While Frederick William repaired with Alexander to the headquarters of the army, the queen and her faithful attendants remained at Memel. There she received the news of the battle of Friedland, and bewailed the misfortunes and disgrace of Prussia. The king was not with her, to comfort her; he was still at the mill of PuktupÖhnen, where, after the disastrous battle, he and the Emperor Alexander had retired. Alexander had left for Tilsit. The king had refused to accompany him, preferring to remain at his humble lodgings, far from the proud conqueror. While Alexander was the perpetual companion of Napoleon, a daily guest at his table, without returning this hospitality, indulging with him in fantastic dreams about the future political system of the world, Frederick William pursued his lonely path gravely and silently, only looking for means to relieve as much as possible the sufferings his subjects were undergoing, and, by remonstrances and arguments, trying to protect his monarchy from utter destruction.

Never did Frederick William stoop to flatter his enemy—never did he bow to him in hypocritical submission. He could not help treating him as the conqueror of his states, but he refused to degrade himself by base servility. His first interview with Napoleon was short, and not very pleasant. Frederick William tried to prove to his adversary that it was he who had brought about the war by invading the territory of Anspach, and thereby compelling Prussia to declare war. Napoleon listened to this charge, shrugged his shoulders, and merely replied that the cabinet of Berlin, often warned to beware of the intrigues of England, had committed the fault of not listening to his friendly counsel, and that to this cause alone were to be ascribed the disasters of Prussia. Since then, Frederick William, like Alexander, was a daily guest at Napoleon's table, but he sat there in silence, sad, and absorbed in his reflections, taking but little part in the conversation, and, when he did so, assuming a cold, formal manner, while Alexander and Napoleon chatted unreservedly and pleasantly.

The king had also been constantly at the side of the two emperors in their long rides, and at the reviews, but always as an ominous shadow in the light of their new friendship—always as the mournful and warning spirit of memories which Alexander would have forgotten, because now they were a reproach and an accusation against him. And Frederick William took no pains to palliate this reproach, or to disguise his sadness with a veil of politeness. Abrupt in his whole bearing, he did not condescend for a moment to play the part of courtier. Accompanying the emperors, the king was by no means ready to comply with their whims; if they wished to ride at a full gallop, he moved only at a quick trot, and politeness compelled them to remain with him. When they returned from their excursions, Napoleon and Alexander vaulted quickly from their horses, and walked hand-in-hand toward the door, but Frederick William alighted slowly, and thus obliged Napoleon, whose guest he was, to wait for him. The king frequently made his crowned companions stand, regardless of the rain; and it happened more than once that the emperors, while waiting for him, were thoroughly drenched. When he was conferring with Napoleon as to the future frontiers of his states, Frederick William did not assume a suppliant tone, but spoke with the bearing of an incensed and insulted sovereign, whom his adversary was robbing of his rights, and who scarcely succeeded in restraining his indignation.

And the king had sufficient reasons to be sad and irritable. He saw that the storm which had so long cast its bolts upon Prussia, would utterly destroy her. Napoleon was about to revenge himself for the unpleasant hours she had latterly caused him. He was willing, indeed, as he had pledged himself to Alexander, to leave Frederick William his crown, but he did not intend to restore him his states. He needed Prussia for the new kingdom of Westphalia, and for rewarding his friends and allies. The king was to retain nothing but a small part of the province of Prussia, and KÖnigsberg was to be his capital.

Frederick William, stricken by this new and terrible humiliation menacing him, looked anxiously around for assistance. He felt lonely, deserted, and betrayed; he felt as though there was no comfort, no hope for him. His soul turned with unutterable yearning toward the queen; she was the pillar against which he desired to lean, that he might not sink to the ground; she was his energy, his strength, his determination, and when she was at his side, he felt strong enough to brave any calamity. His love longed for her, and political considerations soon required her presence.

"Beseech the queen to come hither," said Alexander to him; "she alone is able now to do something for Prussia. Her beauty, her eloquence, her amiability, and her understanding, will be more likely to obtain concessions from Napoleon than any thing else. It will touch his magnanimity that the noble queen, whom he has so often reviled, condescends to come to him to implore his mercy. This high-minded resolution will make a deep impression upon his generosity, and he will grant twenty times more than I am able to obtain by my daily and most urgent solicitations."

The king still hesitated. Owing to his sense of honor and his conscientiousness, he shrank from doing what his heart so intensely desired; and, before making up his mind, he wished to hear the views of his friends, General von KÖckeritz and Field-Marshal Kalkreuth, who were carrying on the peace negotiations with Talleyrand. Both of them shared the opinion of the Emperor Alexander; both of them exclaimed: "The queen is our last hope! She alone is able to make an impression upon the inexorable conqueror, and Napoleon possibly may not refuse her what he declined granting to your majesty and to us. It is necessary for the welfare of Prussia that her majesty should come hither."

The king delayed no longer. He wrote to the queen, and requested her to come to his headquarters at PuktupÖhnen. He told her it was her sacred duty to make a last effort for the preservation of Prussia—that every thing would be lost if She failed to move Napoleon by her supplications and remonstrances. A courier hastened immediately with the letter to Memel. When Louisa read it, a pallor overspread her features. Uttering a cry of excruciating anguish, she dropped the paper into her lap, and buried her face in her hands.

Madame von Berg, who had heard the loud sobs of the queen in the adjoining room, hastened to console or weep with her. Louisa did not hear her come; she was still absorbed in grief; only incoherent lamentations fell from her lips, and her tears fell on the letter lying in her lap. Madame von Berg knelt, and implored her with the eloquence of devotedness and affection to let her share her queen's grief—to tell her what new calamity had occurred.

Louisa looked with sorrowful eyes at the friend kneeling before her. "You ask me what calamity has befallen me! Read and know!" she said, handing the letter to her lady of honor, and, at the same time, raising her from her knees.

While Madame von Berg was reading, the queen rose; and with her head thrown back, and her eyes turned upward, she commenced slowly pacing the room. "Well?" she asked, when Madame von Berg, with a deep sigh, had laid the letter on the table. "Did you read it? And do you comprehend my grief now?"

"I do, your majesty," she said, mournfully.

"Caroline," exclaimed the queen, in an outburst of despair, "I am to bow to this man, who has insulted me so infamously! I am to step like a beggar before him who has slandered my honor before the whole world, who has crushed my heart, and wounded my soul in such a manner that it can never, never recover! I tell you, he will be the cause of my death! On the day when I read those calumnies which he contrived to have printed about me—on that day I felt a pang in my heart as if a dagger had been plunged into it! Ah, would I could die this hour, before sinking into this new humiliation! Ah, my soul is willing to bow to the great, the beautiful, the sublime—but not to him—not to that proud man who is trampling mankind in the dust; who has rendered King Frederick William so wretched, robbing him of his states and of his majesty, slandering his queen, and oppressing his people. Caroline, think of it! I am to meet politely him who has robbed my children of their inheritance, and caused me so many sleepless nights, so many tears, so many pangs! With a smile I am to conceal my anguish; and, under a magnificent costume, my wounded heart! As it behooves every lady, though no queen, I am not to wait for him to come to me, but I am to go to him! I am to force my visit on him—I am to court his favor! Ah, it is too much—too cruel!"

Raising her arms impetuously to heaven, she exclaimed in the energy of her grief, "Wilt Thou have no mercy upon me, my God? Ah, let me die! Let me die, to escape this new disgrace menacing me! I am a poor, tormented woman! I ask nothing of Thee but death! Wilt Thou refuse me this only wish?" She sank on her knees, her arms and eyes still raised toward heaven, as if she expected that her prayer would be granted. She slowly dropped her arms, and hung her head with a groan. Madame von Berg, in tears and with folded hands, was praying in a low voice.

A long pause ensued. The queen rose from her knees; her face was calm and her tears had gone! but around her eyes a quiver was still seen, and at times a sigh escaped her breast. "It is over now," she said in a low voice, "the struggle is over! Pardon my impassioned grief, Caroline; my poor heart sometimes refuses to submit to the bridle of affliction. But I must be docile and patient, and learn to obey without a murmur."

There was something so touching in the tone and manner in which the queen uttered these words, in the glance with which she gave her hand to her friend, that Madame von Berg was unable to conceal her tears. She took Louisa's hand and pressed it to her lips.

"Do not weep, Caroline," said the queen. "I have paid my tribute to human nature; I have wept, but now I will be strong and do my duty. Stand by me, and console me by your calmness and fortitude. I must set out in an hour; let us reflect, therefore, what preparations ought to be made."

"Then you will really go, your majesty?" asked Madame von Berg, sadly.

"Majesty!" ejaculated the queen, almost indignantly. "Is this reverence intended to deride me? Where is my majesty?"

"In your sovereign eyes, Louisa," said Madame von Berg—"in your great and noble heart, which masters its grief and submits to duty. It beams gloriously around your head, which, though it may bow to your adversary, will never be humbled by him. But, consider, are you not about to impose upon yourself, in your generous devotedness, a sacrifice which is greater, it may be, than the reward? Napoleon is not a magnanimous man; he lacks true chivalry, and he would delight, perhaps, to scorn the august lady who humbles herself so painfully, and who thereby affords him a triumph. There is a voice in my heart, warning me against this plan; it is repugnant to my womanly feelings that my noble queen is suddenly to descend into the petty affairs of politics. I am afraid your beauty, your understanding, your grace, are to be abused to fascinate your enemy, and to wrest from him by persuasion what is the sacred right and property of your king and of your children, and what I believe cannot be wrested from the conqueror through intercession, but by the king and his ally, the Emperor Alexander, by means of negotiations, or, if they should fail, by force and conquest."

"Hush, hush, Caroline," exclaimed the queen anxiously. "Do not repeat to me my own thoughts; do not give expression to my doubts and fears! I think and feel like you. But I must go nevertheless; I must do what my king and husband asks me to do. He wrote me that it is my sacred duty to control my feelings, and come to him—that every thing is lost if I do not succeed in influencing Napoleon by my remonstrances. It shall not be said that I neglected my duty, and refused to yield, when the welfare of my children and of my husband was at stake. It is a trial imposed upon me now, and I am accustomed to make sacrifices. God may reward my children for the sufferings I am now undergoing, the tears of their mother may remove adversity from them when I am no more. Oh, my children and my husband, if you are only happy, I shall never regret having suffered and wept! And who knows," she added, "whether God may not have mercy upon me, and whether, by the humiliation I am about to make, I may not really promote the welfare of my king, my children, and my beloved people? Oh, Caroline, I feel a joyful foreboding that it will be so! It will touch the proud conqueror to see a lady, a wife, a mother, who was once a queen, and is now but a sad, afflicted woman, appear before him and humbly ask him to have mercy on her children and her country. Even though he should feel no generosity, he will feign it, and, in his ambition to be admired by the world, he will grant me what he would have refused under other circumstances. The hearts of men rest in the hands of God. He will move this man's heart!"

Scarcely touching the floor with her feet, Louisa glided across the room to the piano. She slowly touched the keys, and with upturned glances she indicated her thoughts, singing in a joyful voice the hymn commencing with the words: