CHAPTER I.

THE GARDEN OF MONBIJOU.

The excitement of the first days was quieted. The young king had withdrawn for a short time to the palace in Charlottenburg, while his wife remained in Berlin, anxiously expecting an invitation to follow her husband.

But the young monarch appeared to have no care or thought but for his kingdom. He worked and studied without interruption; even his beloved flute was untouched.

Berlin was, according to etiquette, draped with mourning for a few days; it served in this instance as a veil to the joy with which all looked forward to the coronation of the new king. All appeared earnest and solemn, but every heart was joyful and every eye beaming. The palace of the king was silent and deserted; the king was, as we have said, at Charlottenburg; the young queen was in the palace formerly occupied by the prince royal, and the dowager queen Sophia Dorothea had retired with the two princesses, Ulrica and Amelia, to the palace of Monbijou. All were anxious and expectant; all hoped for influence and honor, power and greatness. The scullion and the maids, as well as the counts and princes, and even the queen herself, dreamed of happy and glorious days in the future.

Sophia Dorothea had been too long a trembling, subjugated woman; she was rejoicing in the thought that she might at length be a queen. Her son would doubtless grant to her all the power which had been denied her by her husband; he would remember the days of tears and bitterness which she had endured for his sake; and now that the power was in his hands she would be repaid a thousandfold. The young king would hold the sceptre in his hands, but he must allow his mother to aid in keeping it upright; and if he found it too weighty, the queen was ready to bear it for him, and reign in his stead, while her dreamy son wrote poems, or played on the flute, or philosophized with his friends. Frederick was certainly not formed to rule; he was a poet and a philosopher; he dreamed of a Utopia; he imagined an ideal which it was impossible to realize. The act of ruling would be a weary trial to him, and the sounds of the trumpet but ill accord with his harmonious dreams.

But happily his mother was there, and was willing to reign for him, to bear upon her shoulders the heavy burdens and cares of the kingdom, to work with the ministers, while the king wrote poetical epistles to Voltaire.

Why should not Sophia Dorothea reign? Were there not examples in all lands of noble women who governed their people well and honorably? Was not England proud of her Elizabeth, Sweden of her Christina, Spain of Isabella, Russia of Catharine? and even in Prussia the queen Sophia Charlotte had occupied a great and glorious position. Why could not Sophia Dorothea accomplish as much or even more than her predecessor?

These were the thoughts of the queen as she walked up and down the shady paths of the garden of Monbijou, and listened with a proud smile to the flattering words of Count Manteuffel, who had just handed her a letter of condolence from the Empress of Austria.

"Her majesty the empress has sent me a most loving and tender letter to-day," said the dowager queen, with an ironical smile.

"She has then only given expression to-day, to those sentiments which she has always entertained for your majesty," said the count, respectfully.

The queen bowed her head smilingly, but said, "The houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg have never been friendly; it is not in their nature to love one another."

"The great families of Capulet and Montague said the same," remarked Count Manteuffel, "but the anger of the parents dissolved before the love of the children."

"But we have not arrived at the children," said the queen proudly, as she thought how her husband had been deceived by the house of Austria, and recalled that, on his death-bed he had commanded his son Frederick to revenge those treacheries.

"Pardon me, your majesty, if I dare to contradict you; we have most surely arrived at the children, and the difficulties of the parents are forgotten in their love. Is not the wife of the young king the deeply-loved niece of the Austrian empress?"

"She was already his wife, count, as my husband visited the emperor in Bohemia, and it was not considered according to etiquette for the emperor to offer his hand to the King of Prussia."[10]

[10] Seckendorf's Leben.

"She was, however, not his wife when Austria, by her repeated and energetic representations, saved the life of the prince royal. For your majesty knows that at one time that precious life was threatened."

"It was threatened, but it would have been preserved without the assistance of Austria; for the mother of Frederick was at hand, and that mother was sister to the King of England." And the queen cast on the count so proud and scornful a glance that his eyes fell involuntarily to the ground. Sophia Dorothea saw this, and smiled. This was her triumph; she would now show herself mild and forgiving. "We will speak no more of the past," she said, in a friendly manner. "The death of my husband has cast a dark cloud over it, and I must think only of the future, that my son, the young king, may not always behold me with tears in my eyes. No, I will look forward, for I have a great presentiment that Prussia's future will be great and glorious."

"Would that it might be thus for the whole of Germany!" cried the count. "It must be so, if the houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg will forget their ancient quarrels, and live together in love and peace."

"Let Hapsburg extend to us the hand of love and peace; show us her sympathy, her justice, and her gratitude, in deeds, not words."

"Austria is prepared to do so, your majesty! the question is, whether Prussia will grasp her hand and place upon it the ring of love."

The queen glanced up so quickly that she perceived the dark and threatening look of the count. "Austria is again making matrimonial plans," she said, with a bitter smile. "She is not satisfied with one marriage, such as that of her imperial niece, she longs for a repetition of this master-work. But this time, count, there is no dear one to be saved at any cost from a prison, this time the decision can be deferred until the arrival of all the couriers." And the queen, dismissing the count with a slight bow, recalled her ladies of honor, who were lingering at a short distance, and passed into one of the other walks.

Count Manteuffel remained where the queen had left him, looking after her with an earnest and thoughtful countenance. "She is prouder and more determined than formerly," he murmured; "that is a proof that she will be influential, and knows her power. What she said of the courier was without doubt an allusion to the one who arrived an hour too late, with the consent of England, on the betrothal day of the prince royal. Ah! there must be other couriers en route, and one of them was most probably sent to England. We must see that he arrives an hour too late, as the former one did." At this instant, and in his immediate vicinity, Manteuffel heard a soft and melodious voice saying, "No, count, you can never make me believe in your love. You are much too blond to love deeply."

"Blond!" cried a manly voice, with a tone of horror. "You do not like fair hair, and until now I have been so proud of mine. But I will have it dyed black, if you will promise to believe in my love." The lady replied with a light laugh, which brought an answering smile to the countenance of Count Manteuffel. "It is my ally, Madame von Brandt," he said to himself. "I was most anxious to see her, and must interrupt her tender tete-a-tete with Count Voss for one moment." So speaking, the count hurried to the spot from which he had heard the voices of Madame von Brandt and her languishing lover. The count approached the lady with the most delighted countenance, and expressed his astonishment at finding his beautiful friend in the garden of the dowager queen.

"Her majesty did me the honor to invite me to spend a few weeks here," said Madame von Brandt. "She knew that my physician had ordered me to the country, as the only means to restore my health; and as she knows of my great intimacy with Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, one of her ladies of honor, she was so kind as to offer me a few rooms at Monbijou. Now I have explained to you the reason of my presence here as minutely as if you were my father confessor, and nothing remains to be done but to present you to my escort. This is Count Voss, a noble cavalier, a sans peur et sans reproche, ready to sacrifice for his lady love, if not his life, at least his fair hair."

"Beware, my dear count," said Manteuffel, laughing, "beware that the color of your hair is not changed by this lovely scoffer—that it does not become a venerable gray. She is sufficiently accomplished in the art of enchantment to do that; I assure you that Madame von Brandt plays a most important role in the history of my gray hairs."

"Ah! it would be delightful to become gray in the service of Madame von Brandt," said the young count, in so pathetic a tone that his companions both laughed. "As often as I look at my gray hair I would think of her." And the young count gazed into the distance, like one entranced, and his smiling lips whispered low, unintelligible words.

"This is one of his ecstatic moments," whispered Madame von Brandt. "He has the whim to consider himself an original; he imagines himself a Petrarch enamored of his Laura. We will allow him to dream awhile, and speak of our own affairs. But be brief, I beg of you, for we must not be found together, as you are a suspicious character, my dear count, and my innocence might be doubted if we were seen holding a confidential conversation."

"Ah, it is edifying to hear Madame von Brandt speak like a young girl of sixteen, of her threatened innocence. But we will tranquillize this timidity, and be brief. In the first place, what of the young queen?"

"State of barometer: cold and damp, falling weather, stormy, with unfulfilled hopes, very little sunshine, and very heavy clouds."

"That means that the queen is still fearful of being slighted by her husband."

"She is no longer fearful—he neglects her already. The king is at Charlottenburg, and has not invited the queen to join him. As a husband, he slights his wife; whether as king he will neglect his queen, only time will reveal."

"And what of Madame von Morien?"

"The king seems to have forgotten her entirely since that unhappy quid pro quo with the poem at Rheinsberg; his love seems to have cooled, and he converses with her as harmlessly and as indifferently as with any other lady. No more stolen words, secret embraces, or amorous sighs. The miserable Morien is consumed with sorrow, for since she has been neglected she loves passionately."

"And that is unhappily not the means to regain that proud heart," said Count Mantcuffel, shrugging his shoulders. "With tears and languishing she will lose her influence, and only gain contempt. You who are the mistress of love and coquetry should understand that, and instruct your beautiful pupil. Now, however, comes the most important question. What of the marriage of the Prince Augustus William?"

Madame von Brandt sighed. "You are really inexorable. Have you no compassion for the noble, heartfelt love of two children, who are as pure and innocent as the stars in heaven?"

"And have you no compassion for the diamonds which long to repose upon your lovely bosom?" said Count Manteuffel; "no compassion for the charming villa which you could purchase? You positively refuse to excite the envy of all the ladies at court by possessing the most costly cashmere? You will—"

"Enough, Count Devil! you are in reality more a devil than a man, for you lead my soul into temptation. I must submit. I will become a serpent, reposing on the bosom of my poor Laura, poisoning her love and lacerating her heart. Ah, count, if you knew how my conscience reproaches me when I listen to the pure and holy confession of her love, when trembling and blushing she whispers to me the secrets of her youthful heart, and flies to me seeking protection against her own weakness! Remember that these two children love each other, without ever having had the courage to acknowledge it. Laura pretends not to understand the deep sighs and the whispered words of the prince, and then passes the long nights in weeping."

"If that is the case, it is most important to prevent an understanding between these singular lovers. You must exert all your influence with the young lady to induce her to close this romance with an heroic act, which will make her appear a holy martyr in the eyes of the prince."

"But, for example, what heroic act?"

"Her marriage."

"But how can we find a man so suddenly to whom this poor lamb can be sacrificed?"

"There is one," said the count, pointing to Count Voss, who appeared to have forgotten the whole world, and was occupied writing verses in his portfolio.

Madame von Brandt laughed aloud. "He marry the beautiful Laura!"

"Yes," said the count, earnestly, "he seeks a Laura."

"Yes, but you forget that he considers me his Laura."

"You can, therefore, easily induce him to make this sacrifice for you; he will be magnified in his own eyes, if, in resigning you, he gives himself to the lady you have selected."

"You are terrible," said Madame von Brandt. "I shudder before you, for I believe you have no human emotions in your heart of iron."

"There are higher and nobler considerations, to which such feelings must yield. But see, the count has finished his poem. To work now, my beautiful ally; today you must perfect your masterpiece; and now, farewell," said the count, kissing her hand, as he left her side.

Madame von Brandt approached the young count, who seemed to be again lost in thought. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, and whispered, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "Dreamer, where are your thoughts?"

"With you," said the count, who trembled and grew pale at her touch. "Yes, with you, noblest and dearest of women; and as that tiresome gossip prevented me from speaking to you, I passed the time he was here in writing."

"But you did not remember," said she, tenderly, "that you were compromising me before Count Manteuffel, who will not hesitate to declare in what intimate relationship we stand to one another. Only think of writing without apology, while a lady and a strange gentleman were at your side!"

"The world will only exclaim 'What an original!'" said Count Voss, with a foolish, but well-pleased smile.

"But it will also say that this original shows little consideration for Madame von Brandt; that he must, therefore, be very intimate with her. The reputation of a woman is so easily injured; it is like the wing of the butterfly, so soon as the finger touches it or points at it, it loses its lustre; and we poor women have nothing but our good name and unspotted virtue. It is the only shield—the only weapon—that we possess against the cruelty of man, and you seek to tear that from us, and, then dishonored and humiliated, you tread us under foot!"

"You are weeping!" cried the count, looking at his beloved, in whose eyes the tears really stood—"you are weeping! I am truly a great criminal to cause you to shed tears."

"No, you are a noble but most thoughtless man," said Madame von Brandt, smiling through her tears. "You betray to the world what only God and we ourselves should know."

"Heavens! what have I betrayed?" cried the poor frightened count.

"You have betrayed our love," whispered Madame von Brandt, as she glanced tenderly at the count.

"What! our love?" he cried, beside himself with delight; "you admit that it is not I alone who love?"

"I admit it, but at the same time declare that we must part."

"Never! no, never! No power on earth shall part us," said he, seizing her hand, and covering it with kisses.

"But there is a power which has the right to separate us—the power of my husband. He already suspects my feelings for you, and he will be inexorable if he discovers that his suspicions are correct."

"Then I will call him out, and he will fall by my hand, and I shall bear you in triumph as my wife to my castle."

"But if you should fall?"

"Ah! I had not thought of that," murmured the count, turning pale. "That would be certainly a most unhappy accident. We will not tempt fate with this trial, but seek another way out of our difficulty. Ah, I know one already. You must elope with me."

She said, with a sad smile, "The arm of the king extends far and wide, and my husband would follow us with his vengeance to the end of the world."

"But what shall we do?" cried the count, despairingly; "we love each other; separated, we must be consumed with grief and sorrow. Ah! ah! shall I really suffer the fate of Petrarch, and pass my life in an eternal dirge? Is there no way to prevent this?"

Madame von Brandt placed her hand with a slight but tender pressure on his. "There is one way," she whispered, "a way to reassure, not only my husband, but the whole world, which will cast a veil over our love, and protect us from the wickedness and calumny of man."

"Show me this way," he exclaimed, "and if it should cost half of my fortune I would walk in it, if I could hope to gain your love."

She bent her head nearer to him, and, with a most fascinating and tender glance, whispered, "You must marry, count."

He withdrew a step, and uttered a cry of horror. "I must marry! You desire it—you who profess to love me?"

"Because I love you, dearest, and because your marriage will break the bands of etiquette which divide us. You must marry a lady of my acquaintance, perhaps one of my friends, and then no one, not even my husband, will consider our friendship remarkable."

"Oh! I see it; there is no other way," sighed the count. "If I were only married now!"

"Oh! you ungrateful, faithless man," cried Madame von Brandt, indignantly. "You long already for your marriage with the beautiful young woman, in whose love I shall be forgotten."

"Oh! you are well aware that I only wish to be married because you desire it."

"Prove this by answering that you will not refuse to marry the lady I shall point out to you."

"I swear it."

"You swear that you will marry no other than the one I name? You swear that you will overcome all obstacles, and be withheld by no prayers or reproaches?"

"I swear it."

"On the word of a count?"

"On the word of a count. Show me the lady, and I will marry her against the will of the whole world."

"But if the lady should not love you?"

"Why should I care? Do I love her? Do I not marry her for your sake alone?"

"Ah! my friend," cried Madame von Brandt, "I see that we understand one another. Come, and I will show you your bride."

She placed her arm in his, and drew him away. Her eye gleamed with a wild, menacing light, and she said sneeringly to herself, "I have selected a rich husband for my beautiful Laura, and have bartered my soul for diamonds and cashmeres, and the gratitude of an empress."

CHAPTER II.

THE QUEEN'S MAID OF HONOR.

After her interview with Count Manteuffel, the queen Sophia Dorothea left the garden, and retired to her chamber. She dismissed her maids of honor for a few hours, requesting them to admit no one to her presence. She wished to consider and develop her plans in undisturbed quiet. She felt that Austria was again prepared to throw obstacles in the way of her favorite project—an English marriage for one of her children. She wished to sharpen her weapons, and marshal her forces for the approaching combat.

For a few hours, therefore, the maids of honor were free to follow their own inclinations, to amuse themselves as they thought fit.

Laura von Pannewitz had declined accompanying the other ladies in their drive. Her heart required solitude and rest. For her it was a rare and great pleasure to listen in undisturbed quiet to the sweet voices which whispered in her heart, and suffused her whole being with delight.

It was so sweet to dream of him—to recall his words, his smiles, his sighs; all those little shades and signs which seemed so unimportant to the careless, but which convey so much to the loving observer!

He had written to her yesterday, and she—she had had the cruel courage to return his letter unopened. But she had first pressed it to her lips and to her heart with streaming eyes, and had then fallen on her knees to pray to God, and to implore him to give her strength and courage to overcome her heart, to renounce his love.

Since then an entire day had passed, and she had not seen him, had heard nothing of him. Oh, he must be sad and very angry with her; he wished never to see her again. And because he was angry, and wished to hold himself aloof from her, he, the loving and attentive son, had even neglected to pay the accustomed morning visit to his royal mother, which he had never before omitted.

Her heart beating hurriedly, and weeping with anguish, Laura had been standing before her window curtain awaiting him, and had prayed to God that she might see him, or at least hear his voice in the distance. But the prince did not arrive, and now the time had passed at which he was accustomed to come. The queen had already retired to her study, and would admit no one.

Laura could, therefore, no longer hope to see the prince Augustus William on this day. As she thought of this, she felt as if a sword had pierced her bosom, and despair took possession of her heart. She threw herself on her knees, wrung her hands, and prayed to God, not for strength and courage to renounce him as before, but for a little sunshine on her sad and sorrowful love. Terrified at her own prayer, she had then arisen from her knees, and had hurried to the room of Madame von Brandt, to take refuge from her own thoughts and sorrows in the bosom of a friend.

But her friend was not there, and she was told that Madame von Brandt had gone down into the garden. Laura took her hat and shawl, and sought her. As she walked down the shady avenue, her glowing cheeks and burning eyes were cooled by the gentle breeze wafted over from the river Spree, and she felt soothed; something like peace stole into her heart. Laura had forgotten that she had come to the garden to seek her friend; she felt only that the calm and peace of nature had quieted her heart; that solitude whispered to her soul in a voice of consolation and of hope. Hurriedly she passed on to the denser and more solitary part of the garden, where she could give herself up to dreams of him whose image still filled her heart, although she had vainly endeavored to banish it.

She now entered the conservatory at the foot of the garden, which had been converted into a beautiful and charming saloon, for the exclusive use of the queen and her maids of honor. There were artificial arbors of blooming myrtle and orange, in which luxurious little sofas invited to repose; grottoes of stone had been constructed, in the crevices of which rare mountain plants were growing. There were little fountains which murmured and flashed pleasantly, and diffused an agreeable coolness throughout the atmosphere. Laura seated herself in one of the arbors, which was covered with myrtle, and, in a reclining position, her head resting on the trunk of an aged laurel-tree, which formed part of the framework of the arbor, she closed her eyes that she might see nothing but him.

It was a lovely picture, the beautiful and noble countenance of this young girl, enclosed as it were in a frame of living myrtle; her delicate but full and maidenly figure reclining against the trunk of the tree, to which the chaste and timid love of a virgin had once given life. She also was a Daphne, fleeing from her own desires, fleeing from the sweetly-alluring voice of her lover, who, to her, was the god of beauty and of grace, the god of learning and the arts—her Apollo, whom she adored and believed in, whom she feared, and from whom she fled like Daphne, because she loved him. For a woman flees only from him whom she loves; she fears him only who is dangerous, not because his words of tenderness and flattery are alluring, but because her own heart pleads for him.

Laura was still sitting in the arbor, in a dreamy reverie. His image filled her thoughts; her love was prayer, her prayer love. Her hands lay folded in her lap; a sweet, dreamy smile played about her lips, and from under her closed eyelids a few tears were slowly rolling down her soft, rosy cheeks. She had been praying to God to give her strength to conquer her own heart, and to bear, without murmuring and without betraying herself, the sorrow, the anger, and even the indifference of the prince. Still she felt that her heart would break if he should desert and forget her. An alluring voice whispered that it would be a more blissful end to die, after an hour of ecstatic and intoxicating happiness, than to renounce his love, and still die.

But the chaste Laura did not wish to hear this voice; she would drown it with her prayers; and still, even while she prayed, she thought how great and sublime a happiness it would be to kiss the lips of her beloved, to whisper in his ear the long-concealed, long-buried secret of her love. And then his kiss still on her lips, and in the sunshine of his eyes, to fall down and die!—exchanging heaven for heaven; redeeming bliss with bliss. And sweeter dreams and more painful fantasies came over her; heavier and heavier sank her eyelids; a weight of sorrow rested on her heart, and made it weary unto death; until at the last, like the disciples on the Mount, she slept for very sorrow.

The silence was profound. Suddenly stealthy footsteps could be heard, and the figure of a man appeared at the entrance of the grotto. Cautiously he stepped forward, and cast an inquiring glance through the trailing vines which overhung the grotto, to the young girl who still slumbered, reclining on the trunk of the laurel-tree. It was Fritz Wendel, the gardener of Rheinsberg. Queen Sophia Dorothea had desired to have her greenhouses and flower-beds arranged in the style of those at Rheinsberg. And, by command of the young king, several of the most expert gardeners of Rheinsberg had been sent to Berlin to superintend this arrangement in the garden of Monbijou. Fortune had favored the young gardener, and had again brought him near her he loved. For the little maid of honor, Louise von Schwerin, was not only the favorite of Queen Elizabeth, but Queen Sophia Dorothea also loved this saucy and sprightly young girl, who, because she was a child, and as such was excusable, was allowed to break in upon court etiquette with her merry laughter, and to introduce an element of freshness and vivacity into the stiff forms of court life. Moreover, by her thoughtless and presumptuous behavior at Rheinsberg, she had lost favor with the young couple who now reigned in Prussia. Queen Elizabeth could not forget that it was through Louise she had learned the name of her happy rival. And the king was angry with her, because, through her, the secret of his verses to Madame von Morien had been discovered. Louise von Schwerin was rarely with Queen Elizabeth. Sophia Dorothea, however, kept this young girl near her person for whole days. Her childish ways amused the queen, and her merry pranks drove the stiff and formal mistress of ceremonies, and the grave and stately cavaliers and ladies of the court, to despair. And the little maid of honor came to the queen willingly, for Monbijou had for her a great charm since the handsome gardener, Fritz Wendel, had been there. The romance with this young man had not yet come to an end; this secret little love affair had a peculiar charm for the young girl; and as no other admirer had been found for the little Louise, she for the present was very well pleased with the adoration of the young gardener, to whom she was not the "little Louise," but the bewitching fairy, the beautiful goddess. It was Fritz Wendel who appeared at the entrance of the grotto, and looked anxiously toward the sleeping Laura. He had been occupied in arranging the plants and flowers in this conservatory, which had been confided to his especial care. As the queen never entered the garden at this time, this hour had been set apart for his labors.

In the midst of his occupation he was interrupted by the entrance of Laura von Pannewitz, and had hastily retired to the grotto, intending to remain concealed until the lady should have left the conservatory. From his hiding-place, concealed by the dense Indian vines, he could see the myrtle arbor in which the beautiful Laura reposed; and now, seeing that she slept, he advanced slowly and cautiously from the grotto. He listened attentively to her slow and regular breathing—yes, she really slept; he might therefore stealthily leave the saloon.

"Ah, if it were she!" he murmured; "if it were she! I would not leave here so quietly. I would find courage to fall down at her feet and to clasp her to my arms, while pressing my lips to hers, to suppress her cry of terror. But this lady," said he, almost disdainfully, turning to the sleeping Laura, "is so little like her—that she is—"

The words died on his lips, and he hastily retreated to the entrance of the grotto. He thought he heard footsteps approaching the conservatory. The door of the vestibule creaked on its hinges, and again—Fritz Wendel slipped hastily into the grotto, and concealed himself behind the dense vines.

On the threshold of the saloon stood a young man, who looked searchingly around. His tall and graceful figure was clad in the uniform of the guards, which displayed his well-knit form to great advantage. The star on his breast, and the crape which he wore on his arm, announced a prince of the royal house; his beautifully-formed and handsome features wore an expression of almost effeminate tenderness. The glance of his large blue eyes was so soft and mild, that those who observed him long, were involuntarily touched with an inexplicable feeling of pity for this noble-looking youth. His broad brow showed so much spirit and determination that it was evident he was not always gentle and yielding, but had the courage and strength to follow his own will if necessary.

It was Prince Augustus William, the favorite of the deceased king, on whose account the elder brother Frederick had suffered so much, because the king had endeavored to establish the former as his successor to the throne in the place of his first-born.[11]

[11] Dr. Fred. Busching, page 172.

But the prince's inclinations were not in accordance with the wishes of his father; Augustus William desired no throne, no earthly power; in his retiring modesty he disliked all public display; the title of royal highness had no charm for him, and with the indifference of a true philosopher he looked down upon the splendor and magnificence of earthly glory.

In his brother Frederick, the disdain of outward pomp might be attributed to his superior mind and strength of understanding; while Augustus William was actuated by a depth of feeling, a passionate and ardent sensitiveness. He had come to pay the queen, his mother, the customary morning visit, but when told she had desired that no one should be admitted to her presence, he was not willing that an exception should be made in his favor. "He had time to wait," he said, "and should be announced and called up from the garden only when the queen was again at leisure."

After giving this order he had gone down into the garden, where a lover's instinct had conducted him to the conservatory, in which, to him, the most beautiful of all flowers, the lovely Laura von Pannewitz, reposed. He did not dream of finding her there, supposing she had accompanied the other ladies on their drive; he had sought this building that he might pass a few moments in undisturbed quiet—that he might think of her and the unrequited love which he had vainly endeavored to tear from his heart.

It was therefore not her he sought when, on entering the conservatory, he looked searchingly around. He only wished to know that he was alone, that no one observed him. But suddenly he started, and a deep red suffused his countenance. He saw the beautiful sleeper in the arbor. In the first ecstasy of his delight he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, and awakening her with his kisses. He started forward—but then hesitated, and stood still, an expression of deep melancholy pervading his features.

"She will not welcome me," murmured he, "she will repel me as she did my letter yesterday. She does not love me, and would never forgive me if I should desecrate her pure lips with mine." He bowed his head and sighed. "But I love her," said he, after a long pause, "and will at least look at and adore her, as the Catholics worship the Virgin Mary." And with a beaming smile, which illumined his whole countenance, the prince slowly and noiselessly stepped forward.

"Well," murmured Fritz Wendel in his hiding-place, "I have some curiosity to know what the prince has to say to this sleeping beauty; but, nevertheless, I would give a year of my life if I could slip away unobserved, for if the prince discovers me here I am lost!"

He retired to that part of the grotto where the foliage was thickest, still however securing a place from which he could observe all that took place in the myrtle arbor.

CHAPTER III.

PRINCE AUGUSTUS WILLIAM.

The prince entered the myrtle arbor, and, perceiving the lovely sleeper, he approached her with a joyful countenance.

"Madonna, my Madonna, let me pray to you, let me look at you," he murmured. "Listen to my pleadings, and let a ray of your love sink into my heart." Laura moved in her sleep, and uttered a few indistinct words. The prince kneeled motionless before her, and watched all her movements. The dreams that visited her were not bright; Laura moaned and sighed in her sleep; her countenance assumed an expression so sad and painful that the eyes of the prince filled with tears. "She is suffering," he murmured; "why should she suffer? what is it that causes my beloved to sigh?" Suddenly she opened her eyes, arose, and fastened her astonished and half-dreamy gaze upon the prince, who with folded hands was still kneeling before her, and gazing on her with tender, pleading eyes. A trembling seized her whole being, as the ocean trembles when touched by the first ray of the sun. A sweet, blissful astonishment was painted on every feature. "Am I still dreaming?" she murmured, passing her hand across her brow, and pushing aside her long dark hair—"am I still dreaming?"

"Yes, you are dreaming," murmured Prince Augustus, seizing her hands and pressing them to his lips, "you are dreaming, Madonna, let me dream with you, and be forever blessed. Oh! withdraw not your hand, be not angry, let us still dream for one blessed moment." But she hastily set her hands free and arose from her seat; grandly and proudly she stood before him, and her flashing eyes rested with a severe and reproachful expression upon the still kneeling prince.

"Arise, my prince; it is not proper that the brother of the king should kneel before me; arise, and have the kindness to inform me what circumstances procured me the rare and unsolicited favor of being sought by your royal highness. But no, I divine it; you owe me no explanation; the queen has asked for me, and your highness was so gracious as to seek for the tardy servant, who is sleeping while her mistress calls; allow me to hasten to her." Laura, feeling her strength failing, and suppressing with pain the tears that sprang from her heart to her eyes, endeavored to pass the prince.

But he held her back; the timidity that had so often made him appear shy and embarrassed had vanished; he felt that at this moment he faced his destiny, and that his future depended upon the result of this interview. "No," he said earnestly, "the queen did not call you, she does not need you; remain, therefore, mademoiselle, and grant me a few moments of your time." His solemn voice and determined expression made her tremble, but still entranced; her soul bowed in humility and fear before him. She had always seen him humble and pleading, always submissive and obedient; now his glance was commanding, his voice imperious; and she, who had been able to withstand the entreaties of a lover, found no courage to resist the angry and commanding man. "Remain," he repeated; "be seated, and allow me to speak to you honestly and truly."

Laura seated herself obediently and tremblingly; the prince stood before her, and looked at her with a sad smile.

"Yesterday you returned my letter unopened, but now you must hear me, Laura; I wish it, and no woman can withstand the strong will of the man who loves her."

Laura trembled and grew pale; she feared that if at this moment he bade her forsake all, cast away, and trample under foot her honor, her reputation, her innocence and pure conscience, she would obey him as a true and humble slave, and follow and serve him her whole life.

"Yes, you shall hear me; I will know my fate—know if you really despise my great and devoted love, if you are without pity, without sympathy for my suffering, my struggles and despair. I should think that true, genuine love would, like the music of Orpheus, have power to animate stones and flowers, and my love cannot even move the heart of a noble, feeling girl. What is the reason? why do you fly from me? Is it, Laura, because you deem me unworthy of your love? because your heart feels no emotion for me? are you cold and severe because you hold me for a bold beggar, who longs for the treasure belonging to another, whom you despise because he begs for what should be the free gift of your heart? Or has your heart never been touched by love? If this is so, Laura, and my love has not the power to awaken your heart, then do not speak, but let me leave you quietly. I will try to bear my misery or die; I shall have no one but myself to reproach, for God has denied me the power of winning love. But if this is not the reason of your coldness, if we are only separated by the vain prejudices of rank and birth, O Laura, I entreat you, if this is all that separate us, speak one single word of comfort, of hope, one single low word, and I will conquer the whole world, break down all prejudices and laws, and cast them from me. I will be as great and strong as Hercules, to clear the way, and make it smooth for our love. I will present you to the world as my betrothed, and before God and my king call you my wife. Speak, Laura, is it so? Do you fly from me because of this star upon my breast—because I am called a royal prince? I implore you, tell me, is it so? if not, if you cast me from you because you do not love me, say nothing and I will go away for ever."

A long, painful silence ensued. The prince watched the pained, frightened countenance of the young girl, who sat before him with bowed head, pale and motionless.

"It is decided," he sighed, after a long pause; "farewell, I accept my destiny, you have spoken my sentence; may your heart never accuse you of cruelty!" He bowed low before her, then turned and walked across the saloon.

Laura had remained motionless; she now raised her head; she followed him with a glance that, had he seen it, would have brought him back to her—a look that spoke more than words or protestations.

The prince had reached the door once more; he turned, their looks met, and a trembling delight took possession of her whole being; forgetting all danger, she longingly extended her arms toward him, and murmured his name.

With a cry of delight he sprang to her side, and folded her with impassioned tenderness in his arms. Laura concealed her tear-stained face upon his breast, and murmured, "God sees my heart, He knows how long I have prayed and struggled; may He be more merciful, more compassionate than man! I shall be cast off, despised; let it be, I shall think of this hour, and be happy."

"No one shall dare to insult you," he said proudly; "from this hour you are my affianced, and some day I shall present you to the world as my wife."

Smiling sadly, she shook her head. "Let us not speak of the future; it may be dark and sorrowful. I will not complain, I will bear my cross joyfully, and thank God for your love."

He kissed the tears from her eyes, and murmured sweet and holy promises of love and faith. It was a moment of blissful joy, but Laura suddenly trembled and raised her head from his breast to listen. The beating of drums and quickly-rolling carriages were heard without. "The king!" cried the young girl. "The king," murmured Prince Augustus, sadly, and he ventured no longer to hold the young girl in his arms. They were both awakened from their short, blessed dream, both were reminded of the world, and the obstacles that lay in their path. In their great happiness they had appeared small, but now were assuming giant-like proportions.

"I must hasten to the queen," said Laura, rising; "her majesty will need me."

"And I must go and meet the king," sighed the prince.

"Go quickly; let us hasten, and take different paths to the castle."

He took her hand and held it to his lips. "Farewell, my beloved, my bride; trust me, and be strong in love and hope."

"Farewell," she murmured, and endeavored to pass him.

Once more he detained her. "Shall we meet here again? will you let me enjoy here another hour of your dear presence? Oh, bow not your head; do not blush; your sweet confession has made of this place a temple of love, and here I will approach you with pure and holy thoughts." He looked long into her beautiful, blushing face.

"We will see each other here again," she murmured; "every day I shall await you here at the same hour; now hasten, hasten."

Both left the saloon; it was again silent and deserted; in a few moments Fritz Wendel stepped out from the grotto with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"This is a noble secret that I have discovered—a secret that will bring me golden fruits. Louise von Schwerin is not more widely separated from the poor gardener, Fritz Wendel, than Mademoiselle Pannewitz from Prince Augustus William. A gardener can rise and become a nobleman, but Mademoiselle Pannewitz can never become a princess, never be the wife of her lover. Louise von Schwerin shall no longer be ashamed of the love of Fritz Wendel; I will tell her what I have seen, I will take her into the grotto, and let her witness the rendezvous of the prince and his beloved, and whilst he is telling Laura of his love, I will be with my Louise."

CHAPTER IV.

THE KING AND THE SON.

Laura was not mistaken. It was the king whom the castle guard were saluting with the beat of the drum. It was the king coming to pay his first visit to his mother at Monbijou. He came unannounced, and the perplexed, anxious looks of the cavaliers showed that his appearance had caused more disturbance and terror than joy. With a slight laugh he turned to his grand chamberlain, Pollnitz.

"Go tell her majesty that her son Frederick awaits her." And followed by Kaiserling and the cavaliers of the queen, he entered the garden saloon.

Queen Sophia Dorothea received the king's message with a proud, beaming smile. She was not then deceived, her dearest hopes were to be fulfilled; the young king was an obedient, submissive son; she was for him still the reigning queen, the mother entitled to command. The son, not the king, had come, disrobed of all show of royalty, to wait humbly as a suppliant for her appearance. She felt proud, triumphant! A glorious future lay before her. She would be a queen at last—a queen not only in name, but in truth. Her son was King of Prussia, and she would be co-regent. Her entire court should be witness to this meeting; they should see her triumph, and spread the news far and wide.

He came simply, without ceremony, as her son, but she would receive him according to etiquette, as it beseemed a queen. She wore a long, black trailing gown, a velvet ermine-bordered mantle, and caught up the black veil that was fastened in her hair with several brilliants. All preparations were at last finished, and the queen, preceded by Pollnitz, arrived in the garden saloon.

Frederick, standing by the window, was beating the glass impatiently with his long, thin fingers. He thought his mother showed but little impatience to see her son who had hurried with all the eagerness of childlike love to greet her. He wondered what could be her motive, and had just surmised it as the door opened and the chamberlain announced in a loud voice—"Her majesty, the widowed queen." A soft, mocking smile played upon his lips for a moment, as the queen entered in her splendid court dress, but it disappeared quickly, and hat in hand he advanced to meet her.

Sophia Dorothea received him with a gracious smile, and gave him her hand to kiss.

"Your majesty is welcome," said she, with a trembling voice, for it grieved her proud heart to give her son the title of majesty. The king, perceiving something of this, said: "Continue to call me your son, mother, for when with your majesty I am but an obedient, grateful son."

"Well, then, welcome, welcome my son!" cried the queen, with an undisguised expression of rapture, and throwing her arms around him, she kissed his forehead repeatedly. "Welcome to the modest house of a poor, sorrowful widow."

"My wish, dear mother, is, that you shall not think of yourself as a sad widow, but as the mother of a king. I do not desire you to be continually reminded of the great loss we have all sustained, and that God sent upon us. Your majesty is not only the widowed queen, you belong not to the past, but to the present; and I beg that you will be called from this moment, not the widowed queen, but the queen-mother. Grand chamberlain Pollnitz, see that this is done."

For a moment the queen lost her proud, stately bearing; she was deeply touched. The king's delicate attentions made her all the mother, and for a moment love silenced all her proud, imperious wishes.

"Oh, my son, you know how to dry my tears, and to change the sorrowing widow into a proud, happy mother," said she, pressing his hand tenderly to her heart.

The king was so overjoyed at his mother's unfeigned tenderness that he was prepared to agree to all her demands, and humor her in every thing.

"Ah," said he, "I, not you, ought to render thanks that you are so willing to enter into my views. I will put your magnanimity still further to the test, and state a few more of my wishes."

"Let us hear them, my son," said the queen, "but first let me ask a favor."

"Let us be seated."

The king led her to an arm-chair near a window, from which there was a beautiful view of the garden. The queen seated herself, and the young king remained standing in front of her, still holding his hat. Sophia Dorothea saw this, and was enraptured at this new triumph. Turning to the king, she said:

"Let us now hear your wishes, and I promise joyfully to fulfil them."

"I wish," said he, "your majesty to surround herself with a larger and more brilliant court. Two maids of honor are not sufficient for the queen-mother, for if by chance one were sick, and the other fretful, there would be no one to divert and amuse your majesty. I therefore propose that you have six instead of two maids of honor."

The queen looked at him in tender astonishment.

"My son," said she, "you are a veritable magician. You divine all my wishes. Thanks—many, many thanks. But your majesty is not seated," said she, as if just perceiving this.

"Madame," said he, laughing, "I awaited your permission." He seated himself, and said, "You agree to my proposal, mother?"

"I agree to it, and beg your majesty to point out to me the ladies you have decided upon as my six maids of honor. Your majesty has free choice, and all I wish is, to be told when you have decided. I only fear," said the queen, "that with my enlarged court there will not be room for the ladies to have their separate apartments at Monbijou."

"Your majesty is no longer to live in this house," said the king; "it is large enough for a passing summer visit, but it does not answer for the residence of the queen-mother. I spoke some time since to Knobelsdorf, and already a magnificent palace is being built for you."

The queen blushed with pleasure; all her wishes seemed to be fulfilled to-day. She must know whether Sophia Dorothea was to be queen-regent as well as queen-mother. She thanked her son tenderly for this new proof of his love and kindness.

"And still," said she, sighing, "perhaps I ought not to accept of your kindness. My husband's death should remind me of the transitory nature of life, and should lead me to pass the remainder of my days in seclusion, devoting my time to God."

The king looked so anxious, so shocked, that the queen repented having given the conversation this gloomy turn.

"It is cruel, mother," said he, "not to let me enjoy the pleasure of being with you without a drop of wormwood. But I see by your rosy cheeks and bright smile that you only wished to frighten me. Let the architects and masons continue their work: God will be merciful to me, and grant a long life to the noblest and best-beloved of mothers!"

He kissed her hand and rose; Sophia Dorothea was terrified. The king was leaving, and she still did not know how far her influence was to reach and what were to be its limits.

"You will already leave me, my son?" said she, lovingly.

"I must, your majesty. For from here I can hear the Government machinery creaking and groaning; I must hasten to supply it with oil, and set it in motion again. Ah! madame, it is no easy task to be a king. To do justice to all his obligations, a king must rise early and retire late; and I think truly it is much more pleasant to be reigned over than to reign."

The queen could scarcely suppress her delight; the king's words were balm to her ambitious heart.

"I can well see that it is as you say," said she, "but I think that the king has a right to amuse himself; I think that a mother has some claims on her son, even if he is a king. You must not leave now, my son. You must grant me the pleasure of showing you my new conservatory. Give me your arm, and comply with my request."

"Madame, you now see what power you have over me," said he, as she laughingly took his arm. "I forget that I am the servant of my country, because I prefer being the servant of my queen."

The large glass door was opened, and, leaning on the king's arm, the queen entered the garden.

At some distance the princesses with their brother and the rest of the court followed. They were all silent, eagerly listening to the conversation of the royal couple. But the queen did not now care to be heard by her court. They had seen her triumph, but they should not be witness to a possible defeat. She now spoke in a low tone, and hurried her steps, to put a distance between herself and the courtiers. She spoke with the king about the garden, and then asked if he thought of passing the summer at Rheinsberg.

"Alas," said he, "I will not have the time. For a king is but the first officer of his State, and as I receive my salary I must honestly fulfil the duties I have undertaken."

"But I think your majesty does too much," said the queen. "You should allow yourself more relaxation, and not let State matters rest entirely upon your own shoulders. To one who is accustomed to associate with poets, artists, and the sciences, it must be very hard suddenly to bury himself in deeds, documents, and all sorts of dusty papers; you should leave this occasionally to others, and not work the State machinery yourself."

"Madame," said the king, "this machine has secrets and peculiarities that its architect can intrust to no workman, therefore he must lead and govern it himself; and if at times the wheels creak and it is not in perfect order, he has only himself to thank."

"But you have your ministers?"

"They are my clerks—nothing more!"

"Ah, I see, you intend to be a rock and take counsel from no one," said the queen, impatiently.

"Yes, your majesty, from you always; and with your gracious permission I will now consult you."

"Speak, my son, speak," said the queen, in breathless expectation.

"I wish your advice upon theatrical matters. Where must the new opera-house be built?"

The queen's face darkened.

"I am not a suitable adviser for amusements," said she, pointing to her black gown. "My mourning garments do not fit me for such employment, and you well know I do not care for the theatre; for how many cold, dull evenings have I passed there with your father!"

"Ah, madame," said the king, "I was not talking of a German theatre, which I dislike quite as much as yourself. No, we will have a French theatre and an Italian opera. The French alone can act and only the Italians can sing, but we Germans can play; I have therefore charged Graun to compose a new opera for the inauguration of the new opera-house."

"And undoubtedly this inauguration will take place on a festive occasion," said the queen, going directly to the point. "Perhaps at the wedding of one of your sisters?"

"Ah," said he, "your majesty is thinking of a wedding?"

"Not I, but others. Yesterday I received from London a letter from my royal brother. And a few moments ago Count Manteuffel brought me letters of condolence from the Empress of Austria. It seems the count was, besides this, commissioned to sound me as to a possible marriage with Prince Augustus."

"It is very unnecessary for the count to burden you with matters which are happily beyond the reach of your motherly duties. For, alas! the marrying of princes is a political affair, and is not determined by the mother's heart, but by the necessities of the kingdom."

The queen bit her lip until it bled. "Your majesty is, undoubtedly, thinking of performing this political obligation, and have chosen a bride for the prince," said she, sharply.

"Forgive me," said the king laughing, "I am not now thinking of marrying, but of unmarrying."

Sophia Dorothea looked anxiously at the king. "How, my son, are you thinking of a divorce?" said she, tremblingly.

"Not of one, but of many, mother. Does your majesty know that I have abolished the torture?"

"No," said the queen impatiently, "I did not—politics do not concern me."

"That is in conformity with the true womanly character of my mother," said he. "There is nothing so insipid and tiresome as a woman who gives up the graces and muses to excite herself with politics."

"And still your majesty was just initiating me into politics."

"Ah, yes, I told you I had abolished the torture."

"And I ask, how does that concern me?"

"You ask why I am thinking of divorces? Well, I told you that I had abolished the torture, and in doing this it was but natural that I busied myself about marriage. For your majesty will grant me that there is no severer rack, no more frightful torture, than an unhappy marriage."

"It seems as if with the torture you will also abolish marriage," said the queen, terrified.

The king laughed. "Ah, no, madame, I am not pope, and have not received the right from God to decide over men's consciences, though perhaps the majority would be inclined to call me holy, and to honor me with godlike worship, if I would really abolish the torture of matrimony. But I am not ambitious, and renounce all claim to adoration. But while engaged in abolishing the torture, I could but see that when the marriage chains had ceased to be garlands of roses, and were transformed into heavy links of iron, there should be some means found to break them. I have therefore commanded that if two married people cannot live harmoniously, a divorce shall not be denied them. I hope that my royal mother agrees with me."

"Ah, there will soon be many divorce cases," said the queen, with a contemptuous smile. "All who are not thoroughly happy will hasten to the king for a divorce. Who knows but that the king himself will set the people a good example?"

"With God's help, madame," said the king, gravely. "My noble mother will always wish me to set my people a good example. A king is but the servant of a nation."

"That is, indeed, an humble idea of a king, a king by the grace of God."

"Madame, I do not crave to be called a king by the grace of God. I prefer being king by my own right and strength. But forgive me, mother. You see how these politics mix themselves up with every thing. Let them rest. You were speaking, I think, of the marriage of one of the princes?"

"We were speaking of the marriage of Prince Augustus William," said the queen, who, with the obstinacy of a true woman, always returned to the point from which she had started, and who, in the desire of gaining her point, had lost all consideration and presence of mind. "I was telling you that I received yesterday a letter from my royal brother, and that King George the Second is anxious to form an alliance between our children."

"Another marriage with England!" said the king, dejectedly. "You know there is no good luck in our English marriages. The courier who brings the English consent is always too late."

The queen was enraged. "You mean that you have decided upon a bride for my son, that again my darling wish of intermarrying my children with the royal house of England is not to be realized? Ah, your father's example must have been very satisfactory to you, as you follow so quickly in his footsteps."

"I truly find, madame, that the king acted wisely in not regarding in the marriage of the prince royal the wishes of his heart and his family, but political interests, which he was bound to consider. I will certainly follow his example, and take counsel over the marriage of the prince royal, not with my own heart, not even with the wishes of my royal mother, but with the interests of Prussia."

"But Augustus William is not prince royal," cried the queen, with trembling lips. "The prince is only your brother, and you may have many sons who will dispute with him the succession to the throne."

An expression of deep sorrow lay like a dark veil upon the handsome face of the king. "I will have no children," said he, "and Prince Augustus William will be my successor."

The queen had not the heart to reply. She looked at her son in amazement. Their eyes met, and the sad though sweet expression of the usually clear, sparkling eyes of her son touched her, and awoke the mother's heart. With a hasty movement she took his hands, pressed them to her heart, and said: "Ah, my son, how poor is this life! You are young, handsome, and highly gifted, you are a king, and still you are not happy."

The king's face was brighter, his eyes sparkled as before.

"Life," said he, smiling, "is not a pleasure, but a duty, and if we honestly perform this duty we will be happy in the end. It is now time to return to my prison and be king once more."

He embraced his mother tenderly, laughed and jested for a few moments with his sisters Ulrica and Amelia, then left, followed by his cavaliers. Sophia Dorothea remained in the garden, and Ulrica, her favorite daughter, followed her.

"Your majesty looks sad and grave," said she, "and you have every reason to look happy. The king was remarkably kind and amiable. Only think of it, you will have six maids of honor, and a beautiful palace is being built for you!"

"Oh, yes," said the queen, "I will be surrounded with outward glory."

"And how anxious the king seemed for you to forget the past!" said Princess Amelia, who, with Prince Augustus William, had joined her mother and sister, "you are not the widowed queen but the queen-mother."

"Yes," murmured Sophia Dorothea to herself, "I am queen-mother, but I will never be queen-regent. Ah, my children," cried she, passionately, "the king, your brother, was right. Princes are not born to be happy. He is not so, and you will never be!"

CHAPTER V.

THE QUEEN'S TAILOR.

A dreary silence had reigned for some time in the usually gay and happy family circle of the worthy court tailor. No one dared to speak or laugh aloud. M. Pricker, the crown and head of the house, was sad and anxious, and the storm-cloud upon his brow threw a dark reflection upon the faces of his wife and two children, the beautiful Anna, and the active, merry Wilhelm, Even the assistants in the work-room were affected by the general gloom; the gay songs of the apprentices were silenced, and the pretty house-maids looked discontented and dull.

A tempest lowered over the house, and all appeared to tremble at its approach. When Wilhelm, the son and heir of the house, returned from his work, he hastened to his mother's room, and casting a curious glance upon the old woman, who was seated on a sofa, grim-looking, and supporting her head upon her hand, he said, mysteriously—

"Not yet!"

Mother Pricker shook her head, sighed deeply, and replied:

"Not yet!"

The beautiful Anna was generally in her elegant room, painting or singing, and did not allow herself to be disturbed; but now when the bell rang, or a strange step was heard, she hastened to her mother, and said:

"Well, has it come?"

Again Mother Pricker sighed, shook her head, and answered—

"Not yet!"

M. Pricker asked nothing, demanded nothing; silent and proud he sat in the midst of his family circle; stoically listened to the ringing of the bell, and saw strangers enter his counting-room, too proud to show any excitement. He wrapped himself in an Olympian silence, and barricaded himself from the curious questions of his children by the stern reserve of parental authority.

"I see that he suffers," said his wife to her daughter Anna; "I see that he looks paler every day, and eats less and less; if this painful anxiety endures much longer, the poor man will become dangerously ill, and the king will be answerable for the death of one of his noblest and best subjects."

"But why does our father attach such importance to this small affair?" said Anna, with a lofty shrug of her shoulders.

Mother Pricker looked at her with astonishment.

"You call this a small affair, which concerns not only the honor of your father, but that of your whole family; which affects the position and calling enjoyed by the Pricker family for a hundred years? It is a question whether your father shall be unjustly deprived of his honorable place, or have justice done him, and his great services acknowledged!"

Anna gave a hearty laugh.

"Dear mother, you look at this thing too tragically; you are making a camel of a gnat. The great and exalted things of which you speak have nothing to do with the matter; it is a simple question of title. The great point is, will our father receive the title of 'court tailor' to the reigning queen, or be only the tailor of the queen-dowager. It seems to me the difference is very small, and I cannot imagine why so much importance is attached to it."

"You do not understand," sighed Mother Pricker; "you do not love your family; you care nothing for the honor of your house!"

"Pshaw! to be the daughter of a tailor is a very poor and doubtful honor," said Anna, drearily, "even if he is the tailor of one or even two queens. Our father is rich enough to live without this contemptible business; yes, to live in style. He has given his children such an education as nobles only receive; I have had my governess and my music-teacher; my brother his tutor; my father has not allowed him to walk through the streets, fearing that he might fall into the hands of the recruiting-officers. We have each our private rooms, beautifully furnished, and are the envy of all our friends. Why, notwithstanding all this, will he condemn us to be and to continue to be the children of a tailor? Why does he not tear down the sign from the door; this sign, which will be ever a humiliation, even though 'court tailor' should be written upon it! This title will never enable us to appear at court, and the noble cavaliers will never think of marrying the daughter of a tailor, though many would seek to do so if our father would give up his needlework, buy a country seat, and live, as rich and distinguished men do, upon his estate."

"Child, child, what are you saying?" cried Mother Pricker, clasping her hands with anguish. "Thy father give up his stand, his honorable stand, which, for more than a hundred years, has been inherited by the family! Thy father demean himself to buy with his honorably-earned gold a son-in-law from amongst the poor nobles, who will be ever thinking of the honor done us in accepting thee and thy sixty thousand dollars! Thy father buy a country-seat, and spend in idleness that fortune which his forefathers and himself have been collecting for hundreds of years! That can never be, and never will your father consent to your marriage with any other man than an honest burgher; and he will never allow Wilhelm to have any other calling than that of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, a court tailor."

The beautiful Anna stamped involuntarily upon the floor, and a flush of scorn spread itself over her soft cheek. "I will not wed a burgher," said she, tossing her head proudly back, "and my brother Wilhelm will never carry on the business of his father."

"Then your father will disinherit you—cast you out amongst strangers to beg your bread," said the old woman, wringing her hands.

"God be thanked," said Anna proudly, "there is no necessity for begging our bread; we have learned enough to carry us honorably through the world, and when all else fails, I have a capital in my voice which assures me a glittering future. The king will found an opera-house, and splendid singers are so rare that Prussia will thank God if I allow myself to be prevailed upon to take the place of prima donna."

"Oh! unhappy, wretched child!" sobbed Mother Pricker, "you will dishonor your family, you will make us miserable, and cover us with shame; you will become an actress, and we must live to see our respectable, yes, celebrated name upon a play-bill, and pasted upon every corner."

"You will have the honor of hearing all the world speak of your daughter, of seeing sweet flowers and wreaths thrown before her whenever she appears, and of seeing her praises in every number of every journal in Berlin. I shall be exalted to the skies, and the parents called blessed who have given me life."

"These are the NEW ideas," gasped out her mother—"the new ideas which are now the mode, and which our new king favors. Alas! wailing and sorrow will come over our whole city; honor and principle will disappear, and destruction like that of Sodom and Gomorrah will fall upon Berlin! These are the alluring temptations with which Baron Pollnitz fills your ear and crushes in your heart the worthy and seemly principles of your family. That,"—suddenly she stopped and listened; it seemed to her the bell rung; truly there was a step upon the stairs, and some one asked for M. and Madame Pricker.

"Pollnitz," whispered Anna, and a glowing blush overspread her face, throat, and neck.

"The Baron Pollnitz, the master of ceremonies," said Madame Pricker, with a mixture of joy and alarm.

The door flew open, and with a gay, frolicsome greeting, Pollnitz danced into the room; Anna had turned to the window, and made no reply to his greeting. Madame Pricker stepped toward him, and greeted him with the most profound reverence, calling him master of ceremonies and master of the bed-chamber.

"Not so," said Pollnitz; "why so much reverence and so many titles? I am indeed master of ceremonies, but without the title. His majesty, the young king, has no special fondness for renewing the titles lent to us by his blessed father, and every prayer and every representation to that effect has been in vain; he considers titles ridiculous and superfluous."

Madame Pricker turned pale, and murmured some incomprehensible words. Anna, however, who had up to this time been turned toward the window, suddenly looked at the two speakers, and fixed her great eyes questioningly upon the baron.

"Ah, at last I have the honor to see you, fair, beautiful Anna!" said Pollnitz; "I knew well some magic was necessary to fix those splendid eyes on me. Allow me to kiss your hand, most honored lady, and forgive me if I have disturbed you." Ho flew with an elegant pirouette to Anna, and took her hand, which she did not extend to him, and, indeed, struggled to withhold; he then turned again to Madame Pricker, and bowing to her, said, with a solemn pathos: "I am not here to-day simply as the friend of the house, but as the ambassador of the king; and I beseech the honored Madame Pricker to announce to her husband that I wish to speak to him, and to deliver a message from the queen."

Madame Pricker uttered a cry of joy, and forgetting all other considerations, hastened to the counting-room of her husband, to make known to him the important information.

Baron Pollnitz watched her till the door closed, then turned to Anna, who still leaned immovable in the window. "Anna, dearest Anna," whispered he tenderly, "at last we are alone! How I have pined for you, how happy I am to see you once again!"

He sought to press her fondly to his heart, but the maiden waved him proudly and coldly back. "Have you forgotten our agreement?" said she, earnestly.

"No, I have held your cruelty in good remembrance; only, when I have fulfilled all your commands, will you deign to listen to my glowing wishes; when I have induced your father to employ for you another singing-master, and arranged for your glorious and heavenly voice to be heard by the king and the assembled court?"

"Yes," cried Anna, with glowing eyes and burning cheeks, "that is my aim, my ambition. Yes, I will be a singer; all Europe shall resound with my fame; all men shall lie at my feet; and princes and queens shall seek to draw me into their circles."

"And I will be the happiest of the happy, when the lovely nightingale has reached the goal. From my hand shall she first wing her flight to fame. But, when I have fulfilled my word, when you have sung in the royal palace before the queen and the court, then will YOU fulfil your promise? Then Pollnitz will be the happiest of mortals."

"I will fulfil my word," she said, as proudly and imperiously as if she were already the celebrated and grace-dispensing prima donna. "On the day in which I sing for the first time before the king—the day in which the tailor's daughter has purified herself from the dishonor of her humble birth, and becomes a free, self-sustaining, distinguished artist—on that day we will have no reason to be ashamed of our love, and we can both, without humiliation, present our hearts to each other. Baron Pollnitz can take for his wife, without blushing, the woman ennobled by art, and Prima Donna Anna Pricker need not be humbled by the thought that Baron Pollnitz has forgotten his rank in his choice of a wife."

Baron Pollnitz, courtier as he was, had not his features so completely under control as to conceal wholly the shock conveyed by the words of his beautiful sweetheart. He stared for a moment, speechless, into that lovely face, glowing with enthusiasm, ambition, and love. A mocking, demoniac smile appeared one moment on his lips, then faded quickly, and Pollnitz was again the tender, passionate lover of Anna Pricker. "Yes, my dearly-beloved Anna," whispered he, clasping her in his arms, "on that blessed and happy day you will be my wife, and the laurels entwined in your hair will be changed into a myrtle-wreath." He embraced her passionately, and she resisted no longer, but listened ever to his words, which, like sweet opium, poisoned both the ear and heart of the young girl. But Pollnitz released her suddenly, and stepped back, colder and more self-possessed than Anna. He had heard a light, approaching step. "Some one comes; be composed, dear one; your face betrays too much of your inward emotion." He danced to the open piano and played a merry strain, while Anna hid her blushes in the branches of a geranium placed in the window, and tried to cool her glowing cheeks on the fresh green leaves.

Madame Pricker opened the door, and bade the master of ceremonies enter the adjoining room, where M. Pricker awaited him.

CHAPTER VI.

THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTORS OF A TAILOR.

Pollnitz offered his arm to the lovely Anna, and followed Madame Pricker, laughing and jesting, into the next room. This was a long hall, which had an appearance of gloom and solemnity in its arrangements and decorations. The high walls, hung with dark tapestry, were poorly lighted by two windows. Several divans, covered with a heavy silken material, the same color as the tapestry, were placed against the sides of the room, and over them hung a few oil paintings in black frames, each representing the figure of a man with a most solemn expression and bearing. The remarkable resemblance which these pictures bore to each other convinced you that they must be the portraits of one family. In each appeared the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and only the costumes served to point out by their various styles the different periods at which they had been painted. A figure, closely resembling the pictures, stood in the centre of the hall; it had the same countenance, the same short, clumsy figure, and even the same dress as that represented in one of the pictures. You might have supposed that some galvanic experiment had given life and motion to the painted form, and that as soon as this power was exhausted it would become lifeless, and return to its place among the other pictures. But this figure was certainly living, for it greeted the grand chamberlain, without, however, leaving the round table which stood in the centre of the room.

"I welcome you to the house of my fathers," it said, with great dignity. Pollnitz threw a laughing, jesting glance toward Anna, who had left his side on entering the room, and had withdrawn to one of the windows.

"Why are you so earnest and solemn to-day, my dear Pricker?" said he, turning to the old gentleman.

"Are you not here as the ambassador of the royal court?" he replied. "I wished to receive you with all honor, and therefore desired you to come into this hall, that I might hear the royal message in the midst of my ancestors. Tell me now how can I serve the house of my sovereign."

"You can serve it, my dear Pricker," said Pollnitz, smiling, as he displayed a large sealed paper, "by altering the sign upon your door. In the place of 'court tailor of the queen and princess royal,' it should read—'court tailor of the dowager and of the reigning queen.' Here is the patent, my dear sir."

The old man quietly took the paper; not a feature of his cold, solemn face moved.

Madame Pricker, however, could not conceal her joy. With a cry of delight she hurried to her husband, to embrace and congratulate him on his appointment.

Pricker waved her proudly back.

"Why do you congratulate me?" he said. "The house of Hohenzollern has only done justice to my house, that is all. The title of court tailor to the reigning queen has become an inheritance in my family, and it would be a great ingratitude in the house of Hohenzollern to withhold it from me. For more than a century the Hohenzollerns have been dressed by my family; we have prepared their apparel for every ball and wedding, every baptism or burial; and if they were arrayed with elegance, it was entirely owing to our taste and dexterity. The proverb says, 'The tailor makes the man,' and it is true. We made the coronation dresses of both the queens; it follows that they could not have been crowned without our assistance, for which we, of course, deserve their gratitude."

"I assure you, however, my dear friend," said Pollnitz, "that it was with much difficulty I obtained this appointment for you, and you owe me some acknowledgments. All of my eloquence was necessary to induce the queen to grant my prayer."

Pricker grew pale, and his countenance lost its calm dignity.

"Take back your patent," he said, proudly, handing the baron the sealed paper; "I will not accept this title if it is not given willingly."

"No, no, keep it," cried Pollnitz; "you merit it; it is your right; I only mentioned the difficulty with which I obtained it, that I might win your heart, and incline you to grant a request which I wish to make."

"I suppose you allude to the five hundred dollars which I lent you last month," said Pricker, smiling, "Speak of that no more—the debt is cancelled."

"Thank you," said Pollnitz, "but I was not thinking of that small affair; it was quite another request I wished to make."

"Let me hear it," said the tailor, with a most gracious inclination of the head.

"It concerns a young artist, who I would like to recommend to your protection," returned the crafty Pollnitz, with a side glance at Anna. "He is a young and talented musician, who desires to gain a livelihood by giving instruction, but unfortunately he is a stranger here, and has found but few patrons. I thought, therefore, that if you, who are so well known, would interest yourself in him, and give him your patronage, it would greatly benefit him, for doubtless many others would hasten to follow your example. If you will allow him to give singing-lessons to your daughter Anna, his fortune is assured."

"I grant your request," said Pricker, solemnly, not for an instant doubting the motive of the baron. "I will bestow my protection upon this young artist; he can give my daughter a daily lesson, that is, if Anna is willing to show this kindness to the poor young man."

Anna could scarcely restrain her laughter, as she replied:

"You have commanded it, and I will obey, as a daughter should do."

"Very well," said her father, majestically; "that matter is arranged. And now, baron, I beg you will inform me at what time the coronation will take place, that I may make my preparations, and not be the cause of any delay on that solemn occasion."

"The day of the coronation has not been decided, but it will certainly not be fixed before the first of August. You will have time to make all your preparations. Later we will hold a consultation with her majesty the queen, and decide the style, color, and material of the costumes. I will only give you a single word of counsel, my dear friend. Accommodate yourself to the new era. Remember that we have a new king, who is the counterpart of his father. The father hated and despised elegance and fashion—the son adores them; the father was the sworn enemy of French manners—the son has a perfect passion for them; and if you would please the son, you must lay aside your old German habits and customs, as we have all done, and walk in the new path. I tell you a new era is approaching, a period of glory and splendor. Every thing will be altered, but, above all, we will have new fashions. In the first place, you must rid yourself of your German apprentices, and replace them as quickly as possible with French workmen from Paris. That is the only means of retaining the court favor."

Pricker listened to all this with horror and astonishment. His cheeks were white, and his voice trembled with anger, as he cried:

"Never shall that happen! Never will I adopt the innovations which are now the fashion. Shall I lay aside my respectable dress, to replace it with a monkey-jacket, and become a laughing-stock to all honest men? Shall I so far forget my God, my forefathers, and my native land, as to call French workmen into my German work-room? Shame on me if I ever conduct myself in such a godless and unchristian manner! Never shall a French foot cross the threshold of my dwelling! never shall a French word be spoken there! I was born a German, and I will die a German. True to my fathers, and to the commands of my sainted sovereign, who hated and despised these frivolous French fashions, it shall be my pride to retain the good old German customs, and never shall a dress cut in the French style be made in my work-room."

"If you act in this manner, the time of your good fortune is past," said Pollnitz.

Pricker paid no attention to him, but looking at the pictures which hung on the wall, he bowed respectfully before one of them.

"Look!" he said, pointing to one of the portraits, "that is my great-great-grandfather. He was a German, and the best and ablest of men. With him began the connection between the houses of Hohenzollern and Pricker. For him the Prince George William created the title of court tailor, and he would wear no garment that was not made by his favorite. He remembered him in his will, and from that time began the importance of the Prickers.

"Then look at the next picture. It is the portrait of his son, who was the court tailor of Frederick William, the great elector. He made the suit worn by the elector at the battle of Fehrbellin; it was, however, the unhappy duty of his son to make the burial-dress of this great man.

"But with this portrait begins a new era for Prussia; this was the tailor of Frederick the Third, and he made the robe and mantle which Frederick wore on the day of his coronation. His son succeeded him, and now began a new era for the Prickers.

"The son did not follow the example of his father; he was of a softer, a more poetical nature. He loved flowers and poetry, and adored beauty; he therefore became a lady's tailor. The princess royal, Sophia Dorothea, appointed him her tailor. He made the coronation robe of the queen, and the wedding-dress of the Margravine of Baireuth.

"When he died he was succeeded by his son, the now living Pricker. I made the wedding-dress of the Duchess of Brunswick, and the mourning of the present dowager-queen. And now, in the very presence of my ancestors, you tempt me to become a traitor to them and to their customs. No, I am a German, and I remain a German, even should it cause my ruin!"

He bowed to the amused and astonished baron, and walked proudly through the hall to his work-room. His wife followed him with folded hands and heavy sighs.

Pollnitz and the lovely Anna were again alone.

"What an absurd man!" said Pollnitz, laughing. "If Moliere had known him he would have worked his character into a charming farce."

"You forget that this absurd man may soon be your father-in-law," said Anna, sternly, as she left his side.

"That is true," said Pollnitz, smiling; "we will spare him. Come, one last kiss, my beautiful Anna—one kiss as a reward for my successful acting. To-morrow you will have a singing-master, who is no poor wretch, but a celebrated and influential musician, who has undertaken to instruct you out of pure kindness for me, for he is not a teacher but a composer. Graun himself will be your instructor, and it rests with you to crown our love with the happiest results."

CHAPTER VII.

SOFFRI E TACI.

The most ardent desire of the young queen was about to be accomplished; she was to have a private and unconstrained interview with her husband. The days of resignation, of hope deferred, and of hidden sorrow, were now over. The dearly-beloved and longed-for husband had at last returned to her! She need no longer hide her head in shame from her own servants, who, she imagines, are secretly laughing at and mocking her, because the young king is so cold and indifferent. She need no longer envy the poor woman she saw in the street yesterday, carrying dinner to her laboring husband. She will also have a husband, and will feel the guiding and supporting arm of a strong man at her side. No longer will she be a poor, neglected queen, but a proud and happy wife, envied of all the world.

He had written that he desired to pay her a visit, and had requested her not to lock her door, as important business would prevent his coming until quite late. He would, however, certainly come, as he desired to have a private interview with her on this very evening.

How wearily the hours of this day have passed, how slowly the sun sank to rest! It is at last evening; night is coming on. Elizabeth can now dismiss her attendants, and retire to her private apartments to await her husband. He shall see how joyfully she will receive him, how happy he has made her. She will adorn herself, that he may be pleased; she will be beautiful, that he may smile upon her.

The queen, with the assistance of her astonished maids, attires herself for the first time in one of the charming negligees recently sent by the Empress of Austria; for the first time she dons her prettily-worked and coquettish little cap, and encloses her tiny feet in gold-embroidered white satin slippers. This neglige? is really charming, and the queen's waiting-maids assure her that she never looked better, and was never more becomingly attired. But the queen desires to assure herself of this fact, and stepping forward to the mirror, she examines her dress with the careful eye of a connoisseur; then bending down, she regards her face attentively, and an expression of satisfaction flits over her features. Elizabeth sees that she is young and pretty, and for the first time rejoices in her beauty. The maids regarded with astonishment these unusual preparations. Why was Elizabeth now so much rejoiced at the beauty of which she had never before seemed conscious?

The toilet is at an end; the queen seats herself on the light blue sofa, and dismisses her maids with a mute gesture. But when the first maid approaches the door, and as usual drew the key from the lock in order to secure it from the outside, Elizabeth awakes from her dreamy state and arises from her reclining position; a glowing color suffuses her cheek, and a happy smile plays around her lips.

"Do not lock the door to-day," said she, with emotion; "I await the king."

As if astonished at her new happiness, she sinks back on the cushions, and covers her glowing face with her handkerchief, as if to shut out the dazzling light. The waiting-maids courtesy respectfully, and leave the room. In the ante-chamber this respectful expression vanishes from their features, and they turn to each other with mocking and derisive laughter.

"Poor queen! she wishes to make us believe that the king, while he altogether neglects her in public, sometimes pays her a secret visit. She wishes to make us believe that she is really the wife of the handsome young king; and we all know—yes, we all know—"

And all three shrugged their shoulders derisively, and hurried off to their associates, to gossip with them about the poor, despised, neglected queen.

But what was that? Did they not hear a carriage driving into the inner court, and the guard presenting arms amid the rolling of drums? Could it be as the queen had said? was the king really coming to his wife? The waiting-maids stood and listened; they heard steps on the grand staircase. Yes, it was the king, who, preceded by his pages, carrying silver candelabras with wax candles, walked hastily down the corridor to his chambers, and from thence to those of the queen.

What the queen had said was therefore true. He did not despise her; perhaps he loved her! The astonished waiting-maids hurried off to inform their friends that the king loved his wife passionately, and the royal pair was the happiest couple on earth. Elizabeth Christine also heard the equipages drive in to the court. With a cry of delight she sprang from her seat and listened. A fervent glow of happiness shot through her veins. She pressed her hands to her heart to still its rapid beating; her countenance was illumined with joy. But these feelings were so novel they almost terrified her, and filled her heart with tremulous anxiety.

"My God," murmured she, "give me strength to bear this happiness, as I have borne misery!"

But her prayer died on her lips, for she heard the door of the corridor open. She was no longer the queen, no longer the resigned and timid wife; she was now the happy and joyful woman hurrying to meet the husband of her love. And with uplifted head and proud satisfaction she might now confess without shame that she loved him; for he loved her also. He had requested a rendezvous, and was coming as a lover-her first love meeting. She will not be shy and silent to-day, now that she knows he loves her; her tongue will no longer be chained; she will have courage to confess all, to tell him how ardently she loves him, and how long and vainly she has struggled with her heart; how the flames had ever broken out anew; how his glances had ever renewed the ardor of her love.

There—he knocked at the door—she could scarcely breathe; she could scarcely bid him enter; she could not move, and stood transfixed in the middle of the room; she could only stretch out her arms longingly, and welcome him with her smiles and tearful glances.

The door opened; now he entered. The light of the wax candles fell on his face. It was handsome as ever, but his eye was cold, and his lips uttered no loving greeting. He walked forward a few steps, stood still, and bowed in a stiff and formal manner. A chill of horror crept over Elizabeth; her arms sank down, and the smile vanished from her pallid face.

"Madame," said the king, and his voice sounded harsher and colder than she had ever before heard it—"madame, I must first beg your pardon for having disturbed you at so unseemly a time, and for having robbed you of an hour's sleep. But you see that I am a repentant sinner, and you will forgive me when I assure you that, as this is my first, it shall also be my last violation of your retirement!"

The queen uttered a low cry, and pressed her hand to her heart. She felt as if a sword had pierced her breast, as if she were dying.

The king raised his large blue eyes with a surprised look to the pale, trembling face of his wife.

"You are pale, you are ill," said he, "and my presence is undoubtedly annoying; I will retire and send your waiting-maids to your assistance."

While he was speaking the queen prayed to God for courage and strength; she called her womanly pride to her assistance, and struggled against her tears and her despair. The king, who in vain had waited for an answer, now hastily approached the door, murmuring a few impatient words.

But Elizabeth's courage had now returned, she had conquered her heart.

"Remain, sire," she said; "I beg you to remain; I feel well again. It was only a passing spasm from which I often suffer, and for which I crave your indulgence."

"If I may then remain," said the king, smiling, "permit me to conduct you to a seat."

She accepted the king's proffered arm and followed him to the sofa on which she had awaited him with such blissful anticipations, and on which he was now about to put her heart to the torture.

The king did not seat himself by her side, but rolling an arm-chair forward, seated himself at some distance in front of her.

"Madame," said he, "is it credible that we two have been married for seven long years, and still have never been as man and wife to each other? Our lips were forced to pronounce vows of which our hearts knew nothing. Having been forced into this marriage, you must have hated me. You can never have forgiven me for having led you to the altar. At the foot of the altar we did not vow eternal love to each other, but eternal coldness and indifference; and to this hour, madame, you, at least, have faithfully kept this vow."

The queen sank back, murmuring a few incomprehensible words, and her head fell wearily upon her breast.

The king continued: "I come to-day to solicit your forgiveness for the involuntary injustice which I committed. I have made you unhappy, for you were forced to give your hand to an unloved man, of whom you knew that he loved you not. Madame, it is unfortunately true, an abyss lies between us, and this abyss is filled with the blood of the dearest friend of my youth. Oh, madame, forgive me this wrong, for the sake of what I have suffered! I then had a soft and tender heart, but it was trodden under foot, and has become hardened. I placed full confidence in the world, and it has deceived me terribly. I have suffered more than the poorest beggar; I was forced to regard my own father as a cruel enemy, who watched me unceasingly, awaiting a favorable moment to give me a death-blow. It was necessary that I should be continually on my guard, for the smallest fault, the slightest thoughtlessness, a trifle, a mere nothing, was sufficient to condemn me. Oh, if you knew with what vermin I have been publicly calumniated and accused! After doing their utmost to make me odious to the world, and fearing they might perhaps still fail, they resorted to another expedient to compass my ruin, and endeavored to kill me with their ridicule. Soffri e taci, this Italian proverb was then the motto of my life. And believe me, it is hard to obey this seemingly so dry maxim; it has a grand significance."[12]

[12] The king's own words. See Oeuvres, etc., tom. xvi., p. 161.

The king, oppressed as it were by these reminiscences, leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. With downcast eyes and in silence the queen still sat before him, charmed by the music of his words, which found an echo in her heart like the dying wail of her youth.

"I do not tell you this," continued the king, after a pause, "in order to play the role of a martyr in your sight, but because I wish you to understand by what means my spirit was at last broken, and my will made subservient to that of my father. I purchased my freedom, madam, by chaining you to myself. But in doing this, I vowed you should no longer be bound when it should be in my power to release you. This moment has come, and true to my vow, I am here. I know that you do not, cannot love me, madame. The question arises, is your aversion to me so great that you insist on a separation?"

The queen raised her head and looked wonderingly into the mild and sorrowful countenance of her husband. She could no longer restrain the cry which trembled on her lips, no longer stem the tide of tears which gushed in torrents from her eyes.

"My God! my God!" she exclaimed, with a plaintive wail, "he asks me if I hate him!"

There was something in the tone of her voice, in this despairing cry of her soul, which ought to have betrayed the long-hidden secret of her love to the king. But perhaps he knew it already, and did not wish to understand. Perhaps, in the nobility and native delicacy of his soul, he wished to represent the indifference and coldness which he experienced for his wife, as coming from herself. However, the king did not seem to notice her tears.

"No, madame," said he, "I did not ask if you hated me, for I well know that your noble and womanly heart is not capable of this passion. I merely asked if your aversion to me was so great that it demanded a separation. I pray you to give me a short and decisive answer."

But Elizabeth Christine had lost the power of speech; tears rained down her cheeks, and she could only give a mute assent.

"You are, then, willing to be my wife before the world?" asked the king. "You are willing to remain Queen of Prussia, and nominally the wife of the king? You do not demand that my reign shall be inaugurated with the exposure of our domestic misfortunes, and that your chaste and virtuous name shall be branded about with mine before the calumniating world?"

"No," said the queen, with feverish haste, for she feared her strength might fail her. "No, I do not demand it; I desire no separation!"

"I thank you for this word," said the king, gravely. "It is worthy of a queen. You then feel with me that we princes have not even the right to cast off the burden which weighs us down, but must bear it patiently if it serve to secure the stability of our throne. Enviable are those who dare complain of their sufferings, and show their scars. But it becomes us to wrap ourselves in silence, and not to show to the miserable, pitiful, and drivelling world, which envies and abuses, even while applauding us, that a king can also suffer. I thank you, madame, and from this hour you will find in me a true friend, a well-meaning brother, ever ready to serve you. Give me your hand to this contract, which shall be more lasting and holier than that blessed by priests, to which our hearts did not say amen."

In his proffered hand Elizabeth laid her own slowly and solemnly. But when he clasped it in his own with a firm pressure, Elizabeth started and a cry escaped her lips. She hastily withdrew her hand, and sinking back on the sofa, burst into tears. Frederick allowed her tears to flow, regarding her with a look of deep sympathy.

"You weep, madame," said he, after a long and painful pause. "I honor your tears; you weep for your lost youth; you weep because you are a queen, and because reason has conquered your heart and forbids you to make yourself free as any other woman except a princess might do. Weep on, madame, I cannot dry your tears, for like yourself I have been cheated of my happiness; like yourself I am well aware of the sacrifice which we are both making to our royal standing. Ah, madame, if we were only private individuals, if we were not the rulers of Prussia, but her subjects, we might now be happy. Feeling our own unhappiness, and desiring to save our subjects from a like misfortune, I have made a divorce more easily attainable."

Elizabeth arose from her reclining position and regarded the king with a mournful smile.

"I thank your majesty," said she. "It is noble in you to alleviate that misfortune for others, which you have determined to endure."

"Ah, madame," exclaimed the king, smiling, "you forget that I have in you a noble friend and sister at my side, who will help me to bear this evil. And then we are not altogether unhappy; if we do not love, neither do we hate each other. We are brother and sister, not by blood, but united by the word of the priest. But never fear, madame, I will regard you only as a sister, and I promise you never to violate the respect due to your virtue!"

"I believe you," murmured the queen, blushing, and inwardly ashamed of the charming and coquettish negligee in which she had received the king.

"Before the world we are still married, but I promise that this chain shall gall you as little as possible. In your private life you will only be reminded that you are still my wife, when it is absolutely unavoidable. At the coronation I must request your presence at my side. When this is over you will be as free and independent as circumstances will admit. You will have a court of your own, a summer and a winter residence, in which I shall never intrude."

"I shall then never see you again!" said the queen, in the sad voice of resignation, which is often produced by an excess of pain.

"Oh, I pray you, madame, to permit me to meet you at times when etiquette demands it; but I shall take care that these meetings take place on official and neutral ground, and not in our private houses. I will never enter your house without your permission, and then only on particular fete days—your birthday for instance; and I trust that you will not refuse to receive me on such occasions."

"No, I will not refuse," replied the queen, regarding her husband with a sad and reproachful look. But Frederick did not see this look, or would not see it.

"I beg," said the king, smiling, "that you will permit me to present you with the castle of Schonhausen, as a reminiscence of the hour in which you found a faithful brother, and I a noble sister. Accept this little gift as an earnest of our new bond of friendship. It has been fitted up and prepared as a summer residence for your use, and you can retire to it immediately after the coronation, if you are so inclined."

"I thank you," said the queen in so low a voice that her words could scarcely be distinguished. "I thank you, and I will go there on the day after the coronation;" a sigh, almost a sob, escaped her breast.

The king regarded with a clear and penetrating glance the meek woman who sat before him, who accepted her joyless and gloomy future with such heroic resignation. Her mute anguish excited his compassion. He wished to throw a sunbeam into her dark future, to warm her heart with a ray of happiness.

"Well," said he, "I am on the point of making a little journey incognito, in the meanwhile you can go to Schonhausen; but when I return I desire to spend a few weeks in Rheinsberg in my family circle, and, as a matter of course, madame, you are a member of my family. I beg, therefore, that you will accompany me to Rheinsberg."

Elizabeth's countenance was illumined with so beautiful and radiant a smile that even the king saw it and admired her beauty. She held out both her hands and greeted him with a loving glance, but her trembling lips refused to utter the words which her heart prompted.

The king arose. "I must no longer deprive you of your repose, and I also need rest. We must both keep ourselves well and strong for the sake of our country and our subjects, for we both have a grand task to accomplish. You will administer consolation to the miserable and suffering; you will diffuse happiness and reap blessings; you will shine as a model of nobility and feminine virtue before all other women, and through your example will give noble wives and mothers to Prussia's sons! And I," continued the king, a ray of enthusiasm lighting up his handsome face, "I will make my people great; my country shall have a place in the counsels of mighty nations. I will enlarge Prussia and make her strong and powerful. My name shall be engraven in golden letters in the book of history. As fate has destined me to be a king, and will not permit me to spend my days in retirement and philosophic tranquillity like other and happier mortals, I will at least endeavor to accomplish my mission with honor to myself and advantage to my people. You will be a ministering angel to the needy and suffering of our subjects, and I will extend the boundaries of Prussia and diffuse prosperity throughout the land! Farewell, Elizabeth! our paths will seldom meet, but if I were so fortunate as to believe in a hereafter, and your noble and gentle nature would almost persuade me to do so, I would say: 'In heaven we will perhaps meet oftener, and understand each other better.' Pray to God in my behalf. I believe in God and in the efficacy of the prayers of the good and pious. Farewell!"

He bowed deeply. He did not see the deathly pallor and convulsive trembling of the queen. He did not see how she, after he had turned from her and was advancing toward the door, hardly knowing what she did, stretched out her arms after him, and whispered his name in a plaintive and imploring tone. He hurried on, and without once turning left the room. On the outside he stood still for a moment, and drew a long breath of relief.

"Poor woman! unfortunate queen!" he murmured, returning slowly to his chambers. "But why pity her? Is not her lot mine, and that of all princes? A glittering misery—nothing else!"

A few minutes later and the royal equipage again drove through the court yard.

The king was returning to his summer residence at Charlottenburg. The queen, who was on her knees, crying and sobbing, heard the carriage as it drove off. "Gone! he is gone!" she exclaimed, with a cry of anguish; "he has deserted me, and I am a poor discarded woman! He despises me, and I—I love him!" And wringing her hands, she sobbed aloud. For a while she was tranquil and prayed, and then again burst into tears. Her soul, which had suffered so long in silence, once mora rebelled. The voice of her youth made itself heard, and demanded in heart-rending accents a little sunshine, a little of the joy and happiness promised to mankind.

She was at last quieted; she accepted her destiny, and bowed her head in humility and patience. Morning was already dawning when Elizabeth Christine arose from her knees, pale and trembling, but resigned. "Soffri e taci!" said she, sadly. "This was the motto of his youth, and this shall be the motto of my whole life! Soffri e taci! how sad, and yet how grave are these words! Oh! Frederick, Frederick! why do you condemn me to such torture; why has your heart no pity with me, no pity with my love? But no!" she exclaimed, firmly, "I will weep no more. He shall not despise me. I have accepted my destiny, and will bear it as beseems a queen. Be still, my heart, be still. Soffri e taci!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CORONATION.

Berlin was resplendent; the streets were filled with happy faces and gayly-dressed people, and the houses garlanded with flowers. To-day was the young king's coronation festival.

The citizens of Berlin were assembled to take the oath of allegiance, and the nobles and officials to do homage to Frederick as their king. Crowds were moving toward the castle; all were anxious to see the king in his coronation uniform, to see him step upon the balcony to greet the people with the queen at his side, the young and lovely lady with the sweet smile and cloudless brow; all wished to see the rich equipages of the nobility, and, if possible, to collect some of the coins which, according to an old and time-honored custom, were to be showered amongst the people. Thousands were standing before the castle, gazing intently upon the balcony where the king would soon appear. The windows of the surrounding houses were filled with lovely women richly dressed, holding wreaths and bouquets of fragrant flowers with which to greet their young and worshipped king. All were gay and joyous, all were eager to greet the new king with shouts of gladness. The people were ready to worship him who, during a few weeks of his reign, had done so much for them; had showered upon them so many blessings; had opened the granaries, diminished the taxes, and abolished the torture; who had recalled the religious sect so lately driven with derision from Berlin, and declared that every man in Prussia should worship God and seek his salvation in his own way. Yes, all wished to greet this high-minded, high-souled king, who, being himself a philosopher and a writer, knew how to reward and appreciate the scholars and poets of his own land. Frederick had recalled the celebrated philosopher Wolf, punished some time before by Frederick William. He had organized the Academy of Science, and filled it with learned and scientific men of the day. All this had been done in a few weeks. How much could still be hoped for?

The king loved pomp and splendor; this would promote the industry of the people. How much money would be conveyed through him and his gay court to the working classes! What a costly festal life would now become the fashion in Berlin and what a rich harvest would the manufacturers and tradesmen reap! Not only the people dreamed of a golden era, but the noblemen and high officials, who now crowded the palace, were hopeful and expectant, and saw a rare future of costly feasts and intoxicating pleasures. The stupid and frugal entertainments of Frederick William would give place to royal fetes worthy of the Arabian Nights.

Pollnitz, the Grand Chamberlain, was in his element; he was commissioned with the arrangements for all the court balls, was empowered to order every thing according to his own judgment and taste, and he resolved to lavish money with a liberal hand. Pollnitz wished to realize his great ideal; and he wished to see embodied in Frederick the picture he had drawn, for the benefit of the old king, of a true cavalier. The king had given him the power and he was resolved to use it. He thought and dreamed of nothing, now that the court mourning was drawing to a close, but the costly feasts which he would give. Pollnitz was ever searching, with an experienced and critical eye, amongst the ladies and maids of honor for the fascinating beauty who should charm the heart of the young king, and draw him into the golden net of pleasure—the net Pollnitz was so anxious to secure for him.

That the king did not love his wife was no longer a secret at court. Who, then, would win the love of this impassioned young monarch? This was the great question with Pollnitz. There was the lovely Madame Wreeckie, who had shown so much kindness to the prince during his imprisonment. Madame Wreeckie was still young, still bewitching; perhaps it was only necessary to bring them together in order to rekindle the old flame. There was Madame Morien, "Le Tourbillon," who had so often charmed the prince during his minority, and for whom he had manifested a passionate preference. To be sure, since his coronation he had not noticed her, she had not received a single invitation to court. Then Dorris Ritter, the poor innocent young girl who had been flogged through the streets of Berlin, her only fault being that she was the first love of the crown prince. Would the king, now that he was free to act, remember poor Dorris and what she had suffered for him; her sorrow, her shame, and her despair? Would not Dorris Ritter now rise to power and influence, be prayed to as a lovely saint, her shame being covered with a martyr's crown? Pollnitz determined to keep an eye on Dorris Ritter, and if the king showed no special interest in any other woman, to draw her from her exile and abasement. But, alas! the coronation threw no light upon this torturing subject. Pollnitz had hoped in vain that a round of intoxicating pleasures would begin with this day; in vain did he suggest to the king that a court ball should crown the solemnities of the day.

"No," said Frederick, "this shall be no day of thoughtless joy; it brings me sad retrospective thoughts and the consciousness of weighty duties. On this day my father seems to me to die anew. Dismiss, therefore, your extravagant fancies to a more fitting time. I cannot trust you, Pollnitz, with the decorations of the throne, your taste is too oriental for this occasion; I will therefore place this affair in the hands of M. Costellan, who will order the simple decorations which I deem most fitting."

The grand chamberlain could only shrug his shoulders contemptuously, and rejoice that he was not compromised by these contemptible arrangements; he grumbled to himself, and said scornfully: "This pitiful saloon, with no gilded furniture, no paintings, no works of art, with faded, shabby silk curtains: and that black, uncouth structure, is that really a throne—the throne of a young king? A long platform covered with cloth; an old arm-chair, black, worn, and rusty; a canopy covered with black cloth; faugh! it looks like a crow with his wings spread. Can this be the throne of a king who receives for the first time the homage of his subjects?" A contemptuous mocking smile was on the lips of Pollnitz as he saw the king and his three brothers enter the room.

Pollnitz could hardly suppress a cry of horror, as he looked at the king. What, no embroidered coat, no ermine mantle, no crown, nothing but the simple uniform of the guard, no decorations—not even the star upon his breast, to distinguish him from the generals and officials who surrounded him! Nevertheless, as Frederick stood upon that miserable platform with the princes and generals at his side, there was no one that could be compared with him; he seemed, indeed, to stand alone, his bearing was right royal; his countenance beamed with a higher majesty than was ever that lent by a kingly crown; the fire of genius was seen in the flashes of his piercing eye; proud and fearless thoughts were engraved upon his brow, and an indescribable grace played around his finely-formed mouth. There stood, indeed, "Frederick the Great;" he did not need the purple mantle, or the star upon his breast. God had marked him with elevated kingly thoughts, and the star which was wanting on his breast was replaced by the lustre of his eye.

The solemn address of the minister of state, and the reply of President Gorner, were scarcely listened to. Frederick, though silent, had said more than these two ministers, with all their rounded periods; his glance had reached the heart of every one who looked upon him, and said, "I am thy king and thy superior;" they bowed reverently before him, not because chance had made him their sovereign, they were subdued by the power of intellect and will. The oath of allegiance was taken with alacrity. The king stood motionless upon his throne, betraying no emotion, calm, impassive, unapproachable, receiving the homage of his subjects, not haughtily but with the composed serenity of a great spirit accepting the tribute due to him, and not dazzled by the offering.

The coronation was at an end. Frederick stepped from the throne, and nodded to his brothers to follow him; the servants hastily opened the doors which led to the balcony, and carried out the bags filled with the gold and silver coins. The air resounded with the shouts of the populace. The king drew near to the iron railing, and greeted his subjects with a cordial smile. "You are my children," he said, "you have a right to demand of your father love, sympathy, and protection, and you shall have them." Then taking a handful of coin he scattered it amongst the crowd. Shouts of merriment and a fearful scuffling and scrambling was seen and heard below; each one wished to secure a coin thrown by the king himself, and they scarcely noticed the silver and gold which the young princes were scattering with liberal hands; all these were worthless, as long as it was possible to secure one piece which had been touched by Frederick. The king saw this, and, much flattered by this disinterested mark of love, he again scattered the coin far and wide.

While the men were struggling roughly and angrily for this last treasure, a weak, pallid woman sprang boldly into the thickest of the surging crowd. Until now she had been cold and indifferent; the coins thrown by the young princes, and which had fallen at her feet, she had cast from her with disdain; now, however, as the king once more cast the coins in the midst of the gaping crowd, with a power which passion only gives she forced her way amongst the wild multitude, and with outstretched arms she shrieked out, "Oh! give me one of these small coins, only a silver one, give it to me as a keepsake! Oh! for God's sake, give me one!" Suddenly strange murmurs and whispers were heard from amongst those who now recognized this poor outcast; they looked askance at her, they shrank from her as from a leper; and she who a moment before had sued to them so humbly, now stood in their midst like an enraged lioness.

"It is she!—it is she!" they whispered; "she has come to see the king, for whom she suffered so much; for his sake she had been covered with shame; she has been driven from amongst the poor and innocent, and now she dares to come amongst us!" cried a harsh and pitiless voice.

"We know how cruelly she was insulted and abused," said another, "but we all know that she was innocent; my heart is full of pity for her, and she has a right to a coin touched by the king." The last speaker approached the poor woman, and offered both a gold and silver coin. "Take these coins, I beg you, and may they be to you an earnest of a better and happier future."

She gazed with a hard and tearless eye upon the good-natured, kindly face. "No, there is no happy future for me—nothing but want, and misery, and despair; but I thank you for your pity, and I accept these coins as a memento of this hour." She took them and laid them in her tattered dress, walked erect through the circle which gathered around, and was soon lost in the crowd.

She was soon forgotten. The king with his brilliant suite was still upon the balcony, they had not noticed the scene passing amongst the people below; none of them remarked this poor creature, who, having made her way through the crowd, now leaned against one of the pillars of the spire, and gazed earnestly upon the king. The money was exhausted, the king had shown himself to the people sufficiently, and now, according to etiquette, he must leave the balcony and make the grand tour of the saloons, greeting with kind and gracious words the assembled nobles. He motioned, however, to his followers to leave him, he wished to remain a few moments alone, and look thoughtfully upon this sea of upturned faces. Frederick gazed eagerly below. That was no inanimate and pulseless creation moved to and fro by the wind, which he now looked upon, but a living, thinking, immortal people; with hearts to hate or love, with lips to bless or curse, their verdict would one day decide the great question as to his fame and glory as a monarch, or his neglect of holy duty, and the eternal shame which follows. They seemed to Frederick to be pleading with him; they demanded but little—a little shade to rest in when weary with their daily labor; prompt justice and kindly protection, the right to live in peace, bearing the burden and sorrow of their lives patiently; pity for their necessities, forbearance for their weakness and folly. What did he, their king, demand of them? That alone, which a million of people, his people, could bestow, immortal fame!—they must give him the laurel of the hero, and crown him with the civic wreath; he would make his subjects strong, healthy, and happy—they must make his greatness known to all the world, and future ages.

Such were the thoughts of the king as he stood alone upon the balcony. His eye often wandered across to the spire, and as often as it did the wretched woman who was leaning against the pillar trembled fearfully, and her lips and cheeks became deadly pale. The king did not see her; he saw nothing of the outer world, his eye was turned within, reading the secrets of his own heart.

In the grand saloons the nobles stood waiting in grim and angry silence the return of Frederick; a cloud rested upon every brow; even Pollnitz could no longer retain his gracious and stereotyped smile; he felt it to be a bitter grievance that the king should keep the nobility waiting while he stood gazing at a dirty mass of insignificant creatures called human beings! Looking around the circle, Pollnitz saw displeasure marked upon every face but three. "Ah," said he to himself, "there are the three Wreeckies; no doubt they have come to be rewarded for services rendered the crown prince; they were doubtless dangerous rivals for us all; they suffered much for the prince, and were banished seven years from court on his account. The king must indemnify them for all this, and who knows, perhaps he may give them the house in Jager Street, the house I am in the habit of calling mine! Well, I must draw near them and hear all the king promises." So saying, Pollnitz drew quietly near the Messieurs Wreeckie. At this moment there was a movement in the vast assembly, and all bowed low; as the king stepped into the saloon he commenced the grand tour of the room; he had a kind and friendly word for all; at last he reached the Messieurs Wreeckie, and remained standing before them. All glances were now directed to this group; all held their breath, not wishing to lose a word which Frederick should say to these formidable rivals.

The king stood before them, his eye was severe, and his brow clouded. "Gentlemen," he said, "it has been a long time since I have seen you at the court of the King of Prussia. I suppose you seek the prince royal; I do not think you will find him here. At this court you will only find a king who demands, above all things, that his majesty should be respected; that you subjugate yourselves to him in silent obedience; even when his orders appear harsh and cruel they must not be questioned for a moment; he who opposes the will of the king deserves punishment; I will not bear opposition at my court. There is but one will, but one law; that is the will and law of the king!" And, without further greetings, he passed on.

The Wreeckies stood pale and trembling, and the face of Pollnitz was radiant with contentment. "Well, those poor fellows will not receive my house in Jager Street," he said to himself, "they have fallen into disgrace; it appears the king wants to punish all those who rendered good service to the prince royal. Louis the Fourteenth said: 'It is most unworthy of a French king to punish any wrong done to the crown prince;' here the rule is reversed—the King of Prussia deems it unworthy to reward the services rendered the prince royal. But what is the meaning of that crowd over there?" he exclaimed, interrupting himself, "why is the lord marshal approaching his majesty with such an eager, joyful air? I must know what is going on." Again Pollnitz made his way through the courtiers and arrived safely, right behind the king, just as my lord marshal was saying in an excited voice: "Your majesty, there is a young man in the next room who begs your highness to allow him to throw himself at your feet and take the oath of allegiance; he has come from America to greet you as king. So soon as he heard of the illness of your father, he left his asylum and has travelled night and day; he has finished his journey at a most fortunate moment."

The eye of the king rested coldly, unmoved on the speaker; and even after he ceased speaking, regarded him sternly. "What is the name of this young man, for whom you show so lively an interest?" said the king, after a pause.

The lord marshal looked perplexed and frightened; he thought the king's heart should have told him who stood without; who it was that had left his asylum in America and longed to greet the new king. "Sire," he said, hesitatingly, "your majesty demands to know the name of this young man?"

"I demand it."

The lord marshal breathed quickly. "Well, your majesty, it is my nephew; it is Lieutenant Keith, who has come from America to throw himself at your majesty's feet."

Not a muscle of the king's countenance moved. "I know no Lieutenant Keith," he said, sternly; "he who was once known to me by that name was stricken from the officers' roll with the stigma of disgrace and shame, and was hung by the hangman in effigy, upon the gallows. If Mr. Keith is still living, I advise him to remain in America, where no one knows of his crime, or of his ignominious punishment."

"Your majesty will not receive him, then?" said the lord marshal, with a trembling voice.

"You may thank God, sir, that I do not receive him—above all, that I ignore his being here; if I should know that he still lived, I should be forced to execute the sentence to which he was condemned by the court-martial." Slightly nodding to the lord marshal, the king passed on and spoke a few indifferent words to some gentlemen standing near.

"Well, Mr. Keith will not get my house in the Jager Street," said Pollnitz, laughing slightly. "What is the matter with this king, he seems to have lost his memory? God grant he may not forget who it was that induced Frederick William to pay the debts of the prince royal, and to present him with the Trakener stud."

CHAPTER IX.

DORRIS RITTER.

When the king had left the balcony, a poor young woman, who had been sitting on the steps of the cathedral, arose and looked fearfully around her. The sight of the king had carried her far away, she had been dreaming of the blissful days of the past. His disappearance brought her back to the present—the sad, comfortless present. The king had left the balcony. What had she to do in this mob, that might again mock, insult, or commiserate her! she could stand neither their sneers nor their pity, she must flee from both.

With a hasty movement she drew her shawl tighter around her poor slender figure, and hurried through the crowd. She came at last to a miserable small house. The low narrow door seemed unfriendly, inhospitable, as if it would permit no one to pass its threshold and enter its dreary, deserted rooms, from which no sound of life proceeded. But this small, quiet dwelling ought to have been a house of labor and occupation, and would not have been so poor and pitiful looking if the large iron bell hanging over the door had been oftener in motion, and filled the silent space with its cheerful sound.

Behind this door there was a shop, but the bell was generally silent, and purchasers rarely came to buy in this miserable little store the articles which could be purchased more reasonably in one of the large shops belonging to wealthy merchants. The house seemed to have seen better days. It had some claims to comfort and respectability. In the windows were placed bright shells and cocoanuts; there were the large blue china pots, in which the costly ginger is brought; there were quantities of almonds, raisons, citron, and lemons in glass shells; neat paper bags for coffee, and small Chinese chests that had held real Chinese tea. But these bags and chests were empty; the lemons and fruits were dried and hard; the ginger-pots held no more of their strengthening contents; even the dusty, faded sign over the door, which presented a wonderfully-ornamented negro engaged in unrolling dried tobacco leaves, was but a reminiscence of the past, for the tobacco had long since disappeared from the chests, and the little that was left had fallen to dust. The store contained but a few unimportant things: chicory for the poor, who could not pay for coffee; matches, and small home-made penny lights, with which poverty illuminated her misery and want; on the table, in glass cans, a few hardened, broken bits of candy; a large cask of old herring, and a smaller one of syrup. This was the inventory of the shop, these the possessions of this family, who alone occupied this house with their misery, their want, and their despair; whose head and only stay was the poor young woman now leaning wearily against the steps, dreading to enter her house of woe and wretchedness. She arose at length and hastily entered. The bells' hoarse creaking ring was heard, and a poor, pale boy hastened forward to inquire the comer's wants. He stopped and looked angrily at the poor woman who had entered.

"Ah, it is you, mother," said he, peevishly. "I hoped it was some one wishing to buy, then I could have bought some bread."

"Bread!" said the mother anxiously; "did I not, before I went out, give you the money to buy bread for you and your little sister?"

"Yes, but when father came home he threatened to beat me if I did not give up the money at once; I was frightened, and gave it; then he left, and Anna and I have been crying for bread, while our father is amusing himself at the alehouse and our mother has taken a holiday, and has been looking at the festivities which I also would have been glad to see, but could not, because I must stay at home and watch the shop into which no one has entered, and take care of my little sister, who cries for bread, which I cannot give her." As he finished he threw an angry look at his mother, who, deeply grieved, had fallen back on a wooden bench. She looked lovingly at her son, and holding out her arms to him, said:

"Come, give me a kiss, and reward me for all my pain and suffering."

"Give us bread, then perhaps I will kiss you," said he, harshly.

She looked terrified into his hard, cold face. She pressed her hand to her high, pale forehead, as if she would force back the madness that threatened her; she held the other hand to her heart, whose wild, feverish throbbings were almost choking her.

"My God! my God!" murmured she, "am I then already mad? Am I dreaming? Is this my son, my Karl, who loved me so dearly—my boy, who was the only comfort in my misery, the confidant of my tears and wretchedness? Can I, whom he looks at with such dark glances, be his mother—his mother, who joyfully bears for him the scorn of the world, who has suffered and hungered for him, worked for him during the long, cold winter nights—his mother, whose love for him was so great that she was willing not to die, but for his sake to live on in her woe? Karl, my son, come to your mother, for you well know how tenderly she loves you, and that she will die if you do not love her."

"No, mother," said he, not moving, "you do not love me, nor my little sister Anna; for if you loved us, you would not have left us to-day, and joined the gay people who were making merry while your poor children were at home groaning and crying."

"Oh, my child! my child! I did not go, out of idle curiosity," said she, sadly. "I went to consult the oracle of your future, and to see if there was not to be some hope, some comfort for my children; if this would not be the beginning of brighter days. I wished to read all this in a man's face; I wished to see if he still had a heart, or if, like all princes, he had become hard and pitiless."

She had forgotten that she was speaking to her son; she was addressing herself, and had entirely forgotten that he was present.

"Ah," said he, sneeringly, "you thought he would now give you money for your shame; but father told me that all the gold in the world would not wipe out this shame, and that brandy was the only way besides death that could make us forget that we are despised and accursed. Father told me—"

The boy stopped and retreated a few steps; his mother had risen from her seat and stood before him, deadly pale, with widely-opened, flashing eyes, with trembling lips; every muscle of her face in play; her whole form trembling in a paroxysm of rage and frightful torture. It was not the head of a woman, but a Medusa; not the look of a tender, loving mother, but of a wild, angry, threatening mad woman.

"What did your father tell you?" cried she, wildly, to the trembling boy before her. "What did he say? I will, I must know! You are silent; speak, or I dash my brains out against the wall, and you will be guilty of your mother's death."

"You will beat me if I tell you," said he insolently.

"No, no, I will not beat you," said she, breathlessly; and folding her hands as if to pray, she continued: "My child, my child, have mercy on your mother. Tell me what he said; with what words he poisoned your heart, and made the love for your poor mother die so quickly. Tell me all, my son; I will not beat but bless you, though your words should cut my heart like a knife."

She wished to press him to her heart, but he resisted passionately.

"No," said he, "you shall not kiss me; father said you made all you touched unhappy and despised, and that we would be well, happy, and rich if you were not our mother."

She shuddered; her arm fell powerless to her side, a hollow groan escaped her, her eyes were fixed and tearless.

"What more did he tell you?" murmured she; "with what other tales did he amuse my child?" She looked at him with such a sad, painful smile, that he trembled and glanced timidly down; he now saw what torture he was preparing for her.

"Father was drunk," said he; "when he heard that you had gone out, he was furious; he cursed you so dreadfully that Anna and I both cried, and I begged him not insult you so, for it hurt me, for then I still loved you."

"Then he still loved me!" said his mother, wringing her hands.

"But he laughed at me, and said you did not deserve our love; that you were the cause of all our misery and want; he had become poor and wretched because he had married you, and taken to drink so as not to hear or see men pointing and laughing at you when you passed. But, mother, you look so pale, you tremble so! I will say no more; I will forget all father said; I will love you, mother; but do not look at me so dreadfully, and do not tremble in that way."

The boy wept from grief and terror. His old love had awakened; he approached his mother to kiss her, but now she pushed him back.

"I do not tremble," said she, though her teeth were chattering. "I do not tremble, and you must not forget what your father said; you must tell me all again. Speak on, speak! I must hear all, know all. What more did he say?"

The boy looked at her sadly. His voice, which before had been insolent and rude, was now quiet and gentle, and his eyes were full of tears.

"He said he married you out of pity, and because you brought him a few thousand dollars. But this gold brought no blessing with it, but a curse; and that since then it had gone worse with him than with the executioner, whom all despise, and who dares not enter an honest man's house. But that you were more despised and disgraced than the miserable man who had stripped you in the open market and whipped you through the streets; that the boys had pelted you with mud, and that the streets became red with the blood that flowed down your back."

The poor woman gave a piercing shriek, and fell as if struck by lightning to the floor. The boy threw himself weeping by her side; and the little girl, who had been sleeping in another corner of the room, awakened by the scream, came running toward them crying for bread.

But the mother moved not; she lay there pale, with closed eyes; she was cold and lifeless; she did not hear her poor little girl cry; she did not feel the hot kisses and tears of her son, who was imploring her in anxious, tender, loving words, to open her eyes, to tell him that she was not angry, that she had forgiven him. But he suddenly stopped and listened eagerly; he thought he heard the well-known sound of the bell.

"There it was again; if it is father, he will beat me to death," murmured he, as he went toward the shop door. "He forbade me to repeat a word of all that to mother."

He opened the door, and there stood not his father but a richly-dressed gentleman, who, with a friendly gesture, pushed the boy aside and entered the shop.

"I want some tobacco, my little fellow," said he; "therefore call Mr. Schommer to give me some from his best canister."

"My father is not at home," said the boy, staring at the handsome, friendly gentleman.

"Well, I did not come precisely on his account," said the gentleman, with a strange laugh. "Call your mother, Madame Schommer, and tell her I wish to make a purchase."

"Mother is lying in the back room on the floor, and I believe she is dead!" said Karl, sobbing.

The gentleman looked at him with amazement. "Did you say dead? That would be very inconvenient, for I have greatly counted on her life. What did she die of? Is a physician with her?"

"No one is with her but my little sister; you can hear her crying!"

"Yes, I can hear her; and it is in truth no edifying music. No one else, did you say? Where, then, are your friends? where is your father?"

"Father is at the ale-house, and friends we have none; we live all alone, for no one will live with us."

"Well, if you are alone, I may go to your mother," said he, with a careless laugh. "It is likely your mother has fainted; and as I am learned in these feminine swoons, it is very possible I may call her back to life. Show the way, little Cupid, and lead me to your mother, the fainting Venus." And laughing, he followed the astonished boy into the back room.

She still lay without movement on the floor, and little Anna, kneeling by her side, was praying for bread.

"That is your mother, Madame Schommer?" asked the strange gentleman, looking curiously at the pale woman.

"Yes, that is my mother," said the boy. "Mother, mother, wake up!" said he, covering her face with kisses. "Wake up, I do not believe what father said. I will love you! He was drunk! Ah, my dear, dear mother, only wake up!"

"She will awake," said the stranger, who was bending over her, laying his hand on her heart and temples, "she is, as I thought, not dead but in a swoon."

The boy laughed aloud with glee. "My mother is not dead," said he, crying and laughing at once. "She will wake up and love me; we will all be so happy!"

"Mother, mother, give me some bread!" whimpered poor little Anna.

"Are you then so hungry?" said the stranger, who was getting tired of this scene.

"Yes," said the boy, "she is hungry; we are both hungry. We have had nothing to eat all day. Mother gave us money before she went out to buy bread and milk, but father came and took it to buy brandy for himself."

"A worthy father," said the stranger, handing him something. "Here, my son, is some money. Take your sister, go to the baker's, and get something to eat, then seat yourselves and eat; and do not come back here until I call you. But if you see your father coming, then come and tell me."

The children joyfully hurried to the door; they were not now thinking of their poor, fainting mother, but of the bread they would buy to satisfy their hunger.

"But who," said the boy, turning around, "will watch the shop?"

"Well, I will," said the stranger; "I will watch your mother and your shop; go!"

The children hurried away, and the stranger was alone with the fainting woman.

CHAPTER X.

OLD AND NEW SUFFERING.

The cavalier stood quietly some minutes, showing no sympathy for the poor insensible woman, and making no effort to arouse her to consciousness; he examined her face searchingly and curiously, not from sympathy for her sad condition, but with cold egotism, thinking only of his own special object.

"Hum," murmured he, "in spite of pallor and attenuation, there are yet traces of great beauty. I am sure if well nourished and well clothed she may yet allure the heart which must be ever touched with pity for her mournful fate; besides, she is poor—hopelessly, despairingly poor. The husband is a drunkard, the children cry for bread; she is so poorly clad, so pale, so thin; hunger has been her only lover. Under these circumstances she will readily adopt my plans, and be my willing tool; she will acknowledge me as her master, and by God I will teach her how to bind this headstrong fool in chains. He has so far escaped all the pitfalls which Fredersdorf and myself have so adroitly laid for him. Dorris shall be the Delilah who will tame this new Samson. Truly," he continued, as he cast a look of contempt upon the senseless form lying before him, "truly it is a desperate attempt to transform this dirty, pale, thin woman into a Delilah. But the past is powerfully in her favor, and my Samson has a heart full of melting pity and sensibility; moreover all previous efforts have failed, and it is pardonable to seek for extraordinary means in our despair. So to work! to work!"

He took from his pocket a small phial of English salts, held it to her nose, and rubbed her temples with a small sponge. "Ah, she moves," he said, resting for a moment from his work, and looking coldly and curiously upon the poor woman, who, with a shudder of newly-awakened life, now turned her head, and whose convulsed lips uttered short sighs and piteous complaints. Pollnitz rubbed her temples again with the strong salts, and then, as he saw that consciousness was more and more restored, he raised her from the floor, and placed her softly in a chair. "Auso armes, auso armes," muttered he. "La battaille commencera."

The woman opened her eyes, and they wandered with an anxious and questioning look here and there, then fell upon the stranger, who, with a smiling and observant glance, followed every movement. Her eyes were fixed and staring, her features expressed terror and scorn, her whole form was convulsed, she was still half dreaming, half unconscious. But her eye was immovably placed upon him, and she murmured in low tones, "I know this face—yes, I know this cold, smiling face, I have FELT it twice! When was it? was it only in fearful dreams, or was it a frightful reality? When, where did I see this cold, devilish smile, this face so cold and heartless, so full of iron egotism?"

"Truly, she does not flatter," murmured Pollnitz, but without changing for one moment his watchful but friendly mien. "I am curious to see if she will at last recognize me."

"Pollnitz!" cried she at last, with flaming eyes. "Yes, it is you! I know you! you are Baron Pollnitz! Who gave you the right to enter this house? what brings you here?"

"I repeat your question," he replied, smiling, "what brought you here, here in this gloomy, miserable room; here where hunger and wailing have their dwelling; here where misery grins upon you with hollow-eyed terror? What do you here, Dorris Ritter?"

She trembled convulsively at this name, her cheeks were dyed purple, and in another moment became ghastly pale. "Why do you call me Dorris Ritter?" she cried, with gasping breath, "why remind me of the past, which stands like a dark spectre ever behind me, and grins upon me with bloody and shameful horrors?" Lost wholly in these fearful remembrances, she stared before her, thinking no more of Pollnitz, forgetting that his watchful and heartless eyes were ever fixed upon her. "Dorris Ritter!" she cried, slowly, "Dorris Ritter! where are you? why do they call you by thy name? Can they not remember that you are a sleep walker wandering on the edge of a precipice, into which you must fall headlong if awakened by the sound of your name, Dorris Ritter?" she said, more loudly, fixing her eye upon Pollnitz; "how dare you call my name, and tear me shrieking from my grave!"

"Now, that is exactly what I wish," said Pollnitz; "I will raise you from this lowly and forgotten grave; you shall forget what you have suffered; you shall be rich, happy, distinguished, and envied."

"I!" cried she, with mocking laughter, "and you will make that of me! You, Baron Pollnitz, you, who were partly the cause of my misery, and who looked smilingly upon my shame! What, then, what have I done to deserve so much shame and sorrow? My God!" cried she, in heartrending tones, "my heart was pure and innocent; I dared raise my head without fear, and look God and my parents in the face; even before HIM, my prince, I needed not to cast down MY eyes; I was innocent, and he loved me because he could also respect me. Alas! it was so silent, so resigned a love; it asked for nothing, it had no speech. Was it our fault that others saw and pointed out this love without words, and which eyes of innocence only expressed? We stood far removed from each other, and a gulf lay between us, but heavenly music formed a golden starry bridge over this abyss, and the holy and melodious tones whispered to our young hearts, the complaints and longings of a speechless, self-renouncing love. Only thus, only thus, a sweet dream, and nothing more! Then you came to awaken us, to accuse the prince of high treason, to make of me a miserable prostitute. You cast my love, which I had only confessed to my Father in heaven, like a dirty libel and foul fruit in my face; you wished to spot and stain my whole being, and you succeeded; you crushed my existence under your feet, and left me not one blossom of hope! Oh, I will never forget how you tore me from the arms of my poor father! how you cast me into prison and chained my hands, because in the anguish of my shame and my despair I tried to take that life which you had dishonored! They came at last, and dragged me before the king. Two men were with him, one with a common red and swollen visage, with thick, lascivious lips, with red and watery eyes—that was Grumbkow; the other, with the fine friendly face, with the everlasting deceitful smile, the cold, contemptuous, heartless glance, that was you, Baron Pollnitz. Ah, with what horrible glances did these three men look upon me! what mockery and contempt did their cruel voices express! I threw myself at the feet of the king; I prayed to him for mercy and grace; he kicked me from him, and shamed me with words and accusations which made my soul blush. I swore that I was innocent; that no sin lay upon me; that I had never been the beloved of the prince; that I had never spoken to him but in the presence of my father. Then laughed they, and mocked me, and loudest of all laughed Baron Pollnitz, and his words of scoffing and insult pierced my heart like a poisoned arrow, and checked my flowing tears."

"It is true," murmured Pollnitz; "she has forgotten nothing."

"Forgotten!" cried she, with a wild laugh, "can I forget that I was driven through the streets like a wild beast; that I was stripped by the rough hands of the hangman's boy; that I heard behind me the scoffings and insults of the wild mob hired for the occasion; that I felt upon my naked back the cruel blows of the executioner's whip? Oh, I have borne, and I have suffered; I did not become a maniac, I did not curse God, but I prayed to my Father in heaven as I ran like a baited wild beast through the streets. I saw that all the houses were closed, that no one stood at the windows; no one had the courage to look upon my path of martyrdom, and it comforted me even in the midst of my torture, and I blessed those men who were pitiful to me, and who appeared to bear testimony to my innocence by refusing to witness my cruel punishment, and I ran further, and the hot blood flowed down my back. Suddenly I came upon a house which was not closed, the door was open, before it stood the servants and pointed the finger of scorn at me, and mocked and jeered at me. On the balcony stood Baron Pollnitz, with his stony, heartless face! Then I uttered a cry of rage and revenge, then my prayers were hushed or changed into wild curses, and I yelled and howled in my heart: he is guilty of my shame, he with his cruel jests, his pitiless sneers, has poisoned the ear of the king, has destroyed the last doubt of my guilt in the heart of his majesty. Disgrace and shame upon Baron Pollnitz! may he be despised, lonely, and neglected in the hour of death; may remorse, the worm of conscience, feed upon his soul, and drive him hither and thither, restless and homeless all his life long!"

She uttered a wild cry, and sank back powerless and broken in her chair.

Baron Pollnitz was self-possessed and smiling throughout; he laid his hand upon the nerveless arm of the sobbing woman, and said with a soft, flattering tone:

"It is true I have done you injustice, but I have come to make amends for the past. You shall yet raise your head proudly, and no one shall doubt of your innocence."

She shook her head sadly. "How can that help me? My father died of shame; my husband, who married me from pity and because I had a poor two thousand crowns, could not bear that men should flee from me as from a branded culprit; this grief drove him to drink, and when he comes home drunk at night, he beats me and shames me; the next morning he prays, with strong crying and tears, for forgiveness, but goes again and begins anew the same sad existence. My children!"

She could say no more; her words were choked with tears, as she thought of the hard and frightful language her little boy had used to her that morning.

Pollnitz was weary of the complaints and sobs of this wretched woman.

"Weep no more," said he; "weeping makes the eyes red, and you must henceforth be lovely and attractive; if you will follow my advice you and your children will once more be joyful and happy. I will send you beautiful clothing, and I know an adroit person who will make you charmingly attractive, and at the same time arrange your toilet with such enchanting grace that you will pass for the 'Mater dolorosa' and the beautiful Magdalen in the same person. Then will I lead you to the king; then will he read in your lovely and noble face the touching and innocent story of his first love; it will then rest with you, who have so long been covered with dust and ashes, to kindle again the spark of your dead love, and find in his tenderness the reward and compensation for all the bitter past."

She looked at him with flaming eyes, and her glance was so piercing that even Pollnitz felt a little embarrassed, and involuntarily cast his eyes to the ground.

"Has the king sent you here with this message?"

"No, not the king; but I know that he thinks of you with love and pity, and that he would be happy to find you."

"If that is so, let him come to seek me. I will not go to him—I am the injured and dishonored one; it is his duty to repair my wrongs. But he will not come—I know it. I read it to-day in his face. The world has killed his heart; it has turned to stone in his breast—a gravestone for his dear-loved Katt and for Dorris Ritter."

"He will come; I say to you he will! Hear me, Dorris; you will not go to him? Well, then, expect him here, and prepare yourself in such a way to receive him as to make an impression upon his heart; study carefully your part; revolve every word which you will say to him; consider every glance with which you will look upon him; put on the clothes which I will send you, and banish your husband and your children."

"My children!" cried she, trembling; "no, no, only as a mother—only under the protection of their innocent presence will I ever see him; only for my children will I receive his sympathy and grace."

Pollnitz stamped involuntarily with his feet upon the floor, and muttered curses from between his tightly-pressed lips.

"Do you not understand that our whole scheme will fail unless you do exactly as I tell you; that you will attain nothing unless you begin wisely and prudently? You say the king has no heart; well, then, he has intellect, and this you must flatter; through this you may, perhaps, warm his stony heart; you must not trust wholly to the majesty of your misfortunes, but advance to meet him in the grace and glory of your beauty; by your soft eyes you must work upon his heart; not with your tears, but by enchanting smiles, he may be won."

She looked at him with proud and contemptuous glances.

"Go!" said she; "go! we have nothing to do with each other. I would curse you and seek to revenge myself upon you for the new dishonor which you have put upon me by your shameless words, but I know I have not the right to resent. I am a degraded, dishonored woman, and all men believe they have the right to insult me and to mock at my misfortunes. Go!"

"You command me, then, to leave you; you will not heed the voice of a well-meaning friend; you—"

"Baron Pollnitz," said she, with a voice tremulous with scorn, "I say go! drive me not to extremity. Shall I call upon the neighbors to relieve me from the presence of one I abhor, who disregards the sanctity of my poor house, and abuses and sneers at a woman who hates him? Go, and let me never see your face or hear your voice again!"

"Well, then, I will go; farewell, dear Madame Schommer; but I will come again, and perhaps I may be so happy as to find in your place the enchanting Dorris Ritter, that sentimental young maiden of the past, who loved the crown prince so passionately, and was so well pleased to receive his love and his presents."

He laughed aloud, and left the dreary room with a courtly pirouette; with quick steps he hastened through the shop, and opening the door which led into the street, he kicked the two children who were sitting on the threshold to one side, and rushed into the street.

"She is truly proud yet," murmured he, shrugging his shoulders. "The hangman's whip did not humble her—that pleases me; and I am more than ever convinced we will succeed with her; she must and shall be beloved of the king; and as she will not go to him, well, then, I will bring him to her. To-morrow the king will visit the site chosen for the palace of the queen-mother: that will be a glorious opportunity to induce him to enter her hut."

Dorris Bitter had risen, and with uplifted arm and a proud glance she had followed Pollnitz. Her whole being was in feverish excitement. In this hour she was no more a poor, disheartened woman, from whom all turned away with contempt, but a proud wife conscious of her honor and her worth, who commanded her persecutor from her presence; who asked no mercy or grace, and demanded a recognition of her purity.

As the steps of the baron faded away, and Dorris was again alone, her feverish excitement subsided, and she was again a poor, pallid, trembling, humble woman. With a cry of the most profound woe she sank back in her chair, and stared long before her. Suddenly she murmured from between her tightly-compressed lips: "Woe to him! woe to him! when he forgets what I have suffered for him; woe to him, if he does not remove the shame which crushes me! woe to him, if he despises me as others do! Then will Dorris Eitter be his irreconcilable enemy, and she will take vengeance so true as there is a God over us!"

CHAPTER XI.

THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

"Courage, my dear friend," said Madame von Brandt to Count Voss, who stood before her with the most mournful expression, and seemed so lost in grief as to be scarcely aware of the presence of his charming and bewitching Armida.

"I do not understand how you can laugh and be gay, if you love me," he said, sadly.

"I love you truly, and therefore I am gay. We have almost gained our end; soon the suspicions of the world will be lulled, for who would dream that the husband of the young and beautiful Laura von Pannewitz could possibly love the old and ugly Madame von Brandt?"

"You old! you ugly!" cried the young count, indignantly. "It is well that it is you who utter such a blasphemy; if any other did, I should destroy him."

"You would do very wrong, dear count, for that would betray our love to the world. No, no, if any one should speak so to you, you must shrug your shoulders, and say, 'I am not acquainted with Madame von Brandt, I am indifferent whether she is handsome or ugly. She may be as old as Methuselah, it does not concern me."

"Never will I say that, never will I be induced to utter so miserable and dishonorable a falsehood. No, dearest, you cannot demand that. You see your power over me, and treat me most cruelly. You condemned me to be married, and I have obeyed your commands, although my heart was breaking as I made my proposal to the queen. Now I entreat that you will not torture me by demanding that I shall revile and caluminate you. No, no, I pray on my knees that you will be kind and merciful!"

He threw himself on his knees before her, leaning his head upon the divan on which she was sitting.

She placed her hand upon his head and played with his fair hair. "I am not cruel, I am only cautious," she whispered, almost tenderly. "Trust me, Alexander, you must not doubt my boundless love."

"No, no, you do not love me," he sighed; "you are always hard and cruel, you have never granted me the smallest favor, you have never accepted one of my presents."

A slight but scornful smile played upon the lips of this beautiful woman, while the enthusiastic and impassioned young man spake thus. She turned aside her face, that he might not see its expression.

But he thought she was again angry with him. "Ah," he said, despairingly, "you will not allow me even to behold your heavenly countenance; do you wish to drive me to distraction? What have I done to deserve this new torture? Are you so offended because I entreated you to accept a gift from me? Oh, it is so sweet to compel the one we love to think of us; to place a ring upon her finger, and bid her dream of him who loves her when she looks upon it; to bind a chain upon her neck, and whisper, 'You are fettered, my love enchains you, you are mine!' A man can only believe in the affection of his beloved when she condescends to accept something from him."

"And would that give you faith in my love?" she said, in a tender, melting voice, as she turned smilingly toward him.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "it would increase my faith."

"Well, then, give me some little thing that will remind me of you, that I can wear, as the spaniel wears the collar which bears the name of its master."

She offered him her hand, which he covered with fervent kisses, and then drew from his bosom a large and heavy etui, which he placed in her hands.

"But this contains not merely a ring," she said, reproachfully; "you have deceived me, misused my kindness; instead of presenting me with a small souvenir, with the pride of a king you wish to overwhelm me with your rich gifts. Take back your case, count, I will not look at its contents; I will not behold how far your extravagance and pride have led you; take your treasures, and give me the simple ring that I promised to accept." She stood up, and handed him the etui with the air of an insulted queen, without once glancing at its contents, and only divining their value by the size and weight of the case.

Her poor lover regarded her with a truly despairing expression. "If you desire to destroy me, do it quickly and at once, not slowly, day by day, and hour by hour," he said, almost weeping. "I fulfil your smallest desire, I marry at your command, and you refuse to show me the slightest kindness." He was now really weeping, and turned aside that she might not behold his tears. Then suddenly recovering himself, he said with the boldness of despair: "I will learn from you the use of the word no. If you refuse to accept this case, then I will refuse to marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz. If you compel me to receive again those miserable stones, I will go at once to the queen, and tell her that I was mistaken, that I cannot and will not marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz; that I have given up my plan, and am determined to leave Berlin immediately."

"No! no! you must not go! you shall not leave me!" she cried, with every appearance of terror; "give me the case, I will accept it. You must not leave Berlin!"

The young count uttered a cry of delight, and hurried to her side.

"I will accept this etui," she said smiling, "but will not open it while we are together, for fear we might again disagree."

Count Voss was beside himself with joy and gratitude, and vowed he would marry Mademoiselle von Pannewitz that very day, to obtain the kiss which Madame von Brandt had promised him at his wedding.

"Love might perhaps remove mountains," she said, "but it cannot give wings to the tongue of a queen. You have placed your proposals in the hands of her majesty, you selected this lofty lady to sue for you, and now you must wait until it pleases her to make your proposals known to the lady."

"The queen promised to do that to-day. It was necessary for me to make my proposals to her, for the family of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz demanded that I should obtain the consent of the queen to my marriage before I could hope for theirs."

"And Laura, have you obtained her consent?"

"Oh," said the vain count, shrugging his shoulders, "I am certain of that; she is poor and entirely dependent on the proud dowager-queen; I will make her a countess, and insure her freedom; she will live independently upon her estates, and be surrounded with wealth and luxury; she will have every thing but a husband."

"Poor Laura!" said Madame von Brandt, softly. "But you have been with me already too long; it might be remarked, and give rise to suspicion; go, now, I will work for you, and you must work for yourself. Let no difficulties frighten you."

The count left her slowly, while Madame von Brandt was scarcely able to conceal her impatience to be alone. She looked after him with a contemptuous smile, and murmured to herself: "Vain fool, he deserves to be deceived. But now at last I will see what this precious etui contains." She flew to the table and hastily lifted the cover of the case. A cry of astonishment arose to her lips, and her eyes beamed as clearly and brightly as the diamonds resting upon the satin cushion within. "Ah! this is really a royal present," she whispered, breathlessly, "more than royal, for I am confident King Frederick would never present any woman with such diamonds; but I deserve them for my wonderful acting. This poor count is convinced that I am the noblest, most unselfish, and most loving of women. How well conceived, how wise it was to decline his first gift! I knew that he would replace it with something more costly and elegant, hoping to move me to change my resolution. How my heart bounded with delight when he drew forth this great case! I could scarcely withhold my hands from grasping the costly treasure. I concealed my impatience, and would not open the case in his presence, fearful that he might read my delight in my eyes, and that might have undeceived the poor fool as to my disinterestedness. Truly it was very wise and very diplomatic in me; even Manteuffel could not have acted more discreetly." She bent again over the flashing diamonds, and pressed her burning lips to the cold stones. "Beautiful stones," she whispered tenderly, "your cold kiss animates my whole frame; I love you more than any human being, and when you are upon my neck I will desire no warmer embrace. Welcome, then, beloved, to my house and my bosom. You shall be well cared for, I shall exert myself to provide you with worthy companions; many of your family are lying loosely about in the world, and you doubtless desire the company of your brothers and sisters. I myself share that desire, and will seek to accomplish it by bringing together more and more of your relations; I will invite your cousins, the pearls, and you shall be united. My diamonds and pearls shall have a gayer and more splendid wedding than Count Voss and beautiful Laura von Pannewitz." She laughed aloud in the joy of her heart, then closed the case and locked it carefully in her writing-desk. "And now to the queen-mother," she said; "the train is laid, it is only necessary to apply the match and await the explosion. I must point out to the queen that this marriage of the lovely Laura with Count Voss is necessary to prevent a difficulty in the royal family, I must—EH BIEN! NOUS VERRONS. I hear the voice of the queen; she is taking her promenade, and I must not fail to be present." She took her hat and shawl, and hurried to the garden.

CHAPTER XII.

THE QUEEN AS A MATRIMONIAL AGENT.

The queen-mother was taking a walk in the garden of Monbijou. She was unusually gay today, and her countenance wore an expression of happiness to which it had long been a stranger. And the queen had good reason to be gay, for she seemed on the point of realizing the proud anticipations she had indulged in for so many weary years. Her son was carrying into execution the promises which he had made on his first visit, and in which she had hardly dared to believe. She had already received the first monthly payment of her income as queen-dowager, which her son had largely increased. New appointments had been made to her court, and it had been placed on a truly royal footing; and yesterday the king had told her that he had already chosen a site for her new palace. Moreover, the homage she received from the entire court, and more especially from the king's favorites, bore evidence to the fact that her influence was considered great, and that much importance was attached to her grace and favor. While Queen Elizabeth was passing her time joylessly at the Castle of Schonhausen, to which she had retired, the entire court was assembling at Monbijou, and hastening to do homage to the queen-mother. Even the young king, who had not yet paid a single visit to his wife at Schonhausen, waited on the queen his mother daily, accompanied by a brilliant suite of cavaliers.[13]

[13] Thiebault, ii., page 84.

The queen Sophia Dorothea had good reason to be gay, and to entertain the happiest anticipations in regard to the future. To-day for the first time she could take her morning walk attended by her brilliant suite, for the last appointments had only been made on the preceding day. When the queen now looked around, and she did so from time to time, she no longer saw the two maids of honor of earlier days walking languidly behind her. Six of the most beautiful ladies, all of the first nobility, had been appointed to the queen's service, and were now engaged in a merry conversation with the four cavaliers in attendance on the queen, who had been selected for this office by the king himself. While conversing with her marshal, Count Rhedern, she could hear the merry laughter of the newly-appointed maid of honor Louise von Schwerin, and the soft, melodious voice of the beautiful Laura von Pannewitz, whose grace and loveliness had even excited the admiration of her husband the king, and for a few weeks thrown him into a state to which he was entirely unaccustomed.[14]

[14] Memoires de Frederique Wilhelmine de Baireuth, vol. ii., p. 308.

The queen, as we have said, was unusually gay, for she had just received a new proof of her own importance, and of the influence she was supposed to exert on the young king her son.

Count Rhedern had solicited the assistance of the queen-mother in a very delicate and important matter, and had requested her to advocate his cause with King Frederick. The count desired to marry, but the permission of the king was still wanting, and would probably be very difficult to obtain, for the count's chosen was unfortunately not of a noble family, but had the misfortune to be the daughter of a Berlin merchant.

"But," said the queen, after this confidential communication, "I do not understand why it is that you wish to marry this girl. I should think the nobility of our kingdom was not so poor in beautiful and marriageable ladies that a Count Rhedern should find it necessary to stoop so low in search of a wife. Look behind you, count, and you will see the loveliest ladies, all of whom are of pure and unblemished descent."

"True, your majesty. These ladies are beautiful, of good birth, young and amiable, but one thing is wanting to make them perfect. Mademoiselle Orguelin is neither beautiful nor of good birth, neither young nor amiable, but she has the one thing which those fairies lack, and for the sake of this one thing I am forced to marry her."

"Count, you speak in riddles, and as it seems to me in riddles of doubtful propriety," said the queen, almost angrily. "What is this one thing which Mademoiselle Orguelin has, and on account of which you are compelled to marry her?"

"Your majesty, this one thing is money."

"Ah, money," said the queen, smiling; "really, it well becomes a cavalier to marry beneath him for the sake of money!"

"Your majesty, it is because I am mindful of the duties which my rank impose on me, and of the demands which a cavalier of my standing should meet, that I have determined to make this misalliance. Your majesty will be indulgent if I dare open before you the skeleton closet, and unveil the concealed misery of my house. The Counts Rhedern are an old and illustrious race. My ancestors were always rich in virtues but poor in gold. Economy seems to have been the one virtue they ever possessed; they were too generous to reject any appeal made to them, and too proud to limit their expenditures to their small income. Outwardly they maintained the pomp suitable to their standing, while they gnawed secretly and unseen at the hard crust of want. Thus from father to son the debts were constantly increasing, and the revenues becoming smaller and smaller. If I do not make an end of this, and sever the Gordian knot like Alexander, instead of attempting the wearisome task of untying it, I shall soon present to the court and nobility the sad spectacle of a Count Rhedern who is compelled to give up his hotel, his equipage, his furniture, and his servants, and live like a beggar."

"Ah, this is really a sad and pressing affair!" exclaimed the queen, sympathizingly, "but are there no heiresses among the nobility, whose fortunes might save you?"

"None, your majesty, who like Mademoiselle Orguelin would bring me a fortune of three millions."

"Three millions! That is a great deal, and I can now perfectly well understand why you are compelled to marry this Orguelin. You have my consent, and I think I can safely promise you that of my son the king. Make your arrangements and fear nothing. I guarantee that the king will not refuse your request."

"After what your majesty has said, I feel assured on this point," exclaimed Count Rhedern, with a sigh.

"How, and you still sigh, count?"

"Your majesty, I need the permission of one other person—the acceptance of the bride. And to this acceptance is appended a condition, the fulfilment of which again depends upon your majesty's kindness."

"Well, truly, this is a strange state of affairs. You speak gravely of your approaching marriage, and as yet are not even engaged. You speak of your bride, but Mademoiselle Orguelin has not yet accepted you, and whether she will or not, you say, depends on me."

"Yes, on your majesty, for this girl, who is as proud of her three millions as if it were the oldest and most illustrious pedigree, consents to be my wife only on the condition that she is acknowledged at court, and has access, as Countess Rhedern, to all court festivities."

"Truly this is a great pretension!" exclaimed the queen, angrily. "A pedlar's daughter who carries arrogance so far as to wish to appear at the court of the King of Prussia! This can never be, and never could I advocate such an innovation: it is destructive, and only calculated to diminish the prestige of the nobility, and to deprive it of its greatest and best privilege—that privilege which entitles it alone to approach royalty. It was this view which prevented me from receiving the so-called Count Neal at my court, although my son the king admits him to his presence, and desires that I also should recognize this count of his creation. But, as a queen and a lady, I can never do this. There must be a rampart between royalty and the low and common world, and a pure and unblemished nobility alone can form this rampart. You see, therefore, my poor count, that I cannot accede to this request."

"Have compassion on me, your majesty. If your majesty will but remember that I am ruined; but I am a beggar if this union does not take place, if I do not marry the three millions of Mademoiselle Orguelin."

"Ah, certainly, I had forgotten that," said the queen, thoughtfully.

"Moreover," continued the count, somewhat encouraged, "this is a different affair altogether, and I do not believe that a principle is here at stake, as was the case with the so-called Count Neal. A man represents himself and his house, and no power on earth can give him better or nobler blood than already flows in his veins. But with a woman it is different. She receives her husband's name and his rank; she becomes blood of his blood, and can in no manner affect his nobility. The sons of Countess Rhedern will still be the Counts Rhedern, although the mother is not of noble birth."

"True," said the queen, "this case is different from that of the adventurer Neal. The rank of her husband would be sufficient to permit us to draw a veil over the obscure birth of this new-made countess."

"And your majesty would then be the noble protectrice of our family," said the count, in a sweet and insinuating tone; "your majesty would not only restore my house to its ancient prestige, but you would retain the three millions of Mademoiselle Orguelin in Prussia; for if I should not be able to fulfil the condition which this lady has made, Mademoiselle Orguelin will marry a rich young Hollander, who is the commercial friend of her father, and has come here for the especial purpose of suing for the hand of his daughter."

"Ah, if that is the case, it becomes almost a duty to give you this girl, in order to prevent her millions from leaving the country," said the queen, smiling. "Be hopeful, count, your wish will be granted, and this little millionnaire, who longs to appear at court, shall have her desire. I will speak with my son on this subject to-day; and you may take it for granted that your request will meet with a favorable response."

And the queen, who was proud and happy to have an opportunity of showing the count how great was her influence with her royal son, graciously permitted him to kiss her hand, and listened well pleased to his exclamations of gratitude and devotion.

She then dismissed him with a gracious inclination of her head, requesting him to inform Madame von Brandt, whose laughing voice could be heard at a short distance, that she desired to see her.

While the count hurried off to execute the commission of his royal mistress, the queen walked on slowly and thoughtfully. Now that she was permitted to be a queen, her woman's nature again made itself felt; she found it quite amusing to have a hand in the love affairs which were going on around her, and to act the part of the beneficent fairy in making smooth the path of true love. Two of the first noblemen of her court had to-day solicited her kind offices in their love affairs, and both demanded of her the reestablishment of the prosperity and splendor of their houses.

The queen, as before said, felt flattered by these demands, and was in her most gracious humor when Madame von Brandt made her appearance. Their conversation was at first on indifferent subjects, but Madame von Brandt knew very well why the queen honored her with this interview, and kept the match in readiness to fire the train with which she had undermined the happiness and love of poor Laura von Pannewitz.

"Do you know," asked the queen suddenly, "that we have a pair of lovers at my court?"

"A pair of lovers!" repeated Madame von Brandt, and so apparent was the alarm and astonishment depicted in her countenance that the queen was startled.

"Is this, then, so astonishing?" asked the queen, smiling. "You express so much alarm that one might suppose we were living in a convent, where it is a crime to speak of love and marriage. Or were you only a little annoyed at not having heard of this love affair?"

"Your majesty," said Madame von Brandt, "I knew all about this affair, but had no idea that you had any knowledge of it."

"Certainly you must have known it, as Mademoiselle von Pannewitz is your friend, and has very naturally made you her confidant."

"Yes, I have been her confidant in this unhappy and unfortunate love," said Madame von Brandt, with a sigh; "but I can assure your majesty that I have left no arguments, no prayers, and even no threats untried to induce this poor young girl to renounce her sad and unfortunate love."

"Well, you might have saved yourself this trouble," said the queen, smiling; "for this love is not, as you say, a sad and unfortunate one, but a happy one! Count Voss came to me this morning as a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle von Pannewitz."

"Poor, unhappy Laura!" sighed Madame von Brandt.

"How!" exclaimed the queen, "you still pity her, when I assure you that hers is not an unhappy, but a happy love, reciprocated by Count Voss, who is a suitor for her hand?"

"But what has Count Voss to do with Laura's love?" asked Madame von Brandt, with such well-acted astonishment that the unsuspecting queen might very well be deceived.

"Truly this is a strange question," exclaimed the queen. "You have just told me that Mademoiselle von Pannewitz entertains an unfortunate attachment for Count Voss; and when I inform you that so far from hers being an unfortunate attachment, it is returned by Count Voss, who is at this moment a suitor for her hand, you ask, with an air of astonishment, 'What has Count Voss to do with Laura's love?'"

"Pardon me, your majesty, I did not say that my poor friend loved Count Voss."

"How!" exclaimed the queen, impatiently; "it is then not Count Voss? Pray, who has inspired her with this unfortunate love? Who is he? Do you know his name?"

"Your majesty, I know him; but I have vowed on the Bible never to mention his name."

"It was very inconsiderate in you to make such a vow," exclaimed the queen, impatiently.

"Your majesty, she who demanded it of me was my friend, and in view of her sorrow and tears I could not refuse a request by the fulfilment of which she would at least have the sad consolation of pouring out her sorrow and anguish into the bosom of a true and discreet friend. But the very friendship I entertain for her makes it my bounden duty to implore your majesty to sustain the offer of Count Voss with all the means at your command, and, if necessary, even to compel my poor Laura to marry him."

"How! You say she loves another, and still desire that I should compel her to marry Count Voss?"

"Your majesty, there is no other means of averting evil from the head of my dear Laura; no other means of preserving two noble hearts from the misery their unfortunate passions might produce. Laura is a noble and virtuous girl, but she loves, and would not long be able to withstand the passionate entreaties of her lover; she would hear no voice but that of him she loves."

"This love is then returned?" asked the queen.

"Oh, your majesty, Laura's maidenly pride would preserve her from an unrequited love."

"And still you call this love an unfortunate one?"

"I call it so because there are insurmountable obstacles in its way; an abyss lies between these lovers, across which they can never clasp hands. In order to be united they would have to precipitate themselves into its depths! Every word of love which these unfortunates utter is a crime—is high treason."

"High treason!" exclaimed the queen, whose eyes sparkled with anger. "Ah, I understand you now. This proud, arrogant girl raises her eyes to a height to which a princess of the blood alone can aspire. In her presumption this girl thinks to play the role of a La Valliere or a Maintenon. Yes, I now comprehend every thing—her pallor, her sighs, her melancholy, and her blushes, when I told her I expected the king and his court here to-day. Yes, it must be so. Mademoiselle von Pannewitz loves the—"

"Your majesty," exclaimed Madame von Brandt, imploringly, "have the goodness not to mention the name. I should have to deny it, and that would be an offence to your majesty; but if I should acknowledge it, I would be false to my vow and my friendship. In your penetration, your majesty has divined what I hardly dared indicate, and my noble queen now comprehends why an early marriage with Count Voss would be the best means of preserving the happiness of two noble hearts."

"Mademoiselle von Pannewitz will have to make up her mind to become the bride of Count Voss within the hour!" exclaimed the queen, imperiously. "Woe to her if in her arrogance she should refuse to give up a love against which the whole force of my royal authority shall be brought to bear."

"May your majesty follow the suggestions of your wisdom in all things! I only request that your majesty will graciously conceal from poor Laura that you discovered her unhappy secret through me."

"I promise you that," said the queen, who, forgetful of her royal dignity, in her angry impatience turned around and advanced hastily toward her suite, who, on her approach, remained standing in a respectful attitude.

At this moment a lacquey, dressed in the royal livery, was seen advancing from the palace; he approached the maid of honor then on duty, Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, and whispered a few words in her ear.

Hurrying forward, this young lady informed the queen that her majesty the reigning queen had just arrived, and desired to know if her majesty would receive her. The queen did not reply immediately. She looked scornfully at the young girl who stood before her, humbly and submissively, with downcast eyes, and although she did not look up at the queen, she seemed to feel her withering and scornful glances, for she blushed deeply, and an anxious expression was depicted on her countenance.

The queen observed that the blushing Laura was wonderfully beautiful, and in her passionate anger could have trodden her under foot for this presumptuous and treasonable beauty. She felt that it was impossible longer to remain silent, longer to defer the decision. The queen's anger fairly flamed within her, and threatened to break forth; she was now a passionate, reckless woman, nothing more; and she was guided by her passion and the power of her angry pride alone.

"I am going to receive her majesty," said Sophia Dorothea, with trembling lips. "Her majesty has presented herself unceremoniously, and I shall therefore receive her without ceremony. All of you will remain here except Mademoiselle von Pannewitz, who will accompany me."

CHAPTER XIII.

PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

The greeting of the two queens was over; the inquiries of politeness and etiquette had been exchanged; Sophia had offered Queen Elizabeth her hand and conducted her into the small saloon, where she was in the habit of receiving her family.

The door leading to the conservatory was open, and the two maids of honor could be seen within, standing with Laura, and asking questions in a low tone, to which she replied almost inaudibly. She felt that the decisive hour of her destiny was at hand, and she prayed that God would strengthen her for the coming trial. She trembled not for herself, but for her lover; for his dear sake she was determined to bear the worst, and bravely meet the shock; she would not yield, she would not die, for he would perish with her; in her heart of hearts, she renewed the oath of eternal love and eternal faith she had taken, and nerved herself for persecution and endurance. Suddenly she heard the harsh voice of the queen calling her name; she looked up, and saw her standing in the door.

"I beg the maids of honor to join the ladies in the garden; you, mademoiselle, will remain here; I have a few words to say to you."

The ladies bowed and left the conservatory. Laura remained alone; she stood with folded hands in the middle of the room; her cheek was deadly pale, her lips trembled, but her eyes were bright, and filled with a heroic and dreamy excitement. As Sophia called her name, Laura laid her hand upon her heart, as if to suppress its stormy beating, and with her head bowed meekly upon her breast she advanced submissively at the call of her mistress. At the door of the second saloon she remained standing, and awaited the further commands of the queen. As Sophia did not speak, Laura raised her eyes and looked timidly at the two queens, who were seated on a sofa opposite the door; they were both gazing at her, the queen-mother severely, with a proud and derisive smile, but Queen Elizabeth regarded with unutterable pity this poor girl, who reminded her of a broken lily.

"Mademoiselle von Pannewitz," said Sophia, after a long silence, "I have a matter of great importance to communicate to you, and as it admits of no delay, her majesty has allowed me to speak to you in her presence. Listen attentively, and weigh well my words. I have treated you with affectionate kindness; you have always found in me a friend and mother. I therefore require of you unconditional and silent obedience—an obedience that as your queen and mistress I have a right to demand. You are of a noble but poor family, and your parents cannot support you in the style suitable to your birth. I have adopted you, and will now establish for you a future which will be both splendid and happy. A rich and gallant cavalier has proposed for your hand, and as it is a most fitting and advantageous offer, I have accepted it for you, and promised your consent."

The queen ceased and looked piercingly at the young girl, who was still leaning against the door, silent and dejected. This dumb submission, this weak resignation revolted the queen; instead of softening her anger, she took this silence for defiance, this humility for stubbornness.

"You are not at all anxious, it appears, to learn the name of your future husband," she said, sharply; "perhaps the rapture of joy binds your tongue, and prevents you from thanking me for my motherly care."

"Pardon, your majesty," said Laura, raising her soft eyes to the harsh and severe countenance of the queen; "it was not joy that closed my lips, but reverence for your majesty; I feel no joy."

"You feel no joy!" cried the queen, with the cruel rage of the lion who seizes his prey and tears it in pieces when there is none to deliver. "Well, then, you will marry without joy, that is decided; and as you are too far above all womanly weakness to appear curious, I shall be obliged to name the happy man whose loving bride you are soon to be, that you make no mistakes, and perhaps, in the tenderness of your heart, render another than your appointed husband happy in your embraces." Laura uttered a low cry of anguish, and her cheeks, colorless until now, were dyed red with shame.

"Have pity, your majesty," murmured Elizabeth Christine, laying her hand softly on the shoulder of the queen; "see how the poor girl suffers."

Sophia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "Nonsense! do we not all suffer? have not I suffered? Is there a woman on God's earth whose heart is not half melted away with hot and unavailing tears?"

"It is true," said Elizabeth; "we have but one exclusive privilege—to weep and to endure."

The queen-mother turned again to Laura, who had checked her tears, but was still standing bowed down, and trembling before her.

"Well," said Sophia, "it still does not suit you to inquire the name of your lover, then I shall name him; mark well my words: it is Count Voss who has chosen you for his wife, and to him alone you have now to direct your heart and your tenderness."

Laura now raised her eyes and fixed them steadily upon this cruel mistress; her glance was no longer soft and pleading, but determined. The imperious manner of the queen, instead of intimidating the pale and gentle girl, awakened her to the consciousness of her own dignity. "Majesty," she said, with cool decision, "love is not given by command, it cannot be bestowed arbitrarily."

"By that you mean to affirm that you do not, and cannot love Count Voss," said the queen, suppressing her fury with difficulty.

"Yes, your majesty. I do not, I cannot love Count Voss."

"Well, then," cried Sophia, "you will marry him without love, and that speedily!"

Laura raised her head passionately; her eye met the queen's, but this time not humbly, not timidly, but decisively. From this moment, Sophia Dorothea was to her no longer a queen, but a cruel, unfeeling woman, who was trampling upon her soul and binding it in chains.

"Pardon, your majesty, as I have said that I do not love Count Voss, it follows of course that I will never marry him."

The queen sprang from her seat as if bitten by a poisonous reptile. "Not marry him!" she shrieked; "but I say you shall marry him! yes, if you have to be dragged with violence to the altar!"

"Then at the altar I will say no!" cried Laura von Pannewitz, raising her young face, beaming with courage and enthusiasm, toward heaven.

The queen uttered a wild cry and sprang forward; the lion was about to seize upon its prey and tear it to pieces, but Elizabeth Christine laid her hand upon the raised arm of the queen and held her back. "Majesty," she said, "what would you do? you would not force this poor girl to marry against her will; she does not love Count Voss, and she is right to refuse him."

"Ha! you defend her?" cried Sophia, brought to extremities by the resistance of the queen; "you have then no presentiment why she refuses the hand of Count Voss; you do not comprehend that when a poor dependent maid of honor refuses to marry a rich and noble cavalier, it is because she believes she has secured her future in another direction—because in the haughtiness of her vain, infatuated heart, she hopes through her beauty and well-acted coquetry to secure for herself a more brilliant lot. But, mark me! however charming and alluring that prospect may appear outwardly, even in its success there would be found nothing but infamy! She can never have the madness to believe that any priest in this land would dare to bind with the blessings of the Holy Church a love so boldly impudent, so traitorous; she can never hope to set her foot where only the lawful wife of a king can stand—where the sister of the king of England has stood! yes, where she still stands, and from whence she is resolved to repulse this miserable coquette, who hopes to conquer a throne through her shameless allurements."

Laura uttered a piercing scream, and with hands raised to heaven, she exclaimed, "My God! my God! can I bear this and live?"

The queen broke into a wild, mocking laugh. Elizabeth Christine looked, questioningly, at this scene, which she did not comprehend, but which touched her heart by its tragic power.

"It is a hard and cruel accusation which your majesty is bringing against this young girl; let us hope that Laura will know how to defend herself."

"Defend herself! look at her! look how my words have crushed her! how her proud, aspiring soul is checked! Believe me, Elizabeth, she, whom you so generously pity, understands my words better than your majesty; and she knows well of what I accuse her; but you, my daughter, shall know also; you have a right to know."

"Mercy! your majesty, mercy!" cried Laura, falling upon her knees and raising her arms pleadingly toward the queen; "speak no more! humble me no further! Do not betray my secret, which in your mouth becomes a denunciation! Let me remain even on the brink of the precipice, where you have dragged me! that is appalling, but cast me not down! So low and dust-trodden a creature is no longer worthy of the honor of approaching your majesty, I see that, and beg humbly for my dismissal, not as your majesty supposes, to lead an independent and happy, if still a shameful life, but to flee to some corner of the world, where alone and unseen I may weep over the beautiful and innocent dreams of my life, from which your majesty has awakened me so cruelly."

She was wonderfully beautiful in this position; those raised arms, that noble, transparently pale, tear-stained countenance. Sophia Dorothea saw it, and it made her feel more bitter, more cruel.

"Ah, she dares to reproach me," she cried, contemptuously; "she still has a slight consciousness of her shame; she trembles to hear what she did not tremble to do! Listen, my daughter, you that have for her so warm, so pitiful a heart; you who, when I have spoken, will detest and curse her as I do, and as you are entitled to do. Believe me, Elizabeth, I know all your suffering, all your sorrow; I know the secret history of your noble, proud, and silent heart. Ask that girl there of your grief and misery; ask her the reason of your lonely, tearful nights; demand of her your broken happiness, your crushed hopes; demand of her your husband's love, your soul's peace. Mademoiselle von Pannewitz can return them all to you, as she has taken them from you, for she is the mistress of the king."

"Mistress of the king!" said Elizabeth, with a painful cry, while Laura let her hands glide from her face, and looked at the queen with an astonished expression.

"Yes," repeated Sophia Dorothea, whose hot blood rushed so violently through her veins that her voice faltered, and she was scarcely able to retain an appearance of self-control; "yes, she is the mistress of the king, and therefore refuses to marry Count Voss! But patience, patience, she shall not triumph! and if she dares to love my son, the son of the queen, King Frederick of Prussia, I will remind her of Dorris Ritter, who loved him, and was beloved by him! This Dorris was flogged through the streets of Berlin, and cast out from amongst men."

Laura uttered so loud and fearful a cry that even the queen-mother was startled, and for a moment touched with pity for the poor, broken-hearted girl who lay at her feet, like a poor, wounded gazelle in the convulsive agonies of death.

But she would not give way to this pity; would not betray a weakness, of which she was ashamed. Taking the hand of the young queen and casting a look of disdain at Laura, she said, "Come, my daughter, we will no longer bear the presence of this person, whose tears, I hope, spring from repentance and acknowledgment of her offence; may she obtain our pardon by resolving to-day, of her own free will, and without forcing us to harsher measures, to accept the hand of Count Voss; come, my daughter."

The two queens stepped to the door. Sophia threw it open violently, and passed immediately into the boudoir, but Elizabeth did not follow her. She looked back at the poor sobbing girl lying upon the floor. The pale and noble face touched her womanly heart.

"Pardon, your majesty, if I do not follow immediately; I should like to say a few words to Mademoiselle von Pannewitz; I think I have a right to do so."

The queen-mother experienced a cruel pleasure at these words.

"Oh, my daughter, even your forbearance is exhausted, and you feel that forgiveness is impossible; yes, speak to her, and let her feel the whole weight of your righteous indignation. Words of reproach and accusation from your gentle lips will have a crushing power. But no delay—you know the king will soon be here."

The queen closed the door. She wished to hear nothing that passed between Elizabeth and Laura; she needed rest, in order to receive the king with composure.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MISUNDERSTANDING.

The young queen, the reigning queen, as she was called, was now alone with Laura von Pannewitz. She was for a moment speechless; strange, tempestuous feelings burned in the bosom of this gentle woman; she felt all the torments of rage and jealousy, and the humiliation of unrequited love.

Leaning against the wall, she looked frowningly at Laura, who was kneeling before her, wringing her hands and weeping piteously. How could a woman weep who could call that happiness her own—to possess which Elizabeth would cheerfully give years of her life? She had at last found the rival for whom she was despised; the destroyer of her happiness; the envied woman loved by Frederick!

As she saw this woman bathed in tears at her feet, an exulting joy for one moment filled her heart. But this violent emotion soon disappeared. Elizabeth was too true and noble a woman to give herself up long to such resentment. She felt, indeed, a melancholy pleasure in knowing that it was not coldness of heart, but love for another, which estranged the king from her; in the midst of her wild grief she was still just; and she acknowledged that this woman, whom the king loved, was more charming and more beautiful than herself.

The love Elizabeth bore her husband was so unselfish, so resigned, so magnanimous, that she felt grateful to the woman who could impart a happiness to the king it had never been in her power to bestow.

With a truly noble expression she approached the maid of honor, who, unconscious of the queen's presence, was still lying on the floor and weeping bitterly.

"Arise, Laura," said Elizabeth, gently. "How can a woman loved by the king be sad, or shed tears?"

Laura's hands fell slowly from her face; she checked her tears and looked piteously at the queen. "God, then, has heard my prayers," she said; "He does not wish your majesty to despise and condemn me; He permits me to clear myself before you!"

"Clear yourself," said Elizabeth. "Oh, believe me, in my eyes you need no justification. You are young, gay, beautiful, and witty; you have the rare art of conversation; you are cheerful and spirited. This has attracted Frederick; for this he loves you; in saying this, all is said. It is impossible for a woman to resist his love. I forgive you freely, fully. I have but one prayer to make you: resolve all your duties into one; fill your soul with one thought, make the king happy! This is all. I have nothing more to say; farewell!"

She was going, but Laura held her back. "Oh, your majesty," she cried imploringly, "listen to me! do not leave me under this cruel misconception—these insulting suppositions. Do not think I am so degenerate, so base, so entirely without womanly feeling, as not to feel myself amenable to the laws of the land and of the Church. Oh, believe me, the husband of my queen is sacred in my eyes! and even if I were so unhappy as to love the king, otherwise than as a true, devoted subject, I would rather die than cast one shadow on the happiness of your majesty. Unhappy and guilty as I am, I am no criminal. His majesty never distinguished me by word or look. I honored him, I revered him, and nothing more."

"Alas!" said the queen, "you are faint-hearted enough to deny him. You have not the courage to be proud of his love; you must, indeed, feel guilty."

"My God! my God!" cried Laura, passionately, "she does not believe me!"

"No, I do not believe you, Laura. I saw how you trembled and paled when the queen charged you with your love to her son, but I did not hear you justify yourself."

"Alas, alas!" murmured Laura, in so low a voice as not to be heard by the queen, "I did not know her majesty was speaking of her son Frederick."

"Deny it no longer," said Elizabeth; "acknowledge his love, for which all women will envy you, and for which I forgive you."

"Do not believe what the queen-mother told you!" cried Laura, passionately; "I have done you no wrong, I have no pardon to ask!"

"And I," said Elizabeth—"I make no reproaches; I do not wail and weep; I do not pass my nights, as the queen said, sleeplessly and in tears; I do not mourn over my lost happiness. I am content; I accept my fate—that is, if the king is happy. But if, perchance, this is not so, if you do not make his happiness your supreme object, then, Laura, I take back the forgiveness so freely given, and I envy you in my heart. Farewell."

"No, no, you must not, you shall not go! believe my words! have some pity, some mercy on me! O Heavenly Father, I have suffered enough without this! It needed not these frightful accusations to punish me for a love which, though unwise, yes, mad, is not criminal. As truly as God reigns, it is not the king I love. You turn away, you do not believe me still! Oh, your majesty." She stopped, her whole frame trembled—she had heard her lover's voice; God had sent him to deliver her, to clear her from these disgraceful suspicions.

The door opened, and Prince Augustus William entered; his countenance was gay and careless, he had come to see the queen-mother, and had been directed to this saloon. Already sportive and jesting words were on his lips, when he perceived this strange scene; Laura on her knees, pale and trembling, before the proud queen, who left her disdainfully in her humble position. It was a sight that the proud lover could not endure. The hot blood of the Hohenzollerns was raging. Forgetful of all consequences, he sprung to her side, raised her from the floor and clasped her to his heart. Then, trembling with anger, he turned to the queen. "What does this mean? Why were you in that position? Why were you weeping, Laura? You on your knees, my Laura! You, who are so innocent, so pure, that the whole world should kneel before and worship you! And you, Madame," turning to Elizabeth, "how can you allow this angel to throw herself in the dust before you? How dare you wound her? What did you say to bring anguish to her heart and flood her face with tears? Madame, I demand an answer! I demand it in the name of honor, justice, and love. Laura is my bride, it is my right to defend her."

"Now, now," said Laura, clinging wildly to her lover, "she will no longer believe that I love her husband."

"Your bride!" said the queen, with a sad sweet smile; "how young and trusting you are, my brother, to believe in the possibility of such a marriage."

"She will be my wife!" cried he passionately; "I swear it, and as truly as there is a God in Heaven I will keep my oath! I have courage to dare all dangers, to trample under foot all obstacles. I do not shun the world's verdict or the king's power. My love is pure and honest, it has no need to hide and veil itself; it shall stand out boldly before God, the king, and the whole world! Go, then—go, Madame, and repeat my words to the king; betray a love which chance, undoubtedly, revealed to you. It was, I suppose, the knowledge of this love which led you to wound and outrage this noble woman."

"It is true," said the queen, gently; "I did her injustice—I doubted her words, her protestations; but Laura knows that this offence was involuntary, it all arose from a mistake of the dowager-queen."

"How! my mother knows of our love!" said the prince, in amazement.

"No, she is convinced that Laura von Pannewitz loves and is beloved by the king; for this reason she heaped reproaches upon her, and commanded her to marry Count Voss, who has just proposed for her hand."

The prince clasped Laura more firmly. "Ah, they would tear you from me; but my arms will hold you and my breast will shield you, my darling. Do not tremble, do not weep, my Laura; arm in arm we will go to the king. I will lead you before my mother and the court, and tell them that you are my betrothed—that I have sworn to be true to you, and will never break my oath."

"Stop—be silent, for God's sake!" said Elizabeth; "do not let your mother hear you—do not let the king know your sad, perilous secret. If he knows it you are lost."

"Your majesty does not then intend to make known what you have heard," said the prince. "Have you the courage to conceal a secret from your husband?"

"Ah!" said the queen, with a sigh, "my life, thoughts, and feelings are a secret to him; I will but add this new mystery to the rest. Guard this secret, which will in the end bring you pain and sorrow. Be cautious, be prudent. Let the dowager queen still think that it is the king whom Laura loves, she will be less watchful of you. But now listen to my request; never speak to me of this love that chance revealed, and which I will seek to forget from this moment; never remind me of an engagement which in the eyes of the king and your mother would be unpardonable and punishable, and of which it would be my duty to inform them. As long as you are happy—that will be as long as your love is under the protection of secrecy—I will see nothing, know nothing. But when disaster and ruin break over you, then come to me; then you, my brother, shall find in me a fond, sympathizing sister, and you, poor, wretched girl, will find a friend who will open her arms to you, and will weep with you over your lost happiness."

"Oh, my queen!" cried Laura, pressing her hand to her lips; "how noble, how generous you are!"

Elizabeth drew the poor trembling girl to her heart and kissed her pale brow. "For those who weep and suffer there is no difference of rank, a strong bond of human sympathy unites them. I am for you, not the queen, but the sister who understands and shares your griefs. When you weary of hidden agony and solitary weeping come to me at Schonhausen; you will find there no gayeties, no worldly distractions, but a silent shady garden, in which I sometimes seem to hear God's voice comforting and consoling me. Here you can weep unnoticed, and find a friend who will not weary you with questions."

"I thank you, and I will come. Ah! I know I shall soon need this comfort, my happiness will die an early death!"

"And may I also come, my noble sister?" said the prince.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, smiling, "you may also come, but only when Laura is not with me. I now entreat you, for your own safety, to close this conversation. Dry your eyes, Laura, and try to smile, then go to the garden and call my maids of honor; and you, brother, come with me to the queen-mother, who is in her boudoir."

"No!" said the prince, fiercely; "I cannot see her now, I could not control myself. I could not seem quiet and indifferent while I am suffering such tortures."

"My brother," said the queen, "we princes have not the right to show how we suffer; it is the duty of all in our station to veil our feelings with a smile. Come, the queen, who is indignant and angry, will yet receive us with a smile; and we, who are so sorrowful, will also smile. Come."

"One word more to Laura," said the prince; and leading the young girl, who was endeavoring to suppress her emotion, to another part of the room, he threw his arm around her slender form, and pressed a kiss upon her fair cheek. "Laura, my darling, do you remember your oath? Will you be true and firm? Will my mother's threats and commands find you strong and brave? You will not falter? You will not accept the hand of Count Voss? You will let no earthly power tear you from me? They can kill me, Laura, but I cannot be untrue to myself or to you!" Augustus laid his hand upon her beautiful head; the whole history of her pure and holy love was written in the look and smile with which she answered him. "Do you remember that you promised to meet me in the garden?"

"I remember," said she, blushing.

"Laura, in a few days we will be separated. The king wishes to make an excursion incognito—he has ordered me to accompany him; I must obey."

"Oh, my God! they will take you from me! I shall never see you again!"

"We will meet again," said he encouragingly. "But you must grant me the comfort of seeing you once more before my departure, otherwise I shall not have the courage to leave you. The day for our journey is not yet determined; when it is fixed I will come to inform my mother of it in your presence. The evening before I will be in the conservatory and await you; will I wait in vain?"

"No," whispered Laura, "I will be there;" and as if fleeing from her own words, she hurried to the garden.

Prince Augustus William looked for his sister-in-law to accompany her to the queen; but she had withdrawn, she did not wish to witness their parting. Seeing this, the prince was on the point of following Laura to the garden, when the beating of drums was heard from without.

CHAPTER XV.

SOIREE OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER.

"The king is coming," whispered Augustus William, and he stepped towards the cabinet of the queen-mother. But the door was already opened, and the two queens hastened out; they wished to reach the garden saloon and there to welcome the king.

The expression of both ladies was restless and anxious. Sophia Dorothea feared the meeting with her son, who would, perhaps, in the inflamed, eyes of his beloved, read the history of the last hours; his kingly anger would be kindled against those who brought tears to her eyes. The queen confessed that she had gone too far—had allowed herself to be mastered by her scorn; she was embarrassed and fearful.

Elizabeth Christine was not restless, but deeply moved; her heart beat quickly at the thought of this meeting with her husband; she had not seen him since the day of the coronation, had not exchanged one single word with him since the ominous interview in her chamber at Rheinsberg. Not once on the day of the coronation had the king addressed her; and only once had he taken her hand. After the coronation he led her in the midst of the assembled court, and said with a clear and earnest voice: "Behold, this is your queen."

These ladies were so excited, so filled with their own thoughts that they hastened through the saloons, scarcely remarking the prince, who had stepped aside to allow them to pass. The queen-mother nodded absently and gave him a passing greeting, then turned again to Elizabeth, who had scarcely patience to conform her movements to the slow and measured steps of the queen-mother; she longed to look upon her husband's face once more.

"If Laura von Pannewitz complains to the king, we will have a terrific scene," said Sophia.

"She will not complain," replied Elizabeth.

"So much the worse, she will play the magnanimous, and I could less readily forgive that, than a complaint."

At this moment the door opened. The king, followed by his attendants and those of the two queens, entered the saloon. The two ladies greeted the king with smooth brows and thoughtless laughter. Nothing betrayed the restless anxiety reigning in their hearts. Frederick hastened to meet his mother, and bowing low he greeted her with loving and respectful words, and tenderly kissed her hand; then turning to his wife he bowed stiffly and ceremoniously; he did not extend his hand, did not utter a word. Elizabeth bowed formally in return, and forced back the hot tears which rushed into her eyes.

The face of the queen-mother was again gay and triumphant. The king knew nothing as yet; she must prevent him from speaking with Laura alone. She glanced around at the maid of honor, and saw that the young maiden, calm and unembarrassed, was conversing with the Prince Augustus William; her majesty was more than happy to see her son William entertaining the beautiful Laura. "Ah! now I know how to prevent the king from speaking to her alone," thought she.

Sophia was never so animated, so brilliant; her sparkling wit seemed even to animate the king. There was a laughing contest, a war of words, between them; piquant jests and intellectual bon mots, which seemed to the admiring courtiers like fallen stars, were scattered to right and left. The queen would not yield to her son, and indeed sometimes she had the advantage.

Queen Elizabeth stood sad and silent near them, and if by chance the eye of the king fell upon her, she felt that his glance was contemptuous; her pale cheeks grew paler, and it was with great effort she forced her trembling lips to smile.

The queen-mother proposed to her son and Elizabeth to walk in the garden, and then to have a simple dance in the brilliant saloons. The court mourning would not allow a regular ball at this time.

"But why should we seek for flowers in the garden," said the king; "can there be lovelier blossoms than those now blooming on every side?" His eye wandered around the circle of lovely maids of honor, who cast their eyes blushingly to the ground.

Six eyes followed this glance of Frederick with painful interest.

"He scarcely looked at Laura von Pannewitz," said the queen, with a relieved expression.

"He did not once glance toward me," thought Elizabeth, sighing heavily.

"His eye did not rest for more than a moment upon any woman here," thought Pollnitz; "so it is clear he has no favorite in this circle. I will, therefore, succeed with my beautiful Dorris."

Frederick wished to spare his mother the fatigue of a walk in the garden—she was lame and growing fleshy; he therefore led her to a seat, and bowing silently, he gave his left hand to his wife and placed her by his mother.

Sophia, who watched every movement and every expression of her royal son, observed the cruel silence which he maintained toward his wife, and she felt pity for the poor, pale, neglected queen. Sophia leaned toward the king, who stood hat in hand behind her divan, and whispered:

"I believe, my son, you have not spoken one word to your wife!"

The king's face clouded. "Madame," said he, in a low but firm tone, "Elizabeth Christine is my queen, but not my wife!" and, as if he feared a further explanation, he nodded to the Marquis Algarotti and Duke Chazot to come forward and take part in the conversation.

Suddenly a lady, who had not before been seen in the court circle, approached the two queens. This lady was of a wondrous pallor; she was dressed in black, without flowers or ornament; her deep sunken eyes were filled with feverish fire, and a painful smile played upon her lips, which were tightly pressed together, as if to force back a cry of despair.

No one recognised in this pale, majestic, gentle lady, the "Tourbillon," the joyous, merry, laughing Madame von Morien; no one could have supposed that her fresh and rosy beauty could, in a few months, assume so earnest and sad a character. This was the first time Madame von Morien had appeared at the court of the queen-mother; she was scarcely recovered from a long and dangerous illness. No one knew the nature of her disease, but the witty and ill-natured courtiers exchanged many words of mockery and double meaning on the subject.

It was said Madame von Morien was ill from the neglect of the king. She suffered from a chill, which, strange to say, had attacked the king, and not the beautiful coquette. Her disease was a new and peculiar cold, which did not attack the lungs, but seized upon the heart; the same disease, indeed, which prostrated Dido, upon the departure of the cruel AEneas.

The queen-mother received this pale, but still lovely woman, most graciously; gave her the royal hand to kiss, and smiled kindly.

"It is an age since we have seen you, fair baroness; it appears as if you will make yourself invisible, and forget entirely that we rejoice to see you."

"Your royal highness is most gracious to remind me of that," said Madame von Morien, in a low tone; "death had almost made me forget it, and assuredly I had not dared to approach you with this pale, thin face, had not your majesty's flattering command given me courage to do so."

There was something in the low, suffering voice of Madame von Morien which awakened sympathy, and even disarmed the anger of the queen Elizabeth. What bitter tears had she shed, what jealous agony endured, because of this enchanting woman! She saw her now for the first time since the fete at Rheinsberg. Looking into this worn and sorrowful face, she forgave her fully. With the instinct of a loving woman, the queen understood the malady of her rival; she felt that Madame von Morien was suffering from unrequited affection, and that despair was gnawing at her heart.

The king had now no glance, no greeting for his "enchanting Leontine;" he continued the conversation with Algarotti and Chazot quietly, and did not consider her profound and reverential salutation as worthy of the slightest notice.

Elizabeth Christine was pitiful; she gave her hand to be kissed, and spoke a few friendly, kindly words, which touched the heart of the beautiful Morien, and brought the tears to her eyes. The king, although standing near, did not appear even to see her.

"I have some news to announce to your majesty," he said, turning to the queen-mother. "We are about to make Berlin a temple of science and art, the seat of learning and knowledge. The Muses, should they desire to leave Olympus, shall receive a most hospitable reception. Now listen to the great news. In autumn Voltaire will visit us; and Maupertius, the great scholar, who first discovered the form of the earth, will come, as President of our Academy; and Buncauson, who understands some of the mysteries of God, will also come to Berlin. The celebrated Eulert will soon belong to us."

"This is indeed glorious news," said Sophia; "but I fear that your majesty, when surrounded with so many scholars, philosophers, and historians, will entirely forget the poor ignorant women, and banish them from your learned court."

"That would be to banish happiness, beauty, mirth, and the graces; and no one would expect such barbarism from the son of my noble and exalted mother," said Frederick. "Even the Catholic Church is wise enough to understand that in order to draw men into their nets, the Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost is not sufficient, they have also called a lovely woman to their assistance, whose beauty and pure mysterious maidenhood is the finest, most piquant and intoxicating perfume of their gaudy religion. And what would the great painters have been without women—without their lovely, their bewitching sweethearts, whom they changed into holy maidens? From luxurious women were designed the modest, shrinking Magdalens, before whose mysterious charms the wise children of men bow the knee in adoration. Ah, how many Madonnas has Raphael painted from his Fornarina! and Correggio had the art to change his bewitching wife into a holy saint. I must confess, however, we owe Correggio but small thanks; I should have been more grateful had he painted us a glowing woman, radiant with beauty, grace, and love. I, for my part, have a true disgust for weeping, sighing Magdalens, who, when wearied with earthly loves and passions, turn half way to heaven, and swear to God the same oaths they have a thousand times sworn to men and a thousand times broken. Now, if I were in God's place, I would not accept these wavering saints. For my part I hate these pale, tearful, sighing, self-destroying beauties, and the farcical exhibition of their sufferings would never soften my heart."

While the king was speaking his eye turned for the first time toward Madame von Morion, and his glance rested long, with a cold and piercing expression, upon her. She had heard every word he had spoken, and every word was like a cold poisoned dagger in her heart; she felt, although her eyes were cast down, that his stern look rested upon her; she was conscious of this crushing glance, although she saw it not; she had the power not to cry out, not to burst into passionate tears, but to reply quietly to the queen, who in fact questioned her, only with the good-humored intention of drowning the hard and cruel words of the king.

The queen wished to lead the conversation from the dangerous topic of religion and give it another direction. "My son," she said, "you have forgotten to mention another great surprise you have prepared for us. You say nothing of the German and French journals which you have presented to our good city of Berlin; but I assure you I await with true impatience the day on which these journals appear, and I am profoundly interested in these new and charming lectures which make of politics an amusing theme, and give us all the small events of the day."

"Let us hope," said Frederick, "that these journals will also tell us in the future of great events." Then assuming a gay tone he said: "But your majesty forgets that you promised the ladies a dance, and see how impatiently the little princesses look toward us; my sister Amelia is trying to pierce me with her scornful glances, because I have forced her to sit in her arm-chair like a maid of honor, for such a weary time, when she longs to float about like a frolicsome zephyr. To put a stop to her reproaches I will ask her to give me the first dance."

The king took his sister's hand and led her into the dancing saloon.

The queens and court followed. "Now without doubt he will seek an opportunity to speak to Laura von Pannewitz," thought the queen-mother; "I must take measures to prevent it." She called Prince Augustus William to her side. "My son," said she, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Oh, your majesty has only to command."

"I know that you are a good son, willing to serve your mother. Listen; I have important reasons for wishing that the king should not converse to-night, at least not alone, with Laura von Pannewitz; I will explain my reasons to you another time. I beg you, therefore, to pay court to Laura, and not to leave her side should the king draw near. You will appear not to see his angry glances, but without embarrassment join in the conversation, and not turn away from Laura until the king has taken leave. Will you do this for me, my son?"

"I will fulfil your royal commands most willingly," said the prince, "only it will be said that I am making love to Laura von Pannewitz."

"Well, let them say so, Laura is young and lovely, and does credit to your taste. Let the court say what it will, we will not make ourselves unhappy. But hasten, my son, hasten; it appears to me the king is even now approaching Laura."

The prince bowed to his mother, and with joy in his heart he placed himself by the side of his beloved.

The queen-mother, entirely at ease, took her seat at the card-table with her daughter-in-law and their cavaliers, while the king amused himself in the ball-room, and danced a tour with almost every lady. He did not dance with Leontine; not once did his eye meet hers, though her glances followed him everywhere with a tender, beseeching, melancholy expression.

"So sad!" whispered Madame von Brandt, who, glowing with beauty and merriment, having just danced with the king, now took a seat by her side.

Madame von Morien with a sigh held out her small hand. "Dear friend," said she, in a low voice, "you were right. I should not have come here; I thought myself stronger than I am; I thought my mourning would touch him, and awaken at least his pity."

"Pity!" laughed Madame von Brandt; "men never have pity for women: they worship or despise them; they place us on an altar or cast us in the dust to be trodden under foot. We must take care, dear Leontine, to build the altar on which they place us so high, that their arms cannot reach us to cast us down."

"You are right; I should have been more prudent, wiser, colder. But what would you? I loved him, and believed in his heart."

"You believed in the heart of a man! Alas! what woman can boast that she ever closed that abyss and always retained the keys?"

"Yes, the heart of man is an abyss," said Madame von Morien; "in the beginning it is covered with flowers, and we believe we are resting in Paradise; but the blossoms wither, and will no longer support us; we fall headlong into the abyss with wounded hearts, to suffer and to die."

Madame von Brandt laid her hand, glittering with jewels, upon the shoulder of her friend, and looked derisively into the poor pale face. "Dear Morien," said she, "we cannot justly cast all the blame upon the men, when the day comes in which they make themselves free from the bonds of love. The fault is often the woman's. We misuse our power, or do not properly use it. It is not enough to love and to be loved. With love we must also possess the policy of love. This policy is necessary. The women who do not know how to govern the hearts which love them will soon lose their power. So was it with you, my dear friend; in your love you were too much the woman, too little the politician and diplomatist; and instead of wisely making yourself adored, by your coldness and reserve you yielded too much to your feelings, and have fallen into that abyss in which, poor Leontine, you have for the moment lost your health and strength. But that must not remain the case; you shall rise from this abyss, proud, triumphant, and happy. I offer you my hand; I will sustain you: while you sigh I will think for you; while you weep I will see for you."

Madame von Morien shook her head sadly. "You will only see that he never looks at me—that I am utterly forgotten."

"But when I see that, I will shut my eyes that I may not see it; and when you see it, you must laugh gayly and look the more triumphant. Dear friend, what has love made of you? Where is your judgment and your coquetry? My God! you are a young maiden again, and sigh like a child for your first love. However tender we may be, we must not sacrifice all individuality; besides, being a woman you must still be a coquette, and in a corner of your most tender and yielding heart you must ever conceal the tigress, who watches and has her claws ready to tear in pieces those whom you love, if they ever seek to escape from you. Cease, then, to be the neglected, tear-stained Magdalen, and be again the revengeful, cruel tigress. You have, besides, outside of your love, a glittering aim—a member of the Female Order of Virtue. To wear the cross of modesty upon your chaste breast, what an exalted goal! And you will reach it. I bring you the surest evidence of it; I bring you, as you wished, a letter from the empress, written with her own hand. You see all your conditions are fulfilled. The empress writes to you and assures you of her favor; she assures you that the Order of Virtue will soon be established. The king has not separated from his wife, and for this reason you receive a letter from the empress. Now help to bring about the marriage of the Prince Augustus William with the Princess of Brunswick, and you will be an honored member of the Austrian Order of Virtue. Here, take at once this letter of the empress."

Madame von Brandt put her hand in her pocket to get the letter, but turned pale, and said, breathlessly: "My God! this letter is not in my pocket, and yet I know positively that I placed it there. A short time before I joined you I put my hand in my pocket, and distinctly felt the imperial seal. The letter was there, I know it. What has become of it? Who has taken it away from me? But no, it is not possible, it cannot be lost! I must have it; it must still be in my pocket."

Trembling with anxiety, with breathless haste Madame von Brandt emptied her pocket, hoping that the luckless letter might be sticking to her gold-embroidered handkerchief, or fastened in the folds of her fan. She did not remember that her anxiety might be observed; and truly no one noticed her, all were occupied with their own pleasures. All around her was movement, life, and merry-making; who would observe her? She searched again in vain, shook her handkerchief, unfolded the large fan; the letter could not be found. An indescribable anxiety overpowered her; had she lost the letter? had it been stolen from her? Suddenly she remembered that while engaged a short time before with Pollnitz she had drawn out her fan; perhaps at the same time the letter had fallen upon the floor, and Pollnitz might have found it, and might now be looking for Madame von Morien in order to restore it. She searched in every direction for Pollnitz.

Madame von Morien had not remarked the anguish of her friend, or had forgotten it. She was again lost in dreams; her eyes fastened on the face of the young king, she envied every lady whose hand he touched in the dance, to whom he addressed a friendly word, or gave a gracious smile. "I see him no more," said she sadly.

"Who?" said Madame von Brandt, once more searching her pocket.

"The king," Morien answered, surprised at the question; "he must have left the saloon; I saw him a few moments since in conversation with Pollnitz."

"With Pollnitz," said she eagerly, and she searched again in every direction for him.

Suddenly Madame von Morien uttered a low cry, and a rosy blush overspread her fair pale face; she had seen the king, their eyes had met; the sharp, observant glance of the king was steadily and sternly fixed upon her.

The king stood in a window corner, half hidden by the long, heavy silk curtains, and gazed ever steadily at the two ladies.

"I see the king," murmured Madame von Morien.

"And I see Pollnitz standing near him," said Madame von Brandt, whose eyes had followed the direction of her friend's. She thrust her handkerchief into her pocket and opened her fan in order to hide her reddened face behind it; the king's piercing look filled her with alarm. "Let us walk through the saloons, dear Morien," said she, rising up, "the heat chokes me, and I would gladly search a little for the letter; perhaps it may yet be found."

"What letter?" asked Madame von Morien, indifferently. Her friend stared at her and said:

"My God! you have not heard one word I have said to you!"

"Oh, yes, that you had a letter to give me from the Empress of Austria."

"Well, and this letter I have lost here in these saloons."

"Some one will find it; and as it is addressed to me, will immediately restore it."

"Dear Morien, I pray you in God's name do not seem so quiet and indifferent. This is a most important affair. If I did not leave this letter in my room, and have really lost it, we are in danger of being suspected; in fact, in the eyes of the king we will be considered as spies of Austria."

At the name of the king Madame von Morien was attentive and sympathetic.

"But no one can read this letter. Was it sealed?"

"Yes, it was sealed; but, look you, it was sealed with the private seal of the empress, and her name stands around the Austrian arms. Without opening the letter it will be known that it is from the Empress of Austria, and will awaken suspicion. Hear me further; this letter was enveloped in a paper which had no address, but contained some words which will compromise us both if it is known that this letter was addressed to me."

"What was written in this paper?" said Madame von Morien, still looking toward the king, who still stood in the window niche, and kept his eyes fixed upon the two ladies.

"The paper contained only the following words: 'Have the goodness to deliver this letter; you see the empress keeps her word; we must do the same and forget not our promises. A happy marriage is well pleasing in the sight of God and man; the married woman is adorned, the man crowned with virtue.'"

"And this letter was signed?"

"No, it was not signed; but if it falls into the hands of the king, he will know from whom it comes; he is acquainted with the handwriting of Manteuffel."

"Come! come! let us look to it!" said Madame von Morien, now full of anxiety; "we must find this unfortunate paper; come!"

She took the arm of her friend and walked slowly through the saloons, searching everywhere upon the inlaid floor for something white.

"You are right," said the king, coming from the window and following the ladies with his eyes; "you are right. They are both searching anxiously, and it was surely Madame von Brandt to whom the outer covering of this letter was directed. Let them seek; they will find as little as the eleven thousand virgins found. But now listen, baron, to what I say to you. This whole affair remains a secret known to no one. Listen well, baron; known to no one! You must forget that you found this letter and gave it to me, or you will believe it to be a dream and nothing more."

"Yes, your majesty," said Pollnitz, smiling; "a dream, such as Eckert dreamed, when he supposed the house in Jager Street to be his, and awaked and found it to belong to your highness!"

"You are a fool!" said the king, smiling; he nodded to Pollnitz and joined the two queens, who had now finished their game of cards and returned to the saloon.

The queen-mother advanced to meet her son, and extended her hand to him; she wished now to carry out her purpose and fulfil the promise given to Duke Rhedern. She did not doubt that the king, who received her with so much reverence and affection, would grant her request, and the court would be again witness to the great influence, and indeed the unbounded power which she had over her son. She stood with the king directly under the chandelier, in the middle of the saloon; near them stood the reigning queen and the princes and princesses of the royal house. It was an interesting picture. It was curious to observe this group, illuminated by the sharp light, the faces so alike and yet so different in expression; blossoms from one stem, and yet so unlike in greatness, form, and feature. The courtiers drew near, and in respectful silence regarded the royal family, who, bathed in a sea of light, were in the midst of them but not of them.

"My son," said the queen, in a clear, silvery voice, "I have a request to make of you." The king kissed his mother's hand.

"Madame, you well know you have no need of entreaty; you have only to command." Sophia smiled proudly.

"I thank your majesty for this assurance! Listen, then, my chamberlain, Duke Rhedern, wishes to marry. I have promised him to obtain your consent."

"If my royal mother is pleased with the choice of her chamberlain, I am, of course, also content; always provided that, the chosen bride of the duke belongs to a noble family. What is the rank of this bride?"

The queen looked embarrassed, and smiling, said: "She has no rank, your majesty."

The king's brow darkened, "She was not born, then, to be a duchess. Your chamberlain would do better to be silent over this folly than to force a refusal from me. I hate misalliances, and will not suffer them at my court."

These loudly spoken and harsh words produced different impressions upon the family circle of the king; some were cast down, others joyful; some cheeks grew pale, and others red. Sophia blushed from pleasure; she was now convinced that the king would not seek a divorce from his wife, in order to form a morganatic marriage with Laura von Pannewitz; and the queen-mother was of too noble and virtuous a nature herself to believe in the possibility of a mistress at the court of Prussia. The love of the king for the lovely Laura appeared now nothing more than a poetical idyl, which would soon pass away—nothing more! The words of the king made a painful impression upon Augustus William; his brow clouded, his features assumed a painful but threatening expression; he was in the act of speaking, and opposing in the name of humanity and love those cruel words of the king, as Elizabeth Christine, who stood near him and observed him with tender sympathy, whispered lightly:

"Be silent, my brother; be considerate."

The prince breathed heavily, and his glance turned for comfort toward the maids of honor. Laura greeted him with her eyes, and then blushed deeply over her own presumption. Strengthened by this tender glance from his beautiful bride, Augustus was able to assume a calm and indifferent mien.

In the meantime the queen-mother was not silenced by the words of the king. Her pride rebelled against this prompt denial in the face of her family and the court. Besides, she had given her royal word to the count, and it must be redeemed. She urged, therefore, her request with friendly earnestness, but the king was immovable. Sophia, angry at the opposition to her will, was even the more resolved to carry out her purpose. She had a few reserved troops, and she decided to bring them now into the field.

"Your majesty should, without doubt, protect your nobles from unworthy alliances; but there are exceptional cases, where the interest of the nobility would be promoted by allowing such a union." Sophia Dorothea drew nearer to her son, and whispered lightly: "Count Rhedern is ruined, and must go to the ground if you forbid this marriage."

The king was now attentive and sympathetic. "Is the lady very rich?"

"Immensely rich, sire. She will bring the duke a million dollars; she is the daughter of the rich silk merchant Orguelin."

"Ah, Orguelin is a brave man, and has brought much gold into Prussia by his fabrics," said the king, who was evidently becoming more yielding.

"It would be a great pity if this gold should be lost to Prussia," said the queen.

"What do you mean, madame?"

"This Mademoiselle Orguelin, thanks to her riches, has many lovers, and at this time a young merchant from Holland seeks her hand; he has the consent of her father, and will also obtain hers, unless the count knows how to undermine him," said the queen, thus springing her last mine.

"This must not be," said the king; "this Orguelin shall not marry the rich Hollander! Those millions of crowns shall not leave Prussia!"

"But your majesty cannot prevent this girl from marrying the man of her choice, and you cannot forbid her father to give her a portion of his fortune."

The king was silent a moment, and appeared to consider. He then said to his mother: "Madame, you are an eloquent advocate for your client, and no man can withstand you. I give way, therefore; Count Rhedern has my consent to marry the Orguelin."

"But even THAT is not sufficient," said the queen; "there is yet another condition, without the filling of which this proud millionnaire refuses to give her hand to the duke."

"Ah, look you, the little bourgeoise makes conditions before she will wed a count."

"Yes, sire, she will become the wife of the count only with the count's assurance that she will be presented at court, and be received according to her new rank."

"Truly," said the king, with ironical laughter, "this little millionnaire thinks it an important point to appear at my court."

"It appears so, sire; it seems that this is a greater glory than to possess a count for a husband."

The king looked thoughtfully before him, then raised his eyes to his mother with a mocking smile. "Mother, you know I can refuse you nothing; and as you wish it, Mademoiselle Orguelin, when she is married, shall be received at my court as a newly baked countess. But petition for petition, favor for favor. I promise you to receive this new baked countess if you will promise me to receive the Count Neal at your court?"

"Count Neal," said the queen, "your majesty knows—"

"I know," said the king, bowing, "I know that Count Neal is of as good family as the new Countess of Rhedern; that he possesses many millions which I have secured to Prussia by granting him his title. So we understand each other. The new baked countess will be as well received at my court as Count Neal will at yours."

He gave the queen his hand, she laid hers unwillingly within it, and whispered: "Ah, my son, you have cruelly overreached me."

"Madame, we secure in this way three millions for Prussia, and they weigh more than a few countly ancestors. The Prussia of the future will triumph in battle through her nobles; but she will become greater, more powerful, through the industry of her people than by victory on the battle-field."

CHAPTER XVI.

UNDER THE LINDENS.

Linden Street, of Berlin, which is now the most brilliant and most beautiful thoroughfare of that great city, was, in the year 1740, a wild and desolate region.

Frederick the First loved pomp and splendor. His wife, when told upon her death-bed how much the king would mourn for her, said, smiling: "He will occupy himself in arranging a superb funeral procession; and if this ceremony is very brilliant, he will be comforted."

Frederick the First planted the trees from which this street takes its name, to render the drive to the palace of Charlottenburg more agreeable to the queen, and to conceal as much as possible the desolate appearance of the surroundings; for all this suburb lying between the arsenal and the zoological garden was at that time a desolate and barren waste. The entire region, extending from the new gate to the far-distant Behren Street, was an immense mass of sand, whose drear appearance had often offended Frederick while he was still the prince royal. Nothing was to be seen, where now appear majestic palaces and monuments, the opera house and the catholic church, but sand and heaps of rubbish. Frederick William the First had done much to beautify this poor deserted quarter, and to render it more fitting its near neighborhood to the palaces, which were on the other side of the fortifications; but the people of Berlin had aided the king very little in this effort. None were willing to banish themselves to this desolate and remote portion of the city, and the few stately and palatial buildings which were erected there were built by the special order of the king, and at his expense. Some wealthy men of rank had also put up a few large buildings, to please the king, but they did not reside in them, and the houses themselves seemed almost out of place. One of these large and stately houses had not been built by a Count Dohna, or a Baron von Pleffen, or any other nobleman, but by the most honorable and renowned court tailor Pricker; and for the last few days this house had rejoiced in a new and glittering sign, on which appeared in large gilt letters, "Court Tailor to her majesty the dowager queen, and to her majesty the reigning queen." But this house, with its imposing inscription, was also surrounded by dirty, miserable cabins. In its immediate neighborhood was the small house which has already been described as the dwelling of poor Anna Schommer.

A deep and unbroken silence reigned in this part of Berlin, and the equipages of the royal family and nobility were rarely seen there, except when the king gave an entertainment at Charlottenburg.

But to-day a royal carriage was driven rapidly from the palace through this desolate region, and toward the Linden Avenue. Here it stopped, and four gentlemen alighted. They were the king; the royal architect, Major Knobelsdorf; the grand chamberlain, Von Pollnitz; and Jordan, the head of police and guardian of the poor.

The king stood at the beginning of the Linden Avenue, and looked earnestly and thoughtfully at the large desolate surface spread out before him; his clear bright glance flew like lightning here and there.

"You must transform this place for me, Knobelsdorf; you must show yourself a very Hercules. You have the ability, and I will furnish the money. Here we will erect a monument to ourselves, and make a glorious something of the nothing of this desert. We will build palaces and temples of art and of religion. Berlin is at present without every thing which would make it a tempting resort for the Muses. It is your affair, Knobelsdorf, to prepare a suitable reception for them."

"But the Muses are willing to come without that," said Pollnitz, with his most, graceful bow, "for they would discover here the young god Apollo, who, without doubt, found it too tiresome in heaven, and has condescended to become an earthly king."

The king shrugged his shoulders. "Pollnitz," he said, "you are just fitted to write a book of instructions for chamberlains and court circles; a book which would teach them the most honied phrases and the most graceful flatteries. Why do you not compose such a work?"

"It is absolutely necessary, your majesty, in order to write a book to have a quiet study in your own house, Where you can arrange every thing according to your own ideas of comfort and convenience. As I do not at present possess a house, I cannot write this book."

The king laughed and said: "Well, perhaps Knobelsdorf can spare a small spot here, on which to erect your Tusculum. But we must first build the palace of the queen-mother, and a few other temples and halls. Do you not think, Jordan, that this is a most suitable place on which to realize all those beautiful ideals of which we used to dream at Rheinsberg? Could we not erect our Acropolis here, and our temples to Jupiter and Minerva?"

"In order to convince the world that it is correct in its supposition," said Jordan, smiling, "that your majesty is not a Christian, but a heathen, who places more faith in the religion of the old Greeks than in that of the new Church fathers."

"Do they say that? Well, they are not entirely wrong if they believe that I have no great admiration for popery and the Church. This Church was not built by Christ, but by a crafty priesthood. Knobelsdorf, on this spot must stand the temple of which I have so often dreamed. There is space to accomplish all that fancy could suggest or talent execute."

"Then the palace of the dowager queen must not be placed here?" asked Knobelsdorf.

"No, not here; this place has another destination, of which I will speak further to you this evening, and learn if my plan has your approval. I dare say my most quarrelsome Jordan will make some objections. Eh bien, nous verrons. We will proceed and seek a situation for the palace of the queen."

"If your majesty will permit me," said Pollnitz, while the king with his three companions passed slowly down the Linden Avenue, "I will take the liberty of pointing out to you a spot, which appears most suitable to me for this palace. It is at the end of the avenue, and at the entrance to the park; it is a most beautiful site, and there would be sufficient room to extend the buildings at will."

"Show us the place," said the king, walking forward.

"This is it," said Pollnitz, as they reached the end of the avenue.

"It is true," said the king, "here is space enough to erect a palace. What do you think, Knobelsdorf, will this place answer?"

"We must begin by removing all those small houses, your majesty; that would, of course, necessitate their purchase, for which we must obtain the consent of the possessors, who would, many of them, be left shelterless by this sudden sale."

"Shelterless!" said the king; "since Jordan has become the father of the poor, none are shelterless," as he glanced toward his much-beloved friend. "This spot seems most suitable to me. The palace might stand on this side; on that a handsome public building, perhaps the library, and uniting the two a lofty arch in the Grecian style. We will convert that wood into a beautiful park, with shady avenues, tasteful parterres, marble statues, glittering lakes, and murmuring streams."

"Only a Frederick could dream it possible to convert this desolate spot into such a fairy land," said Jordan, smiling. "For my part, I see nothing here but sand, and there a wood of miserable stunted trees."

The king smiled. "Blessed are they who believe without having seen," he said. "Well, Knobelsdorf, is there room here to carry out our extensive plans?"

"Certainly; and if your majesty will furnish me with the requisite funds, the work can be begun without delay."

"What amount will be required?"

"If it is all executed as your majesty proposes, at least a million."

"Very well, a million is not too much to prepare a pleasure for the queen-mother."

"But," said Pollnitz, "will not your majesty make those poor people acquainted with their fate, and console them by a gracious word for being compelled to leave their homes? It has only been a short time since I was driven by the rain to take shelter in one of those houses, and it made me most melancholy, for I have never seen such want and misery. There were starving children, a woman dying of grief, and a drunken man. Truly as I saw this scene I longed to be a king for a few moments, that I might send a ray of happiness to brighten this gloomy house, and dry the tears of these wretched people."

"It must have been a most terrible sight if even Pollnitz was distressed by it," cried the king, whose noble countenance was overshadowed with sorrow. "Come, Jordan, we will visit this house, and you shall assist in alleviating the misery of its inhabitants. You, Knobelsdorf, can occupy yourself in making a drawing of this place. Lead the way, Pollnitz."

"My desire at last attained," thought Pollnitz, as he led the king across the common. "It has been most difficult to bring the king here, but I am confident my plan will succeed. Dorris Ritter doubtless expects us; she will have considered my words, and yielding to her natural womanly coquetry, she will have followed my counsel, and have made use of the clothing I sent her yesterday."

They now stood before the wretched house which Pollnitz had indicated.

"This house has truly a most gloomy appearance," said the king.

"Many sad tears have been shed here," said Pollnitz, with the appearance of deep sympathy.

The door of the shop was merely closed; the king pushed it open, and entered with his two companions. No one came forward to meet them; silence reigned in the deserted room.

"Permit me, your majesty, to go into that room and call the woman; she probably did not hear us enter."

"No, I will go myself," said the king; "it is well that I should occasionally seek out poverty in its most wretched hiding-place, that I may learn to understand its miseries and temptations."

"Ah! my king," said Jordan, deeply touched, "from to-day your people will no longer call you their king, but their father."

The king stepped quickly to the door which Pollnitz had pointed out; the two gentlemen followed, and remained standing behind him, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

The king crossed the threshold, and then stood motionless, gazing into the room. "Is it possible to live in such a den?" he murmured.

"Yes, it is possible," replied a low, scornful voice; "I live here, with misery for my companion."

The king was startled by this voice, and turned toward that side of the room from which it proceeded; only then seeing the woman who sat in the farthest corner. She remained motionless, her hands folded on her lap; her face was deadly pail, but of a singularly beautiful oval; the hair encircling her head in heavy braids, was of a light, shining blond, and had almost the appearance of a halo surrounding her clear, pale face, which seemed illumined by her wonderful eyes.

"She has not made use of the things which I sent," thought Pollnitz; "but I see she understands her own advantages. She is really beautiful; she looks like a marble statue of the Virgin Mary in some poor village church."

The king still stood gazing, with an earnest and thoughtful expression, at this woman, who looked fixedly at him, as if she sought to read his thoughts. But he remained quiet, and apparently unmoved. Did the king recognize this woman? did he hear again the dying melodies of his early youth? was he listening to their sweet, but melancholy tones? Neither Pollnitz nor Dorris Ritter could discover this in his cold, proud face.

Jordan broke this silence by saying gently, "Stand up, my good woman, it is the king who is before you."

She rose slowly from her seat, but her countenance did not betray the least astonishment or pleasure.

"The king!" she said; "what does the king desire in this den of poverty and misery?"

"To alleviate both poverty and misery if they are undeserved," said the king softly.

She approached him quickly, and made a movement as if she would offer him her hand. "My wretchedness is undeserved," she said, "but not even a king can alleviate it."

"Let me, at least, attempt to do so. In what can I assist you?"

She shook her head sadly. "If King Frederick, the son of Frederick William the First, does not know, then I do not."

"You are poor, perhaps in want?"

"I do not know—it is possible," she said absently; "how can I among so many pains and torments distinguish between despair and anguish, and want and privation?"

"You have children?"

"Yes," she said, shuddering, "I have children, and they suffer from hunger; that I know, for they often pray to me for bread, when I have none to give them."

"Why does not their father take care of them; perhaps he is not living?"

"He lives, but not for us. He is wiser than I, and forgets his grief in drink, while I nourish the gnawing viper at my heart."

"You have, then, nothing to ask of me?" said the king, becoming indignant.

She gazed at him long and searchingly, with her great piercing eyes. "No," she said harshly. "I have nothing to ask."

At this moment the door was thrown open, and the two children, Karl and Anna, ran in, calling for their mother; but they became silent on perceiving the strangers, and crept shyly to her side. Dorris Ritter was strangely moved by the appearance of her children; her countenance, which had borne so hard an expression, became mild and gentle. She grasped the hands of the two children, and with them approached the king.

"Yes, your majesty, I have a petition to make. I implore your pity for my children. They are pure and innocent as God's angels; let not the shame and misery of their parents fall upon their heads. King Frederick, have pity on my children!"

And overcome by her emotions and her anguish, this unhappy woman sank with her children at the feet of the king. The king regarded her thoughtfully, then turned to Jordan.

"Jordan," said he, "to you I intrust the care of these children."

The wretched woman started to her feet, and pressed her children to her arms with an expression as terrified and full of agony as that of the noble and touching statue of the Greek Niobe.

"Ah! you would tear my children from me! No, no, I ask nothing; we need no mercy, no assistance; we will suffer together; do not separate us. They would cease to love me; they would learn to despise me, their mother, who only lives in their presence; who, in the midst of all her sorrow and grief, thanks God daily upon her bended knees that he gave her these children, who alone have saved her from despair and death."

"You have uttered very wild and godless words," said the king. "You should pray to God to make your heart soft and humble. To be poor, to suffer from hunger, to have a drunken husband, are great misfortunes, but they can be borne if you have a pure conscience. Your children shall not be parted from you. They shall be clothed and taught, and I will also see what can be done for you. And now farewell."

And the king, bowing slightly, turned toward the door, and in doing so placed a few pieces of gold on the table. Dorris had watched every movement; she started wildly forward and seized the gold, which she handed to the king.

"Your majesty," she said, with flashing eyes, "I only implored mercy for my children; I did not beg for myself. My sufferings cannot be wiped out with a few pieces of gold."

The countenance of the king assumed a most severe expression, and he threw an annihilating glance on this bold woman, who dared to oppose him.

"I did not give the gold to you, but to your children," he said; "you must not rob them." He then continued more gently: "If you should ever need and desire assistance, then turn to me; I will remember your poverty, not your pride. Tell me your name, therefore, that I may not forget."

The poor, pale woman glanced searchingly at him. "My name," she said thoughtfully, as if to herself, "King Frederick wishes to know my name. I am called—I am called Anna Schommer."

And as she replied, she placed her hand upon the head of her little daughter, as if she needed a support. Thus she stood trembling, but still upright, with head erect, while the king and his suite turned toward the door. Her son, who had kept his eyes upon the king, now followed him and lightly touched his mantle.

His mother saw it, and raising her arm threateningly, while with the other she still supported herself by leaning on her child, she cried: "Do not touch him, my son. Kings are sacred."

Frederick, already standing on the threshold, turned once more; his great, luminous eyes rested inquiringly on this pale, threatening figure. An indescribably sad smile played upon his features, but he spoke no word; and slowly turning, he passed through the door, and hurried silently from the shop.

Dorris Ritter uttered a low cry when she no longer saw him; her hands slid powerless from the head of her child, and hung heavily at her side. The child, thus set at liberty, hurried out to gaze at the king and his escort.

The poor woman was all alone—alone with her grief and painful memories. She stood for a long time motionless and silent, as if unconscious, then a dull, heavy groan escaped from her breast, and she fell as if struck by lightning. "He did not even know me," she cried. "For him I suffer pain and misery, and he passes by, and throws me the crumbs of benevolence which fall from his bountiful table." For many minutes she lay thus broken and trembling; then, suddenly excited by pride and revenge, she arose, with a wild gleam in her eyes. She raised her hand as if calling upon God to witness her words, and said solemnly, "He did not recognize me to-day, but a day will come on which he shall recognize me—the day on which I avenge my wretched and tormented life! He is a royal king and I a poor woman, but the sting of a venomous insect suffices to destroy even a king. Revenge I will have; revenge for my poisoned existence."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE POLITICIAN AND THE FRENCH TAILOR.

Without, the scene had changed in the meanwhile. The attention of the people had been attracted to the king's presence by the royal equipage which was slowly driving down the street, and one and all hurried from their houses to see and greet their handsome young monarch. Men and women, young and old, were running about confusedly, each one inquiring of his neighbor why the king had come, and where he might now be, as his carriage was apparently awaiting him. And why was that fat man, who was seated on the sidewalk, sketching this sandy place with its poor little houses?

Even the proud and self-satisfied Mr. Pricker had not considered it beneath his dignity to descend to the street door, where he took his stand surrounded by his assistants and apprentices.

"It is said the king has gone into the house of Schommer, the grocer," said one of his assistants, returning from a reconnoissance he had made among the noisy and gossiping multitude.

Mr. Pricker shook his head gravely. "He must have been misinformed, for he undoubtedly intended coming to this house and paying me a visit, an intention which would be neither novel nor surprising in my family. None of the rulers of the house of Hohenzollern have as yet neglected to pay a visit to the house of Pricker. The present king will not fail to observe this noble custom, for—"

The worthy Mr. Pricker was interrupted by the shouts of the people. The king had appeared upon the streets, and was greeted with vociferous cheers, amid the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

Mr. Pricker, observing with intense satisfaction that the king had turned and was advancing in the direction of his house, stepped forward with a self-gratulatory smile, and placed himself immediately at the side of the king's path. But the king passed by without noticing him. On this occasion he did not return the greeting of the people in quite so gracious a manner as usual; his eye was dim, and his brow clouded. Without even favoring the smiling and bowing Pricker with a glance, he passed on to the carriage which awaited him in front of the court dressmaker's. The king entered hastily, his cavaliers following him, and the carriage drove off. The shouting of the populace continued, however, until it disappeared in the distance.

"Why do these poor foolish people shout for joy?" grumbled Mr. Pricker, shrugging his shoulders. Now that the king had taken no notice of him, this man was enraged. "What do they mean by these ridiculous cries, and this waving of hats? The king regarded them as discontentedly as if they were vermin, and did not even favor them with a smile. How low-spirited he is! his not recognizing me, the court dressmaker of his wife, shows this conclusively. It must have been his intention to visit me, for his carriage had halted immediately in front of my door; in his depression he must have entirely forgotten it."

The crowd had begun to disperse, and but a few isolated groups could now be seen, who were still eagerly engaged in discussing the king's appearance.

At a short distance from Mr. Pricker were several grave and dignified citizens, dressed in long coats ornamented with immense ivory buttons, and wearing long cues, which looked out gravely from the three-cornered hats covering their smooth and powdered hair.

Mr. Pricker observed these citizens, and with a friendly greeting beckoned to them to approach. "My worthy friends, did you also come to see the king?"

"No, we were only passing, but remained standing when we saw the king."

"A very handsome young man."

"A very wise and learned young king."

"And still—"

"Yes, and still—"

"Yes, that is my opinion also, worthy friends," sighed Mr. Pricker.

"The many innovations and ordinances; it terrifies one to read them."

"Every day something new."

"Yes, it is not as it was in the good old times, under the late lamented king. Ah, we then led a worthy and respectable life. One knew each day what the next would bring forth. He who hungered to-day knew that he would also do so on the morrow; he who was rich to-day knew that he would still be so on the morrow. Ours was an honest and virtuous existence. Prudence and propriety reigned everywhere; as a husband and father, the king set us an exalted example."

"It is true, one ran the risk of being struck occasionally; and if a man had the misfortune to be tall, he was in danger of being enrolled among the guards," said another. "But this was all. In other respects, however, one lived quietly enough, smoked his pipe, and drank his pot of beer, and in these two occupations we could also consider the king as our model and ideal."

"But now!"

"Yes, now! Every thing changes with the rapidity of the wind. He who but yesterday was poor, is rich to-day; the man who was rich yesterday, is to-day impoverished and thrown aside; this was the fate of the Privy Counsellor von Eckert. I worked for him, and he was a good customer, for he used a great many gloves, almost a dozen pair every month; and now I have lost this good customer by the new government."

"But, then, Eckert deserved it," said the fat beer brewer. "He oppressed the people, and was altogether an arrogant puffed-up fellow, who greeted nobody, not even myself. It serves him right that the king has taken the new house in Jager Street away from him; there was justice in that."

"But the late lamented king had given it to him, and his last will should have been honored."

"Yes, that is true; the last will of the late lamented monarch should have been honored," they all exclaimed with earnest gravity.

"Oh, we will have to undergo a great many trials," sighed Mr. Pricker. "Could you believe, my friends, that they contemplate depriving us of our respectable cue, and replacing it with a light, fantastic, and truly immoral wig?"

"That is impossible! That can never be! We will never submit to that!" exclaimed the assembled group, with truly Grecian pathos.

"They wish to give us French fashions," continued Pricker; "French fashions and French manners. I can see the day coming when we will have French glovemakers and shoemakers, French hair-dressers and beer-brewers; yes, and even French dressmakers. I see the day coming when a man may with impunity hang out a sign with French inscriptions over his shop-door, and when he who intersperses his honest German with French phrases, will no longer be well beaten. Ah, the present king will not, like his lamented predecessor, have two girls arrested because they have said 'charmant;' he will not, with his own hands, belabor the young lads who have the assurance to appear on the streets in French costumes, as the deceased king so often did. Every thing will be different, but not better, only more French."

"Yes, could it be believed," exclaimed the fat beer-brewer, "that they think of crying down beer, the favorite beverage of the late lamented king, which, at all events, should be holy in the sight of his son? At court no more beer will be drank, but only French wines; and he who wishes to be modern and acceptable at court will turn up his nose at the beer-pot, and drink mean and adulterated wines. Yes, even coffee is coming into fashion, and the coffee-house keeper in the pleasure-garden, who, up to the present time, was only permitted to make coffee for the royal family and a few other rich people at court, has not alone received permission to serve coffee to everybody, but every innkeeper may do the same thing."

"And have you heard," asked the glovemaker gloomily, "that the two hotel-keepers in Berlin, Nicolai and St. Vincent, have their rivals, and will no longer keep the only houses where a good dinner can be had for money? Two French cooks have already arrived, and one of them has opened a house in Frederick Street, the other one in King Street, which they call 'Restauration.'"

"Yes," said the shoemaker with a sigh, "I went to the French house in Frederick Street yesterday, and ate a meal out of curiosity. Ah, my friends, I could have cried for rage, for I am sorry to say that it was a better meal than we could ever get at Nicolai's or St. Vincent's; moreover I paid less for it."

"It is a shame. A Frenchman comes here and gives a better and cheaper dinner than a native of Berlin," said Mr. Pricker. "I tell you we will all have much to endure; and even my title is insufficient to protect me from insult and humiliation, for it might happen that—"

Mr. Pricker suddenly became silent and stared toward the centre of the street, astonishment and curiosity depicted on his countenance and on that of his friends, who followed the direction of his glances.

And in truth a very unusual spectacle presented itself to these worthy burghers. A carriage was slowly passing along the street drawn by two weary and smoking horses. This carriage was of the elegant and modern French make, now becoming fashionable at court, and was called a chaise. As the top was thrown back, its occupants could very well be seen.

On the front seat were three persons. The first was a man of grave and earnest demeanor and commanding appearance. His tall and well-made figure was clad in a black velvet coat with little silver buttons, ornamented on the sleeves and breast with elegant lace ruffles. His hair, which was turning gray, was twisted in a knot at the back of his head, from which a ribbon of enormous length was pendant. A small three-cornered hat, of extraordinary elegance, rested on the toupet of curls which hung down on either side of his head and shaded the forehead, which displayed the dignity and sublimity of a Jupiter.

At his side sat two females, the middle one an elderly, grave-looking lady; the other a beautiful young girl, with smiling lips, glowing black eyes, and rosy cheeks. The elegant and graceful attire of these ladies was very different from the grave and sober costume of the women of Berlin. Their dresses were of lively colors, with wide sleeves bordered with lace, and with long waists, the low cut of which in front displayed in the one the beauty and freshness of her neck; and in the other, the richness of a guipure scarf with which her throat was covered. Their heads were covered with immense toupets of powdered hair, surmounted by little velvet hats, from which long and waving ribbons hung down behind.

On the back seat were three other young ladies dressed in the same style, but less richly. This first carriage was followed by a second, which contained six young men in French costumes, who were looking around with lively curiosity, and laughed so loudly that the worthy burgher who stood in front of Pricker's house could hear every word they uttered, but unfortunately could understand nothing.

"Frenchmen!" murmured Mr. Pricker, with a slight shudder.

"Frenchmen!" echoed his friends, staring at this novel spectacle.

But how? Who was that standing by the first carriage which had halted in front of Mr. Pricker's house? Who was that speaking with the young girl, who smilingly leant forward from the carriage and was laughing and jesting with him? How? Was this young man really the son and heir of Mr. Pricker? Was he speaking to these strangers, and that, too, in French? Yes, Mr. Pricker could not deceive himself, it was his son; it was William, his heir.

"How? Does your son speak French?" asked the glovemaker, in a reproachful tone.

"He so much desired to do so," said Mr. Pricker, with a sigh, "that I was forced to consent to give him a French teacher."

William, who had observed his father, now hurried across the street. The young man's eyes glowed; his handsome face was enlivened with joy; his manner denoted eagerness and excitement.

"Father," said he, "come with me quickly! These strangers are so anxious to speak with you. Just think how fortunate! I was passing along the Charlottenburg road when I met the travellers. They addressed me in French, and inquired for the best hotel in Berlin. It was lucky that I understood them, and could recommend the 'City of Paris.' Ah, father, what a beautiful and charming girl that is; how easy and graceful! In the whole city of Berlin there is not so beautiful a girl as Blanche. I have been walking along by the side of the carriage for half an hour, and we have been laughing and talking like old friends; for when I discovered who they were, and why they were coming to Berlin, I told them who my father was directly, and then the old gentleman became so friendly and condescending. Come, father, Mr. Pelissier longs to make your acquaintance."

"But I do not speak French," said Mr. Pricker, who, notwithstanding his antipathy to Frenchmen, still felt flattered by this impatience to make his acquaintance.

"I will be your interpreter, father. Come along, for you will also be astonished when you hear who this Mr. Pelissier is." And William drew his father impatiently to the carriage.

Mr. Pricker's friends stood immovable with curiosity, awaiting his return with breathless impatience. At last he returned, but a great change had taken place in Mr. Pricker. His step was uncertain and reeling; his lips trembled, and a dark cloud shaded his brow. He advanced to his friends and regarded them with a wild and vacant stare. A pause ensued. The hearts of all beat with anxiety, and an expression of intense interest was depicted on every countenance. At last Mr. Pricker opened his trembling lips, and spoke in deep and hollow tones:

"They are Frenchmen! yes, Frenchmen!" said he. "It is the new tailor sent for by the king. He comes with six French assistants, and will work for the king, the princes and the cavaliers of the court. But he is not only a tailor but also makes ladies' clothing; and his wife and daughter are the most celebrated dressmakers of Paris; they also are accompanied by three female assistants, and expect to work for the queen, the princesses, and the entire court."

"But that is impossible," exclaimed his friends. "The laws of our guild protect us. No woman can carry on the business of a tailor."

"Nevertheless they will do so," said Pricker; "the king has accorded them this privilege. Yes, every thing will now be different, handsomer and better. The king summons these French dressmakers to Berlin, and the monsters ask my advice. They wish to know of me how they are to demean themselves toward the members of the guild. The new French dressmaker asks advice of me, of the court dressmaker Pricker! Ha, ha, ha! is not that laughable?" And Mr. Pricker broke out into a loud, wild laugh, which made his friends shudder, and then sunk slowly into the arms of the glover. His son William, who had been a witness of this scene, hurried to his father's assistance, and carried him into the house.

From his carriage Mr. Pelissier looked proudly down upon the poor tailor. "The good master has fainted," said he with an Olympic smile. "And he has good reason, for ruin is before him. He is a lost man; for how could he, an unknown German tailor, dare to compete with Pelissier, the son of the celebrated tailor of Louis the Fourteenth? That would evince an assurance and folly with which I could not credit even a German brain."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DOUBLE RENDEZVOUS.

The little maid of honor, Louise von Schwerin, was walking with quick steps up and down her room; she had locked her door to secure herself from interruption. She wished to read once more the mysterious note found yesterday in the bunch of flowers, and once more to meditate undisturbed upon its contents. Louise knew the note was from the handsome gardener Fritz Wendel; from him came the beautiful flowers she found daily upon the sill of her window, and he only could have concealed the note amongst them. There were but a few lines, entreating her to meet him that night at eight o'clock, in the grotto of the conservatory, where she should learn an important and dangerous secret.

"What can the secret be?" asked Louise of herself, after reading the note again and again. "Perhaps," she said, with a roguish smile, "perhaps he thinks that his love for me is a secret. Dangerous it certainly is for him and for me, but a secret it is not. I am certain that he loves me, but it must be very sweet to be told so; to hear his lips confess at last what until now I have only read in those eloquent eyes. Alas! is it not fearful, intolerable, to wait so long for a declaration of love? Two months so near each other, but not one moment of sweet, unrestrained intercourse; always hemmed in by this cold, ceremonious, stupid court life; surrounded by spies and eavesdroppers; never alone, never free. Is it not terrible to have a sweetheart, and never to have refused him a kiss, because he has never had the opportunity to demand one? They say there is rapture in the first kiss of your lover—in his first embrace. I must know this for myself, that they may no longer laugh and say I am a silly child without experience. I will have my experience! I will have my love affairs as well as the other ladies of the court, only mine shall be more extraordinary, more romantic. To be loved by a baron or a count is indeed commonplace; but to be adored by a gardener, who is beautiful as the god Apollo, and whose obscure birth is his only fault—this is original, this is piquant. Ah, Madame von Brandt laughed at me yesterday, at my stupidity and innocence; she was merry at my expense, because I had never been kissed, never received a stolen embrace, which she declared to be the most charming event in a woman's life. All the ladies laughed at me as she said this, and called me an unbaked roll left out in the cold—which never felt the fire. They shall laugh at me no longer," cried Louise, with spiteful tears in her eyes and stamping her little foot. "No one shall mock at me again; and if they do, I will tell them I too have a lover; that I have had a declaration of love, and have received my lover's first kiss. I must be able to say this, and therefore I will meet Fritz this evening in the grotto of the conservatory." Even while saying this she was seized with a cold trembling; one moment her heart stood still, and then almost suffocated her with its rapid beating. A soft voice seemed to warn her against this imprudence; she seemed to see the pale face of her mother, and to hear her living counsels: "Do not go, Louise, Frit Wendel is no lover for Louise von Schwerin." Her guardian angel spread once more his white wings around her, longing to protect and save. But, alas! she heard another voice, breathing flattering words and sweet promises. She saw a beautiful youth with his soft, large, hazel eyes fixed imploringly upon her. Louise felt the irresistible charm of the forbidden, the disallowed, the dangerous. Louise closed her ear to the warning voice; her good genius had no power over her. "I will go," she said, and a rosy blush suffused her childish cheeks; "nothing shall prevent me!" Louise was now quite resolved; but she was not at peace with herself, and from time to time she hoped some unexpected occurrence, some unconquerable obstacle, would prevent her from taking this imprudent step. No difficulty arose; chance seemed to favor her meeting with her obscure lover.

Sophia Dorothea was to visit her daughter-in-law at Schonhausen, not as a queen, but without pomp and splendor. The two eldest maids of honor only would accompany her. Neither Louise von Schwerin nor Laura von Pannewitz were to be of the party. Sophia was glad that at least for a few hours she would not see the lovely, sad face, and soft, melancholy eyes of Laura, nor hear the low and plaintive tones of her accusing voice. The king had gone to Potsdam, it was therefore unnecessary to watch Laura. Indeed, of late the queen scarcely believed in this love, of which she had been so confident; she had tried in vain to discover any trace of an understanding between Laura and the king. Frederick scarcely noticed Laura, and had spoken to her but once since that stormy day; then he had laughingly asked her why she was so pale and languishing, and if it was an unhappy love which made her look so mournful. Since that day the queen no longer believed in the passion of the king for Laura, and she reproached Madame von Brandt with having misled her.

Madame von Brandt smiled mysteriously. "I did not say, your majesty, that the king loved Laura; your suspicions fell upon him, and I did not undeceive you."

"And why not?" said the queen angrily; "why did you not make known to me the name of Laura's lover?"

"Because I had solemnly sworn not to disclose it," said Madame von Brandt.

"Is it not the king? then all the better for my poor Laura."

"Still, I venture to implore your majesty to induce my dear young friend to accept the hand of Count Voss; she will thus perhaps be cured of her unhappy and hopeless passion."

Sophia was resolved to follow this advice; she therefore drove to Schonhausen to see the young queen, and consult with her as to the most efficacious means of accomplishing this result. Louise von Schwerin thought the queen might still change her mind and command her to accompany her; she hoped and feared this at the same time. She would have wept bitterly at this result, but she knew it would be best for her. Between anxiety and hope, doubts and fears, the time passed slowly.

"There rolls a carriage from the court," said Louise; she heard the loud cries of the guard and the beating of the drums.

It was the queen leaving for Schonhausen. Louise was now free, now unobserved; nothing could prevent her from going to the grotto. With trembling steps and a quickly beating heart she slipped through the dark alleys of the garden and entered the conservatory. All was still and wrapped in a sweet twilight. The delightful odor of orange blossoms filled the place; which, like the subtle vapor of opium, intoxicated her senses. Breathless with fear and expectation she entered the grotto; her eyes were blinded by the sudden darkness, and she sank to the ground.

"Thank God," she murmured softly, "I am alone, he is not here! I shall have time to recover, and then I can return; I am so frightened—I ought not to have come. Perhaps the ladies of the court have arranged this practical joke at my expense. Yes, that is it. It was folly to believe he would dare to ask me to meet him; he is too timid—too humble. Yes, it is a trap laid for me, and I have fallen into it."

She rose hastily to fly back to the palace; but it was too late; a strong arm was gently thrown around her neck, and she was drawn back to her seat. She tried to free herself, but could not; she heard the loud beating of his heart, which found an echo in her own; she felt his lips pressed to hers, but her childish modesty was aroused; she found she had the wish and courage to free herself.

"Let me go!" she cried breathlessly; "let me go! do not hold me a moment! I will go! I will go this instant! How dare you treat me in this manner? How and why did you come?" and Louise, who was now free, remained standing to hear his reply.

"How did I come here?" said the handsome gardener, in a submissive but pleading tone. "Every night for four weeks I have worked upon this subterranean alley; this dark path, which should lead me here unseen. While others slept and dreamed I worked; and also dreamed with working eyes. Mine were happy dreams. My work was done, and I could reach this consecrated spot unseen. I saw in my vision an angel, whom I adore, and to whom I have consecrated every hour, every moment of my life. Look, Mademoiselle, at the opening behind that large orange tree, that is the way to my paradise; through that opening I can reach a staircase, leading to a small cellar; another pair of steps takes me to a trap-door leading directly to my room. You can well imagine it required time, and strength, and courage to prepare this way."

Louise approached the opening curiously. This strange path made for her sake affected her more than all Fritz Wendel's words. Only a mighty love could have moved a man in the darkness and alone to such a task. Louise wished to conquer her confusion and to hide her embarrassment with light mockery and jesting.

"Truly," she said, laughing, "this is a dark and mysterious passage, but any one with a light would discover it. You know her majesty has the saloon illuminated occasionally in the evening, and takes her tea here."

"No one will find this opening," said the gardener. He pushed the wooden tub, in which the orange-tree grew, with his foot; it gave way to a slight touch, and turned round over the opening. "Look, Mademoiselle, the tree covers my secret."

"Open it! open it! I pray you, I must see it!"

"I will do so if you promise me not to leave me immediately."

"I promise! I promise!"

Fritz Wendel pushed back the orange-tree, then lifting Louise gently in his arms, he carried her to the grassplot, and seating her, he threw himself on his knees before her, and bowed, as if in adoration.

"You are my queen, the sovereign of my soul! I lay myself at your feet, as your slave. You alone can decide my fate. You can raise me to the heaven of heavens, or cast me in the dust. Say only the little words 'I love you!' this will give me strength and power to brave the whole world. I will acquire fame and honor, and at no distant day before God and the whole world I will demand your hand! If you say, 'Remain where you are, at my feet is your proper place; I despise the poor gardener, who dares to love the high-born lady!' then I will die; if I live I shall go mad. My brain reels at the thought of such wretchedness. I can die now, and bless you in dying; if I live in my madness I shall curse you for your cruelty."

He ceased, and raised his handsome face pleadingly to hers. Louise was speechless; she was intoxicated with the music of his voice and impassioned words.

"You do not answer me! Oh! before you cast me off consider my agony. The heart you despise contains a treasure of love and tenderness. No other man can love you as I do. You are my light and life. You are beautiful and fascinating; many will love you and seek your hand. Who but the poor gardener will die for you if you say no? To me you are more than the most lovely of women, you are a goddess! Oh, you know not what you have already made of me! what you will still make of me! When I saw you for the first time I was a poor, ignorant gardener, loving nothing but my flowers; knowing no language. The great book of nature was my only study. Since that glorious day in which I looked upon you as a radiant, heavenly vision, I have realized my poverty; I have blushed at my ignorance. My life has been one great effort to make myself worthy of you. Now, Louise, command me. What shall I do? What shall I become? If you do not despise and laugh at my love, if you love me a little in return, if you have hope, courage, and patience to wait, I will be worthy of you!"

"Alas!" said Louise, "this is the dream of a madman. The king and my noble and proud family would never consent that I should become your wife."

"As to the king," said Fritz, carelessly, "I would find means to obtain his consent, and honor and distinction, at his hands."

"I understand," said Louise, "the secret you intended to tell me—tell it now," she exclaimed, with a child's eager curiosity.

"Listen," said he, rising from his knees—"listen, but do not let us betray ourselves by loud words or exclamations."

"I hear steps," said Louise. "Oh, if we should be discovered!"

"Fear nothing; look there, Louise!" Her eye followed the direction of his hand.

Under the laurel-tree sat Laura von Pannewitz, and before her knelt Prince Augustus William, radiant with happiness, and covering her hands with kisses.

"Laura, my bride, my darling, when will the day come in which I can call you mine to all eternity?"

"That day will come when I am dead," said Laura, with a sad smile. "Yes, my prince, only when I am dead shall I be free to love you, and to pray for you. My freed spirit shall hover around you as your guardian angel, and protect you from all dangers. Oh, if I could die now, and fulfil this noble mission!" Louise was so absorbed in this scene that she did not notice Fritz Wendel as he drew near and again threw his arm around her.

"Look at them," he murmured; "he is a royal prince, and she only a poor maid of honor; he loves her, and she accepts his love, and fears no shame."

Louise laid her hand impatiently upon his lips and whispered, "Hush!" he covered her hand with kisses; they listened with subdued breathing to the pure and ardent vows of the two lovers.

For one moment Laura, carried away by her own feelings and the earnest words of her lover, allowed him to press his lips to her cheek, and returned his vows of love and constancy. But at this moment Louise heard the soft voice of Laura entreating her lover to leave her, and not to make her blush for herself.

"Promise me," she cried, "never again to embrace me; our love must remain pure, and only when we fear not God's holy eye, dare we pray to Him for assistance. Let us retain the right to shed innocent tears over our unhappy love, and lay it as a sacrifice at the foot of God's throne in that day when the world shall separate and despise us."

"No one shall dare to do that, Laura; you are my future wife; I shall be ever near to defend you with my life's blood! But I promise what you ask; I will restrain my heart; only in dreams will I embrace you; I swear this, my beloved. But the day will come when you will cancel this vow—the day when I will claim you before God and man as my wife!"

Laura took his hand with a sweet, confiding smile: "I thank you, darling, I thank you, but now we must part."

"Part! alas, we shall not meet again for weeks. I am commanded to accompany the king on a pleasure trip; for me there is but one earthly pleasure, to see you—to be at your side."

"Go," she said, smiling; "go without fear; we can never forget each other; however widely separated, you are always before me; I am always with you, although you see me not."

"Yes, Laura, there is not one moment of my life in which I do not see and hear you!"

"Well, then, go cheerfully with the king. Our hearts understand each other; our souls are inseparable."

The prince took her hand and pressed it to his heart, then silently they left the saloon.

Louise had long since freed herself from her lover, and she now arose, resolved to return to the palace. Fritz Wendel tried to detain her, but the weak and foolish child had gathered courage from the modest words and dignified example of Laura.

"If you touch me again, you have seen me for the last time! I will never again return to this grotto!" Fritz Wendel was encouraged by her words; he had not asked her to return, and she had half promised to do so.

"I will not dare to touch you again," he said, humbly; "but will you not promise me to come again?"

"Well, I suppose I shall have to come again to hear the end of poor Laura's romance."

"This romance can be of great use to us," he said, seizing her hand and pressing it to his lips; "if mademoiselle accepts my love and allows me to hope I may one day become her husband, I will sell this secret to the king, and thus obtain his consent."

"You would not be so cruel as to betray them to the king?"

"Yes, there is nothing I would not do to obtain your hand."