M. Pricker stood at his window; his face was sad, and he looked with a troubled gaze at the house on the other side of the street. This was the house of the new French tailor, Pelissier. Many splendid equipages were drawn up before the door, and crowds of gayly dressed men and women were passing in and out. Alas for earthly grandeur! alas for popular applause! Pricker stood at his window, no one rang his bell, not a carriage was to be seen at his door, since the arrival of the French tailor. Pricker was a lost man, wounded in his ambition, his most sacred feelings trampled upon, and his just claim to the gratitude of his generation disallowed. What advantage was it to him to be the acknowledged tailor of two queens? Since, in the ardor of his patriotism, he had refused to employ French hands, not one of all those ladies who had formerly confided to him the secrets of their toilets remembered his discretion, or his ability to hide their defects, or supply their wants. The fickle and ungrateful world had forsaken him. Even the Hohenzollerns had forgotten the great deeds and still greater services of the Prickers, and no longer knew how to reward true merit. Since Pelissier took the opposite house, Pricker's heart was broken; night and day he was consumed with anguish; but he made no complaint, he suffered in Spartan silence, and like a hero covered his bleeding wounds. One soft eye, one kindred heart discovered his silent sorrow; she, too, sorrowed as those without hope; she had not even the courage to offer consolation. In this hour of extremity poor Pricker sometimes thought of selling his house, but the next moment he would blush at his weakness and cowardice in thus abandoning the field to his foe.
In spiteful arrogance the French tailor had settled himself in the opposite house. It was a struggle for life or death offered by Pelissier, and it should not be said that a Pricker ignominiously declined the contest. Pricker must remain, he must defy his adversary, and yield only in death to this dandy Frenchman; he would therefore remain in those ancestral halls, which had so long sheltered the tailor of the two queens. He remained, but the death-worm was gnawing at his heart. Pricker still gazed across the street, and with an added pang he saw another carriage rolling in that direction; but no, this time the carriage turned to his side of the street. In the first joy of his heart he sprang forward to open the door and aid the ladies in descending; he checked himself in time, however, remembering that this would compromise the dignity of his house.
In a few moments Madame Pricker announced the rich Mademoiselle Orguelin and her future husband. Pricker advanced to meet them with calm composure, but there was tumultuous joy in his heart.
"You will be surprised, my dear Pricker, that we did not send for you, but we should have lost time by that, and our affairs demand the greatest haste."
Pricker bowed proudly. "My house is accustomed to receive noble persons; my grandfather had once the happiness to welcome a prince. In what can I serve you?"
"I need two complete court toilets," said Mademoiselle Orguelin—"the robes for a first presentation, and then for a great court ball."
"Then you wish a robe with a brocade train; I would choose blue velvet, it is most becoming to blondes, and throws a heavenly light upon their complexions."
"Then we will take sky blue," said the millionnaire, "with a train of silver. For the ball dress, my father has given me a dress woven in velvet and gold."
"Your toilets will be superb, and the appearance of the Countess Rhedern will do honor to the house of Pricker."
"You must promise to be ready in eight days."
"In four, if necessary," said Pricker, taking the long measure from his wife and approaching the lady.
"I leave the trimmings entirely to your taste, but of course my dress must be of the newest French cut."
Pricker had laid the measure around the slender waist of Mademoiselle Orguelin; he now removed it violently. "You desire your dresses made after the latest French style?" he said, harshly.
"Of course; that is surely understood; no decent tailor would work in any other style. I should indeed be ridiculous to appear at court in a stiff old German costume. You must make me the tight-fitting French waist, the long points in front, the narrow sleeves reaching to the elbow and trimmed with rich lace."
Pricker folded his measure with heroic determination and laid it upon the table.
"Your dress cannot be made in the house of Pricker, mademoiselle."
"What, you refuse to work for me?"
"I will not adopt the French fashions! that would be an insult to my ancestors. I will remain true to the good old German customs."
"Reflect," said Count Rhedern, "how much this obstinacy will cost you. You will lose all the patronage of the court; all the world adopts the new French fashions."
"That is true," said the sorrowful Pricker; he approached and pointed through the window to the house opposite. "Once all those carriages stood before my door; once I dressed all those noble people; a wink would be sufficient to recall them. Would I be untrue to the customs of my fathers, would I employ French workmen, all those carriages would be arrayed before my door. I hold the destiny of that contemptible Frenchman in my hands; a word from me, and he would be ruined; but I will not speak that word. Let him live to the disgrace and shame of the Germans who abandoned the time-honored customs of their fatherland."
The count offered his arm to his bride, and said, mockingly:
"I thank you for your address. I see that a German tailor may be a consummate fool! Come, my dear Caroline, we will go to M. Pelissier."
Pricker remained alone; grand and proud he stood in the middle of the saloon, and looked up, like a conquering hero, at the grim portraits of his ancestors.
"Be satisfied with me," he murmured; "I have made a new sacrifice to your names. My house is German, and German it shall remain."
At this moment there arose on the air the clear, full voice of his daughter, who was practising with Quantz a favorite Italian air of the king. "Nel tue giorni felice ricordati da me," sang the beautiful Anna, while Father Pricker ran, like a madman, up and down the room, and stopped his ears, that he might not hear the hateful sound. He cursed himself for allowing the monster Quantz to come to the house.
"Alas! alas! I have closed my heart to the new era and its horrors, hut I shall lose my children; they will not wish to wander in my ways."
At this moment Anna entered the room, with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks.
"Father," she said, hastily, "the supreme desire of my heart will now be fulfilled. Quantz has at last promised that I shall sing at the next court concert. In eight days the king returns, and a concert will be arranged, at which I, your happy daughter, will sing an Italian song."
"Italian!"
"She will sing Italian," murmured Quantz, who was listening at the door. "She will give all the world an opportunity to laugh and ridicule her; and I shall be held responsible; I would rather die!"
Anna was greatly excited, and did not notice her teacher; and, as her mother entered the room, she embraced her warmly.
"Mother, mother, Quantz has pronounced me worthy to sing at the court. I shall cover myself with glory, and the daughter of the tailor will fill all Germany with her fame!"
"Unhappy child, do you not know that your father is present?"
"Oh, my father shall be proud of me!" cried Anna.
Mother Pricker was frightened at the looks of her husband. Anna scarcely noticed her parents; she said:
"Father, it is high time to think of my dress; it must be new and elegant."
"You shall have it," said her father, solemnly; "it is an honor to sing before the king. I will make you a magnificent dress out of your mother's bridal robe."
Anna laughed contemptuously. "No, no, father; the time is past when we dared to wear the clothes of our great-grandmothers. The day is gone by for family relics. How the ladies of the court would laugh at my mother's old flowered robe! Besides, the dress is too narrow for a modern hoop robe, the only style now tolerated."
"A hoop robe!" cried the father, in tones of horror; "she wishes to wear a hoop robe!"
"Yes, and why not?" said Anna. "Does not the beautiful Blanche wear one? and have not all the court ladies adopted them? No fashionable lady would dare now appear without a hoop robe."
"Who is Blanche?" cried M. Pricker, rising from his chair and looking threateningly at Anna, "who is Blanche?"
"Do you not know, father? Oh, you are only pretending not to know! Dearest Blanche, whom I love like a sister, and to whom I can only pay stolen visits, for her father is furious that you have not returned his visit, and has forbidden any of his family to enter our house."
"He did right; and I also forbid you to cross his threshold. I thought, Anna, you had too much pride to enter the house of your father's enemy, or speak to his daughter."
Anna shrugged her shoulders silently, and now quick steps were heard approaching.
"Oh, quel pleusir d'etre amoreuse," sang a fresh, manly voice.
"French!" cried Father Pricker, wild with rage. "William singing French!"
The door was hastily opened, and William, heir to the house of Pricker, stood upon the sill. He was arrayed in a most charming costume. A tight-fitting coat, short-waisted and long-tailed, wide sleeves, and large mother-of-pearl buttons; the cuffs and high-standing collar were richly embroidered in silver; his vest was "coleur de chair," and instead of a long plait, William had covered his hair with a powdered wig. A small three-cornered hat, worn jauntily to one side, was embroidered with silver, and ornamented with a black feather; in his hand he held a slight, graceful cane. William appeared before his father a complete model of a new-fashioned French dandy; rage and horror choked the old man's utterance.
"Well, father, do I please you? is not this attire worthy of a nobleman? only I cannot wear the white feather, which they say belongs exclusively to the nobility."
"Where did you get these clothes, William?" said his father, approaching him slowly; "who gave you the money to pay for them? It is a fool's costume! Who made it for you?"
"Well, you gave me the money, dear father," said William, laughing; "that is, you will give it to me. This handsome suit has not yet been paid for. The name of Pricker has a silvery sound; Pelissier knows that, and credited me willingly; though at first he refused to work for me, and I thank Blanche that I have a costume from the celebrated shop of Pelissier."
Old Pricker uttered a cry of rage, and seizing, with feverish violence, the long tails of his son's coat, he dragged him to and fro.
"So Pelissier made this! he has dared to array my son, the son and heir of the house of Pricker, in this ridiculous manner! And you, William, you were shameless enough to receive this suit from your father's enemy. Alas! alas! are you not afraid that your ancestors will rise from their graves to punish you?"
"Dear father," said William, "it is only a costume, and has nothing to do with character or principle."
"Never will I allow my son to be lost to me in this manner," cried Pricker; "and if in the blindness of his folly he has lost himself, I will bring him back with violence, if necessary, to the right path. Off, then, with this absurd coat! off with this fool's cap! off with all this livery!"
Pricker now began to pull and tear madly at his son's clothes; he knocked his hat off, and trampled it under his feet; he seized with both hands the lace collar, and laughed when the shreds remained in his hands. William was at first dumb with terror, but the loud laugh of his sister, who found this scene amusing, restored his presence of mind; with mad violence he pushed his father from him.
"Father," he cried, "I am no longer a boy! I will not bear this treatment; I will dress as I like, and as the fashions demand."
"Well spoken, my brother," said Anna, laughingly, springing to his side; "we are children of the new era, and will dress as it demands. Why did our parents give us modern educations if they wished us to conform to old-fashioned prejudice?"
"'Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee,'" said Pricker, solemnly.
"Another Bible verse," said Anna, mockingly. "The book is no longer fashionable; and it is not half so amusing as Voltaire."
"Enough, enough," said Pricker; "now listen to my last determination. I command you to live and dress as your father and mother have dressed before you! Woe to you if you despise my commands! woe to you if you defy my authority! I will disown you—and my curse shall be your inheritance; remember this. If you ever enter that house again, or speak to any of its inhabitants—if I ever see you in this French livery again, or if you, Anna, ever appear before me in a hoop robe and toupe, from that moment you cease to be my children."
Father and mother left the room; the brother and sister remained alone.
"Well," said Anna, "do you intend to obey these commands? Will you wear the queue and the narrow, coarse frock coat?"
"Nonsense," said William, "that Blanche may ridicule me, and all the world may laugh at me. You do not know, Anna, how much Blanche and myself love each other; we have vowed eternal love and faith, and she is to be my wife!"
"You will then become an honorable tailor, as your fathers were."
William laughed. "I follow a trade! I who have received the education of a nobleman! no, no, Anna, you are not in earnest; you cannot believe that."
"Take care, William, you will be disinherited; father is in earnest."
"Oh, he will have to submit, as old Pelissier must do; he will also be furious when he first learns that I am the husband of Blanche; he has threatened her with his curse if she marries me. But in spite of all this we intend to marry; they must at last be reconciled. Oh, Blanche is beautiful as an angel!"
"Nevertheless she is a tailor's daughter," said Anna.
"Yes, like my beautiful and amiable sister Anna."
"But I shall become a celebrated singer, and the wife of a nobleman."
"Well, and who says that Blanche will not be the wife of a celebrated man, and that you will not be proud of me?"
"Will you be a man or a woman dressmaker?"
"Neither one nor the other! I shall be an actor; but silence, this is my secret and I must keep it!"
The quiet castle of Rheinsberg was again alive with noise. Its halls resounded with music and laughter; gay and happy faces were everywhere to be seen; bright jests to be heard on every side. The charming days of the past, when Frederick was prince royal, seemed to have returned; the same company now filled the castle; the same sports and amusements were enjoyed. All was the same, yet still, every thing was changed, transformed. Almost all of those who had left Rheinsberg with such proud hopes, such great desires, were again there, but with annihilated hopes. They had all expected to reign; they had claimed for themselves honor and power, but the young king had allowed to none the privilege of mounting the throne by his side. They were all welcome companions, loved friends. But none dared overstep the boundary of dependence and submission which he had drawn around them, and in the centre of which he stood alone, trusting to his own strength and will. They had gained nothing from the crown which rested upon Frederick's noble head; but they had lost nothing. They returned to Rheinsberg not exalted, though not humbled.
But one heart was broken, one heart was bleeding from unseen pain. It was the heart of Elizabeth, the heart of that poor rejected woman who was called the reigning queen, the wife of Frederick.
The king, on returning from his excursion to Strasburg, had reminded her of her promise to follow him with her court to Rheinsberg. And the poor sufferer, though she knew that the presence of the king would be for her a continual torment, an hourly renunciation, could not find strength to resist the desire of her own heart. She had followed her husband, saying to herself with a painful smile: "I will at least see him, and if he does not speak to me I will still hear his voice. My sufferings will be greater, but I shall be near him. The joy will help me to bear the pain. Soffri e taci!" Elizabeth Christine was right; the king never spoke to her, never fixed those brilliant blue eyes, which possessed for her the depth and immensity of the skies, upon her pale countenance. With a silent bow he welcomed her daily at their meals, but he did not now lead her to the table and sit beside her. The presence of the Margrave and Margravine of Baireuth seemed to impose upon him the duty of honoring his favorite sister, who was his guest more than his wife the queen. He sat, therefore, between his sister and her husband the count, at whose side the queen was placed. He did not speak to her but she saw him, and strengthened her heart by the sight of his proud and noble countenance.
She suffered and was silent. She veiled her pain by a soft smile, she concealed the paleness of her cheek with artificial bloom, she covered the furrows that care already showed in her lovely and youthful face, with black, beauty-spots which were then the fashion. No one should think that she suffered. No one should pity her, not even the king. Elizabeth Christine joined in all the pleasures and amusements at Rheinsberg. She laughed at Bielfeld's jests, at Pollnitz's bright anecdotes; she listened with beaming eyes to Knobelsdorf's plans for beautifying the king's residence; she took part in the preparations for a drama that was to be performed. Voltaire's "Death of Caesar," and "The Frenchman in London," by Boissy, had been chosen by the king to be played at Rheinsberg, and in each piece she played a prominent role. The young queen, as it seemed, had become an enthusiastic admirer of the theatre; she was never missing at any of the rehearsals, and aided her beautiful maids of honor in the arrangements of their costumes.
The king was now seldom to be seen in the circle of his friends and companions, and the tones of his flute were rarely to be heard. He passed the day in his library, no one dared disturb him, not even Guentz. Madame von Brandt, who had accompanied the court to Rheinsberg, said, in one of her secret meetings with Count Manteuffel: "The king is unfaithful to his last sweetheart, he has abandoned and rejected his flute."
"But with what does the king occupy himself the entire day?" asked the count. "What is it that takes him from his friends and fills up all his time?"
"Nothing but scientific studies," said Madame von Brandt, shrugging her shoulders. "Fredersdorf told me that he busies himself with maps and plans, is surrounded by his military books, and is occupied like an engineer with astrolabes and land surveyors. You now see that these are very innocent occupations, and that they can have no influence upon our affairs. The king, I promise you, will never be more divorced from his wife than he now is; and concerning the marriage of Prince Augustus William, my plans are so skilfully laid that there is no danger of failure, and poor Laura von Pannewitz will surely be sacrificed. All is well, and we have nothing to fear from the king's innocent studies."
"Ah, you call these innocent studies?" said the count; "I assure you that these studies will greatly disturb the Austrian court, and I must at once notify my friend Seckendorf of them."
"You are making a mountain of a mole hill," said Madame von Brandt, laughing. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear. It is true the king passes the day in his study, but he passes his evenings with us, and he is then as gay, as unconstrained, as full of wit and humor as ever. Perhaps he makes use of the solitude of his study to learn his role, for to-morrow, you know, we act the 'Death of Caesar,' and the king is 'Brutus.'"
"Yes, yes," said Count Manteuffel, thoughtfully, "it strikes me the king is playing the part of Brutus; to the eye he seems harmless and gay, but who knows what dark thoughts pregnant with mischief are hid in his soul?"
"You are always seeing ghosts," said Madame von Brandt, impatiently. "But hear! the court clock is striking six; it is high time for me to return to the castle, for at seven the last rehearsal commences, and I have still to dress." And Madame von Brandt hastily took leave of her ally, and ran gayly to the castle.
But she had no need to dress for the rehearsal. The king was not able to act; the strong will was to-day conquered by an enemy who stands in awe of no one, not even of a king—an enemy who can vanquish the most victorious commander. Frederick was ill of a fever, which had tormented him the whole summer, which had kept him from visiting Amsterdam, and which confined him to his bed in the castle of Moyland, while Orttaire was paying his long expected visit, had again taken a powerful hold upon him and made of the king a pale, trembling man, who lay shivering and groaning upon his bed, scoffing at Ellart, his physician, because he could not cure him.
"There is a remedy," said Ellart, "but I dare not give it to your majesty."
"And why not?" said the king.
"Because its strength must first be tested, to see if it can be used without danger; it must first be tried by a patient upon whose life the happiness of millions does not depend."
"A human life is always sacred, and if not certain of your remedy, it is as vicious to give it to a beggar as to a king."
"I believe," said Ellart, "as entirely in this remedy as Louis the Fourteenth, who bought it secretly from Talbot, the Englishman, and paid him a hundred Napoleons for a pound. The wife of the King of Spain was cured by it."
"Give me this remedy," said the king, with chattering teeth.
"Pardon me, your majesty, but I dare not, though I have a small quantity with me which was sent by a friend from Paris, and which I brought to show you as a great curiosity. This tiny brown powder is a medicine which was not distilled by the apothecary, but by Nature."
"Then I have confidence in it," said the king; "Nature is the best physician, the best apothecary, and what she brews is full of divine healing power. How is this remedy called?"
"It is the Peruvian bark, or quinine, the bark above all barks which, by a divine Providence, grows in Peru, the land of fevers."
But the king had not the strength to listen to him. He now lay burning with fever; a dark purple covered his cheek, and his eyes, which, but a few moments before, were dull and lustreless, now sparkled with fire. The king, overpowered by the disease, closed his eyes, and occasionally unconnected, senseless words escaped his dry, burning lips.
Fredersdorf now entered, and through the open door the anxious, inquiring faces of Pollnitz, Bielfeld, Jordan, and Kaiserling could be seen.
On tip-toe Ellart approached the private chamberlain.
"How is the king?" said he, hastily. "Is he in a condition to hear some important news?"
"Not now. Wait an hour; he will then be free from fever."
"We will wait," said Fredersdorf to the four courtiers who had entered the room, and were now standing around the royal bed.
"Is it bad news? If so, I advise you to wait until tomorrow."
"Well, I do not believe the king will think it bad," said Kaiserling, laughing.
"And I am convinced the king will be well pleased with our news," said Bielfeld. "I think so, because the king is a sleeping hero waiting to be roused."
"If you speak so loud," whispered Pollnitz, "it will be you who will wake this hero, and the thunder of his anger will fall upon you."
"Pollnitz is right," said Jordan; "be quiet, and let us await his majesty's waking." And the group stood in silence around the couch, with eyes fixed upon the king. He at last awoke, and a smile played upon his lip as he perceived the six cavaliers.
"You stand there like mourners," said he; "and to look at you one would think you were undertakers!"
"Ah, sire, fever does not kill like apoplexy," said Jordan, approaching his friend and pressing his hand tenderly.
"Your majesty called us undertakers," said Pollnitz, laughing. "As usual, the divine prophetic mind of our king is in the right. There is certainly a funeral odor about us."
"But God forbid that we should mourn," said Bielfeld, "we are much better prepared to sound the battlesong."
All this passed while the physician was feeling the king's pulse, and Fredersdorf was tenderly arranging his pillows. The king looked at him inquiringly. "Listen, Fredersdorf," said he, "what meaning have all these mysterious words and looks; why are you all so grave? Is one of my dogs dead? or are you only peevish because this abominable fever has cheated you of the rehearsal?"
"No, your majesty. The dogs are in excellent health."
"The king's pulse is perfectly quiet," said Ellart, "you can communicate your news to him." Baron Pollnitz approached the king's couch.
"Sire, one hour ago a courier arrived who was the bearer of important information."
"Whence came he?" said the king, calmly.
"From your majesty's ambassador in Vienna, Count Borche."
"Ah!" said the king, "is the empress, our noble aunt, suffering?"
"The empress is perfectly well, but her husband, the emperor—"
"Well, why do you not continue?" said the king, impatiently.
"Would your majesty not wish some restorative first?" said Fredersdorf; but the king pushed him angrily away.
"I wish your phrase, Pollnitz. What of the Emperor of Austria?"
"Sire, Emperor Charles the Sixth is no more, he died the twentieth of October."
"Truly," said Frederick, leaning back, "it was worth the trouble to make so much to do about such insignificant news. If the emperor is dead, Maria Theresa will be Empress of Germany, that is all. It does not concern us." He stopped and closed his eyes.
The physician again felt his pulse. "It is perfectly quiet," said he; "this prodigious news has not occasioned the slightest commotion or irregularity."
"You are right," said the king, looking up. "Neither is the death of the Emperor Charles to make the slightest change in our plans, but to execute them I must be perfectly well. It must not be said that a miserable fever changed my intentions and condemned me to idleness; I must have no fever on the day the news of the emperor's death arrives, or the good people of Vienna will believe that I was made ill with fright. Give me that powder, Ellart, I will take it."
"But I told your majesty that I cannot, dare not give it to you, for I have not tried its effect yet."
"Then try it on me," said the king, positively. "Give me the powder."
It was in vain that Ellart called upon the cavaliers to support his opinion; in vain that they begged and implored the king not to take the powder, not to put his life in danger.
"My life is in God's hands," said the king, earnestly; "and God, who created me, created also this bark. I trust more in God's medicine than in that of man. Quick, give me the powder!" And as Ellart still hesitated, he continued in a stern voice: "I command you, as your king and master, to give it to me. On my head rests the responsibility."
"If your majesty commands I must obey, but I take these gentlemen to witness that I but do it on compulsion."
And amid the breathless silence of the room, the king took the medicine.
"Now your majesty must rest," said Ellart; "you must, by no means, return to Berlin; by my holy right of physician, I forbid it."
"And why should I return to Berlin?" said the king, laughingly. "Why should our harmless pleasure and amusements be given up? Are we not to act Voltaire's 'Death of Caesar?' No, I will not return to Berlin. A trifle such as the emperor's death should not create such great disturbances. We will remain here and renew our former happy days, and forget that we have any duty but our enjoyment. Now, gentlemen, leave me, I am well. You see, Ellart, I did well to take that medicine; I will dress. Fredersdorf, remain here. Jordan, send me Secretary Eichel. I must dictate a few necessary letters, and then, gentlemen, we will meet in the music room, where I am to play a duet with Quantz. I invite you as audience."
The king dismissed his friends with a gracious smile, jested gayly with Fredersdorf, and then dictated three letters to his secretary. One was to Marshal von Schwerin, the other to the Prince of Anhalt Dessau, and the third to Ambassador Podrilse. The three held the same words, the same command, telling them to come immediately to Rheinsberg. He then entered the music room, and never was Frederick so gay, so witty, and unconstrained; never did he play on his flute more beautifully than on the day he heard of the death of the Emperor of Germany. The following morning the three gentlemen arrived from Berlin and were at once admitted into the king's library. Frederick met them with a proud, happy smile; his eye beamed with an unusual light; his forehead was smooth and free from care; he seemed inspired.
"The Emperor of Germany is dead," said he, after the gentlemen were seated. "The emperor is dead, and I have sent for you to see what benefit we can derive from his death!"
"Oh, your majesty would not think of benefiting by a death which throws a royal house, nearly connected with you, into deep sorrow, and robs the reigning queen of Prussia of an uncle!" cried the old Prince of Dessau, solemnly.
"Oh, it is well known that you are an imperialist," said the king, laughing.
"No, your majesty, but a difficulty with Austria would be a great misfortune for us."
Frederick shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the other two.
"I also wish for your opinion, gentlemen," said he; "you are all men of experience, soldiers, and statesmen, and you must not refuse to advise one of my youth and inexperience."
With a quiet smile he listened to their wise, peaceful propositions.
"You then doubt my right to Silesia?" said he, after a pause. "You do not think I am justified in demanding this Silesia, which was dishonestly torn from my ancestors by the Hapsburger?"
"But your ancestors still kept the peace," said the Prince of Dessau; "they left Silesia in the undisturbed possession of the Austrians."
"Yes," said the king, in a firm voice,—"and when my ancestors, outwitted by the cunning intrigues of the Austrian court, accommodated themselves to this necessity,—when for rendered services they were rewarded with base ingratitude, with idle, unmeaning promises, then they called upon their descendants to revenge such injustice, such insults to their honor and rights. Frederick William, the great Elector, cried prophetically when the Austrian house deserted him and denied her sworn promises—'A revenger will rise from my ashes;' and my father, when he had witnessed to the full the ingratitude of the Austrian court, felt that there could be no peace between the houses of Austria and Brandenburg, and he intrusted to me the holy mission of punishing and humiliating this proud, conceited court; he pointed me out to his ministers, and said: 'There stands one who will revenge me!' You see that my ancestors call me, my grandfather and father chose me for their champion and revenger; they call upon me to perform that which they, prevented by circumstances, could not accomplish; the hour which my ancestors designated has arrived—the hour of retribution! The time has come when the old political system must undergo an entire change. The stone has broken loose which is to roll upon Nebuchadnezzar's image and crush it. It is time to open the eyes of the Austrians, and to show them that the little Marquis of Brandenburg, whose duty they said it was to hand the emperor after meals the napkin and finger-bowl, has become a king, who will not be humbled by the Austrians, and who acknowledges none but God as his master. Will you help me; will you stand by me in this work with your experience and your advice?"
"We will!" cried the three, with animation, borne away by the king's noble ardor. "Our life, our blood, belong to our king, our country."
Frederick laughingly shook hands with them. "I counted upon you," said he, "nor will Zithen and Vinterfeldt fail us; we will not go to battle hastily and unprepared. All was foreseen, all prepared, and we have now but to put in execution the plans that have for some time been agitating my brain. Here is the map for our campaign; here are the routes and the plan of attack. We shall at last stand before these Austrians in battle array; and as they dared say of my father, that his gun was ever cocked but the trigger never pulled, we will show them that we are ready to discharge, and thrust down the double eagle from its proud pinnacle. The combat is determined and unalterable; let us be silent and prudent, no one must discover our plans; we will surprise the Austrians. And now, gentlemen, examine these plans, and tell me if there are any changes to be made in them."
For several hours the king remained in earnest council with his advisers. As they left him he called Jordan, and advanced to meet him with both hands extended.
"Well, Jordan, rejoice with me; my days of illness are over, and there will be life and movement in this rusty and creaking machine of state. You have often called me a bold eagle, now we shall see if my wings have strength to bear me to great deeds, and if my claws are sharp enough to pluck out the feathers of the double eagle." "So my suspicions are correct, and it is against Austria that my king will make his first warlike movement?"
"Yes, against Austria; against this proud adversary, who, with envious and jealous eyes, watches my every step; who is pleased to look upon Prussia as her vassal; whose emperor considered it beneath his dignity to extend his hand to my father, or offer him a seat; and now I will refuse the hand to Austria, and force her from her comfortable rest."
"For you, also, my king, will the days of quiet be over; your holy and happy hours with poetry, philosophy, and the arts, must be given up. The favorite of Apollo will become the son of Mars; we who are left behind can only look after you, we can do nothing for you, not even offer our breasts as a shield against danger and death."
"Away with such thoughts," said Frederick, smiling; "death awaits us all, and if he finds me on the field of battle, my friends, my subjects, and history will not forget me. That is a comfort and a hope; and you, Jordan, you know that I believe in a great, exalted, and almighty Being, who governs the world. I believe in God, and I leave my fate confidently in His hands. The ball which strikes me comes from Him; and if I escape the battle-field, a murderous hand can reach me, even in my bed-chamber; and surely that would be a less honorable, less famous death. I must do something great, decisive, and worthy of renown, that my people may love me, and look up to me with confidence and trust. It is not enough to be a king by inheritance and birth, I must prove by my deeds that I merit it. Silesia offers me a splendid opportunity, and truly I think the circumstances afford me a solid and sure basis for fame."
"Alas! I see," sighed Jordan, "that the love of your subjects, and the enthusiastic tenderness of your friends, is not sufficient for you; you would seek renown."
"Yes, you are right; this glittering phantom, Fame, is ever before my eyes. I know this is folly, but when once you have listened to her intoxicating whispers, you cannot cast her off. Speak not, then, of exposure, or care, or danger; these are as dust of the balance; I am amazed that this wild passion does not turn every man's head."
"Alas! your majesty, the thirst for fame has cost thousands of men their reasons and their lives. The field of battle is truly the golden book of heroes, but their names must be written therein in blood."
"It is true," said the king, thoughtfully, "a field of battle is a sad picture for a poet and a philosopher; but every man in this world must pursue his calling, and I will not do my work half way. I love war for the sake of fame. Pity me not, Jordan, because these days of illness and peace and gayety are over; because I must go into the rough field, while you amuse yourself with Horace, study Pausanias, and laugh and make merry with Anacreon. I envy you not. Fame beckons me with her alluring glance. My youth, the fire of passion, the thirst for renown, and a mysterious and unconquerable power, tears me from this life of indolence. The glowing desire to see my name connected with great deeds in the journals and histories of the times drives me out into the battle-field.[16] There will I earn the laurel-wreaths which kings do not find in their cradles, or upon their throne, but which as men, and as heroes, they must conquer for themselves."
[16] The king's own words.
"The laurel will deck the brow of my hero, my Frederick, in all time," said Jordan, with tears in his eyes. "Oh! I see before you a glorious future; it may be I shall have passed away—but where will my spirit be? When I stand near you and look upon you, I know that the spirit is immortal. The soul, noble and god-like, will be ever near you; so whether living or dead I am thine, to love you as my friend, to honor you as my sovereign, to admire you as a gifted genius, glowing with godly fire."
"Oh, speak not of death," said the king, "speak not of death; I have need of you, and it seems to me that true friendship must be strong enough even to conquer death! Yes, Jordan, we have need of each other, we belong to each other; and it would be cruel, indeed, to rob me of a treasure which we, poor kings, so rarely possess, a faithful and sincere friend. No, Jordan, you will be my Cicero to defend the justice of my cause, and I will be your Caesar to carry out the cause happily and triumphantly."
Jordan was speechless; he shook his head sadly. The king observed him anxiously, and saw the deep, feverish purple spots, those roses of the grave, upon the hollow cheeks of his friend; he saw that he grew daily weaker; he heard the hot, quick breathing which came panting from his breast. A sad presentiment took possession of his heart, the smile vanished from his lips, he could not conceal his emotion, and walking to the window he leaned his hot brow upon the glass and shed tears which none but God should see. "My God! my God! how poor is a prince! I have so few friends, and these will soon pass away. Suhm lies ill in Marschau; perhaps I shall never see him again. Jordan is near me, but I see death in his face and he will soon be torn from my side."
Jordan stood immovable and looked toward the king, who still leaned his head upon the window; he did not dare to disturb him, and yet he had important and sad news to announce. At last Jordan laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Pardon, my king," said he, in trembling tones, "pardon that I dare to interrupt you; but a hero dare not give himself up to sad thoughts before the battle, and when he thinks of death he must greet him with laughter, for death is his ally and his adjutant; and even if his ally grasps his nearest and best beloved friend, the hero and the conqueror must yield him up as an offering to victory."
The king turned quickly toward the speaker. "You have death news to give me," said he curtly, leaning against the back of his chair. "You have death news for me, Jordan."
"Yes, news of death, my prince," said he, deeply moved; "fate will accustom your majesty to such trials, that your heart may not falter when your friends fall around you in the day of battle."
"It is, then, a friend who is dead," said Frederick, turning pale.
"Yes, sire, your best beloved."
The king said nothing; sinking in the chair, and grasping the arms convulsively, he leaned his head back, and in a low voice asked, "Is it Suhm?"
"Yes, it is Suhm; he died in Marschau. Here is his last letter to your highness; his brother sent it to me, that I might hand it to your majesty."
The king uttered a cry of anguish, and clasped his hands before his pallid face. Great tears ran down his cheeks; with a hasty movement he shook them from his eyes, opened and read the letter. As he read it he sighed and sobbed aloud: "Suhm is dead! Suhm is dead! the friend who loved me so sincerely, even as I loved him. That noble man, who combined intellect, sincerity, and sensibility. My heart is in mourning for him; so long as a drop of blood flows in my veins I will remember him, and his family shall be mine. Ah, my heart bleeds, and the wound is deep."
The king, mastered by his grief, laid his head in his hand and wept aloud. Then, after a long pause, he raised himself; he was calm and stern. "Jordan," said he, firmly, "death hath no more power over me, never again can he wring my heart; he has laid an iron shield upon me, and when I go to battle I must be triumphant; my friend has been offered up as a victim. Jordan, Jordan, my wound bleeds, but I will bind it up, and no man shall see even the blood-stained cloth with which I cover it. I have overcome death, and now will I offer battle and conquer as become a hero, and a king. What cares the world that I suffer? The world shall know nothing of it; a mask before my face, and silence as to my agony. We will laugh and jest while we sorrow for our friend, and while we prepare to meet the enemy. We will PLAY Caesar and Antonius now; hereafter we may really imitate them. Come, Jordan, come, we will try 'The Death of Caesar.'"