The minister of foreign affairs sat in his office alone. Stray, feeble rays from the winter sun fell through the window and gleamed upon a heap of documents and papers with huge seals; but the minister's eyes did not rest upon them, they were fixed absently on vacancy. From time to time he dipped his pen in the ink, only to let it fall again unused, upon a diplomatic dispatch which had just been commenced. At last he started up and went to the door. His figure was not so elegant, nor his bearing so haughty, as in former days: his hair and beard were neglected, his eyes and cheeks sunken. Was it work or sorrow that had thus shaken this noble frame? He seemed aged, even ill. Anton brought in some letters, which he hastily seized, then threw them all but one upon the table.

"God grant it may be some good news!" said Anton, casting a troubled glance at his master's haggard features as he left the room.

"God grant it!" repeated Heinrich; and his breath came quickly and anxiously as he read:

"Your Excellency,--In reply to your highly esteemed favor of the 15th, I have the honor to say that I must positively reject the denunciation it contains against our reverend brother in Christ, Father Severinus: namely, that without my knowledge he had secretly fled with a young and beautiful lady, and kept her concealed for several months against her will. Father Severinus is a pattern to the whole order for humble obedience and the strictest devotion to all. No false appearances can render his blameless and immovable purity suspicions in our eyes. His relation to that lady is one well pleasing to God and the order, and his course has my entire approval. This I must permit myself to say in correction of your Excellency's erroneous suspicion.

"I have no right to inform your Excellency of the residence of Father Severinus and the lady in question until your Excellency has given us the most satisfactory proofs of your right to the possession of the young lady's person.

"With all due respect to your Excellency, etc.,

"Father R----

"General of the Holy Congregation of the Fathers of Jesus.

"Rome, -- 20, 18--."

Heinrich sank upon the sofa with the paper in his hand. "This failed too! All, all in vain!" he murmured, crushing the letter convulsively in his clinched fingers. "What is to be done now? Shall I give notice to the embassies of every country? Shall I add to this consuming anguish the disgrace that I am pursuing an adventuress, who is rambling about with a Jesuit? Cornelia! Cornelia! Have these pious fathers or have you obtained so much mastery over yourself that you can inflict this upon me? It is not possible that they have subdued your free will. You are not one of these natures which allow themselves to be ruled. You have done the most difficult, the most unprecedented thing,--conquered me and yourself in a moment when passion was most aroused. You would not suffer the arts of these men to obtain dominion over you! Noble, wonderful woman! By what cords do you hold me that I will go to utter ruin rather than forget you?"

He rested his head wearily upon his hand. His whole life passed before him. He thought of all the unhappy creatures who had clung to him with the same ardor he now felt for Cornelia, and been repulsed as he was now by her. Again Ottilie's image rose before him. The sorrow gnawing at his heart made him for the first time understand the tortures she so silently, so patiently, bore for him, and for the first time he experienced the true human sympathy he had never felt while grief was unknown to him. "Poor Ottilie! We are now companions in suffering!"

A low knocking roused him from his gloomy thoughts. It was his private secretary, to ask whether Ottmar had prepared the dispatch for the court of R----. "Oh! good heavens, no!" he exclaimed, in great impatience, and sat down to finish it. Thrice he began, erased the words, and then flung the pen aside with a sigh of the bitterest despondency. "I am not in the mood," he said, at last. "My head aches too violently. I cannot give myself up to work now."

"Allow me to remind your Excellency that you will be expected at the council of ministers at twelve o'clock," said the young man, timidly.

"You are right: thanks! Remind me of it again at eleven."

With the most painful effort of self-control he applied himself to the preparation of the document, and then hurried away to dress.

"Your Excellency ought to get a long leave of absence," said Anton, as he assisted him to make his toilet. "You cannot live on so."

"Very likely, Anton. It is an existence which is becoming more and more unendurable to me. But I cannot take a leave now. I must either disappear from the scene entirely or remain at my post."

He left the room with a slow step and drooping head. Anton looked after him sadly. "Poor master! It must have been bad news again. No doubt the young lady has good cause for her acts; but I pity him, for he never loved so before."

A few hours afterward the prince entered his wife's apartments. "My dear Ottilie, I must entreat you to grant me a favor. You did not wish to see any one on account of your indisposition, but I beseech you to make one exception."

"It shall be as you wish, Alfred," said Ottilie, in a faint voice.

She was reclining upon a couch under an arbor of dense exotic plants, which made one forget the cold, wintry landscape without. The prince took a chair and sat down beside her. "The matter concerns Ottmar," he began, breaking a withered leaf from a gum-tree, and thus not observing how Ottilie started. "I do not know what I am to do with the man. Something is wrong with him; I cannot discover what. He seems entirely changed. The youngest attachÉ could not make so many diplomatic blunders as he. He brought to the council to-day the rough sketch of a dispatch to R----, which was totally useless. He, our most talented statesman! It is incomprehensible! He is apathetic and reserved; nay, he even permits himself to fail in the personal respect which, as his prince, I am entitled to demand, and whose punctilious observance has hitherto endeared him to me. I do not think this proceeds from any diminution in his loyalty,--he has so often assured me that I was his only friend,--but is the result of some secret disturbance, some physical or mental suffering. All my efforts to obtain his confidence are fruitless, so I thought of applying to my charming wife and calling her to my aid in this, to me, very important affair."

"But how can I be of any assistance?" asked Ottilie, in astonishment.

"You shall speak to him, my dear. You are mistress of the art of assuming a condescending manner which induces people to give their confidence freely without forgetting in whose presence they stand. I confess that in this respect you far surpass me. You remove my subjects' awe of the grandeur of your position, and substitute reverence for your person. Thus you succeed in being affable without forfeiting any portion of your dignity, and people, open their hearts to you without overstepping the bounds prescribed by etiquette. It is a great art, for which not only intellect and heart, but the unusual queenliness of air that distinguishes you, are requisite."

"But it is an 'art' which, at all events, I practice very unconsciously," interposed Ottilie, smiling. "Yet I thank you, Alfred, for this praise; it makes me very proud. And now I shall try to earn it by attempting to prove my skill upon Ottmar."

"There is no praise you have not already fully earned. But I will beg you to subdue this reserved diplomat with your--if I may so call it--diplomacy of the heart, and discover what is really the matter with him."

"But have we a right to interfere, my prince?"

"It is not only a right, but a duty. If he merely neglected me, I would ignore it; but he neglects the obligations of his high position, and thereby injures the interests he ought to defend. This cannot continue, so we must discover the cause of Ottmar's trouble and try to remove it. If this does not succeed, then----" The prince rose with the shrug of the shoulders he always used to express what was not yet sufficiently decided to put into words. "At the present critical moment, when everything is crowding upon us, we need men who are thoroughly in earnest, and will hold the reins with a firm hand," said he, continuing his interrupted chain of ideas. "It is no time for personal considerations and indulgent delays. Every moment brings and demands important decisions, which should not be permitted to suffer from the absence of mind of any individual. There must be a change soon. I cannot lecture him like a school-boy, but you can say many things as a proof of friendly sympathy, which, from my lips, would sound like an implied reproach."

"I will try; although I do not expect much from the interview. I can scarcely flatter myself that I shall be able to win from him what he withholds from you, and perhaps the secret may be of such a nature that he cannot confide it to us. Perhaps--he has some love-sorrow."

"Oh, my dear! Would a polished man of the world, a thorough diplomat, give himself up to such sentimentality?"

The glance that Ottilie cast at the prince had a shade of compassionate contempt. "You call it sentimentality because you have never felt the power of a passionate emotion. You must consider that the moderation inculcated into the minds of royal personages, that they may be able to rule themselves and others, is an almost exclusive prerogative of their rank, which no one else shares----"

"Except the priests," interposed the prince.

"You are right. But Ottmar does not belong to that class, but to one of great privileges and few duties, who are accustomed to drop the reins of self-control; and these men often lack all support against their passions. I have already told you that I do not consider Ottmar a genuine diplomat. He has talent, and will therefore for a time skillfully accomplish whatever he undertakes, but he is far too great an enthusiast to be a good statesman. For this he lacks calmness, firmness of conviction, perseverance in labor, and sooner or later the contradiction between his nature and his profession must appear."

"Lord C---- made the same remark about him several years ago. Your knowledge of human nature shows itself more and more, and I daily perceive with gratitude what wise counsels I am always sure of receiving from you. Then you will make the sacrifice for me, and speak to Ottmar?"

"I should be deserving of great blame if I refused my husband's request. Under what pretext do you wish the interview to take place?"

"I think we will give a family dinner to-morrow, and invite him to it. Do you feel well enough for such an effort? In my opinion, it would be the most fitting opportunity."

"I agree with you, and think my strength will enable me to do the honors."

"I thank you in advance, my dearest, and hope I have not imposed any very disagreeable task upon you."

"On the contrary, I so rarely have the happiness of being permitted to do you a favor, that I----"

"Oh, do not say so; your whole life is a succession of kindnesses and self-sacrificing amiability towards me. How ignoble it would be for me to require more than you voluntarily bestow! Pray take care of yourself; the anxiety you feel is felt for me. Au revoir." He pressed a hasty kiss upon Ottilie's small white hand and left the room.

Ottilie looked after him quietly. Not a feature in her pale face altered. She gratefully perceived that the prince tried to give her at least civility, even deference; instead of love. She had never asked more; and now it was easier than ever to resign it. She was no longer solitary, the life that stirred under her heart filled her with blissful promises of an infinite love never known before. This new and cheering emotion aided her to bear more resolutely than before even the thought of being again thrown into Ottmar's society. The outward world passed by her like a dream: there was but one reality to her,--the approaching fulfillment of her mission as a woman; all her powers were exerted for this great end, and peace brooded over her soul.

Thus, on the following day, she met Ottmar. The strength of her soul conquered her physical weakness; and when the dinner was over and the prince was conversing with the other guests, she calmly approached Ottmar with an air of quiet dignity.

"The prince has commissioned me to speak to you, count," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

"His Highness?" asked Heinrich, in astonishment.

"Yes; but I do not do so in his name, but my own. We are anxious about you, for we both see that you are suffering. Your manner reveals it to me, while he notices the change by the decreasing interest you take in your business."

"I know it!" exclaimed Heinrich.

"He now wishes to obtain some explanation through me; he hopes you will be more open than with him; but fear nothing, I shall not degrade myself to become a spy upon you; nor should I need to do so, for I know the cause of your anguish, and shall guard it as a sacred secret. Yet I consented to the conversation the prince desired because I believed the wish to be a sign from God. Besides, I wanted to speak to you once more about some of the last events in your life; perhaps I may finally produce some good result."

Heinrich gazed at her in the greatest astonishment.

"Will you permit a friend of many years' standing to meddle with your secrets? Will you trust me?" she asked, with all her former winning grace.

"Oh, my princess!" cried Heinrich, in delight. "How long it is since you have bestowed any such words upon me! how your returning favor soothes and cheers me!"

"God is my witness that my favor was never withdrawn from you, count." She raised her sparkling blue eyes, and her lips parted to say more; then she recollected herself: her lids drooped again, and she was silent. After a pause she began, in an altered tone, "The prince wishes through me to learn the cause of the change in you, that he may help you; but I can aid you without telling him your secret, and thus save both, and betray no one. Is that right?"

"Perfectly! But, my beloved, noble princess, how can you help me?"

"You have been deserted by the young girl you loved. Is it not so?"

"Yes, yes; but how do you know?"

"The unhappy fate that has come between you is a secret to me, and one I do not wish to fathom. The fault, my friend,--pardon my usual frankness,--must be with you; for I know her, and will answer for it that you were loved with a rare, pure, and fervent affection."

"Oh, your Highness, you cut me to the heart!"

"I must do so, count, if I am to be of use to you; and this is the only occasion upon which I can. That you love Cornelia Erwing with the first real passion of your life I see by the deep sorrow expressed in your outward appearance, as well as your acts and conduct; and I hail this mood with joy, count, as the gloomy twilight which precedes the dawn of a new day."

"Princess, you do not know what I suffer. If I ever sinned against a noble heart, I am now making bitter atonement. Pity me; do not triumph in my anguish."

"Oh, how greatly you misunderstand me, count I triumph in your anguish! May God keep me from such a thought! I rejoice because your sorrows are a proof of a salutary change in your heart! I rejoice that you love deeply, truly, sadly; because I hope to be able to restore that to which your heart clings so loyally!"

"Could you do so, your Highness?" whispered Heinrich, his eyes sparkling with new life.

"Cornelia Erwing conceals her residence from you. Have you searched for her?"

"I have summoned the police of the whole country to my aid, left no means untried, but all in vain."

"Why did you do that?"

"Why?" asked Ottmar, in astonishment. "Because I wished to win her, to have her again."

"And will you permit me to ask one more bold question? If you did succeed in winning her again, what would be her fate?"

Ottmar drew back a step in astonishment and looked doubtfully at Ottilie. Should he tell her? was she strong enough to hear it? should he confess the resolution which, during months of agony and exhausting struggle, had obtained such a powerful influence over him that it governed his whole character and conduct?

"Would you make Cornelia Erwing your wife?"

"Your Highness!"

"If this is the case, I am ready, on my own responsibility, to tell you her present residence."

"Noble, royal soul!" murmured Ottmar, involuntarily. "Well, then, yes. Learn what no one else respects, that I, whom you have so often reproached for my heartlessness, am subdued by a passion stronger than my selfishness, stronger than everything, for I feel I could give up my life rather than this girl, who has become so great a necessity to my mind and heart. For weeks a letter imploring her hand has been lying in my portfolio, but I can find no means of sending it to her, and am almost in despair. Have compassion upon me. If you--ever"--he hesitated--"ever felt for any one what I now feel for this cruel girl, you will know how heavily I am punished."

Ottilie would gladly have extended her hand to him; but etiquette must not be offended in the prince's presence. She turned, so that the rest of the company could not see her face, and looked at Heinrich with an inexpressibly loving expression. The old melancholy, yet happy, smile played around her lips, while tear after tear rolled down her pale cheeks.

"You see, my dear, dear friend, I can really do something for you. Cornelia is now living Rome, and as soon as the company have been dismissed I will send you her address."

"Oh, God, how do I deserve the favor of such a woman? Your Highness, how shall I thank you?"

"Make Cornelia Erwing happy; this is the best gratitude I can ask, for it will be the warrant of your own welfare."

"Ah, if I might fall at your feet and kiss the hem of your garments! No, you are no creature of earth!"

Ottilie involuntarily pressed her hand upon her heart, and thought, "Who knows how soon he may be right!"

"Do you believe I can succeed in moving the heart of this wonderful, resolute girl?" asked Heinrich.

"Certainly, for I am sure Cornelia still loves you."

"Did she tell you so in her letter?"

"No; but I know how you were beloved, and therefore cannot be forgotten. Besides, she only wrote to me once that I might know what had become of her, if I should send for her and hear she had gone away. She lamented that an unfortunate misunderstanding compelled her to part from you, and begged me to preserve the strictest silence in regard to her residence that you might not be able to take any steps to shake this resolution, which was necessary for the sake of both. I gave the promise and said nothing; but now I should think it wrong if I did not contribute, as far as I am able, to reunite two such hearts. I had long doubted whether any such woman as you need existed; but I recognized Cornelia as the person whom, in imagination, I had destined for you; therefore she must belong to you. Do you remember the evening I predicted that you would feel a new, great love? It has now entered your heart, and, by the goodness of God, I am permitted to show you the way to the woman in whom the happiness of your life will bloom. My prophecy is fulfilled, my mission to watch over your salvation completed." Tears again glittered in her eyes as she uttered the words, "May blessing and peace be with you both! Farewell."

As soon as the prince saw Ottilie's farewell bow, he approached Heinrich, and, after doing the honors to the company a short time longer, the noble pair withdrew. The prince supported his wife with a strong arm, for she tottered as she left the room.

Ottmar had scarcely reached home when Ottilie's groom of the chambers brought him a sealed envelope. It contained Cornelia's address, written with an unsteady hand.

Heinrich immediately sent a proposal of marriage to Cornelia, overflowing with the ardor of unrestrained passion and the most sincere, humble repentance. Great as was his sense of what he had lost in her, it was equaled by his self-accusation, his impetuous pleading for her pardon, her hand; and the whole letter bore the impress of spiritual purification and bitter, heart-felt remorse. A few days after Cornelia's answer arrived.

"Rome, February, 18--.

"You ask for my hand, Heinrich. I have read the words with tears of grateful surprise. You bear a beautiful and noble testimony, both to yourself and me; and in spirit I fall upon my knees before you, and implore your pardon for the reproaches and upbraidings hurled at your dear head on that terrible evening of our parting. Your letter reveals all the wealth of your deep heart, and shows me that you undervalued yourself when you wished to commit a deed so unworthy of you. Forgive me that I too then believed you worse than you are. I thank God for the merciful kindness with which he restored my only treasure, esteem for you; for nothing humiliates a woman more deeply than to feel affection for a man she must despise. I frankly confess, Heinrich, that I could not cease to love you, even for a moment, that I was torn by the most torturing struggle between heart and my consciousness of right. Now, since I have, received your letter and know you deserve my love, I am once more at peace with myself. I write this that you may not think me prompted by anger or bitterness when I refuse your hand. My eyes grow dim at the sight of these cruel words, the fingers that guide the pen are paralyzed; I must pause a moment and collect my thoughts.

"I cannot become your wife after what has passed between us,--I dare not. You have wounded my womanly honor too deeply, shown with too little consideration what a great sacrifice you would make if you raised me to the position of your wife, for me to be able to reconcile my conscience or my pride to its acceptance. I cannot belong to a man who found me in a station so far below him that he thought he could degrade me to the lowest ignominy; although a nobler emotion or an unconquerable affection afterwards leads him to atone for the wrong. I should always fear that, according to the opinions you have often declared, you would consider your marriage with me a mesalliance. Besides, you have described my position as the plebeian wife of Count Ottmar too clearly and distinctly for me not to shrink from the picture with dread and horror; while even if I could myself suffer the humiliations the pride of your aristocratic circle would prepare, I could not bear that you, as my husband, should be compelled to share them with me; for even if your love at first helped you to endure them, they would only too soon stifle it. There would be a perpetual conflict between your heart and the prejudices the world in which you live has stamped upon you. This must banish peace from your breast, and sooner or later make you as miserable as before. Love would yield, and prejudice conquer, for society would neglect no opportunity of bringing new and painful proofs of the justice of its views before your eyes, and then what would be left me in return for all the humiliations I had suffered? Your scorn! Oh, I was foolish ever to permit myself to be so blinded as to believe that happiness for yourself or me could ever be expected to result from a marriage with Count Ottmar! The extent of my folly you first taught me to know in that hour of agony. Do not rebuke the application I have made of your lessons as exaggerated. It might, perhaps, be so in regard to a man who stood further above the views and demands of a narrow-minded circle than you. But with you, Heinrich, it is the direct result of your whole character. You are far too much fettered by the ideas of those who surround you, cling too closely to the false lustre of brilliant positions, accidental aristocratic prerogatives, and personal distinction, to long retain your love for a woman who would constantly inflict the most painful wounds upon your aristocratic vanity. Believe me, love has no worse enemy than doubt of the equality of its chosen object; and even if you thought me worthy of you in intellect, the inferiority of my birth, and the want of esteem shown by society, would weigh heavily against me. You must become another man for me to accept your hand; and--forgive me if I am harsh--your letter gave me no proof of this, although it revealed a depth of feeling for which, since our separation, I had not given you credit. But you are and will remain the minister, Count Ottmar, the court favorite; I can only make him unhappy, as he would me. If you were once more yourself, Heinrich von Ottmar, my Heinrich, who has nothing in common with that unprincipled aristocracy,--if you openly acknowledged what I taught you, what I believe requisite to true manly dignity and greatness,--then, then you should learn how I love you. Count Ottmar, who wished to inflict such disgrace upon me, I do not love, and have sworn never to marry. Farewell! For your happiness and my own I must avoid you, and leave it to God whether and how he dispose your heart towards me. If your love is more than the obstinacy of a passion irritated by resistance, it will unite with your better self and make you a new man, will remove from our path the obstacles that separate us, and upon the open way will find me once more; of that you may be assured. But if it has not the strength to do all this, it would in the end only make both you and myself miserable,--thrice as miserable as we are now.

"When you receive this letter, I shall have left Rome for another place of residence. Do not try to seek me: you will not find me. Do not call me 'cruel'; in these lines you see only the victory I have obtained over myself, but not my anguish, my tears. Beloved, I extend my arms to you, and would fain press you to my aching heart, but only the cold phantom of womanly duty and honor bends toward me, and breathes an icy kiss on my burning lips. Oh, it is hard to be cast off by one you love, and compelled to renounce your most ardent desire! But, Heinrich, it is still harder to reject him yourself, and voluntarily resign that for which you long. These, Heinrich, are superhuman victories, and they strip all blossoms of youth from the heart; but it is better to lose them than reap the envenomed fruit of eternal remorse. May God keep his gentle, fatherly hand over you! He can still lead you to happiness, and he alone.

"Cornelia Erwing."

It was morning when Heinrich read and re-read this letter, until a sorrow never imagined before made the words swim before his eyes, and lay like a weight upon his chest, until, with a half-stifled cry of agony, he bent his head upon the sheet lying before him. He started as if bewildered, when Anton suddenly appeared, and informed him that a message had come, summoning him to go to the palace as soon as possible.

A few hours after, the bells rang, the cannon thundered, and the populace shouted with joy, for in the palace a new-born child, a prince, lay in a golden cradle. The hope of the country, whose fulfillment slumbered in that little heart, stood by its side uttering a benediction, and the promise of a great future encircled the baby brow with an invisible crown.

But beside him a precious life was struggling silently and uncomplainingly with death. Ottilie had fulfilled her last and highest task, but it had exhausted the remnant of her strength. She felt that her pulse had but a few more throbs, her breast would rise and fall only a few more times, and, gazing gently and submissively around the circle, Said, "Give me my son,"--took him from the arms of the prince and pressed him closely to her heart. "Oh, God! what do I need more than the happiness of this moment?" Yet a tear fell from her glazing eyes as she kissed the little one and softly whispered, "You are so sweet, so dear! Oh, it must be an immeasurable delight to cradle such a child in one's arms, protect, foster, and watch the awakening of its slumbering powers! It is not allotted to me. I must leave you and give you up to your father. May his soul open itself to you! may you become the innocent mediator between him and his poor people!" She pressed the boy more and more feebly to her breast. "Farewell! it grieves me to leave you,--grieves me deeply. Yours was the only heart an which I relied. But I will not complain. I have borne you,--this, too, is a mercy from God, and with a kiss upon your rosy lips it is sweet to die." The child fell from her arm, and her head sank back.

"She is asleep," said the prince, dismissing the bystanders, that he might not be compelled to show any grief.

That evening the bells rang out another peal, and thousands wept aloud under the brilliantly-lighted windows of the palace, for behind them, on a black-draped bed of state, lay the beautiful corpse of the princess, and her people's love stretched its arms towards her in vain. With her the last bond that bound the sympathies of the masses to the throne was sundered, and in the child-like ideas of the nation, Ottilie's glorified spirit rose from her death-bed as that of a saint, a martyr, who had vainly struggled and suffered to the end. She hovered above the mourning country in a halo of glory and grief, and despair transformed the angel of peace into a goddess of freedom, who with a mighty power revealed to their oppressed hearts the consciousness of their crushed rights.