The king received the French ambassador without ceremony. There were no guards, no pages, no swarms of curious listening courtiers, only a few of his trusty friends, who welcomed the duke and conversed with him, while Pollnitz entered the adjoining room and informed the king of his arrival.
“His majesty entreats the duke to enter.” said Pollnitz, opening the door of the library. The king advanced. He was dressed simply; even the golden star, which was seldom absent from his coat, was now missing.
“Come, duke,” said the king, pleasantly, “come into my tusculum.” He then entered the library, quickly followed by the duke.
“Well, sir,” said the king, “we are now in that room in which I lately told you I was but a republican. You have crossed the threshold of the republic of letters!”
“But I see a king before me,” said the duke, bowing reverentially; “a king who has vanquished his republic, and surpassed all the great spirits that have gone before him.”
The king’s glance rested upon the shelves filled with books, on whose back glittered in golden letters the most distinguished names of all ages.
“Homer, Tacitus, Livy, Petrarch!—ye great spirits of my republic! hear how this traitor slanders you.”
“How I honor you, sire, for truly it is a great honor to be subdued and vanquished by such a king as Frederick the Second.”
The king looked at him fixedly. “You wish to bewilder me with flattery, duke,” said he, “well knowing that it is a sweet opiate, acceptable to princes, generally causing their ruin. But in this chamber, duke, I am safe from this danger, and here in my republic we will both enjoy the Spartan soup of truth. Believe me, sir, it is at times a wholesome dish, though to the pampered stomach it is bitter and distasteful. I can digest it, and as you have come to visit me, you will have to partake of it.”
“And I crave it, sire—crave it as a man who has fasted for two weeks.”
“For two weeks?” said the king, laughing. “Ah, it is true you have been here just that time.”
“For two long weeks has your majesty kept me fasting and longing for this precious soup,” said the duke, reproachfully.
“My broth was not ready,” said the king, gayly; “it was still bubbling in the pot. It is now done, and we will consume it together. Let us be seated, duke.”
If Frederick had turned at this moment, he would have seen the grand chamberlain Pollnitz advancing on tiptoe to the open door, in order to listen to the conversation. But the king was looking earnestly at the ambassador. After a few moments of silence, he turned to the duke.
“Is my soup still too hot for you?” said he, laughingly.
“No, sire,” said the duke, bowing. “But I waited for your majesty to take the first spoonful. Would it not be better to close that door?”
“No,” said the king, hastily; “I left it open, intentionally, so that your eyes, when wearied with the gloom of my republic, could refresh themselves on the glittering costumes of my courtiers.”
“He left it open,” thought the duke, “for these courtiers to hear all that is said. He wishes the whole world to know how he rejected the friendship of France.”
“Well,” said the king, “I will take my spoonful. We will commence without further delay. Duke de Nivernois, you are here because the contract made between France and Prussia is at an end, and because France wishes me to fancy that she is anxious for a renewal of this treaty, and for the friendship of Prussia.”
“France wishes to convince you of this, sire,” said the duke.
“Convince me?” said the king, ironically. “And how?”
“King Louis of France not only proposes to renew this contract, she, who he wishes to draw the bonds of friendship much closer between France and Prussia.”
“And to what end?” said the king. “For you well know, duke, that in politics personal inclinations must not be considered. Were it not so, I would, without further delay, grasp the friendly hand that my brother of France extends toward me, for the whole world knows that I love France, and am proud of the friendship of her great spirits. But as, unfortunately, there is no talk here of personal inclinations but of politics, I repeat my question. To what end does France desire the friendship of Prussia? What am I to pay for it? You see, duke, I am a bad diplomatist—I make no digression, but go to the point at once.”
“And that, perhaps, is the nicest diplomacy,” said the duke, sighing.
“But, duke, do tell me, why is France so anxious for the friendship of Prussia?”
“To have an ally in you and be your ally. By the first, France will have a trusty and powerful friend in Germany when her lands are attacked by the King of England; by the last, your majesty will have a trusty and powerful friend when Prussia is attacked by Russia or Austria.”
“We will now speak of the first,” said the king, quietly. “France, then, thinks to transplant this war with England to German ground?”
“Everywhere, sire, that the English colors predominate. England alone will be accountable for this war.”
“It is true England has been hard upon you, but still it seems to me you have revenged yourselves sufficiently. When England made herself supreme ruler of the Ohio, France, by the conquest of the Isle of Minorca, obtained dominion over the Mediterranean Sea, thereby wounding England so deeply, that in her despair she turned her weapons against herself. Admiral Byng, having been overcome by your admiral Marquis de la Gallissionaire, paid for it with his life. I think France should be satisfied with this expiation.”
“France will wash off her insults in English blood, and Minorca is no compensation for Canada and Ohio. England owes us satisfaction, and we will obtain it in Hanover.”
“In Hanover?” repeated the king, angrily.
“Hanover will be ours, sire, though we had no such ally as Germany; but it will be ours the sooner if we have that help which you can give us. Standing between two fires, England will have to succumb, there will be no escape for her. That is another advantage, sire, that France expects from the treaty with Prussia. But I will now speak of the advantages which your majesty may expect from this alliance. You are aware that Prussia is surrounded by threatening enemies; that Austria and Russia are approaching her borders with evil intentions, and that a day may soon come when Maria Theresa may wish to reconquer this Silesia which, in her heart, she still calls her own. When this time comes, your majesty will not be alone; your ally, France, will be at your side; she will repay with faithful, active assistance the services which your majesty rendered her in Hanover. She will not only render her all the assistance in her power, but she will also allow her to partake of the advantages of this victory. Hanover is a rich land, not rich only in products, but in many other treasures. The Electors of Hanover have in their residences not only their chests filled with gold and precious jewels, but also the most magnificent paintings. It is but natural that we should pay ourselves in Hanover for the expenses of this war of which England is the cause. You, then, will share with us these treasures. And still this is not all. France is grateful; she offers you, therefore, one of her colonies, the Isle of Tobago, as a pledge of friendship and love.”
“Where is this isle?” said the king, quietly.
“In the West Indies, sire.”
“And where is Hanover?”
The duke looked at the king in amazement, and remained silent.
The king repeated his question.
“Well,” said the duke, hesitatingly, “Hanover is in Germany.”
“And for this German land which, with my aid, France is to conquer, I am to receive as a reward the little Isle of Tobago in the West Indies! Have you finished, dyke, or have you other propositions to make?”
“Sire, I have finished, and await your answer.”
“And this answer, duke, shall be clearer and franker than your questions. I will begin by answering the latter part of your speech. Small and insignificant as the King of Prussia may appear in your eyes, I would have you know he is no robber, no highwayman; he leaves these brilliant amusements without envy to France. And now, my dear duke, I must inform you, that since this morning it has been placed out of my power to accept this alliance; for this morning a treaty was signed, by which I became the ally of England!”
“It is impossible, sire,” cried the duke; “this cannot be!”
“Not possible, sir!” said the king, “and still it is true. I have formed a treaty with England—this matter is settled! I have been an ally of Louis XV.; I have nothing to complain of in him. I love him; well, am I now his enemy? I hope that there may be a time when I may again approach the King of France. Pray tell him how anxiously I look forward to this time. Tell him I am much attached to him.”
“Ah, sire,” said the duke, sighing, “it is a great misfortune. I dare not go to my monarch with this sad, unexpected news; my monarch who loves you so tenderly, whose most earnest wish it is for France to be allied to Prussia.”
“Ah, duke,” said Frederick, laughing, “France wishes for ships as allies. I have none to offer—England has. With her help I shall keep the Russians from Prussia, and with the aid she will keep the French from Hanover.”
“We are to be enemies, then?” said the duke, sadly.
“It is a necessary evil, for which there is no remedy. But Louis XV. can form other alliances,” said Frederick, ironically. “It may be for his interest to unite with the house of Austria!”
The duke was much embarrassed.
“Your majesty is not in earnest,” said he, anxiously.
“Why not, duke?” said Frederick; “an alliance between France and Austria—it sounds very natural. If I were in your place, I would propose this to my court.”
He now rose, which was a sign to the duke that the audience was at an end.
“I must now send a courier at once to my court,” said the duke, “and I will not fail to state that your majesty advises us to unite with Austria.”
“You will do well; that is,” said the king, with a meaning smile—“that is, if you think your court is in need of such advice, and has not already acted without it. When do you leave, duke?”
“To-morrow morning, sire.”
“Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my heart I am the friend of France, though we meet as enemies on the battle-field.”
The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing deeply, left the royal library, “the republic of letters,” to hasten to Berlin.
The king looked after him thoughtfully.
“The die is cast,” said he, softly. “There will be war. Our days of peace and quietude are over, and the days of danger are approaching!”
The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the garden of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering dew-drops. All was quiet—Nature alone was up and doing; no one was to be seen, no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and the chirping of birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if the sound of human misery and passion could not reach this spot. There was something so holy in this garden, that you could but believe it to be a part of paradise in which the serpent had not yet exercised his arts of seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he is sleeping; he is still resting from the toils and sorrows of the past day. Man is here—he is coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature with his sorrows and complaints.
The little gate at the farthest end of that shady walk is opened, and a man enters. The dream is at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but a beautiful garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated by the foot of man. He hastens up the path leading to the palace; he hurries forward, panting and gasping. His face is colorless, his long hair is fluttering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed and glaring; his clothes are covered with dust, and his head is bare.
There is something terrifying in the sudden appearance of this man. Nature seems to smile no more since he came; the trees have stopped their whispering, the birds cannot continue their melodious songs since they have seen his wild, anxious look. The peacefulness of Nature is broken. For man—that is to say, misery, misfortune; for man—that is to say, sin, guilt, and meanness—is there, pouring destroying drops of poison in the golden chalice of creation.
Breathlessly he hurries on, looking neither to right nor left. He has now reached the terrace, and now he stops for a moment to recover breath. He sees not the glorious panorama lying at his feet; he is blind to all but himself. He is alone in the world—alone with his misery, his pain. Now he hastens on to the back of the palace. The sentinels walking before the back and the front of the castle know him, know where he is going, and they barely glance at him as he knocks long and loudly at that little side window.
It is opened, and a young girl appears, who, when perceiving this pale, anxious countenance, which is striving in vain to smile at her, cries out loudly, and folds her hands as if in prayer.
“Hush!” said he, roughly; “hush! let me in.”
“Some misfortune has happened!” said she, terrified.
“Yes, Rosa, a great misfortune, but let me in, if you do not wish to ruin me.”
The young girl disappears, and the man hastens to the side door of the castle. It is opened, and he slips in.
Perfect peace reigns once more in the garden of Sans-Souci. Nature is now smiling, for she is alone with her innocence. Man is not there! But now, in the castle, in the dwelling of the castle warder, and in the room of his lovely daughter Rosa, all is alive. There is whispering, and weeping, and sighing, and praying; there is Rosa, fearful and trembling, her face covered with tears, and opposite her, her pale, woe-begone lover.
“I have been walking all night,” said he, with a faint and hollow voice. “I did not know that Berlin was so far from Potsdam, and had I known it, I would not have dared to take a wagon or a horse; I had to slip away very quietly. While by Count Puebla’s order my room was guarded, and I thought to be in it, I descended into the garden by the grape-vine, which reached up to my window. The gardener had no suspicion of how I came there, when I required him to unlock the door, but laughed cunningly, thinking I was bound to some rendezvous. And so I wandered on in fear and pain, in despair and anger, and it seemed to me as if the road would never come to an end. At times I stopped, thinking I heard behind me wild cries and curses, the stamping of horses, and the rolling of wheels; but it was imagination. Ah! it was a frightful road; but it is past. But now I will be strong, for this concerns my name, my life, my honor. Why do you laugh, Rosa?” said he, angrily; “do you dare to laugh, because I speak of my name—my honor?”
“I did not laugh,” said Rosa, looking with terror at the disturbed countenance of her lover.
“Yes, you laughed, and you were right to laugh, when I spoke of my honor; I who have no honor; I who have shamed my name; I upon whose brow is the sign of murder: for I am guilty of the ruin of a man, and the chains on his hands are cursing my name.”
“My God! He is mad,” murmured Rosa.
“No, I am not mad,” said he, with a heart-breaking smile. “I know all, all! Were I mad, I would not be so unhappy. Were I unconscious, I would suffer less. But, no, I remember all. I know how this evil commenced, how it grew and poisoned my heart. The evil was my poverty, my covetousness, and perhaps also my ambition. I was not content to bear forever the chains of bondage; I wished to be free from want. I determined it should no more be said that the sisters of Count Weingarten had to earn their bread by their needlework, while he feasted sumptuously at the royal table. This it was that caused my ruin. These frightful words buzzed in my ears so long, that in my despair I determined to stop them at any price, and so I committed my first crime, and received a golden reward for my treason. My sisters did not work now; I bought a small house for them, and gave them all that I received. I shuddered at the sight of this money; I would keep none of it. I was again the poor secretary Weingarten, but my family was not helpless; they had nothing to fear.”
To whom was he telling all this? Certainly not to that young girl standing before him, pale and trembling. He had forgotten himself; he had forgotten her whom in other days he had called his heart’s darling.
As she sank at his feet and covered his hands with her tears, he rose hastily from his seat; he now remembered that he was not alone.
“What have I said?” cried he, wildly. “Why do you weep?”
“I weep because you have forgotten me,” said she, softly; “I weep because, in accusing yourself, you make no excuse for your crime; not even your love for your poor Rosa.”
“It is true,” said he, sadly, “I had forgotten our love. And still it is the only excuse that I have for my second crime. I had determined to be a good man, and to expiate my one crime throughout my whole life. But when I saw you, your beauty fascinated me, and you drew me on. I went with open eyes into the net which you prepared for me, Rosa. I allowed myself to be allured by your beauty, knowing well that it would draw me into a frightful abyss.”
“Ah,” said Rosa, groaning, “how cruelly you speak of our love!”
“Of our love!” repeated he, shrugging his shoulders. “Child, in this hour we will be true to each other. Ours was no true love. You were in love with my noble name and position—I with your youth, your beauty, your coquettish ways. Our souls were not in unison. You gave yourself to me, not because you loved me, but because you wished to deceive me. I allowed myself to be deceived because of your loveliness and because I saw the golden reward which your deceitful love would bring me.”
“You are cruel and unjust,” said Rosa, sadly. “It may be true that you never loved me, but I loved you truly. I gave you my whole heart.”
“Yes, and in giving it,” said he, harshly—“in giving it you had the presence of mind to keep the aim of your tenderness always in view. While your arms were around me, your little hand which seemed to rest upon my heart, sought for the key which I always kept in my vest-pocket, and which I had lately told you belonged to the desk in which the important papers of the embassy were placed. You found this key, Rosa, and I knew it, but I only laughed, and pressed you closer to my heart.”
“Terrible! terrible!” said Rosa, trembling. “He knew all, and still he let me do it!”
“Yes I allowed you to do it—I did not wish to be better than the girl I loved: and, as she desired to deceive me, I let myself be deceived. I allowed it, because the demon of gold had taken possession of me. I took the important papers out of my desk, to which you had stolen the key, and hid them. Then the tempters came and whispered of golden rewards, of eternal gratitude, of fortune, honor; and these fiendish whispers misled my soul. I sold my honor and became a traitor, and all this for the sake of gold! So I became what I now am. I do not reproach you Rosa, for most likely it would have happened without you.”
“But what danger threatens you now?” asked Rosa.
“The just punishment for a traitor,” said he, hoarsely. “Give me some wine, Rosa, so that I can gain strength to go to the king at once.”
“To the king at this early hour?”
“And why not? Have I not been with him often at this hour, when I had important news or dispatches to give him? So give me the wine, Rosa.”
Rosa left the room, but returned almost instantly. He took the bottle from her and filled a glass hastily.
“Now,” said he, breathing deeply, “I feel that I live again. My blood flows freely through my veins, and my heart is beating loudly. Now to the king!”
He stood before a glass for a moment to arrange his hair; then pressed a cold kiss upon Rosa’s pale, trembling lips, and left the room. With a firm, sure tread, he hurried through the halls and chambers. No one stopped him, for no one was there to see him. In the king’s antechamber sat Deesen taking his breakfast.
“Is the king up?” asked Weingarten.
“The sun has been up for hours, and so of course the king is up,” said Deesen, proudly.
“Announce me to his majesty; I have some important news for him.”
He entered the king’s chamber, and returned in a few moments for Weingarten.
The king was sitting in an arm-chair by a window, which he had opened to breathe the fresh summer air. His white greyhound, Amalthea, lay at his feet, looking up at him with his soft black eyes. In his right hand the king held his flute.
“You are early, sir,” said he, turning to Weingarten. “You must have very important news.”
“Yes, sire, very important,” said Weingarten, approaching nearer.
The king reached out his hand. “Give them to me,” said he.
“Sire, I have no dispatches.”
“A verbal message, then. Speak.”
“Sire, all is lost; Count Puebla suspects me.”
The king was startled for a moment, but collected himself immediately. “He suspects, but he is certain of nothing?”
“No, sire; but his suspicion amounts almost to certainty. Yesterday I was copying a dispatch which was to go that evening, and which was of the highest importance to your majesty, when I suddenly perceived Count Puebla standing beside me at my desk. He had entered my room very quietly, which showed that he had his suspicions, and was watching me. He snatched my copy from the desk and read it. ‘For whom is this?’ said he, in a threatening tone. I stammered forth some excuses; said that I intended writing a history, and that I took a copy of all dispatches for my work. He would not listen to me. ‘You are a traitor!’ said he, in a thundering voice. ‘I have suspected you for some time; I am now convinced of your treachery. You shall have an examination tomorrow; for to-night you will remain a prisoner in your room.’ He then locked my desk, put the key in his pocket, and, taking with him the dispatch and my copy, left the room. I heard him lock it and bolt my door. I was a prisoner.”
“How did you get out?” said the king.
“By the window, sire. And I flew here to throw myself at your majesty’s feet, and to beg for mercy and protection.”
“I promised you protection and help in case of your detection—I will fulfil my promise. What are your wishes. Let us see if they can be realized.”
“Will your majesty give me some sure place of refuge where Count Puebla’s threats cannot harm me?”
“You will remain here in the dwelling of the castle-warder until a suitable residence can be found for you. What next? What plans have you made for the future?”
“I would humbly beseech your majesty to give me some position in your land worthy of my station, such as your highness promised me.”
“You remember too many of my promises,” said the king, shrugging his shoulders.
“Your majesty will not grant me the promised position?” said Count Weingarten, tremblingly.
“I remember no such promise,” said Frederick. “Men of your stamp are paid, but not rewarded. I have made use of your treachery; but you are, nevertheless, in my eyes a traitor, and I will have none such in my service.”
“Then I am lost!” said Weingarten. “My honor, my good name, my future are annihilated.”
“Your honor has been weighed with gold,” said the king, sternly, “and I think I have already paid more for it than it was worth. Your good name, it is true, will be from now changed into a bad one; and your mother will have to blush when she uses it. Therefore I advise you to let it go; to take another name; to begin a new existence, and to found a new future.”
“A future without honor, without name, without position!” sighed Weingarten, despairingly.
“So are men!” said the king, softly; “insolent and stubborn when they think themselves secure; cowardly and uncertain when they are in danger. So you were rash enough to think that your treacherous deeds would always remain a secret? You did not think of a possible detection, or prepare yourself for it. In treading the road which you have trodden, every step should be considered. This, it seems to me, you have not done. You wish to enjoy the fruits of your treachery in perfect security; but you have not the courage to stand before the world as a traitor. Do away with this name, which will cause you many dangers and insults. Fly from this place, where you and your deeds are known. Under a different name look for an asylum in another part of my land. Money shall not fail you; and if what you have earned from me is not sufficient, turn to me, and I will lend you still more. I will not forget that to me your treachery has been of great use, and therefore I will not desert you, though I shall despise the traitor. And now, farewell! This is our last meeting. Call this afternoon upon my treasurer; he will pay you two hundred louis d’or. And now go.” And with a scornful look at Weingarten’s pale countenance, he turned to the window.
Weingarten hurried past the halls and chambers, and entered Rosa’s room. She read in his pale, sad face that he had no good news to tell her.
“Has it all been in vain?” said she, breathlessly.
“In vain?” cried he, with a scornful smile. “No, not in vain. The king rewarded me well; much better than Judas Iscariot was rewarded. I have earned a large sum of money, and am still to receive a thousand crowns. Quiet yourself, Rosa; we will be very happy, for we will have money. Only I must ask if the proud daughter of the royal castle-warder will give her hand to a man who can offer her no name, no position. Rosa, I warn you, think well of what you do. You loved me because I was a count, and had position to offer you. From to-day, I have no position, no name, no honor, no family. Like Ahasuerus, I will wander wearily through the world, happy and thanking God if I can find a quiet spot where I am not known, and my name was never heard. There I will rest, and trust to chance for a name. Rosa, will you share with me this existence, without sunshine, without honor, without a name?”
She was trembling so, that she could barely speak.
“I have no choice,” stammered she, at last; “I must follow you, for my honor demands that I should be your wife. I must go with you; fate wills it.”
With a loud shriek she fainted by his side. Weingarten did not raise her; he glanced wildly at the pale, lifeless woman at his feet.
“We are both condemned,” murmured he, “we have both lost our honor. And with this Cain’s mark upon our foreheads we will wander wearily through the world.” [Footnote: Count Weingarten escaped from all his troubles happily. He married his sweetheart, the daughter of the castle-warder, and went to Altmark, where, under the name of Veis, he lived happily for many years.]
The king, in the mean while, after Weingarten had left him, walked thoughtfully up and down his room. At times he raised his head and gazed with a proud, questioning glance at the sky. Great thoughts were at work within him. Now Frederick throws back his head proudly, and his eyes sparkle.
“The time has come,” said he, in a loud, full voice. “The hour for delay is past; now the sword must decide between me and my enemies.” He rang a bell hastily, and ordered a valet to send a courier at once to Berlin, to call General Winterfeldt, General Retzow, and also Marshal Schwerin, to Sans-Souci.
A few hours after the departure of the courier, the heavy movement of wheels in the court below announced to the king, who was standing impatiently at his window, the arrival of the expected generals. In the same moment, his chamberlain, opening wide the library door, ushered them into his presence.
“Ah!” said the king, welcoming them pleasantly, “I see I am not so entirely without friends as my enemies think. I have but to call, and Marshal Schwerin, that is, wisdom and victory, is at my side; and Generals Winterfeldt and Retzow, that is, youth and courage, boldness and bravery, are ready to give me all the assistance in their power. Sirs, I thank you for coming to me at once. Let us be seated; listen to what I have to say, and upon what earnest important subjects I wish your advice.”
And in a few words the king first showed them the situation of Europe and of his own states, so as to prepare them for the more important subjects he had to introduce before them.
“You will now understand,” said he, “why I was so willing to make this contract with England. I hoped thereby to gain Russia, who is allied to England, to my side. But these hopes have been destroyed. Russia, angry with Britain for having allied herself to Prussia, has broken her contract. Bestuchef, it is true, wavered for a moment between his love of English guineas and his hatred of me, but hate carried the day.”
“But, sire,” said Retzow, hastily, “if your majesty can succeed in making a reconciliation between France and England, you may become the ally of these two powerful nations. Then let Austria, Russia, and Saxony come upon us all at once, we can confront them.”
“We can do that, I hope, even without the assistance of France,” said the king, impetuously. “We must renounce all idea of help from France; she is allied to Austria. What Kaunitz commenced with his wisdom, Maria Theresa carried out with her flattery. All my enemies have determined to attack me at once. But I am ready for them, weapons in hand. I have been hard at work; all is arranged, every preparation for the march of our army is finished. And now I have called you together to counsel me as to where we can commence our attack advantageously.”
Frederick stopped speaking, and gazed earnestly at his generals, endeavoring to divine their thoughts. Marshal Schwerin was looking silently before him; a dark cloud rested upon General Retzow’s brow; but the young, handsome face of Winterfeldt was sparkling with delight at the thought of war.
“Well, marshal,” said the king, impatiently, “what is your advice?”
“My advice, sire,” said the old marshal, sighing; “I see my king surrounded by threatening and powerful foes; I see him alone in the midst of all these allied enemies. For England may, perchance, send us money, but she has no soldiers for us, and moreover, we must assist her to defend Hanover. I cannot counsel this war, for mighty enemies are around us, and Prussia stands alone.”
“No,” said Frederick, solemnly, “Prussia stands not alone!—a good cause and a good sword are her allies, and with them she will conquer. And now, General Retzow, let us have your opinion.”
“I agree entirely with Marshal Schwerin,” said Retzow. “Like him, I think Prussia should not venture into this strife, because she is too weak to withstand such powerful adversaries.”
“You speak prudently,” said Frederick, scornfully. “And now, Winterfeldt, are you also against this war?”
“No, sire,” cried Winterfeldt, “I am for the attack, and never were circumstances more favorable than at present. Austria has as yet made no preparations for war; her armies are scattered, and her finances are in disorder; and now it will be an easy task to attack her and subdue her surprised army.”
The king looked at him pleasantly, and turning to the other generals, said quietly.
“We must not be carried away by the brave daring of this youth; he is the youngest among us, and is, perhaps, misled by enthusiasm. But we old ones must reflect; and I wished to convince you that I had not failed to do this. But all has been in vain.”
“Now is the time,” said Winterfeldt, with sparkling eyes, “to convince the crippled, unwieldy Austrian eagle that the young eagle of Prussia has spread her wings, and that her claws are strong enough to grasp all her enemies and hurl them into an abyss.”
“And if the young eagle, in spite of his daring, should have to succumb to the superiority of numbers,” said Marshal Schwerin, sadly. “If the balls of his enemies should break his wings, thereby preventing his flight for the future? Were it not better to avoid this possibility, and not to allow the whole world to say that Prussia, out of love of conquest, began a fearful war, which she could have avoided?”
“There is no reason in this war,” said General Retzow; “for, though Austria, Saxony, and Russia are not our friends, they have not shown as yet by any open act that they are our enemies; and though Austria’s alliance with France surprised the world, so also did Prussia’s alliance with England. Our soldiers will hardly know why they are going to battle, and they will be wanting in that inspiration which is necessary to excite an army to heroic deeds.”
“Inspiration shall not be wanting, and my army as well as yourselves shall know the many causes we have for this war. The reasons I have given you as yet have not satisfied you? Well, then, I will give you others; and, by Heaven, you will be content with them! You think Austria’s unkindly feelings to Prussia have not been shown by any overt act. I will now prove to you that she is on the point of acting.” And Frederick, lifting up some papers from his desk, continued: “These papers will prove to you, what you seem determined not to believe, namely, that Saxony, Russia, and, France are prepared to attack Prussia with their combined forces, and to turn the kingdom of Prussia into a margraviate once more. These papers are authentic proofs of the dangers which hover over us. I will now inform you how I came by them, so that you may be convinced of their genuineness. For some time I have suspected that there was, amongst my enemies, an alliance against me, and that they had formed a contract in which they had sworn to do all in their power to destroy Prussia. I only needed to have my suspicions confirmed, and to have the proofs of this contract in my hands. There proofs were in the Saxon archives, and in the dispatches of the Austrian embassy. It was therefore necessary to get the key of these archives, and to have copies of these dispatches. I succeeded in doing both, Chance, or if you prefer it, a kind Providence, came to my aid. The Saxon chancellor, Reinitz, a former servant of General Winterfeldt, came from Dresden to Potsdam to look for Winterfeldt and to confide to him that a friend of his, Chancellor Minzel of Dresden, had informed him that the state papers interchanged between the court of Vienna and Dresden were kept in the Dresden archives, of which he had the key. Winterfeldt brought me this important message. Reinitz conducted the first negotiations with Menzel, which I then delivered into the hands of my ambassador in Dresden, Count Mattzahn. Menzel was poor and covetous. He was therefore easily to be bribed. For three years Mattzahn has received copies of every dispatch that passed between the three courts. I am quite as well informed of all negotiations between Austria and France, for the secretary of the Austrian legation of this place, a Count Weingarten, gave me, for promises and gold, copies of all dispatches that came from Vienna and were forwarded to France. You see the corruption of man has borne me good fruit, and that gold is a magic wand which reveals all secrets. And now let us cast a hasty glance over these papers which I have obtained by the aid of treachery and bribery.”
He took one of the papers and spread it before the astonished generals. “You see here,” he continued, “a sample of all other negotiations. It is a copy of a share contract which the courts of Vienna and Dresden formed in 1745. They then regarded the decline of Prussia as so sure an occurrence that they had already divided amongst themselves the different parts of my land. Russia soon affixed her name also to this contract, and here in this document you will see that these three powers have sworn to attack Prussia at the same moment, and that for this conquest, each one of the named courts was to furnish sixty thousand men.”
While the generals were engaged in reading these papers, the king leaned back in his arm-chair, gazing keenly at Retzow and Schwerin. He smiled gayly as he saw Schwerin pressing his lips tightly together, and trying in vain to suppress a cry of rage, and Retzow clinching his fists vehemently.
When the papers had been read, and Schwerin was preparing to speak, the king, with his head thrown proudly back, and gazing earnestly at his listeners, interrupted him, saying:
“Now, sirs, perhaps you see the dangers by which we are surrounded. Under the circumstances, I owe it to myself, to my honor, and to the security of my land, to attack Austria and Saxony, and so to nip their abominable designs in me bud, before their allies are ready to give them any assistance. I am prepared, and the only question to be answered before setting our army in motion, is where to commence the attack to our advantage? For the deciding of this question, I have called you together. I have finished and now, Marshal Schwerin, it is your turn.”
The old gray warrior arose. It may be that he was convinced by the powerful proofs and words of the king, or that knowing that his will was law it were vain to oppose him, but he was now as strongly for war as the king or Winterfeldt.
“If there is to be war,” said he, enthusiastically, “let us start to-morrow, take Saxony, and, in that land of corn, build magazines for the holding of our provisions, so as to secure a way for our future operations in Bohemia.”
“Ah! now I recognize my old Schwerin,” said the king, gayly pressing the marshal’s hand. “No more delay! ‘To anticipate’ is my motto, and shall, God willing, be Prussia’s in future.”
“And our army,” said Winterfeldt, with sparkling eyes, “has been accustomed, for hundreds of years, not only to defend themselves, but also to attack. Ah, at last it is to be granted us to fight our arch-enemies in open field, mischief-making Austria, intriguing Saxony, barbarous Russia, and finally lying, luxurious France, and to convince them that, though we do not fear their anger, we share their hatred with our whole hearts.”
“And you, Retzow,” said the king, sternly, turning to the general, who was sitting silently with downcast head; “do your views coincide with Schwerin’s? Or do you still think it were better to wait?”
“Yes, sire,” said Retzow, sadly; “I think delay, under the present threatening circumstances, would be the wisest course; I—”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a valet, who approached the king, and whispered a few words to him.
Frederick turned smilingly to the generals. “The princes, my brothers, have arrived,” said he; “they were to be here at this hour to hear the result of our consultation. And, it strikes me, they arrive at the right moment. The princes may enter.”