The first campaign of the young King of Prussia had been a bloodless one. Not one drop of blood had been shed. A sentinel at the gate of Breslau had refused to allow the Prussian general to enter, and received for his daring a sounding box on the ear, which sent him reeling backward. The general with his staff entered the conquered capital of Silesia, without further opposition. Breslau was the capital of a province which for more than a hundred years had not been visited by any member of the royal house of Austria. The heavy taxes imposed upon her were the only evidence that she belonged to the Austrian dominions. Breslau did not hesitate to receive this young and handsome king, who as he marched into the city gave a kindly, gracious greeting to all; who had a winning smile for all those richly-dressed ladies at the windows; who had written with his own hand a proclamation in which he assured the Silesians that he came not as an enemy, and that every inhabitant would be secured in their rights, privileges, and freedom in their religion, worth, and service. The ties which bound the beautiful province of Silesia to Austria had long ago been shattered, and the prophecy of the king had already been fulfilled—that prophecy made in Krossen. As the king entered Krossen with his army, the clock of the great church tower fell with a thundering noise, and carried with it a portion of the old church. A superstitious fear fell upon the whole Prussian army; even the old battle-stained warriors looked grim and thoughtful. The king alone smiled, and said:
"The fall of this clock signifies that the pride of the house of Austria will be humbled. Caesar fell when landing in Africa, and exclaimed: 'I hold thee, Africa!'"
Those great men would not allow themselves to be influenced by evil omens. Quickly, indeed, was Frederick's prophecy fulfilled. The house of Austria was suddenly humbled, and the Prussian army was quietly in possession of one of her capitals. Frederick had been joyfully received, not only by the Protestants, who had so long suffered from the bitterest religious persecution, and to whom the king now promised absolute freedom of conscience and unconditional exercise of their religious worship, but by the Catholics, even the priests and Jesuits, who were completely fascinated by the intellect and amiability of Frederick. No man mourned for the Austrian yoke, and the Prussians became great favorites with the Silesians, particularly with the women, who, heart in hand, advanced to meet them; received the handsome and well-made soldiers as lovers, and hastened to have these tender ties made irrevocable by the blessing of the priest. Hundreds of marriages between the Prussians and the maidens of the land were solemnized during the six weeks Frederick remained in Silesia. These men, who, but a few weeks before, came as enemies and conquerors, were now adopted citizens, thus giving their king a double right to the possession of these provinces.
It soon became the mode for the Silesian girl to claim a Prussian lover, and the taller and larger the lover, the prouder and more happy was the lucky possessor. Baron Bielfeld, who accompanied the king to Breslau, met in the street one day a beautiful bourgeoise, who was weeping bitterly and wringing her hands; Bielfeld inquired the cause of her tears, and she replied naively:
"Alas! I am indeed an object of pity; eight days ago I was betrothed to a Prussian grenadier, who measured five feet and nine inches; I was very happy and very proud of him. To-day one of the guard, who measured six feet and two inches, proposed to me; and I weep now because so majestic and handsome a giant is offered me, and I cannot accept him."
The king won the women through his gallant soldiers, the ladies of the aristocracy, through his own beauty, grace, and eminent intellect. Frederick gave a ball to the aristocracy of Breslau, and all the most distinguished and noble families, who had been before closely bound to the house of Austria, eagerly accepted the invitation; they wished to behold the man who was a hero and a poet, a cavalier and a warrior, a youth and a philosopher; who was young and handsome, and full of life; who did not wrap himself in stiff, ceremonious forms, and appeared in the presence of ladies to forget that he was a king. He worshipped the ladies as a cavalier, and when they accepted the invitation to dance, considered it a flattering favor. While winning the hearts of the women through his gallantry and beauty, he gained the voices of men by the orders and titles which he scattered broadcast through the province.
"I dreamed last night," said he to Pollnitz, laughing, "that I created princes, dukes, and barons in Breslau; help me to make my dream a reality by naming to me some of the most prominent families."
Pollnitz selected the names, and Prince von Pless, Duke Hockburg, and many others rose up proudly from this creative process of the king.
Silesia belonged, at this moment, unconditionally to Prussia. The king could now return to Berlin and devote himself to study, to friendship, and his family. The first act of that great drama called the Seven Years' War was now finished. The king should now, between the acts, give himself up to the arts and sciences, and strengthen himself for that deep tragedy of which he was resolved to be the hero. Berlin received her king with shouts of joy, and greeted him as a demigod. He was no longer, in the eyes of the imperious Austrians, the little Margrave of Brandenburg, who must hold the wash-basin for the emperor; he was a proud, self-sustaining king, no longer receiving commands from Austria, but giving laws to the proud daughter of the Caesars.
The queen-mother and the young princesses met the king at the outer gates. The queen Elizabeth Christine, her eyes veiled with rapturous tears, received her husband tremblingly. Alas! he had for her only a silent greeting, a cold, ceremonious bow. But she saw him once more; she could lose her whole soul in those melting eyes, in which she was ever reading the most enchanting magical fairy tales. In these days of ceremony he could not refuse her a place by his side; to sit near him at table, and at the concerts with which the royal chapel and the newly-arrived Italian singers would celebrate the return of the king. Graun had composed a piece of music in honor of this occasion, and not only the Italian singer, Laura Farinelli, but a scholar of Graun and Quantz, a German singer, Anna Prickerin, would then be heard for the first time. This would be for Anna an eventful and decisive day; she stood on the brink of a new existence—an existence made glorious by renown, honor, and distinction.
It was nothing to her that her father lay agonizing upon his death-bed; it was nothing to her that her brother William had left his home three days before, and no one knew what had become of him. She asked no questions about father or brother; she sorrowed not for the mother lately dead and buried. She had but one thought, one desire, one aim—to be a celebrated singer, to obtain the hand of a man whom she neither loved nor esteemed, but who was a baron and an influential lord of the court. The object of Anna's life was to become the wife of the baron, not for love. She wished to hide her ignoble birth under the glitter of his proud name; it was better to be the wife of a poor baron than the daughter of a tailor, even though he should be the court tailor, and a millionnaire.
The king had been in Berlin but two days, and Pollnitz had already made a visit to his beautiful Anna. Never had he been so demonstrative and so tender; never before had he been seriously occupied with the thought of making her his wife; never had he looked upon it as possible. The example of Count Rhedern gave him courage; what the king had granted to the daughter of the merchant, he could not refuse to the daughter of the court tailor, more particularly when the latter, by her own gifts and talents, had opened the doors of the palace for herself; when by the power of her siren voice she had made the barriers tremble and fall which separated the tailor's daughter from the court circle. If the lovely Anna became a celebrated singer, if she succeeded in winning the applause of the king, she would be ennobled; and no one could reproach the baron for making the beautiful prima donna his wife. If, therefore, she pleased the king, Pollnitz was resolved to confess himself her knight, and to marry her as soon as possible—yes, as soon as possible, for his creditors followed him, persecuted him at every step, even threatened him with judgment and a prison. Pollnitz reminded the king that he had promised, after his return from Silesia, to assist him. Frederick replied that he had not yet seen a battle-field, and was at the beginning and not the end of a war, for which he would require more gold than his treasuries contained; "wait patiently, also," he said, "for the promised day, for only then can I fulfil my promise." It was, therefore, a necessity with Pollnitz to find some way of escape from this terrible labyrinth; and with an anxiously-beating heart he stood on the evening of the concert behind the king's chair, to watch every movement and every word, and above all to notice the effect produced by the voice of his Anna.
The king was uncommonly gay and gracious; these two days in his beloved Berlin, after weeks of fatigue and weariness in Silesia, had filled his heart with gladness. He had given almost a lover's greeting to his books and his flute, and his library seemed to him a sanctified home; with joy he exchanged his sword for a pen, and instead of drawing plans of battle, he wrote verses or witty letters to Voltaire, whom he still honored, and in a certain sense admired, although the six days which Voltaire had spent in Rheinsberg, just before the Silesian campaign, had somewhat diminished his admiration for the French author. After Frederick's first meeting with Voltaire at the castle of Moyland, he said of him, "He is as eloquent as Cicero, as charming as Plinius, and as wise as Agrippa; he combines in himself all the virtues and all the talents of the three greatest men of the ancients." He now called the author of the "Henriade" a FOOL; it excited and troubled his spirit to see that this great author was mean and contemptible in character, cold and cunning in heart. He had loved Voltaire as a friend, and now he confessed with pain that Voltaire's friendship was a possession which must be cemented with gold, if you did not wish to lose it. The king who, a few months before, had compared him to Cicero, Plinius, and Agrippa, now said to Jordan, "The miser, Voltaire, has still an unsatisfied longing for gold, and asks still thirteen hundred dollars! Every one of the six days which he spent with me cost me five hundred and fifty dollars! I call that paying dear for a fool! Never before was a court fool so generously rewarded."
To-day Frederick was expecting a new enjoyment; to-day, for the first time, he was to hear the new Italian singer. This court concert promised him, therefore, a special enjoyment, and he awaited it with youthful impatience.
At last Graun gave the signal for the introduction; Frederick had no ear for this simple, beautiful, and touching music; and the masterly solo of Quantz upon the flute drew from him a single bravo; he thought only of the singers, and at last the chorus began.
The heart of Pollnitz beat loud and quick as he glanced at Anna, who stood proud and grave, in costly French toilet, far removed from the Farinelli. Anna examined the court circles quietly, and looked as unembarrassed as if she had been long accustomed to such society.
The chorus was at an end, and Laura Farinelli had the first aria to sing. Anna Prickerin could have murdered her for this. The Italian, in the full consciousness of her power, returned Anna's scorn with a half-mocking, half-contemptuous smile; she then fixed her great, piercing eyes upon the music, and began to sing.
Anna could have cried aloud in her rage, for she saw that the king was well pleased: he nodded his head, and a gay smile overspread his features; she saw that the whole court circle made up enchanted faces immediately, and that even Pollnitz assumed an entirely happy and enthusiastic mien. The Farinelli saw all this, and the royal applause stimulated her; her full, glorious voice floated and warbled in the artistic "Fioritures" and "Roulades," then dreamed itself away in soft, melodious tones; again it rose into the loftiest regions of sound, and was again almost lost in the simple, touching melodies of love.
"Delicious! superb!" said the king, aloud, as Farinelli concluded.
"Exalted! godlike!" cried Pollnitz; and now, as the royal sign had been given, the whole court dared to follow the example, and to utter light and repressed murmurs of wonder and applause.
Anna felt that she turned pale; her feet trembled; she could have murdered the Italian with her own hands! this proud Farinelli, who at this moment looked toward her with a questioning and derisive glance; and her eyes seemed to say, "Will you yet dare to sing?"
But Anna had the proud courage to dare. She said to herself, "I shall triumph over her; her voice is as thin as a thread, and as sharp as a fine needle, while mine is full and powerful, and rolls like an organ; and as for her 'Fioritures,' I understand them as well as she."
With this conviction she took the notes in her hand, and waited for the moment when the "Ritornelle" should be ended; she returned with a quiet smile the anxious look which her teacher, Quantz, fixed upon her.
The "Ritornelle" was ended. Anna began her song; her voice swelled loudly and powerfully, far above the orchestra, but the king was dull and immovable; he gave not the slightest token of applause. Anna saw this, and her voice, which had not trembled with fear, now trembled with rage; she was resolved to awake the astonishment of the king by the strength and power of her voice; she would compel him to applaud! She gathered together the whole strength of her voice and made so powerful an effort that her poor chest seemed about to burst asunder; a wild, discordant strain rose stunningly upon the air, and now she had indeed the triumph to see that the king laughed! Yes, the king laughed! but not with the same smile with which he greeted Farinelli, but in mockery and contempt. He turned to Pollnitz, and said:
"What is the name of this woman who roars so horribly?"
Pollnitz shrugged his shoulders; he had a kind of feeling as if that moment his creditors had seized him by the throat.
"Sire," whispered he, "I believe it is Anna Prickerin." The king laughed; yes, in spite of the "Fioritures" of the raging singer, who had seen Pollnitz's shrug of the shoulders, and had vowed in the spirit to take a bloody vengeance.
Louder and louder the fair Anna shrieked, but the king did not applaud. She had now finished the last note of her aria, and breathlessly with loudly-beating heart she waited for the applause of the king. It came not! perfect stillness reigned; even Pollnitz was speechless.
"Do you know, certainly, that this roaring woman is the daughter of our tailor?" said the king.
Pollnitz answered, "Yes," with a bleeding heart.
"I have often heard that a tailor was called a goat, but his children are nevertheless not nightingales, and poor Pricker can sooner force a camel through the eye of his needle than make a songstress of his daughter. The Germans cannot sing, and it is an incomprehensible mistake of Graun to bring such a singer before us."
"She is a pupil of Quantz," said Pollnitz, "and he has often assured me she would make a great singer."
"Ah, she is a pupil of Quantz," repeated the king, and his eye glanced around in search of him. Quantz, with an angry face, and his eyebrows drawn together, was seated at his desk. "Alas!" said Frederick, "when he makes such a face as that, he grumbles with me for two days, and is never pleased with my flute. I must seek to mollify him, therefore, and when this Mademoiselle Prickerin sings again I will give a slight sign of applause."
But Anna Prickerin sang no more; angry scorn shot like a stream of fire through her veins, she felt suffocated; tears rushed to her eyes; every thing about her seemed to be wavering and unsteady; and as her listless, half-unconscious glances wandered around, she met the gay, triumphant eyes of the Farinelli fixed derisively upon her. Anna felt as if a sword had pierced her heart; she uttered a fearful cry, and sank unconscious to the floor.
"What cry was that?" said the king, "and what signifies this strange movement among the singers?"
"Sire, it appears that the Prickerin has fallen into a fainting-fit," said Pollnitz.
The king thought this a good opportunity to pacify Quantz by showing an interest in his pupil. "That is indeed a most unhappy circumstance," said the king, aloud. "Hasten, Pollnitz, to inquire in my name after the health of this gifted young singer. If she is still suffering, take one of my carriages and conduct her yourself to her home, and do not leave her till you can bring me satisfactory intelligence as to her recovery." So saying, the king cast a stolen glance toward the much-dreaded Quantz, whose brow had become somewhat clearer, and his expression less threatening. "We will, perhaps," whispered the king, "escape this time with one day's growling; I think I have softened him." Frederick seated himself, and gave the signal for the concert to proceed; he saw that, with the assistance of the baron, the unconscious songstress had been removed.
The music continued, while Pollnitz, filled with secret dread, ordered a court carriage, according to the command of the king, and entered it with the still insensible songstress.
"The king does not know what a fearful commission he has given me," thought Pollnitz, as he drove through the streets with Anna Prickerin, and examined her countenance with terror. "Should she now awake, she would overwhelm me with her rage. She is capable of scratching out my eyes, or even of strangling me."
But his fear was groundless. Anna did not stir; she was still unconscious, as the carriage stopped before the house of her father. No one came to meet them, although Pollnitz ordered the servant to open the door, and the loud ringing of the bell sounded throughout the house. No one appeared as Pollnitz, with the assistance of the servants, lifted the insensible Anna from the carriage and bore her into the house to her own room. As the baron placed her carefully upon the sofa, she made a slight movement and heaved a deep sigh.
"Now the storm will break forth," thought Pollnitz, anxiously, and he ordered the servants to return to the carriage and await his return. He desired no witnesses of the scene which he expected, and in which he had good reason to believe that he would play but a pitiful role.
Anna Prickerin now opened her eyes; her first glance fell upon Pollnitz, who was bending over her with a tender smile.
"What happiness, dearest," he whispered, "that you at last open your eyes! I was dying with anxiety."
Anna did not answer at once; her eyes were directed with a dreamy expression to the smiling countenance of Pollnitz, and while he recounted his own tender care, and the gracious sympathy of the king, Anna appeared to be slowly waking out of her dream. Now a ray of consciousness and recollection overspread her features, and throwing up her arm with a rapid movement she administered a powerful blow on the cheek of her tender, smiling lover, who fell back with his hand to his face, whimpering with pain.
"Why did you shrug your shoulders?" she said, her lips trembling with anger, and, springing up from the sofa, she approached Pollnitz with a threatening expression, who, expecting a second explosion, drew back, "Why did you shrug your shoulders?" repeated Anna.
"I am not aware that I did so, my Anna," stammered Pollnitz.
She stamped impatiently on the floor. "I am not your Anna. You are a faithless, treacherous man, and I despise you; you are a coward, you have not the courage to defend the woman you have sworn to love and protect. When I ceased singing, why did you not applaud?"
"Dearest Anna," said Pollnitz, "you are not acquainted with court etiquette; you do not know that at court it is only the king who expresses approval."
"You all broke out into a storm of applause as Farinelli finished singing."
"Because the king gave the sign."
Anna shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and paced the floor with rapid steps. "You think that all my hopes, all my proud dreams for the future are destroyed," she murmured, with trembling lips, while the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. "To think that the king and the whole court laughed while I sang, and that presumptuous Italian heard and saw it all—I shall die of this shame and disgrace. My future is annihilated, my hopes trodden under foot." She covered her face with her hands, and wept and sobbed aloud.
Pollnitz had no pity for her sufferings, but he remembered his creditors, and this thought rekindled his extinguished tenderness. He approached her, and gently placed his arm around her neck. "Dearest," he murmured, "why do you weep, how can this little mischance make you so wretched? Do we not love each other? are you not still my best beloved, my beautiful, my adored Anna? Have you not sworn that you love me, and that you ask no greater happiness than to be united to me?"
Anna raised her head that she might see this tender lover.
"It is true," proceeded Pollnitz, "that you did not receive the applause this evening which your glorious talent deserves; Farinelli was in your way. The king has a prejudice against German singers; he says, 'The Germans can compose music, but they cannot sing.' That prejudice is a great advantage for the Italian. If you had borne an Italian name, the king would have been charmed with your wonderful voice; but you are a German, and he refuses you his approval. But what has been denied you here, you will easily obtain elsewhere. We will leave this cold, ungrateful Berlin, my beloved. You shall take an Italian name, and through my various connections I can make arrangements for you to sing at many courts. You will win fame and gold, and we will live a blessed and happy life."
"I care nothing for the gold; I am rich, richer than I even dreamed. My father told me to-day that he possessed nearly seven hundred thousand dollars, and that he would disinherit my brother, who is now absent from Berlin. I will be his heiress, and very soon, for the physicians say he can only live a few days."
The eyes of the baron gleamed. "Has your father made his will? has he declared you his heiress?"
"He intended doing so to-day. He ordered the lawyers to come to him, and I believe they were here when I started to this miserable concert. It was not on account of the money, but for fame, that I desired to become a prima donna. But I renounce my intention; this evening has shown me many thorns where I thought to find only roses. I renounce honor and renown, and desire only to be happy, happy in your love and companionship."
"You are right; we will fly from this cold, faithless Berlin to happier regions. The world will know no happier couple than the Baron and Baroness von Pollnitz."
Pollnitz now felt no repugnance at the thought that the tailor's daughter had the presumptuous idea of becoming his wife. He forgave her low origin for the sake of her immense fortune, and thought it not a despicable lot to be the husband of the beautiful Anna Prickerin. He assured her of his love in impassioned words, and Anna listened with beaming eyes and a happy smile. Suddenly a loud weeping and crying, proceeding from the next room, interrupted this charming scene.
"My father, it is my father!" cried Anna, as she hastened to the door of the adjoining room, which, as we know, contained the ancestral portraits of the Prickers. Pollnitz followed her. In this room, surrounded by his ancestors, the worthy tailor lay upon his death-bed. Pale and colorless as the portraits was the face of the poor man; but his eyes were gleaming with a wild, feverish glitter. As he perceived Anna in her splendid French costume, so wild and fearful a laugh burst from his lips, that even Pollnitz trembled.
"Come to me," said the old man, with a stammering voice, as he motioned to his daughter to approach his couch. "You and your brother have broken my heart; you have given me daily a drop of poison, of which I have been slowly dying. Your brother left my house as the prodigal son, but he has not returned a penitent; he glories in his crime; he is proud of his shame. Here is a letter which I received from him to-day, in which he informs me that he has eloped with the daughter of my second murderer, this French Pelissier; and that he intends to become an actor, and thus drag through the dust the old and respectable name of his fathers. For this noble work he demands his mother's fortune. He shall have it—yes, he shall have it; it is five thousand dollars, but from me he receives nothing but my curse, and I pray to God that it may ring forever in his ears!"
The old man lay back exhausted, and groaned aloud. Anna stood with tearless eyes by the death-bed of her father, and thought only of the splendid future which each passing moment brought nearer. Pollnitz had withdrawn to one of the windows, and was considering whether he should await the death of the old man or return immediately to the king.
Suddenly Pricker opened his eyes, and turned them with an angry and malicious expression toward his daughter.
"What a great lady you are!" he said, with a fearful grin; "dressed in the latest fashion, and a wonderful songstress, who sings before the king and his court. Such a great lady must be ashamed that her father is a tailor. I appreciate that, and I am going to my grave, that I may not trouble my daughter. Yes, I am going, and nothing shall remind the proud songstress of me, neither my presence nor any of my possessions. A prima donna would not be the heiress of a tailor."
The old man broke out into a wild laugh, while Anna stared at him, and Pollnitz came forward to hear and observe.
"I do not understand you, my father," said Anna, trembling and disturbed.
"You will soon understand me," stammered the old man, with a hoarse laugh. "When I am dead, and the lawyers come and read my will, which I gave them to-day, then you will know that I have left my fortune to the poor of the city, and not to this great songstress, who does not need it, as she has a million in her throat. My son an actor, my daughter a prima donna—it is well. I go joyfully to my grave, and thank God for my release. Ah! you shall remember your old father; you shall curse me, as I have cursed you; and as you will shed no tears at my death, it shall, at least, be a heavy blow to you. You are disinherited! both disinherited! the poor are my heirs, and you and your brother will receive nothing but the fortune of your mother, of which I, unfortunately, cannot deprive you."
"Father, father, this is not possible—this cannot be your determination!" cried Anna. "It is not possible for a father to be so cruel, so unnatural, as to disinherit his children!"
"Have you not acted cruelly and unnaturally to me?" asked the old man; "have you not tortured me? have you not murdered me, with a smile upon your lips, as you did your poor mother, who died of grief? No, no, no pity for unnatural children. You are disinherited!"
The old man fell back with a loud shriek upon his couch, and his features assumed that fixed expression which is death's herald.
"He is dying!" cried Anna, throwing herself beside her father; "he is dying, and he has disinherited me!"
"Yes, disinherited!" stammered the heavy tongue of the dying man.
Pollnitz trembled at the fearful scene; he fled with hasty steps from this gloomy room, and only recovered his composure when once more seated in his carriage. After some moments of reflection, he said:
"I will ask the king for my release from his service, and I will become a Protestant, and hasten to Nuremberg, and marry the rich patrician."
They sat hand in hand in the quiet and fragrant conservatory; after a long separation they gazed once more in each other's eyes, doubting the reality of their happiness, and asking if it were not a dream, a delightful dream.
This was the first time since his return from Silesia that Prince Augustus William had seen his Laura alone; the first time he could tell her of his longing and his suffering; the first time she could whisper in his ear the sweet and holy confession of her love—a confession that none should hear but her lover and her God.
But there were four ears which heard every thing; four eyes which saw all that took place in the myrtle arbor. Louise von Schwerin and her lover, the handsome Fritz Wendel, sat arm in arm in the grotto, and listened attentively to the conversation of the prince and his bride.
"How happy they are!" whispered Louise, with a sigh.
"Are we not also happy?" asked Fritz Wendel, tenderly, clasping his arm more firmly around her. "Is not our love as ardent, as passionate, and as pure as theirs?"
"And yet the world would shed tears of pity for them, while we would be mocked and laughed at," said Louise, sighing.
"It is true that the love of the poor gardener for the beautiful Mademoiselle von Schwerin is only calculated to excite ridicule," murmured Fritz Wendel; "but that shall and will be changed; I shall soon begin the new career which I have planned for myself; my Louise need then no longer blush for her lover, and my adoration for her shall no longer be a cause of shame and humiliation. I have a means by which I can purchase rank and position, and I intend to employ this means."
"Pray tell me how; let me know your plans," said Louise. He pointed with a cruel smile to the lovers in the myrtle arbor.
"This secret is my purchase money," said he, whispering; "I shall betray them to the king; and he will give me rank and wealth for this disclosure; for upon this secret depends the future of Prussia. Let us, therefore, listen attentively to what they say, that—"
"No," said Louise, interrupting him with vivacity, "we will not listen. It is cruel and ignoble to desire to purchase our own happiness with the misery of others; it is—"
"For Heaven's sake be quiet and listen!" said Fritz Wendel, softly, laying his hand on her angry lips.
The conversation of the lovers in the myrtle arbor had now taken another direction. Their eyes no longer sparkled with delight, but had lost their lustre, and an expression of deep sadness rested on their features.
"Is it then really true?" said Laura, mournfully; "you are affianced to the Princess of Brunswick?"
"It is true," said the prince, in a low voice. "There was no other means of securing and preserving our secret than to seem to yield to the king's command, and to consent to this alliance with a good grace. This cloak will shield our love until we can acknowledge it before the whole world; and that depends, my beloved, upon you alone. Think of the vows of eternal love and fidelity we have made to each other; remember that you have promised to be mine for all eternity, and to devote your whole life to me; remember that you wear my engagement-ring on your finger, and are my bride."
"And yet you are affianced to another, and wear another engagement ring!"
"But this princess, to whom I have been affianced, knows that I do not love her. I have opened my heart to her; I told her that I loved you alone, and could never love another; that no woman but Laura von Pannewitz should ever be my wife; and she was generous enough to give her assistance and consent to be considered my bride until our union should no longer need this protection. And now, my dear Laura, I conjure you, by our love and the happiness of our lives, yield to my ardent entreaties and my fervent prayers; have the courage to defy the world and its prejudices. Follow me, my beloved; flee with me and consent to be my wife!"
The glances with which he regarded her were so loving, so imploring, that Laura could not find in her heart to offer decided resistance. Her own heart pleaded for him; and now when she might altogether lose him if she refused his request, now that he was affianced to another, she was filled with a torturing jealousy; she was now conscious that it would be easier to die than renounce her lover.
But she still had the strength to battle with her own weak heart, to desire to shut out the alluring voices which resounded in her own breast. Like Odysseus, she tried to be deaf to the sirens' voices which tempted her. But she still heard them, and although she had found strength to refuse her lover's prayers and entreaties to flee with him, yet she could not repel his passionate appeals to her to be his wife.
It was so sweet to listen to the music of his voice; such bliss to lean her head on his shoulder, to look up into his handsome countenance and to drink in the words of ardent and devoted love which fell from his lips; to know what he suffers is for your sake! It rests with you to give him happiness or despair. She knew not that the words which she drank in were coursing like fire through her own veins, destroying her resolution and turning her strength to ashes.
As he, at last, brought to despair by her silence and resistance, burst into tears, and accused her of cruelty and indifference, as she saw his noble countenance shadowed with pain and sorrow, she no longer found courage to offer resistance, and throwing herself into his arms, with a happy blush, she whispered:
"Take me; I am yours forever! I accept you as my master and husband. Your will shall be mine; what you command I will obey; where you call me there will I go; I will follow you to the ends of the earth, and nothing but death shall hereafter separate us!"
The prince pressed her closely and fervently to his heart, and kissed her pure brow.
"God bless you, my darling; God bless you for this resolution." His voice was now firm and full, and his countenance had assumed an expression of tranquillity and energy. He was no longer the sighing, despairing lover, but a determined man, who knew what his wishes were, and had the courage and energy to carry them into execution.
Fritz Wendel pressed Louise more closely to his side, and whispered:
"You say that Laura is an angel of virtue and modesty, and yet she has not the cruel courage to resist her lover; she yields to his entreaties, and is determined to flee with him. Will you be less kind and humane than this tender, modest Laura? Oh, Louise, you should also follow your tender, womanly heart; flee with me and become my wife. I will conceal you, and then go to those who would now reject my suit scornfully, and dictate terms to them."
"I will do as she does," whispered Louise, with glowing cheeks. "What Laura can do, I may also do; if she flies with her lover, I will fly with you; if she becomes his wife, I will be yours. But let us be quiet, and listen."
"And now, my Laura, listen attentively to every word I utter," said Prince Augustus William, gravely. "I have made all the necessary preparations, and in a week you will be my wife. There is a good and pious divine on one of my estates who is devoted to me. He has promised to perform the marriage ceremony. On leaving Berlin we will first flee to him, and our union will receive his blessing in the village church at night; a carriage will await us at the door, which, with fresh relays of horses, will rapidly conduct us to the Prussian boundary. I have already obtained from my friend the English ambassador a passport, which will carry us safely to England under assumed names; once there, my uncle, the King of England, will not refuse his protection and assistance; and by his intercession we will be reconciled to the king my brother. When he sees that our union has been accomplished, he will give up all useless attempts to separate us."
"But he can and will punish you for this; you will thereby forfeit your right of succession to the throne, and for my sake you will be forced to renounce your proud and brilliant future."
"I shall not regret it," said the prince, smiling. "I do not long for a crown, and will not purchase this bauble of earthly magnifisence at the expense of my happiness and my love. And perhaps I have not the strength, the talent, or the power of intellect to be a ruler. It suffices me to rule in your heart, and be a monarch in the kingdom of your love. If I can therefore purchase the uncontested possession of my beloved by renouncing all claims to the throne, I shall do so with joy and without the slightest regret."
"But I, poor, humble, weak girl that I am, how can I make good the loss you will sustain for my sake?" asked Laura.
"Your love will be more than a compensation. You must now lay aside all doubt and indecision. You know our plans for the future. On my part all the preliminary measures have been taken; you should also make whatever preparations are necessary. It is Hartwig, the curate of Oranienburg, who is to marry us. Send the necessary apparel and whatever you most need to him, without a word or message. The curate has already been advised of their arrival, and will retain the trunks unopened. On next Tuesday, a week from to-day, the king will give a ball. For two days previous to this ball you will keep your room on the plea of sickness; this will be a sufficient excuse for your not accompanying the queen. I shall accept the invitation, but will not appear at the ball, and will await you at the castle gate of Monbijou. At eight o'clock the ball commences; at nine you will leave your room and the castle, at the gate of which I will receive you. At a short distance from the gate a carriage will be in readiness to convey us to Oranienburg, where we will stop before the village church. There we will find a preacher standing before the altar, ready to perform the ceremony, and when this is accomplished we will enter another carriage which will rapidly convey us to Hamburg, where we will find a ship, hired by the English ambassador, ready to take us to England. You see, dear Laura, that every thing has been well considered, and nothing can interfere with our plans, now that we understand each other. In a week, therefore, remember, Laura."
"In a week," she whispered. "I have no will but yours."
"Until then we will neither see nor speak with each other, that no thoughtless word may excite suspicion in the breasts of the spies who surround us. We must give each other no word, no message, no letter, or sign; but I will await you at the castle gate at nine o'clock on next Tuesday, and you will not let me wait in vain."
"No, you shall not wait in vain," whispered Laura, with a happy smile, hiding her blushing face on the breast of her lover.
"And you, will you let me wait in vain?" asked Fritz Wendel, raising Louise's head from his breast, and gazing on her glowing and dreamy countenance.
"No, I shall not let you wait in vain," said Louise von Schwerin. "We will also have our carriage, only we will leave a little sooner than the prince and Laura. We will also drive to Oranienburg, and await the prince before the door of the church. We will tell him we knew his secret and did not betray him. We will acknowledge our love, Laura will intercede for us, and the preacher will have to perform the ceremony for two couples instead of one. We will then accompany the prince and his wife in their flight to England; from there the prince will obtain pardon of the king, and we the forgiveness of my family. Oh, this is a splendid, a magnificent plan!—a flight, a secret marriage at night, and a long journey. This will be quite like the charming romances which I am so fond of, and mine will be a fantastic and adventurous life. But what is that?" said she. "Did you hear nothing? It seems to me I heard a noise as of some one opening the outer door of the conservatory."
"Be still," murmured Fritz Wendel, "I heard it also; let us therefore be on our guard."
The prince and Laura had also heard this noise, and were listening in breathless terror, their glances fastened on the door. Perhaps it was only the wind which had moved the outer door; perhaps—but no, the door opened noiselessly, and a tall female figure cautiously entered the saloon.
"The queen!" whispered Laura, trembling.
"My mother!" murmured the prince, anxiously looking around for some means of escape. He now perceived the dark grotto, and pointing rapidly toward it, he whispered: "Quick, quick, conceal yourself there. I will remain and await my mother."
The stately figure of the queen could already be seen rapidly advancing through the flowers and shrubbery, and now her sparkling eye and proud and angry face were visible.
"Quick," whispered the prince, "conceal yourself, or we are lost!"
Laura slipped hastily behind the myrtle and laurel foliage and attained the asylum of the grotto, unobserved by the queen; she entered and leaned tremblingly against the inner wall. Blinded by the sudden darkness, she could see nothing, and she was almost benumbed with terror.
Suddenly she heard a low, whispering voice at her side: "Laura, dear Laura, fear nothing. We are true friends, who know your secret, and desire to assist you."
"Follow me, mademoiselle," whispered another voice; "confide in us as we confide in you. We know your secret; you shall learn ours. Give me your hand; I will conduct you from this place noiselessly and unobserved, and you can then return to the castle."
Laura hardly knew what she was doing. She was gently drawn forward, and saw at her side a smiling girlish face, and now she recognized the little maid of honor, Louise von Schwerin.
"Louise," said she, in a low voice, "what does all this mean?"
"Be still," she whispered: "follow him down the stairway. Farewell! I will remain and cover the retreat."
Louise now hastily concealed the opening through which Fritz Wendel and Laura had disappeared, and then slipped noiselessly back to the grotto, and concealed herself behind the shrubbery at its entrance, so that she could see and hear every thing that took place.
It was in truth Queen Sophia Dorothea, who had dismissed her attendants and come alone to the conservatory at this unusual hour.
This was the time at which the queen's maids of honor were not on service, and were at liberty to do as they pleased. The queen had been in the habit of reposing at this time, but to-day she could not find rest; annoyed at her sleeplessness, she had arisen, and in walking up and down had stepped to the window and looked dreamily down into the still and desolate garden. Then it was that she thought she saw a female figure passing hurriedly down the avenue. It must have been one of her maids of honor; and although the queen had not recognized her, she was convinced that it was none other than Laura von Pannewitz, and that she was now going to a rendezvous with her unknown lover, whom the queen had hitherto vainly endeavored to discover. The queen called her waiting-maids to her assistance, and putting on her furs and hood, she told them she felt a desire to take a solitary walk in the garden, and that none of her attendants should be called, with which she hurried into the garden, following the same path which the veiled lady had taken. She followed the foot-tracks in the snow to the conservatory, and entered without hesitation, determined to discover the secret of her maid of honor, and to punish her.
It was fortunate for the poor lovers that the increasing corpulence of the queen and her swollen right foot rendered her advance rather slow, so that when she at last reached the lower end of the conservatory she found no one there but her son Augustus William, whose embarrassed and constrained reception of herself convinced the queen that her appearance was not only a surprise, but also a disagreeable one. She therefore demanded of him with severity the cause of his unexpected and unusual visit to her conservatory; and when Augustus William smilingly replied—
"That he had awaited here the queen's awakening, in order that he might pay his visit—"
The queen asked abruptly: "And who, my son, helped to dispel the ennui of this tedious waiting?"
"No one, my dear mother," said the prince; but he did not dare to meet his mother's penetrating glance.
"No one?" repeated she; "but I heard you speaking on entering the conservatory."
"You know, your majesty, that I have inherited the habit of speaking aloud to myself from my father," replied the prince, with a constrained smile.
"The king my husband did not cease speaking when I made his appearance," exclaimed the queen, angrily; "he had no secrets to hide from me."
"The thoughts of my royal father were grand, and worthy of the sympathy of Queen Sophia Dorothea," said the prince, bowing low.
"God forbid that the thoughts of his son should be of another and less worthy character!" exclaimed the queen. "My sons should, at least, be too proud to soil their lips with an untruth; and if they have the courage to do wrong, they should also find courage to acknowledge it."
"I do not understand you, my dear mother;" and meeting her penetrating glance with quiet composure, he continued, "I am conscious of no wrong, and consequently have none to acknowledge."
"This is an assurance which deserves to be unmasked," exclaimed the queen, who could no longer suppress her anger. "You must know, prince, that I am not to be deceived by your seeming candor and youthful arrogance. I know that you were not alone, for I myself saw the lady coming here who kept you company while awaiting me, and I followed her to this house."
"Then it seems that your majesty has followed a fata morgana," said the prince, with a forced smile; "for, as you see, I am alone, and no one else is present in the conservatory."
But even while speaking, the prince glanced involuntarily toward the grotto which concealed his secret.
The Queen Sophia Dorothea caught this glance, and divined its meaning.
"There is no one in the saloon, and it now remains to examine the grotto," said she, stepping forward hastily.
The prince seized her hand, and endeavored to hold her back.
"I conjure you, mother, do not go too far in your suspicion and your examinations. Remember that your suspicion wounds me."
The queen gave him a proud, angry glance.
"I am here on my own property," said she, withdrawing her hand, "and no one shall oppose my will."
"Well, then, madame, follow your inclination," said the prince, with a resolute air; "I wished to spare you an annoyance. Let discord and sorrow come over us, if your majesty will have it so; and as you are inexorable, you will also find me firm and resolute. Examine the grotto, if you will."
He offered her his arm and conducted her to the grotto. Sophia Dorothea felt disarmed by her son's resolute bearing, and she was almost convinced that she had done him injustice, and that no one was concealed in the grotto. With a benignant smile she had turned to her son, to say a few soothing words, when she heard a low rustle among the shrubbery, and saw something white flitting through the foliage.
"And you say, my son, that I was deceived by a fata morgana" exclaimed the queen, hurrying forward with outstretched arm. "Come, my young lady, and save us and yourself the shame of drawing you forcibly from your hiding-place."
The queen had not been mistaken. Something moved among the shrubbery, and now a female figure stepped forth and threw herself at the feet of the queen.
"Pardon, your majesty, pardon! I am innocent of any intention to intrude on your majesty's privacy. I had fallen asleep in this grotto, and awoke when it was too late to escape, as your majesty was already at the entrance of the conservatory. In this manner I have been an involuntary witness of your conversation. This is my whole fault."
The queen listened with astonishment, while the prince regarded with consternation the kneeling girl who had been found here in the place of his Laura.
"This is not the voice of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz," said the queen, as she passed out into the light, and commanded the kneeling figure to follow her, that she might see her face. The lady arose and stepped forward. "Louise von Schwerin!" exclaimed the queen and the prince at the same time, while the little maid of honor folded her hands imploringly, and said, with an expression of childish innocence:
"O your majesty, have compassion with me! Yesterday's ball made me so very tired; and as your majesty was sleeping, I thought I would come here and sleep a little too, although I had not forgotten that your majesty was not pleased to have us visit this conservatory alone."
Sophia Dorothea did not honor her with a glance; her eyes rested on her son with an expression of severity and scorn.
"Really, I had a better opinion of you," said she. "It is no great achievement to mislead a child, and one that is altogether unworthy of a royal prince."
"My mother," exclaimed the prince, indignantly, "you do not believe—"
"I believe what I see," said the queen, interrupting him. "Have done with your assurances of innocence, and bow to the truth, which has judged you in spite of your denial. And you, my young lady, will accompany me, and submit to my commands in silence, and without excuses. Come, and assume a cheerful and unconstrained air, if you please. I do not wish my court to hear of this scandal, and to read your guilt in your terrified countenance. I shall take care that you do not betray your guilt in words. Come."
The prince looked after them with an expression of confusion and astonishment. "Well, no matter how this riddle is solved," murmured he, after the queen had left the conservatory with her maid of honor, "Laura is safe at all events, and in a week we will flee."