Certainly Napoleon was most courteous.

He was at the carriage door to open it for Queen Louisa. He led her to the table and placed her by his side, the King of Prussia sitting on his left, and the Czar by Queen Louisa.

The table was long, it was well set, and there were many guests arrayed in court splendour, but one person did the talking, and that person was Napoleon.

The Queen, alone, was expected to answer.

Why, he began, had she been so foolish as to go to the seat of war? Did she know that Napoleon's hussars had almost captured her?

The Queen with a smile shook her head.

"No, no, sire," she said with forced gaiety, "that I cannot believe. I never saw a Frenchman while I was on that journey."

"But why did you expose yourself to danger?" persisted the Emperor, though he knew quite well that it was an old Prussian custom for Queens to accompany their husbands to the battle.

"Why did you not await my arrival at Weimar?" he asked.

"Really, sire," said the poor Queen, trying to be merry, "I felt no inclination to do so."

At that Napoleon laughed and changed the subject, without a thought for all the Queen had endured on her journey.

"How is it that the Queen of Prussia wears a turban? That," he added, "is not complimentary to the Emperor of Russia, who is at war with the Turk."

Now, the Queen of Prussia knew how to make a pretty answer. It was one of her charms.

"I think," and she smiled, "it is rather to compliment Rustan," and she glanced at Napoleon's favourite Eastern servant, who, wearing a superb turban, stood behind the chair of his imperial master.

Napoleon was delighted, and the two began to discuss the province of Silesia and the old ones of Prussia, which now were perhaps to be ceded to France.

Frederick William, who had been silent, at once expressed his opinion, and, as usual, got into trouble with Napoleon.

"Your Majesty," he said, and his brow darkened, while he twisted his handkerchief and knotted it in a way he had, "does not know how grievous it is to lose territories which have descended through a long line of ancestors, territories which are, in fact, the cradle of one's race," he added gloomily.

Now, Napoleon was a man who had made his own fortunes, his name had not been royal, and his race had no such cradle.

A sarcastic smile played on his lips and a laugh of derision rang through the room.

"Cradle!" he said, and his lips curled in amusement. "When the child has grown to be a man he has not much time to think about his cradle!"

The guests gazed down at their plates.

Why on earth had the King spoken?

But the Queen saved the day.

"The mother's heart," she said, "is the most lasting cradle."

Then she enquired about Madame Bonaparte, whom above all living people Napoleon honoured, and the Empress Josephine, and Napoleon's good humour came back and he talked steadily through the whole dinner, everybody being forced to listen and eat in silence.

"That odious man," whispered the Countess Tauentzein, when at last they arose from dinner; "he has the manners of a peasant."

"And how ugly," answered Countess von Voss. "Did you notice how fat he is, and how bloated his face, and how brown his complexion?"

"He is altogether without figure, the wretch!" answered the other. "See how he rolls his great eyes, and how severe is his expression!"

"But his mouth is beautiful," admitted the old Countess, "and his teeth perfect. But see how he looks the very picture of success!" She lowered her voice cautiously. "But what a happy day it will be for the world when God takes him!"

As for Napoleon, his eyes never left the Queen. He followed her everywhere.

For a moment she stood alone in the room, in whose window-seat stood a pot in which grew a rosebush with one lovely flower.

Napoleon broke off its stem, and bearing it in his hand he approached the Queen and offered it to her, smiling.

"Sire," she said, her blue eyes pleading, "with Magdeburg?"

"Sire, with Magdeburg?"

Napoleon still offered the rose, his face flushing.

"I must point out to your Majesty," he said, "that it is for me to beg, for you to accept, or decline."

It was the Queen's turn to flush.

"There is no rose without a thorn," she said, "but these thorns," she gazed at the rose, "are too sharp for me."

And turning, she left Napoleon with a rose in his hand, his lips pressing themselves together.

He had given the Queen her answer. Prussia was to lose Magdeburg. The Queen had appealed in vain.

The banquet ended in a dance, and at a late hour the King and Queen returned to their lodgings in PiktupÖhnen.

The next day the King and Napoleon had a talk, and those listening heard hot words and angry voices.

Frederick William was entreating for Magdeburg. Napoleon answering with scowling insolence.

"You forget," said the Emperor, his eyes narrowing, "that you are not in a position to negotiate. Understand that I wish to keep Prussia down and to hold Magdeburg that I may enter Berlin when I wish to. I believe in the stability of but two sentiments—vengeance and hatred. For the future, the Prussians must hate the French; but I will put it out of their power to injure them."

Again, that day, the Queen was forced to dine with Napoleon. She prayed to be excused, but all begged her to go. It would appear better, for the treaty now was signed.

"I have given Prussia a few concessions because of its Queen," announced Napoleon, but what they were it was hard to guess.

The King of Prussia must give up half of his dominions; he must reduce his army to 42,000 men; he must pay 140,000,000 francs as the cost of the war, and he must acknowledge the Confederation of the Rhine and all the kingdoms Napoleon might set up anywhere. Jerome Bonaparte, as King of Westphalia, was to receive half of the Kingdom of Prussia.

Knowing this, the Queen sat in her ermine and jewels; she talked with Napoleon, she smiled, she thanked him for his hospitality.

When she left he led her to the carriage.

"I regret, your Majesty," he said, "that I must not do what you asked me."

"And I regret," said the Queen, "that, having had the honour of knowing the hero of the age, whom I can never forget, the impression left on my mind must always be painful. Had you been generous, sire, I would be bound to you by an everlasting gratitude."

"Indeed, your Majesty," returned Napoleon, "I lament that so it must be; it is my evil destiny."

"And I have been cruelly deceived," were the Queen's last words, and off drove her carriage.

The two Royal Foes parted, never again to meet.

That day Louisa thought herself the vanquished, and before the world Napoleon wore the laurels of victory. Seventy years later the President of France wrote that it was his belief that, at Tilsit, Napoleon was conquered; that had he then been generous and bound the King and Queen of Prussia to him by a tie of gratitude his last days need not, perhaps, have been spent on the island of St. Helena, for in his troubles they would have been his ally.

When the Queen reached her room she turned to her ladies in tears.

"When I am dead," she said, "it will be as with Queen Mary of England; not Calais, but Magdeburg will be graven on my poor heart in letters of blood."

Peace was signed on the seventh, and on June 24 Napoleon, in triumph, entered Frankfort-on-Main, and three days later he arrived at his palace at Saint Cloud and immediately was off again, marching armies into Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Austria.

"Peace is made," wrote Queen Louisa to her father, "but at a dreadful price. Our boundary will only go as far as the Elbe. Yet is the King greater than his adversary. After Eylau he could have made a more advantageous peace, but then he must have followed wicked principles, and now he has acted through necessity and not forsworn himself. That must bring a blessing on Prussia. After Eylau he would not desert a faithful ally. Once more, I repeat, it is my firm belief that this conduct of the King will bring good fortune to Prussia."

Napoleon had insisted upon the dismissal of Hardenburg as Prime Minister, and in September the King called Stein to his assistance. From the Queen this great man received a letter.

"I conjure you," she wrote, for he had made some objections to remaining in office with a certain fellow minister, "have but patience in the first few months. For Heaven's sake, do not let the good cause be lost for want of three months' patience. I conjure, for the sake of the King, of the country, of my children, for my own sake, patience!

"Louisa."

As for Baron von Stein, he had at heart only the good of Prussia, and waited.

The war was ended. Prussia was in the dust; its King and Queen exiled from the capital. Crops were ruined, villages were burned, and this poor, unhappy country must pay its war debt.

"Now, God be everlastingly praised," wrote the poor Queen, "that my daughter, who would now be almost fifteen years old, came dead into the world."

"I must play my life days in this unlucky time," she said. "Perhaps God gave me my living children that one of them might bring good to mankind."

And there was one who did the great things the Queen dreamed of.

It was not the handsome Crown Prince, though he was a clever monarch; it was not Princess Charlotte, though she became Empress of Russia; it was not Alexandrina, who, a lovely old lady, died only a year or two ago as Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg; nor jolly Carl, nor Louisa, nor Albert, who came later.

It was simple, honourable, sensible little William. Every pain his mother felt sank deeply into his heart, and at last the day came when he led the Prussian army to the great battle of Sedan, where he conquered the nephew of Napoleon and created the German Empire.

But no one dreamed of this that dreary summer in Memel, and though the Queen did her best to be cheerful, all who loved her saw that the canker-worm of sorrow was drawing nearer and nearer the heart of the beautiful "Rose of the King," the flower whose stem had been so roughly handled by its enemy.