The king paced his room hastily; he was very pale, his lip trembled, and his eyes sparkled angrily.
He suddenly remained standing before the Austrian secretary of legation, and gazed long and earnestly into his face, but his glance, before which so many had trembled, was sustained by the secretary with so quiet and innocent a countenance that it deceived even the king.
“I see that you are convinced of the truth of what you tell me.” the king said at last. “You really believe that this madman has the intention of murdering me?”
“I am convinced of it, sire,” replied Weingarten, humbly, “for I have the proof of his intention in my hand.”
“The proof—what proof?”
“This paper which I allowed myself to hand to your majesty, and which you laid upon the table without reading.”
“Ah, it is true! I forgot that in my excitement,” said the king, mildly. “I beg you to read me the contents of this paper.”
Baron Weingarten received the paper from the king with a respectful bow; his voice did not tremble in the least as he read the important words which refined malice and cruel avarice had written there—words which, if literally interpreted, would fully condemn Trenck.
The words were:
“‘In consequence of a bet, I pledge myself to be in Konigsberg the same day in which the King Frederick of Prussia, my cruel enemy and persecutor, shall arrive there. I shall go there to do, in the king’s presence, that which no one has done before me, and which no one will do after me. If I do not succeed in accomplishing my purpose, or if I should be arrested, I have lost my bet, and shall owe Baron Waltz one hundred louis d’or, which must be paid him by the commissioners of the Trenck estate.’”
“‘BARON FREDERICK VON TRENCK.’”
“And Trenck wrote this note himself?” said the king.
“If your majesty is acquainted with Trenck’s handwriting, you will perhaps have the goodness to examine it yourself.”
“I know his handwriting; give me the paper.”
He took the paper and glanced over it searchingly. “It is his handwriting,” he murmured; “but I will examine it again.”
Speaking thus, he stepped hastily to his escritoire, and took from a small box several closely written yellow papers, and compared them with the document which Weingarten had given him.
Ah, how little did Trenck dream, as he wrote those letters, that they would witness against him, and stamp him as a criminal! They were already a crime in the king’s eyes, for they were tender letters that Trenck had dared to write from Vienna to the Princess Amelia. They had never reached her!
And not those tender epistles of a tearful and unhappy love must bear witness against the writer, and condemn him for the second time!
“It is his handwriting,” said the king, as he laid the letters again in the box. “I thank you, Baron Weingarten, you have saved me from a disagreeable occurrence, for, if I will not even believe that Trenck intended murder, he was at all events willing to create a scene, if only to gratify his vanity. It appears that he has now played out his role at Vienna, as well as in St. Petersburg and Berlin, and the world would forget him if he did not attract its attention by some mad piece of folly. How he intended to accomplish this I do not know, but certainly not by a murder—no, I cannot believe that!”
“Your majesty is always noble and magnanimous, but it appears to me that these words can have but one meaning. ‘I shall go to Konigsberg,’ writes Baron Trenck, ‘and there do in the presence of the king what no one has done before me, and what no one will do after me.’ Does not this make his intention pretty clear?”
“Only for those who know his intentions or suspect them, for others they could have any other signification, some romantic threat, nothing more. Baron Trenck is a known adventurer, a species of Don Quixote, always fighting against windmills, and believing that warriors and kings honor him so far as to be his enemies. I punished Trenck when he was in my service, for insubordination; now he is no longer in my service, and I have forgotten him, but woe be unto him if he forces me to remember him!”
“Your majesty will soon see if he is falsely accused. These reliable and irreproachable men came especially to warn your majesty, through me. You will discover if they have calumniated Trenck, by giving this testimony. If he does not go to Dantzic, does not enter Prussia, they have sworn falsely, and Trenck is innocent.”
“He will not dare to cross the borders of my state, for he knows he will be court-martialled as a deserter. But I am convinced that he is a bold adventurer, he has boasted that he will defy me, that is certainly what no one has done before him, and what no one will do after him, but it will rest there, you may believe me.”
Baron Weingarten bowed silently. The king continued, with an engaging smile.
“However, monsieur, I owe you many thanks, and it would please me to have an opportunity of rewarding you.”
Until this moment, Weingarten had been standing with bowed head, he now stood erect, and his eye dared to meet that of the king.
“Sire,” he said, with the noble expression of offended innocence, “I demand and wish no other reward than that you may profit by my warning. If the fearful danger that threatens your majesty is averted through me, that will be my all-sufficient recompense. I must decline any other.”
The king smiled approvingly. “You speak emphatically, and it appears that you really believe in this danger. Well, I thank you only as that is your desire. I will respect your warning and guard myself from the danger that you believe threatens me, but to do that, and at the same time to convince ourselves of Trenck’s evil intentions, we must observe the most perfect silence in this whole affair, and you must promise me to speak of it to no one.”
“Sire, secrecy appeared to me so necessary, that I did not even communicate it to Baron Puebla, but came to your majesty on my own responsibility.”
“You did well, for now Trenck will fall unwarned into the trap we set for him. Be silent, therefore, upon the subject. If you should ever have a favor to ask, come to me with this tabatiere in your hand. I will remember this hour, and if it is in my power will grant you what you wish.”
He handed Weingarten his gold, diamond-studded tabatiere, and received his thanks with approving smiles. After he had dismissed the secretary of legation, and was alone, the smile faded from his face, and his countenance was sad and disturbed.
“It has come to this,” he said, as he paced his room, with his hands folded behind his back. “This man, whom I once loved so warmly, wishes to murder me. Ah! ye proud princes, who imagine yourselves gods on earth, you are not even safe from a murderer’s dagger, and you are as vulnerable as the commonest beggar. Why does he wish my death? Were I a fantastic, romantic hero, I might say he hoped to claim his sweetheart over my dead body! But Amelia is no longer a person for whom a man would risk his life; she is but a faint and sad resemblance of the past—her rare beauty is tear-stained and turned to ashes, but her heart still lives; it is young and warm, and belongs to Trenck! And shall I dissipate this last illusion? Must she now learn that he to whom she sacrificed so much is but a common murderer? No, I will spare her this sorrow! I will not give Trenck the opportunity to fulfil his work; even his intention shall remain doubtful. I shall not go to Konigsberg; and if, in his presumptuous thirst for notoriety or for vengeance, he should enter Prussia, he shall be cared for—he shall not escape his punishment. Let him but try to cross my borders—he will find a snare spread, a cage from which he cannot escape. Yes, so it shall be. But neither the world nor Trenck shall suspect why this is done. If my brothers and envious persons hold him up in future as an example of my hardness of heart, what do I care for their approval, or the praise of short-sighted men! I do my duty, and am answerable only to God and myself. Trenck intends to murder me—I must preserve myself for my people. My mission is not yet accomplished; and if a poisonous insect crosses my path, I must crush it.”
Prince Henry had again passed eight days in arrest—eight tedious days, days of powerless anger and painful humiliation. This arrest had been, by the king’s express orders, so strict, that no one was allowed to see the prince but Pollnitz, who belonged, as the king said, to the inventory of the house of Hohenzollern, and, therefore, all doors were open to him.
Pollnitz alone had, therefore, the pleasure of hearing the complaints, and reproaches, and bitter accusations of the prince against his brother. Pollnitz always had an attentive ear for these complaints; and after listening to the prince with every appearance of real feeling and warm sympathy, he would hasten to the king, and with drooping eyelids and rejoicing heart repeat the bitter and hateful words of the unsuspicious prince—words that were well calculated to increase the king’s displeasure. The prince still declared that he would not marry, and the king insisted that he must submit to his will and commands.
Thus the eight days had passed, and Pollnitz came to-day with the joyful news that his arrest was at an end, and he was now free.
“That means,” said the prince, bitterly, “that I am free to wander through the stupid streets of Potsdam; appear at his table; that my clothes may be soiled by his unbearable four-legged friends, and my ears deafened by the dull, pedantic conversation of his no less unbearable two-legged friends.”
“Your highness can save yourself from all these small annoyances,” said Pollnitz; “you have only to marry.”
“Marry, bah! That means to give my poor sister-in-law, Elizabeth Christine, a companion, that they may sing their sorrows to each other. No, I have not the bravery of my kingly brother, to make a feeling, human being unhappy in order to satisfy state politics. No, I possess not the egotism to purchase my freedom with the life-long misery of another.”
“But, mon Dieu! my prince,” said Pollnitz, in his cynical way, “you look at it in too virtuous a manner. All women are not as good and pure as poor Elizabeth Christine, and know how to compensate themselves in other quarters for the indifference of their husbands. We are not speaking here of a common marriage, but of the betrothal of a prince. You do not marry your heart, but your hand. Truly such a marriage-ceremony is a protecting talisman, that may be held up to other women as an iron shield upon which, all their egotistical wishes, all their extravagant demands must rebound. Moreover, a married man is entirely sans consequence for all unmarried women, and if they should love such a one, the happy mortal may be convinced that his love is really a caprice of the heart, and not a selfish calculation or desire to marry.”
The prince regarded the smiling courtier earnestly, almost angrily. “Do you know,” he said, “that what you say appears to me very immoral?”
“Immoral?” asked Pollnitz, astonished; “what is that? Your princely highness knows that I received my education at the French court, under the protection of the Regent of Orleans and the Princess of the Palatinate, and there I never heard this word immoral. Perhaps your highness will have the kindness to explain it to me.”
“That would be preaching to deaf ears,” said the prince, shrugging his shoulders. “We will not quarrel about the meaning of a word. I only wish to make you understand that I would not marry at my brother’s bon plaisir. I will not continue this race of miserable princes, that are entirely useless, and consequently a burden to the state. Oh! if Heaven would only give me the opportunity to distinguish myself before this people, and give to this name that is go small, so unworthy, a splendor, a color, a signification!”
“Your highness is ambitous,” said Pollnitz, as the prince, now silent, paced his room with deep emotion.
“Yes, I am ambitious—I thirst for action, renown, and activity. I despise this monotonous, colorless existence, without end or aim. By God! how happy I should be, if, instead of a prince, I could be a simple private man, proprietor of a small landed estate, with a few hundred subjects, that I should endeavor to make happy! But I am nothing but a king’s brother, have nothing but my empty title and the star upon my coat. My income is so small, so pitiful, that it would scarcely suffice to pay the few servants I have, if, at the same time, they were not paid by the king as his spies.”
“But all this will cease as soon as you speak the decisive word; as soon as you declare yourself prepared to marry.”
“And you dare to tell me this?” cried the prince, with flashing eyes—“you, that know I love a lady who is unfortunately no princess; or do you believe that a miserable prince has not the heart of a man—that he does not possess the ardent desire, the painful longing for the woman he loves?”
“Oh, women do not deserve that we should love them so ardently; they are all fickle and inconstant, believe me, my prince.”
The prince cast a quick, questioning glance at the smiling countenance of the courtier.
“Why do you say this to me?” he asked, anxiously.
“Because I am convinced of its truth, your highness; because I believe no woman has the power to preserve her love when obstacles are placed in the way, or that she can be faithful for the short space of eight days, if her lover is absent.”
The prince was startled, and looked terrified at Pollnitz.
“Eight days,” he murmured; “it is eight days—no, it is twelve since I saw Louise.”
“Ah, twelve days—and your highness has the really heroic belief that she still loves you?”
The prince sighed, and his brow clouded, but only for a few moments, and his countenance was again bright and his eyes sparkled.
“Yes, I have this belief; and why should I not have it, as my own heart had stood the trial? I have not seen her for twelve days, have not heard of her, and still my love is as great and as ardent as ever. Yes, I believe that at the thought of her my heart beats more quickly, more longingly than if I had her in my arms.”
“The reason of this,” said Pollnitz, almost sympathetically, “is that it is your first love.”
Prince Henry looked at him angrily.
“You are wrong and most unjust to this beautiful woman, who remained good and pure in the midst of the corrupting and terrible circumstances in which destiny placed her. She preserved a chaste heart, an unspotted soul. Her misfortunes only refined her, and therefore I love her, and believe that God has placed me in her way that, after all her sufferings, I might make her happy. Oh, precisely because of her sorrows, the shameful slanders with which she is pursued, and all for which she is reproached, I love her.”
“Well, my prince,” sighed Pollnitz, with a tragical expression, “I never saw a bolder hero and a more pious Christian than your highness.”
“What do you mean by that, Pollnitz?”
“That an enormous amount of bravery is necessary, prince, to believe Madame von Kleist chaste and innocent, and that only a pious Christian can count himself so entirely among those of whom Christ says, ‘Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.’ May a good fairy long preserve you your bravery and your Christianity! But surely your highness must have important and convincing proofs to believe in the innocence and faithfulness of this woman. I confess that any other man would have been discouraged in his godlike belief by facts. It is a fact that for twelve days Madame von Kleist has sent you no message through me; it is a fact that she was not at the masked ball; that as often as I have been to her in these last days, to deliver letters for your highness, and to obtain hers in return, she has never received me, always excused herself; and, therefore, I could not receive her letters, nor deliver those of your highness.”
“And were you not in Berlin early this morning! Did you not go to her as I ordered you, and tell her she might expect me this evening?”
“I went to her house, but in vain; she was with the queen-mother, and I was told that she would not return until late in the evening, I therefore could not deliver the message, your highness.”
The prince stamped his foot impatiently, and walked hastily to and fro; his brow was clouded, his lips trembled with inward emotion. The sharp eye of the baron followed with an attentive, pitiless glance every movement of his face, noted every sigh that came from his anxious heart, that he might judge whether the seeds of mistrust that he had sown in the breast of the prince would grow. But Prince Henry was still young, brave, and hopeful; it was his first love they wished to poison, but his young, healthy nature withstood the venom, and vanquished its evil effects. His countenance resumed its quiet, earnest expression, and the cloud disappeared from his brow.
“Do you know,” he said, standing before Pollnitz, and looking smilingly into his cunning face—“do you know that you do not descend, as the rest of mankind, from Adam and Eve, but in a direct line from the celebrated serpent? And truly you do honor to your ancestor! No paradise is holy to you, and to do evil gives you pleasure. But you shall not disturb my paradise; and as much of the old Adam as is still in me, I will not be foolish enough to eat of the bitter fruit that you offer me. No, you shall not succeed in making me jealous and distrustful; you shall not destroy my faith: and see you, those that believe are still in paradise, notwithstanding your ancestor, the serpent.”
“My prince,” said Pollnitz, shrugging his shoulders, “your highness looks upon me as a kind of Messiah—at least it pleases you to give me a mother and no father. But oh, my prince! if you are right about my descent, philosophers are certainly wrong, for they maintain that the serpent of paradise left gold as a fearful inheritance to mankind. I shall accuse my great-grandmother the serpent of disinheriting me and condemning me to live upon the generosity of my friends and patrons.”
He looked at the prince, with a sly, covetous glance, but he had not understood him; engaged in deep thought, he had stepped to the window, and was gazing up at the heavens, where the clouds were chasing each other.
“She will be the entire day with my mother, and I shall not see her,” he murmured. Then, turning hastily to Pollnitz, he asked, “How is the queen-mother? Did I not hear that she was suffering?”
“Certainly, your highness, a severe attack of gout confines her to her chair, and holds her prisoner.”
“Poor mother! it is long since I saw you.”
“It is true, the queen complained of it the last time I spoke with her,” said Pollnitz, with a perfectly serious face, but with inward rejoicing.
Another pause ensued. The prince appeared to reflect, and to struggle with his own thoughts and wishes. Pollnitz stood behind him, and noted every motion, every sigh that he uttered, with his malicious smiles.
“I believe,” said the prince, with still averted face, perhaps to prevent Pollnitz from seeing his blushes—“I believe it would be proper for me to inquire to-day personally after my mother’s health; it is not only my duty to do so, but the desire of my heart.”
“Her majesty will be pleased to see her beloved son again, and this pleasure will hasten her recovery.”
The prince turned hastily and glanced sharply at Pollnitz, as if he wished to read his inmost thoughts. But the countenance of the courtier was earnest and respectful.
“If that is your opinion,” said the prince, with a happy smile, “my duty as a son demands that I should hasten to the queen, and I will go immediately to Berlin. But as I am going to my mother, and solely on her account, I will do it in the proper form. Have, therefore, the kindness to obtain my leave of the king—bring me my brother’s answer immediately, I only await it to depart.”
“And I hasten to bring it to your highness,” said Pollnitz, withdrawing.
Prince Henry looked thoughtfully after him.
“I shall see her,” he murmured; “I shall speak with her, and shall learn why she withdrew herself so long from me. Oh, I know she will be able to justify herself, and these slanders and evil reports will flee before her glance as clouds before the rays of the sun.”
In the mean while, Pollnitz hastened to Sans Souci, where he was immediately received by the king.
“Your majesty,” he said, joyfully, “the young lion has fallen into the net that we set for him.”
“He goes then to Berlin, to the queen-mother?” asked the king, quickly.
“He begs your majesty’s permission to take this little trip.”
“He really charged you with this commission?”
“Yes, sire: it appears that his obstinacy is beginning to relent, and that he thinks of submitting.”
The king was silent, and walked thoughtfully to and fro, with clouded brow, then remained standing before Pollnitz, and looked sharply and piercingly at him.
“You rejoice,” he said, coldly, “but you only think of your own advantage. You are indifferent to the sorrow we are preparing for my brother. You only think that your debts will be paid. Yes, I will pay them, but I shall never forget that you have betrayed my brother’s confidence.”
“I only acted according to your majesty’s commands,” said Pollnitz, confounded. “Certainly, but if you had resisted my commands, I would have esteemed and prized you the more. Now, I shall pay your debts, but I shall despise you. No one has reasons for thanking you.”
“Sire, I desire no other thanks. Had I been paid with money for my services, instead of fine speeches, I would have been as rich as Croesus.”
“And a beggar in virtue,” said the king, smiling. “But go, I was wrong to reproach you. I shall now go to Berlin, and when my brother arrives he shall find me there. Go now, my grand chamberlain, and take the prince my permission for a three days’ absence.”
A few hours later the equipage of Prince Henry arrived in the court-yard of Monbijou, and the prince demanded of his mother, the widowed queen, permission to pay her his respects.
Sophia Dorothea was suffering greatly. The gout, that slow but fatal disease, which does not kill at once, but limb by limb, had already paralyzed the feet of the poor queen, and confined her to her chair. To-day her sufferings were greater than usual, and she was not able to leave her bed. Therefore, she could not receive the prince as a queen, but only as a mother, without ceremony or etiquette. That the meeting might be entirely without constraint, the maids of honor left the queen’s room, and as the prince entered, he saw the ladies disappearing by another door; the last one had just made her farewell bow, and was kissing respectfully the queen’s hand.
This was Louise von Kleist, for whose sake the prince had come, and for whom his heart throbbed painfully. He could have cried aloud for joy as he saw her in her bewildering loveliness, her luxuriant beauty. He longed to seize her hands and cover them with kisses—to tell her how much he had suffered, how much he was still suffering for her sake.
But Louise appeared not to have seen him, not to have noticed his entrance. She had only eyes and ears for the queen, who was just dismissing her with winning words, telling her to remain in the castle and return when she desired to see her.
“I shall remain and await your majesty’s commands,” said Louise, withdrawing hastily.
The queen now greeted the prince as if she had just observed him, and invited him to be seated on the fauteuil near her couch. The prince obeyed, but he was absent-minded and restless, and the more the queen endeavored to engage him in harmless and unconstrained conversation, the more monosyllabic and preoccupied he became. The poor prince remembered only that his beloved was so near, that only a door separated them, and prevented him from gazing on her beauty.
Yes, Louise was really in the next room, in the cabinet of the queen, sorrowful and exhausted; she had fallen upon the little sofa near the door, the smile had left her lips, and her brilliant, bewitching eyes were filled with tears. Louise wept; she wept for her last youthful dream, her last hope of happiness and virtue, for her sad, shadowed future and wounded pride; for to-day she had to resign forever the proud hopes, the brilliant future for which she had striven with so much energy.
But it was vain to struggle against this hard necessity. The king had given her his orders and was there to see them carried out. He sat behind that portiere that led into the grand saloon; he had just left Louise, and, before going, had said to her, in a stern, commanding tone:
“You will fulfil my commands accurately. You know that Fritz Wendel still lives, and that I shall be inexorable if you do not act as you have promised.”
Louise submitted respectfully to the king’s commands; she accepted her fate, but she wept bitterly, and when she felt that the king’s eyes were no longer upon her, her tears flowed unceasingly. Perhaps Frederick still saw her, or suspected her weakness, for the portiere opened slightly, and his noble, but stern countenance appeared.
“Madame,” he said, “if the prince sees you with tearful eyes, he will not believe in your happiness.”
Louise smiled painfully. “Ah! sire, he will believe I am weeping for joy. I have often heard of joyful tears.”
The king did not reply; he felt for her agony, and closed the partiere.
“I will cry no more,” she said; “I have accepted my destiny, and will fulfil it bravely for the sake of my daughter. It concerns Camilla’s happiness more than my own. I will deserve the respect of my unfortunate child.”
In saying this, a smile like a sunbeam illuminated her countenance. But now she started up, and laid her hand in terror upon her heart. She heard steps approaching. The door moved, and in a moment the king appeared and motioned to her.
“Courage, courage!” murmured Louise, and with instinctive fear she flew away from the door and placed herself in the niche of the last window.
To reach her, the prince must cross the saloon; that would give her a few moments to recover. The door opened and Prince Henry entered; his glance flew quickly over the saloon, and found the one he sought.
Louise could have shrieked with agony when she saw the tender smile with which he greeted her. Never had he appeared so handsome, so noble as at this moment, when she must resign him forever.
But there was no time to think of this, no time for complaints or regrets. He was there, he stood before her, offered both his hands, and greeted her with the tenderest words of love.
Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her heart’s pleadings.
“Ah, my prince,” she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like the wail of a lost soul—“ah, my prince, take care! we women are very credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth.”
“I advise you to do so,” said the prince, happy and unconcerned. “Yes, Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my jesting words have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we will dispense with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a lover—a lover who is unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that is my weakness; I do not deny it, I am jealous—jealous of all those who keep you from me, who prevent my receiving your letters.”
“My letters!” said Louise, astonished; “why should I have written letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for ladies to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks since I received a letter from your highness.”
“Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise: you were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known that my thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news and comfort from you.”
“Non, vraiment, I did not know it,” said Louise, laughingly.
“You did not know it?” asked Henry, wonderingly. “Well, what did you suppose?”
“I thought,” she said, carelessly—“I thought that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival.”
“And then?”
“Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long sermon to my foolish eyes—they were misty with tears. Listen, I said to them: ‘You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you should always look bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. Really, the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return with ardor.’ This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when they grew dim with tears.”
“And was your sermon effective?” said the prince, with pale, trembling lips. “Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find another lover?”
“Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves, and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought.”
“What happiness,” asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him—“what happiness did your eyes find?”
Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. “The happiness,” she said, and against her will her voice trembled and faltered—“the happiness that a true, earnest love alone can give—which I have received joyously into my heart as a gift from God.”
The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.
“I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do you wish to say?”
“They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have promised to become the wife of the man I love,” said Louise, with forced gayety.
The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the one who had wounded him so painfully.
“If this is true,” he said, in a deep, hollow voice—“if this is true, I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless coquette.”
“Ah, my prince, you insult me,” cried Louise.
“I insult you!” he said, with a wild laugh; “verily, I believe this woman has the effrontery to reproach me—I who believed in and defended her against every accusation—I that had the courage to love and trust, when all others distrusted and despised her. Yes, madame, I loved you: I saw in you a goddess, where others saw only a coquette. I adored you as an innocent sacrifice to envy and malice; I saw a martyr’s crown upon your brow, and wished to change it for the myrtle-crown of marriage. And my love and hopes are dust and ashes; it is enough to drive me mad—enough to stifle me with rage and shame.” Carried away by passion, the prince ran wildly through the saloon, gasping for air, struggling for composure, and now and then uttering words of imprecation and despair.
Louise waited, in silence and resignation, the end of this stormy crisis. She questioned her heart if this bitter hour was not sufficient atonement for all her faults and follies; if the agony she now suffered did not wipe out and extirpate the past.
The prince still paced the room violently. Suddenly, as if a new thought had seized him, he remained standing in the middle of the saloon, and looked at Louise with a strangely altered countenance. She had forgotten for a moment the part she was condemned to play, and leaned, pale and sad, against the window.
Perhaps he heard her sorrowful sighs—perhaps he saw her tears as they rolled one by one from her eyes, and fell like pearls upon her small white hands.
Anger disappeared from his face, his brow cleared, and as he approached Louise his eyes sparkled with another and milder fire.
“Louise,” he said, softly, and his voice, which had before raged like a stormy wind, was now mild and tender—“Louise, I have divined your purpose—I know all now. At first, I did not understand your words; in my folly and jealousy I misconceived your meaning; you only wished to try me, to see if my love was armed and strong, if it was as bold and faithful as I have sworn it to be. Well, I stood the test badly, was weak and faint-hearted; but forgive me—forgive me, Louise, and strengthen my heart by confidence and faith in me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.
“Must I repeat to your highness what I have said before? I do not understand you. What do you mean?”
“Ah,” said the prince, “you are again my naughty, sportive Louise. Well, then, I will explain. Did you not say that you now love so truly, that you have promised to become the wife of the man you love?”
“Yes, I said that, your highness.”
“And I,” said the prince, seizing both her hands and gazing at her ardently—“I was so short-sighted, so ungrateful, as not to understand you. The many sorrows and vexations I suffer away from you have dimmed my eyes and prevented me from seeing what is written with golden letters upon your smiling lips and beaming eyes. Ah, Louise, I thank you for your precious words, at last you are captured, at last you have resolved to become the wife of him who adores you. I thank you, Louise, I thank you, and I swear that no earthly pomp or power could make me as proud and happy as this assurance of your love.”
Louise gazed into his beautiful, smiling face with terror.
“Ah, my prince, my words have not the meaning you imagine. I spoke the simple truth. My heart has made its choice—since yesterday, I am the betrothed wife of Captain du Trouffle.”
“That is not true,” cried the prince, casting her hands violently from him. “You are very cruel today; you torture me with your fearful jests.”
“No, your highness, I speak the truth. I am the betrothed of Captain du Trouffle.”
“Since yesterday you are the betrothed of Captain du Trouffle!” repeated the prince, staring at her wildly. “And you say you love him, Louise?”
“Yes, your highness, I love him,” said Louise, with a faint smile.
“It is impossible,” cried the prince; “it is not true.”
“And why should I deceive your highness?”
“Why?—ah, I understand all. Oh, Louise, my poor darling, how short-sighted I have been! Why did I not immediately suspect my brother?—he has spies to watch all my movements; they have at last discovered my love for you. Pollnitz, who would do any thing for gold, has betrayed us to the king, who condemns me to marry according to my rank, and, to carry out his purpose surely, he now forces you to marry. Oh, Louise, say that this is so; acknowledge that the power of the king, and not your own heart, forced you to this engagement. It is impossible, it cannot be that you have forgotten the vows that we exchanged scarcely two weeks ago. It cannot be that you look upon the heart that loved you so deeply, so purely, as an idle plaything, to be thrown away so lightly! No, no, Louise, I have seen often in your beaming eyes, your eloquent smiles, I have felt in your soft and tender tones, that you loved me fondly; and now in your pale, sad face I see that you love me still, and that it is the king who wishes to separate us. My poor, lovely child, you have been intimidated; you think that my brother, who reigns supreme over millions, will yield to no obstacle, that it is vain to resist him. But you are mistaken, Louise; you have forgotten that I am Frederick’s brother, that the proud, unconquerable blood of the Hohenzollerns flows also in my veins. Let my brother try to force me to his purpose; I shall be no weak tool in his hands. You had not firm confidence in your lover, Louise; you did not know that I would resign cheerfully rank and all family ties for your sake; you did not know that I had sworn to marry only the woman I love. This I must do to satisfy my heart and my honor, and also to show the king that Prince Henry is a free man. Now tell me, Louise, if I have not divined all. Is not this the king’s cruel work? Ah, you do not answer, you are silent. I understand—the king has made you swear not to betray him. Now look at me, Louise; make me a sign with your hand, tell me with your eyes, and I will comprehend you—I will take you in my arms and carry you to the altar. My God! Louise do you not see that I am waiting for this sign?—that you are torturing me?”
Louise raised her head, her heart was melting within her; she forgot her terror, and was ready to resist God, the king, and the whole world, to grasp the noble and unselfish love that the prince offered her. But her glance fell involuntarily upon the curtain, behind which the king stood, and it seemed to her as if she saw the angry, burning eyes of Frederick threatening to destroy her. She remembered her daughter, Fritz Wendel, and the world’s mocking laughter, and was overcome.
“You are still silent,” said the prince; “you give me neither sign nor glance.”
Louise felt as if an iron hand was tearing her heart asunder.
“I really am at a loss what more to say or do,” she said, in a careless tone, that made her own heart shudder. “It pleases your highness to make a jest of what I say. I am innocent, my prince, of any double meaning. Five weeks have passed since I saw you—I believed you had forgotten me; I did not reproach you, neither was I in despair. I soon found that it was stupid and dreary to have my heart unoccupied, and I sought for and soon found a lover, to whom my heart became a willing captive. Therefore, when Captain Trouffle pleaded earnestly for my hand, I had not the courage to say no. This is my only crime, your highness. I was not cruel to myself; I received the happiness that was offered. I have been called a coquette, my prince; it is time to bind myself in marriage bonds, and show the world that love can make an honest woman of me. Can your highness blame me for this?”
The prince listened with breathless attention; gradually his countenance changed, the color faded from his cheeks, the light from his eyes; a smile was still on his lips, but it was cold and mocking; his eyes burned with anger and contempt.
“No, madame,” he said, with calm, proud indifference, “I do not blame you—I praise, I congratulate you. Captain du Trouffle is a most fortunate man—he will possess a most beautiful wife. When will this happy ceremony be performed?”
Madame von Kleist was unable to reply. She gazed with wild terror into his cold, iron face—she listened with horror to that voice, whose mild, soft tone had become suddenly so harsh, so stern.
The prince repeated his question, and his tone was harder and more imperious.
“The day is not fixed,” said Louise; “we must first obtain the king’s consent to our marriage.”
“I shall take care it does not fail you,” said the prince, quietly.
“I will strengthen your petition to the king. Now, madame, you must forgive me for leaving you. Many greetings to your betrothed—I shall be introduced to him to-morrow at the parade. Farewell, madame!”
The prince made a slight bow, and, without glancing at her again, left the room slowly and proudly.
Louise gazed after him with mournful eyes, but he did not see it; he did not see how she fell, as if broken, to the floor, as if struck by lightning; and when the door closed on him she held her hands to Heaven pleadingly for mercy and forgiveness.
The portiere now opened, and the king entered; his countenance was pale, his eyes tearful, but they sparkled with anger when he saw Louise upon the floor. For him she was but a heartless coquette, and he was angry with her because of the suffering she had caused his brother, for whom he felt the deepest pity and compassion.
But that was now past; the brother could weep a tear of pity, the king must be firm and relentless.
As he approached her, she raised herself from the ground and made a profound and ceremonious bow.
“You have repaired much of the evil you have done, madame,” said the king, sternly. “You have played a dishonorable game with my brother. You enticed him to love you.”
“I think I have atoned, sire,” said Louise, faintly; “the prince no longer loves but despises me. Your commands are fulfilled to the letter, and I now beg your majesty’s permission to withdraw.”
“Go, madame; you have done your duty to-day, and I will also do mine. I shall not forget what I promised you when you are Madame du Trouffle. We will forget all the faults of Madame von Kleist.”
He dismissed her with a slight bow, and gazed after her until she had disappeared.
At this moment, a heavy fall was heard in the antechamber. The door opened immediately, and the pale, disturbed face of Pollnitz appeared.
“What is the matter, Pollnitz?” asked the king, hastily.
“Oh, sire, poor Prince Henry has fainted.”
The king was startled, and stepped quickly to the door, but he remained standing there until his features resumed their calm expression.
“He will recover,” he said—“he will recover, for he is a man; in my youthful days I often fainted, but I recovered.”