angrily, half sadly; "he is going to sell the good animal that always
gave us such excellent milk and butter. I tell you it is a shame that he
should do so, and I shall never go back to the stable where my dear
cow's lowing will no more greet me!"

"You will, nevertheless, have to go back, Martha, for the two goats are
still there; you must give them fodder, so that they may give us milk.
They are all we have left! Do you think it did not grieve me to part
with our fine cow which I had raised myself? I wept for her all last
night, and would have given away my hand rather than sell her. But no
one would have paid any thing for my old hand. We had to have money to
pay your wages, so as not to be obliged to listen longer to your
continued importunities. That was the reason why my good old man took
the cow to town. It cut him to the quick to hear you dunning us all the
time for a few dollars."

The servant-girl cast down her eyes and blushed. "I did not mean any
harm, Mde. Katharine," she said, in confusion. "It was mere talk; I
always hoped master would take a lesson from me and dun the count in the
same manner for his own wages. But the great lords are living
sumptuously, and do not care whether their servants are starving to
death or not!"

"Our count, Martha, does not live sumptuously," said Katharine, heaving
a sigh. "The French destroyed his palace, and--but hush! Did you not
hear something outside? I thought I heard some one call."

The two women were silent and listened; but nothing was to be heard. The
storm was howling, and rattling the windows. At times an iron hand
seemed to pass across the panes--it was the snow which the wind lashed
against the house as if intending to awaken the inmates from their
slumbers.

"A terrible night!" murmured Katharine, shuddering. "I hope that my dear
old man won't return in such a storm, but stop with one of his friends
at the neighboring village. Heaven preserve any human being out in such
a night as this on the highway, and from--"

A loud knock at the window-panes interrupted her, and a voice outside
shouted imperiously, "Open the door!"

The two women uttered a shrill scream, and Martha clung anxiously and
with both her hands to Katharine's arm.

"I beseech you, Mde. Katharine," she whispered with quivering lips,
"don't open. It is assuredly Old Nick or the French that want to come
in!"

"Fiddlesticks! The devil does not wait for the door to open, but comes
down the flue," said Katharine; "and as to the French, the
_Parlez-vous_, why, they cannot speak German. Just listen how they are
commanding and begging outside. 'Open the door!' Well, yes, yes! I am
coming. No one shall say that old Katharine suffered people to freeze to
death in the forest while she had fire on her hearth." Disengaging
herself from Martha's grasp, she hastened to the door, and opening it
quickly, said, "Whoever you may be, you are welcome!"

The storm rushed in with a terrible noise, driving the snow into the
house, and blowing up the fire on the hearth into a still brighter
blaze.

There appeared on the threshold a tall lady, wrapped in a dark velvet
cloak, trimmed with fur; her head covered with a silken cape, to which a
white lace veil was fastened. Behind her were another richly-dressed
lady, and two men in blue coats, splendidly embroidered with silver.

"You permit us, then, my dear woman, to enter your house and stop here
overnight?" asked the veiled lady, in a gentle, sonorous voice.

Old Katharine stood staring at her. She felt as frightened as if a
sorceress had entered her house. "First let me see your face," she said,
growing bold notwithstanding her inward terror; "I must see who you
are."

An indignant murmur arose among the attendants of the lady, but she
ordered them to be quiet with a wave of her hand. She then turned once
more to Katharine. "Well, my good woman, look at me," she said, drawing
back her veil.

A pale, wondrously beautiful face was visible, and eyes more lustrous
than the old woman had ever seen before, looked at her gently and
kindly.

"Do you know me now?" asked the lady, with a smile full of touching
melancholy.

"No," said Katharine, "I do not know you, but you are as beautiful as
the angels that sometimes appear to me in my dreams, or as the fairies
of whom my mother used to tell me when I was a little child. Come in,
you as well as the others. There is room at the hearth for all who are
cold."

The strange lady smiled and advanced into the cottage; before doing so,
however, she turned around. "M. von Schladen," she said, in French,
"pray, give orders to all not to betray my incognito. I am here the
Countess von Hohenzieritz; please inform the servants of it."

The gentleman, who had just appeared on the threshold, bowed and stepped
back. She and her companion approached the fire; the two servants, in
their gorgeous liveries, stood in silence at the open door. The lady
took off her fur gloves with a hasty motion, and held her small white
hands toward the fire. A ring with large diamonds was sparkling on her
forefinger. Old Katharine had never before seen any thing like it--she
stood staring at the lady, and dreaming again of the fairy-stories of
her childhood, while Martha sat on her cane chair as if petrified, and
afraid lest the slightest noise should dispel the enchanting apparition.

"Oh, how pleasant this is!" said the lady, drawing a deep breath; "my
hands were quite chilled. Countess Truchsess, come here and follow my
example!"

The young lady, who was standing near in a silent and respectful
attitude, approached the fire, and eagerly stretched her small hands
toward it.

"How comfortable, is it not?" asked the lady who had styled herself
Countess von Hohenzieritz. "Oh, after suffering from the cold a whole
day, we learn to appreciate the boon of the fire which otherwise we fear
as a dangerous element." And thoughtfully looking into the warm glow,
she muttered to herself, "We are now wandering about in the cold, and
are chilled; will no hospitable fire warm our hearts again?" She bent
forward without uttering a complaint, or heaving a sigh.

Katharine could not avert her eyes; she gazed at the lady's sparkling
jewels, and then looked at her face. Suddenly she noticed two diamond
drops roll slowly over her transparent cheeks; but they were no diamonds
like those flashing on her hands--they were tears. She shook them off
with an impetuous motion, and turned to old Katharine, who, clasping her
hands, asked herself wonderingly whether angels could weep.

"My good woman," said the countess, "will you permit us to stay here
until daybreak? We have lost our way in the snow-storm. We thought to
reach Königsberg before nightfall, but, I suppose, the city is yet quite
distant?"

"Ten hours, at least," said Katharine, timidly. "You have lost your way,
indeed--probably at the cross-roads, two miles from here. Instead of
following the main one, you took the side-road. Well, such things may
happen to the most skilful driver, in a snow-storm, when he cannot see
his hand before him."

"I believe that such things may happen, and do not blame any one for
what has occurred," said the countess, gently. "Tell me now, have you
room and beds for all of us?"

"The two ladies may sleep in my bed, provided they occupy it together.
But I have no others," said Katharine.

"I need no bed," exclaimed the younger lady, quickly; "I shall content
myself with sitting at the fireside."

"And I," said M. von Schiaden, who had just entered, "I beg leave to be
allowed to pass the night in the travelling-coach."

"You will catch cold in the carriage, sir," said Katharine, "and there
is danger, moreover, that, falling asleep, you might never wake again.
But in the hay-loft it is warm and soft; you and the other gentleman may
sleep there, if you please."

The Countess Hohenzieritz smiled. "Well," she said, "a high-chamberlain
in a hay-loft! That is a melancholy adventure, I should think?"

"No, gracious countess, it sounds quite ludicrous," said the
high-chamberlain, "and if only your--if only the gracious countess had a
good bed, I should have no reason whatever for being melancholy. There
are thousands nowadays sleeping on the hard ground, without a bunch of
hay for a pillow!"

"Our dead of Jena and Auerstadt, for instance," said the countess,
sighing. "But they are well: the dead sleep gently! At times I feel
like envying them, for their rest is more peaceful than that of the
living. Let us not murmur, but rejoice at having found shelter for the
night! We shall remain, then, in this room, and the high-chamberlain
will sleep in the hay-loft. But where shall we place our servants, and
what is to become of our horses?"

"How many horses have you?" asked Katharine.

"Six horses and an outrider," said M. von Schiaden.

"What!" exclaimed Katharine, in dismay. "Six horses! How extravagant in
times so wretched as these, when the king himself would be glad to have
two horses to his carriage, and--"

"Silence!" interrupted the high-chamberlain in great excitement.

"You are right, my dear woman," said the countess, smiling. "The king
will certainly be glad to have two horses left, especially if they
always draw him in the right way. But it was no wanton arrogance on our
part to take so many horses; we did so only on account of the bad roads,
and in order to travel as rapidly as possible."

"Well, the horses can stand in the cow-stable and the wood-shed," said
Katharine. "Go, Martha, light the lanterns, and show the coachman to the
stable, and the gentleman to the hay-loft. I will make the bed for the
ladies." And, drawing back the blue-striped linen curtains covering the
large old family-bed, she muttered to herself: "It is very lucky that my
old man has not come home; otherwise I should really be at a loss where
to place my high-born guests."

Half an hour afterward tranquillity again reigned in the cottage. The
horses, the servants, and the high-chamberlain, had been conducted to
their quarters in the cow-stable, wood-shed, and hay-loft. Katharine and
Martha had withdrawn to the servant-girl's small chamber, and on the
lower floor, which served, at the same time, as a kitchen, hall, and
sitting-room, a couch had been prepared for the two ladies. But the
young Countess von Truchsess could not be prevailed upon to occupy
one-half. She placed the cane chair against the high bedstead, and,
sitting on it as on a tabouret at the foot of a throne, she supported
her head on the cushions of the bed, over which the crimson satin
blanket, lined with fur, that the ladies had wrapped around their feet
in the carriage, had been spread. The Countess von Hohenzieritz was
reposing on this, her noble form still wrapped in the fur robe, falling
down to her feet in ample folds; her head was leaning back on the
cushions, and the crimson of the blanket contrasted strikingly with her
white cheeks and light-brown hair. She had clasped her small, slender
hands on her lap; her large eyes looked upward in devotion, and her lips
uttered fervent words, which no one heard and understood but He to whom
they were addressed.

The fire on the hearth, to which large logs of wood had been added,
continued blazing merrily; at times, when the wind came down the chimney
violently, the flames rose high, and the beautiful figure in the
miserable room was illuminated by the red light as by a halo. Her
countenance was as pale and peaceful as that of the blessed dead, and
yet an ardent vitality was beaming in her unclosed eyes. On the wretched
bed in the peasant's cottage she was dreaming of her former
happiness--of the magnificent days which she had seen, and which, she
believed, would never return. But she did not bewail her departed glory,
and her menaced welfare caused her no regret.

"Preserve to me, merciful God! the love of my husband," she whispered;
"let my children grow great in name and in soul. Oh, if I could purchase
happiness for them by sacrificing my life, I would gladly let my heart's
blood ebb away drop by drop--if by my death I could restore to my
husband his former power, how cheerfully I would die! O my God, save and
protect Prussia: but if such should not be Thy will, teach us how to
fall and die with her in an honorable manner! Preserve us from disgrace
and despondency; teach us how to bear great disasters with dignified
resignation, and grant that we may never be so faint-hearted as to sink
beneath petty calamities!"

She paused, and looked upward with radiant eyes; just then the storm
outside was howling with awful violence, and made the cottage tremble.
"Such a storm without, and peace within! Let it always be so, my God,"
she whispered, gently pressing her hand against her breast. "O peace,
sweet peace, when will it descend to us from heaven!" Gradually the
words died away on her lips; her eyelids drooped. Heaven sent to her the
brother of peace--sleep--that it might comfort her weary eyes and
invigorate her after the troubles and exertions of the previous day. The
storm continued all night long, but the beautiful sleeper heard it only
as a lullaby hushing her to sweet repose.

At daybreak there was a stir in the cottage. Katharine came to rekindle
the extinct fire, and the two ladies rose, chilled and shuddering, to
prepare for their journey. The travelling-coach, drawn by the six
horses, rolled up to the door, and High-chamberlain von Schladen rapped
timidly and begged leave to enter. The countess bade him come in, and
replied with a sweet smile to his inquiries as to her night's rest. "I
have slept," she said, "and feel sufficiently invigorated now to
continue the journey."

"In four hours we shall be in Königsberg," said M. von Schladen. "It is
a clear morning; the storm is over, and the sun will soon burst forth
from behind the clouds."

"'The sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds,'" repeated the
countess, musingly. "Those are cheering words; could they but be
fulfilled for all of us! Let us hasten to reach Königsberg; for there at
least will be one sunbeam for me--I shall see my children again, and my
husband also will join us on returning from the Russian camp."

M. von Schladen advanced a few steps, and said in a low and hurried
voice: "The king is already in Königsberg. I have seen a peasant, the
owner of this cottage, who has come from Königsberg. He walked all
night, and left the city just at the moment when the king with his suite
returned."

"And did the man bring other news?" asked the lady, hastily.

"A rumor was in circulation in Königsberg that the French were advancing
from Posen, and, the Russian columns being also on the move, it was
generally believed that a battle would soon take place."

The lady walked rapidly to the door. "Let us set out as soon as
possible," she said; suddenly, however, she turned pale and leaned
against the wall to prevent herself from falling.

"Oh," she murmured faintly, "what weak, pitiful beings we are, after
all! The soul is strong enough to bear the heaviest burden, but the body
is so weak that a twelve hours' fast is sufficient to overpower it!"

Just then Katharine entered the room; on seeing the lady looking so
faint, she hastened to her, and asked sympathizingly for the cause of
her pallor and exhaustion.

"I will tell you, my dear woman," whispered the lady, with a sad smile,
"I am hungry!"

"Oh," sighed M. von Schladen, "and we have no refreshments with us!"

"But I have some for the beautiful lady," said Katharine, proudly. "I
was right in thinking that high-born people must eat sometimes, and are
not refreshed merely by their magnificent dresses and the splendor
surrounding them, but are obliged to put something into their mouths,
like us common people. Look, there is Martha with the breakfast!" And,
in truth, Martha was just entering the door, holding in her hand a
pitcher filled with fresh, smoking milk.

Katharine took an earthen cup from the shelf near the hearth, and filled
it to the brim. "Now drink," she said, handing the cup to the countess;
"it will strengthen you; it is splendid goat's milk, so fine and warm
that city folks never get any thing like it; no fire warmed this milk,
but God, who gave life and warmth to my dear goat. Drink, then, in His
name!"

"No refreshment has ever been presented to me in so cordial a manner,"
said the countess, nodding kindly to the old peasant-woman. "I shall
carefully remember your heart-felt words, and drink the milk in the name
of the good Lord, but only provided you, Countess Truchsess, and you,
too, M. von Schiaden, can likewise have a cup of this splendid milk."

"We shall have some," said the Countess von Truchsess; "please your--,
the gracious countess will please drink her milk." The countess placed
the cup on the window-sill without having touched it with her lips. "You
see I am waiting," she said--"make haste!" She herself then hastened to
the cupboard near the hearth, and took from it two small earthen jars,
which she handed to Katharine to fill with milk.

"And have you not something to eat with the milk, my dear woman?" asked
M. von Schladen, in a low voice.

"I have but a loaf of stale brown bread," said Katharine, "but I am
afraid it will be too hard for the fine teeth of the countess."

"Give it to me at all events," said the countess, "my teeth will be able
to manage it."

Old Katharine took a large loaf of bread from the cupboard, cut off a
thick slice, and presented it on the bright pewter plate, the principal
ornament of her house. The countess broke off a piece, and, leaning
against the window, commenced eating her frugal breakfast.

The Countess von Truchsess and the high-chamberlain had retired to the
hearth to partake of the strange and unwonted food. Katharine and Martha
stood at the door, staring admiringly at the lady who was leaning
against the window, and just lifting the stale brown bread to her
mouth. She did not notice that the two were looking at her; she was
gazing thoughtfully at the large bedstead in which she had passed the
night in tears and prayers. Her glance then turned to the piece of bread
which she held in her hand, and from which she had vainly tried to eat.
The bread and the bed reminded her of an hour long past, when she was a
happy queen--an hour when her mental eye descried the future, and the
words of a beautiful and melancholy song aroused in her anxious
forebodings, and seemed to her a prophecy of her own destiny. As she
thought of those golden days, her eyes filled with tears, which rolled
over her cheeks and trickled down on the bread in her hand. "Oh," she
murmured, "now I shall be able to eat it; I am softening it with my
tears!" And to conceal them she averted her head, and looked out at the
forest, whose lofty pines were adorned with snow-wreaths. Her tears
gradually ceased--she drew the large diamond ring from her finger, and,
using the pointed stone as a pen, wrote rapidly on the window-pane.

Old Katharine and Martha stared at her in dismay; the characters
appearing on the glass filled them with astonishment and superstitious
awe, and they thought the handsome lady who knew how to write with a
precious stone might after all be a fairy, who, persecuted by some evil
sorcerer, had fled thither into the dark forest, and was writing some
exorcising words on the window-pane, lest her enemy should pursue and
have power over her.

The lady replaced the ring on her finger, and turned to the young
countess and the high-chamberlain. "Now, I am ready," she said, "let us
set out." She walked to the door, and shaking hands with old Katharine,
thanked her for the hospitable reception she had met with in her
cottage, and then stepped out of the low door for the carriage, at which
the high-chamberlain was awaiting her.

"I beg leave, gracious countess, to take upon myself the functions of
our outrider. The road is broken and full of holes, and as I have a keen
eye, I shall see them in time, and call the attention of the coachman to
them."

The countess thanked him with a kind glance. "I accept your offer," she
said--"may a time come when I shall be able to thank my faithful friends
for the attachment and devotion they manifest toward me during
affliction, and which are engraven in diamond letters on my heart! But
let us thank the good woman who received us so hospitably last night. I
request you to give this to her in my name." She handed her purse filled
with gold-pieces to the high-chamberlain, and entered the carriage. M.
von Schladen stood still until the carriage rolled away. Before mounting
he hastened into the house.

Old Katharine and Martha stood in the room, and were looking in silent
astonishment at the neat characters on the pane, the meaning of which
they were unable to decipher. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Katharine, when the
high-chamberlain entered the room, "tell us the meaning of this--what
did the lady write here?"

M. von Schladen stepped to the window. When he had read the lines, his
eyes filled with tears, and profound emotion was depicted in his
features. "Enviable inmates of this humble cottage," he said, "from this
hour it has become a precious monument, and, when better times arrive,
the Germans will make a pilgrimage to this spot to gaze with devout eyes
at this historical relic of the days of adversity. Preserve the window
carefully, for I tell you it is worth more than gold and diamonds."

"Is it really, then, an exorcism which the beautiful fairy has written
there?" asked Katharine, anxiously.

"Yes, those are magic words," replied M. von Schladen, "and they read as
follows:

    'Who never ate his bread with tears--
      Who never in the sorrowing hours
     Of night lay sunk in gloomy fears--
      He knows ye not, O heavenly powers!'"[29]

[Footnote 29:

    "Wer nie sein Brot mit Thränen ass,
      Wer nie die kummervollen Nächte
     Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,
      Der kennt euch nicht. Ihr himmlischen Mächte."

                  Göthe.

]

"Ah, she ate her bread with tears to-day. I saw it," murmured Katharine.
"But who is she, and what is her name? Tell us, so that we may pray for
her, sir."

"Her name is Louisa," said M. von Schladen, in a tremulous voice. "At
present she is a poor, afflicted woman, who is fleeing from town to town
from her enemy, and eating her bread with tears, and weeping at night.
But she is still the Queen of Prussia, and will remain so if there be
justice in heaven!"

"The Queen of Prussia!" cried Katharine, holding up her hands in dismay.
"She was here and wrote that?"

"Yes, she wrote that, and sends this to you as a reward for your
trouble," said M. von Schladen, emptying the contents of the purse on
the table. The purse itself he placed in his bosom. Without waiting for
the thanks of the surprised woman, he departed, vaulted into the saddle,
and followed the queen at a full gallop.

CHAPTER XX.

COUNT BÜCKLER.

Perfidy and treachery everywhere! Magdeburg, Küstrin, the most important
fortresses of Prussia, had fallen. Not only the hand of the triumphant
conqueror had brought about their downfall, but the timidity and
cowardice prevailing among the Prussians themselves. Magdeburg, although
abundantly supplied with ammunition, and garrisoned by more than ten
thousand men, had surrendered. Küstrin, Hameln, and a large majority of
the other fortresses, had voluntarily capitulated, almost without a show
of resistance, on receiving the first summons to surrender; the first
cities of Prussia were now French; the French were lawgivers everywhere,
and the humiliated Prussians had to bow to the scornful arrogance of the
victors.

Still, there were at this time of sorrow and disgrace shining examples
of courage, of bold energy, and unwavering fidelity--there were
fortresses that had not voluntarily opened their gates to the enemy, and
that, regardless of hunger and privation, were struggling bravely for
honor and victory. As yet Colberg had not fallen; this fortress was
courageously defended by Scharnhorst, the skilful and experienced
colonel, by bold Ferdinand von Schill, and that noble citizen,
Nettelbeck, who by word and deed fired the hearts of the soldiers and
citizens to persist in their patient resistance and in the determined
defence of the place.

Graudenz had not surrendered to the besieging forces. The commander of
this fortress, M. de Courbières, had not yielded either to the threats
or the flatteries of the enemy. "If it be true, as you assure me, that
there is no longer a King of Prussia, I am King of Graudenz, and shall
not surrender," he replied to the bearer of the French flag of truce,
who summoned him in the name of the Duke de Rovigo to capitulate.

Silesia also had remained faithful, notwithstanding the action of
Minister Count Hoym, who, in a public manifesto, had called upon the
Silesians to meet the foe in the most amicable manner in case of an
invasion, and to satisfy as much as possible all the demands of the
hostile troops. The Silesians, more courageous and resolute than their
minister, were unwilling to bend their neck voluntarily under the French
yoke; they preferred to struggle for their honor and independence. It is
true, the fortress of Glogau had fallen, but Breslau and Schweidnitz
were still holding out. Twice had Breslau repulsed Jerome Bonaparte with
his besieging troops--twice had the determination of the courageous in
the place triumphed over the anxiety of the timid and of the secret
friends of the French. At the head of these bold defenders of Breslau
was a man whose glorious example in the hour of danger had inspired
all--infused courage into the timid, and brought comfort to the
suffering. This man was Count Frederick von Pückler. He did not take
time to recover from the wounds he had received in Jena. Faithful to his
oath, he devoted his services to his country, that stood so much in need
of its sons. After a short repose on his estate at Gimmel, he repaired
to the headquarters of King Frederick William at Ortelsburg.

It is true, he could not bring him a regiment, or any material help;
still he was able to assist him with his ideas, and to show him the
means of obtaining efficacious help.

Count Frederick von Pückler believed the king might derive assistance
from the military resources of Silesia. He described to him, in ardent
and eloquent words, the extensive means of defence retained by this rich
province; he assured him its inhabitants were faithful and devoted, and
ready to shed their blood for their king. He told his majesty, freely
and honestly, that the old civil and military bureaucracy alone was to
blame--that Silesia had not long an organized effective system of
resistance--that this government had paralyzed the patriotic zeal of the
citizens, instead of stimulating it--nay, that, by means of its
insensate and ridiculous decrees, it had impeded in every way the
development of the military resources of the province. He had not come,
however, merely to find fault and to accuse, but, in spite of his
sickness and his wounds, performed the long journey to the king's
headquarters in order to indicate to his sovereign the remedies by which
the mischief might be counteracted, and the country preserved from utter
subjugation. He communicated a plan by which new forces might be raised,
and be enabled to take the field in a few days. All the old soldiers
were to be recalled into the service; the forest-keepers and their
assistants were to be armed, and from these elements the _landwehr_ was
to be organized, and intrusted with the special task of defending the
fortresses.

The king listened to the ardent and enthusiastic words of the count with
growing interest, and finally Pückler's joyful confidence and hopeful
courage filled him also with hope and consolation.

"You believe then that we could really obtain, by these new levies,
brave troops for the defence of the fortress?" asked he.

"I am convinced of it," replied Count Pückler. "Ardent love for their
fatherland and their king is glowing in the hearts of the Silesians, and
they will be ready when called upon to defend the fortresses. Hitherto,
however, nobody has thought of appealing to the able-bodied men. Count
Hoym has retired to the most remote part of Silesia, and is now
wandering about from city to city. The military governor of Silesia,
General Lindener, visited all the fortresses and told their commanders
that every thing was lost--that it only remained for them to protect
themselves against a _coup de main_, so as to obtain good terms on their
surrender."

The king started up, and an angry blush mantled his face for a moment.
"If he said that, he is an infamous scoundrel, who ought to lose his
head!" he exclaimed, vehemently.

Count Pückler smiled mournfully. "Alas!" he said, "your majesty would
have to sign many death-warrants if you punish in these days of terror
all who are wavering because their faith and hopes are gone. Possibly,
only an admonishing, soul-stirring word may be required to invigorate
the timid, and to encourage the doubtful. Sire, utter such a word! Send
me back with it to Silesia! Order the governor to accept the
propositions which I had the honor to lay before your majesty, and which
I have taken the liberty to write down in this paper, and instruct him,
in accordance with them, to garrison the fortresses with fresh
defenders. Oh, your majesty, all Silesia is yearning for her king; she
is longingly stretching out her hands toward you; permit her to fight
for you!"

"You imagine, then, that Schweidnitz, and, above all, Breslau, in that
case, would be able to hold out?" asked the king.

"I do not imagine it, I am convinced of it!" exclaimed the count. "I
pledge my life that it is so; I say that Breslau, permitted to defend
itself, would be impregnable; I am so well satisfied of it that I swear
to your majesty that I will die as a traitor if I should be mistaken.
Sire, send me to Breslau--permit me to participate in the organization
of the new levies, and to arouse the zeal and energy of the authorities,
and I swear to your majesty the Silesian fortresses shall be saved!"

"Well, then, I take you at your word," said the king, nodding kindly to
the count. "I will send you to Breslau. Wait; I will immediately draw up
the necessary orders." The king went to his desk and hastily wrote a few
lines, Count Pückler stood near him, and smilingly said to himself, "I
will defend Breslau as Schill is defending Colberg! Both of us,
therefore, will fulfil the oath we have taken!"

"Read!" said the king, handing him the paper--"read it aloud!" Count
Pückler read:

"The enclosed proposition of Count Pückler to reënforce the garrisons of
the Silesian fortresses deserves the most serious and speedy
consideration. Hence, I order you to carry it out without delay, and to
save no expense in doing so. The fortresses must be defended at any
price, and to the last man, and I shall cause such commanders to be
beheaded as fail to do their duty.

"FREDERICK WILLIAM."

"Are you satisfied?" asked the king, when the count had finished.

"I thank your majesty in the name of Silesia," said the count, solemnly.
"Breslau will not fall into the hands of the enemy. I pledge you my head
that it will not. I now request your majesty to let me withdraw."

"When do you intend to set out?"

"This very hour."

"But you told me you had arrived only an hour ago. You ought to take
rest till to-morrow."

"Your majesty, every day of delay exposes your Silesia to greater
dangers. Permit me, therefore, to set out at once."

"Well, do so, and may God be with you!"

The king gazed after the count with a long, musing glance. "Oh," he
sighed, mournfully, "if _he_ had been commander of Magdeburg, it would
be mine still!"

Count Pückler hastened back to Silesia with the king's written order. He
visited all the fortresses and saw all the commanders. The king, to give
more weight to the count's mission, had instructed the provisional
authorities and the chief executive officers of the districts, in a
special rescript, to gather the old soldiers at the headquarters of the
recruiting stations; he had ordered all the commanders to confer
personally with Count Pückler as to the best steps to be taken for the
defence of the fortresses, by the addition of the new soldiers and
riflemen to the regular garrisons.

Count Pückler, therefore, had accomplished his purpose; he was able to
assist his country and to avenge himself for the disastrous day of Jena.
A proud courage animated his heart; his eye was radiant with joy and
confidence; his face was beaming with heroic energy. All who saw him
were filled with his own courage; all who heard him were carried away by
his enthusiasm, and gladly swore to die rather than prove recreant to
the sacred cause of the country. Every one in Breslau knew Count
Pückler, and confided in him. Always active, joyous, and indefatigable,
he was to be found wherever there was danger; he encouraged the soldiers
by standing at their side on the outworks, by toiling with them, and
exposing himself to the balls which the enemy was hurling into the city.
He maintained the enthusiasm of the citizens by patriotic speeches, so
that they did not despair, but bore their sufferings patiently, and
provided compassionately for the men standing on the ramparts in the
storm and cold, in the face of an uninterrupted artillery-fire. A
generous rivalry sprang up among the citizens and soldiers: the former
contributed all they had to provide the troops with food and comforts of
every description; and the latter vowed in their gratitude to fight as
long as there was a drop of blood in their veins, and not suffer the
inhabitants, in return for the privations they had undergone, and for
the sacrifices they had made, to be surrendered to the tender mercies of
the enemy. But this enthusiasm at last cooled. Every one would have
borne days of privation and suffering courageously and joyously enough,
but long weeks of anxiety and distress deadened the devotion of the
besieged.

"Every thing is going on satisfactorily," said Count Pückler, on coming
to the governor of the fortress, General Thile, on the morning of the
30th of December. "We shall hold out till the Prince von Pless, who has
lately been appointed by the king governor-general of Silesia, arrives
with his troops to succor us and to raise the siege of Breslau."

The governor shrugged his shoulders. "There will be no succor for us,
and every thing will turn out wrong," he said.

"But the soldiers are faithful, and the citizens do not waver as yet."

The governor looked almost compassionately at the count. "You see none
but the faithful, and hear none but the undaunted," he said. "I will
show you the reverse of your bright medal!" He took a paper from his
desk and beckoned the count to approach. "Just look at this; it is the
morning report. Do you want to know how many soldiers deserted last
night? Over a hundred, and in order to put a stop to further desertions,
the countersign had to be changed three times."

"The deserters are the perfidious, treacherous Poles!" exclaimed
Pückler, angrily.

"Yes, the Poles were the first to desert, and, unfortunately, more than
half the garrison consists of Poles. They are the old soldiers who were
organized in accordance with your proposition, my dear count. They are
yearning for home, and long to obtain, in place of the scanty rations
they receive here, the fleshpots which the Emperor Napoleon has promised
to happy Poland."

"But they need not starve here; they are provided with sufficient food,"
exclaimed Pückler. "Only yesterday I saw a subscription-paper
circulating among the citizens for the purpose of raising money to
furnish the men on duty on the ramparts with meat, whiskey, and hot
beer."

"How many had signed it?"

"More than a hundred, general."

"Well, I will show you another subscription-paper," said the governor,
taking it from his desk. "A deputation of the citizens were here last
night and presented this to me. It contains a request to give them,
amidst so many sufferings, the hope of speedy succor, lest they be
driven to despair. Over two hundred signed this paper. I could not hold
out any hopes, and had to dismiss them without any consolation
whatever."

"But succor will come," exclaimed Pückler.

"It will not come," said the governor, shrugging his shoulders.

At that moment the door opened, and an orderly entered. "Lieutenant
Schorlemmer, in command of the forces at the Schweidnitz Gate, sent me
here," he said. "He instructed me to inform the governor that the firing
of field and siege artillery was to be heard, and the village of Dürgoy
was burning!"

"The enemy is manoeuvring, and, no doubt, set the village
unintentionally on fire. Tell Lieutenant Schorlemmer that is my reply."

No sooner had the orderly withdrawn than the officer in command of the
engineers entered the room. "Your excellency," he exclaimed, hastily, "I
have just come from the Ohlau Gate. The enemy is hurrying with his
field-pieces and many troops from the trenches toward the Schweidnitz
road, and the firing that began an hour ago is gradually approaching the
fortress."

"The succoring troops are drawing near," exclaimed Count Pückler,
joyfully. "The Prince von Pless at the head of his regiments has
attacked the enemy!"

The governor cast an angry glance on the rash speaker. "It is true you
know all these things a great deal better than old, experienced
soldiers" he said; "you will permit me, however, to be guided by my own
opinion. Now, I think that the enemy is only manoeuvring for the purpose
of decoying the garrison from the city. We shall not be so foolish,
however, as to be caught in such a manner. But I will go and satisfy
myself about this matter. Come, Mr. Chief-Engineer, and accompany me to
the Ohlau Gate. And you, Count Pückler, go to General Lindener to
ascertain his opinion. He has good eyes and ears, and if he view the
matter in the same light as I do, I shall be convinced that we are
right."

Count Pückler hastened away, and while the governor, with the
chief-engineer, was walking very leisurely to the Ohlau Gate, Pückler
rushed into the house of General Lindener, determined to make the utmost
efforts to induce the governor to order a sally of the garrison. But
General Lindener had already left his palace and gone to the Taschen
bastion for the purpose of making his observations. Count Pückler
followed him; he could make but slow headway, for the streets were
densely crowded; every one was inquiring why the enemy had suddenly
ceased shelling the city.

Count Pückler rushed forward toward the Taschen bastion, and the
constantly increasing multitude followed him. General Lindener stood
amidst the superior officers on the rampart of the Taschenberg. He was
scanning the horizon with scrutinizing glances. The officers now looked
at him in great suspense, and now at the open field extending in front
of them. Count Pückler approached, while the people, who had almost
forcibly obtained admission, advanced to the brink and surveyed the
enemy's position. The crowd, however, did not consist of vagabond
idlers, but of respectable citizens--merchants and mechanics--who wished
for the consolation the governor had refused them--the hope of succor!
Gradually their care-worn faces lighted up. They saw distinctly that the
enemy had left the trenches. Here and there they descried straggling
French soldiers running in the direction of the fight in front of the
fortress. They heard the booming of artillery and the rattling of
musketry, and they beheld the shells exchanged between the opposing
troops, exploding in the air. Keen eyes discovered Prussian cavalry in
the neighborhood of the Jewish burial-ground, near the Schweidnitz
suburb, and at this sight tremendous cheers burst from the citizens.

"Succor has come!" they shouted. "The Prince von Pless is coming to
deliver us!"

All now looked to the general, expecting he would utter the decisive
word, and order the garrison to make a sortie. But this order was not
given.

General Lindener turned with the utmost composure to his officers. "I
have no doubt," he said, "that the enemy Is merely manoeuvring for the
purpose of drawing us out of the fortress. It is an ambush in which we
should not allow ourselves to be caught."

"Your excellency," exclaimed Pückler, in dismay, "it is impossible that
you can be in earnest. That is no manoeuvre; it is a combat. The
long-hoped-for succor has come at last, and we must profit by it!"

"Ah," said the general, shrugging his shoulders, "you think because his
majesty permitted you to participate in organizing the defence of the
city, and to confer with the commander in regard to it, you ought to
advise everywhere and to decide every thing!"

"No; I only think that the time for action has come," exclaimed Pückler.
"Opinions and suppositions are out of the question here, for we can
distinctly see what is going on in the front of Breslau. I beg the other
officers to state whether they do not share my opinion--whether it is
not a regular cannonade that we hear, and a real fight between hostile
troops that we behold?"

"Yes," said one of the officers, loudly and emphatically--"yes, I am of
the same opinion as Count Pückler; there is a combat going on; the
Prince von Pless is approaching in order to raise the siege."

"That is my opinion too!" exclaimed each of the officers, in succession;
"the succoring troops have come; the enemy has left the trenches in
order to attack them."

"And as such is the case," exclaimed Count Pückler, joyfully, "we must
make a sortie; prudence not only justifies, but commands it."

"Yes, we must do so!" exclaimed the officers. The citizens standing at
some distance from them heard their words, and shouted joyously: "A
sortie, a sortie! Succor has come! Breslau is saved!"

General Lindener glanced angrily at the officers. "Who dares advise the
commanding general without being asked?" he said, sharply. "None of you
must meddle with these matters; they concern myself alone, and I am
possessed of sufficient judgment not to need any one's advice, but to
make my own decisions!" With a last angry glance at Count Pückler, he
left the bastion to return to his palace. Governor Thile was awaiting
him there, and the two ascended to the roof of the building to survey
the environs. The fog, which had covered the whole landscape until now,
had risen a little, and even the dim eyes of the general and of the
governor could not deny the truth any more. A combat was really going
on. The smoke rising from the ground, and the flashes of powder from
field-pieces, were distinctly to be seen. It was a fact: succor was at
hand: a Prussian corps was approaching the city. The two generals left
the roof, arm-in-arm, in silence, absorbed in their reflections, and
descended to the ground-floor, where a luncheon had been served up for
them. An hour later, they assembled the garrison, in order to make an
attack, "in case the enemy should be defeated!"

But it seemed as if the enemy had not been defeated. The firing in front
gradually died away; the sally did not take place, and in the evening
the French recommenced throwing red-hot shot into the city.

"We have been betrayed," murmured the citizens, as they despondingly
returned to their homes.

"The general did not want to make a sortie--he had no intention to save
Breslau," groaned Count Pückler, when he was alone in his room. "All is
lost, all is in vain! The wish of the timid sacrifices our honor and our
lives! Oh, my unhappy country, my beloved Prussia, thou wilt
irretrievably perish, for thy own sons are betraying thee! Thy
independence and ancient glory are gone; conquered and chained, thou
wilt prostrate thyself at the feet of the victor, and with scorn he will
place his foot upon thy neck, and trample thy crown in the dust! I shall
not live to see that disgrace! I will fulfil my oath, and, not being
able to save my country, I must die with it! But not yet! I will wait
patiently, for there is a faint glimmer of hope left. The Prince von
Pless may make another attempt to raise the siege, and the citizens and
soldiers may compel General Lindener to order an attack, and not to
surrender. That is my last hope."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE PATRIOT'S DEATH.

Great excitement reigned in the streets of Breslau on the following day.
The people were standing in dense groups, and each of them was addressed
by speakers, who recapitulated the sufferings that had already been
undergone, and the agony in store for them if the city should persist in
its resistance.

"Who will dare to resist the Emperor Napoleon and his army?" exclaimed
one. "We were audacious enough to do so, and what has become of us! Our
houses have been demolished--our money is gone--our sons, brothers, and
fathers, have been crippled or killed! When Napoleon once stretches out
his hand toward a country, and says, 'I will have it!' it is useless to
resist him, for he always accomplishes what he intends. God or the devil
has given him the power to do so!"

"Why torment ourselves by further efforts?" cried another. "We shall
have to submit. Heaven itself is against us. See the ice-crust on the
Oder. This cold weather is a fresh ally of the French! So soon as the
Oder and the ditches are firmly frozen over, they will cross, and take
the city by assault. Of course, we shall be required again to risk our
lives in breaking the ice amid bullets and shells. The only question is,
whether you will do so."

"No! no!" shouted the crowd. "We have suffered enough! We will neither
break the ice in the Oder, nor extinguish the numerous fires. Too many
of our countrymen have fallen already; it is time for us to think of
saving the lives that remain!"

"No!" cried a powerful voice--"no! it is time for you to think of saving
your honor!"

"Count Pückler!" murmured the people, looking at the tall, imperious
man, who had mounted the curb-stone at the corner of the market-place,
and cast angry glances on the crowd.

"Will you listen to me?" asked the count, almost imploringly.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed a hundred voices, "we will listen to you!" And all
approached and encircled him.

"Now speak, count," said one of the men, standing closest to him. "We
know that you are a good patriot, and a noble friend of the people. Tell
us what we ought to do. Tell us whether you think that there is hope for
us!"

"There is," replied Count Pückler. "There is hope of succor."

"Ah, succor will not come," cried the people, scornfully, "and though it
should, the generals would act again as if they could not see any thing,
keep the gates shut, and fail to make a sortie. Speak of other hopes
that you think are still left to us, count!"

"Well, there is the hope that the weather will relax--that the Oder and
the ditches will not freeze, and that the enemy, consequently, will be
unable to cross them. By bombardment alone Breslau cannot be taken. Our
fortifications will resist the enemy's artillery a long while; and, if
you do not waver, but struggle on bravely, you may preserve to your king
his most beloved province and one of his best fortresses. Think of the
honor it would reflect on you if the whole world should say: 'The
citizens of Breslau preserved to their king the great capital of
Silesia! During the days of danger and distress they hastened fearlessly
to the ramparts, not only to carry food and refreshments to the
defenders, but to transform themselves into soldiers, to man the guns,
and hurl balls at the enemy!'"

"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and
their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were
grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts--we will
become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"

"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd;
"you will be crippled--die of hunger--ruin yourselves and your children;
and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau,
for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened
too much."

"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to
rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.

"No!" exclaimed Count Pückler, ardently--"no, he is not right! It is not
true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would
it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city,
than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of
Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole
of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of
Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire
to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush
for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your
wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"

"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight--fight for our honor and
our king."

"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a
procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was
headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded
paper in his hands.

The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Pückler,
now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and
wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most
venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.

"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What
is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your
hands?"

Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up
by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and
privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to
them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too
great; we have borne all we can--we must think of ourselves for the sake
of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor;
self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our
petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit
it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign
it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then,
to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees
that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands
and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this
morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on
the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do
not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to
set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and
sensible citizens will sign this petition."

The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Pückler was
still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at
the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many
left him and joined those marching to the city hall.

"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and
horror--"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many
tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for
Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and
that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful
now--faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long
years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the
whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let
us go together to the city hall--let us demand the petition that we may
tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not
capitulate, but resist till--"

"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall,
broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to
the count. "Count Pückler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue
talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a
miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your
high-sounding words.--Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary
of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been
ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list
of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only
twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel
left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation
will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish
to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will
be deposited there."

At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a
glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which
flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set
fire to several houses on the market-place.

"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are
firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the
petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent
wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled
the lame to walk.

Count Pückler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted
against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his
brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at
the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that
moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low
voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his
full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling
around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached
the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and
with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing,
and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible
influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering,
his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to
the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he
muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently,
and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"

"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the
parlor. Shall I announce you?"

"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and
hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without
waiting, he opened it and entered.

A joyful cry was heard--a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him
with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been
restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning--how
my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing
over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But
now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any
more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage
in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on
his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she
had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her
bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she
asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your
face?"

He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at
her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice--"Camilla, will you die
with me?"

"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why
should we die, Frederick?"

"Because I do not wish to live without honor," he exclaimed, with sudden
vehemence. "Because our misfortunes are so terrible that we must escape
from them into the grave. All is lost! Breslau will fall, and we shall
be obliged to prostrate ourselves at the conqueror's feet! But I will
not, cannot survive the disgrace of Prussia. 'Victory or death!' was the
motto which I once exchanged with Schill. I swore to him to live and die
with my country; I swore to the king, if Breslau fell, that I would die
the death of a traitor. Breslau falls; therefore I die!"

"No, no," exclaimed Camilla, clinging firmly to him, "you shall not
die--you must not die! You are mine; you belong to me, and I love you!
Hitherto you have lived for your honor as a man--now live for your heart
and its love! Listen to me, Frederick! How often have you implored me to
accelerate the day of our wedding, and I always refused! Well, I beseech
you to-day, give me your hand! Let us go together to my parents, and ask
them to send for a priest, and let our marriage take place to-day. And
then, dearest, when the gates of Breslau open to the enemy, we can find
a refuge at your splendid estate. The horrible turmoil of war and the
clashing of arms will not follow us thither. There, amidst the charms of
peaceful nature, let us commence a new life; with hearts fondly united,
we shall belong only to ourselves, and, forgetful of the outside world,
devote ourselves to our friends--to art and literature. Oh, my beloved,
is it not a blissful future that is inviting you and promising you
undisturbed happiness?" She laid her arms, from which the white lace
sleeves had fallen back, on his shoulders, and held her glowing face so
close to his own that her breath fanned his cheek; her ruby lips almost
touched his own, and her dark eyes were fixed on him with an expression
of unutterable tenderness.

The count pushed her back almost rudely. "The happiness you are
depicting to me is only given to the innocent, to the pure, and to those
who have no desires," he said, gloomily; "it is the happiness of gentle
doves, not of men. And I am a man! As a man of honor I have lived, and
as such I will die. My life harmonizes no more with yours. Will you go
with me, Camilla, into the land of eternal honor and liberty? Does not
this world of treachery and cowardice fill you with disgust as it does
myself? Does not your soul shrink with dismay at the infamy we behold
everywhere at the present time? Oh, I know your heart is noble and pure,
and despises the baseness which is now the master of the world. Let us,
therefore, escape from it. Come, dearest, come! I have two pistols at my
rooms. They are loaded, and will not fail us. A pressure of my
finger--and we are free! Say one word, and I will bring them--say, my
Camilla, that you will die with me!"

"I say that I will live with you!" she cried, in terror.

"Then you will not die with me?" he asked, harshly.

"No, Frederick, why should I die? I am so young, and love life; it has
given me nothing but joy--it has given you to me--you, whom I love, for
whom I will live, whom I will render happy! What do I care for the
misfortunes of Prussia--what do I care whether Breslau surrenders to the
enemy or not, while I am free to follow you--free to devote myself
entirely to my love!"

"A woman's heart!--a woman's love!" said Pückler, with a contemptuous
shrug of his shoulders. "I wish I resembled you; we then might be like
cooing doves in the myrtle-tree. But my heart is rather that of an
eagle--longing for the sun; and as he has set on earth, I shall fly
after him. Farewell, Camilla, farewell! Forget me not, and be happy!" He
imprinted a hasty, glowing kiss on her lips, and then turned toward the
door.

Camilla rushed after him, and, clinging to him with both her hands,
exclaimed: "Frederick, what are you going to do?"

"I go to the land of liberty, and will do what honor commands," he said,
disengaging himself from her grasp, and rushing from the room.

"Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, in the utmost terror, running to the
door; she could not open it, for he had locked it outside. "I must
follow and save him," she exclaimed, and gliding across the room, she
opened a small secret door in the opposite wall; scarcely touching the
floor, she passed through the parlor, without taking any notice of her
parents, who were sitting on the divan, and asked her in surprise for
the cause of her hurry and agitation. She did not see that they were
following her; nor did she hear them call her. Onward, onward she went
through the room to the corridor, into the hall, and up the staircase.
She rushed to the upper floor, and rang the bell violently, when the
footman of Count Pückler opened the door, and stared surprised at the
young countess. She passed him impetuously, and ran down the corridor
leading into the sitting-room of her betrothed. But it was locked.
Uttering a cry of despair, she sank breathless on her knees, and laid
her burning forehead against the door.

The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Pückler's footman, now
approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending
over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you
weep?"

Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed,
in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"

"Who?" asked her father, aghast.

"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous
regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not
survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die!
As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up
to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish!
Help me to save him!"

"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he
in this room?"

"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without
saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."

The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it
violently. "Count Pückler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your
father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your
door, and ask to be admitted!"

"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of
your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy--to have compassion on me!
Oh, do not close your heart against me--oh, let me come in, my dear
friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement
inside. But every thing remained silent.

"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by
force," exclaimed the count.

"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at
least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert
her."

"My Frederick, I love you so tenderly--do not repel me!" wailed Camilla.

All was silent. "I must use force," said the count, concealing his
anguish under the guise of anger. "Hasten to a locksmith," he added,
turning to the footman; "he is to come here at once, and bring his tools
with him. Notify also the officers at the neighboring police-station."
The footman withdrew.

"My beloved," cried Camilla, wringing her hands, and her face bathed in
a flood of tears, "my Frederick, I love you better than my life! Your
wish shall be complied with. Open your door, and admit me. If I cannot
live I will die with you! Oh, do not remain silent--give me a sign that
you are still living--tell me at least that you forgive me--that--"

She paused, for a song suddenly resounded in the room; it was not a song
of sorrow, but of wrath and manly courage. The words were as follows:

    "Tod du süsser, für das Vaterland!
    Süsser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen
    Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,
    Sei mir willkommen!

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert,
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften,
    Von der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!"[30]

[Footnote 30: See p. 18.]

The voice died away. Camilla was on her knees, with clasped hands; her
parents stood behind her in devout silence. Suddenly noisy footsteps
drew near. At the entrance of the corridor appeared the footman with the
locksmith, who came with his tools to open the door. The old count made
a sign to him to stand aloof. He had heard a movement in the room, and
he hoped Camilla's lover would voluntarily admit them.

A pause ensued--then a terrible report was heard in the room. Camilla
uttered a loud shriek, and sank senseless to the floor.

An hour later, the locksmith succeeded in opening the door, which had
been strongly bolted inside. Count Pückler sat in the easy-chair in
front of his desk, immovable, with his face calm and uninjured, the
pistol still in his hand. He had aimed well. The bullet had pierced his
heart. On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of paper, containing the
following words:

"Last greeting to Ferdinand von Schill, who took an oath with me that we
would live and die as faithful sons of our country! Our country is
sinking ignominiously into the dust; I will not, cannot survive the
disgrace, and, therefore, I die. Farewell, you who took that oath with
me--farewell Schill and Staps! I hope you will be happier than myself! I
am the first of us three who dies because he despairs of his country.
Will you survive me long? May God give you strength to do so! Farewell
until we meet again!

"FREDERICK VON PÜCKLER."

On the following day the governor of Breslau commenced negotiations with
the enemy, and on the 7th of January, 1807, Breslau opened its gates to
the French troops, and the Prussian garrison laid down its arms.

CHAPTER XXII.

PEACE NEGOTIATIONS.

General von Zastrow, who had temporarily taken charge of the Prussian
department of foreign affairs, was pacing his room. His whole appearance
was indicative of care and anxiety. Whenever he passed the door leading
into the anteroom, he stood still and listened, and then, heaving a sigh
and muttering angry words, continued his walk. But at length it seemed
as if his expectations were to be fulfilled; he heard approaching steps.
The door opened, and the footman announced General von Köckeritz.

General von Zastrow quickly went to meet his visitor, and offered him
both his hands. "I thank your excellency from the bottom of my heart for
having yielded to my urgent supplications," he said, passionately, "and
at the same time I beg your pardon for having been so bold as to
request you to call upon me. But as you reside in the same house as
their majesties, and as the king comes to see you frequently and
unexpectedly, I believe we can converse here more freely and without
fear of being disturbed."

"You are right, my dear general," said Köckeritz; "it is better for us
to hold our little conferences at your house. My room, moreover, has
walls so thin that every word spoken there can be heard outside. Alas,
it is on the whole a miserable barrack in which the royal couple and
myself are obliged to stay here in Memel! Low, dark rooms--no elegance,
no accommodations, no comfort. Every thing is as narrow, gloomy, and
smoky as possible and then this fearfully cold weather! Yesterday,
during the heavy storm, an inch of snow lay on the window-sill in the
queen's room, and, I assure you, it did not melt! Nevertheless, her
majesty is perfectly calm and composed; she never complains, never
utters any dissatisfaction, but always tries to prove to the king that
she likes Memel very well, and that it is as beautiful a capital as
Berlin."

"Ah, my respected friend," said General von Zastrow, mournfully, "this
composure of the queen is very injurious to us. If she were more
melancholy--if she bewailed her misfortunes more bitterly--if she
manifested a more poignant sorrow, we should not be doomed to sit here
on the extreme frontier of Prussia, but might hope to make our triumphal
entry into Berlin, perhaps, in two weeks."

"Into Berlin?" asked General von Köckeritz, greatly surprised. "Why, you
are talking of a miracle which I am unable to comprehend."

"Oh, your excellency will understand it soon enough," replied General
von Zastrow, smiling, "if you will only be so kind as to listen to me a
little."

"I assure you, my friend, I am most anxious to hear your explanations; I
am burning with the desire to know how we are to bring it about to leave
this accursed, cold Memel and return to Berlin within so short a time."

"Well, what is the cause of our sojourn here?" asked General von
Zastrow. "What has driven us hither? What has deprived the king, our
august master, of his states, of his happiness--nay, almost of his
crown? What is the cause that our beautiful and amiable queen has to
undergo all sorts of privations and inconveniences, and is compelled to
reside, instead of in her palace at Berlin, in a miserable, leaky house
in Memel, where she is closer to the Bashkirs than to civilized people?
The war is the cause of all this!"

"Yes, if my advice had been followed, these calamities would never have
befallen us," replied General von Köckeritz, sighing; "we would have
remained on terms of friendship and peace with the great man whom Heaven
has sent to subjugate the world, and resistance against whom is almost
equivalent to blasphemy. He frequently and magnanimously offered us his
friendship, but at that time more attention was paid to the vain
boastings of the lieutenants of the guard; and the rhodomontades of
Prince Louis Ferdinand unfortunately found an echo in the heart of the
queen. The advice of older and more prudent officers was disregarded,
and the king, in spite of himself, was dragged into this war, which we
have had to expiate by the defeats of Jena and Auerstadt, and by the
loss of so many fortresses and provinces. And who knows what may be in
store for us yet? Who knows what mischief may yet threaten the crown and
life of Frederick William!"

"Well," said General von Zastrow, with a sarcastic smile, "it looks as
though the fortune of war were now turning in favor of the Russians.
Think of the great victories which the Russian General Benningsen has
already won. Did not twenty-four trumpeting postilions proclaim to us at
Königsberg, on new-year's-day, the Russian victory of Pultusk?"

"Yes, but those twenty-four postilions and that emphatic announcement
were the most brilliant parts of the victory," said General von
Köckeritz, shrugging his shoulders. "Benningsen was not defeated by
Napoleon at Pultusk, but honorably maintained his position on the
battle-field--that is what the whole amounted to."

"Yes, but we are celebrating again a great and brilliant triumph. On the
7th and 8th of February the Russian General Benningsen and our General
Lestocq claim to have obtained another advantage over Napoleon and his
marshals. I suppose you are aware that Benningsen himself has arrived
here in order to communicate the news of the victory of Eylau to the
royal couple?"

"Yes, I know," said Köckeritz. "But I know also what this new success
really amounts to. The Russians are very liberal in issuing victorious
bulletins, and if they have not been massacred in a battle to a man, the
last ten survivors shout invariably, 'Victory! We have won the battle!'
That of Eylau is even more problematic than that of Pultusk. Pray tell
me, who held the battle-field of Eylau?"

"Napoleon with his French, of course."

"And who retreated from Eylau toward Königsberg?"

"General Benningsen with his Russians."

"And these Russians, nevertheless, are audacious enough to claim a
victory!" exclaimed General von Köckeritz. "These fellows regard it such
when Napoleon, instead of pressing them on their retreat, remains where
he is, and gives them time to escape."

"They are in ecstasies, because they infer from this delay of Napoleon,
and from his unwonted inactivity, that he also stands in need of repose
and recreation," said General von Zastrow. "The severe winter, bad
quarters, hunger, and thirst, have greatly exhausted the strength of the
grand army, and the lion would like to rest a little. For this
reason--and now I come to the point concerning which I requested your
excellency to call on me--for this reason, the great Napoleon desires to
make peace. The conqueror of Jena himself offers it to the vanquished
King of Prussia."

"What? Do you really think that to be true?" asked General von
Köckeritz.

"I do not only think, but know it to be true," said Zastrow. "General
Bertrand arrived here an hour ago, and called on me with the request to
present him to the king, that he might deliver him an autograph letter
from the Emperor Napoleon. I told the general that I should return his
visit in half an hour, and then conduct him to his majesty. I wished to
profit by this half hour, my dear friend, to confer with you about this
matter."

"And did General Bertrand inform you that Napoleon would offer peace to
our king?"

"Yes, your excellency. He communicated to me the contents of the
imperial letter. The lion of Jena magnanimously offers once more to make
peace."

"We must strain every nerve to induce the king to accept these
overtures," exclaimed Köckeritz, quickly.

"Your excellency is the only man sufficiently powerful to induce the
king to come to such a decision," said Zastrow. "You must be so kind as
to prove to him that to continue the war with France is to bring about
the ruin of Prussia. If he does not accept the offer of Napoleon, he is
ruined, for the emperor would not forgive such obstinate hostility; and,
if Prussia will not live with him on terms of friendship, he will
annihilate her in order to be done with her."

"I shall not threaten the king by laying too much stress on the strength
of his enemy," said Köckeritz, "for that would wound the pride of his
majesty, and provoke his sense of honor to renewed resistance. But I
shall call his attention to the weakness and fickleness of Russia,
informing him that our friends, the Russians, are behaving in the most
shameful manner in those parts of Prussia which they are occupying, and
committing so many outrages that the inhabitants are praying on their
knees to God to grant victory to the French, so that they might deliver
them from the Russians. I shall tell him that the distress and the
extortions the Prussian farmers have to suffer at the hands of our
allies are perfectly incredible; that the peasants in the villages have
been stripped of every thing, to such an extent that they beg the
Cossacks, who have robbed them of their provisions, for their daily
bread; that many of them are dying of hunger, and that unburied corpses
have been found in the houses of several villages now occupied by our
troops. And, above all, I shall beseech his majesty to repose no
confidence in the Russian friendship! Whatever the czar may say about
his fidelity, he has not the power of carrying his point, and all his
resolutions will be frustrated by the resistance of his generals and of
his brother. The Grand-Duke Constantine and the larger and more powerful
part of the Russian nobility are anxious for peace; and Constantine,
whose views are shared by Benningsen, will leave no intrigues, no cabals
untried in order to gain the czar over to his opinion, and plunge him
into difficulties from which he will finally be able to extricate
himself only by making peace--a peace concluded at the expense of
Prussia. Russia and France will be reconciled over the corpse of
Prussia! Even now it is distinctly to be seen what we have to expect
from the czar's assistance. Our allies are doing nothing really to help
us, but whatever steps they are taking are exclusively for their own
safety. It is true, they advanced at first, but only in order to prevent
the French from approaching their frontier. Since that time, however, in
spite of the battle of Pultusk, the Russians have steadily retreated,
although the enemy did not compel them to do so. They accomplished thus
their own purpose, that is, to devastate a province of Prussia, and
protect themselves by this desert from a French invasion."

"It is true," said General von Zastrow, "our friends are ruining us by a
mere semblance of aid. If they really were honest and faithful allies,
would they not strain every nerve to preserve Dantzic to us? General
Benningsen did promise to succor the fortress and raise the siege, if
Dantzic held out only two months longer. But what is he doing to redeem
his promise? Absolutely nothing! We reproached him with his inactivity,
and he excused it by asserting that the army would first have to be
reënforced. He admits that the fall of that seaport would be a great
disaster, but refuses to do any thing decisive for its safety.
Therefore, if we do not give up the equivocal friendship of the
Russians--if we do not now make peace with France, Dantzic will be lost,
and Colberg and Graudenz will likewise fall, in spite of the efforts of
their heroic defenders, Schill and Colomb. Oh, I beg you induce the king
to accept the peace if the terms offered to him be not utterly
inadmissible. These Russians will never deliver us. Suppose even another
general than Benningsen, and better disposed than he, should advance
after his so-called victories in the same manner as Benningsen is
retreating now, he would restore to us no state, only a desert. The king
ought to believe us that they are utterly unwilling to render us
assistance, and that they only intend devastating our country in order
to protect themselves. Whatever the noble and generous Emperor Alexander
may order, it is certain that nothing will be done. Even though we
should protest and clamor against it in the most heart-rending manner,
we should be unable to bring about a change."

"But should we succeed in convincing the king," said General von
Köckeritz, "how are we to persuade the queen? Her heart, otherwise so
gentle and generous, is filled with hatred against Napoleon, and she
believes in the friendship of the Russian emperor."

"Will you take it upon yourself, your excellency, to persuade the king
to make peace with France?"

"I believe I shall be able to do it," said General von Köckeritz, after
a brief reflection.

"Well, for my part, I undertake to persuade the queen to acquiesce, at
least in silence, and not advocate so warmly the alliance with Russia."

"I should like to know by what charm you intend to accomplish such a
miracle."

"By a very simple one, your excellency. I shall cause my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, who is not merely lady of honor, but also reader
to the queen, to read to her majesty the last numbers of the _Berlin
Telegraph_, which I have just received. This seems like a riddle, but it
is not. That journal contains charges against the queen, which, it
appears to me, render it impossible for her to declare so loudly and
publicly in favor of a continued alliance with the Russian emperor. Her
majesty, therefore, must be informed of the contents of those articles;
she must know in what sense public opinion--or, if you prefer, the
wicked world--is interpreting her enthusiasm for the Russian alliance.
She must learn it this very hour, that, at this momentous crisis, she
may not try to stem the tide of events. We must tie her hands in order
to prevent her from destroying the work we are taking so much pains to
accomplish. While your excellency goes to the king in order to take his
heart by storm with your convincing eloquence, and I am afterward
conducting General Bertrand to his majesty (to whom he will present the
pacific overtures and the autograph letter from Napoleon), my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, will read to the queen the articles published in
the _Telegraph_, and if the king should really hesitate, and desire to
hear the opinion of his wife, she, in her just indignation, will
assuredly not advocate his cause for whose sake she has to bear the
slanders of the public press."

"Heaven grant that you may be a true prophet, general!" said Köckeritz,
heaving a sigh. "The queen, however, is so magnanimous that she might
even overlook her personal wrongs, and the slanders heaped on her, if
she thought the welfare of the country was at stake. I believe she
esteems the honor of Prussia even higher than her own, and in case she
should believe the former to be endangered, would be willing to
sacrifice herself."

"I believe your excellency is mistaken, so far as that is concerned,"
said General von Zastrow, smiling. "The wife of Frederick William, aside
from being a high-minded queen, is a woman who has the utmost regard for
her reputation and virtue, and who, for the sake of her husband and
children, would not suffer a breath of suspicion upon her honor. Well,
we shall see whether you are right or not. It is high time for us to go
to work. As you have promised me your assistance, I am quite hopeful,
and believe we shall succeed in restoring peace to poor tormented
Prussia. Go, then, your excellency, to perform your part; I will go to
the Countess von Truchsess, to bring her the newspapers, and then it
will be high time to conduct General Bertrand to the king. Well, Heaven
bless us all, and cause Prussia to make peace at last with the Corsican
lion!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SLANDEROUS ARTICLES.

Queen Louisa was in her cabinet, engaged in reading the letters and
journals brought by the courier, who had just arrived from Berlin. She
glanced hastily over the papers, and then turned to the letters that lay
unopened before her. On the other side of the small table, standing in
front of the divan, sat the young Countess von Truchsess, who was
occupied in arranging the journals. The queen meantime was reading her
letters; during the perusal her features lighted up more and more, and a
delicate blush mantled her pale cheeks.

Louisa had but just recovered from a severe and dangerous illness, which
had attacked her soon after her arrival at Königsberg. The suffering
which her courageous soul was enduring with so much constancy and
heroism had undermined her body; weaker than her mind, it had succumbed
to the burden of her grief. A nervous fever had confined her to her bed
for weeks; it had afforded her at least some consolation by rendering
her unconscious of misfortune, and causing her, in her delirious
moments, to live again through the joyful days of the past. While she
was dreaming and believing herself happy in the splendors of a former
life, real and fearful disasters had befallen her cause. She had not
learned that the French were approaching nearer to Königsberg, and that
the unfortunate royal family were no longer safe there. She had not been
conscious in her fever that she had been lifted from her couch into the
travelling-coach, to be conveyed to Memel--that her carriage had been
transformed into a sick-bed, and that she had lain on the cushions with
burning cheeks, singing sweet lullabies, and rejoicing in her fancied
happiness.

But at length her fever subsided, and consciousness returned. All the
mournful news which during her illness had been concealed from her,
overwhelmed her as soon as she recovered, and for this reason her health
had improved but very slowly. At this hour, as we have said, the blush
had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were beaming again with the
fire of former days. The letters gave a glimmer of hope to her soul.
They told her of the brave defenders of the fortresses that had not
surrendered, and of heroic Ferdinand von Schill, who, with his soldiers,
was doing so much injury to the enemy, and who had succeeded in
capturing one of the commanding generals of the besieging army, Marshal
Victor. They told her of Graudenz, the commander of which had sworn to
be buried under the ruins of that fortress rather than open its gates to
the enemy; they told her also of Dantzic, which was still courageously
holding out and hoping for the succor the Russians had promised. And
these letters contained still other hopeful news: that Berlin, which,
according to former statements, was said to have already submitted to
Napoleon, was bowing very reluctantly to the behests of the autocrat,
and still waiting for the hour of deliverance.

"Oh, I knew well enough," said the queen, laying aside the last of her
letters, "I knew well enough that the inhabitants of Berlin are
affectionately devoted to us. I never doubted their constancy, and how
should I? Those whom you meet with a heart full of love are compelled,
as it were, to return your love. The king and I always loved Berlin, and
always counted on its fealty. I am glad, therefore, to hear that our
hopes will be fulfilled one day! It is still a dark, stormy night, but
daylight will come--the rising sun will dispel the storm and scatter the
darkness. You shake your head, Countess Truchsess? You do not believe in
my prophecies?"

"I do not believe in the fidelity of the inhabitants of Berlin, your
majesty," sighed the countess, "they are a frivolous, fickle people, who
revile those to-day whom they admired but yesterday."

"Oh!" exclaimed the queen, sinking back upon the sofa, "the throbbing of
my heart tells me that you have to communicate bad news! What is it?"

"No, most gracious queen, command me rather to be silent," said the lady
of honor, imploringly. "Your majesty looks so pale that I am afraid any
excitement would injure your weak nerves. You need repose and ought not
to be irritated; besides, what does your majesty care for the slanders
of the populace? Such arrows recoil from the pure."

"Ah," said the queen, with a faint smile, "you are dealing with me as
did Robert the hunter with the count in Schiller's 'Walk to the Forge.'
You are stimulating my curiosity by mysterious words--you are talking
about slanders, and yet you do not tell me what they are."

"Only with the difference, your majesty, that Robert the hunter told
falsehoods, which he himself had invented, while I alluded only to those
of others, and despise them from the bottom of my heart."

"Then you mean to say that I have been slandered," exclaimed the queen,
in a low voice. "Tell me, countess, what did your friends write to you?
What stories have been disseminated? I desire to know!"

"Gracious queen, my friends did not write any thing on the subject. I
saw only what, unfortunately, thousands have already seen."

"What did you see?" said the queen, angrily. "What do you refer to? Do
not speak any longer in riddles, if you please."

"Your majesty, I have glanced at the pamphlets and journals lying there,
and request you not to insist to-day on my reading to you the articles
contained in them."

"Ah, that is it!" exclaimed Louisa, laying both her hands on the
periodicals which the countess seemingly wished to withhold from her.
"These contain the slanders. I must know what they are. Read them to me,
countess." And the queen folded her arms with a resolute air.

"Have mercy on me, your majesty! I am really afraid--my lips cannot
easily recite those vile lines, and your majesty, besides, will be angry
with me for complying."

"No, no," exclaimed the queen, impatiently, "I am not angry with you.
You only did your duty in calling my attention to these things, and
having taken upon yourself the task of being my reader, perform it now!
What pamphlets are those sent to us?"

"Your majesty," said the countess, in an embarrassed tone of voice,
"there is, first, a pamphlet entitled 'A True Account of the Interview
of the Emperor Alexander with the King of Prussia at the Grave of
Frederick the Great.'"

"Read it," replied the queen, dryly, "it is always good to listen to the
true account of events in which we have taken part." And without
uttering a word--without even a frown, she listened to the comments on
the scene at the grave of Frederick. They were malicious and scornful,
representing it as a farce.

"Well," said the queen, when the countess had finished, "if that is the
worst, I feel at ease again. We must submit to abuse, and I sincerely
pardon all those who expose me to the derision of the world by depicting
me as a martial Joan of Arc. It has not been permitted me to live
quietly in the shade of domestic happiness. A queen stands alone on a
summit; she is seen and watched by every one, and it is, therefore, but
natural that she should be hated and abused more relentlessly than other
women, particularly if she be unhappy. For sovereigns are never
pardoned, although they are subject to human failings, and their
misfortunes are always regarded as their own faults. Let the malicious,
therefore, deride us as much as they please; the good will only love and
respect us the more. Proceed, countess! What else did we receive?"

"Nothing, your majesty, but a few numbers of the _Telegraph_."

"Ah, read them," exclaimed the queen. "I know that journal will not
slander me. Its editor, Professor Lange, is a patriot, and, for this
reason, I had promised to lend him the portrait of the king which I am
wearing in a locket, that he might give his readers a good likeness of
their beloved monarch. The disastrous events of the war, and my
departure from Berlin, prevented me from fulfilling my promise. But
there will be better times for us, perhaps, and I shall then be able to
reward all those who remain faithful to us."

"And I hope your majesty will also be able to punish those who prove
treacherous," exclaimed the countess, vehemently.

The queen shook her head. "No," she said, "those who wrong me I will
pardon, and those who are faithless I will leave to their own
conscience. Now, countess, read to me the articles of the _Telegraph_."

"Does your majesty command me?"

"I do!"

The countess took one of the sheets and read in a tremulous voice: "'A
reliable account of the reasons why the queen compelled her husband, in
spite of his reluctance, to conclude an alliance with the Emperor of
Russia, and why she herself entered into a love-affair with Alexander of
Russia--'"

Louisa started, and a deathly pallor covered her face like a veil.

"Oh, my queen!" exclaimed the countess, imploringly, "do not insist on my
reading any further. I have not courage to do so."

"If I have courage enough to listen, you must have courage enough to
read," said the queen, almost harshly, "Read--I command you."

And the countess, in a low and tremulous voice, read the disgraceful
charge preferred by that journal, which accused the queen of loving the
Emperor Alexander in the most passionate manner. "Queen Louisa," said
the editor, "was in favor of the alliance with Russia, because her
heart had concluded an alliance with the handsome emperor, and she met
with her 'fine-looking' friend for the last time in the presence of her
husband at the grave of Frederick the Great. The alliance of their
hearts was sealed there by a glowing kiss, which Alexander imprinted on
the lips of Louisa."

The queen uttered a cry, and sprang up like an angry lioness. "That is
not true--that cannot be in the paper!" she cried, almost beside
herself.

The lady of honor silently handed her the paper. Louisa seized it, but
she trembled so violently that she was hardly able to decipher the
characters. She at last read the slanderous article herself.
Heart-rending groans escaped her, and a strange twitching and quivering
distorted her features. "It is indeed true, I have been wickedly
reviled!" she exclaimed, throwing the paper aside. "My enemies will rob
me of the only thing remaining--my honor--my good name. They desire to
expose me to the scorn of the world. Oh, this disgrace is more shocking
than all my other sufferings. It will kill me!" She covered her face
with her hands and wept piteously. The tears trickled between her
fingers, and fell on her black dress as if adorning it with diamonds.

The Countess von Truchsess was touched by the queen's grief. She softly
gathered up the other papers, and was about to leave the room, but the
noise of her footsteps aroused Louisa from the stupor of her despair.
She quickly dropped her hands from her face and dried her tears. "Stay
here," she said; "read the remainder. I want to hear it all." And as the
lady of honor remonstrated against this order--as she implored the queen
to spare herself, and to close her ears against such slanders, Louisa
said, gravely and imperiously: "I want to know it all! Unknown terrors
are even worse than those which we do know. Read!"

The countess, therefore, was obliged to read. The remaining numbers of
the journal repeated the same charge. They stated, though in different
words, that the queen alone was in favor of the alliance with Russia;
that the king would be quite willing to make peace with France, but that
his wife would never permit it, because she was passionately enamoured
of the emperor of Russia, and maintained a tender _liaison_ with him.
The queen listened as immovable and cold as a statue; her whole vitality
seemed suspended; she then pressed her right hand firmly against her
heart; with her left she clung convulsively to the back of the sofa, on
which she was sitting, as though she wished to prevent herself from
falling. Her eyes stared wildly, as if strange and fearful visions
passed before them. Thus she sat, long after the countess had paused,
an image of grief and horror. The lady of honor dared not interrupt her;
but clasping her hands, and weeping softly, she gazed at the queen, who,
in her grief-stricken beauty, seemed to her a martyr. Nothing was heard
but the monotonous ticking of the clock, and, at times, a low whistling
of the canary-bird, in its gilt cage at the window.

But suddenly Louisa seemed to awake from her stupor; a tremor pervaded
her whole frame; the flash of: life and consciousness returned to her
eyes. "That is his work," she muttered; "this attack comes from
him--from my mortal enemy. It is Napoleon who has aimed this poisoned
arrow at my heart, because he knew that nothing could hurt me and my
husband more fatally than this dreadful calumny." And uttering a loud
cry of despair, and wringing her hands, she exclaimed: "Oh, my God, what
did I do, to deserve so terrible a disgrace! What did my husband do that
he should be thus exposed to the relentless malice of his foe? Was not
the measure of our wretchedness full? Could not that cruel man, who
calls himself Emperor of the French, content himself with hurling us
into the dust, and with robbing my husband of his states? Is the honor
of his wife also to be sacrificed?"

A flood of tears burst from her eyes, and lifting up her arms to heaven,
she cried: "My God, why didst Thou desert me! Have mercy on me, and send
death to me, that I may conceal my reviled head in the grave! I am
accused of an ignominious, sinful love, although I love no one on earth
but my husband and my children! And a German pen was bought to write
that slander--German eyes did not shrink from reading it, and German men
and women permitted it to be repeated in this journal time and again!
They did not feel that they were disgraced and reviled in my
person--that all Germany was calumniated! For, in my grief as well as in
my love, I am the representative of Germany, and to insult me is to
insult all German wives and mothers. Woe to you, Napoleon, for stooping
to such an outrage! I pardon your attempts to rob me of my crown, but so
long as I breathe, I will not forgive your attacks upon my honor!"

She rose slowly and proudly, and lifted her arms and eyes as if to utter
a solemn imprecation. "Woe to you, Napoleon!" she cried, in a loud,
ringing voice, "woe to you that you did not respect the innocence of the
wife, and had no mercy on the honor of a mother! The tears which I am
shedding at this hour will one day fall like burning coals on your
heart, and for this torment I am now enduring I shall call you to
account above! You think you are master of the earth, and, like fate
itself, can dispose of empires; but you will be crushed at last--you
will one day feel that you are only a weak creature--only dust, like all
of us. You will yet sink down in your affliction, and cry for mercy. Let
me live to see that day, my God: then my tears will be avenged!"

She paused, her eyes still directed toward heaven, her whole appearance
breathing a sublime enthusiasm. She looked like a prophetess with her
beaming face and uplifted arms. But after a while her arms dropped, her
eyes turned to earth again, and the inspired prophetess was once more
transformed into the unhappy woman, who feared she would die beneath the
burden of her grief. She burst again into tears, and repeated again and
again that terrible accusation, although every word of it struck her
heart like a dagger. Gradually, however, the reviled woman, conscious of
her innocence, became the proud and pure queen! With quiet dignity she
stretched out her hand toward the countess, who rushed to her, pressed
her lips on the royal hand, and sobbing asked to be forgiven.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Louisa, with a faint smile. "I know
your intentions were good. Oh, believe me, during hours of great
affliction the soul sees and comprehends many things that were hitherto
concealed from it. Thus I understood in the outburst of my despair why
all this had occurred, and why I had to undergo all these sufferings.
Napoleon's poisoned arrow might have fallen powerless at my feet, if
your uncle had not instructed you to pick it up and make me feel it.
Hush! Do not utter a word of apology! Your uncle, General von Zastrow,
is a patriot in his way, and intended to teach me by your intervention
how to become a good patriot in his sense--that is to say, to hate
Russia, and to turn away from this alliance, for the sake of which I
have been insulted. It was policy that induced the Emperor Napoleon to
invent these calumnies, and it was policy again that induced your uncle
to have you communicate them to me. This is a consolation; for, as it
is, I am suffering only for the sake of my people, and you made me a
martyr of the German cause. But I will bear all without complaining,
however painful it may be; I do not wish it to cease if the welfare and
happiness of Prussia should be delayed thereby but a single hour. I
shall not ask the king to break off the alliance with Russia. Queen
Louisa yesterday believed an alliance with Russia to be necessary and
advantageous to the welfare and honor of Prussia; she will not change
her mind to-day because Louisa, the woman, is charged with a
dishonorable love for the Emperor of Russia. The woman may die of this
calumny, but dying she will still be a queen, and say, 'I die for my
country, and for my people! May my death be advantageous to Prussia!' Go
to your uncle, countess, and tell him so! And now give me the numbers
of the journal, and the pamphlet too; I will take them to the king. My
fate, as well as that of Prussia, is in his hands. He alone can absolve
me from the charge preferred against me. Give me the papers!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE JUSTIFICATION.

The king sat at his desk, assiduously engaged in writing, when the door
opened, and the queen entered. Her whole bearing breathed an unwonted,
solemn earnestness; her head was proudly erect, her cheeks pale, and a
melancholy smile was playing on her lips. In her left hand she held a
roll of papers. The king rose hastily to meet his wife with a kindly
greeting. Louisa gave him her right hand, and laid her head for a moment
on his shoulder. Looking into her husband's face with a sweet, touching
expression, "Do you love me, Frederick?" she asked in so low and gentle
a voice that he scarcely heard it. Frederick William smiled, and,
instead of replying to her, imprinted a kiss on her fair brow.

"Do you believe in me?" said Louisa. "Oh, my lord and king, I implore
you by every thing that is sacred--by the memory of our children--tell
me, sincerely and frankly, as if standing before God, do you believe in
me? Do you believe in my love--in my virtue?"

"Louisa," exclaimed the king, indignantly and almost aghast, "this
question is too grave to be a jest, and too ludicrous to be grave."

"And yet I am in earnest," exclaimed the queen, in an outburst of
excitement, which she was no longer able to restrain. "Look at these
papers, Frederick. They contain a terrible charge against your wife--the
mother of your children--the queen of our people. They accuse the wife
of a disgraceful _liaison_, and the queen of the most infamous
selfishness. Frederick, they charge me with loving the Emperor
Alexander, and with having induced you, for the purpose of gratifying
this passion, to enter into the alliance with Russia. Now, you know the
disgrace weighing me down, of which all Germany is aware by this time,
and in which the malicious and evil-disposed will surely believe, even
though the virtuous and compassionate may refuse to credit it. Read
these papers, my husband; read them in my presence, and if your
features express but a shadow of doubt--if you fix your eyes but for a
moment on me with an uncertain expression--let me die, and hide my head
in the grave!"

She offered the papers to the king, but Frederick William only glanced
at them, and then laying them on the table, took from one of its drawers
other papers. "See, Louisa," he said in his blunt, dry manner, "these
are the same numbers of the _Telegraph_; I have already had them for a
week, and read every word of them."

The queen unfolded them. "It is true," she said, shuddering; "they are
the same papers; I read there again the terrible words, 'Queen Louisa
insists on continuing the alliance with Russia, only because her heart
has formed an alliance with the fine-looking Emperor Alexander, and
because she is passionately enamoured of him.' Oh, my husband, these
words have engraved themselves as a stigma on my forehead, and should
your eyes behold it also, let me expunge it by sacrificing my life. Tell
me the truth, Frederick! Have I deserved it--have I ever sinned by a
word--nay, by a look? I have often thought and said, that there is a
vestige of truth at the bottom of every rumor--that it may be greatly
exaggerated, but cannot be entirely false. Is there any foundation
whatever for this slander? Consider well, my husband, and if you should
find that I have sinned by a gesture, by a smile, banish me from your
presence. Tell me that I am unworthy of being called your wife; tear the
bonds of friendship that unite you with the Emperor Alexander, and
oppose him as an enemy, menacing and demanding satisfaction. There must
be no stain on your honor, and if you believe the statements of these
papers, show to the world that you will punish the faithless wife and
spurn the treacherous friend!"

The king put his hands on the glowing cheeks of his wife, and, raising
her head, gazed at her with a long and tender look. "Your friends had no
mercy on you, then?" he asked. "They had to inform you pitilessly of
what I wished so anxiously to conceal from you? I would willingly have
cut off my right hand if I could have expunged with the blood trickling
from the wound those lies from the public mind. But the world has now as
little mercy on us as fate. Affliction has hitherto surrounded your
beauty with the glory of a martyr; but mean men have been instigated to
make you a penitent sinner--a Magdalen of the martyr."

"My beloved Frederick," cried the queen, "you evade my question; you do
not reply to me! Tell me the truth. Do you believe in me? Or do you deem
me guilty?"

At this moment a low rap at the door interrupted them. The king
listened, and then turned smilingly to his wife. "It is Minister von
Zastrow, who comes with General Bertrand," he said. "I have granted an
audience to the Frenchman at this hour, to receive the letter and the
peace offers of Napoleon. He is proposing to me an alliance with France,
and he, as well as his adherents here, I suppose, count on my having
read those papers, knowing in what sense malicious men are interpreting
our alliance with Russia. The reply that I shall make to Napoleon's
envoy will be also a reply to your question; hence you shall hear it,
Louisa. Enter my cabinet; the _portière_ will conceal you from the eyes
of my visitors while you will hear every thing that is said." He took
the queen's arm and conducted her quickly into the adjoining room;
hastily rolled an easy-chair toward the door, and requested her by a
wave of his hand to sit down on it. He then lowered the thick velvet
_portière_, and, taking leave of his wife with a smile, returned to his
room.

Louisa gazed after him. "Oh," she whispered, "how could I deceive and
betray him?--him whom I love as the cause of all my happiness, and who
has rendered my life sacred and glorious! Oh, my husband and my
children! my conscience is clear, and accuses me of no guilt! Will you
believe it, Frederick? Will those infamous slanders not leave a vestige
of mistrust in your mind? But hush, hush! the envoy is there already! I
will listen to what the king replies to him." She bent her head closer,
and her large blue eyes with their searching glances seemed to pierce
the heavy velvet, so that she might not only hear but see what was going
on in the room.

In obedience to a sign made by the king, the door of the anteroom had
opened, and General Bertrand, accompanied by General von Zastrow,
entered. The king, standing in the middle of the room, returned the
deep, respectful obeisances of the two gentlemen by a careless nod, and
fixed his quiet eyes searchingly on the French general.

"Sire," said General von Zastrow, in a loud and solemn voice, "General
Bertrand, adjutant of his majesty the Emperor Napoleon, in accordance
with the gracious leave of your majesty, has appeared here in order to
deliver to you an autograph letter from his imperial master."

"I am glad to see General Bertrand, and to make his acquaintance," said
Frederick William, composedly; "I like the brave; and not merely the
French army, but all men, know you to be a brave officer."

General Bertrand blushed. "Ah, sire," he said, "if I have not deserved
this praise hitherto, your royal and kindly words will stimulate me in
the future to strive with unflagging zeal to become worthy of it. I deem
myself happy because my august master the emperor selected me to be the
bearer of his letter and of his proposition, for he thereby enables me
to do homage to the noblest and best of kings--to the exalted sovereign
who bears prosperity and adversity with equal dignity. Your majesty will
permit me to deliver the letter of my emperor into your hands." He
approached the king, and, presenting to him the large letter to which
the imperial seal had been affixed, reverentially bent his knee.

"Oh, no," said Frederick William, quickly, "a brave soldier must not
humble himself in this manner; rise, general!"

General Bertrand rose, holding the imperial letter still in his hands,
for the king had not yet taken it. Looking at him inquiringly, "Sire,"
he said, "may I request your majesty to receive the letter of my
emperor?"

"Ah, I forgot," exclaimed the king. "You are the bearer of a letter the
Emperor Napoleon has addressed to me. Let me confess my want of skill: I
am unable to read your emperor's handwriting very rapidly, and it is
disagreeable slowly to decipher such a letter. Moreover, what the
emperor has to say to me will, doubtless, sound better when uttered by
your lips, than in the black words on the paper. I, therefore, request
you to read it to me."

"Sire," exclaimed General Bertrand, "I shall not dare to break the seal
of a letter addressed to your majesty, and not to me."

"Oh, you may do so," said the king, "I permit you to break the seal.
What the Emperor Napoleon and I have to write to each other need not be
sealed. Everybody may know it. And, I suppose his letters will be only a
sort of continuation of the bulletins he issued in Potsdam and Berlin.
Such bulletins and letters belong to the world and history, which will
judge them."

"Oh," whispered the queen, who had heard every word, "oh, why cannot I
see him in his proud calmness and dignity, and thank him for his noble
words!" She seized the _portière_ with her slender fingers and pushed it
aside a little, so as to be able to see what was going on in the other
room. The king, perhaps, had noticed the slight rustling, for he;
glanced quickly at the curtain; it opened immediately, the noble and
beautiful face of the queen appeared; she nodded with radiant eyes a
smiling greeting to her husband, and kissed her hand to him; her head
then disappeared from the aperture, and the folds of dark velvet closed
again. General Bertrand and General von Zastrow had seen nothing. Both
stood with their backs toward the door, and respect prevented them from
looking around toward the slight noise that reached their ears for a
moment.

A smile illuminated the king's face. "Well," he asked, almost jestingly,
turning to General Bertrand, "you have not broken the seal yet? Do so,
for you ought to understand that I am anxious to hear the contents of
this letter."

"Sire, inasmuch as you command me, I obey," said Bertrand. With a quick
pressure of his hand he broke the seal and opened the letter.

"Now let me hear it," said the king, gliding slowly and carelessly into
the easy-chair standing at the side of the desk. "There are two chairs;
take seats, gentlemen!"

"Your majesty will permit me to stand. My master the emperor is not
accustomed to have his letters read in another position."

"Yes, he may require his subjects to pay to him the deference of
standing when one of his letters is being read," said the king. "You may
stand, therefore, if you please. General von Zastrow, sit down." The
king said this in so stern and imperious a tone that General von Zastrow
felt resistance impossible, and that he would have to obey the king's
order. He took a chair in silence, inwardly aghast at this disrespectful
breach of etiquette.

"Read," said the king, dryly. General Bertrand unfolded the letter and
read as follows:

"Your majesty will receive this letter at the hands of my
Adjutant-General Bertrand, who enjoys my friendship. I, therefore,
request you to repose entire confidence in every thing that he says, and
I flatter myself that his mission will be agreeable to you.

"Bertrand will communicate to your majesty my views about the present
state of your affairs. I desire to set bounds to the misfortunes of your
family, and to organize, as soon as possible, the Prussian monarchy,
whose mediating power is necessary for the tranquillity of Europe.

"Bertrand will also communicate to you the easiest and quickest way in
which this can be brought about, and I hope your majesty will let me
know that you have taken the step which will accomplish this purpose in
the best manner, and which, at the same time, will agree with the
welfare of your subjects; that is to say, that you accept the peace
which I am offering to you. At all events, I beg your majesty to feel
convinced that I am sincerely disposed to resume our former relations,
and that I also wish to come to an understanding with Russia and
England, provided these powers should be animated with the same desire.
I should detest myself if I were to be the cause of so much bloodshed.
But how can I help it? The conclusion of peace is therefore in the hands
of your majesty, and it would be the happiest day of my life if you
accept my present propositions.

"NAPOLEON."

"You have to make oral explanations to this letter of your emperor?"
asked the king, when Bertrand paused.

"Yes, sire, my master the emperor intrusted me with further
communications to you," said Bertrand. "But, in the first place, I beg
leave of your majesty to deliver the imperial letter into your hands."
He approached the king and presented the paper to him with a respectful
bow.

The king did not take it, but pointed to his desk. "Lay it there," he
said, carelessly. "The purpose of this letter is accomplished; I know
its contents, and that is all I care about. And now, general,
communicate to me as briefly as possible the verbal commissions with
which the emperor has intrusted you."

"Sire, his majesty the emperor authorized me to repeat to you that it
was his liveliest wish to resume his former amicable relations with
Prussia, and that he would shrink from no sacrifice to effect it. The
emperor longs for nothing more ardently than to restore your states to
your majesty, and to conduct you back to your capital."

"As his vassal?" asked the king, smiling sarcastically.

"No, sire, as a free and independent king."

"Not as Napoleon's ally, then?"

"Yes, sire, as the emperor's ally, but as free and independent as he is
himself. It is true, the emperor hopes and wishes that Prussia will be
friendly toward France; he relies on your majesty's assistance in his
struggle with Russia, which, in that case, will soon bow to the united
will of France and Prussia, and be compelled to accept a treaty of
peace. In return, the emperor will surrender to the just wishes of your
majesty seditious Poland, which, as the emperor has become satisfied,
is unable to bear an independent existence. The rebellious provinces of
Prussian Poland shall speedily be compelled to yield unconditional
obedience to the Prussian sceptre, and your country shall occupy once
more the position due to her in the council of European nations. It will
be unnecessary for her to make for this purpose any sacrifices to the
friends and allies of France; all her fortresses and provinces shall be
fully restored, and so soon as the treaty of peace will have been
definitively concluded, the French troops will evacuate the Prussian
territory."

While General Bertrand was speaking, the face of Minister von Zastrow
had brightened, and was now really radiant with joy. Animated by the
cheering words of the Frenchman, he rose from his seat, and looked at
the king with clasped hands and imploring eyes. But the countenance of
Frederick William remained impenetrable and cold; not the slightest
expression of joy or gratification was to be read in it.

"Are you done, general?" asked the king, after a pause.

"Yes, sire. I am waiting for your majesty's reply."

"This reply will be brief and decisive," exclaimed Frederick William,
loudly, rising slowly and with truly royal dignity. "I will not accept
this alliance and this peace!"

"Your majesty," said General von Zastrow, in dismay, forgetful of the
requirements of etiquette, "your majesty, that is impossible! You cannot
be in earnest; I beseech you first to hear the opinion of your
ministers, and to consult a cabinet council."

"Silence!" said the king, indignantly; "the only voices that I ought to
consult with regard to this question are not those of my ministers, but
those of my conscience and honor. It behooves the king alone to decide
upon war or peace. I repeat, therefore, I will not accept this peace nor
enter into the alliance offered under such circumstances. I might
content myself with this declaration, but I shall tell you the reasons
of my refusal that you may repeat them to your emperor. I cannot accept,
for it would be a defeat and disgrace more humiliating than the loss of
a battle. What, sir! I am to receive by the grace and _bon plaisir_ of
your emperor the gift of a position to which I am entitled by my birth!
The Emperor Napoleon condescends to restore my states after forcibly
expelling me from them! If I were to accept this offer, I should thereby
condemn myself; and this war, into which I entered so reluctantly,
because I foresaw its disastrous consequences, would be nothing but a
reckless adventure, abandoned by myself because unsuccessful. If I
allowed Napoleon to reinstate me in my rights, what would I be but his
vassal? Not a king by the grace of God, but a king by the grace of
Napoleon--not the ruler of a free and independent German state, but the
governor of a French province--the despised oppressor of an enslaved
people, robbed of their honor, independence, and nationality. Now, I
commenced this war for the sake of my own honor and that of my people. I
commenced it to set bounds to French cupidity and thirst for conquest;
to preserve to Germany her German and to Prussia her Prussian character,
and to drive back the Confederation of the Rhine beyond the frontier of
the Rhine. The fortune of war has not sustained me in these efforts, and
victory perched upon the eagles of France. But the Prussian eagle is not
yet dead; he may still hope to rise again, and, endowed with renewed
vigor, reconquer what belongs to him. What was taken by the sword can be
reconquered only by the sword. My honor, as well as that of my army and
people, was wounded on the battle-fields of Jena and Auerstadt; it
cannot be healed by the balm of Napoleon's grace; it can only be
redeemed by blood!"

"Sire, I beseech you, do not allow yourself to be carried away by the
ardor of your heroism," exclaimed General Bertrand, feelingly. "Remember
that after the rejection of this peace the Emperor Napoleon will be a
relentless enemy of yours, and leave nothing undone in order to
annihilate Prussia. Your majesty ought also to take into consideration
that you lack an army--that your forces have been dispersed, and that
your fortresses have surrendered."

"Colberg and Graudenz are still holding out," exclaimed the king, "and
so is Dantzic."

"Sire, if you reject this peace, the first step of the emperor will be
to take Dantzic by assault," said General Bertrand.

"Your majesty, have mercy on Dantzic," exclaimed General von Zastrow,
imploringly; "have mercy on your blockaded fortresses--on your poor
distressed subjects! So soon as your majesty accepts this peace, the
Emperor Napoleon intends withdrawing all the French troops from Prussian
territory. Oh, pray take into consideration how dreadfully your people
have suffered by the heavy contributions, and the enormous supplies to
the troops! Remember that they are overwhelmed with wretchedness, and
are kneeling and crying to God and to their king to restore peace."

"O my God," murmured the queen, "inspire him with the true decision,
and grant that he may perceive and choose what is right!" She knelt down
behind the curtain as if to hear better the king's words, that to her
were the words of God. The king did not seem to notice his minister's
supplication; his eyes glanced at him coldly and disdainfully, and were
then fixed gravely on the face of the French general.

"I am not quite done with my reply to your propositions," he said. "I
have told you the reasons why I cannot accept peace. It only remains to
explain why, though the terms were honorable, I could and would not be
allowed to enter into this alliance. By virtue of it I should be obliged
to espouse the cause of France against her enemies, and to wage war
against Russia, my ally. I am to violate the only sure compact remaining
to me in order to become a mere cipher in the hands of Napoleon! I am to
betray him who has been faithful to me! The Emperor of Russia is my
personal friend. At the grave of Frederick the Great I swore with him to
maintain the alliance of both our hearts and our states, and no other
voice induced me to take this step but my inclination, my policy, and my
reason. The Emperor of Russia, true to our mutual oath, renewed his
protestations of friendship in the hour of danger, and his army is ready
to uphold our common cause. If, now that France is offering peace to me
at the expense of Russia, I were to accept it, I should commit a
perfidious act, and, as a Prussian soldier, as a friend of the Emperor
Alexander, I must decidedly reject any idea of such a desertion. A
German keeps his word, and does not trifle with treaties he has sworn
to. German fealty has not yet become an empty sound, and France will be
obliged to admit that she is struggling with an adversary who does not
sell his honor for provinces or for money. Now you know all I had to
communicate. Tell Napoleon that intrigues and slanders cannot separate
me from my alliance with the Emperor of Russia any more than adulation
and advantageous offers. My resolution will remain as firm as a rock.
And now, good-by, general!"

He waved his hand to Bertrand, and received with proud calmness the
respectful bows with which the French general withdrew.

No sooner had the door closed than the queen appeared. Her eyes filled
with tears, and stretching out her arms toward her husband, seemed a
picture of beauty, grace, and love. The king hastened to her and pressed
her firmly against his heart. "Are you satisfied with my answer,
Louisa?" he asked. "Do you know now what I think of those wretched
calumnies?"

The queen bent and kissed his hand. "I thank you, my beloved husband,"
she whispered tenderly. "Wise and kind as you always are, you knew how
to comfort my heart, and by your heroic words to fill my soul with
enthusiasm and delight. My husband and king, you have restored my honor.
I care no longer for the abuse of the world, but shall always think of
this sacred hour, for my king believes in me, and my husband still loves
his Louisa; he knows that the mother of his children is innocent, and
may freely raise her eyes to heaven."

"I know more than that," said the king, laying his hand on his wife's
head, as if blessing her; "I know that in these times of adversity you
are the only hope left me; I know that I derive courage and consolation
from you, and that in my misfortunes I still deem myself fortunate,
because you are by my side--the angel of my life!"

"Ah, Frederick," exclaimed the queen, bursting into tears, "Frederick,
how rich and happy you make me! Am I not an enviable wife, possessed as
I am of such a husband!" In passionate tenderness, she threw her arms
about him, and in loving embrace rested long on his breast.

Some one rapped repeatedly and discreetly at the door. Louisa, blushing,
raised her head and dropped her arms. The king ordered the person to
walk in. It was General von Zastrow who entered, pale and gloomy.
Frederick William smilingly beckoned him to approach.

"You are dissatisfied with me, Zastrow?" he said, in a pleasant tone;
"you believe it would be better to make peace?"

"Your majesty, I am afraid you have rejected an advantageous alliance,
and will, perhaps, be compelled soon to accept by far more rigorous
terms."

"You do not know, then, that large Russian forces are advancing, and
that the Emperor Alexander himself probably leads his troops against the
enemy?"

"Pardon me, sire, but I do not believe in the friendship of Russia. Your
majesty uttered words so generous to-day, that my eyes filled with tears
of admiration, and I felt proud as a man and subject, although my heart
as a general and minister was overwhelmed with sorrow. May Russia
deserve your fidelity! may she not disappoint your hopes, and commit as,
you said, a perfidious act, by entering into an alliance with France at
the expense of Prussia! But may your majesty, above all, get an army
courageous and strong enough to brave all your enemies, and restore the
greatness of Prussia!"

"You do not believe, then, in this army?" asked the king, gloomily.

"Your majesty, in order to organize an army, money--a great deal of
money--is indispensable."

"And you mean to say we have none?"

"Your majesty, not only your privy purse is entirely exhausted, but
there is also no money in the state and district treasuries. Gold and
silver seem to have wholly disappeared; stocks and commercial paper are
depreciating every day, and the bankruptcy of the state will be
inevitable!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, indignantly, "do not utter such a word! Never
shall I permit such distress to be inflicted upon my poor subjects!"

He commenced rapidly pacing the room; suddenly, however, he stood still
in front of the queen, who had softly withdrawn into a window-niche,
where she had watched every movement of the king. "Louisa, will your
repasts be as agreeable to you on porcelain plates as on gold and
silver?"

The queen smiled. "The little Princess of Mecklenburg was accustomed to
take her meals off porcelain," she said, "and I honestly confess that
the Queen of Prussia at times envied her her plain white plates."

The king, turning again to his minister, said: "We are not yet so poor
as you seem to believe; our large golden dinner-set, the heirloom of our
ancestors, was safely removed from Berlin, and is now here at Memel. It
embraces pieces of the highest value, for which millions have been paid.
May my ancestors pardon my giving away what they collected! I am not
doing so in a reckless and extravagant manner, but with profound sorrow
and with a mournful heart. But it cannot be helped! General von Zastrow,
I shall issue the necessary orders to have my large golden dinner-set
either sold or pawned. We shall receive at least a million dollars for
it."

"And the privy purse of your majesty stands greatly in need of this
million," said General von Zastrow, drawing a sigh.

The king shrugged his shoulders. "Not a dollar of it shall be paid into
my privy purse," he said. "The money shall be distributed among the
public treasuries, that the lack of funds may be temporarily relieved,
and that my poor suffering subjects need not fear that the state become
bankrupt."

"But if your majesty should carry out this generous resolution,"
exclaimed the general, "you may soon be in danger yourself of
privations."

The king cast a long, inquiring glance on his wife. Louisa smiled and
nodded kindly to him. "If questions of economy and family matters are to
be considered," she said, "a woman may be permitted to say a word in the
council of men, and to give her opinion as a housewife. I think we are
tolerating a great many superfluous and very expensive things in our
private household, and, if my husband does not object, I should like to
ask for a few changes."

"I shall never dare to contradict you," said Frederick, kindly. "Let me,
therefore, know the changes you wish to make."

"In the first place, I think that we have too many servants, considering
our present circumstances, and the small house in which we are living.
As we do not give dinners, the people attached to the kitchen may be
greatly diminished; most of the cooks, as well as the legion of footmen,
may be discharged. It is necessary, too, to reduce the number of
carriages, and to sell most of the horses standing uselessly in the
stable. A plain vehicle, drawn by two good horses, is sufficient for my
children, and whenever I want a ride, I believe my husband will lend me
his yellow travelling-coach."

"Provided you allow me a seat at your side," said the king, smiling.
"Are there any other suggestions you deem necessary?

"I wish the servants surrounding us to appear in a plain dress, and the
expensive liveries, covered with gold and silver lace, to disappear. A
plain black cloth coat, trimmed with white, is sufficient. It is not,
however, to signify that we are in mourning, but only to represent the
Prussian colors, and on looking at them I shall always feel proud and
happy, while now, on beholding the liveries covered with gold and
silver, I cannot suppress my shame, for I think of the distress of our
subjects, and of the misery of our country. Let us begin, therefore, a
plain, unpretending existence, my husband; let us set an example of
simplicity to our people, and show them that one may be contented,
though deprived of the splendors of wealth and position."

The king took her hand and pressed it against his lips. "I consent to
all your wishes, Louisa," he said; "I will issue to-day the necessary
orders to the steward.--You see, general, our privy purse will not lack
money, for we shall realize a handsome sum by the sale of our horses,
carriages, and the gold and silver lace of the liveries. Moreover, the
war will not last forever, and we may, perhaps, look soon for a final
decision."

"Your majesty, war, then, is absolutely unavoidable?"

"You still ask this question? Yes, the war will be continued. I will
hear nothing further about peace."

"In that case," said General von Zastrow, trembling, "I must humbly
request your majesty to accept my resignation; the continuation of the