The feast had commenced. As Louise von Kleist, the beautiful odalisque, entered the dancing-saloon, she was almost blinded by the gay and sparkling assembly. The fairy-like and fantastic robes sparkled with gold and jewels. The sea of light thrown from the crystal chandelier upon the mirrors and ornaments of the brilliant saloon dazzled the eye. The entertainments of the Prince of Prussia were renowned for their taste and splendor.
Unrecognized, the beautiful Louise slipped through the gay assembly of masks, and, when detecting some friends under the muffled forms of their disguise, she murmured their names, and some mischievous and witty remark; then springing gayly on to shoot again her arrow, and excite astonishment and surprise.
“Oh, that life were a masked ball!” she murmured softly to herself, “mysterious and sweet! where you find more than you seek, and guess more than is known. No one recognizes me here. The brave and handsome Count Troussel, who is leaning against that pillar, and casting such melancholy glances through the crowd, hunting for the one his heart adores, never dreams that she is standing opposite him, and is laughing at his perplexity. No, he does not recognize me, and no one knows my costume but the prince and Pollnitz, and as they have not yet found me, I conclude they have not arrived. I will therefore amuse myself during their absence.”
She was just approaching the sentimental cavalier, when she suddenly felt her arm touched, and, turning around, saw two masks wrapped in dark dominoes before her.
“Beautiful odalisque, I bring you your sultan.” murmured one of them, in whom she recognized Baron Pollnitz.
“And where is my sultan?” she asked.
“Here,” said the second mask, offering the beautiful lady his arm. Louise saw those glorious eyes beaming upon her through his mask-eyes which the king and Prince Henry alone possessed.
“Ah, my prince!” she murmured softly and reproachfully, “you see that it is I who have waited.”
The prince did not answer, but conducted her hastily through the crowd. They had soon reached the end of the saloon. A small flight of steps led them to a little boudoir opening on a balcony. Into this boudoir Pollnitz led the silent pair, then bowing low he left them.
“My God! your highness, if we should be surprised here!”
“Fear nothing, we will not be surprised. Pollnitz guards the door. Now, as we are alone and undisturbed, let us lay aside our disguises.”
Thus speaking, the supposed prince removed his mask and laid it upon the table.
“The king!” cried Louise, terrified and stepping back.
The king’s eyes rested upon her with a piercing glance. “What!” he asked, “are you still acting? You appear astonished; and still you must have known me. Who but the king would show the beautiful Madame von Kleist such an honor? In what other cavalier could you place such perfect confidence as to accompany him into this lonely boudoir? With whom but the king could you have trusted your fair fame? You need not be alarmed; to be in my presence is to be under my protection—the kind guardianship of your king. I thank you that you knew me, and, knowing me, followed me trustingly.”
The searching glance of the king alarmed Louise; his mocking words bewildered her, and she was incapable of reply.
She bowed silently, and allowed herself to be conducted to the divan.
“Sit down, and let us chat awhile,” said the king. “You know I hate the noise of a feast, and love to retire into some corner, unnoticed and unseen. I had no sooner discovered the fair Louise under this charming costume, than I knew I had found good company. I ordered Pollnitz to seek out for us some quiet spot, where we might converse freely. Commence, therefore.”
“Of what shall I speak, your majesty?” said Louise, confused and frightened. She knew well that the king had not found her by chance, but had sought her with a determined purpose.
“Oh! that is a question whose naivete reminds me of the little Louise Schwerin of earlier days. Well, let us speak on that subject which interests most deeply all who know you; let us speak of your happiness. You sigh. Have you already paid your tribute? Do you realize the fleetness of all earthly bliss?”
“Ah! your majesty, an unhappy marriage is the most bitter offering that can be made to experience,” sighed Madame von Kliest. “My life was indeed wretched until released by your kindness from that bondage.”
“Ah, yes, it is true you are divorced. When and upon whom will you now bestow this small, white hand?”
Louise looked up astonished. “What!” she stammered, confused, “your majesty means—”
“That you will certainly marry again. As beautiful a lady as you will always be surrounded by lovers, and I sincerely hope that you will marry. You should go forward as an example to my brothers, your youthful playmates, and I will tell my brother Henry that marriage is not so bad a thing, as the beautiful Madame von Kleist has tried it for the second time.”
“I doubt very much, sire,” said Louise, timidly, “if the example of so insignificant a person would have the desired effect upon the prince.”
“You do yourself injustice. The prince has too strong an admiration for you, not to be influenced by your encouraging example. My brother must and shall marry according to his birth. I am assured that, contrary to my wishes and commands, he is about to make a secret and illegitimate marriage. I am not yet acquainted with the name of his wily mistress, but I shall learn it, and, when once noted in my memory, woe be unto her, for I shall never acknowledge such a marriage, and I shall take care that his mistress is not received at court—she shall be regarded as a dishonored woman.”
“Your majesty is very stern and pitiless toward the poor prince,” said Madame Kleist, who had succeeded in suppressing her own emotions, and, following the lead of the king, she was desirous to let it appear that the subject was one of no personal interest to herself.
“No,” said the king, “I am not cruel and not pitiless. I must forget that I am a brother, and remember only I am a king, not only for the good of my family, but for the prosperity of my people. My brother must marry a princess of wealth and influence. Tell Prince Henry this. Now,” said the king, with an engaging smile, “let us speak of your lovely self. You will, of course, marry again. Have you not confidence enough in me to tell me the name of your happy and favored lover?”
“Sire,” said Louise, smiling, “I do not know it myself, and to show what unbounded confidence I have in your majesty, I modestly confess that I am not positively certain whether among my many followers there is one who desires to be the successor of Kleist. It is easy to have many lovers, but somewhat difficult to marry suitably.”
“We need a marrying man to chase away the crowd of lovers,” said the king, smiling. “Think awhile—let your lovers pass in review before you—perhaps you may find among them one who is both ardent and desirable.”
Louise remained thoughtful for a few moments. The king observed her closely.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “have you made your selection?”
Madame von Kleist sighed, and her beautiful bright eyes filled with tears. She took leave of her most cherished and ambitious dream—bade farewell to her future of regal pomp and splendor.
“Yes, sire, I have found an e’poitseur, who only needs encouragement, to offer me his heart and hand.”
“Is he of good family?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Military?”
“Yes, sire. He wears only a captain’s epaulets. Your majesty sees that I am modest.”
“On the day of his marriage he shall be major. When the Church pronounces her blessing, the king’s blessing shall not be wanting. We are, of course, agreed. When will you be engaged?”
“Sire, that depends upon my lover, and when I succeed in bringing him to terms.”
“We will say in eight days. You see I am anxious to become speedily acquainted with one blissful mortal, and I think that the husband of the beautiful Madame Kleist will be supremely happy. In eight days, then, you will be engaged, and, to complete your good work, you must announce this happy fact to my brother Henry. Of course, he must not even surmise that you sacrifice yourself in order to set him a good example. No, you will complete your noble work, and tell him that a love which you could not control induced you to take this step; and that he may not doubt your words, you will tell your story cheerfully—yes, joyously.”
“Sire, it is too much—I cannot do it,” cried Madame von Kleist. “It is enough to trample upon my own heart; your majesty cannot desire me to give the prince his death-blow.”
The king’s eyes flashed angrily, but he controlled himself.
“His death!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders, “as if men died of such small wounds. You know better yourself. You know that the grave of one love is the cradle of another. Be wise, and do as I tell you: in eight days you will be engaged, and then you will have the kindness to acquaint Prince Henry with your happy prospects.”
“Ah, sire, do not be so cruel as to ask this of me,” cried Louise, gliding from the divan upon her knees, “be merciful. I am ready to obey the commands of my king, to make the sacrifice that is asked of me—let it not be too great a one. Your majesty asks that I shall draw down the contempt of the man I love upon myself; that this man must not only give me up, but scorn me. You require too much. This is more than the strongest, bravest heart can endure. Your majesty knows that the prince loves me passionately. Ah, sire, your brother would have forfeited his rank and your favor by marrying me, but he would have been a happy man; and I ask the king if that is not, at last, the best result? Are you, sire, content and happy since you trampled your breathing, loving heart to death at the foot of the throne? You command your brother to do as you have done. Well, sire, I submit—not only to resign the prince, but to marry again, to marry without love. Perhaps my soul will be lost by this perjury, but what matters that—it is a plaything in the hands of the king? He may break my heart, but it shall not be dishonored and trodden in the dust. The prince shall cease to love me, but I will not be despised by him. He shall not think me a miserable coquette, despise, and laugh at me. Now, sire, you can crush me in your anger. I have said what I had to say—you know my decision.”
She bowed her head almost to the earth; motionless, kneeling at the foot of the king, her hands folded on her breast, she might in reality have been taken for an odalisque but that her sad, tearful face was not in unison with the situation or costume.
A long pause ensued—a solemn, fearful pause. The king struggled with his rage, Louise with her disappointment and distress. Sounds of laughter, the gay notes of music reached them from the dancing-saloon. The ball had commenced, and youth and beauty were mingling in the dance. These sounds aroused the king, and the sad contrast made Louise shudder.
“You will not, then, comply with my request?” said the king, sternly.
“Sire, I cannot!” murmured Louise, raising her hands imploringly to the king.
“You cannot!” cried the king, whose face glowed with anger; “you cannot, that means you will not, because your vain, coquettish heart will not resign the love of the prince. You submit to resign his hand, because you must; but you wish to retain his love: he must think of you as a heavenly ideal, to be adored and longed for, placed amongst the stars for worship. Ah, madame, you are not willing to make the gulf between you impassable! You say you wish, at least, to retain the respect of Prince Henry. I ask you, madame, what you have done to deserve his respect? You were an ungrateful and undutiful daughter; you did not think of the shame and sorrow you prepared for your parents, when you arranged your flight with the gardener. I succeeded in rescuing you from dishonor by marrying you to a brave and noble cavalier. It depended upon you entirely to gain his love and respect, but you forgot your duty as a wife, as you had forgotten it as a daughter. You had no pity with the faults and follies of your husband, you drove him to despair. At last, to drown his sorrows, he became a drunkard, and you, instead of remaining at his side to encourage and counsel him, deserted him, and so heartlessly exposed his shame that I, to put an end to the scandal, permitted your divorce. You not only forgot your duty as a wife and daughter, but also as a mother. You have deprived your child of a father, you have made her an orphan; you have soiled, almost depraved her young soul; and now, after all this, you wish to be adored and respected as a saint by my poor brother! No, madame! I shall know how to save him from this delusion; I shall tell to him and the world the history of little Louise von Schwerin! Fritz Wendel still lives, and, if you desire it, I can release him, and he may tell his romantic story.”
“Oh, for the second time to-day I have heard that hateful name!” cried Louise; “the past is an avenger that pursues us mercilessly through our whole lives.”
“Choose, madame!” said the king, after a pause; “will you announce your betrothal to my brother in a gay and unembarrassed tone, or shall I call Fritz Wendel, that he may sing the unhappy prince to sleep with his romantic history?”
Whilst the king spoke, Louise had raised herself slowly from her knees, and taken a seat upon the divan. Now rising, and bowing lowly, she said, with trembling lips and tearful voice: “Sire, I am prepared to do all that you wish. I shall announce my betrothal to the prince cheerfully, and without sighs or tears. But be merciful, and free me forever from that hideous spectre which seems ever at my side!”
“Do you mean poor Fritz Wendel?” said the king, smiling.
“Well, on the day of your marriage I will send him as a soldier to Poland: there he may relate his love-adventures, but no one will understand him. Are you content?”
“I thank you, sire,” said Louise, faintly.
“Ah, I see our conversation has agitated you a little!” said the king. “Fortunately, we are now at an end. In the next eight days, remember, you will be engaged!”
“Yes, sire.”
“The day of your marriage, I will make your captain a major. You promise to tell my brother of your engagement, and that it is in accordance with the warmest wishes of your heart?”
“Yes, sire; and you will banish the gardener forever?”
“I will; but wait—one thing more. Where will you tell my brother of your engagement, and before what witnesses?”
“At the place and before the witnesses your majesty may select,” said Madame von Kleist.
The king thought a moment. “You will do it in my presence,” said he; “I will let you know the time and place through Pollnitz. We have arranged our little affairs, madame, and we will descend to the saloon where, I think, your epouseur is sighing for your presence.”
“Let him sigh, sire! With your permission, I should like to retire.”
“Go, madame, where you wish. Pollnitz will conduct you to your carriage.”
He offered her his hand, and, with a friendly bow, led her to the door.
“Farewell, madame! I believe we part friends?”
“Sire,” she answered, smiling faintly, “I can only say as the soldiers do, ‘I thank you for your gracious punishment!’”
She bowed and left the room hastily, that the king might not see her tears.
The king looked long after her in silence; at first with an expression of deep pity, but this soon gave place to a gay, mocking smile.
“She is not a woman to take sorrow earnestly. When mourning no longer becomes her, she will lay it aside for the rosy robes of joy. She is a coquette, nothing more. It is useless to pity her.”
He now stepped upon the balcony that overlooked the saloon, and glanced furtively from behind the curtains upon the gay assembly below.
“Poor, foolish mankind! how wise you might be, if you were not so very childish—if you did not seek joy and happiness precisely where it is not to be found! But how is this?” said the king, interrupting himself, “those two giant forms at the side of the little Armenians are certainly Barons Kalkreuth and Kaphengst, and that is my brother with them. Poor Henry! you have made a bad use of your freedom, and must, therefore, soon lose it. Ah! see how searchingly he turns his head, seeking his beautiful odalisque! In vain, my brother, in vain! For to-day, at least, we have made her a repentant Magdalen; to-morrow she will be again a life-enjoying Aspasia. Ah, the prince separates himself from his followers. I have a few words to whisper in the ear of the gay Kaphengst.”
The king stepped back into the room, and after resuming his mask, he descended into the saloon, accompanied by his grand chamberlain.
Mirth and gayety reigned; the room was crowded with masks. Here stood a group in gay conversation; there was dancing at the other end of the saloon. Some were listening to the organ-player, as he sang, in comical German and French verses, little incidents and adventures that had occurred during the present year at court, bringing forth laughter, confused silence, and blushes. Some were amusing themselves with the lively, witty chat of the son of the Prince of Prussia, the little ten-year-old, Prince Frederick William. He was dressed as the God of Love, with bow and quiver, dancing around, and, with an early-ripened instinct, directing his arrow at the most beautiful and fascinating ladies in the room.
Prince Henry paid no attention to all this; his wandering glance sought only the beautiful Louise, and a deep sigh escaped him at not having found her. Hastily he stepped through the rows of dancers which separated the two cavaliers from him.
“It appears,” murmured Baron Kalkreuth to his friend, “it appears to me that the prince would like to get rid of us. He wishes to be entirely unobserved. I think we can profit by this, and therefore I shall take leave of you for a while, and seek my own adventures.”
“I advise you,” murmured Baron Kaphengst, laughingly, “to appoint no rendezvous for to-morrow.”
“And why not, friend?”
“Because you will not be able to appear; for you will doubtless be in arrest.”
“That is true, and I thank you for your prudent advice, and shall arrange all my rendezvous for the day after to-morrow. Farewell.”
Baron Kaphengst turned laughingly to another part of the saloon. Suddenly he felt a hand placed on his shoulder, and a low voice murmured his name.
Terrified, he turned. “I am not the one you seek, mask,” he said; but as he met those two large, burning eyes, he shuddered, and even his bold, daring heart stood still a moment from terror. Only the king had such eyes; only he had such a commanding glance.
“You say you are not the one I seek,” said the mask. “Well, yes, you speak wisely. I sought in you a brave and obedient officer, and it appears that you are not that. You are not, then, Lieutenant von Kaphengst?”
Kaphengst thought a moment. He was convinced it was the king that spoke with him, for Frederick had not attempted to disguise his voice. Kaphengst knew he was discovered. There remained nothing for him but to try and reconcile the king by a jest.
He bowed close to the king, and whispered: “Listen, mask—as you have recognized me, I will acknowledge the truth. Yes, I am Lieutenant von Kaphengst, and am incognito. You understand me—I came to this ball incognito. He is a scoundrel who repeats it!” and, without awaiting an answer, he hastened away to seek the prince and Baron Kalkreuth, acquaint them with the king’s presence, and fly with them from his anger.
But Prince Henry, whose fruitless search for his sweetheart had made him angry and defiant, declared he would remain at the ball until it was over, and that it should be optional with the king to insult his brother openly, and to punish and humble a prince of his house before the world.
“I, unfortunately, do not belong to the princes of the royal house, and I therefore fear that the king might regard me as the cat who had to pull the hot chestnuts from the ashes, and I might suffer for all three. I therefore pray your highness to allow me to withdraw.”
“You may go, and if you meet Kalkreuth, ask him to accompany you. You officers must not carry your insubordination any further. I, as prince, and Hohenzollern, dare the worst, but, be assured, I shall pay for my presumption. Farewell, and hasten! Do not forget Kalkreuth.”
Kaphengst sought in vain. Kalkreuth was nowhere to be found, and he had to wend his way alone to Potsdam.
“I shall take care not to await the order of the king for my arrest,” said Baron Kaphengst to himself, as he rode down the road to Potsdam. “I shall be in arrest when his order arrives. Perhaps that will soften his anger.”
Accordingly, when Kaphengst arrived at the court guard, in Potsdam, he assumed the character of a drunken, quarrelsome officer, and played his role so well that the commander placed him in arrest.
An hour later the king’s order reached the commander to arrest Baron Kaphengst, and with smiling astonishment he received the answer that he had been under arrest for the last hour.
In the mean time, Kaphengst had not miscalculated. The prince was put under arrest for eight days, Kalkreuth for three. He was released the next morning, early enough to appear at the parade. As the king, with his generals, rode down to the front, he immediately noticed the audacious young officer, whose eye met his askance and pleadingly. The king beckoned to him, and as Baron Kaphengst stood erect before him, the king said, laughingly; “It is truly difficult to exchange secrets with one of your height; bow down to me, I have something to whisper in you ear.”
The comrades and officers, yes, even the generals, saw not without envy that the king was so gracious to the young Lieutenant von Kaphengst; whispered a few words to him confidentially, and then smiling and bowing graciously, moved on.
It was, therefore, natural that, when the king left, all were anxious to congratulate the young lieutenant, and ask him what the king had whispered. But Baron Kaphengst avoided, with dignified gravity, all inquiries, and only whispered to his commander softly, but loud enough for every one to hear, the words, “State secrets,” then bowing profoundly, returned with an earnest and grave face to his dwelling, there to meditate at his leisure upon the king’s words—words both gracious and cruel, announcing his advancement, but at the same time condemning him to secrecy.
The king’s words were: “You are a captain, but he is a scoundrel who repeats it!”
Thus Baron Kaphengst was captain, but no one suspected it; the captain remained a simple lieutenant in the eyes of the world.
Baron Weingarten, the new secretary of legation of the Austrian embassy in Berlin, paced the ambassador’s office in great displeasure. It was the hour in which all who had affairs to arrange with the Austrian ambassador, passports to vise, contracts to sign, were allowed entrance, and it was the baron’s duty to receive them. But no one came; no one desired to make use of his ability or his mediation, and this displeased the baron and put him out of humor. It was not the want of work and activity that annoyed him; the baron would have welcomed the dolce far niente had it not been unfortunately connected with his earnings; the fees he received for passports, and the arrangement of other affairs, formed part of his salary as secretary of legation, and as he possessed no fortune, this was his only resource. This indigence alone led him to resign his aristocratic independence and freedom of action. He had not entered the state service from ambition, but for money, that he might have the means of supporting his mother and unmarried sisters, and enable himself to live according to his rank and old aristocratic name. Baron Weingarten would have made any sacrifice, submitted to any service, to obtain wealth. Poverty had demoralized him, pride had laid a mildew on his heart and stifled all noble aspirations. As he read a letter, just received from his mother, complaining of wants and privations, telling of the attachment of a young officer to his sister, and that poverty alone prevented their marriage, his heart was filled with repining, and at this moment he was prepared to commit a crime, if, by so doing, he could have obtained wealth.
In this despairing and sorrowful mood he had entered the office, and awaited in vain for petitioners who would pay him richly for his services. But the hours passed in undisturbed quiet, and Baron Weingarten was in the act of leaving the office, as the servant announced Baron von Waltz, and the court councillor, Zetto, from Vienna.
He advanced to meet the two gentlemen, with a smiling countenance, and welcomed his Austrian countrymen heartily.
The two gentlemen seated themselves silently; Weingarten took a seat in front of them.
A painful, embarrassed pause ensued. The majestic Baron von Waltz looked silently at the ceiling, while the black, piercing eyes of the little Councillor Zetto examined the countenance of Weingarten with a strangely searching and penetrating expression.
“You are from Vienna?” said Weingarten at last, putting an end to this painful silence.
“We are from Vienna,” answered the baron, with a grave bow. “And have travelled here post-haste to have an interview with you.”
“With me?” asked the secretary of legation, astonished.
“With you alone,” said the baron, gravely.
“We wish you to do the King of Prussia a great service,” said Zetto, solemnly.
Weingarten reddened, and said confusedly: “The King of Prussia! You forget, gentlemen, that my services belong alone to the Empress Maria Theresa.”
“He defends himself before he is accused,” said Zetto, aside. “It is then true, as we have been told, he is playing a double game—serves Austria and Prussia at the same time.” Turning to Baron Weingarten, he said: “That which we ask of you will be at the same time a service to our gracious empress, for certainly it would not only distress, but compromise her majesty, if an Austrian officer committed a murder in Prussia.”
“Murder!” cried the secretary of legation.
“Yes, an intentional murder,” said Baron Waltz, emphatically—“the murder of the King of Prussia. If you prevent this crime, you will receive ten thousand guilders,” said Zetto, examining Weingarten’s countenance closely. He remarked that the baron, who was but a moment ago pale from terror, now reddened, and that his eyes sparkled joyously.
“And what can I do to prevent this murder?” asked Weingarten, hastily.
“You can warn the king.”
“But to warn successfully, I must have proofs.”
“We are ready to give the most incontrovertible proofs.”
“I must, before acting, be convinced of the veracity of your charges.”
“I hope that my word of honor will convince you of their truth,” said Baron Waltz, pathetically.
Weingarten bowed, with an ambiguous smile, that did not escape Zetto. He drew forth his pocket-book, and took from it a small, folded paper, which he handed to Weingarten.
“If I strengthen my declaration with this paper, will you trust me?”
Weingarten looked with joyful astonishment at the paper; it was a check for two thousand guilders. “My sister’s dowry,” thought Weingarten, with joy. But the next moment came doubt and suspicion. What if they were only trying him—only convincing themselves if he could be bought? Perhaps he was suspected of supplying the Prussian Government from time to time with Austrian news—of communicating to them the contents of important dispatches!
The fire faded from his eye, and with a firm countenance he laid the paper upon the table.
“Your are mistaken, gentlemen! That is no document, but a check.”
“With which many documents could be purchased,” said Zetto, smiling. Placing the paper again in his pocket-book, he took out another and a larger one. It was a check for three thousand guilders.
But Weingarten had regained his composure. He knew that men acting thus must be spies or criminals; that they were testing him, or luring him on to some unworthy act. In either case, he must be on his guard.
“I beg you to confirm your charge in the usual manner,” said he, with a cold, indifferent glance at the paper. “Murder is a dreadful accusation—you cannot act too carefully. You say that an Austrian officer intends to murder the King of Prussia. How do you know this?”
“From himself,” said Baron Waltz. “He communicated his intentions to me, and confided to me his entire plan.”
“It appears,” remarked Weingarten, mockingly, “that the officer had reason to believe he might trust you with this terrible secret.”
“You see, however, that he was mistaken,” said the baron, smilingly. “I demand of you to warn the King of Prussia of the danger that threatens him.”
“I shall be compelled to make this danger clear, give all particulars, or the king will laugh at my story and consider it a fairy tale.”
“You shall give him convincing proof. Say to him that the murder is to be committed when his majesty attends the Austrian review at Konigsberg.”
“How will the officer cross the Prussian border?”
“He is supplied with an Austrian passport, and under the pretence of inheriting a large property in Prussia, he has obtained leave of absence for a month.”
“There remains now but one question: why does the officer wish to murder the king? What motive leads him to do so?”
“Revenge,” said Baron von Waltz, solemnly—“an act of vengeance. This Austrian officer who is resolved to murder the king of Prussia, is Frederick von Trenck.”
Weingarten was embarrassed, and his countenance bore an uneasy and troubled expression. But as his eye fell upon the weighty paper that lay before him, he smiled, and looked resolved.
“Now I have but one thing more to ask. Why, if your story is authentic, and well calculated to startle even the brave king, have you thought it necessary to remove my doubts with this document?”
Baron Waltz was silent, and looked inquiringly at Zetto.
“Why did I hand you this document?” said the councillor, with a sweet smile. “Because gold remains gold, whether received from an Austrian councillor or from a Prussian prince.”
“Sir, do you dare to insult me?” cried the secretary of legation, fiercely.
Zetto smiled. “No, I only wish to notify you that we are aware that it is through you that Baron von Trenck receives money from a certain aristocratic lady in Berlin. It is, therefore, most important that the king should be warned by you of his intended murder—otherwise you might be thought an accomplice.”
Weingarten appeared not to be in the least disconcerted by this statement—he seemed not even to have heard it.
“Before I warn the king,” he said, with calm composure, “I must be convinced of the truth of the story myself, and I acknowledge to you that I am not convinced, cannot understand your motives for seeking the destruction of Baron von Trenck.”
“Ah! you search into our motives—you mistrust us,” cried Zetto, hastily. “Well, we will prove to you that we trust you, by telling you our secret. You know the story of the inheritance of Trenck?”
“He is the only heir of the pandour chieftain, Franz von Trenck.”
“Correct. And do you know the history of this pandour chieftain Trenck?”
“I have heard a confused and uncertain statement, but nothing definite or reliable.”
“It is, however, a very interesting and instructive story, and shows how far a man with a determined will and great energy can reach, when his thoughts are directed to one end. Baron Trenck wished to be rich, immensely rich—that was the aim of his life. Seduced by his love of money, he became the captain of a band of robbers, then a murderer, a church-robber; from that a brave soldier, and, at last, a holy penitent. Robbing and plundering every-where, he succeeded in collecting millions. The pandour chieftain Trenck soon became so rich, that he excited the envy of the noblest and wealthiest men in the kingdom, so rich that he was able to lend large sums of money to the powerful and influential Baron Lowenwalde. You see, baron, it only needs a determined will to become rich.”
“Oh! the foolish man,” said Weingarten, shrugging his shoulders. “Lending money to a noble and powerful man, is making an irreconcilable enemy.”
“You speak like a prophet. It happened, as you say. Lowenwalde became Trenck’s enemy. He accused him of embezzling the imperial money, of treachery and faithlessness—and Trenck was imprisoned.”
“His millions obtained his release, did they not?”
“No. His riches reduced him to greater misery. His lands were sequestered, and a body of commissioners were selected to attend to them. Baron Waltz and myself belonged to this commission.”
“Ah! I begin to understand,” murmured Weingarten.
Baron Zetto continued, with a smile. “The commissioners made the discovery that report had greatly exaggerated the riches of Trenck. He had not many treasures, but many debts. In order to liquidate those debts, we desired his creditors to announce themselves every day, and promised them a daily ducat until the end of the process.”
“I hope you two gentlemen were among his creditors,” said Weingarten.
“Certainly, we were, and also Baron Marken.”
“Therefore you have a threefold advantage from Trenck’s imprisonment. First, your salary as a member of the commission; secondly, as a creditor—”
“And thirdly—you spoke of a threefold advantage?”
“And thirdly,” said Weingarten, laughing, “in searching for the missing treasures of Baron Trenck which had disappeared so unfortunately.”
“Ah, sir, you speak like those who suspected us at court, and wished to make the empress believe that we had enriched ourselves as commissioners. Soon after this Trenck died, and Frederick von Trenck hastened from St. Petersburg to receive his inheritance. How great was his astonishment to find instead of the hoped-for millions a few mortgaged lands, an income of a hundred thousand guilders, and sixty-three creditors who claimed the property.”
“He should have become one of the commissioners,” remarked Weingarten, mockingly. “Perhaps it would have then been easier for him to obtain his possessions.”
“He attempted it in another way, with the aid of money, bribery, and persuasion. He has already succeeded in obtaining fifty-four of his sixty-three processes, and will win the others in a few days.”
“And then he will doubtless cause the commissioners to give in their accounts, and close their books.”
“Exactly. He has already commenced to do so. He ordered an investigation to be made against the quartermaster, and the commander of the regiment to which Franz von Trenck belonged. This man had accused Trenck of having embezzled eight thousand of the imperial money, and Trenck succeeded so far, that it was declared that it was not he, but his accusers, who had committed the crime. The consequence was, that the quartermaster was deposed, and it would have fared as badly with the commander, had he not found powerful protection.”
“And now the dangerous Frederick von Trenck will seize the property of the commissioners.”
“He would do so if we did not know how to prevent him. We must employ every means to remove him, and, believe me, we are not the only men who wish for his disappearance. A large and powerful party have the same desire, and will joyfully pay ten thousand guilders to be freed from his investigations.”
Weingarten’s eyes sparkled for a moment, and his heart beat quickly, but he suppressed these joyful emotions, and retained his calm and indifferent expression.
“Gentlemen,” he said, quietly, “as you are speaking of a real criminal, one who intends committing so great a crime, I am at your service, and no money or promises are necessary to buy my assistance.”
“Is he really a man of honor, and have we received false information?” thought Zetto, who was misled for a moment by the quiet and virtuous looks of the secretary of legation.
“In the mean while you will not prevent those for whom you are about to do a great service from showing their gratitude,” said Baron Waltz. “Every one has a right to give or to receive a present.”
“Gentlemen,” said Baron Weingarten, smilingly, “No one has spoken of a present, but of a payment, a bribery, and you can readily understand that this is insulting to a man of honor.”
“Ah, he leaves open a door of escape,” thought Zetto. “He is won, he can be bought.—You are right, baron,” he said aloud, “and we are wrong to offer you now that which hereafter will be a debt of gratitude. We will speak no more of this, but of the danger that threatens the king. You alone can save him by warning him of his danger.”
“You really believe, then, that Trenck has the intention of murdering the king?” said Weingarten.
“We will believe it,” said Zetto, with an ambiguous smile.
“We must believe it!” cried Baron Waltz, emphatically. “We must either believe in his murderous intentions, or be ourselves regarded as traitors and robbers. You will think it natural that we prefer the first alternative, and as he resolved to ruin us, we will anticipate him, and set the trap into which he must fall.”
“Why could you not lay your snares in Austria, gentlemen? Why could you not accuse him of intending to murder the empress?”
Zetto shrugged his shoulders. “That would not be credible, because Trenck has no motive for murdering Maria Theresa, while he might very well thirst to revenge himself upon Frederick. You know that the king and Trenck are personal enemies. Trenck has boasted of this enmity often and loud enough to be understood by the whole world, and I do not believe that this animosity has diminished. Enemies naturally desire to destroy each other. Trenck would succeed if we did not warn the king, and enable him to anticipate his enemy.”
“How can this be done? Will the king really go to Konigsberg to be present at the Austrian festivities?”
“It has been spoken of.”
“Well, Trenck now proposes to go to Dantzic, and he has boasted that he will enter Konigsberg at the same time with the King of Prussia, who will not dare to arrest him.”
“We have made a bet with him of a hundred louis d’or on this boast,” said Baron Waltz, “and for greater security we have put it in writing.”
“Have you it with you?”
“Here it is.”
The baron handed Weingarten a paper, which he seized hastily, unfolded, and read several times.
“This is indeed written in very ambiguous language, and calculated to ruin Trenck should it reach the hands of the king,” said Baron Weingarten with a cruel smile.
Zetto returned this smile. “I wrote the document, and you will naturally understand that I measured the words very closely.”
“Who copied the letter?” asked Weingarten. “Doubtlessly Baron Trenck was not magnanimous enough to do that.”
“Baron Waltz is a great adept in imitating handwriting, and he happily possessed original letters of Trenck’s,” said Zetto, smilingly.
“You will find it most natural that I should try to win my bet,” said Baron Waltz. “If Trenck is arrested before he goes to Konigsberg, I have won my bet, and will receive the hundred louis d’ors from the commissioners.”
All three laughed.
“These commissioners will soon have to pay you ten thousand guilders,” whispered Zetto. “Here is a bond. On the day that Trenck is a prisoner of the king of Prussia, this bond is due, and you will then find that the commissioners are not backward in paying.” Zetto laid the document upon the table. “You will now have the kindness to receive our testimony, and, if you desire it, we will add our accusations, or you can mention that this can be done.”
Weingarten did not answer; a repentant fear tormented his heart, and for a moment it appeared as if his good and evil genius were struggling for his soul.
“This involves probably the life of a man,” he said, softly; “it is a terrible accusation that I must pronounce: if not condemned to death, the king will imprison him for many long years, and I shall be responsible for this injustice.”
Councillor Zetto’s attentive ear heard every word; he stood near him like the evil one, and his piercing eyes rested upon the agitated countenance of Weingarten and read his thoughts.
“Have you not lived the life of a prisoner for many years?” asked Zetto, in a low, unnatural voice; “have you not always been a slave of poverty? Will you now, from weak pity, lose the opportunity of freeing yourself from this bondage? Ten thousand guilders is no fortune, but it may be the beginning of one—it may be the thread of Ariadne to lead you from the labyrinth of poverty to freedom and light; and who will thank you if you do not seize this thread—who recompense you for your generosity and magnanimity? If you tell it to the wise and cunning, they will laugh at you, and if the foolish hear it, they will not understand you. Every one is the moulder of his own happiness, and woe unto him who neglects to forge the iron while it is hot!”
Baron Weingarten felt each of these words. He did not know if they were uttered by human lips, or if they came from the depths of his own base soul.
“It is true, it is true!” he cried, in a frightened voice, “He is a fool who does not seize the hand of Fortune when tendered by the laughing goddess—a fool who does not break his fetters when he has the power to rend them. Come, gentlemen! We take the testimony, and when that is done, I will conduct you to our ambassador, Baron Puebla.”
“Not so—when that is done, we shall depart with post-haste; you alone shall receive thanks and recompense. Now to work!”