IV.—AN IDYL.
Yes, Leuchtmar was quite right. He was away to her—to Ludovicka. To her he was irresistibly drawn by vehement desire. Yes, she was his first love, and the magic of this delicious sensation held his whole being enthralled, and now drove him onward as on the wings of the hurricane. He thought of nothing and knew nothing but that he must see her, must prove to her how passionately he loved her, how fervently and devoutly he believed in her. The horse dashed on furiously, breathlessly, and yet it seemed to the Electoral Prince as if an eternity had elapsed ere he finally reached Castle Doornward. He breathed a glad sigh of relief, threw the reins to the promptly advancing servants, and vaulted from the horse. His beaming eyes were uplifted to his beloved's window, and he saluted her with his thoughts and his smile. He thought she must feel it, and his looks and thoughts must bring her to the window. He stopped and looked up—but Ludovicka did not appear at the window; only an orange-colored ribbon was fluttering there in the sunshine and the wind, and Frederick William smiled joyfully, for he took it as a token of good fortune. Then he entered the castle, reverentially greeted by the lackeys, who ventured not to oppose him, as with rapid bounds, like a young deer, he sprang up the steps. Straight to the apartments of the Princess Ludovicka he strode, through the antechamber into the drawing room. But she was not there; she came not to meet him in her enchanting beauty, with that affectionate smile upon her crimson lips. No, Ludovicka was not there, and the chambermaid who officiously hurried from the adjoining room informed the Prince that her most gracious young lady had already been gone an hour on a visit to The Hague, whence she would not return till the next morning. But the sharp, cunning eyes of the Abigail, had meanwhile peered through the door, which the Prince had left open, out into the antechamber, and, finding that no one was there, the Prince having come quite alone, she approached nearer to him.
"Most gracious sir," she whispered, "I was, however, to have gone into town and handed something for the Electoral Prince to his valet, to whom I am engaged."
"Now it will be more convenient for you, Alice," said the Electoral Prince cheerfully. "You need no third party. I am here myself. Give to me personally what you would have given to my valet, your respected betrothed, for me."
"Here it is," whispered Alice, drawing from the pocket attached to her girdle by a silver chain a little note, which, with a graceful bow, she handed to the Prince.
"And here is your reward," he said, taking a gold piece from his purse and handing it to her. She took it, blushing with confusion, and bowed down to the earth.
"If it pleases your grace to read here," whispered she, "I will guard the door."
He shook his head and rushed out. No, not in that narrow, close room, not in the neighborhood of that tiresome chambermaid could be read the letter of his beloved—that letter which he believed, nay, knew, contained the last decision for sealing his whole future fate. In the open air, under God's blue sky, in the warm and radiant autumn sun, would he receive the message of his beloved, would he take to his heart what the angel of his life had to communicate to him. As rapidly as he had stormed up he again sprang down the steps, and through the well-known rooms and corridors took the way leading to the park. He was well acquainted with it, for he had often taken it at the side of his aunt, the unfortunate Bohemian Queen and Electress, who had found a refuge here in Holland at the court of her uncle, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry of Orange, and had her little residence at Castle Doornward. He had often walked it with the princesses, her daughters, and very bright and pleasant hours had he passed in that beautiful park with Princess Ludovicka.
On one of those squares, in one of those shady thickets where he had so often sat with her and her sisters, he would now read her message. With hasty step, with glowing cheeks fired by enthusiasm, with head aloft, he strode on, and now entered the woods near the path. They were curtained by festoons of wild grapevine; no one could see how he now took out the little note which he had so long concealed in his hand, how he pressed it to his lips, to his eyes, how he then unfolded it, and again, before reading it, pressed the beloved characters to his lips. The letter contained nothing but the words: "The friends are ready and willing. To-night about one o'clock in the Media Nocte. From there flight. A worthy asylum is waiting, and the priest stands before the altar to bless the couple."
"To-night she will be mine—to-night we shall be married! To-night we shall make our escape!"
He could think of nothing but this. His heart continually repeated it with loud jubilation, his lips murmured it softly in response, while, knowing nothing, seeing nothing of the outside world, he sped along through the alleys and over the squares of the garden. He knew not whither he went, he had no aim; he only knew that to-night he was to be indissolubly united with his beloved—that he would flee with her. Once he must pause, for the loudly beating heart denied him breath, and once, in the blissful rapture of his soul, he must give a loud shout of joy, otherwise his breast would have burst. A merry, musical laugh rang forth near to him, and as he turned to the side whence the sound had proceeded a lovely and pleasing picture met his astonished gaze. In the midst of the grassplot near which he was stood a great white cow, one of those splendid creatures that are only seen on Dutch pastures. A fine-looking maid, dressed in the national costume of the Dutch peasantry, with the gold-edged cap over the full, luxuriant hair that fell in long braids down her back, sat on a stool beside the cow, and was busied in milking. In melodious, regular cadence the steaming milk flowed over her rosy hands down into the white porcelain bucket which she held between her knees. At her side stood a little girl, in almost the identical costume, only that the wide plaited skirt was of black silk, the bodice of purple velvet trimmed with gold buttons and loops, and the white apron of finest linen edged with point lace. Below the short silk skirt, trimmed with purple velvet, peeped forth blue silk stockings with red tops; shoes with high red heels, ornamented with gold buckles, covered the neat little feet. It was altogether quite the costume of a Dutch peasant girl, only the cap was wanting on the head, and in its stead the hair, which fell in long fair ringlets over the child's shoulders, was adorned by a thick wreath of the tendrils of the wild grape, into which, in front just over the brow, were woven two beautiful purple asters. She had been busied, it appeared from the quantity of leaves and flowers she carried in her apron, in weaving wreaths, but now let the contents of her apron fall to the ground, and only kept the green wreath already finished, which hung upon her arm, while she sprang laughing over the grassplot.
"Cousin Frederick William," she asked merrily, "where do you come from, and why do you scream so fearfully?"
"Have I frightened you, Cousin Louisa Henrietta?" he asked, extending both hands to her in greeting.
"Not me, cousin, but Hulda," she returned, holding out her little hands. "You must know, cousin, Hulda is very scary, and it comes from her being sad."
"Who is Hulda? The smart dairymaid there?"
"Hey, God forbid, cousin! How can you think that dairymaid could be scared? No, Hulda is my pretty white cow, and she is sad because she has lost her little calf. I am not to blame for it, and I told my poor Hulda that, too, and as she lowed so piteously I wept with her heartily and comforted her."
"But why did you let them take away her little calf? Why did you suffer it? Is it not your own cow?"
"Understand, it is my own cow," replied the little girl, seriously. "My good aunt, the Electress, has made me a present of it, that I may have some pleasure when I come here to Doornward, and it makes me feel as if I were at home. For you must know, cousin, that I have a regular dairy at The Hague."
"No, cousin, I did not know it," said the Electoral Prince, while he looked kindly into the lovely, rosy countenance of the little Princess Louisa Henrietta of Orange.
"You do not know that?" she cried, clapping her little hands together in astonishment. "Yes, I have a dairy—three cows, who belong to myself alone, and for which papa has had built a stable of their own, which is very grand and splendid. And next to the stable is a room for the milk and butter. O cousin! I tell you, it is splendid! The next time you come to us at The Hague, send for me, and I will show you my cows in their stable, and if you are right good, you shall have a glass of milk from my favorite cow."
"Many thanks!" cried the Electoral Prince, laughing. "But I am no friend of warm milk, and understand nothing whatever of farming."
"Well, why should you?" said the Princess gravely. "You are a man, and men have something else to do; they must go to war and govern countries. But women must understand management and know how to keep house."
"So? Must they that?" laughed the Prince. "Common women, indeed, but you,
Louisa, you are a Princess."
"But a Princess of Holland, cousin, and my mother has told me that the Princesses of Holland must seek their greatest renown in becoming wise and prudent housewives, and understanding farming thoroughly, in order that all the rest of the women of Holland may learn from them. My mother says that a Prince of Holland should be the first servant of the Sovereign States, but a Princess of Holland should be the first housekeeper of the Dutch people, and the more skillful she is the more will the people love her. And therefore I shall try to be right skillful, for I shall be so glad if our good people would love me a little."
"Would you, indeed?" asked the Electoral Prince, quite moved by the lovely countenance and the heartfelt tone of the little girl. "Would you be glad if the people loved you a little? Well, I promise you, Cousin Louisa Henrietta, they will love you, and whoever shall look into your good, truthful eyes will feel himself fortunate and glad, just as I do now. Keep your beautiful eyes, Louisa, and your innocence and harmlessness, and be a good housewife, then your people will love you very much. But tell me, cousin, for whom is that wreath which is hanging on your arm?"
"For my beautiful cow; but if you will have it I will give it to you, and—no," she broke off, abashed and reddening, "no, forgive me, dear Cousin Frederick William; I shall not give you a wreath which I destined only for an animal. I shall fix it so," she cried, with a lovely smile, "I shall take this wreath to my Hulda, and to you, cousin, I shall give my own wreath."
She hastily tore the wreath from her own locks, and raising herself on tiptoe tried with uplifted arm to place it on the Prince's head, but he stayed her hand.
"No, cousin," he said; "that must be done properly. You are a lady, a Princess, and if you crown a knight, then let him bow the knee before you."
And he bent his knee before her, and looked up at her smilingly and joyously. "Crown me, Cousin Louisa Henrietta," he said, with ceremonial pathos—"crown me and give me a device."
The little maiden held the crown thoughtfully in her hand, her large blue eyes fixed upon the smiling countenance before her with an earnest, meditative expression.
"Well," he said, "why do you not give me the wreath? And what are you thinking of?"
"Of a motto, cousin," she replied seriously; "for you told me I must give you a device. But I am only a silly little girl, and you must bear with me. Mother said yesterday to me that the best motto she could give for everyday use is this, 'Be a good woman.' Now I think, if it were rightly changed and turned, it would suit you."
And with charming determination she pressed the wreath upon the Prince's dark locks, and then laid both her hands upon his head.
"Be a good man," she said, "yes, Electoral Prince Frederick William, be a good man."
The smile had suddenly vanished from the Prince's countenance, and given place to a deep earnestness. "Yes," he said solemnly, "I promise you I shall be a good man." And just as he said this the cow bellowed aloud, and Princess Louisa turned her looks upon her and nodded pleasantly.
"Look you, cousin," she said, "Hulda, too, gives you her blessing, and do not laugh at it, for God speaks in all that live; the flowers and beasts emanate from him as well as men. And if man does not do his duty, and is not good and diligent, then God does not love him, and the flower which blooms and the cow that gives milk are dearer to him, for they do their duty. But see, the milkmaid is ready, and now, Cousin Frederick William, now I must go to the milkroom and measure the milk into the pans, and I will tell you, but nobody else shall know, I secretly take a quart cup full of milk, and take it to the calves' stable to the calf, from my Hulda. It ought not, indeed, to drink milk any longer, but be an independent creature, eating hay and chewing the cud, but it will just feel that the milk comes from its own mother, and be glad. Farewell, Cousin Frederick William, I must be gone."
She was about to slip away, but the Electoral Prince held her fast. "No," he said, "not so cursory shall be our leave-taking, my darling little heavenly flower. Who knows when we shall meet again?"
"You are not going away yet, cousin?" she asked, stroking his cheeks with both her little hands. "Ah! they told me that your father would by no means allow you to remain here any longer, and I was so sorry that it made me cry."
"Why did it make you sorry, Cousin Louisa?" asked the Electoral Prince, drawing the little maiden to himself.
She leaned her little head upon his shoulder. "I do not know," she said, looking at him with her great blue eyes. "I believe I love you so much because you are always so good and friendly to me, and have often talked and played with me, and not laughed at me when I told you about my animals. I thank you for it, my dear, good cousin, and I shall love you as long as I live."
"And I, my dear, good cousin, I thank you for the motto which you have given me, and I shall think of it and of you as long as I live. Yes, my dear child, I will be a good man, and do you know, little Louisa," he continued, smiling, "whenever I am in trouble and danger, I shall think of you and pray, 'God and all ye innocent angels on high, have pity on the innocent and good! Amen!'"
He pressed a fervent kiss on the child's forehead, nodded smilingly to her, took the wreath from his head to conceal it in his bosom, and then strode away with light, quick steps. The child looked thoughtfully after him with her large blue starry eyes, as if lost in thought, until the slender, athletic form of the young man had vanished behind the trees. "How does he know my prayer?" she whispered softly, "and why did he smile as he repeated it? Ah! surely Cousin Ludovicka has told him what a timid little coward I was last night. But hark! Hulda is lowing. Yes, yes, I am coming now!"
And the little girl flew across the grassplot, and flung both her arms around the animal's neck, and stroked and coaxed it, calling it pet names, and telling it of its beautiful calf, to which she would forthwith carry some milk. And the cow lowed no more, but looked with its big intelligent eyes into the child's face.
V.—MEDIA NOCTE.
"The gods have come down from Olympus! The gods greet the earth! They greet beauty! They greet youth! They greet wisdom and the arts! The gods greet the earth! Long live the gods! Live Venus, the mother of love! Long live Minerva, the unapproachable virgin, full of wisdom! Long live Zeus, the god of gods, men transformed into gods, and gods into men! Olympus live on earth!"
So sang they and rejoiced in triumphant chorus, and high above from the clouds pealed forth music, and from thicket and shrubbery sounded sweet songs, dying away in gentle whispers. Then all was still, for the gods, who had traversed the halls in dazzling procession, had now taken their places at the long rose-crowned tables. An Olympic festival was being solemnized that evening in the Media Nocte. Earth was forsaken now, and the children of earth found themselves again on Olympus, changed to gods. Those were not the drawing rooms in which they had been wont to assemble, commingling in cheerful pastimes, in hilarious merriment, these people clad in light Greek robes. No, this was cloud-capped Olympus, this was heaven upon earth; rose-colored, luminous clouds encircled the space, and behind them the galleries which ran round the hall had vanished. Instead of the ceiling usually bounding this vast room, they now looked up to the deep blue sky, and star after star twinkled there, and filled the apartment with soft mild light. And not in a hall furnished with chairs and divans did they find themselves this evening, but in a monstrous grotto in the heart of Olympus—a grotto of sparkling, glittering mountain crystal, bright and transparent as silver gauze, and behind this a magical moving to and fro of beauteous human shapes, of genii and Cupids. Only the long table in the middle of the grotto reminded of earth, or maybe the home of heathen gods.
For, like the children of earth, the gods on Olympus used to carouse and drink, and, like the children of men, did they enjoy fullness of food and luscious wine. Golden goblets, wreathed with roses, stood before the silver plates loaded with fruits and tempting viands. In crystal flasks sparkled the golden wine, in silver vases the gay-colored flowers exhaled their sweets. Luxurious cushions, soft as swan's down, spangled and silvery as were the clouds which stooped from heaven, lined both sides of the long table, and on them the gods and goddesses had just sank in blissful silence, gazing on the glorious place, and rejoicing that men are gods and gods are men! There, on high, sits Zeus on golden throne, and Ganymede, the beautiful boy, stands near and hands him on golden dishes the fragrant ambrosia, and Hebe, the lovely, childlike maid, hovers about, and presents in crystal cups the gleaming purple wine, glistening like gold. Juno, the radiant queen of heaven, sits beside Zeus; and as if woven of silvery clouds and stars seems the garment that lightly and loosely envelops but does not hide the wondrous shape. A light cloud of silver gauze covers her countenance, as that of all the other goddesses.
But now, as all rest in silence, these gods and goddesses, now rises Zeus from his golden throne and bows to both sides, greeting.
"At the table of the gods must be enthroned Truth, the purest, most chaste of all the goddesses, and at her side the wisest, most puissant Genius, the Genius of Silence!" calls out Zeus, with far-resounding voice. "Do you admit that, ye gods and goddesses?"
"We admit it!" call out all in exulting chorus.
"You gods, swear by all that is sacred to you in heaven and upon earth that you will present this evening as a thank offering in sacrifice to the Genius of Silence! That never will pass your lips what your eyes see, never will your eyes betray the memory that shall dwell within your hearts!"
"We swear it by all that is sacred in heaven and upon earth!" cry the gods.
"Ye goddesses all, ye have heard!" cries Zeus, the enthroned. "Now do homage to Truth, as she to the Genius of Silence! Away with falsehood and deceit! Away with your masks!"
And the plump, wanton arms of the goddesses are raised, and the rosy-fingered hands tear the silvery veils from their heads and cast them triumphantly behind them, and triumphantly the gods greet the beaming countenances of the goddesses, their sparkling eyes and rosy lips, the haunts of sweet, seductive smiles.
"Long live the gods and goddesses of Olympus! No earthly memories cleave to them; if perchance they have borne earthly names, who knows it, who remembers it? The present only belongs to the gods—this hour is one of precious joy."
Only those two sitting there at the table of the gods, arm linked in arm, only they remember, for not alone the present but the future, too, belongs to them. The gods and goddesses call the two Venus and Endymion, but they, in tender whispers, call each other Ludovicka and Frederick. No one disturbs himself about them, no one notices the happy pair, and they observe and regard no one, for they are thinking only of themselves.
"Oh, my beloved," whispers the Prince, "how stale and insipid seems this fantastic feast to me to-night! Once it would have charmed me, and would have been to me as embodied poesy. But to-night it leaves me cold and empty, and I feel that the true and real contain in themselves the highest poetry."
"You are indeed right, my Endymion," says she softly—"you are indeed right: love is the highest poetry, and he who possesses the true and real needs not the fantastic semblance. Still, this is a feast of gods; therefore let us enjoy it with glad hearts and swelling joy. For is it not our wedding feast, and are not all these gods and goddesses unwittingly solemnizing the hymeneal of our love? Rejoice then, my darling, rejoice and sing with the convivial, open your heart to the ravishing hour, drink into thy soul the delight and rapture of the gods!"
A shadow stole over Endymion's high, clear brow, and he gently shook his head. "I love you so deeply and truly that I can not be merry in this hour," he said thoughtfully; "and this wild tumult and this uproarious joy seem not to me like a glorification of our love, but rather its profanation. Ah! my dear love, would that I were alone with you in the open air, beneath the broad high arch of heaven, instead of here beneath this artificial one; would that we sat hand in hand in one of those quiet shady spots in your park, where I could pour into your ear the holy secrets of my heart and tell you sweet stories of our love, and you should listen to me with tranquil, reverent heart, and you and I would solemnize together a glorious feast divine, more glorious than this mad joy can furnish us! He who is happy flees noisy pleasures, and he who loves ardently and truthfully longs for quiet and solitude, to meditate upon his love."
"We shall be solitary and alone, my Frederick, when we belong to one another—when nothing more can separate us, when we shall no more have to meet under the veil of secrecy, no more have to conceal the fair, divine reality under borrowed tinsel! You know, love, to-night we flee."
"God be praised! to-night will make you forever mine, and nothing then can separate us but death alone!"
"Speak not of death while life encircles us with all its charms! Be cheerful, my beloved—be happy, my Endymion. We celebrate the godly feast of love, and yet is it only the foretaste of our bliss. Yield yourself to the delights of the moment, drink from the golden goblet of joy, my Endymion!"
"Yes, I will drink, drink, for Venus drinks with me."
"She hands you, Endymion, the flower-crowned goblet! Drink! drink! drink! Enjoy the moment! Taste the pleasures of this hour! But think of the coming hour which is to consummate our bliss!"
"When will it be, beloved? And where shall I meet you?"
"When all is bustle and stir and singing, then let my Endymion descend from Olympus and repair to the grotto of rocks close by. To the left of the entrance he will find a cavern. Let him go in and there find his white garments; put them on and wait. All the rest follows of itself."
"And you, my heart—will you, too, follow of yourself?"
"Follow of myself and fetch Endymion!"
Music sent forth sweet strains, and from the rosy clouds the chorus of
Cupids greeted the gods with songs of rejoicing.
After the singing the Muses entered, winding round the table, quoting far-famed songs and praising the arts, which they protected. And suddenly the starry sky above became obscure, and twilight reigned. Only behind the crystalline walls it shone bright and ever brighter, and in sunshine splendor emerged the antique marble statues of the gods, and walked and moved, endowed with flesh and growing life. Music resounded and bands of Cupids sang; again the hall was lighted up, the tables at which the gods had reclined vanished, geniuses hovered about, strewing the ground with fragrant flowers, and in glad confusion mingled gods and goddesses, heroes and demigods, with sparkling eyes and beating hearts. They poetized and sang, praised the gods, and laughed and shouted, "Long live the Media Nocte! Long live those great minds and noble hearts which belong to it!" And all was bustle, stir, and song!
Endymion forsook Olympus, entered the nearest grotto amid the rocks, and slipped into the little cavern to the left. Venus was still in the hall. To her came Hercules and softly whispered, "All is ready!"
"But where? Tell me, where? It seems to me like a dream! You see how I trust you, for without question have I done everything just as the paper directed. Here I am, in the Media Nocte, and know not at all what remains to be done!"
"The marriage ceremony and flight, fair Venus! Listen, however, to this one thing! In close proximity to this house, as you well know, stands the hotel of the French embassy. Well, gracious lady, walls can be leveled, and my enchanter Ducato can turn them into doors! Repair to the grotto hall and the cavern on the right. There will Venus be transformed into the Princess Ludovicka, and still be Venus! Then cross over to the cavern on the left, where, instead of Endymion, waits the Electoral Prince. She gives him her hand! My enchanter Ducato sees it, and all the rest takes care of itself. Only follow the god within your own breast! Only one thing more, Princess! Be Venus to him, and ravish his heart and soul, that he may not delay to sign the contract and inquire into its contents."
"Be not uneasy," smiles Venus proudly; "he will sign anything to be able to call me his."
Louder resound the peals of music, and all the gods sing and laugh and jest and shout. And the Bacchantes swing to and fro their ivy-wreathed staves, and their mouths with ecstasy pour forth their stammering songs of mirth! Venus has soared away! But no one observes it. Each is his own deity, here in the Media Nocte. Oh, blessed night of the gods! Forget that the wretched day of man will return in the morning! Louder resound the strains of music, and all is bustle, stir, and song there in Olympus!
From the cavern on the right steps forth the Princess Ludovicka in white satin robe, a myrtle wreath twined in her hair, and behind her sweeps her veil like a silver cloud. Venus! Venus ever! full of sweet enchantment!
She goes to the cavern on the left, and gently knocks. The door springs open, and she enters. It is bright within, and the Electoral Prince, in gold-embroidered suit, comes to meet her with beaming eyes, looks upon her radiant with happiness, and sinks down at her feet. Endymion! Endymion ever! Enchained by sweet magic! A door flies open; nobody has opened it, but there it is. The Electoral Prince jumps up and offers the Princess his hand. Neither of the two speaks, for their hearts are beating overloud.
The merry music and uproarious shouts of the gods on Olympus penetrate to them even in the stillness of the cave, but through the open door other sounds steal near. Solemn, long-drawn organ peals are heard, uniting in the melody of a pious choral. How strangely blended within that narrow space those exultant songs and those organ tones! The young lovers hear only the notes of the organ, and hand in hand move toward the sound.
A small pleasure boat receives them, flowers and myrtle trees line the banks, and inviting and alluring the organ calls them. Light glimmers at the end of the passage, and the lovers go toward it. They enter a large wide room! Solemn silence reigns here. At the farther end is a small altar. On it burn tall wax tapers, and before it, in full canonicals, stands the priest, prayer book in hand. At his sides are two gentlemen in simple, somber dress.
Farther forward, nearer the center of the hall, is a table hung with green, on which lie several papers and implements of writing, and near it is a notary in his official garb, again attended by several men. To all this Prince Frederick William gives but one brief glance, then turns his eyes once more upon his beloved, standing at his side, radiant in beauty and enticingly sweet. The jubilant songs of Olympus yet ring in their ears, the images of the gods yet flame and flaunt before their eyes.
"How beautiful you are, beloved Ludovicka! My Electoral Princess! come, let us go to the altar! Oh, your good, kind friends! How I thank them! How well they have arranged everything! Come! You see, the priest is waiting!"
"Not yet, beloved! For you see before the priest stands the notary, and my good friends will have us go through all the formalities of legal marriage. Before we are married we must sign the contract!"
"The contract of love is written in our hearts alone. What need for the intervention of signatures on paper? And how can strangers know what we alone can settle with one another? I swear unswerving love and fidelity to my Electoral Princess, and that requires no written confirmation. Come to the altar, dearest!"
He endeavors to draw her forward, but Ludovicka flings her arm about his neck and holds him back. "Beloved," she whispers, "the contract which we sign concerns not us, but the benevolent, mighty friends, who have lent us their aid, and will help us still further. Ah! without these noble friends our flight would have been wholly impossible, and we would have been separated for ever! To-morrow I would have been the bride of the Prince of Hesse, and your father would already have found means to compel your return home. Ah! beloved, they would have separated us, if our noble friends had not helped us. They have prepared everything, cared for everything. As soon as we are married, we shall journey away to our safe asylum, and there, under the protection of friends, be sheltered and secure. For such love and devotion we must be grateful, must we not?"
"Certainly, that we must, and shall be gladly, beloved of my heart! Let them say how we can prove our gratitude, and certainly it shall be done!"
"They have said it, and written it down in the contract. Come, dearest, we will sign it, and then to the altar."
She throws her arm around his neck, she draws him to the table where stands the notary with his witnesses. She hands him the pen and looks at him with a sweet smile.
Venus! Venus ever!
But he? He is no longer Endymion! He is the Electoral Prince Frederick William! And strange! like a dream, like a greeting from afar, conies stealing to his ears, "Be a good man."
"Take the pen and sign!" whispers Venus, with glowing looks of love.
He lays down the pen. "I must know what I sign. Read it, Sir Notary!"
The notary bows low and reads: "In friendship and devotion to the Electoral Prince Frederick William of Brandenburg and his spouse, born Princess Ludovicka Hollandine of the Palatinate, we grant them an undisturbed asylum in our territories, promise to protect and defend them with all our power, to grant them, besides, maintenance and support, paying to the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg yearly subsidies of three hundred thousand livres, until he assumes the reins of government. On his side, the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg pledges himself, so soon as he begins to rule in his own right, to conclude a league with us for twenty years, and never to unite with our enemies against us, but to be true to us in good as also in evil days. Both parties confirm this by their signatures. Count d'Entragues has signed in the name of France."
"France!" cried the Electoral Prince, with loudly ringing voice. "France is the friend who will lend us aid?"
"Yes, Prince, France it is," said Count d'Entragues, approaching the Prince and bowing low before him. "France through me offers to the noble Electoral Prince of Brandenburg protection and an asylum, pays him rich subsidies, and in return requires nothing but his alliance, and, above all things, his friendship. I am happy to offer the friendship and good offices of King Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu to the Electoral Prince of Brandenburg and his spouse, and to be permitted to witness the ceremony of their marriage."
"Come, my beloved, sign," whispered Ludovicka, with pleading voice.
But he thrust back the pen, and looked at the Princess with flaming eyes.
"Did you know, Princess, that it was France who was to assist us?"
"Certainly I knew it," replied she, with feigned astonishment. "Count d'Entragues himself offered me the assistance of France, and you gave me full powers to conclude all arrangements."
"It is true, so I did," murmured the Prince. "I thought you had reference to a private person, to one of those rich mynheers whom I have met at your house. I told you so, Princess, and you did not contradict me. You left me under the impression that it was a merchant of Holland who was offering his help and protection. From a private citizen I could have accepted aid, for that pledged the man, not the Prince. But from France I can accept no favors, for by such would be pledged and bound the Prince, the future ruler of his land, so that he could not act freely according to his judgment and the requirements of the case, but be subjected to restraint. Sir Count d'Entragues, I shall not sign."
The Princess uttered a shriek and threw both her arms, round him. "If you are serious in that, beloved, then are we lost, for who will help us if France will not?"
"God and ourselves, Ludovicka!"
"God listens not to our entreaties, and we are too weak to help ourselves. Oh, my beloved, prove now that you love me—that your vows are true. I am lost to you and you to me if we do not escape to-night—lost if we accept not France's aid. Look, here is the sheet of paper; our whole future lies on it. I offer it to you, beloved, and with it my life, my love, my happiness. Will you scorn me?"
She held out to him both her trembling hands, and looked at him with glances of entreaty. He returned the look, and a deadly paleness overspread his face. He took the sheet of paper from her hands—she opened her mouth for a cry of joy—then a shrill, rasping sound—he had torn the paper in two, and both pieces fell slowly to the ground.
"That is my answer, so help me God! I can do no otherwise."
A cry sounded from Ludovicka's lips, but it was a cry of horror. She reeled back, as if a fearful blow had struck her, and stared at the Prince with wide-open eyes.
"You reject me with disdain?" she asked in a toneless voice. "You will not flee with me?"
He rushed toward her, cast himself upon his knees before her, kissing her dress and hands with passionate ardor.
"Forgive me, Ludovicka, forgive me! I can not act differently. I can not be a traitor to my country, to my father, to Germany. I can not listen to my heart, with regard to my future, for my future belongs to my people, my native land, not to myself alone. Go home, beloved; be steadfast and courageous, as I shall be, and then we shall conquer destiny itself and win victory for our love."
"Stand up, Electoral Prince of Brandenburg!" she cried imperiously, and with angry glance. "Now answer me, will you accept the help of France, and flee with me?"
He turned away from her with a deep sigh. "No, I shall not accept the help of France."
"Count d'Entragues," said the Princess, with shrill, quivering voice, "you are a gentleman; I place myself under your protection. You will immediately conduct me to Doornward."
The count hastened to her and offered her his hand. She accepted it, and he led her slowly through the vast hall to one of the doors of entrance.
The Electoral Prince looked after her with distorted features and burning eyes. Once he made a movement as if to rush after her, but by a mighty effort he kept his place. Arrived at the door, she paused and turned upon him an earnest, questioning glance; he cast down his eyes before it. Count d'Entragues opened the door—a breathless pause ensued—then the door closed behind her.
The Electoral Prince placed his trembling hand upon his heart, and two tears rolled from his eyes. Violently he shook them away, and turned his head to the notary.
"Sir," he said, in a firm voice—"sir, I beg you to show me the way out. I would go to my palace."
VI.—THE HARDEST VICTORY.
The Electoral Prince had returned home, but he did not sleep the whole night through. The chamberlain, whose room adjoined the Prince's sleeping apartment, had heard him restlessly pacing the floor all night long, at times talking to himself half aloud, and then even weeping and lamenting. In his anguish of heart he had wakened Baron Leuchtmar and the private secretary Müller, in order to impart to them the melancholy news. Both gentlemen had immediately risen and dressed themselves, and softly approached the door of the princely chamber. They, too, had heard the restless steps, the loud groans and lamentations of the Prince, and his grief had passed into their own hearts. As they looked at each other, each observed tears in the eyes of the other, and with quivering lips both whispered, "Poor young man! he must have some great grief! He suffers a great deal!"
"You must go to him, Leuchtmar," whispered Müller. "You must ask what ails him, and try to comfort him."
The baron mournfully shook his head. "My dear Müller," he said, "have you ever been in love?"
"No, never!" replied Müller, in astonishment. "Why do you ask such a question?"
"Because you would then know, friend, that there is no consolation for disappointment in love."
"You think, then, that the Prince is disappointed in love?"
"Certainly, I think so. What other grief can a young Prince of hardly eighteen years have, especially when his heart is engrossed with a glowing passion. The Prince was last night in the Media Nocte, and something peculiar must have occurred there, for he came home unusually early, his custom having been of late not to return home until daybreak, singing and rejoicing."
"Only hear, Leuchtmar, how he sobs and groans! And now! Hush! what does he say?"
Both gentlemen held their breath, and quite distinctly could be heard within the wailing, tear-choked voice of the Prince:
"It is impossible—it is impossible. I can not. No, I can not. The sacrifice is too heavy! My heart will break!"
"Hear him well," whispered Müller, amid his tears; "he can not make the sacrifice. He will die of grief. My God! go to him, baron. Tell him he need not make the sacrifice. No one can require of him the impossible. Go to him, man! Be humane. My God! only hear how he laments and groans!"
"I hear it, but I can not go in. I do not know his sorrow, and if the
Prince needs me he can call me."
"You are a savage," said Müller desperately. "Well, if you will not comfort him, then shall I go to him."
He stretched out his hand for the door knob, but Baron Leuchtmar held him back, and led the good private secretary back to his own room.
"Let us go to bed, friend," he said; "even if we can not sleep, as is probable, yet we can rest, which is needful for our aged limbs. We can not yet help the Prince; and, believe me, he would never forgive us if we were to go to him unsummoned, thereby betraying that we have been privy to his suffering and his pain. He has a grief, there is no question about that; but he is retiringly modest, and at the same time has a stout heart that will admit no one to share with him a burden he has perhaps imposed upon himself. I am glad of this, Müller, and I tell you such hours of solitary grief purify the manly heart; in them the old myth is verified, from the fire and ashes of spent sorrows springs up the new-fledged phoenix. Should we prevent our Prince from passing through his purgatory, that he may emerge from the flames as a phoenix and a victorious hero?"
"You may be right," sighed Müller, "but I only know that he is suffering bitterly."
Baron Leuchtmar smiled sadly. "May these sufferings steel his heart," he said, "that he may be armed against greater and bitterer trials! Come, Müller, we will to bed, and to sleep."
But, however composedly and resolutely the baron had opposed himself to the suggestions of his soft-hearted colleague, sleep that night forsook his eyes, and ever he heard in imagination the Prince's groans and laments. At times he could hardly repress his longing to get up, to creep to the Prince's door and listen, that he might discover whether he were still awake. But the baron forcibly restrained himself, and finally, as day already began to dawn, he actually fell asleep. He might possibly have slept a few hours, but his servant approached his couch and roused him.
"Baron," he said, "some one is here who urgently desires to speak to you."
"Who, Frederick, who is there?" asked Baron Leuchtmar, quickly rising.
"The chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, has arrived from Berlin."
"Marwitz, the Elector's first chamberlain?" cried the baron. "Quick, my clothes, quick! Help me to dress myself. Run and tell Baron von Marwitz that I will be at his service directly. But first tell me whether his highness is already visible. Has he already ordered his breakfast?"
"No, baron, I believe all is still quiet in his highness's apartments."
"God be thanked! God be thanked! Now present my compliments to Baron von
Marwitz, and then come quickly and help me."
Ten minutes later Baron Kalkhun von Leuchtmar entered the Prince's reception room, where the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, awaited him. The two had a long conversation together, Leuchtmar listening with thoughtful mien to Marwitz's narration of the state of affairs at home.
"Marwitz," he said, at the close of their conversation, "we have been good and tried friends from our childhood; I know that the electoral house and our fatherland lie as near to your heart as to my own, and that I can trust you. I therefore tell you, you have come at a fortunate hour, and God sends you! The heart of the Prince is wrung by a mighty sorrow, and he probably knows no way out of his griefs. You will show him one, and if he is actually the aspiring and noble-hearted Prince, whom God has sent for the blessing of his house and the hope of his country, then will he appreciate this way and walk in it. Go to him now, Marwitz, and lay before him candidly and without reserve, as you have done before me, the deplorable condition of things in our native land."
"You will come with me, Leuchtmar, and present me to the Electoral Prince?"
"No, baron. You must suffer yourself to be announced by the chamberlain, for the Prince dismissed me yesterday in wrath. Hush, my friend! say not a word, it is not so bad! The heart of the Prince has reached a crisis in its history which will soon be past, and then, well then, he will call me of himself again. But I shall wait for that. I can not intrude upon him now."
"My friend," sighed Marwitz, "I begin to be afraid. If you do not support me, I will surely fail in my errand, and, like Schlieben, be forced to return disappointed to Berlin."
"I think not. Only be of good courage and speak boldly, as your heart and your love of country dictate."
"Is the Electoral Prince already up?" he asked of the man in waiting, and, as he received nothing but a shrug of the shoulders in reply, Leuchtmar beckoned to him to come nearer, and retired with him into a recess of one of the windows.
"Well, what is it, old Dietrich? You have seen the Electoral Prince already, have you not?"
"Yes, baron. He has not been to bed at all, but still has on the clothes he wore when he went away last night. He is just as pale as a sheet, and his eyes which usually shine so gloriously are to-day quite dim. He called me, and I thought he was about to order breakfast, but no! Something quite different he wanted, and it struck me as peculiarly strange. The Electoral Prince asked me who was on duty this week, I or the second valet, Eberhard? I told him Eberhard, for his week began yesterday. Then said the Electoral Prince: 'Well, Dietrich, I want you to exchange with him this time, for I would like to have you to wait upon me this week, and Eberhard shall have a holiday the whole week. I only want to see your old face about me!' Is not that strange, Sir Baron? Until yesterday Eberhard stood in such high favor, and my gracious master always preferred being dressed by him. Only yesterday evening Eberhard must accompany him to the feast, and now, all at once, my gracious master will not see him! Something must have happened, for last night Eberhard came home much later than the Electoral Prince, and asked, as if bewildered, whether his highness had been back long; and when I told him that the Electoral Prince had bidden me change with him, he turned deadly pale, trembled in every limb, and said, 'It is all over with me!' Baron, something surely happened last night."
"Probably Eberhard has been guilty of some negligence," said Leuchtmar carelessly. "He has often been negligent of late, as it seems to me. He has some love affair on hand, has he not?"
"Yes, Sir Baron, he has gotten in with that artful chambermaid of the
Princess Ludovicka, out there at Doornward, and they are engaged to one
another. But people do not say much good of Madame Alice: she is a cunning
French girl and—"
"Do not trouble yourself about what people say," interrupted the baron. "Do your own duty and rejoice that for this week the Electoral Prince gives you the preference over Eberhard. Go, now, and announce to his highness the chamberlain, Baron von Marwitz, from Berlin."
A few minutes later the gentleman announced entered the Prince's drawing room. Frederick William advanced into the middle of the room to meet him, and greeted him with grave courtesy.
"I was expecting you, baron," he said coldly.
"Your highness was expecting me?" asked the baron, astonished. "Your highness knew already that I would come?"
"Yes, I knew it, baron. My mother's court painter, Gabriel Nietzel, arrived yesterday, and through him my gracious mother informed me that the Elector would send you to me with a very serious and angry message. You see, I am prepared. Deliver your message now, baron. Let us be seated."
The Prince sat down in the armchair and made the baron sit opposite him. His large eyes were fixed upon Marwitz, and burned with a strange, sad light. His noble pale countenance was of touching beauty.
"You hesitate?" asked the Prince quietly, after a pause. "What you have to say to me is, then, very bad?"
"No, your highness, not therefore did I delay," cried the baron, with feeling. "Your appearance bewildered me, because it pleased me so much. I have not seen your highness for three years. You were then hardly fifteen years old, a noble, promising boy, and now I behold you with rapture and delight, seeing that all our expectations have been fulfilled, and that out of the boy has grown a strong, noble, and serious young man. Yes, Prince, I read it in your countenance, your unhappy fatherland, your unhappy, much-to-be-pitied Brandenburgers, may look with trust and confidence to the future, for you will save and rescue them."
"Save them from what? Rescue them from what?" asked the Prince, in cold and measured phrase. "Why do you call my fatherland unhappy, and why do you say that the Brandenburgers are to be pitied? Is not my fatherland, for doubtless you do not mean Germany, but my special fatherland, in which I have been born and reared, is not the Mark Brandenburg now quite happy and peaceful, as it has been for some years past, since it is again under the Emperor's protection and favor, in pleasant neutrality between the two inimical parties? And as to my good Brandenburgers, I can not imagine how you can call them so much to be pitied when Count Adam von Schwarzenberg is still Stadtholder in the Mark—Count Adam von Schwarzenberg, who certainly must have the good of Brandenburg at heart, since he knows how much my father loves him and trusts to him. He will always show himself worthy of confidence, I doubt not, and I have the highest respect for my father's great and wise minister."
"Ah! your highness mistrusts me," cried Marwitz with an expression of pain. "Your highness takes me for one of Schwarzenberg's adherents."
"No, I take you for what you are, the messenger and emissary of my father, the Elector of Brandenburg."
"Your highness would thereby say that this messenger and emissary has consequently received his orders from Count Schwarzenberg, because the count is really lord of the Mark and the Elector's right hand. I read in your countenance that you do so, and that therefore you mistrust me. But I swear to you, Prince, you may believe in my honest, upright intentions—you may believe that what I say is in solemn earnest."
"I believe it, certainly I believe it," said the Prince. "You have undertaken the commissions of the Elector and his Minister Schwarzenberg; naturally you will be in earnest in executing them."
"Prince, I have undertaken the commissions, the behests of the Elector; but from himself and not from his minister did I obtain them. I have sworn to execute them, and do you know why?"
"Why? Simply because you are your master's obedient servant."
"No, Prince, because I am a faithful servant of my country, and because I have a heart to feel for her affliction and distress. The Elector has commanded me to travel to The Hague, and to convey his strict injunction to the Electoral Prince that he shall immediately set out and return home to Berlin. The Elector bids me say to your highness that he has committed to me five thousand dollars to defray the expenses of your journey back and for the liquidation of the most pressing debts. Should this sum not suffice, then am I empowered, in the name of his Electoral Highness, to give security for the payment of the other debts, and your highness is so to arrange your journey that your suite may follow in the least expensive way possible. I was to urge on you seriously and decidedly the propriety of departure, and your father bids me state to you that he has his own peculiarly strong reasons for esteeming a further sojourn in Holland neither safe, profitable, nor reputable. I was to assure your highness that you were not to be recalled, in order to be forced into a repulsive marriage. At the same time, the Elector desires that you return unembarrassed by engagements, and that you by no means entangle yourself by marriage without his knowledge and consent, for to such a union would the Elector not agree, nor ratify it."[18]
"Is that all you have to say to me?" asked the Prince, when Marwitz was silent.
"Prince, it is all I have to say to you in the Elector's name, and I have herewith executed the commission intrusted to me. But I have something still to add. I have still to execute the commissions given me by your future land, by your future subjects. I have to transmit to you the tears of the wretched, the sighs of the impoverished, the cries of the despairing, the agonized shriek of all the provinces, all the towns, all the villages, houses, and huts in the Mark. Prince, from the depth of their affliction all hearts uplift themselves to you; in the midst of their despair, the oppressed, the downtrodden, the tormented all venture to hope in you, and in spirit they kneel before you and with outstretched hands entreat you, as I do now, 'Pity our distress, future Elector of Brandenburg, have compassion upon the lands and provinces which shall one day constitute your state. Turn not a deaf ear to the prayers, the hopes of your future subjects.'"
Marwitz had sunk upon the floor, and stretched his clasped hands out to the Prince, who looked thoughtfully into his excited face.
"And what would my future subjects have, what do they desire of me?"
"That you forthwith, without delay, return to the Mark by the speediest way possible."
"I?" cried the Electoral Prince, with a mocking smile. "Your wishes and entreaties, and those of the Brandenburgers, coincide very exactly with my father's orders!"
"Yes, they do coincide, but spring from different motives. Prince, we implore, we entreat you to return; no longer give us over to the caprice, the villainy, the tyranny and avarice of Count von Schwarzenberg. He is the evil demon of your father, of your country. Come home and frighten him away!"
The Prince started, and for a moment a deep glow suffused his pale countenance. His look penetrated deeper into the baron's uplifted, beseeching eyes, as if through them he would read into the very depths of his heart.
"Stand up, Marwitz," he said, after a long pause—"stand up, for you are too old and too venerable to kneel before so young a man as myself. Else, sit down near me, and explain your words more clearly. What good can my return home do, and how think you that I can benefit the land? And first and foremost, why do you call Count Schwarzenberg the evil demon of my father and his country?"
"Permit me, your highness, to answer the last question first, and thus will you understand the rest. Count Schwarzenberg is answerable for all the distress, wretchedness, and misery which envelop the Mark, Prussia, indeed all parts of your devastated and distracted land, for he acts contrary to the true interests of the Elector and his land, being wholly devoted to the interests of his own master, the Emperor of Germany. To this end all is worked and manoeuvred, with this aim all efforts are undertaken, to ruin Brandenburg, and take from it all power and consideration, yea, all hope, in order that it may be rendered dependent upon the Emperor and empire, and become less dangerous. For the benefit of the Emperor, and to the detriment of the Elector and his land, has Count Schwarzenberg concluded the treaty of Prague. Up to that time Brandenburg was the ally of Sweden, now it is neutral—that is to say, it is the prey of both parties; it is visited, laid under contribution, and plundered by the Swedish and Imperialist troops, and can apply for redress to no one, expect aid from no one. With each day the misery increases more and more. All trade and commerce languish; in the country the fields remain untilled, in the towns the artisans are unemployed, nobody finds work or wages. Hunger and want, and in their retinue sickness and death, daily demand hundreds of victims. The Swede has possession of your rightful heritage, Pomerania, and the Imperialists press to invade the Pomeranian towns and lay them under contribution, without thinking of leaving the vanquished cities wherewithal to pay tribute to their Sovereign, the Elector of Brandenburg. Imperialist is to become the whole Mark, the whole of Pomerania and Prussia, Westphalia and the duchy of Cleves. Imperialist and Catholic—that is Count Schwarzenberg's plan, and with cruel consistency he puts in motion everything that can conduce to its accomplishment. To prevent the recovery, the prosperity of Prussia and the Mark is the aim of all his policy. He exhausts the land, and yet more than the enemy plunders and taxes the towns, enriching himself through the blood and tears of the tortured citizens and hungry peasantry, living in luxury and splendor, while the Elector is suffering want, while his land is starved and unproductive."
"Abominable! horrible!" groaned the Electoral Prince, covering his face with both his hands, probably to conceal from Marwitz the tears which stood in his eyes.
"Prince," cried Marwitz joyfully, "you are moved! The afflictions of your country touch your noble heart! Oh, may God be with you in this hour, and strengthen you for noble and great resolves!"
"What do you require of me?" asked the Prince, after a pause, slowly withdrawing his hands from his livid face. "What can I do?"
"You can come home, Prince, come home to the unhappy land whose future lord you are by the appointment of God. Your mere presence will be a comfort to the unhappy, a terror to Schwarzenberg. On you rest the hopes of all patriots. You are the standard around whom they rally, the banner to which they look up in hope and patience, for which, if needs be, they will battle to the last drop of their blood. You furnish us all with a center and support, perhaps even your father himself, who maybe sometimes fears his own almighty minister, certainly your mother, who longs for her son as her stay and support! Prince, one more last word. I say it with hesitation, I would not even intrust it to the air, and yet it must be spoken—Prince, the power of Count Schwarzenberg over your father's heart is great, and—and—Count Schwarzenberg is a believing Catholic! It would be a new pillar to his might if the Elector—"
"Hush, hush!" interrupted the Electoral Prince, jumping up from his seat. "Not another word! You are right, the very air itself may not hear such words! Bury them in your heart and never again utter them! These are fearful tidings, which you have brought me, Marwitz, and my heart is bitterly, painfully moved by them, so that for an instant I—"
"Oh, my beloved young master," entreated Marwitz, "let not your heart be merely touched by them, but be inspired and sanctified. Embrace a high noble decision. Conquer yourself, and—"
With uplifted hand the Electoral Prince beckoned him to be silent, and with rapid step and head sunk he paced up and down the apartment. Then all at once he stopped, and, quickly raising his head, asked, "Where is Leuchtmar? Why did he not come with you?"
"I know not, Prince—he told me he could not dare to appear in your presence; he—"
"Ah! that is true," said the Prince mournfully; "we have not seen each other since—I beg of you, Marwitz, to go and fetch Leuchtmar to me."
The baron made haste to execute the Prince's mandate. Frederick William looked after him until the door closed behind him. Then his large, moist eyes were slowly upraised to heaven, and his trembling lips murmured: "Oh, how young I am yet, and how much I have still to learn! Help me, my God, that I may have the needed strength!"
Again the door opened, and Marwitz entered, followed by Leuchtmar, who remained standing at the door. The Electoral Prince looked at him with questioning glances, and ever brighter became his brow, ever more cheerful his aspect. And all at once he spread out his arms, and in a tone of most heartfelt love, most tender pleading, called out, "My beloved teacher! come to my arms!"
Leuchtmar sprang forward with a cry of joy. The Prince tenderly fell on his neck and pressed him closely to his breast.
"Oh," he murmured softly, "my friend, I have suffered much, and still suffer. Forgive me on account of my pain!"
And he leaned his head on Leuchtmar's shoulder and wept bitterly. A long pause ensued. No one of the three could interrupt it, for speech remained locked upon the trembling lips of all, and only their tears, their sighs spoke. Then the door slowly opened, and the private secretary, Müller, appeared upon the threshold. For a moment he stood still, and looked with quivering lips upon the Prince, who was just slowly extricating himself from Leuchtmar's embrace, then he stepped resolutely forward.
"Your highness," he said, "forgive me for venturing to intrude my presence here, without having been summoned. But old Dietrich dared not take the step which I do now, and so the responsibility rests upon myself alone."
"And what is it?" asked the Prince. "What brings you to me, my dear, true friend?"
"He calls me his dear, true friend!" rejoiced Müller.
"All is right again, then—all is in order! We are not dismissed—we are not sent home!"
"You may be, after all, my old friend," said the Electoral Prince, with a feeble smile. "But what would you say to me? What sort of responsibility have you taken upon yourself?"
"Prince, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of admitting into your cabinet the veiled lady who has just come, and of requesting you to grant her the audience for which she has been besieging Dietrich with tears and lamentations. Dietrich, however, would not hear to it, and the lady continually called for Eberhard to come—Eberhard must lead her to the Prince. But, as Dietrich says, this is not Eberhard's week of service, so that he can not enter here. I was attracted to the antechamber by the loud conversation, and now the lady turned upon me, and pleaded so touchingly and so eloquently, that I could not refuse to grant her request. Your highness, I have conducted the lady into your cabinet, and she awaits you there."
"But, Müller," cried Baron Leuchtmar despairingly, "what have you done?
How could you be so inconsiderate?"
The old man drew himself up, and his mild eye grew angry. "Inconsiderate! I was not at all inconsiderate, Baron Leuchtmar. On the contrary, I thought it would be unworthy of a noble Prince to allow a woman to plead in vain, and I thought, moreover, that Hercules would never have become a hero if he had not had the valor to meet the women who greeted him at the crossing of the roads."
"You have done right, Müller," said Frederick William, with a faint smile; "it will be seen whether Hercules was perhaps my forefather. I shall speak to the lady. Wait for me here."
He crossed the apartment hastily, and entered his cabinet. In the center of the room stood a veiled female form. The Prince, however, recognized her, although her face could not be seen, for he knew her by her pretty coquettish costume to be the Princess Ludovicka's French chambermaid, and he stepped quickly up to her.
"I thought that it was you, Alice," he said softly, "and I have therefore come to tell you to—"
With sudden movement she tore back her veil, and before the pale, beautiful countenance thereby revealed the Prince stepped back, as pale as death.
"You yourself?" he murmured. "You, Ludovicka?"
"Yes, I, Ludovicka! I come here in my maid's dress," said she, in a voice trembling with pain and emotion. "I come to you, my beloved, to ask you whether you will desert me, leaving me in despair, affliction, and heart-sickness? O Frederick, Frederick! how fearfully have I suffered this night!"
"And I?" murmured he softly. "Have I not suffered too?"
"No," she cried, "you have not suffered as I did, for you love me not as I love you—you love me not more than your life, your honor, your fatherland! You will abandon and forsake me, because it is France that has offered us aid! Oh, you are a cold, heartless man, as all men are, and yet I love you so much and can not live without you! Frederick William, you will not go with me to France—well then, I will go with you, wherever you will. I cleave to you—I will stay with you! Let shame and ignominy be my fate, let my mother curse me, let all the world despise me and call me your mistress, I will stay with you, for I love you and can not live without you!"
Passionately she extended her arms to him, love flaming in her glances.
But a darker shadow flitted across the Prince's face, and he shrank back.
"God forbid, Ludovicka," he said, "that misery and shame should ever come to you through me, that your mother should curse you for my sake! We are both yet children, Ludovicka. I felt right painfully last night that the first duty of children is to obey and reverence their parents. Let us do our duty, Ludovicka!"
"That is," replied she with swelling rage—"that is to say, you give me up? They have overcome your opposition, they have brought you back to obedience, to subjection?"
"No other than myself has done it, Ludovicka."
"You? You give me up? Voluntarily? And yet you swore that you loved me and me alone of all the world?"
"And I swore truly, Ludovicka. I love you boundlessly!"
"And yet you will forsake me?"
"Yet I must do so, beloved! I must forsake you, but God alone, who has witnessed my tortures this past night, knows what I suffer. My father is solitary, my fatherland calls to me, and the first thing that I sacrifice on its altar is my love for you. I can not marry you, Ludovicka, and God forbid that I should accept your love without marriage!"
"Words, nothing but words!" cried she indignantly. "You would palliate your unfaithfulness, represent your fickleness of mind as magnanimity! But I hear only one thing in your words—you give me up, you renounce your love?"
"Yes!" he cried with a loud scream of pain—"yes, I renounce my love!"
"Vengeance upon you for it!" cried she, in flaming wrath. "I, Ludovicka
Hollandine, cry vengeance upon you, for you break my heart!"
"And you will have no compassion? You will not see what I suffer? Ludovicka, look! Look in my eyes, they wept out last night the pains of a whole life—see what I suffer! Ludovicka, on my knees I beseech you, if you really love me, then have pity upon me—for the sake of my agony forgive me what you suffer!"
And beside himself with emotion, he fell upon his knees, lifting up to her his clasped hands and his face that was bathed in tears.
But now it was she who shrank back. "No," said she harshly and severely, "no, no compassion, no forgiveness! I do not love you, I have never loved you, for you are a foolish boy, and know nothing of the glow of passion! You are a child! Go away and act like a child, and be an obedient son! Love rejects you! love turns from you!" And waving him off with both hands, the Princess turned and walked to the door. Frederick William, still upon his knees, heard her quickly retreating steps, but did not rise. Ludovicka had already stretched out her hand to open the door; but she turned round once more, and in tones of mingled love and grief cried, "Frederick, will you let me go?"
He did not answer, his head sank lower, and a painful groan forced itself from his breast. She opened the door—he heard it—he saw the streak of light that crossed the room through the open door, it vanished—the door had closed. Then was wrung from the Prince's breast a shriek of agony such as only issues from the lips of man under the pressure of earth's sharpest pangs.
The three gentlemen were yet assembled in the Prince's drawing room, conversing and imparting to one another their fears and hopes. All at once the door of the cabinet opened and the Electoral Prince entered. Pale as death, but with firm, determined features, he stepped up to the three gentlemen, who looked at him with tender, anxious glances.
"Marwitz," he said, "you can this very day set out on your return to
Berlin, for your mission is fulfilled. Say to my father that as an
obedient son I submit to his wishes, and shall forthwith depart for
Berlin."
The three gentlemen only answered him by a single cry of joy, and, animated by one feeling, one inspiration, sank upon their knees and prayed aloud, "Bless, O God! bless the Prince, who has conquered himself!"
"What is going on here?" asked a loud manly voice behind them. "What means this? Three gentlemen on their knees, and my young cousin looking on like the Knight St. George!"
"And so he is, Prince of Orange," cried Baron Leuchtmar, rising and advancing to meet the Prince, who had come in unannounced, as was his wont at the house of his cousin. "Yes, he is a Knight St. George, who has conquered the dragon. You know, Prince Henry, how sweetly they have enticed him, with what magic chains they have been encircling him. You know the Media Nocte and"—added he softly—"the Princess Ludovicka."
"Well, and what more now?" asked the Prince, with eager interest. "Not much, cousin," said Frederick William, with a melancholy smile. "I must bid you farewell. I owe it to my parents, to my honor, and my country, forthwith to leave The Hague!"[19]
"Bravo, cousin, bravo!" cried Henry of Orange. "You flee from danger and escape from temptation. That is to be called heroism, and herewith you have as truly conquered a citadel as when I vanquished Breda!"
"Believe me too, cousin," said Frederick William, while he leaned upon the
Prince's heroic breast—"believe me, that this victory has cost much blood and many tears."