.

"Mademoiselle von Randau!" repeated the princess, "how cold, how ceremonious that sounds! To imagine how a lady looks and what she is like, it is necessary to know her Christian name, for a given name is to some extent an index to character. What is your fiancee's name?"

"Regina, royal highness."

"Regina! That is a beautiful name. A prophecy of happiness. Then she will always be queen of your heart. Ah, I understand the meaning of names, and at home in my father's house I was called the Sibyl, because my prophecies were always true. If you will give me your first names, I will prophecy your future, ladies. Let us commence. What is your given name, Madame von Katsch?"

While the princess was speaking, she played carelessly with the beautiful Venetian glass which stood before her. The prince royal alone saw what no one else observed; he saw that the hand which toyed with the glass trembled violently; that while she smiled her lips quivered, and that her breathing was hurried and feverish. He comprehended what these prophecies meant; he was convinced that the princess had become acquainted with the contents of his poem.

"Do not give her your name," he whispered to Madame Morien. He then turned to his wife, who had just prophesied a long life and a happy old age to Madame von Katsch.

"And your name, Mademoiselle von Schwerin?" said the prince royal.

"Louise."

"Ah, Louise! Well, I prophecy that you will be happier than your namesake, the beautiful La Valliere. Your conscience will never reproach you on account of your love affairs, and you will never enter a convent."

"But then I will probably never have the happiness of being loved by a king," said the little maid of honor, with a sigh.

This naive observation was greeted with a merry peal of laughter.

The princess continued her prophecies; she painted for each one a pleasant and flattering future. She now turned to Madame Morien, still smiling, still playing with the glass.

"Well, and your name, my dear Madame Morien?" said she, looking into the glass which she held clasped in her fingers.

"She is called 'Le Tourbillon,'" exclaimed the prince royal, laughing.

"Antoinette, Louise, Albertine, are my names," said Madame Morien, hesitatingly.

The princess royal breathed free, and raised her eyes from the glass to the beautiful Morien.

"These are too many names to prophesy by," said she. "By what name are you called?"

Madame Morien hesitated; the other ladies, better acquainted with the little mysteries of Tourbillon than the princess, divined that this question of the princess and the embarrassment of Madame Morien betokened something extraordinary, and awaited attentively the reply of this beautiful woman. A momentary pause ensued. Suddenly Mademoiselle Schwerin broke out in laughter.

"Well," said she, "have you forgotten your name, Madame Morien? Do you not know that you are called Leontine?"

"Leontine?" exclaimed the princess, and her fingers closed so tightly on the glass which she held in her hand, that it crushed, and drew from her a sharp cry of pain.

The prince royal saw the astonished and inquiring glances of all directed to his wife, and felt that he must turn their attention in some other direction—that he must make a jest of this accident.

"Elizabeth, you are right!" said he, laughing. "The candles have burnt down; the illumination has begun; the festival is at an end. We have already sacrificed a poem to the gods, we must now do the same with the glasses, out of which we have quaffed a few hours of happiness, of merriment, and of forgetfulness. I sacrifice this glass to the gods; all of you follow my example."

He raised his glass and threw it over his shoulder to the floor, where it broke with a crash. The others followed the example of the prince and his wife with shouts of laughter, and in a few minutes nothing was left of these beautiful glasses but the glittering fragments which covered the floor. But the company, now intoxicated with wine and delight, was not contented with this one offering to the gods, but thirsted for a continuation of their sport; and not satisfied with having broken the glasses, subjected the vases and the bowls of crystal to the same treatment. In the midst of this general confusion the door was suddenly opened, and Fredersdorf appeared at the threshold, holding a letter in his hand.

His uncalled-for appearance in this saloon was something so extraordinary, so unprecedented, that it could be only justified on the ground of some great emergency, something of paramount importance. They all felt this, notwithstanding their excitement and hilarity. A profound silence ensued. Every eye was fixed anxiously upon the prince, who had received the letter from Fredersdorf's hands and broken the seal. The prince turned pale, and the paper trembled in his hands He hastily arose from his seat.

"My friends," said he, solemnly, "the feast is at an end. I must leave for Potsdam immediately. The king is dangerously ill. Farewell!"

And offering his arm to his wife, he hastily left the saloon. The guests, who but now were so merry, silently arose and betook themselves to their chambers, and nothing could be heard save now and then a stolen whisper or a low and anxious inquiry. Soon a deep and ominous silence reigned in the castle of Rheinsberg. All slept, or at least seemed to sleep.



CHAPTER XIV.

LE ROI EST MORT. VIVE LE ROI!

King Frederick William's end was approaching. Past was his power and greatness, past all his dreams of glory. Long did the spirit fight against the body; but now, after months of secret pain and torture, he had to acknowledge himself overpowered by death. The stiff uniform is no longer adapted to his fallen figure. Etiquette and ceremony had been banished by the all-powerful ruler—by death. He is no longer a king, but a dying man—nothing more. A father taking leave of his children, a husband embracing his wife for the last time; pressing his last kisses upon her tearful face, and pleading for forgiveness for his harshness and cruelty. Frederick William has made his peace with God and the world; his proud spirit is broken; his hard heart softened. Long he had striven in the haughtiness of his heart before acknowledging his sins, but the brave and pious Roloff approached his couch, and with accusations and reproaches awakened his slumbering conscience. At first he had but one answer to the priest's accusations, and that was proudly given: "I have ever been true to my wife." Roloff continued to speak of his extortions, oppressions, and inhumanity. Frederick William was at last convinced that he must lay down his crown and approach God with deep repentance, humbly imploring pardon and mercy.

Now that he had made his peace with God, there remained nothing for him to do but to arrange his earthly affairs, and take leave of his wife, and children, and friends. They were all called to his room that he might bid them farewell. By the side of the arm-chair, in which the king was reclining, wrapped in his wide silk mantle, stood his wife and the prince royal. His hands rested in theirs, and when he raised his weary eyes, he always met their tear-stained faces, their looks of unutterable love. Death, that would so soon separate them forever, had at last united in love father and son. Weeping loudly, Frederick William, folded the prince royal in his arms, and with a voice full of tears, exclaimed: "Has not God in his great mercy given me a noble son?" Prince Frederick bowed his head upon his father's breast, and prayed deeply and earnestly that his life might be spared.

But the end was approaching; the king knew and felt it. He had the long coffin, the same in which he had laid himself for trial a few months before, brought into his room, and looking at it sadly, said, with a peaceful smile: "In this bed I shall sleep well!" He then called his secretary, Eichel, and ordered him to read the programme of his funeral, which he had himself dictated.

It was a strange picture to see this king, lying by the side of the coffin, surrounded by his children and servants, his weary head reclining on the shoulder of his wife, listening attentively to this programme, that spoke of him a still living and thinking being, as of a cold, dead, senseless mass. Not as for a sad festival, but for a grand parade, had the king arranged it, and it made a fearful, half-comic impression upon the auditors, when was added, at the especial request of the king, that, after his laying out, a splendid table should be set in the great hall for all who had been present at the ceremony, and that none but the best wines from his cellar should be served.

After having provided for his corpse, Frederick William still wished to leave to each of his favorites, the Prince of Dessau and Baron Hacke, a horse. He ordered the horses to be led from their stalls to the court. He then desired his chair to be rolled to an open window, where he could see the entire court, and give a farewell look to each of these animals which had so often borne him to feasts and parades. Oh! what costly, glorious days those were, when he could lightly swing himself upon these proud steeds, and ride out into God's fresh, free air, to be humbly welcomed by his subjects, to be received with the roll of drums and the sound of trumpets, and every moment of his life be made aware of his greatness and power by the devotion and humility of those who surrounded him! And that was all set aside and at an end. Never again could he mount his horse, never again could he ride through the streets of Berlin, and rejoice over the beautiful houses and stately palaces called into life by his royal will. Never again will he receive the humble welcome of his subjects; and when on the morrow drums are beating and cannon thundering, they will not salute the king, but his corpse.