No one remained in the drawing-room but Cagliostro and the beautiful woman who still lay quietly on the couch, upon the throne. Cagliostro approached her, and, raising the veil, regarded her a moment, with an expression of the most passionate tenderness: “We are alone, Lorenza,” said he. She opened her great eyes, and looked around the dimly-lighted room; then, fixing them upon Cagliostro, who stood before her in his brilliant costume of magician, she burst into a merry laugh, so loud and so irresistible, that Cagliostro was seized involuntarily, and joined her.
“Oh! was it not heavenly, was it not a glorious comedy, and did I not play divinely, Joseph? Was I not bewitching as the goddess of Nature?”
“You looked truly like a goddess, Lorenza, and there is nothing more beautiful than you, in heaven or upon earth. But come, my enchantress, it is time to break up, as we are to set off early to-morrow morning.”
“Have we now much money? Was the tribute richly paid?”
“Yes, we have a hundred louis d’ors and a diamond ring from the mistress of this house.”
“Give it to me,” cried Lorenza.
“Not the ring, Lorenza, but the diamond, so soon as I have a false stone set in the ring—which I must keep as a ring in the chain which will bind this woman to our cause.”
“Was I not astonishingly like her? Was it not almost unmistakable?”
“Yes, wonderfully deceptive. I shuddered myself as I saw the dagger pointed at your bosom.”
“And the blood, how it gushed forth, Joseph!” Lorenza burst into a merry laugh again, and Cagliostro joined her, but suddenly stopped, and, listening, turned toward the door, which he had closed after Bischofswerder departed. It seemed as if he heard a noise—a peculiar knocking. Four times it was repeated, and Cagliostro waved his hand to Lorenza not to speak. Again were heard the four peculiar rhythmical sounds. “Be quiet, for Heaven’s sake be quiet, Lorenza! Let me cover you with the veil; it is a messenger from the Invisibles.” Cagliostro flew to the door, unbolted it, and stood humbly near the entrance. A masked figure, enveloped in a cloak, opened it, and entered, rebolting it.
Slowly turning toward Cagliostro, he harshly demanded, “Whose servant are you?”
“The servant of the Invisible Rulers and Fathers,” he humbly answered.
“Who are the Invisible Fathers?”
“The four ambassadors of the great general of the exiles.”
“Call him by that name which he bore before a heretic pope in Rome, a weak empress, a free-thinking emperor in Germany, a lost-in-sin French emperor, and a heretic Spanish minister, condemned him to banishment and destruction.”
“General of the Jesuits,” he answered respectfully, bowing lower.
“Do you know the sign by which he may be recognized?”
“Yes, by a ring with the likeness of the founder of the order, the holy Ignatius Loyola.”
“Then look, and recognize me,” cried the mask, extending his hand to Cagliostro.
“The General,” he murmured, frightened, gazing at the ring upon the small, white hand of the other. “The holy founder of the order himself!” He seized his hand and pressed it to his lips, sinking upon his knees. The mask remained standing before the magician, as lowly as he might bow himself, who was still arrayed in his brilliant costume with the band upon his brow sparkling like diamonds.
With a cold, reserved manner he answered, “I am he, and am come here to give you my commands by word of mouth.”
“Command me; I am thy humble servant, and but a weak tool in thy hands.”
“It is my will that you should become a powerful tool in my hands. Rise, for I will speak to the man who must stand erect in the storm. Rise!” The proud commander was now an humble, obedient servant. He rose slowly, standing with bowed head.
“When and where did we last meet?” demanded the mask.
“In 1773, at Rome.”
“In the year of curse and blasphemy,” said the mask, in a harsh voice. “The year in which the infamous Pope Clement XVI. condemned the holy order, and hurled his famous bull, Dominus redemptor noster. The holy order, condemned and disbanded by his infamous mouth, were changed into holy martyrs, without country, without possessions or rights, as persecuted fugitives, wandering around the world, to the wicked a scorn, to the pious a lamentable example of virtue and constancy. Exiled and persecuted, you fled to a house of one of our order, and there we for the first time met. The daughter of this man was your beloved. Tell me why did you conceal yourself after flying from Palermo? I will see if the elevated one ungratefully forgets the days of his degradation.”
“They accused me in Palermo of falsifying documents by which rightful owners were deprived of their lawful possessions. They threw me into subterranean dungeons, and I was near dying, when the Invisible Protectors rescued me.”
“Was the accusation well founded? Had you committed the crime you were accused of?”
“Yes,” answered Cagliostro, in a low voice, “I was guilty.”
“For whom, by whose authority?”
“For the pious fathers, who commanded me, and whose pretensions to the possessions of the Duc Costa Rica were clearly proved by those documents.”
“You then learned the power and the gratitude of our order. From underground prisons they freed you, and procured a way of escape to Rome, to find a safe asylum in the house of a believer. But just at that time condemnation burst upon us, and from a powerful order we were changed into a persecuted one. The forger Joseph Balsamo sought the brazier Feliciano, who gave him money, letters of recommendation, and instructed him how to serve the order, and procure an agreeable life for himself. Is it not so?”
“It is so,” answered Cagliostro, softly. “It was the order of the General which united you in marriage to your beloved Lorenza Feliciana, who initiated you in the secret sciences and the secrets of Nature, that you might employ them for the well-being of humanity.”
“It is so, master.”
“You implored also, as you were about to separate, to see the face of your benefactor, to engrave it upon your heart. Would you now be able to recognize it?”
“I could in an instant, among thousands.”
The General slowly raised the mask; a pale, emaciated face was visible, with great black eyes in sunken sockets, thin bloodless lips, and a high, bony brow. “Do you recognize me?”
“No!” sadly answered Cagliostro, “it is not the same face.”
“You see, my son, man changes, but knowledge not. I am another, and yet the same, for the outward human form is only the vessel of the eternal band into which everlasting truth and the holy doctrines are poured. If the vessel breaks, it is replaced by another, and an inexhaustible spring. Thought and holy knowledge flow into the renewed vessel. I am a new vessel, but the same spirit which formerly spoke to you. I know your past life, and for what purpose you are in the world. As the General then spoke to you, so speak I now. The unholy have put the holy under a ban—they have persecuted and condemned us. The Holy Order of the Fathers of Jesus is lifeless before the world, but not before God. Jesuits do not die, for they bear eternal life in them, and there will a day come when they will burst forth from darkness into light. Go, my son, and help prepare the day, help smooth the way, that we may walk therein. Have you obeyed?”
“I have consecrated my whole life to it, your eminence. I have wandered around the world, and everywhere striven to disseminate the doctrine of the Invisible Fathers, and win disciples and adherents to the order. The Brothers of the Egyptian Masons, the Brothers of the Rosicrucians, are the disciples which I have won, and you know well there are many mighty and illustrious men among them.”
“I know it, and I am satisfied you are an active and useful tool. This I came to tell you, that I might stimulate and advise you. Great deeds you shall perform, great achievements the holy Ignatius Loyola announces by my mouth. The world lies in sin, and the devil strides victorious over it, since the holy order has been proscribed and persecuted by the wicked. The devil is arrogant progress and boasting reason. They who listen to him think themselves wise when they are fools, and speak of their enlightenment while they still wander in the dark. To combat this reason, to oppose this intelligence, is the task of our order, which will never die. For God Sent it forth to the world to fight the devil of progress, who is the ruler of darkness. I have observed you, I have followed you, and I am satisfied. But I await still greater things from you.”
“What shall it be? Speak, O master; command, and I obey!”
“You shall strive throughout Europe for the restitution of the holy order. You shall subject to it all minds; make the rich, the powerful, the eminent and great, serviceable to it. Into the Orders of the Rosicrucians and Egyptian Masons you shall gather all the stray and isolated sheep into a flock, to await with longing the coming of the shepherd, and prepare a place for him. To the holy Church you shall consecrate the band of brothers, the only blessed Church, which is the lofty abode of the father of our order. To us belongs the world; you shall assist to reconquer it. Unbelievers shall be fought with every weapon. Every deception, slander, persecution, and murder, are holy if used for the benefit of the holy order. You shall shrink from nothing which is useful and beneficial for the sublime goal. The murder of a prince is no sin, but a just punishment, when it is necessary to remove a mighty enemy. If you create revolutions, cause nations to tear each other to pieces in grim civil war, these revolutions will be sanctified, the civil wars blessed, if they serve to strengthen the power of our order, and gain victory at last against the opponents. Only through our order can happiness reenter the world, and mankind be rescued. If the Holy Fathers do not sit in the council of princes, if they are not the conscience of the powerful, and steer the machine of state, the world goes to destruction, and mankind is lost. You shall help, my son, to turn aside the evil, and prepare happiness for earth. You have already done much, but much more is required. Go and work miracles; belief in them sanctifies the mind. Our fathers will sustain you everywhere, for you well know they are always present, though it is imagined they are not. The infamous Ganganelli has stripped them of their uniform, but not annihilated them, as we are, and ever shall be. I have sent out nine thousand brothers in Europe for the benefit of the order, and you will recognize them by the watchword. They will serve you as you will serve them. If danger menaces you, our brothers will know it, and rescue you. You will be unassailable, so long as you work for the order, and win disciples for it. Prussia is our important station as you rightly judged, and I extol you for your foresight. You prepare the future, for here it will be! When the royal mocker of religion dies, then comes a new kingdom, and the Rosicrucians will rise to power. Vices as well as virtues must serve us; therefore Dischofswerder and Wilhelmine Enke are useful means for holy purposes. That you have recognized it I praise you. Continue, my son, as you have begun, and you shall become powerful upon the earth. Not a hair of your head shall be touched so long as you are faithful to the Invisible Fathers. But so soon as you turn traitor to the holy cause you are lost, and our anger will crush you!”
“Never will I turn traitor,” cried Cagliostro, holding up his hands as if taking an oath.
“I hope not. Our enemies shall be your enemies, and our friends your friends. If one of the brothers orders you in my name, ‘Kill this man or that woman,’ so kill them! Swear it!”
Shuddering, Cagliostro repeated, “I swear it!”
“As soon as one of the brothers orders you, in my name, ‘Rescue this man or that woman,’ so do every thing; even risk and sacrifice your life to rescue him.”
“I swear it.”
“You stand in the holy temple of the order, but also under its avenging sword. Be mindful of it in all your acts. The world is open to you, and our influence will be with you everywhere. You shall win the hearts of the great and the mighty to us, and place the Order of the Rosicrucians on the steps of the throne. The Great Kophta shall lead believers to us.”
“The Great Kophta will perform all that you command, as he is only the humble servant of his general,” said Cagliostro, kissing the hand extended to him.
“Do not kiss the hand, it is only that of an inferior mortal: kiss the ring, for it is the imperishable sign of our immortal saint.”
“I kiss the ring of the immortal Ignatius Loyola, and swear eternal fidelity, constant obedience, and firm love, until death.”
“Rise! for the time has come for us to separate. I have provided for the journeys the necessary means. Here are letters of recommendation to Warsaw and Mittau, others to Paris and London; but, the most important of all, letters of credit upon well-known bankers to the value of five hundred thousand dollars—all valid, though delivered years hence.”
“A half million!” cried Cagliostro, almost terrified.
“Does a half million astonish you?” repeated the General, and his gray, fleshless face was distorted into a smile. “The Great Kophta must travel and live like a prince, that he may dazzle the eyes of the brothers, and subjugate the minds of the powerful. We give you the money, but remember you are always under the watchful eye of the order, and there is no spot on earth where you can hide yourself from our vengeance with the trust confided in you. You shall spend it to buy souls and win thrones, for hearts and consciences are sold; money will buy every thing. Take your letters of credit; you shall live as a great lord, and the Great Kophta shall be equal with princes.”
He handed Cagliostro five sealed letters, saying: “They are made out for five years; only one for each year, as the number indicates. Number one is for this year, and number five is only valid at the expiration of five years. The order is mindful of your security, and thus five years of your life are freed from earthly care. You shall work in spirit, and you shall enchant the world, that it may be saved through the only saving Church, and the Holy Order.”
He bowed a farewell, making the sign of the cross upon Cagliostro, and bent his steps to the throne, raising the veil which enveloped Lorenza. She looked up to him with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, smiling. By this she would express her thanks for the princely gift to her husband, and swear to the General her delight, her fidelity, and love. He regarded her as coldly and calmly as a physician a patient.
“Yes, holy father, I have heard all,” she said, with a sweet, flute-like voice. “My heart is filled with gratitude and emotion.”
“Prove it by assisting your husband to attain the goal for which we send him forth. I have already said that vice must serve virtue, Lorenza. Beauty is a power, and if it serves holy purposes, so is it sanctified. Employ your beauty to win adherents to the order, and extend the power of the Rosicrucians in every land, and among all nations.”
“I swear that this shall be my holiest endeavor,” cried Lorenza, rising.
The General pressed her back upon the pillow, saying: “Remain, for there is no one here for you to enchant. I bring you pardon for your sins, and an indulgence for every sin which you will commit, if you swear to serve faithfully the holy Church and the pious fathers of Jesus.”
“I swear,” solemnly cried Lorenza.
“Here is the letter of indulgence from Pius VI. himself, made out in your name for you. Take it, and perform your duty.” He laid down the parchment provided with the papal seal upon her shoulder, and drawing the veil over her made the sign of the cross, saying, “I bless you, and give you absolution for your sins.”
“Bless me also, lord and master,” cried Cagliostro, kneeling upon the lowest step to the throne.
“I bless you in the name of Loyola. Remain upon your knees, and follow me not.” He extended his hands over him, and blessed him, then slowly withdrew.
The first beams of the morning sun shone through the great window-panes, lighting up with its golden rays Cagliostro’s kneeling form. He remained with his head bowed until the General had passed out. “He is gone; Heaven be praised, he is gone!”
“Yes, he is gone,” repeated Lorenza, springing from the couch. “Is it true, has he given you half a million?”
Cagliostro held up with triumphant air the letters. “See, these addresses are upon the first banking-houses in Rome, Paris, London, and Berlin!”
“Do you believe that they are genuine?”
“I am convinced of it.”
“Then we have attained our aim; we are rich and powerful.”
“No,” answered Cagliostro, mournfully, “we are poorer than ever. This money makes us slaves, makes us dependent tools. Did you not hear him say, ‘You are admitted into the Temple, but the avenging sword of the order everywhere hangs over you.’”
“Wife,” cried the General von Werrig, limping around the room, leaning upon his crutch, “here is the answer from our most gracious lord and king. The courier arrived to-day from the war department, and sent it to me by an express.”
“What is the king’s answer?” asked the general’s wife, a pale, gaunt woman, with a pock-marked face, harsh, severe features, dull gray eyes, which never beamed with emotion, and thin, bloodless lips, upon which a smile never played. “What is the king’s answer?” she repeated, in a rough voice, as her husband, puffing and blowing from the effort of walking, sank down upon a chair, and dried his fat, ruby face with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
“I have not read it,” panted the old man. “I thought I would leave the honor to you, as you, my very learned wife, wrote the letter to his majesty.”
His wife was not in the least astonished at this thoughtful conduct of her husband. She impetuously seized the sealed document, and, retiring to the window-niche, slowly unfolded it, whilst the old general fixed his little gray eyes upon her emotionless face. His own was bloated and red, expressing the greatest anxiety and expectation. Perfect stillness reigned for some minutes, only the regular strokes of the pendulum were heard from the clock on the wall; and, as the hands pointed to the expiration of the hour, a cuckoo sprang out of the tree painted over the dial, and eleven times her hoarse, croaking voice was heard.
“It gets every day more out of tune,” growled the general, as he looked up to the old, yellow dial, and ran his eye over the cords which supported the weights. Then glancing around the room, he saw everywhere age, decay, and indigence. There was an old divan, with a patched, faded covering of silk, and a grandfather’s arm-chair near it, the cushion of which the general knew, by the long years of experience, to be hard as a stone. A round table stood near the divan, covered with a shabby woollen cover, to hide the much-thumbed, dull polish. A few cane-chairs against the wall, an old black-oak wardrobe near the door, and the sewing-table of Madame von Werrig in the window-niche, completed the furniture of the room. At the window hung faded woollen curtains, and on the green painted walls some pictures and portraits, conspicuous among them a beautiful portrait of the king, painted on copper, which represented Frederick in his youthful beauty. It was a morose, sullen-looking room, arranged most certainly by its feminine occupant, and harmonized exactly with her fretful face and angular figure, void of charms. At last the general broke the silence with submissive voice: “I pray you, Clotilda, tell me what the king wrote.”
She folded the paper, joy beaming in her eyes. “Granted! every thing granted!”
The general jumped up to embrace his wife with youthful activity, in spite of the gout. “You are a capital wife,” he cried, at the same time giving her a loud, smacking kiss upon her cold, gray cheek. “It was the brightest, cleverest act of my life marrying you, Clotilda.”
“I might well say the reverse, Emerentius,” she replied, complainingly. “It surely was not sensible for me, a young lady from such a genteel family, and so spoiled, to marry an officer whom the king ennobled upon the battle-field, and who possessed nothing but his captain’s pay—a fickle man, and a gambler, too.”
“Yes, Clotilda, love usurped reason,” soothingly replied the general; “love is your excuse.”
“Nonsense!” cried Madame von Werrig. “Love is never an excuse; it is folly.”
“Well, let us suppose, then, that you did not marry for love, only from pure reason, because you found that it was quite time to espouse some one; and that, in spite of your many ancestors and genteel family, no other chance was offered you, unfortunately no one but this captain, whom the king ennobled upon the battle-field of Leuthen on account of his bravery, and who was a very handsome, agreeable officer, expecting still further promotion. And you were not deceived. I was major, when the Hubertsburger treaty put an end to a gay war-life. You will remember I was advanced during peace; his majesty did not forget that I cut a way for him through the enemy, and he made me lieutenant-colonel and colonel, when I was obliged to resign on account of this infamous gout, and then I received the title of general.”
“Without ‘excellency,’” replied his wife, dryly. “I have not even this pleasure to be called ‘excellency.’ It would have been a slight compensation for my sad, miserable existence, and vexed many of the female friends of my youth if they had been obliged to call me ‘excellency.’ But my marriage brought me only cares, not even a title.”
“Do not forget a lovely daughter, Clotilda. Our Marie is beautiful, wise, and good, and through her you will yet have tranquil happiness. For you say the king has granted all we wish.”
“Every thing!” repeated the wife, with emphasis. “We have at last finished with want and care, and can count upon an independent, quiet old age, for God has been gracious, and forced you, from the gout, to give up gambling, and we are freed from the misery which has so often threatened us from your unhappy passion.”
“At the beginning, I played from passion; afterward, I only played to win back what I had lost.”
“And in that manner played away all we possessed, and played upon your word of honor, so that for years the half of our pension went to pay your gambling-debts. Heaven be thanked, the king did not know it, or we would have experienced still worse!”
“I pray you, beloved Clotilda, do not fret yourself needlessly about the past; it is all over, and, as you say, I am unfortunately a prisoner in the house from the gout, which shields me from the temptation.”
“I did not say unfortunately; I said ‘Heaven be praised, the gout had put an end to your fickle life.’”
“Then, thank Heaven, my dear; we will not quarrel about it. It is past, and, as the king has granted all, we shall have a pleasant life now.”
“We will soon receive from our son-in-law a yearly pension, which will be paid to me, and I shall spend it.”
The general sighed. “In that case I fear that I shall not get much of it.”
“At any rate, more than I have ever received from your pension.”
“There is but one thing wanting,” replied the general, evasively, “Marie’s consent.”
Madame von Werrig gave a short, gruff laugh, which did not in the least brighten her sullen face. “We will not ask her consent, but command it.”
The general remarked, timidly, shrugging his shoulders, “Marie had a very decided character, and—”
“What do you hesitate to speak out for? What—and—”
“I think she still loves the Conrector Moritz.”
A second laugh, somewhat menacing, sounded like a challenge. “The schoolmaster!” she cried, contemptuously.
“Let her dare to tell me again she loves the schoolmaster; she the daughter of a general, and a native-born countess of the empire!”
“My dear, it was your fault—the only fault you ever committed, perhaps. How could you let such a young, handsome, and agreeable man come to the house as teacher to our daughter?”
“How could I suppose my daughter was so degenerated as to love a common schoolmaster, and wish to marry him?”
“It is truly unheard of, and it would make any one angry, my dear wife, for she insists upon loving him.”
“She will not insist, she will do what she is commanded to do—my word for it! But why talk about it? It is better to decide the matter at once.”
So Frau von Werrig rose with a determined manner, and rang the small brass bell which was upon the sofa-table. But a few seconds elapsed before a little, crooked servant appeared at the side-door, with her dirty apron put aside by tucking the corner in her belt. “Go to my daughter, and tell her to come down immediately!”
The servant, instead of hastening to obey the order, remained standing upon the threshold. “I dare not go,” said she, in a hoarse, croaking voice. “Fraulein told me not to disturb her to-day, for she has still two bouquets of flowers to arrange, and two lessons to give, and she is so busy that she is not at home to visitors. She torments herself from morning till night.”
“I order you to tell Fraulein to come down at once; we have something important to tell her. No contradiction! go, Trude!”
The servant understood the cold, commanding tone of the mother, and dared not disobey.
“It is nothing good that they have to tell her,” grumbled Trude, as she hurried up the stairs which led from the first story into the little, low room in the attic, under the sloping roof. Here and there a few tiles could be lifted, which lighted the garret sufficiently to show the door at the end. “May I come in, my dear Fraulein? it is Trude.”
“The door is open,” cried a sweet voice, and Trude entered. It is a most charming little room, just that of a young girl. The bed has a snow-white covering, and white curtains, suspended from a hook in the wall around it. The same curtains at the low gable-windows, whose depth, so to speak, made a light anteroom to the real gloomy one in the background. In this little anteroom the young girl had placed all that was necessary for her pleasure and use. There were the most beautiful, sweet-scented flowers upon the window-stool; in a pretty metal cage was a light-colored canary. There were also pretty engravings, and upon the table stood a vase filled with superb artificial flowers, and before it sat the possessor of this room, the daughter of General and Frau von Werrig, surrounded with her work-tools, paper, and colored materials—a young girl, scarcely twenty, of a proud, dignified appearance, but simply and gracefully dressed. According to the fashion of the day, her hair was slightly powdered, and raised high above her broad, clear brow with a blue rosette, and ends at the side. The nobly-formed and beautiful face was slightly flushed, and around the month was an expression of courageous energy. As old Trude entered, the young girl raised her eyes from the rose-bud which she was just finishing, and looked at her. What beautiful black eyes they were as they sparkled underneath the delicately-arched, black eyebrows!
“Now, old one,” said she, kindly, “what do you wish? Did you forget that I wanted to work undisturbed to-day?”
“Didn’t forget it, my Fraulein, but—”
“But you have forgotten that up here, in my attic-room, I am not your Fraulein, but your Marie, whom you have taken care of and watched over when a child, and whose best and truest friend you have been. Come, give me your hand, and tell me what you have to say.”
Old Trude shuffled hurriedly along in her leather slippers. Her old, homely face looked almost attractive, with its expression of glowing tenderness, as she regarded the beautiful, smiling face before her, and laid her hard brown hand in the little white one extended to her. “Marie,” she said, softly and anxiously, “you must go down at once to your mother and father. They have something very important to tell you.”
“Something very important!” repeated Marie, laying aside her work. “Do you know what it is?”
“Nothing good, I fear,” sighed the old woman. “A soldier has been here from the war department and brought a letter for the general, and he told me that it was sent from the king’s cabinet at Breslau.”
“Oh, Heaven! what does it mean?” cried Marie, frightened, and springing up. “Something is going to happen, I know. I have noticed certain expressions which escaped my father; the proud, threatening manner of my mother; but above all the bold importunity of that man, whom I despise as one detests vice, stupidity, and ennui. They will not believe that I hate him, that I rather—”
“Marie, are you not coming?” called the mother, with a commanding voice.
“I must obey,” she said, drawing a long breath, and hastening to the door, followed by Trude, who pulled her back and held her fast upon the very first step. “You have forbidden me to speak of him, but I must.”
Marie stood as if rooted to the spot, her face flushed, and in breathless expectation looking back to old Trude.
“Speak, Trude,” she softly murmured.
“Marie, I saw him to-day, an hour ago!”
“Where, Trude, where did you see him?”
“Over on the corner of Frederick Street, by the baker’s. He stood waiting for me, as he knows I always go there. He had been there two hours, and feared that I was not coming.”
“What did he say? Quick! what did he say?”
“He said that he was coming to see you to-day at twelve o’clock; that he would rather die than live in this way.”
“To-day? and you have just told me of it!”
“I did not mean to say any thing at all about it; I thought it would be better, and then you would not have to dissemble. But now, if any harm comes to you, you know he is coming, and will stand by you!”
“He will stand by me—yes, he will—”
“Marie!” cried her mother, and her dry, gaunt figure appeared at the foot of the stairs. Marie flew down to the sitting-room of her parents, following her mother, who took her place in the niche at the open window without speaking to her.
“Marie,” said the general’s wife, after seating herself upon the hard cushion of the divan, near which sat the general in his arm-chair, busily stroking his painful right leg—“Marie, take a chair, and sit near us.”
Marie noiselessly brought a cane-chair, and seated herself by the table, opposite her parents.
“We have just received a communication from the king’s cabinet,” said the mother, solemnly. “It is necessary that you should know the contents, and I will read it aloud to you. I expressly forbid you, however, to interrupt me while I am reading, in your impetuous manner, with your remarks, which are always of the most obstinate and disagreeable kind. You understand, do you, Marie?”
“Perfectly, mother; I will listen without interrupting you, according to your command.”
“This communication is naturally addressed to your father, as I wrote to the king in his name.”
“I did not know that you had written to his majesty at all, dear mother.”
The mother cast a furious glance at the gentle, decided face of her daughter. “You already forget my command and your promise to listen without interrupting me. I did, indeed, write to his majesty, but it is not necessary to tell you what I, or rather your father, solicited, as you will hear it in the answer from our most gracious king. It runs thus: ‘My faithful subject: I have received your petition, and I was glad to learn by this occasion that you are well, and that you now lead a steady, reasonable life. Formerly you gave good cause of complaint; for it is well known to me that you led a dissolute life, and your family suffered want and misfortune from your abominable chance-games. You know that I have twice paid your debts; that at the second time I gave you my royal word of assurance that I would never pay a groschen for you again. If you gave yourself up to the vice, and made gambling-debts, I would send you to the fortress at Spandau, and deprive you of your pension. Nevertheless you played again, and commenced your vicious life anew. Notwithstanding which, I did not send you to prison as I threatened, and as you deserved, because I remembered that you had been a brave soldier, and did me a good service at the battle of Leuthen. For this reason I now also grant your request, that, as you have no son, your name and coat-of-arms may descend to your son-in-law. The name of Werrig-Leuthen is well worthy to be preserved, and be an example to succeeding generations. I give my permission for Ludwig Ebenstreit, banker, to marry your daughter and only child, and—‘”
Marie uttered a cry of horror, and sprang from her seat. “Mother!—”
“Be still! I commanded you not to interrupt me, but listen, with becoming respect, to the end, to the words’ of his majesty.” And, with a louder voice, occasionally casting a severe, commanding glance at her daughter, she read on: “‘And call himself in future Ludwig Werrig von Leuthen. I wish that he should honor the new name, and prove himself a true nobleman. Ludwig Ebenstreit must give up, or sell, without delay, his banking business, as I cannot permit a nobleman to continue the business of citizen, and remain a merchant. A nobleman must either be a soldier or a landed proprietor; and if your future son-in-law will not be either, he can live upon his income, which must indeed be ample. But I command him to spend it in the country, not go to foreign countries to spend what he has gained in the country. If he should do it, it will not be well with him, and he shall be brought back by force. You may communicate this to him, and he can judge for himself. I will have the letters of nobility made out for him, for which he shall pay the sum of one hundred louis d’ors to the ‘Invalids’ at Berlin. It depends upon him whether as a true nobleman he will not give my poor ‘Invalids’ a greater sum. The marriage shall not take place until the letters of nobility have been published in the Berlin journals, for I do not wish the daughter of a general, and a countess, to marry beneath her. You can prepare every thing for the wedding, and let them be married as soon as publication has been made. I will give the bride a thousand thalers for a dowry, that she may not go to her rich husband penniless; the money will be paid to your daughter from the government treasury at her receipt. As ever I remain your well-disposed king, FREDERICK.’
“And here on the margin,” continued the general’s wife, looking over to her husband with malicious pleasure, “the king has written a few lines in his own hand: ‘I have given orders that the money shall be paid to your daughter in person, with her receipt for the same, for I know you, and know that you do not play, not because you have not the money, but the gout. If you had the cash and not the gout, you would play your daughter’s dowry to the devil, and that I do not wish, for a noble maiden should not marry a rich husband as poor as a church mouse. FREDERICK.’”
A profound stillness prevailed when the reading was finished. The general busied himself, as usual, rubbing his gouty leg with the palm of his hand. Marie sat with her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if she would force back the sighs and sobs which would break forth. Her great, black eyes were turned to her mother with an expression of painful terror, and she searched with a deathly anxiety for a trace of sympathy and mercy upon her cold, immovable face.
Her mother slowly folded the letter, and laid it upon the table. “You know all now, Marie—that, as it becomes parents, we have disposed of your future and your hand. You will submit to their wishes without murmuring or opposition, as it becomes an obedient, well-brought-up daughter, and receive the husband we have chosen for you. He will come today to hear your consent, and you from this day forth are the betrothed of the future Herr von Werrig. Of course from this very hour you will cease the highly improper and ungenteel business which you have pursued. You must not make any more flowers, or give any more lessons. The time of such degradation and humiliation is past, and my daughter can no longer be a school-mistress. You have only to write the receipt to-day, and I will go with you to the treasury to get the money.”
“I will not write the receipt,” said Marie, gently but firmly. Her mother, in the act of rising, sank back upon the divan; and the general, apparently quite occupied with his leg, stopped rubbing, and raised his red, bloated face to his daughter in astonishment. “Did I understand rightly your words, that you would not write the receipt?”
“Yes, mother, I said so; I cannot and will not write it,” replied Marie, gently.
“And why cannot you, and will you not write it?” said her mother, scornfully.
“Because I have no right to the money, and cannot take it, mother, as I will never be the wife of the man you intend me to marry.”
The general sprang with a savage curse from his arm-chair, and would have rushed to his daughter, but his wife pushed him back into his seat, and approached Marie, who rose, regarding her mother with a firm, sad expression. “Why can you not be the wife of the man we have chosen for you? Answer me, WHY you cannot?”
“You know, mother,” she replied, and gradually her voice assumed a more decided tone, her cheeks reddened, and an inspired expression beamed from her eyes, and pervaded her whole being—“you know, mother, that I can never be the wife of Herr Ebenstreit, for I do not love him. I despise and abominate him, because he is a man without honor; he knows that I do not love him, and yet he insists upon marrying me. If it were not so, if I did not despise and abominate him, I would not receive his suit and marry him.”
“Why not?” cried the general, shaking his fist at his daughter.
“Why not?” cried the mother, with a cold, icy glance, void of pity or anger.
Marie encountered these looks with beaming eyes. “Because I am betrothed to another,” and the words came like a cry of joy from her heart—“because I am engaged to my beloved Moritz!”
“Shameless, obstinate creature, have we not forbidden it?” cried her father.
“Stop!” interrupted his wife, with a commanding wave of her hand, which silenced the obedient husband immediately. “It belongs to me to question her, for I am her mother, and my daughter owes me submission and obedience above all things.—Answer me, Marie, did you not know that we had forbidden you to speak to this man, or have any communication with him? Did you not know that I, your mother, had menaced you with a curse if you married this man, or even spoke to the miserable, pitiable creature?”
“Mother,” cried Marie, vehemently, “he is not a poor, miserable creature. You may hate him, but you dare not outrage the noble, the good, and just man!”
“He is a good-for-nothing fellow,” cried her father; “he has tried to win a minor behind the parents’ back. He is a shameful, good-for-nothing seducer.”
“He is dishonorable,” cried the general’s wife—“a dishonorable man, who has misused our confidence. We confided to him our daughter to teach, and paid him for it. He improved the opportunity to make a declaration of love, and stole the time from us to infatuate the heart of our daughter with flattery, and from his pupil win a bride.”
“Oh, unworthy, shameful slander!” cried Marie, her eyes flashing with anger. “You well know that it is a vile scandal, that Moritz was no paid teacher. If he had been—if he had felt obliged to yield to the sad necessity of being paid for his valuable time, because he was poor, and forced to live by his intellect, he was a free man, and had the right to love whom he chose. He loves me, and I have accepted his love as the most precious, most beautiful, and most glorious gift of my life. Ah! do not look so angry with me, father; I cannot say otherwise. I cannot crush or deny the inmost life of my life.—Oh, mother, forgive me that I cannot change it! You know that otherwise I have been a most obedient daughter to you in all things, although you have never taught me the happiness of possessing a loving mother; though neither of you could ever forgive your only child for not being a son, who could inherit your name, and win a brilliant position, yet I have always loved you tenderly and truly, and never complained that the unwelcome daughter received neither love nor tenderness, only indifference and coldness from her parents.”
“Beautiful, very beautiful!” replied the mother, contemptuously. “Now you wish to blame us that you are a heartless and thankless daughter.—We have not understood her heart, and it is our fault that her love has flown somewhere else.
“This is the language of romance. I have, indeed, read it in the romances of Herr Moritz, and my daughter has only repeated what she learned as a docile pupil from her schoolmaster. Very fine, to pay Herr Moritz to form our daughter into the heroine of a romance! She ought to have learned the languages, but has learned only the language of romances.”
“You are very severe and very cruel, mother,” said Marie, sadly. “I would not complain, only excuse myself, and implore pity and indulgence, and defend myself from the reproach of having been a cold, unloving daughter. Oh! God knows how I have longed for your love; that I would willingly prove that I would joyfully do every thing to embellish your life and make you happy. It gave me such pleasure to earn something for you with my dear flowers and lessons, and afford you a little gratification!”
“Ah! now, she will reproach us with having toiled for us and sacrificed herself. Husband, thank yourself for the victim who worked for you, who gave her youth for us that she might strew our life with roses.”
“I have had enough of this talking and whining,” cried the general, furiously beating the table with his fist. “My daughter shall not be a heroine of romance, but an obedient child, who submits to the will of her parents. You shall marry the man that we have chosen for you; the king has given his consent, and it shall take place. I command you! That is sufficient! I will hear no more about it; the thing is done with. Herr Ebenstreit is coming this afternoon to make you a proposal of marriage with our consent, and you must, accept him. I command you to do it!”
“I cannot obey you! Oh, do not force me to rebel against God’s holy laws! Have pity upon me! I have obeyed you until now, and yielded to your wishes, although I thought it would break my heart sometimes. You have forbidden Moritz the house, and turned him out of doors like a servant, with scorn and contempt, and he has silently borne it on my account. You have forbidden me to write or receive letters from him, or ever to meet him. My mother would curse me if I disobeyed her, and I submitted. I have given up every thing, sacrificed every wish, and renounced my love. But you cannot expect more from me, or dare ask it. I can forego happiness, but you cannot ask me to consent to be buried alive!”
“And what if we should wish it?” asked her mother. “If we should demand our daughter to give up a romantic, foolish love, to become the wife of a young man who loves her, and who loves us, and who is rich enough to assure us a comfortable old age, free from care?”
“Marie,” cried the general, in a begging and almost imploring tone, “Marie, prove to us now that you are really a good and grateful child—we have had so much care and want in our life, so many sorrowful days! It lies in your hands to make our declining days joyous and bright, and free us from want. We have often grumbled against God, that He did not give us a son; now make us to rejoice that He has given us a daughter, who will bring us a son and inherit our name through her children, and who will give us what we have never known—prosperity and riches. I beg you, my dear, good child, grant your parents the few last years of their life freedom from care!”
“And I, Marie,” said her mother, in a softened and tender tone, which Marie had never heard from her—“I beg you also, be a good daughter, pity your mother! I have always led a joyless, unhappy life. I lived unmarried, a native-born countess, with proud relations, who made me feel bitterly my dependence; when married my existence was only trouble, privations, care, and sorrow. I beg you, Marie, teach me to know happiness, for which I have so longed in vain; give me independence and prosperity, which I have always desired, and never known. I pray, Marie, make us happy in bringing us a rich, genteel, and good son-in-law, Herr Ebenstreit.”
Marie, who met the scorn and threats of her mother with firmness and a proud demeanor, trembled as she heard these severe and merciless lips, always so cold and harsh, now begging and imploring. At first she was quite frightened, and then terrified, and covered her face with her hands, her head sinking upon her breast as her mother spoke.
“Speak, my daughter,” cried the general, as his wife was silent. “Speak, my dear Marie. Say the word, and we shall be all happy, and there will be no happier family found in Berlin, or the world even. Say that you will marry Ebenstreit, and we will love and bless you so long as we live. Do say yes, dear Marie!”
Her hands fell from her face, and stretching them out toward her parents, she looked at them in despair.
There was a fearful pause. “I cannot, it is impossible!” she shrieked. “I cannot marry this man, for I do not love him. I love another, whom I can never forget, whom I shall love forever. I love—”
“Herr Conrector Moritz!” announced Trude, hastily bursting open the door, and looking in with a triumphant smile.