Frederick the Great and His Court Part 50

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 embarra.s.sment.

"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 h.e.l.l, 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d is as trusting as man; if you can deceive Him with your tears as you once deceived us with your well-acted friends.h.i.+p. Go try repentance with G.o.d; 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 pa.s.sed 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; G.o.d 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 G.o.d! he knows all, and he despises me!" cried Madame von Morien, pa.s.sionately.

"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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d! For this woman's sake who wors.h.i.+ps 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+elds, '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 n.o.ble and pure woman is praying to G.o.d 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 a.s.semble 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 a.s.sembled, 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 G.o.d heard and accepted. Our love is from G.o.d, and no stain rests upon it; G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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, pa.s.sionately; "swear that you will be true to your oath; that oath by which you are mine--mine to all eternity; my wedded wife!"