Marianne, a few days later, went one morning to the drawing-room of Countess von Voss.

The room was full of ladies. Dr. Hufeland was there, the Englishman, and the Queen herself, busy with her lint.

The talk was very violent.

News had come to Memel that the Czar had made a separate peace with Napoleon, and that the Emperor of the French, in his hatred of Frederick William, meant to rob him of his kingdom, proposing that he be no longer called King of Prussia, but only Marquis of Brandenburg.

"The monster! The upstart! The villain!" The room was full of abuse of Napoleon.

"I hate him; I would kill him!" cried one lady, her face hot with wrath.

The Queen lifted her blue eyes from her work.

"Dear Mademoiselle," she said, "we cannot lighten our sorrow by hating the Emperor, and malicious thoughts can only make us more unhappy."

The lady bit her lips and coloured, but even she had to laugh with the rest when the parrot of the Countess suddenly called out in French:

"Down with the upstart! Down with Napoleon!"

While the room was yet echoing with the merriment, a servant announced a courier from Memel.

"A letter from the King," cried the Queen, and seized it with eager fingers.

Reading it hastily, all watching, she suddenly burst into tears.

"My Queen, my dear, dear Queen, what is it?" and the Countess flew to her side.

The Queen, recovering herself, clung to her old friend.

The King wished her to come to Memel, to stay with him and plead the cause of her country with Napoleon, to entreat for a better peace.

Her voice quivered as she told of the request, and for a moment her blue eyes gazed pathetically at her friends in the Saal.

The whole room was silent, though indignation flashed across a face or two.

Each knew that Napoleon had treated the Queen most shamefully, and that it was cruel that she must plead before him, must entreat a favour.

"It is the hardest thing I have had to do," at last the Queen's sweet voice broke the silence, her body quivering as a rose on its stem when the blasts blow. "It is the greatest sacrifice I can make for my country." And her lips shook pathetically.

Then she stood in silence, holding the letter in her hand, while the company waited. Marianne felt her heart beat until it was near bursting. They all knew that the Queen could say that she was not well. The winds and cold of Memel had never agreed with her. As an excuse to save herself it would be quite justifiable.

Marianne leaned forward eagerly. It seemed to her at that moment as if all her life was to be settled.

"I will do it," said the Queen; "the King wishes it." And then the whole room relaxed from its tension.

"Perhaps," added the Queen, folding the letter with trembling fingers, her lips quivering, "I can do good, be of some service."

"Most certainly, Majesty," urged General Kalreuth, following the courier, his face eager to have his way.

He had brought her a second letter.

It was from the Czar, entreating her to come, and setting before her all that she with her talents and beauty might accomplish.

"To do my full duty, dear General," said the poor Queen, the tears in her voice, "is my only wish. As the loved wife of the King, as the mother of my children, as the Queen of my people."

She swayed, as if faint. Then sudden strength seemed to come, and a smile, like sunlight after clouds, suddenly illumined her face, which was even lovelier in her sadness.

"And, dear friends," she gazed kindly at the people about her, "I believe firmly in God. And, dear General," again she smiled, "I do not believe Napoleon will be secure on his throne. Truth and righteousness only abide. Napoleon is only politically clever."

So the good Queen, who loved everybody better than her own ease or comfort, kissed the lively, handsome Crown Prince; simple, honourable, sensible little William; shy, beautiful Charlotte, and answered jolly little Carl's many questions as to when she was going, and, loosening baby Alexandrina's arms from her neck, set forth with the old Countess and her Maids of Honour to meet her foe in Tilsit.

She knew that she must smile when her heart was weeping for her country; she knew that she must be pleasant and beg favours of the man who had treated her as no woman has ever before been treated in history.

"Truly," she said to the old Countess, "I am like Atlas, and carry the sorrow of the world."

The Countess pressed her hand and listened while the Queen continued, for to her she might say things which might distress her husband.

"I cannot, I may not forget the King in this crisis. He is very unfortunate and possesses a true soul, but how with my broken wing"—she had not been well and was very nervous, always having to stand the noise of the children and the laughter of the Maids of Honour in the tiny house in Memel—"can I do anything? How can I do anything?" she repeated pathetically.

Full of foreboding, she and the Countess and the Maid of Honour, Countess Tauentzein, came to Tilsit, or rather to the village of PiktupÖhnen, where her husband was in lodgings because of the truce with Napoleon.

The State Minister Hardenburg, General Kalreuth, and the Czar surrounded her.

"Plead with Napoleon," they urged, "for Silesia, for Westphalia, and for Magdeburg, but especially for Magdeburg."

Napoleon, who, having all he wanted, was more amiable, sent greetings at once to Louisa, explaining that according to the terms of the truce he could not come to PiktupÖhnen, and therefore he entreated her to come to Tilsit that he might pay her his respects immediately.

His state carriage, drawn by eight horses and escorted by splendid French dragoons, conveyed them to a plain, two-story house in Tilsit.

An hour later a messenger announced her royal foe, the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.

According to etiquette, the Queen awaited him at the head of the stairs, a smile of welcome forced by politeness to her lips.

"What this costs me," she had said to her ladies, "God alone knows, for if I do not positively hate this man, I cannot help looking on him as the man who has made the King and the whole nation miserable. It will be very difficult for me to be courteous, but that is required of me."

The two Countesses were, by accident, in the hall below when the King met the Emperor and conducted him in.

The Countess von Voss, who hated him with all her old heart, shrugged her shoulders at the sight of the small, bloated-looking man who stared at her rudely.

With him came Talleyrand, his famous Minister, his eyes alert, his expression watchful.

The Emperor lifted his eyes; his whole face softened; for, standing with her hand on the rail of the stair, he saw a slight, graceful woman, golden-haired, and arrayed in a white gown of tissue, or gauze, a narrow ribbon sash tied short-waisted fashion, its ends hanging to the embroidered border of her gown; her mantle on her shoulders, a tiny tissue scarf twisted across her throat, like a frame for her face of loveliness.

Never had "The Rose of the King" looked more beautiful, for excitement had brought back colour to pale cheeks, a fire to eyes faded from weeping. And about her whole figure was a girlish pathos.

Napoleon mounted the stairs heavily, for he had grown very stout in Prussia.

"I am sorry," said the Queen, her sweet voice welcoming him, "that you have had to mount so inconvenient a staircase."

Napoleon stared in the bold, rude way he did at everybody.

"One cannot be afraid of difficulties," he said, with a bow, "with such an object in view." And he gazed at her with bold admiration.

"And while reaching up to attain the reward at the end," he added, again bowing.

"For those who are favoured by Heaven," returned the Queen, "there are no difficulties on earth."

Napoleon made no answer, but stared at her as if enchanted.

Approaching, he touched the material of her dress, like a child.

"Is it crÊpe," he inquired, "or Indian gauze?"

The Queen's face flushed, but she controlled herself most beautifully.

"Shall we talk of light things at such a moment?" she asked, and led the way into the room prepared for his reception.

Then she inquired concerning his health, adding the hope that the severe climate of North Germany had agreed with him.

"The French soldier," he answered bluntly, "is hardened to bear every kind of climate."

Then he looked at her curiously, as if making a study of the woman of whom he had heard so much and whom he had treated so cruelly, and who, in that poor little house in Tilsit, stood before him as bravely as the Duchess had in Weimar.

He admired her beauty, but her sorrows were absolutely nothing to him. In a short time he was to divorce the wife who had borne with his weaknesses and who loved him through many long years of both joy and trouble. So he was not likely to treat the Queen of Prussia very gently, merely because she was a woman who loved her husband and her country.

"How could you think of making war upon me?" he demanded.

Though his manner and tones were irritating, the Queen took no offence, but answered politely:

"We were mistaken in our calculations on our resources," she said.

"And you trusted in Frederick's fame and deceived yourselves—Prussia, I mean." Napoleon swung his riding whip to and fro as she talked, and stared steadily.

The Queen's blue eyes met his bold ones, though they filled a little as she continued:

"Sire, on the strength of the great Frederick's fame we may be excused for having been mistaken with respect to our own powers, if, indeed, we have entirely deceived ourselves."

Napoleon's face softened quickly. He tried to change the subject, but the Queen, treating him as a kind man and a friend, told him in an almost girlish way of all her sufferings, of all she had endured, and why she had come to Tilsit. He tried again and again to change the subject, but she persisted, beseeching him to be kind and merciful, for the love of man and because of the laws of justice with which God rules all the kingdoms.

Napoleon's answer was all kindness. He had never seen such a woman. She had not a thought for herself, and when she spoke of her husband the tears splashed down her cheeks on the crÊpe dress the Emperor had admired so openly.

"Sire," implored the sweetest voice that ever had fallen on his ears, "be kind, be generous, be merciful to your fallen foe. Sire," the Queen gazed like a child in his face, "give us Magdeburg, only Magdeburg."

The conqueror of Europe wavered.

"You ask a great deal," he said dubiously, "but I will think of it."

Why not make this lovely woman happy? he tells us that he thought, and kindness for a moment entirely changed his countenance.

Now, of all men in the world, the King of Prussia was the most unlucky. There was no one who could so irritate Napoleon as he could, and at that moment his entering the room probably changed the history of Prussia; at least Napoleon himself says it did.

But he had begun to be uneasy waiting below. He thought he could help matters, and in his zeal entered, and entered at the wrong moment.

There he stood, handsome, dignified and honest-faced, wanting, as always, to do the right thing, and blundering.

For once the Queen had no smile ready for him, and her face showed her chagrin, for Napoleon, catching himself up hastily, with a relieved face turned to Frederick William.

"Sire," he said, "I admire the magnanimity and tranquillity of your soul amid such numerous and heavy misfortunes."

The King of Prussia hid his feelings. If he was conquered by the man who was complimenting his behaviour, he was a Hohenzollern, but alas, too, he was tactless.

"Greatness and tranquillity of soul," he answered shortly, "can only be acquired by the strength of a good conscience."

Never did a King make a more unfortunate answer.

Napoleon turned away with a glare, and after inviting the King and Queen to dine with him, departed, followed by Talleyrand, his whole mood changed to hardness.

When they were below the Minister looked inquiringly at the Emperor.

"I knew," said Napoleon, his eyes firing, "that I should see a beautiful woman and a Queen with dignified manners, but I found a most admirable Queen and at the same time the most interesting woman I ever met with." Again his face looked soft and almost yielding.

Talleyrand's laughter rang out in sarcastic mockery.

"And so, sire," he said, with a sneer, "you will sacrifice the fruits of victory to a beautiful woman. What will the world say?" His voice was mocking.

Napoleon flushed and bit his lip, the hard look returning.

Talleyrand, seizing the moment, hastened to show what a gain Magdeburg would be to French interests and how its loss would cripple Napoleon.

"You cannot give it up, sire," he pleaded; "you cannot."

Napoleon, his lips curling in amusement, shook his head. He was again the Emperor, the Conqueror.

"No, no," he answered, "Magdeburg is worth a hundred Queens."

Then he laughed, as if he had escaped a great weakness, and his eyes narrowed.

"Happily," he swung his whip, "the husband came in, and trying to put his word into the conversation, spoilt the whole affair and I was delivered."

As for the Queen, she was repeating every word of Napoleon's to Frederick William.

"He promised, Fritz," and she clung to his hand, "that he would think of it. Moreover," she added, "I shall see him at dinner. Something then may be done." And she caressed him tenderly, her whole body quivering from the strain she had been under.

In honour of Napoleon, Queen Louisa arrayed herself for the dinner in her most regal splendour. Her dress was white, most delicately embroidered, a velvet and ermine mantle flowed from her shoulders, a diamond star shone in her golden hair, and the crown of Prussia was arranged to surmount her exquisite tissue, or gauze, turban.

When her maid had given the last touch she stood before her mirror in the small Tilsit house. Near by stood her dearest friend, Frau von Berg, gazing at her in loving admiration.

But the Queen's thoughts were bitter. With a shrug she turned from the mirror to her companion.

"Do you remember, dear friend," she asked, with a sad smile, "how the old Germans of the pagan times used to dress the maidens they would sacrifice to their gods in gorgeous raiment and jewels?"

Frau von Berg nodded.

"Yes, dear Queen," she said, the tears starting.

"I am such a victim," said the Queen. "But the question is, will the angry god whom the world now adores be, through me, appeased and reconciled?"

Frau von Berg had no answer.

Then in came the two Countesses in splendid raiment, and off went the Prussian Court to dine with Napoleon.