Chapter Xix

Frederick commenced the campaign against the house of Hapsburg with all the energy and bold courage of former days. The diplomats had once more been permitted to seek the arts of negotiation, and, these having failed, the king advanced rapidly, and entered Bohemia with his advance-guard. The imperial army, informed of the approach of the enemy, retired hurriedly to their intrenchments at Koeniggratz, beyond the Elbe, without a decisive battle. In the skirmishes at the outposts the Prussians had been victorious. On the opposite shore of the Elbe, at Welsdorf, the king took up his headquarters. Why did he not pursue his bold run of victory? Why did he not surprise the imperial army, which he knew was scattered, and not in a position to resist the strength of the Prussian forces? Moreover, the second column of the Prussian army, under the command of Prince Henry, had also entered Bohemia, and fortified a camp near Rimburg, having united with the Saxon allies, which caused the imperialists under Field-Marshal Loudon to seek protection beyond the Iser, near Muenchengratz and Yung-bunzlau. Why did the king then stop in the midst of his victorious career? He had advanced to the field with his fresh, youthful fire, a shining example to all. He was always mounted, shunning no danger, but taking part in the hardships and fatigue incident to the changing life of war; even showing himself personally active at the discovery of foraging-parties. Why did he suddenly hesitate and lie inactive in camp? Why did he not summon his generals and staff-officers to his quarters, instead of his Minister von Herzberg? Every one asked himself the question, and every one answered it differently.--Some said, “Because the Empress of Russia had raised objections to this war of German brothers;” others, that “the King of the French had offered to settle the quarrel as intermediator.” A third said, the “empress-queen, Maria Theresa, was terrified at the rapid advance of the Prussians, and had immediately commenced negotiations for peace.”

While the wise politicians of Germany and all Europe read and pondered, Frederick tarried quietly in his peasant-house, in which he had taken up his quarters, and which had been arranged very comfortably with carpets, camp-stools, and curtains. He sat in his cabinet upon the high, leather-covered arm-chair, which had been brought for him from the neighboring parsonage. Alkmene lay upon his knee, and Diana at his feet. His countenance was pale, and betrayed fatigue, but his eye beamed with undimmed brilliancy, and around his mouth played an ironical smile. “Well, so matters stand; therefore, I have summoned you to Welsdorf,” said Frederick to his minister, Von Herzberg. “The empress-queen is, above all things, a most tender mother. She is fearfully anxious, now that the dear young Emperor Joseph has left for the army, and will be exposed to the dangers of war. My good friends in Vienna inform me that my entrance into Bohemia created a sensation at the brilliant capital, and had so much alarmed the empress-queen, that she was seriously thinking of negotiating for peace. As I learned this from a reliable source, I halted and encamped, that the empress should know where to find me, and sent to summon you immediately. I had not been here three days, when the empress’s ambassador, Baron von Thugut, appeared to make offers, and consult about an armistice of two weeks. I made known my conditions, and promised the empress, through her negotiator, that I would so calculate my movements that her majesty would have nothing to fear for her blood and her cherished emperor. [Footnote: The king’s words.--See “Prussia, Frederick the Great,” vol. iv., p. 102.] Voila, mon cher ministre, you know all now. If the Austrian diplomat comes a second time, you can negotiate with him.”

“Is your majesty also inclined to peace?” asked Herzberg.

The king shrugged his shoulders. “When it can be arranged with honor, yes,” said he. “I will acknowledge, Herzberg, to you, the campaign is hard for me. The old fellow of sixty-eight feels the burden of life, and would gladly rest quietly, and enjoy the last few years as philosopher and writer instead of soldier.”

“Your majesty has yet many years to live, God willing,” cried Herzberg. “It would be a great misfortune to Prussia if she could not yet owe to her great king a long and happy reign.”

“Hem!” replied the king, “there are in Prussia very many who think otherwise, and wish me to the devil. But I have no intention of seeking monsieur so soon, for there are sufficient devilish deeds to endure in this earthly vale of sorrow to prepare for one a very decent purgatory, and give him hereafter well-founded hopes of heaven. Therefore I count upon remaining here below a while, and to knead with you this leaven of life that may yield to my subjects an eatable bread. You must help me, Herzberg, when I am the baker, to provide the flour for my people; you must be the associate to knead the bread. In order that the flour should not fail, and the bread give out, it may be necessary, if possible, to make peace.”

“Will your majesty be so gracious as to inform me what steps I may take, and upon what conditions?”

“Take this paper,” said the king, extending a written document to Herzberg. “I have therein expressed my wishes, and you can act accordingly. I am prepared for peace upon any terms which can be made with honor, and which do not frustrate the aim I have in view. You well know that this is the security of Germany against Austria’s ambitious love of territorial aggrandizement! I cannot and I will not suffer that the house of Habsburg should strive for unjust possession in Germany, and appropriate Bavaria to herself while a lawful heir exists. I well know that I play the role of Don Quixote, and am about to fight for the rights of Germany as the Chevalier de la Mancha fought for his Dulcinea del Toboso. Mais, que voulez-vous, it is necessary for my fame and repose that I enter the arena once more against Austria to prove to her that I exist. I take this step on account of the prestige I have gained in the German empire, and which I should lose if I had not faced Austria in this Bavarian contest. And besides, it is agreeable to me to accustom my successor to the thunder of cannon, and witness his bearing on the field of battle.”

“He will certainly do honor to the heroic race of Hohenzollern,” answered Herzberg, bowing.

A sudden flash from the king’s fiery eyes met the calm pale face of Herzberg. “Mere words and flattery, which prove that you are not satisfied, Herzberg! Nay, nay, do not deny it; you do not like that I should tarry and treat, and set the pen in motion instead of the sword. You are a man of deeds, and if you had had your way, I should have already won a decisive battle, and be on the road to Vienna to besiege the empress in her citadel, and dictate an humiliating peace to her.”

“Your majesty, I can assure you--”

“Well, well, do not quarrel!” interrupted the king; “do you suppose I cannot read your honest and obstinate face? Do you suppose I did not mean what I said? Acknowledge that I am right! confess it, I command you!”

“If your majesty commands it, then I will acknowledge it. Yes, I did wish that your majesty had not empowered Baron von Thugut to return for further negotiations. It would have been well if your majesty had marched victorious to Vienna, to let the proud Hapsburgers see for once that Frederick of Prussia does not stand behind them, but at their side; that he has created a new order of things; that the old, mouldy, rotten statutes of the imperial sovereignty have fallen in the dust before Frederick the Great; that Germany must be newly mapped out, in order to give room near the old man Austria for young Prussia. Yes, your majesty, I could have wished that you had even been less generous, less noble toward the supercilious, insolent enemy, and have accepted no conditions but those of ‘equality for Prussia with Austria in the German empire!’”

“My dear sir, I am truly astonished at the vigor with which you express yourself; I am very glad to find you so enthusiastic,” said Frederick, nodding to his minister; “but listen--I will confide to you that which I do not wish you to repeat: I am no longer, to my regret, what you so flatteringly call me, ‘Frederick the Great,’ but only ‘Old Fritz.’ Do you understand me? the latter is a deplorable, worn-out soldier, who no longer feels power or vigor. The lines of Boileau often recur to me on mounting my horse:

‘Unfortunate one, leave thy steed growing old in peace, For fear, that, panting and suddenly out of breath, In falling, he may not leave his master upon the arena!’

It is the misery of life that man will grow old, and that the body, when worn and weary, will even subdue the spirit, and force her to fold her wings and suffer. I did not realize that it had gone so far with me, and I imagined that the winged soul could raise the old, decayed body. Therefore I risked, in spite of my lazy old age, to undertake this war, for I recognized it as a holy duty to enter into it, for the honor and justice of our country, and prove to the Emperor of Germany that he could not manage and rule at his will in the German empire. I long not for the honor of new laurels, but I should be satisfied, as father of my subjects, to gain a civil crown.

“There you have my creed. I have as sincerely confessed to you as my respectable cousin, the empress-queen, to her confessor; only I did not fall upon my knees to you, and you do not as the said confessor, betray me to the Holy Father at Rome.”

“Your majesty well knows that every word which you have the grace to confide to me, is engraved upon my inmost soul, and that no power upon earth could force me to reveal it.”

“I know that you are a true and zealous servant of your king and country,” said Frederick. “Once more I say to you, other than an honorable peace I will not make; and if empress-queen does not accept the abandonment of Bavaria as the basis of peace, then I must conquer my aversion to war, and the sword must arrange what the pen has failed to do. And now, passons ladessus! Until Thugut arrives, let us speak of other things. I have been tolerably industrious, and have improved the leisure of camp-life as much as possible. I have written a panegyric upon Voltaire, and when it is revised and corrected you shall arrange an anniversary in memoriam, at the Berlin Academy, and read my eulogy.”

“All Germany and all Europe will be surprised at the magnanimity of the royal mind which could occupy itself in the camp with the muse, and erect an imperishable monument to the man who witnessed such ingratitude and baseness to his benefactor and protector.”

“Vous allez trop vite, mon cher; vraiment, trop vite,” cried Frederick, ardently. “It is true Voltaire was a miserable fellow, but he was a great poet. He returned meanness and ingratitude to me for the many kindnesses I showed to him, for I treated him more like a friend than a king. Voltaire was my benefactor, in so far that I owed to him the most agreeable and elevating hours of my youth, In memory of these hours I have written this eulogy. It is not worthy of particular mention, and the Academie Francaise will doubtless severely criticise my knowledge of their language. But it is impossible to write well, one moment in camp and another on the march. If it is unworthy of him whom it was intended to celebrate, I have at least availed myself of the freedom of the pen, and will cause to be publicly read in Berlin what one dares not whisper in Paris.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--“Posthumous Works,” vol. xv., p. 109. This eulogy upon Voltaire, which the king wrote in camp, Herzberg read, in the November following, before the Academy.]

“I shall be most happy to be the instrument to make known this generous expression of your majesty’s good-will,” remarked Herzberg, bowing.

Frederick smiled, adding: “But with the other work which I have commenced, you are not quite satisfied. You are such an enthusiastic German, that you presume to assert that the intolerable German jargon is a beautiful and expressive language!”

“And I abide by this decision, your majesty,” zealously cried Herzberg. “The German language is euphonious, and prolific in ideas, and it is well capable of rivalling in brevity and clearness those of the ancients.”

“That you have already asserted, and I have contested it, and again I contest it to-day. Do not trouble me with your German language. It will only deserve notice when great poets, distinguished orators, and admirable historians, have given it their attention and corrected it, freeing it from such disgusting and effeminate phrases as now disfigure it, and cause one to use a mass of words to express a few ideas. At present it is only an accumulation of different dialects, which every division of the German empire thinks to speak the best, and of which twenty thousand can scarcely understand what the other twenty thousand are saying!” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--See “Posthumous Works,” vol. xv.]

“Sire,” cried Herzberg, with vehemence, “should a German king thus speak of his native tongue, at the same time that he takes the field to vindicate the honor of Germany, and submits to all the miseries and hardships of war? Your majesty cannot be in earnest, to despise our beautiful language.”

“I do not despise it; I only say that it must be reformed, and shorn of its excrescences. Until then we must use the French, which is to-day the language of the world, and in which one can render all the master-works of the Greeks and the Latins, with the same versatility, delicacy, and subtlety, as the original. You pretend that one can well read Tacitus in a German translation, but I do not think the language capable of rendering the Latin authors with the same brevity as the French.”

“Sire, to my joy, I can give you proof to the contrary. A Berlin savant, Conrector Moritz, at my request, has translated a few chapters of the fourteenth book of the ‘Annals of Tacitus,’ word for word, most faithfully into German. He has written it in two columns, the translation at the side of the original. I have taken the liberty to bring this work with me and you will see how exactly, and with what brevity, Latin authors can be rendered into German, and that there are young learned men who have seized the spirit of our language and know how to use it with grace and skill.”

“Indeed, give it to me,” cried the king, zealously. “I am truly curious to admire the German linguist’s work who has so boldly undertaken to translate Tacitus.”

“Sire,” said Herzberg, raising his eyes knowingly, with a mild, imploring expression to the king’s face--“sire, I join a request with this translation.”

“What is it? I am very curious about a petition from you, it is so seldom that you proffer one.”

“Your majesty, my request concerns the translator of this very chapter of Tacitus. He is Conrector Moritz, attached to the Gray Cloister in Berlin--an unusually gifted young man, who has undoubtedly a brilliant future before him. He has already written many eminent works. The Director Gedicke recommended him to me as a most distinguished, scholarly person, and I have learned to know and appreciate the young man by this means.”

“I see it,” nodded the king. “You speak of him with great enthusiasm, and as what you so warmly recommend is generally able and well qualified, I begin to be interested in this Herr Moritz. When I return to Berlin--and Heaven grant that it may be soon!--I will at once empower you to present this luminary. Are you satisfied?”

“Sire, dare I ask still more? I would beg your majesty to grant this young man an audience at once.”

“How, at once! Is this phoenix here, who so interests my Minister Herzberg? Where is he from, and what does he wish?”

“He is from Berlin; I met him making the journey on foot. He sat upon a stone, by the wayside, eating a piece of bread, with a glowing face, and so absorbed talking to himself in Latin that he heard not the creaking of my carriage through the sand. I recognized him immediately, and called him by name. He turned, perfectly unembarrassed and not at all ashamed to have been discovered in such an humble and poor position.”

“That is to say, he is a good comedian,” said the king. “He knew that you would drive past there, and placed himself expressly to call your attention to him.”

“I beg pardon, sire; Conrector Moritz could not have known that I would take this journey. You will recollect that the courier arrived at midnight with your majesty’s commands, and two hours later I was on the road, and have since travelled day and night. As I met the young man only five miles from this place, he must have set out many days before I thought of leaving Berlin.”

“It is true,” said the king, “it was a false suspicion. You invited him into your carriage, did you not?”

“I did very naturally, sire, as he told me he was going to beg an audience of your majesty. At first he refused decidedly, as he wished to travel on foot, like the pilgrims to the pope at Rome.”

“An original, a truly original genius,” cried the king.

“He is so indeed, and is so called by all his friends.”

“Has he any friends?” asked the king, with an incredulous smile.

“Yes, sire, many warm and sympathizing friends, who are much attached to him, and, on account of his distinguished and brilliant qualities, are willing to indulge his peculiarities.”

“Herzberg, you are charmed, and speak of this man as a young girl in love!”

“Sire, if I were a young girl, I should certainly fall in love with this Moritz, for he is handsome.”

“Diable! I begin to fear this subject. You say he is handsome, learned, wise, and good, although he belongs to the airy, puffed-up Berliners. Did you let Herr Moritz wander on in his pilgrimage?”

“No, sire, I persuaded him at last to accept a seat in my carriage, by explaining to him that your majesty might soon leave Welsdorf, and he would run the risk of not arriving in season. Upon no condition would he get inside, but climbed up behind, for, said he, with a firm, decided manner, ‘I go to the king as a beggar, not as a distinguished gentleman.’”

“Indeed it is an original,” the king murmured to himself. “Do you know what the man wants?” he asked aloud.

“No, your majesty; he said that his business concerned the happiness of two human beings, and that he could only open his heart to his God and his king.”

“Where is your protege?”

“He stands outside, and it is my humble request that your majesty will grant him an audience, and permit me to call him.”

“It is granted, and--”

Just at that moment the door opened, and the footman announced that the private secretary of his highness Prince von Galitzin had arrived, and most respectfully begged an audience.

“It is he--it is the baron,” said the king. “Tell your protege he must wait, and come again. Bid the Prince von Galitzin enter.”

As the Minister von Herzberg withdrew, the Baron von Thugut appeared, the extraordinary and secret ambassador of the Empress Maria Theresa.

“Well, Herr Baron, you are already returned,” said the king, as he scarcely nodded to the profoundly respectful bows of the ambassador. “I infer, therefore, that your instructions are not from the empress, but from the co-regent, the Emperor Joseph, who has betaken himself to the Austrian camp.”

“Sire,” answered Thugut, laconically, “I have driven day and night, and have received my instructions directly from the empress.”

The king slowly shook his head, and an imperceptible smile played around his lips.

“Does the young emperor approve of these instructions?”

“Sire, his majesty, the emperor, is only the co-regent,” answered Thugut, hastily. “It is not therefore necessary, that my sovereign should make her decisions dependent upon her son’s concordance.”

“The empress will negotiate for peace,” said the king to himself, “but the emperor desires to win laurels in the war, and will try to cut off the negotiations of his mother by a coup de main. One must be on his guard!”

Just then the door opened and Herzberg returned.

“You perceive I expected you, Baron von Thugut,” said the king, “and I ordered here my minister of state, Herr von Herzberg. This is the Baron von Thugut, my dear minister, the ambassador of the empress-queen, who carries in his pocket peace or war, as it may be.”

“Sire, I must protest against being so important a personage, as peace and war alone depend upon your majesty. It alone depends upon the lofty King of Prussia whether he will give peace and tranquillity to Germany, or suffer the guilt of permitting the bloody scourge of civil war again to tear in pieces the unhappy German nation.”

“That sounds very sentimental,” cried the king, smiling. “The Baron von Thugut will appeal to my heart, when we have only to do with the head. Austria wishes to be the head of Germany, and as such would devour one German state after another, as a very palatable morsel. But if you will be the head, Monsieur le Baron, you cannot represent the stomach also, for, as I have been told, it only exists in those soft animals of the sea whose head is in their stomach, and which think and digest at the same time. Austria does not belong to this class, but has rather a very hard and impenetrable shell. We cannot let her devour as stomach what as the head she has chosen as booty. That the electorate of Bavaria is not to be devoured, is the necessary and fundamental preliminary upon which the temple of peace may be erected. If you, or rather the empress-queen, agree to it, the negotiations can be concluded by you two gentlemen. But if you think to erect a temple of peace upon any other basis, your propositions will be in vain. I have not taken the field to make conquests, but to protect the rights of a German prince, and not suffer others to appropriate a German state. I know, as you have said, that war is a bloody scourge for the nation; but, sir, we will not look at it in a sentimental light, and talk of civil war, when Austria herself compels us to take the field. Or, perhaps, you imagine to prove to my good Pomeranians, Markers, and my other German states, that the Croatians, Pandurians, Hungarians, Wallachians, Italians, and Polanders, are our German brothers, which imperial Austria opposes to us. I think this brotherhood may be traced to our common ancestor, Adam, and in this sense all wars are indeed civil wars. In any case war is a scourge for man, and I am convinced that the empress-queen would just as willingly spare her Croatians, Pandurians, Wallachians, and Galicians, as I all my German subjects collectively.”

“Also your majesty’s Polish subjects, as may be expected,” added Baron von Thugut.

“My Polish subjects are the minimum portion, and are about in proportion to the German population as in imperial Austria the German is to the foreign. But enough of this; if I do not recognize this as a civil war, it is indeed a great misfortune. I would do every thing to avoid it--every thing compatible with the honor and glory of my house, as well as that of Germany in general. Therefore let us know the Views of the empress-queen!”

“Sire,” answered Von Thugut, as he slowly untied and unfolded the documents, “I beg permission to read aloud to your majesty the acts relative to these points.”

“No, baron,” answered the king quickly, “the more minute details give to my minister; I wish only the contents in brief.”

“At your majesty’s command. The empress-queen declares herself ready to renounce the concluded treaty of inheritance to the succession of Bavaria at the death of Elector Charles Theodore; also to give up the district seized, if Prussia will promise to resign the succession of the Margraves of Anspach and Baireuth, and let them remain independent principalities, governed by self-dependent sovereigns.”

“That means, that Austria, who will unjustly aggrandize herself by Bavaria, will deprive Prussia of a lawful inheritance!” cried the king, his eyes flashing anger. “I will not heed the after-cause, but I wish to satisfactorily understand the first part of the proposition, that Austria will cede her pretensions to Bavaria.”

“Sire, upon conditions only which are sufficient for the honor, the wishes, and necessities of my lofty mistress.”

“You hear, my dear Herzberg,” said the king, smiling, and turning to his minister, “c’est tout comme chez nous. It will now be your task to find out these conditions, which too closely affect the honor of one or the other. For this purpose you will find the adjacent Cloister Braunau more convenient than my poor cabin. At the conferences of diplomats much time is consumed, while we military people have little time to spare. I shall move on with my army.”

“How, then! will your majesty break up here?” cried Thugut, with evident surprise.

The king smiled. “Yes, I shall advance, as my remaining might be construed equal to a retreat. The arts of diplomacy may drag on until the imperialists have assembled all their foreign subjects to the so-called civil war. Then hasten the negotiations, Baron von Thugut, for every day of diplomatic peace is one day more of foraging war, and I know not that you count the Bohemians in the German brotherhood, to whom the calamity of war is ruinous. You have now to deal with the Baron von Thugut, my dear Herzberg, and I hope the baron will accept some diplomatic campaigns with you in Cloister Braunau.”

“Sire, I accept, and if your majesty will dismiss me, I will go at once to the cloister,” answered Baron von Thugut, whose manner had become graver and more serious since the king’s announcement of the intended advance.

“You are at liberty to withdraw. The good and hospitable monks have already been apprised of your arrival by an express courier, and have doubtless a good supper and a soft bed awaiting you.”

“Had your majesty the grace to be convinced of my return?” asked Thugut.

“I was convinced of the tender heart of the empress-queen, and that she would graciously try once more, in her Christian mercy, to convert such an old barbarian and heretic as I am. Go now to the cloister, and when I pass by in the morning, with my army, I will not fail to have them play a pious air for the edification of the diplomats--such as, ‘My soul, like the young deer, cries unto Thee,’ or, ‘Oh, master, I am thy old dog,’ or some such heavenly song to excite the diplomats to pious thoughts, and therewith I commend you to God’s care, Baron von Thugut.”

The king charged Herr von Herzberg to play the role of grand-chamberlain, and accompany the ambassador to his carriage, smiling, and slightly nodding a farewell.

The baron was on the point of leaving, when the king called to him.

“Had your majesty the grace to call me?” asked Thugut, hastily turning.

“Yes!” answered Frederick, smiling, and pointing to the string which had served to bind the baron’s papers. “You have forgotten something, my lord, and I do not like to enrich myself with others’ property.” [Footnote: Historical. The king’s words.--See Hormayr.]

Baron von Thugut took this last well-aimed stab of his royal opponent somewhat embarrassed, and hastened to pick up the string, and withdraw.

The king smiled, glancing at the retreating figure of the baron, and approached the window to peep through the little green glass panes to see him as he passed by.

“A sly fox,” said he, smiling, “but I will prove to him that we understand fox-hunting, and are not deceived by cunning feints.”

“Will your majesty really break up to-day?” asked Von Herzberg, upon returning.

“Yes, my dear minister. That is to say, I do not wish to, but I must, in order to give the negotiations for peace a war-like character. The enemy asks for delay to finish their preparations for war--not peace. The negotiations for the latter emanate from the empress, but the conditions concerning Anspach come from the emperor. It is the Eris-apple, which he casts upon the table, by which his imperial mother and I would gladly smoke the pipe of peace. It is incumbent upon you, Herzberg, to negotiate for peace, while I pick up the apple and balance it a little upon the point of my sword. I shall leave early to-morrow, but I would speak with you before I set out. You must be weary with the journey, so rest awhile now, then dine with me, and afterward go to the conference.”

“Sire, will you not receive my protege, Conrector Moritz?”

“Did you not say that he begged for a secret audience?”

“Yes, sire, he has for this purpose travelled the long distance from Berlin, and I assure your majesty, upon my word of honor, that I have not the least suspicion what his petition may be.”

“Eh bien, say to your protege that I grant him the sought-for interview on your account, Herzberg. You are such a curious fellow--you are always petitioning for others instead of yourself, and the benefits which you ought to receive go to them. Let Moritz enter, and then try to sleep a little, that you may be wide awake to confer with Baron von Thugut.”

Minister von Herzberg withdrew, and immediately the pale, earnest face of Conrector Philip Moritz appeared in the royal presence.

The king regarded him with a prolonged and searching glance, the noble, resolute face of whom was pallid with deep grief, but from whose eyes there beamed courageous energy. “Are you the translator of the chapters from Tacitus, which my Minister Herzberg handed me?” asked the king, after a pause.

“Yes, sire,” gently answered Moritz.

“I am told that it is ably done,” continued his majesty, still attentively observing him. “You will acknowledge that it is exceedingly difficult to render the concise style of Tacitus into the prolix, long-winded German?”

“Pardon me, sire,” replied Moritz, whose youthful impetuosity could with difficulty be diverted from the real object of his pilgrimage. “Our language is by no means long-winded, and there is no difficulty in translating Latin authors into German, which equals any living tongue in beauty and sonorousness, and surpasses them all in depth of thought, power, and poesy.”

“Diable!” cried the king, smiling; “you speak like an incarnate German philologist, who confounds the sound of words with profound thought. You will acknowledge that until now our language has not been much known.”

“Sire,” answered Moritz, “Martin Luther, in his translation of the Bible three hundred years since, employed hundreds of beautiful, expressive formations.”

“He is not only a learned man,” said the king to himself, “but he seems an honorable one; and now, as I have proved his scholarly attainments, I must indulge his impatience.” The king’s penetrating glance softened, and his features changed their severe expression. “The Minister von Herzberg informed me that he found you by the roadside, and that you would journey hither on foot.”

“It is true, sire.”

“Why did you travel in that manner?”

“Sire, I desired, as the poor, heavily-laden pilgrims of the middle ages, to make the pilgrimage to the Holy Father at Rome, who was the king of kings. Every step in advance seemed to them to lighten their burden and enhance their happiness. Your majesty is in our day what the pope was held to be in the middle ages, therefore I have wandered as a pilgrim to my king, who has the power to bind and to loose, and from whom I must not only implore personal happiness, but that also of a good and amiable young girl.”

“Ah! it concerns a love-affair. As I now look at you, I can understand that. You are young and passionate, and the maidens have eyes. How can I help you in such an adventure?”

“Sire, by not granting a title to a certain person, or if it must be granted, annul the conditions attendant upon it.”

“I do not understand you,” answered the king, harshly. “Speak not in riddles. What do you mean?”

“General Werrig von Leuthen has addressed himself to you, sire, praying for the consent of your majesty to the marriage of his daughter with the banker Ebenstreit. Your majesty has consented, and added that Herr Ebenstreit shall take the name of his future father-in-law, and the marriage shall take place as soon as the title of nobility has been made out.”

The king nodded. “For which the new-made nobleman has to pay a hundred louis d’ors to the Invalids at Berlin. But what is that to you? And what connection has Herr Ebenstreit’s title to do with Conrector Moritz?”

Moritz’s face brightened, and, deeply moved, he answered: “Sire, I love the daughter of General von Leuthen, and she returns my love. By not ennobling Ebenstreit, it lies in your power, most gracious majesty, to make two persons the most blessed of God’s creatures, who desire nothing more than to wander hand in hand through life, loving and trusting each other.”

“Is that all?” asked the king, with a searching glance.

Moritz quailed beneath it, and cast down his eyes. “No!” he replied. “As I now stand in the presence of your majesty, I am sensible of the boldness of my undertaking, and words fail me to express what is burning in my soul. Oh! sire, I only know that we love each other, and that this love is the first sunbeam which has fallen upon my gloomy and thorny path of life, and awakened in my lonely heart all the bloom of feeling. You smile, and your great spirit may well mock the poor human being who thinks of personal happiness, when for an idea merely thousands are killed upon the field of battle. My life, sire, has been a great combat, in which I have striven with all the demons escaped from Pandora’s box. I have grown up amid privations and need. I have lived and suffered, until God recompensed my joyless, toiling, hungered existence by this reciprocated love, which is a beautiful ornament to my life, and is life itself, and to renounce it would be to renounce life. I am young, sire, and I long for the unknown paradise of earthly happiness, which I have never entered until now, and which I can only attain led by the hand of my beloved. I yearn just once, as other privileged men, to bask in the sunshine of happiness a long, beautiful summer day, and then at the golden sunset to sink upon my knees and cry, ‘I thank Thee, O God, that in Thy goodness I have recognized Thy sublimity, and that Thou hast revealed thy glory to me.’ All this appears of little importance to your majesty, for the heart of a king is not like that of other men, and the personal happiness of individuals appears a matter of little account to him who thinks and works for the good of an entire nation. But the fly, sire, which is sunning itself upon the plumes of the helmet of a victorious king, has its right to happiness, for God created it with the same care and love that He created the noblest of His creatures--man! and it would be cruel to kill it without necessity. Sire, I do not extol myself. I know that in your eyes I am no more than the fly upon your helmet, but I only implore you to grant me my life, for God has given it to me.”

“You mean by this that I shall forbid General von Leuthen to marry his daughter to the rich man who seeks her, and to which marriage, understand me well, I have already given my consent.”

“Sire, I only know that this union drives not only me to despair, but one of the noblest and best of God’s creatures. Fraulein von Leuthen does not love the bridegroom forced upon her; she detests him, and she has good reason to, for the banker Ebenstreit is a cold-hearted, purse-proud man, enfeebled by a voluptuous, vicious life, and seeks nothing nobler and more elevated in the young girl to whom he has offered his hand, than the title and noble name which she can procure for him. Your majesty, I implore not for myself, but for the daughter of a man who once had the good fortune to save your life in battle! Have pity upon her, and do not sacrifice her to an inconsolably hopeless life by the side of an unloved and detested husband!”

The king slowly shook his head. “You forget that the general to whom I am indebted for this favor has begged my consent to this marriage, and that I have granted it.”

“Sire, I conjure you to recall it! Upon my knees I implore you not to grant it! Do not make two people unhappy, who only beg of your majesty the permission to love and live with each other!” Moritz threw himself at the king’s feet, praying with clasped hands, his face flushed with deep emotion, and his eyes dimmed with tears.

“Rise!” commanded Frederick, “rise, do not kneel to me as to a God. I am a feeble mortal, subject to the same ills which threaten you and the whole human race. Rise, and answer me one question--are you rich?”

“No,” answered Moritz, proudly raising his head; “no, I am poor.”

“Do you know that Fraulein von Leuthen is poor? Her father is worse off than Job, for he is in debt.”

“If General von Leuthen’s daughter were rich, or even moderately well off, I never would have presumed to address your majesty on the subject, for fear that you might misconstrue my intentions, and suppose that my love was inspired by self-interest. Fortunately, Marie possesses nothing but her noble, beautiful self. She leads a joyless existence under the severe discipline of her cold-hearted parents; and therefore I can truthfully say, that with me she will lose nothing, but gain what she has never known--a tranquil, happy life, protected by my love.”

“How much salary do you receive as teacher?”

“Majesty, as conrector of the college attached to the Gray Monastery, three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Do you expect to live upon that yourself, and support a family besides?”

“Sire, I shall earn money in other ways, as I have already done. I shall write books. The publishers tell me that I am a favorite author, and they pay me well.”

“If on the morrow you should fall ill, your income would vanish, and your family and you would starve together. No! no! you are an idealist, you dream how life should be, and not as it is in truth! I have listened to you, thinking that you would present some forcible argument upon which to found your pretensions, but I hear only the ravings of a lover, who believes the world turns upon the axis of his happiness. Let me tell you that love is an ephemera, which merrily sports in the sunlight a few short hours, and dies at sunset. Should a king forfeit his word for such a short-lived bliss? Should he reward a man to whom he is indebted by depriving him of a rich son-in-law, who is agreeable to him, and substituting a poor one, from whom he can never hope to receive a comfortable maintenance? You young people are all alike. You think only of yourselves, and it is a matter of little consequence to you if the aged pine away and die, provided you build up happiness on their graves! I ask you, who have talked so much about your own wishes, and those of your beloved, where is it written that man must be happy, that there is a necessity to make him so? Do you suppose that I have ever been happy--who have a long, active life in retrospection? Mankind have taken good care that I should not sip this nectar of the gods, and have taught me early to renounce it. Life is not consumed in pleasure, but in toil, and I believe its only happiness consists in the fact that at last, when weary and worn, we will sink into the grave--to an eternal rest! Every human being must work according to his abilities, and in the position which Fate has assigned to him. To maintain this position, his honor is at stake--the best and most sacred gift confided to man. You will not desert it--not despair in life because your dream of bliss is not realized.”

“Sire,” answered Moritz, with a cry of anguish, “it is no dream, but a reality!”

“Happiness is only ideal,” said the king, slowly shaking his head. “What we sigh for to-day, we curse on the morrow as a misfortune. Let this serve as a lesson to you. Toil on--you are a scholar; woo Science for your bride. Her charms will never fade. In youth as in old age she will attract you by her beauty and constancy--that which you cannot hope for from women.”

“Sire,” asked Moritz, in deep dejection, “will you not grant the petition of my heart? Will you condemn this poor, innocent young girl who prays your majesty through me, to a long, joyless existence, to a daily-renewing sorrow?”

The king shrugged his shoulders. “I have already said that happiness is imaginary; I might have added unhappiness also. General von Leuthen’s daughter will accustom herself to the misfortune of being a rich man’s wife, and finally will drive with a smiling face in her four-in-hand gilded carriage!”

“Sire, I swear to you that you mistake this dear, noble-hearted young girl, you--”

“Enough!” interrupted the king. “I have given my consent to General von Leuthen, and I cannot recall it. Moreover, the marriage of the daughter of my general with you would be a misalliance--ridiculous. In the republic of intellect and science, you may have a very high position, but in my earthly kingdom you hold too modest a one to presume to raise your eyes to a noble young lady. I regret that I can offer you no other consolation than to listen to reason, and be resigned. As we cannot bring down the moon to earth, we must content ourselves with a lamp to light up our small earthly abode. If this ever should fail you, then come to me and I will assist you. I cannot, to be sure, give you the moon, for that belongs as little to me as the bride of the rich Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. One cannot give away that which one does not possess. Farewell! return to Berlin, and resign yourself bravely to your fate. Accustom yourself to the thought that in fourteen days Fraulein von Leuthen will become the wife of your wealthy rival. The wedding ceremony awaits only the papers of nobility, for which my order has already been forwarded to Berlin. I moreover propose to you not to return to the college at once, but travel for two weeks. I will be responsible for your absence, and provide you with the necessary means. Now tell me whether you accept my proposal?”

“Thanks to your majesty, I cannot,” answered Moritz, with calm dignity. “There is but one balm which my king could grant me. Money is not a plaster to soothe and heal a wounded heart. Sire, I beg you to dismiss me, for I will return at once to Berlin.”

“I hope that you have not the foolish idea to return on foot,” said the king. “My courier will leave in an hour, and there are two places in the coupe, accept one of them.”

“Sire,” said Moritz, gloomily, “I--” suddenly the words died on his lips, and his eyes beamed with an unnatural fire, which paled under the observing glance of the king. “I thank you,” said Moritz, gasping, “I will accept it.”

The king nodded. “Au revoir, in Berlin! When I return after the campaign I will send for you. You will then have learned to forget your so-called misfortune, and smile at your pilgrimage!”

“I cannot think so, sire.”

“I am convinced of it. Farewell.”

Moritz answered the royal salutation with a mute bow, and withdrew with drooping head and sorrowful heart. The king continued to regard him with an expression of deep sadness. “Ah!” he sighed, “how enviable are those who can still believe in love’s illusion, and who have not awakened from their dream of bliss by sad experience or age! How long since I have banished these dreams--how long I--”

The king ceased, his head sank back upon his chair, his large, fiery eyes, peering into the distance, as if he would re-people it with the memories of youth, with the delusions from which he had so long awakened. Those lovely, charming forms flitted before him one by one which had then captivated him: the beautiful Frau von Wrechem, his first love, and to whom he had vowed eternal constancy; another sweet, innocent face that suffered shame and degradation for him--“oh! Doris, Doris, dream of my youth, fly past!”--and now the face with the large eyes and energetic features, which turned so tenderly to him, that of his sister Frederika, who from affection to the crown prince had sacrificed herself to an unloved husband in order to reconcile the son with the father, and preserve for him the inheritance to the throne; still another calm and gentle face, with the expression of sorrowful resignation in the deep-blue eyes, that of his wife, who had so passionately loved him, and had faded away at his side unloved! All past--past. A new face arose, the pretty Leontine von Morien, the tourbillon of the princely court at Rheinsberg, who pined away in sighs. Now passed the sweetest and loveliest of all. The king’s eyes, which stared into empty space, now beamed with glad recognition. The heart which had grown old and sobered beat with feverish rapidity, and the compressed lips whispered, sighing, “Barbarina!” She stood before him in her bewitching beauty, with the charming smile upon her ruby lips, and passionate love beaming from her flashing eyes. “Oh, Barbarina!” The king rose, a cold chill crept over him. He looked around so strangely in the desolate, darkened room, as if he could still see this form which greeted him with the sad smile and tearful glance. No one was there. He was quite alone. Only the feeble echo of far-distant days repeated the device of his youth--of his life: “Soffri e taci! Resignation alone has remained true to me. But no--there is still another friend, my flute. Come, you faithful companion of my life! You have witnessed my sorrows, and from you I have nothing to conceal!” He tenderly regarded it, for it was long since he had taken it from its case. The sorrows and cares of life, the suffering from the gout which raged in his teeth, and sad, sobering old age, had caused him to lay it aside, but with the habit of affection he carried it everywhere. Frederick felt himself grow young again with the souvenirs of former days, and essayed to recall the echo of tenderer feelings upon his flute. The music of his heart was hushed, the melodious tones of former days would not return. The king laid it aside with an impatient movement. “Nothing is lasting in life,” he murmured. A flourish of trumpets, a peal of drums announced that the regiment was passing which would parade before the king. What are they playing, which rouses the lonely king with bright memories and shouts of victory? It is the march which his majesty composed after the brilliant victory of Hohenfriedberg. The king raised his eyes gratefully to heaven, repeating aloud: “There is something lasting in life. Love ceases and music dies away, but the good we have accomplished remains. The most glorious of earthly rewards is granted to those who have achieved great deeds--the mortal becomes immortal--the gods ceding to him that which is more elevating than love or happiness--fame. Ye trumpets of Hohenfriedberg, ye will still quiver when I am gone, and relate to succeeding generations about ‘Old Fritz.’ Such tales are well worthy to live and suffer for! I am coming, ye trumpets of fame.” With youthful activity and beaming face the king went out to receive his generals, who saluted him with silent reverence, and his soldiers, who greeted their beloved commander and king with an exultant shout.

“There lies dear Weimar, encircled in its wreath of green. Do you not see it, Wolf? I will refresh my heart with its view; so halt, postilion, halt,” cried the duke. “It is more beautiful to me than stately, proud Berlin. Though a poor, gray nest, I could press it to my heart, with all its untidy little houses, and tedious old pedants. Let us walk down the hill, Wolf.”

“Most willingly,” cried Goethe, stretching forth his arms to the little town, nestled in the peaceful valley, “be welcome, you lovely paradise, with your angels and serpents; we press on toward you with all our heart and soul, as to the seven-sealed book, filled with mysteries, and we would draw glorious revelations from your hidden contents.”

“And grant, ye gods, that the inspired one may at last break the seal which a cruel friend has placed upon her lips, that he may not drink the kiss of love glowing beneath,” said the duke, smiling. “Do you not see the gray roof yonder, with its background of tall trees, that--”

“The house where dwells my beloved, my dearest friend, my sister, and the mistress of my heart,” interrupted Goethe. “She is all this, for she is my all in all. The fountains of bliss and love which here and there I have drawn from, refreshing my heart and occupying my mind, flow toward her, united in one broad, silvery stream, with heaven and earth mirrored therein, and revealing wonderful secrets in its rushing waves.”

“Ah, Wolf!” cried the duke, “you are a happy, enviable creature, free and unfettered, sending your love where it pleases you. My dear Wolf, I advise you never to marry, for--”

Goethe hastily closed the duke’s mouth with his hand. “Hush! not a word against the noble Duchess Louisa, my master and friend. She is an example of refined, womanly dignity; and you, Charles, are to be envied the love of so estimable a wife and sweet mother for your children.”

“Indeed I am,” cried the duke, enthusiastically. “I could not have found a more high-minded, lovely wife, or a more excellent, virtuous mother for my descendants. But you know, Wolf, that your Charles has still another heart, very susceptible and tender, which seeks for an affinity to call its own, and vent itself in the pleasures of youth, in glorious flirtations, melancholy signs, and blissful longings. You cannot expect me at twenty-two to play the grandfather, and have no eyes or heart for other captivating women, though I love my young wife most affectionately, and bless Fate that I am bound with silken cords to Hymen’s cart--though I am forever bound, and you, Wolf, are happily free!”

“Because grim Fate refuses to unite me to my beloved. Oh, Charlotte, if you were free, how blessed would I be, enchained by you! Not to ‘Hymen’s cart,’ as the fortunate mocker says, but to the chariot of Venus, drawn by doves, enthroned upon which you would bear me to heaven!”

“Do not blaspheme, Wolf,” cried the duke; “rather kneel and thank the gods that you are not fettered and your wings clipped. They wish to preserve to you love’s delusion, because you are a favorite, and deny you the object adored. Beware of the institution which the French actress, Sophie Arnould, has so wittily called the ‘consecration of adultery.’ You will agree with me that we have many such little sacraments in our dear Weimar, and I must laugh when I reflect for what purpose those amiable beauties have married, as not one of them love their husbands, but they all possess a friend besides.”

“The human heart is a strange thing,” said Goethe, as they descended the hill, arm in arm, “and above all a woman’s heart! It is a sacred riddle, which God has given Himself to solve, and that only a God could unravel!”

At this instant a flash of lightning, followed by heavy-rolling thunder, was heard.

“Hear, Wolf--only hear!” laughed Charles--“God in heaven responds, and confirms your statement.”

“Or punishes me for my bold speech,” cried Goethe, as the hailstones rattled around him hitting his face with their sharp points. “Heaven is whipping me with rods.”

“And our carriage has descended with a quick trot into the valley,” said the duke. “I will call it.” He sprang into the middle of the road, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, and shouted in a full, powerful voice, “Oho, postilion! here, postilion!”

The continued rolling of the thunder, the whistling wind, and rattling hail, made all attempts inaudible. The two gentlemen sought shelter under the thick crowns of the oak-trees by the wayside, which formed an impenetrable roof to the flood of rain.

“I know nothing more sublime than a thunder-storm,” said Goethe, looking up as if inspired; “when the thunder rolls in such awful majesty and wrath, it seems as if I heard Prometheus in angry dispute with the gods. In the dark clouds I see the Titan, enveloped in mist, overspreading the heavens, and raising his giant-arm to hurl his mighty wrath.” At this instant a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening peal reverberated in one prolonged echo through the hills.

“Do you not hear him, Charles?” cried Goethe, delighted--“hear all the voices of earth united in the grumbling thunder of his wrath? See, there he stands, yonder in heaven--his form dark as midnight. I hear it--he calls--Overshadow the heavens, O Jupiter, With thy vaporous clouds! Cut off the oak and mountain-tops As a boy plucks the thistle. Leave me earth and my cabin Which thou hast not built, And my hearth-side, The glow of which thou enviest me! I know naught so miserable As you gods--you--”

Again the mighty peal silenced Goethe, who looked to heaven with defiance flashing from his eyes and his clinched hand upraised, as if he were Prometheus himself menacing the gods.

“Proceed, Wolf,” cried the duke, as the echo died away. “How can you, yourself a god, be so excited with the anger of like beings? Proceed!”

The uplifted arm of the poet sank at his side, and the fiery glance was softened. “No human word is capable of expressing what Prometheus just spoke in thunder,” said Goethe, musingly, “and I humbly feel how weak and insignificant we are, and how great we think ourselves, while our voice is like the humming beetle in comparison to this voice from the clouds.”

“Be not desponding, Wolf, your own will ring throughout Europe; every ear will listen and every heart will comprehend, and centuries later it will delight with its freshness and beauty. The storm passes and dies away, but the poet lives in his heavenly melodies through all time. You must finish ‘Prometheus’ for me, Wolf. I cannot permit you to leave it as a fragment. I will have it in black and white, to refresh myself in its beauty bright. A spark of your divine talent is infused into my soul, and I begin to rhyme. Ah, Wolf, all that is elevated within me I owe to you, and I bless Fate for according you to me.”

“And I also, dear Charles,” said Goethe, feelingly. “For, fostered and protected by your noble mind and nature, my inmost thoughts develop and blossom. We give and receive daily from each other, and so mingle the roots of our being that, God willing, we will become two beautiful trees, like the oak which now arches over us. But see, the rain is fast ceasing, and the sun looks out by the clinched hand of Prometheus. We can now travel on to the loved spot.”

“Oh, Wolf, are you in love? None but a lover could say the rain has ceased, when it pours down so that we should be drenched before we could arrive at Weimar. But hark! I hear a carriage in the distance; we may be favored with a shelter.”

The duke stepped out from under the trees, and looked along the highway with his sharp hunter’s eye. “A vehicle approaches, but no chance for us, as it appears to be a farm-wagon, crowded with men and women.”

“Indeed it does,” said Goethe, joining him; “a very merry company they are too, singing gayly. Now, grant the rain rain has ceased--”

“Charlotte von Stein is at Weimar,” interrupted the duke. “Give me your arm, and we will walk on.”

They advanced briskly arm in arm. A stranger meeting them would have supposed that they were brothers, so much alike were they in form, manners, and dress, for the duke as well as Goethe wore the Werther costume.

As they descended, the carriage came nearer and nearer. The duke’s keen eye had not been deceived. It was a farm-wagon, filled with a frolicsome party, sitting on bags of straw for cushions. They were chatting and laughing absorbed in fun, and did not observe the two foot-passengers, who turned aside from them. A sudden cry of surprise hushed the conversation; a form rose, half man and half woman, enveloped in a man’s coat of green baize, crowned with a neat little hat of a woman. “Oh, it is Charles!” cried the form, and at the same instant the duke sprang to the wagon. “Is it possible, my dear mother?”

“The Duchess Amelia!” cried Goethe, astonished.

“Yes,” laughed the duchess, greeting them with an affectionate look. “The proverb proves itself--‘Like mother, like son.’ On the highway mother and son have met. You should have done the honors in a stately equipage.”

“May I be permitted to ask where you come from?” asked the duke. “And the dress, of what order do you wear?”

“We walked to Ziefurt, and intended to walk back. Thusnelda is so delicate and weak, that she complained of her fairy feet paining her,” answered the duchess, laughing.

“Ah, duchess, must I always be the butt?” cried the lady behind the duchess, crouching between the straw-sacks. “Must I permit you to follow in my footsteps, while I--”

“Hush, Goechhausen--hush, sweet Philomel,” interrupted the duke, “or the Delphic riddle of this costume will be apparent.”

“It is easily explained,” said the duchess. “No other conveyance was to be had, and my good Wieland gave me his green overcoat to protect me from the pouring rain.” [Footnote: True anecdote.--See Lewes’ “Goethe’s Life and Writings,” vol. 1., p. 406.]

“And from to-day forth it will be a precious palladium,” cried the little man with a mild, happy face on the straw by the duchess.

“And there is Knebel too,” shouted the duke to the gentleman who just then pulled the wet hood of his cloak over his powdered hair.

“Our treasurer Bertuch, Count Werther, and Baron von Einsiedel also.”

“Does not your highness ask after our bewitching countess?” asked Goechhausen, in her fine, sharp voice. “The countess is quite ill--is she not, Count Werther?”

“I believe so, they say so,” answered the count, rather absent-minded. “I have not seen her for some days.”

“What is the matter?” asked the duke, as Goethe was engaged in a lively conversation with the duchess. “Is the dear countess dangerously ill?”

“Oh, no,” answered Goechhausen, “not very ill, only in love with genius, a malady which has attacked us all more or less since that mad fellow Wolfgang Goethe has raged in Weimar, and made it a place of torment to honorable people. Oh, Goethe--oh, Wolf! with what lamb-like innocence we wandered in comfortable sheep’s clothing until you came and fleeced us, and infected us with your ‘Sturm und Dranger’ malady, and made us fall in love with your works!”

“Goechhausen, hold your malicious tongue, and do not hide your own joy beneath jest and mockery,” cried the duchess. “Acknowledge that you are rejoiced to see your favorite, and that you will hasten to write to Madam Aja, ‘Our dear duke has returned, and my angel, my idol, Wolfgang, also.’ I assure you, Goethe, Thusnelda loves you, and was exceedingly melancholy during your absence. If asked the cause of her sadness, she wept like--”

“Like a crocodile,” said the duke. “Oh, I know those tears of Fraulein Goechhausen; I could relate stories of her crocodile nature. Mother, how can you have such a monster in your society? Why not make the cornes, that the little devils may fly away?”

“Very good,” cried the little, crooked lady. “I see your highness has not changed by this journey. Where have you been, dear duke? Oh, I remember; you flew over the Rhine, and have flown home again quite unchanged.”

All laughed, the duke louder than any one. “Goechhausen, you are a glorious creature, and the Arminius is to be envied who appropriates this Thusnelda. Oh, I see the charming youth before me, who has the courage to make this German wife his own!”

“I will scratch his eyes out?” cried Goechhausen, “and then the Countess Werther can play Antigone, and lead him around as Oedipus. Why shut your eyes, Einsiedel? I do not scratch quite yet.”

“I was not thinking of that,” said the baron, astonished.

“You never think that every one knows; but did you not do it so soon as you understood the Countess Werther should lead blind Oedipus as Antigone?”

Before the count could answer, the court lady turned again to the duke. “What did your highness bring me? I hope you have not forgotten that you promised me a handsome present.”

“No, I have not forgotten it; I have brought my Thusnelda a souvenir--such a gift!”

“What is it, your highness?”

“A surprise which, if Thusnelda is clever, she must think about all night.--But, Goethe, is it not time to leave the ladies?”

“Wait, I command you both,” said the Duchess Amelia, extending her hand to her son, who pressed it to his lips most affectionately. “I have given out invitations for a soiree, for this evening. My daughter-in-law, the Duchess Louisa, has accepted, duke, and Frau von Stein also, Goethe. I hope to see you at Belvedere, gentlemen. The poet Gleim is in town, and will read his late ‘Muse Almanach.’ May I not expect both of you?”

They joyfully consented, gazing after the merry society as it drove away. “This is a good bite for the poisonous tongues of the honorable,” cried the duke. “My mother in a farm-wagon, with Wieland’s green overcoat on, and the reigning duke, with his Goethe, entering his capital on foot like a journeyman mechanic, after a long journey!”

“I wish we were there, my dearest friend,” sighed Goethe.

“Oh, love makes you impatient! Come on, then. But listen, we must play Gochhausen a trick; I have promised her a surprise. Will you help me, Wolf?”

“With pleasure, duke.”

“I have thought of something very droll, and your servant Philip must help us; he is a clever fellow, and can keep his own counsel.”

“He is silent as the grave, duke.”

“That is necessary for such a gentleman as the women all run after. Let us skip down the mountain, and then forward where our hearts incline us. This afternoon I will go for you and bring you to Belvedere, and then we can talk over the surprise.” They ran down the declivity into the suburb, to the terror of the good people, who looked after them, saying that the young duke had returned with his mad protege. The “mad favorite” seemed more crazy than ever to-day, for after a brief farewell to the duke, he bounded through the streets across the English park, to the loved house, the roof of which he had so longingly greeted from the hillside. The door stood open, as is customary in small towns, and the servant in the vestibule came to meet him, and respectfully announced that her master had gone to his estate at Hochberg, but that Frau von Stein was most probably in the pavilion, in the garden, as she had gone thither with her guitar. “Is she alone?” asked Goethe. The servant answered in the affirmative, and through the court hastened the lover--not through the principal entrance, as he would surprise her, and read in her sweet face whether she thought of him. Softly he opened the little garden gate, and approached the pavilion by a side-alley. Do his feet touch the ground, or float over it? He knew not; he heard music, accompanied by a sweet, melodious voice. It was Charlotte’s. Goethe’s face beamed with delight and happiness. He gazed at her unseen, not alone with his eyes, but heart and soul went forth to her. She sat sideways to the door; upon a table lay her notes, and the guitar rested upon her arm. She sang, in a rich, sweet voice, Reinhardt’s beautiful melody:

“I’d rather fight my way through sorrows Than bear so many joys in life; All this affinity of heart to heart, How strangely it causes us to suffer!”

She ceased, as if overpowered with her own thoughts, the guitar sank upon her lap, and her fingers glided over the chords, so that the tones died away imperceptibly. Her deep-blue eyes gazed pensively in the distance, and the sweet lips repeated softly, “How strangely it causes us to suffer!” Near the garden entrance, through which the odor of sweet flowers and the song of birds was wafted with every gentle zephyr, stood Goethe, looking at the woman whom he had so passionately loved for three years, so absorbingly, that to her were consecrated all his thoughts.

He could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at her feet. “Oh, Charlotte, I love you, only you, and once more I am by your side!”

A shriek! was it a cry of surprise or delight? Who let the guitar fall to the floor, he or she? Who embraced the other in affectionate haste, he or she? Who pressed the lips so lovingly to the other lips, he or she? And who said, “I love you? What bliss to again repose in your affection, I would fain die now. In this moment a whole life has been consecrated, for love has revealed to us our other self.”

She sat upon the tabouret, and Goethe still knelt before her, clasping her feet and pressing them to his bosom. His eyes beamed with inexpressible delight as he regarded the face, usually so calm and indifferent--today glowing as sunrise.

“Oh, tell me, Charlotte, have you thought of me? But rather speak to me with your eyes, and may they be more than the cruel lips which refuse to confess. Oh, shade not those loved orbs, which are my stars shining upon me, whithersoever I wander. They are my light, my spring-time, and my love. They will never cease to beam upon me, as light and love never grow old. Let me read eternal youth in those eyes, and the secrets which rest as pearls in the depths of your heart. Only tell me, is the pearl of love to be found there, and is it mine?”

“It would be a misfortune if it were there,” she whispered, with a sweet smile. “Pearls are the result of a malady, and my heart would be ill if the pearl of love were found there. No, no, rise, Wolf, dear Wolf, we have given away at the first moment of meeting; let us now be reasonable, and speak in a dignified manner with each other, as it becomes a married woman and her friend.”

“Friend?” repeated Goethe, impetuously; “forever must I listen to this hated, hypocritical word, which, like a priest’s robe, shall cover the sacred glow in my heart? I have told you, Charlotte, that I am not your friend, and I never shall be. There is not the least spark of this still, calm fire of the earthly moderation in me, by which one could cook his potatoes, or his daily vegetables, but by which one could never prepare food for the gods, or that which could refresh a poet’s heart or quicken his soul. No, in me burns the fire which Prometheus stole from the gods, originating in heaven and glowing upon earth. This heavenly and earthly love unites in one flame. Again, I say, Charlotte, banish this hypocritical word ‘friendship!’ It is only love which I feel for you, let this sentiment enter at every avenue of your heart, and do not feign ignorance of it, sweet hypocrite. Surprise has torn away the mask! The passionate kiss, which still burns upon my lips, was not given by a friend or sister; but overcome by joy, the truth has been acknowledged!”

“Do you wish that the kiss of meeting should be that of parting also?” said Charlotte, sadly, as she raised her blue eyes with a languishing look to the handsome, ardent face of the man who stood before her. “Do you wish to separate forever? I must recall to you our last conversation: ‘Only when you are resolved to moderate this impetuous manner, and curb this overflow of feeling, which reason and custom imposes upon us, shall I be able to receive you and enjoy your society.’”

“Yes, with these unmeaning phrases you banished me. Cruel and hard-hearted were you to the last. Oh, Charlotte! you know what I suffered at our last walk, with your reasoning remonstrances and cold-hearted reproaches; they pierced my heart like poisoned arrows. If the duke and duchess had not been walking before us, I should have wept myself weary. My whole being cried within me: ‘Oh! cruel and inexorable woman, to beg of me, who so unutterably loves her, to call her friend and sister!’ I repeated the words daily during my absence, and sought to clothe your beloved image with meaning. They disfigured you, and the angel whom I adore was no longer recognizable. I cannot call you friend or sister.”

“Then I can be nothing to you, dear Wolfgang,” sighed Charlotte. “In this hour of meeting we will part, and to avoid a chance encounter even, I will go to my husband at Kochberg, and remain there the whole summer.”

Goethe seized her, holding her fast in his strong arms, staring her in the face with a fierce, angry look. “Are you in earnest? Would you really do it?”

“Goethe, I beg you to loosen your hold; you hurt my arms.”

“Do you not also hurt me? With your cold indifference do you not pierce my heart with red-hot daggers, and then smile and rejoice at my torture, which is a proof to you of my unbounded love? While you only play with me, and attach me to your triumphal car, to display to the world that you have succeeded in taming the lion, and have changed him into a good-natured domestic animal. Go! you do not deserve that I should love you, cold-hearted, cruel woman!”

He threw her arms from him, with tears in his eyes. Charlotte von Stein regarded him with anger and indifference.

“Farewell, secretary of legation. It seems to please you to insult and offend a poor woman, who has no other protection than her honor and virtue. Farewell! I will not expose myself to such offences; therefore I will retire.”

She turned slowly toward the door, but Goethe bounded forward like a tiger, interrupted her path, falling upon his knees, imploring pity and begging for pardon. “Oh, Charlotte, I will be gentle as a child, I will be reserved, I know that I am a sinner! It is warring against one’s own heart to seek comfort in offending what is dearest to it in a moment of ill-humor. But I have again become a child, with all my thoughts, scarcely recognizable for the moment, quite lost to myself, as I consent to the conditions of others with this fire raging within me. Oh, beloved Charlotte, forgive me! I submit to all that you wish.” [Footnote: Goethe’s words.--See “Letters to Charlotte von Stein,” roll., p. 358.]

“Will you be satisfied to love me as your friend and sister?”

“I will be,” he sighed. “Only in the future you must endeavor to persuade yourself into such a sisterly way that you will be indulgent to my rudeness, otherwise I shall have to avoid you when I need you most. Oh, Charlotte, it seems terrible to me that I should mar through anguish the best hours of my life, the blissful moments of meeting with you, for whom I would pluck every hair from my head if it would make you happy. And yet to be so blind, so hardened! Have pity upon me. Again I promise you that I will be reasonable. Do not banish me from your presence. Extend to me your hand, and promise me that you will be my friend and sister!” [Footnote: Goethe’s words.--See “Letters to Charlotte von Stein,” roll., p. 358.]

“Then here is my hand,” said she, with a charming smile.

“I will be your friend and sister, and--”

“What now, my Charlotte? do finish--what is it?”

She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder, and her words fell on his ear like soft music. “When my dear friend and much-beloved brother has conducted himself very prudently for two or three happy weeks, I will send him a ringlet of my hair, which he has so long begged for, and a kiss with it.”

Goethe spoke not, but pressed her blushing face to his bosom, and laid his hand gently upon her head. A smile of delight--of perfect happiness--played around his lips.

This happy smile still beamed upon Goethe’s face as he walked with the duke late in the evening toward Belvedere to soiree of the Duchess Amelia, who was inspired with a love for the fine arts, and particularly literature. The two gentlemen had busily occupied themselves in preparing them for the lady of honor, Fraulein von Gochhausen, and, although aided by Goethe’s servant, Philip, and workmen, it was late when they arrived.

As they entered, the ladies and gentlemen were seated in a large circle around the centre-table. At one end sat the Duchesses Amelia and Louisa, the mother and wife of Charles Augustus and near the former her friend and favorite the poet Wieland, once the tutor of her son the duke. Near the poet sat an elderly gentleman of cheerful, good-natured mien, who, with the exception of Wieland, was the only one who did not present himself, like the duke and Goethe, in Werther costume. He wore a white, silver-embroidered coat, with a dark-blue satin vest, and breeches of the same, shoes with buckles, and bosom and wrist ruffles of lace.

This gentleman, with the bright, sparkling eyes, and pleasant face, was the poet Gleim, who looked very comfortable and stately in the circle of powdered perukes. His admiration for Frederick the Great had inspired him to write some beautiful military songs, and his love of poetry and literature made him an enthusiastic admirer of all those devoted themselves to literary pursuits. Besides, he was rich and liberal, and it was very natural that the poets, and authors exerted themselves with marked assiduity to please Father Gleim. They were gratified to have him print their works for a small remuneration in an annual which he entitled the “Almanach of the Muses.” He was just reading aloud at the duchess’s soiree from the late edition of the almanach, and the society listened with earnest and kind attention, occasionally interrupted with an enthusiastic “Bravo!” or “Excellent!” from the duchess, followed by a murmur of assent around the table, which caused the poet’s face to brighten with joy and satisfaction, and him to read on with increased energy.

The entrance of the duke and Goethe was unobserved, as it was understood that the former wished no notice to be taken of his going or coming, and the duchess had also waved her hand, not to interrupt Father Gleim. The poet has just finished the new poem of melodious rhythm of imprisoned Shubart. As he paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow and sip a little raspberry water, a tall, slender young man, in the Werther costume, approached, bowing, and regarding the poet so kindly, that the glance of his fine black eyes fell like a sunbeam on the heart of the old man. “You appear somewhat fatigued, my good sir,” said the unknown, in a sweet, sonorous voice. “Will you not permit me to relieve you, and read in your stead from this glorious book of yours?”

“Do so, my dear Gleim,” said the Duchess Amelia, smiling, “you seem really exhausted; let the young man continue the agreeable and welcome entertainment.”

Father Gleim was very well pleased; he handed the book to the young stranger with a graceful bow, as the latter seated himself opposite to him, and next to Fraulein Gochhausen.

He commenced in a clear, distinct voice. The verses flowed from his lips gracefully, and in a cultivated style. The company listened with devoted attention, and Father Gleim, the protector of all the young poets, sat delighted, nodding consent, with a pleasant smile. It must all be charming--it had come into existence under his fostering care. What beautiful verses to listen to! “Die Zephyre lauschen, Die Balche rauschen, Die Sonus Verbreitet ihr Licht mit Wonne!”

And how charmingly the young man read them! Suddenly Father Gleim startled, and the smile died upon his lips. What was it? What was the young man reading? Verse which were not in the collection, and which were more remarkable than he had ever heard from his young poets. “Those are not in the Annual,” cried Gleim, quite forgetting decorum,--“that--”

One glance from the fine black eyes of the young man so confounded Father Gleim, that he ceased in the midst of a sentence, and, staring in breathless astonishment, listened. Glorious thoughts were expressed therein, and the poets of the Muse Almanach might have thanked God if the like had occurred to them. Love was not the burden of the song; neither hearts, griefs, nor bliss, but satire, lashing right and left with graceful dexterity, and dealing a harmless thrust to every one. All were forced to laugh; the happy faces animated and inspired every thing. The brilliant satirical verses rushed like rockets from the lips of the reader--a real illumination of wit and humor, of good-natured jokes and biting sarcasm, and it delighted the old man that every one had received hits and thrusts but himself; he had been spared until now! Every one regarded him, smiling and amused, as the reader exalted the merits of the Maecenas, and praised him highly for the interest he took in the poet’s heart, soul, and purse, and shouted victory when one excelled. But suddenly the good father also changed, and, instead of the patron on the right throne, there was a turkey-cock on the round nest, which zealously sought to hatch out the many eggs that he had to take care of for others besides his own; he sat brooding untiringly, and shed many a tear of joy over the fine number of eggs, yet it happened that a poetical viper had put but under him one of chalk, which he cared for with the others.

Herr Gleim could no longer contain himself, and, striking the table, he cried, “That is either Goethe or the devil!” The entire company burst into uncontrollable laughter, and the old man shouted the second time, though inwardly angry, “It is either Goethe or the devil!”

“Both, dear Father Gleim,” said Wieland, who was drying his tears from laughter, “it is Goethe, and he has the devil in him to-day. He is like a wild colt, which kicks out behind and before, and it would be well not to approach him too near.” [Footnote: Wieland’s own words.--See Lewes’ “Life of Goethe,” vol. i., p. 432.]

Goethe alone retained his composure, and continued reading in a louder voice, which hushed all conversation. He lashed with bitter sarcasm “him who assumed to be a god--a wise man--and who counted for nothing better than a pretentious, saucy fellow, who made himself the scorn of the poets by his sweet, Werther-like sighs, and other worthless lamentations, heeding neither God nor the devil!”

And so he stormed and thundered, ridiculed and slandered his own flesh and blood, until Goechhausen, red with anger, rose and snatched the book from his hand, and closed his lips with her hand, crying: “If you do not cease, Goethe, I will write to your beloved mother, Frau Aja, that a satirist, a calumniator has had the impudence to defame and slur her beloved son in a most sinful and shameful manner! I will write to her, indeed, if you do not stop!”

Goethe rose, and bowing offered his hand to Father Gleim in such a friendly, affectionate manner, that the old man, quite delighted, thanked him heartily for the pleasure and surprise which he had afforded him.

The duke, however, seated himself by the little lady of honor. “Thusnelda, you are an incomparable creature, and quite calculated to be the ancestress of all the Germans. I declare myself your cavalier for the evening, and will devote myself to you as your most humble servant, and will not quit your side for a moment.”

“Very beautiful it will be, my dear duke, a most charming idyl; in true Watteau style, I will be the sweet shepherdess, and lead your highness by a little ribbon. But where is my present--my surprise?”

“You must not be impatient, Thusnelda, but wait what time will produce. You will have it; if not to-day, to-morrow. Every day brings its own care and sorrow.”

“Ah, duke, instead of giving me my surprise, you beat me with doggerels. That comes from having a Goethe for companion and friend. Crazy tricks, like chicken-pox, are contagious, and the latter you have caught, duke. It is a new kind of genius distemper. Very fortunately, our dear Countess Werther has another malady, or she might be infected. Perhaps she has it already, Count Werther--how is it?’

“I do not know, Fraulein,” replied the count, startled from reverie. “I really do not know! My wife is quite ill, for that reason has gone to our estate to recover her peace and quiet. It is unfortunately quite impossible for me to visit her there; but my dear, faithful friend, Baron von Einsiedel, will drive over to-morrow at my request, my commission--”

“To set the fox to keep the geese,” interrupted Thusnelda in her lively manner.

“No, not that, Fraulein,” said Count Werther, quite confused, as the duke burst into a merry laugh, calling Thusnelda a witty Kobold, and as her faithful Celadon offered her his arm to conduct her to his mother, the Duchess Amelia.

The company were all in a very happy frame of mind. Goethe’s charming impromptu had kindled wit and humor upon every lip. He himself was the happiest of all, for Charlotte was by his side, gazing upon him with her large, thoughtful eyes, and permitting him to be her cavalier for the evening.

The duke also devoted himself to Fraulein von Goechhausen, who was this evening unsurpassably witty and caustic, delighting him, and making the Duchess Amelia laugh, and the Duchess Louisa sometimes to slightly shrug her shoulders and shake her head with disapproval.

In the midst of a most interesting conversation with Frau von Stein, Goethe was informed that some one awaited him in the anteroom. He went out quickly, and upon returning he whispered to the duke, who nodded, and answered him in a low tone, and then Goethe betook himself to the Duchess Amelia.

“What is it?” the latter asked. “Have important dispatches arrived?”

“No; I come to your highness as courier from your son. The duke begs that you will lock the door of your anteroom when you retire, and that you will upon no condition open it, no matter how much Thusnelda may beg and implore.”

“Will you not injure my poor Goechhausen, you wanton fellow?”

“No! it is not very dangerous, duchess. It is only a harmless surprise, which the duke promised Fraulein von Goechhausen.”

“Very well, then, it can take place; I promise to be quite deaf to all Thusnelda’s knocking and thumping, and I shall be glad to be informed to-morrow what the trick is. I prefer not to inquire to-day, as I might feel obliged to veto it if it were too severe. But look, the Duchess Louisa will break up; does she know any thing about the affair?”

“No, your highness, you know very well that the young duchess--”

“Is much more sensible than the old one, and shakes her head disapprovingly when she hears of your ingenuous tricks. Perhaps it would be well if I were equally sensible, but there is no help for it. I like bright, happy people, and I think when youth vents itself, old age is more sedate and reasonable.”

“You are quite right, duchess. Mankind resembles new wine. If the must does not ferment and foam well, no good wine will come of it. But look at our Charles, with the saucy jest upon his lip, and the fire of inspiration in those bright brown eyes. One day a fine, strong wine will clear itself from this glorious fermenting must.”

“I hope so, Goethe, and if the gods grant it, the great merit will belong to you, who have proved yourself a good vintager, and we will rejoice together in your glorious success.”

An hour later the palace Belvedere was silent and deserted; the guests had taken their departure. The duchess had her suite and commanded them to retire. Fraulein von Gochhausen alone remained with her mistress, chatting by the bedside, and recapitulating in her amusing style all important and unimportant events of the soiree, The duchess smiled at the mischievous remarks with which she ornamented her relation, and at her keen, individualizing of persons.

“Fraulein Gochhausen, you are the most wicked and the merriest mocking-bird God ever created,” cried the duchess, “Have done with your scandals, go up to your room, piously say your evening prayers, and stretch yourself upon your maiden bed.”

“Soon, duchess; only one thing more have I to call your attention to. There is a gossip afloat about the Werthers. I perceive it in the air, as the dove scents the vulture.”

“You alarm me, Gochhausen; what good is it? You do not mean that the lovely Countess Werther--”

“Is not only very weary of her husband, but looks about for a substitute--a friend, as the ingenious ladies now call him. That is what I mean, and I know the so-called friend which the sweet sentimental countess has chosen.”

“It is the Baron von Einsiedel, is it not?” asked the duchess. “That is to say, his younger brother, the gay lieutenant, not our good friend par excellence.

“Yes, I mean the brother, and I have warned and taunted the count this week past, but it is impossible to awake him from his stupidity and thoughtlessness.”

“Again you are giving loose reins to your naughty tongue, Thusnelda. Count Werther is a thoroughly scholarly person, whom I often envy his knowledge of the languages. He has studied Sanscrit and the cuneated letters, among other ancient tongues.”

“It may be that he understands the dead languages, but the living ones not in the least. The language of the eyes and inspiration he is blind to, with seeing eyes! My dear duchess, if you are not watchful, and prevent the affair with timely interference, a scandal will grow out of it, and you know well that it would be a welcome opportunity for our Weimar Philistines (as the Jena students call commonplace gossips) to cry ‘Murder,’ and howl about the immoral example of geniuses, which Wolfgang Goethe has introduced at court.”

“You are right,” said the duchess, musingly; “your apt tongue and keen eye are ever carefully watching, like a good shepherd-dog, that none of the sheep go astray and are lost. And you do not mind attacking this or that one in the leg with your sharp teeth!”

“Let those scream who are unjustly bitten, your highness! Believe me, the countess will not cry out; she will much more likely take care not to receive a well-merited rebuke. I beg your grace to prevent the gossip! Not on account of this silly, sentimental young woman, or her pedantic husband, but that our young duke and Goethe may not be exposed to scandal, as well as your highness.”

“You are right--we must take care to prevent it. Has not the countess been absent at her estate four days?”

“Yes, your highness, it is just this that troubles me. She went away as sound as a fish, and has suddenly fallen very ill. No physician has been called, but, to-morrow, the count will commission his dear friend the baron to drive to his country-seat, and bring him tidings of his better-half.”

“We must circumvent this. In the morning we will arrange a pleasure-drive, of the whole court, to the country-seat of Count Werther. It shall be a surprise. Let Fourier give out the invitations early to-morrow, for a country party, destination unknown. The distribution of the couples in the carriages shall be decided by lot. Take care that Lieutenant Einsiedel is your cavalier, so that when we arrive at the little Werther, he will already be appropriated, and then we will induce her to return with us and spend some time at Belvedere. Now, good-night, Thusnelda; I am very tired and need repose. Sleep already weighs upon my eyelids, and will close them as soon as you are gone. Good-night, my child--sleep well!”

The little deformed court lady kissed the extended hand, the candlestick, with only a stump of a taper in it, and withdrew from the princely sleeping-room, courtesying, and wishing her mistress good-night, with pleasant dreams.

The anteroom was dark and deserted. The lights were all extinguished, and Fraulein Goechhausen was, in truth, the only person who had not long since retired in the ducal palace. She was accustomed to be the last, accustomed to traverse the long, lonely corridors, and mount two flights of stairs to her bedroom upon the third story. The gay duchess, being very fond of society, had had the second story arranged guest-chambers and drawing-rooms.

Why should the little court lady be afraid to-night? She had not thought of it, but stepped forward briskly to mount the stairs. It was surely very disagreeable for the wind to extinguish her lamp at that instant, just at the turning of stairs, and she could not account for it, as none of the windows were open, and there was no trace of a draft. However, it was an undeniable fact, the light was out and she was in total darkness--not even a star was to be seen in the clouded sky. It was, indeed, true that Thusnelda was so accustomed to the way that it mattered little whether she had a light or not. Now she had reached the corridor and she could not fail to find the door, as there was but one, that of her own room. She stretched out her hand to open it, but, strange to say, she missed the knob! Then she was sure that it was farther on; she felt along the wall, but still it eluded her grasp. It was unheard of--no handle and not a door even to be found! The wall was bare and smooth, and papered the entire length. A slight shudder crept over the courageous little woman’s heart, and she could not explain to herself what it all meant. She called her maid, but no answer--not a sound interrupted the stillness! “I will go down to the duchess,” murmured Thusnelda; “perhaps she is awake, and then I can re-light my taper!”

The door was fastened; the duchess had locked the ante-room to-night for the first time.

Thusnelda tapped lightly, and begged an entrance humbly and imploringly. No answer, every thing was quiet. She recalled that the duchess had told her that she was very weary, and would sleep as soon as she was alone, which she undoubtedly had done.

Thusnelda did not presume to awake her by knocking louder. She would be patient, and mount again to her room. Surely she must have made a mistake, and turned to the left of the corridor, where there was no door, instead of the right, as she ought to have done. It must be that it was her fault. She groped along the dark flights of stairs to the upper gallery, carefully seeking the right this time, but in vain. Again she felt only the smooth wall. Terrified, she knew not whether she was awake or dreaming, or whether she might not be in an enchanted castle, or walking in her sleep in a strange house. Just here she ought to find her room and the maid awaiting her, but it was lonely, deserted, and strange--no door, no maid. Thusnelda, with trembling hands smoothed her face, pulled first her nose, and then her hair, to identify herself. “Is it I?” she said. “Am I, indeed, myself? Am I awake? I know that I am lady of honor to the Duchess Amelia, and that upon the upper story is my room. Do not be foolish, and imagine that witchcraft comes to pass; the door is there, and it can be found.” Thusnelda renewed her search with out-spread arms and wide-spread fingers, feeling first this side of the wall and then the other.

By daylight the deformed little lady of honor must have been a very droll figure, in full toilet, dancing along the wall as if suspended by her outstretched hands. Oh, it was quite vain to seek any longer. It must be enchantment, and the door had disappeared. An indefinable dream crept over Thusnelda, and she was cast down. For the first time a jest failed her trembling lips, and she wept with anguish. Yes, she, the keen, mordant, jesting little woman, prayed and implored her Maker to unloose her from the enchantment, and permit her to find the long-sought-for entrance. But praying was in vain, the door was not to be found, it was witch craft, and she must submit to it. The rustling and moving her arms frightened her now, and when she walked the darkness prevented her seeing if any one followed her; so she crouched upon the floor, yielding to the unavoidable necessity passing the night there--the night of enchantment and witchery.[Footnote: See Lewes’ “Life and Writings of Goethe,” vol. 1., p. 408.]

Not alone for Fraulein Goechhausen was this beautiful May-night of sad experience with witches. There were other places at Weimar. In the neighborhood of the ducal park, in the midst of green-meadows, stood a simple little cottage. Near it flowed the Ilm, spanned by three bridges, all closed by gates, so that no one could reach the cottage without the occupant’s consent. It was as secure as a fortress or an island of the sea, and distinctly visible even in the night, its white walls rising against the dark perspective of the park. This is the poet’s Eldorado, his paradise, presented to Wolfgang Goethe by his friend the Duke Charles Augustus. It was late as the possessor wound his way toward his Tusculum, as he familiarly called it, and, more attracted by the aspect of the heavens than by sleep, sought the balcony, to gaze at the dark mass of clouds chasing each other like armies in retreat and pursuit; one moment veiling the moon, at another revealing her full disk, and soon again covering the earth with dark shadows, until the lightning flashed down in snaky windings, making the darkness momentarily visible with her lurid glare. It was a glorious spectacle for the intuitive, sympathetic soul of the poet, and he yielded to its influence with delight. He heard the voice of God in the rolling of the thunder, and sought to comprehend the unutterable, and understand it in this poetical sense. Voices spake to him in the rushing of the storm, the sighing of the trees, and the rustling of the foliage. The storm passed quickly, a profound quiet and solemnity spread out over the nightly world, and it lay as if in repose, smiling in blissful dreams. The air was filled with perfumes, wafted to the balcony upon which dreamed the poet with unclosed eyelids and waking thoughts. The clouds were all dispersed; full and clear was suspended the moon in the deep, blue vault, where twinkled thousands of stars, whispering of unknown worlds, and the mysteries of Nature, and the greatness of Him who created them all.

“Oh, beloved, golden moon, how calmly you look down upon me, sublime and lovely at the same time! When I gaze at you, moving so quietly, floating in infinity, and contemplating reflect thyself in finiteness, I think of you, oh Charlotte, who stands above me like the moon so bright and mild, and I envelop myself in your rays, and my spirit becomes heavenly in your light.

Mir ist es, denk ich nur an Dich, Als in den Mond zu seh’n, Ein suesser Friede weht um mich, Weiss nicht, wie mir gescheh’n!

“Yes, like sweet peace, and quiet, sacred moonlight, my thoughts shall be of you, Charlotte; not like the glowing rays of the sun, or the cold light of the stars. Bright and beaming like the moon you are to me, spreading around me your soft light. Oh, beautiful golden moon, mirrored in the water, you lie as in a silvery bath, and would entice me to seek you in the murmuring depths. Hark! how the ruffled waves of the Ilm with repeated gentle caresses kiss the shore, rush from thence in golden links down the river! Sweet of the Ilm, I come, I come!”

Goethe hastened from the balcony, threw aside his apparel, plunged into the silvery flood, shouting with joy.

What heavenly pleasure to float there, rocked by the murmuring waves, gazing at the silvery stars and the golden moon, a lovely May night, listening to the voices of Nature! Add to that the perfume-laden breeze rising from the rain-refreshed meadows. How glorious to plunge into the cool stream, splashing and dashing the water, and then to shoot like a fish through the drops falling like golden rain! Suddenly, while swimming, Goethe raised his head to listen. He thought he heard footsteps on the poet’s forbidden bridge. The moon distinctly revealed a peasant from Oberweimar, who would be early to the weekly market, and so serve himself to the shortest route while no one could see him.

“Such presumption deserves punishment, my good peasant, and if there is no one else to do it the ghosts must.”

Listen, what a savage yell from under the bridge, and then another more unearthly!

The peasant, frightened, stopped suddenly, and looked down into the river. “Oh, what can it be?”

A glistening white arm is raised menacingly toward the bridge. A white figure, with a black head and long black hair, is seen plunging and splashing, while fearful yells are heard from the deep. Then it disappeared, to return, and menace, and yell, and plunge again.

The peasant shrieked with terror, and was answered with a cruel laugh. The white figure sank and rose from the river screeching and yelling, and the peasant shrieked also with terror.

“A ghost! a ghost! oh, have mercy upon us! Amen! amen!”

Fright lent him wings, and he fled, followed by the savage yells of the white figure, and never stopped until he reached Oberweimar, where he related to the astonished and terrified neighbors that there was a river-ghost just by the bridge which led to the cottage of the mad secretary of legation, Goethe, and which howled in the moonlight.[Footnote: This tradition of the ghost of the Ilm has been preserved in Weimar, since Goethe’s nocturnal bath, until our time.--See Lewes, vol. i., p. 451.]

With the peasant also disappeared the ghost of the Ilm.

Like a happy child of Nature, refreshed, Goethe went to his room and then again sought the balcony, to throw himself upon the carpet and gaze at the blue starry vault, and enjoy the glories of heaven with thoughtful devotion, and think of Charlotte--only of her, not once of the poor Thusnelda von Goechhausen, who passed the night upon the stairs of the Palace Belvedere, and who, at last weary with fright and exhaustion, fell asleep, and was awakened by the Duchess Amelia in the morning, laughingly demanding why she preferred the landing of the stairs for a place of repose.

“Because I am bewitched, duchess, and my sleeping-room has disappeared from earth--because some cursed demon or wizard has enchanted me, this wicked--”

“Beware what you say!” interrupted the duchess; “it is most probably the duke that you are inveighing against, and calling a demon and wizard.”

At this Thusnelda sprang up as if struck by an electric shock--“The surprise, this is what the duke promised me.”

“Very likely,” laughed the duchess. “The courier just arrived with a letter from my son to you, and I came to bring it myself, and found you, to my surprise, sleeping here. Read it, and tell me what he says!”

“Oh, listen, your highness!” cried Thusnelda, after having hastily perused the contents of the ducal missive.

“‘I hope I have succeeded to surprise you! Demons and wizards have closed your doors, And weeping you slept on the stairway alone. All witchcraft has now disappeared. Go seek The surprise that from Berlin I brought you, Which I now offer for an atonement.’”

“An insolent fellow, indeed, is my son,” said the duchess, “but you see, Thusnelda, he says, pater peccavi, and I am convinced that you will find something very pretty and acceptable in your room.”

“I will not take it--indeed I will not,” pouted the lady of honor. “He so fearfully tormented me last night. I assure your highness I was half dead with terror and--”

“And yet you will forgive him, Thusnelda, for the duke is your declared favorite; you dare not reproach him were he never so insolent, for you are just as much so, and not a hair’s-breadth better. Come, go up and see what it is.”

She went, and found four masons, who had been at work since daybreak to remove the wall and replace the door. Thusnelda was obliged to laugh in spite of the unhappy night she had passed, as she climbed over rubbish and ruins into her room, and met her maid dissolved in tears, who related to her that “the duke had had her walled in, for fear she would tell the trick to her mistress.”

“And so you were really hermetically sealed?” said the duchess.

“Yes, your highness,” whimpered the maid, “I thought I never should see daylight again. I wept and prayed all night. The only thing that consoled me was the duke’s command, which Philip brought to me, to give this little box to Fraulein so soon as the wall should be taken away in the morning.”

“Give it to me, Lieschen,” cried Thusnelda, impatiently, her face beaming with satisfaction, however, when she opened the box. “Now, duchess, that is what I call a surprise, and the duke shall be, as he ever has been, my favorite. If he does sometimes play rude tricks, he makes it all right again, in a very generous and princely manner. See what a beautiful watch his highness has brought me, ornamented with diamonds!”

“Yes, it is very pretty; give it to me that I may return it to the duke, and not mortify him too much, as you will not wear it.”

“I will accept it, duchess,” cried Thusnelda, laughing--“and all is forgiven and forgotten.”

“Trude, is there no news from him yet? Have you never seen him since? Did he not tell you about it?”

“No, my dearest Marie,” sighed old Trude. “There is no word, no message from him. I have been twenty times to the baker’s in eight days, and waited at the corner of the street, where we agreed to meet, but no Moritz was there, and I have not been able to hear any thing about him.”

“Something must have happened to him,” sighed Marie. “He is very ill, perhaps dying, and--”

“No, no, my child, he is not ill, I will tell you all about it, if you will not worry. I have been to Herr Moritz’s lodgings to-day. I could not wait any longer, and--”

“Did you see him, and speak with him, Trude?”

“No Marie, he was not there; and the people in the house told me that he had been gone for a week.”

“Gone!” repeated Marie, thoughtfully. “What does it mean? What could persuade him to abandon me in this hour of need? Tell me, Trude, what do you think? Console me if you can. You really know nothing further than that he is gone?”

“A little bit more, but not much, my heart’s child. When the people told me that he had disappeared eight days ago, it seemed as if one of the Alps had fallen on my heart, and my limbs trembled so I could go no farther, and I was obliged to sit down upon the stairs and cry bitterly, picturing all sorts of dreadful things to myself.”

“Dreadful things?” asked Marie. “Oh, Trude, you do not believe that my good, brave Moritz could do any thing sinful and cowardly, like wicked men? You do not think that my beloved--oh, no, no--I know that he is more noble; he will bear the burden of life as I will, so long as it pleases God.”

The old woman hung down her head, and humbly folded her hands. “Forgive me, my child, that I have such weak and sinful thoughts. I will apologize for them in my heart to you and your beloved so long as I live. After I had cried enough, I determined to go to the Gray Cloister, and beg the director to see me!”

“Did you see him to speak with him, dear good Trude?”

“Yes, dear child. I told him I was an aged aunt of Herr Moritz, who had come to Berlin to visit him; and finding that he was absent, I would like to know where he had gone, and, how long he would remain away.”

“Oh, Trude, how clever you are, and how kindly you think of every thing!” cried Marie, embracing her old nurse, and kissing affectionately her sunburnt, wrinkled cheek. “What did he say?”

“He told me that Herr Moritz had begged permission to be absent fourteen days to take an urgent, unavoidable journey; that ten days had already expired, and he would soon return.”

“Then he will be here in four days, and perhaps will bring hope and aid! He has gone to seek it; I know and I feel it, though I cannot divine where the assistance will come from. Oh, Trude, if I could only gain a favorable delay until Moritz returns!”

“Every thing is arranged,” murmured Trude. “The marriage license is already made out, and Parson Dietrich has promised to be ready at any hour. Herr Ebenstreit has sent the money, doubling the amount required to the ‘Invalids’ Hospital’ at Berlin, so that when the papers of nobility arrive, there--”

“Hush!” interrupted Marie, “do not speak of it. It is fearful to think of, and it crazes me to hear it. I will resort to every extreme. Since my father and mother are deaf to my entreaties, I will try to move him to pity. I have never been able to see him alone; my mother is watchful that an explanation should be impossible between us. I will implore this man to have pity upon me, and confide in him to whom they would sell me.”

Trude shook her head mournfully. “I fear it will be in vain, dear child. This man has no heart. I have proved him, and I know it.--Hark the bell rings! Who can it be?”

Both stepped out of the little garret-room to peep over the banister. Since Marie had been betrothed to the rich banker Ebenstreit, the general had received from his kind wife a servant in pompous livery for his own service. This servant had already opened the door, and Marie heard him announce in a loud voice, “Herr Ebenstreit!”

“He!” Marie started back with horror. “He, so early in the morning! this is no accident, Trude. What does it mean? Hush! the servant is coming!”

“I will go down,” whispered Trude; “perhaps I can hear something.”

Trude hurried away as her young lady glided back into her room, and never glanced at the servant who sprang past her upon the stairs.

“He is a hypocrite and a spy; he has been hired to watch and observe my child, and he will betray her if he discovers any thing.”

The servant announced, with respectful, humble mien, that Herr Ebenstreit had arrived, and Frau von Werrig desired her daughter to descend to the parlor.

“Very well--say that I will come directly.”

The servant remained rubbing his hands in an undecided, embarrassed manner.

“Why do you not go down?” asked Marie. “Have you any thing further to tell me?”

“I would say,” said he, spying about the room, as if he were afraid some one were listening, “that if a poor, simple man like myself could be useful to you, and you could confide in me your commissions, I should be too happy to prove to you that Carl Leberecht is an honest fellow, and has a heart, and it hurts his feelings to see the miss suffer so much.”

“I thank you,” said Marie, gently. “I am glad to feel that you have sympathy for me.”

“If I can be of the least service to you, have the goodness to call me, and give me your commissions.”

“Indeed I will, although I do not believe it practicable.”

“I hope miss will not betray me to Frau von Werrig or old Trude.”

“No, I promise you that, and here is my hand upon it.”

The servant kissed the extended hand respectfully. “I will enter into the service of my young lady at once, and tell her she must prepare for the worst: Herr Ebenstreit just said, ‘The diploma of nobility has arrived.’”

Marie turned deadly pale, and for an instant it seemed as if she would sink down from fright, but she recovered herself and conquered her weakness.

“Thank you, it is very well that I should know that; I will go down directly,” said she.

With calm, proud bearing Marie entered the sitting-room of her parents, and returned the salutations of her betrothed, who hastened toward her with tender assiduity.

“My dear Marie,” cried her mother, “I have the honor to present to you Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. The certificate of nobility arrived this morning.”

“I congratulate you, mother--you have at last found the long-desired heir to your name.”

“Congratulate me above all, my beautiful betrothed,” said Herr Ebenstreit, in a hoarse, scarcely intelligible voice. “This title crowns all my wishes, as it makes me your husband. I came to beg, dear Marie, that our marriage should take place to-morrow, as there is nothing now to prevent.”

“Sir,” she proudly interrupted him, “have I ever permitted this familiar appellation?”

“I have allowed it,” blurted out the general, packed in cushions in his roiling chair. “Proceed, my dear son.”

The latter bowed with a grateful smile, and continued: “I would beg, my dear Marie, to choose whether our wedding-journey shall be in the direction of Italy, Spain, France, or wherever else it may please her.”

“Is it thus arranged?” asked Marie. “Is the marriage to take place early to-morrow, and then the happy pair take a journey?”

“Yes,” answered her mother, hastily, “it is so decided upon, and it will be carried out. You may naturally, my dear daughter, have some preference; so make it known--I am sure your betrothed will joyfully accord it.”

“I will avail myself of this permission,” she quietly answered. “I wish to have a private conversation with this gentleman immediately, and without witnesses.”

“Oh, how unfortunate I am!” sighed Herr Ebenstreit. “My dear Marie asks just that which I unfortunately cannot grant her.”

“What should prevent your fulfilling my wish?” asked Marie.

“My promise,” he whined. “On the very day of my betrothal, I was obliged to promise my dear mother-in-law never to speak with you alone or correspond with my sweet lady-love.”

“These are the rules of decency and of etiquette, which I hope my daughter will respect,” said Frau von Werrig, in a severe tone. “No virtuous young girl would presume to receive her betrothed alone or exchange love-letters with him before marriage!”

“After the wedding there will be opportunities enough for such follies,” grumbled the general.

“You may be sure that I shall use them, dear father,” laughed Ebenstreit. “I would beg my respected mother to release me a half-hour from my oath to-day, that I may indulge the first expressed wish that my future wife favors me with.”

“It is impossible, my son. I never deviate from my principles. You will not speak with my daughter before marriage, except in the presence of her parents.”

“Mother, do you insist upon it?” cried Marie, terrified. “Will you not indulge this slight wish?”

“‘This slight wish!’” sneered her mother. “As if I did not know why you ask this private conversation. You wish to persuade our son-in-law to what you in vain have tried to implore your parents to do. A modest maiden has nothing to say to her future husband, which her parents, and above all her mother, could not hear. So tell your betrothed what you desire.”

“Well, mother, you must then take the consequences.--Herr Ebenstreit, they will force me to become your wife, they will sell me as merchandise to you, and you have accepted the bargain in good faith, believing that I agree to sacrifice my freedom and human rights for riches. They have deceived you, sir! I am not ready to give myself up to the highest bidder. I am a woman, with a heart to love and hate, who esteems affection superior to wealth. I cannot marry you, and I beg you not to teach me to hate you.”

A savage curse broke forth from the general, who, forgetting his gout, rose furious, shaking his clinched fist at his daughter.

His wife was immediately by his side, and pushed him into his arm-chair, commanding him, in her harsh, cold to remain quiet and take care of his health, and listen to what his son-in-law had to say to his unfeeling and unnatural daughter. “He alone has to decide.--Speak, my dear son,” said she, turning to the young man, who, with a malicious smile, had listened to the baroness, fixing his dull-blue eyes upon the young girl, who never seemed so desirable to him, as she now stood before him with glowing cheeks.

“Again I say, speak, my dear son, and tell my daughter the truth; do you hear, the truth?”

“If you will permit me, my dearest mother, I will,” answered Ebenstreit, with submissive kindness, again regarding the daughter. “You have made me a sad confession, Marie,” said he, sighing, “but I will acknowledge that I am not surprised, for your mother told me when I asked for your hand, that she feared I should never gain your consent, for you did not love me, although she herself, and the general, would grant theirs.”

“Was that all that I told you?” asked the mother, coldly.

“No, not all,” continued Ebenstreit, slightly inclining; “you added, ‘My daughter loves a beggar, a poor school-master, and she entertains the romantic idea of marrying him.’”

“And what did you reply?” asked Marie, almost breathless.

“My dear Marie, I laughed, repeating my proposal of marriage to your mother, saying, that I was ready to take up the combat with the poor pedagogue, and that you seemed all the more interesting and amiable for this romantic love. Life is so tedious and wretched, that one is glad to have some change and distraction. I assure you, I have not been so entertained for long years, as in the last fourteen days in this silent war with you. It amuses me infinitely to see you so stubborn and prudish, and increases my love for you. How could it be otherwise? The rich banker, Ebenstreit, has never seen a woman who was not ready to accept his hand, and why should he not love the first one who resists it? You have excited my self-love and vanity. You have made the marriage a matter of ambition, and you will comprehend that my answer is: ‘Fraulein von Leuthen must and shall be my wife, no matter what it costs me. She defies my riches and despises money, so I will force her to respect my wealth and recognize its power. Besides, she is a cruel, egotistical daughter; who has no pity for her poor parents, and is capable of seeing them perish for her foolish attachment. I will make her a good child, and force her to make her parents, and thereby herself, happy.’ All this I said to myself, and I have acted and shall act accordingly. I have only to add that the ceremony will take place to-morrow, at eleven. We will leave immediately after. Have the goodness therefore to choose in which direction, that I may at once make the necessary arrangements.”

“Lost--lost without hope!” cried Marie, in anguish, covering her face with her hands.

“Rather say rescued from misfortune,” answered Ebenstreit, quietly. “Believe me, there is but one sorrow that may not be borne, may not be conquered, and that is poverty, which is a corroding, consuming malady, annihilating body, and soul, swifter and surer than the most subtle poison. It stifles all noble feelings, all poetical thoughts and great deeds, and, believe me, love even cannot resist its terrible power. One day you will understand this. I will be patient and indulgent, and await it with hope.”

“Oh, what a noble and high-minded man!” cried the mother, with emphasis.--“Marie should kneel and thank her Maker for such a magnanimous savior and lover, who will shield her from all evil and misfortune.”

Sobbing and sighing, the daughter had stood with her face concealed; now she regarded the cold-hearted, smiling woman, with flashing eyes and keen contempt.

“Thank him!” she cried; “no, I accuse, I curse him. He is an atheist, and denies love. He is not capable of a noble thought or action, scorning and defaming all that is beautiful and elevated, worshipping only mammon. I will never marry him. You may force me to the altar, and there I will denounce him.”

“She will kill me,” cried the general; “she will murder her aged parents, leaving them to starve and perish, and--”

“Silence!” commanded his wife. “Leave off your complaints, she is not worth the tears or remonstrances of her parents. She would try to be our murderess, but she shall not.--My son, inform her of your decision. Answer her.”

“The response to your romantic language is simple and natural, my dear Marie. I have already entered into your feelings, and am prepared for this idea of refusing your lover at the altar, which is found in novels, and I supposed that it might occur to you. Money compasses all things and according to our wishes. My fortune procures for me a dispensation from public authorities to be married here in the house of our dear parents. The law demands four witnesses, who will be represented by your parents, my servant Philip, and the sacristan whom the clergyman will bring.”

“And they will hear me abjure you.”

“It is very possible, dearest, but the witnesses will not listen to you. Money makes the deaf to hear, and the hearing ones deaf. Old parson Dietrich knows the story of your love, and believes, with us, that it is a malady that you must be cured of. Therefore, in pity to you, he will not listen, and the others are paid to keep silent.”

“Is there no hope, O Heaven?” cried Marie, imploringly. “O God, Thou hast permitted it--hast Thou no pity in my need, and sendest me no aid?” Rushing to her father, and kneeling at his feet, she continued: “Have mercy upon your poor child! You are an old man, and may live but a few years; do not burden your conscience with the fearful reproaches of your only child, whom you will condemn to an inconsolably long and unhappy life.”

“Have you no pity yourself? Do you not know that I, your father, am so poor, that I have not even the necessary care? You wish your parents to sacrifice themselves for you, and suffer want! No, the daughter should sacrifice herself for her parents.”

“A beautiful sacrifice, a fine sorrow!” sneered her mother. “She will be a rich woman, and have the most splendid house and furniture and most costly equipage in Berlin!”

“And a husband who adores her,” cried Ebenstreit, “and who will feel it his duty to make her and her parents happy. Resolve bravely to bury the past, and look the immutable future joyfully in the face. Eleven will be the happy hour; fear not that the altar will not be worthy the charming bride of such a rich family. Money will procure every thing, and I will send a florist who will change this room into a blooming temple, fit to receive the goddess of love. In your room you will find the gift of my affection, a simple wedding-dress, which I trust you will approve of. Oh, do not shake your head, do not say that you will never wear it; you must believe that all resistance is in vain. You will become my wife, I and my money will it.”

“And I,” cried Marie, standing before him pale and defiant, regarding him with unspeakable contempt, “I and my love will it not. May God judge between us! May He forgive those who have brought this misfortune upon me! I can only say, ‘Woe to them!’”

“Woe to you!” cried her mother. “Woe to the seducer who has persuaded our child to sin and crime, and--”

“Hush mother! I will not permit you to slander him whom I love, and ever shall, so long--”

“Until you forget him, and love me, Marie,” said Ebenstreit. Approaching her, he seized her hand, and pressed a kiss upon it.

She drew it away with disgust, and turned slowly to the door, tossing back her head proudly. “Where are you going?” demanded her mother.

With her hand upon the knob, she replied, turning her pale, wan face to her mother, “To my own room, which I suppose is permitted to me, as there is nothing more to be said.”

Her mother would reply, and retain her, but her son-in-law held her gently back. “Let her go,” said he; “she needs rest for composure and to accustom herself to the thought that her fate is unavoidable.”

“But what if she should resort to desperate means in her mad infatuation and foolish passion? Some one must watch her continually, for she may try to elope.”

“You are right, dearest mother, some one must be with her, in whom she will confide. Would it not be possible to win old Trude?”

“No, nothing would gain her; she is a silly fool, who thinks only Marie is of consequence.”

Ebenstreit shrugged his shoulders. “That means that she would sell herself at a high price. I beg that you will send for her.”

“You will see,” said she, calling the old woman, who entered from the opposite door.

Trude looked about, scowling and grumbling. “Leberecht told me my mistress called me.”

“Why do you then look so furious, and what are you seeking on the table?” asked Frau von Werrig.

“My money,” cried Trude, vehemently. “I thought that you called me to pay me, and that my wages were all counted out on the table. But I see there is nothing there, and I fear I shall get none, and be poor as a church-mouse all my life long. Your honor promised me positively that, as soon as the wedding was decided upon, you would pay me every farthing, with interest, and I depended upon it.”

“You shall have all, and much more than the general’s wife promised you, if you will be a true and faithful servant to us,” said Ebenstreit.

“That I always have been, and ever shall be,” snarled Trude. “No person can say aught against me. Now, I want my money.”

“And obstinate enough you have been too,” said her mistress. “Can you deny that you have not always taken my daughter’s part?”

“I do not deny it. I have nursed her from childhood, and I love her as my own child, and would do any thing to make her happy!”

“Do you believe, Trude,” cried the general, “that Marie could be happy with that poor, starving wretch of a school-master? Has she not experienced in her own home the misfortune and shame of poverty?”

“I know it well,” sighed the old one, sadly, “and it has converted me to believe that it would be a great misfortune for Marie to marry the poor school-master.”

“Well, will you then faithfully help us to prevent it?” quickly asked Ebenstreit.

“How can I do it?” she sighed, shrugging her shoulder.

“You can persuade my daughter to be reasonable, and yield to that which she cannot prevent. You are the only one who can make any impression upon Marie, as she confides in you. Watch her, that in a moment of passionate desperation she does not commit some rash act. You can tell us, further, what she says, and warn us of any crazy plan she might form to carry out her own will.”

“That is to say, I must betray my Marie?” cried Trude, angrily.

“No, not betray, but rescue her. Will you do it?” asked Ebenstreit.

“I wish to be paid my wages, my two hundred thalers, that I have honestly earned, and I will have them.”

Ebenstreit took a piece of paper from his pocket. Writing a few lines with a pencil, he laid it upon the table. “If you will take this to my cashier after the ceremony to-morrow, he will pay you four hundred thalers.”

“Four hundred thalers in cash,” cried Trude, joyfully clapping her hands. “Shall all that beautiful money be mine, and--No, I do not believe you,” she cried, her face reassuming its gloomy, suspicious look. “You promise it to me to-day, that I may assist you, and persuade Marie to the marriage, but to-morrow, when old Trude is of no more use, you will send me away penniless. Oh, I know how it is. I have lived long enough to understand the tricks of rich people. I will see the cash first--only for that will I sell myself.”

“The old woman pleases me,” said Ebenstreit. “She is practical, and she is right.--If I promise you the money in an hour, will you persuade Marie to cease her foolish resistance, and be my wife? Will you watch over her, and tell us if any thing unusual occurs?”

“Four hundred thalers is a pretty sum,” repeated Trude, in a low voice to herself. “I might buy myself a place in the hospital, and have enough left to get me a new bed and neat furniture and--”

Here her voice was lost in unintelligible mumbling, and, much excited, she appeared to count eagerly. With her bony forefinger she numbered over the fingers of her left hand, as if each were a fortune that she must verify and examine.

The mother and the banker regarded each other with mocking looks; the general looked at the money, grumbling: “If I had had four hundred thalers the last time I played, I could have won back my money in playing again.”

“Old woman,” said Ebenstreit, “have you not finished with your reckoning?”

“Yes,” she said, with an exultant laugh, “I have done! Four hundred thalers are not sufficient. I must have five, and if you will give them to me in cash in an hour, then I will do every thing that you wish, and persuade Marie to the marriage. I will watch her day and night, and tell you every thing that she says and does. But I must have five hundred in cash!”

Ebenstreit turned his dull-blue eyes to Frau von Werrig with a triumphant smile. “Did you not tell me the old woman could not be bought? I knew that I was right. You did not offer her money enough; she will sell herself dear as possible.”

“Yes, as dear as she can,” laughed Trude--“five hundred is my price.”

“You shall have it in cash in an hour,” said Ebenstreit, in a friendly manner.

“So much money,” whined the general; “it would have saved me if I had had it that last time.”

“My son-in-law, I must confess you are exceedingly generous,” remarked the mother.

“No sum would be too great to assure me my bride. Go now, Trude, you shall have the money in time.--Will you allow me, father, to send your servant to my office for it?”

“Send Leberecht here, Trude!”

The old woman hurried out of the room, but the door once closed, her manner changed. One might have supposed a sudden cramp had seized her, from her distorted face, and twitching and panting, and beating the air with her clinched fists, and her quivering lips uttering broken words.

Approaching footsteps warned her to assume her general manner and expression, and cease her manipulations. “The ladies and gentlemen wish you in the parlor,” mumbled Trude to the servant descending the stairs. “But where have you been, and what have you to do up there?”

“I was looking for you, lovely one--nothing more!”

“Well, now you have found me, tell me what you want? I know you were sneaking about, listening, because you thought I was with Marie. I understand you better than you think I do. I have found many a viper, and I am familiar with their aspect. Go! they are waiting for you, and let me find you again spying about, and I will throw a pail of water on you!”

With this friendly assurance Trude dismissed Leberecht, and hastened with youthful activity to the little garret-room, when Marie fell upon her neck, weeping bitterly.

“Calm yourself--do not weep so--it breaks my heart, my dear child.”

“And mine cannot break. I must endure all this anguish and survive this shame. Help me, my good mother, stand by me! It is impossible for me to marry that dreadful man. I have sworn constancy to my beloved Moritz, and I must be firm, or die!”

“Die? then you will kill me!” murmured the old one, “for, if you go, I must go also. But we will not give up yet, as we are both living; we will not despair for life. I am going once more to Moritz’s lodgings; it may be he has returned, and will rescue you.”

“Oh, do, good Trude; tell him that I have courage and determination to risk and bear every thing--that I will await him; that nothing would be too difficult or dangerous to serve to unite me to him! Tell him that I prefer a life of poverty and want by his side, to abundance and riches in a splendid palace with that detested creature--but no, say nothing about it, he knows it well! If he has returned, tell him all that has happened, and that I am resolved to brave the utmost, to save myself!”

“I will go, dear child, but I have first my work to do, and enough of it too--but listen to what they have made me become.” Hastily, in a low voice, she related to Marie the story of her corruption, excited as before, her limbs shaking and her fists clinched. “They say we old women resemble cats, but from to-day forth I know that is a shameful lie! If I had possessed their nature and claws, I should have sprung at the throat of this rascal, and torn out his windpipe; but, instead of that, I stood as if delighted with his degrading proposal! Oh, fie! the good-for-nothing kidnapper would tempt a poor creature! Let us wait, they will get their reward. He shall pay me the five hundred thalers, and then this trader of hearts shall recognize that, however much ill-earned money he may throw away, love and constancy are hot to be bought. We will teach him a lesson,” and with this, the old servant ceased, gasping for breath.

“Go now, Trude, and learn if he has returned; upon him depends my happiness, and life even--he is my last hope!”

“I am going, but first I would get the wages of my sin, and play the hypocrite, and tell a few untruths; then I will go to Moritz’s lodgings, and the baker also. Do not despair; I have a joyful presentiment that God will have pity upon us and send us aid.” Trude kissed and embraced her child, and scarcely waited an hour, when she was demanded in the parlor to receive her money.

Herr Ebenstreit was heartily delighted with her zealous impatience, and handed her ten rolls of gold, reminding her of the conditions.

“I have already consoled her a little, and she begins to change. I hope every thing will turn for good. Just leave her alone with me.”

“But first, I must go and see my aged brother, who will take care of my money,” replied Trude. “He is a safe man and will not spend it.”

“Trude,” cried the general, “what an old fool! to seek at distance what is so near you. I will take your money, and give you interest. Do you hear? I will take care of it!”

“Thank you, general, I’d rather give it to my brother, on account of the relationship.” She slipped out of the room, hid the money in her bed, and hurriedly left the house.

Scarcely an hour passed ere Trude returned as fleetly as she went. She cast only a look into the kitchen, and hastened up to Marie’s room. Her success was evident in her happy, smiling face, and coming home she had repeated to herself, “How happy Marie will be!” almost the entire way.

She had but closed the door, when the mean little Leberecht glided from behind the chimney, and crept to listen at the door.

Within was a lively conversation, and twice a shout of joy was heard and Marie, exultant, cried, “Oh, Trude! dear Trude! all goes well, I fear nothing now. God has sent me the savior which I implored!”

Leberecht stood, bent over, applying his ear to the keyhole, listening to every word.

Oh, Trude! if you could only have seen the traitor, glued to the door, with open eyes and mouth! Could you have seen the eavesdropper rubbing his hands together, grinning, and listening in breathless suspense!

Why cannot you surprise him, Trude, and fulfil your threat to deluge him and chase him away from your child’s door? They forgot the necessity of prudence, and the possibility of being overheard. At last it occurred to the old servant, and she tore open the door, but no one was there--it was deserted and still.

“God be thanked, no one has listened,” whispered Trude. “I will go down and tell them that I hope, if we can stay alone all day, you will be calmer and more reasonable.”

“Do it, Trude; I do not dare to see any one for fear my face will betray me, and my mother has very sharp eyes. Return soon.”

She opened the door, and saw not the eavesdropper and spy, who had but just time to conceal himself, and stand maliciously grinning at the retreating figure of the faithful servant.

He slipped lightly from his hiding-place down to his sleeping-room, in a niche under the stairs. For a long time he reflected, upon his bedside--his watery blue eyes staring at nothing. “This must be well considered,” he mumbled. “There is, at last, a capital to be won. Which shall I do first, to grasp a good deal? Shall I wait, or go at once to Herr Ebenstreit? Very naturally they would both deny it, and say that I had made up the whole story to gain money. I had better let the affair go on: they can take a short drive, and when they are about an hour absent, I will sell my secret at a higher price. Now I will pretend to be quite harmless, and after supper let the bomb burst!”

Evening had set in. The card-table had been arranged, and Leberecht had rolled his master to it, taking his place behind his chair. The hour of whist the general impatiently awaited the entire day, and it was regularly observed. Even in the contract with his adopted son it had been expressly mentioned as a duty, that he should not only secure to them yearly income, but also devote an hour to cards every evening.

Herr Ebenstreit regarded it as a tax, which he must observe until married. The general was much his superior at cards, and, moreover, played the dummy, and the stake being high, it was quite an income for the future father-in-law, and regarded by him as the one bright spot in his daily life.

The cards had been dealt, and Leberecht had assorted the general’s, and placed them in his gouty hand, when Trude entered, exultingly.

“What has happened? What makes you interrupt us?” cried the general. “Did you not remember that I have told you always not to disturb us at this hour.”

“Yes, general, but I thought good news was never amiss.”

“What have you pleasant to tell us?” harshly demanded Frau von Werrig.

“My young lady’s compliments,” cried Trude, triumphantly; “she begins to see that she must yield to her fate, and that it will do no good to resist any longer. She will be ready for the ceremony at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The general uttered a cry of joy, and struck the table so violently, with his hand, that the cards were thrown together.

His wife bowed dignifiedly, and the happy bridegroom gave old Trude some gold-pieces upon the favorable news.

“Has she, then, been converted by your persuasion?” he asked.

“Through my persuasion and her own good sense. She understands that, if she cannot marry her dear Moritz, Herr Ebenstreit is the most fit husband, because he loves her, and is so generous to her old parents. One thing she would like an answer to--can I accompany her to her new home?”

“Yes, old woman, it will be very agreeable to have so sensible a person,” said Ebenstreit. “Tell Marie that it gives me pleasure to fulfil her wish.”

“In that case I would repeat that Fraulein begs for indulgence and forbearance until to-morrow, and would like to remain alone to compose herself.”

“I do not wish, in the least, to see her,” said her mother; “she can do what she likes until then.”

“I will tell Marie, and she will rejoice,” cried Trude.

“Tell her, from her father, that it is very agreeable to him not to see her pale, wretched-looking face again till morning.--Now, my son, pay attention, and you, Trude, do not presume to interrupt us again. Leberecht, play out my ace of hearts.”

The latter, with his eyes cast down, and with a perfectly indifferent manner, played the card indicated, and Trude left the room quietly and unobserved.

“Every thing is arranged, my child,” said Trude, as she re-entered Marie’s room. “They are playing cards, which always lasts two hours, then Herr Ebenstreit goes away, and the family will go to bed. You have eighteen hours, before you will be discovered. Hark! it strikes seven, and it is already quite dark. When the post-horn sounds, then it is time.”

“Oh, Trude! my dear mother, my heart almost ceases to beat, with anxiety, and I quake with fear,” sighed Marie. “I am conscious that I have commenced a fearful undertaking!”

“They have driven you to it--it is not your fault,” said Trude, consolingly. “Every human being is free to work out his own good or bad fortune, and, as our dear Old Fritz says, ‘to be happy in the future world in his own way.’ They have sold you for money, and you only prove to them that you are no slave.”

“And I prove also that I am a disobedient daughter,” added Marie, trembling. “At this hour, it weighs like a heavy burden upon my heart, and the words of Holy Writ burn into my very soul--‘Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee.’”

“You have honored them all your life,” said Trude, solemnly; “I can witness it before God and man. You have worked for them without thanks or love, receiving only contempt. It is also written, ‘Thou shalt leave father and mother, and cleave unto thy husband.’ You still follow the commands of God, and may it bring you happiness and blessing. My prayers and thoughts go with you, my child! a mother could not love her offspring more tenderly than I do you.”

“No mother could more tenderly and faithfully care for her than you have for me, Trude,” cried Marie, pressing her lovingly to her breast. “Through you alone is my rescue possible, for you give us the money to undertake the long journey.”

“Not I,” she laughed; “it is Herr Ebenstreit, and that makes it the more amusing; the wicked always set the traps into which they fall themselves.” Suddenly the loud, quivering tones of the post-horn were heard, “Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus.”

“He has come!” cried Marie, and her face beamed with delight. “He calls me! I am coming!--Farewell, dear, peaceful room, where I have so toiled, wept, and suffered! I shall never see thee again! My beloved calls me, and I go to follow him even unto death! Pardon me, O God! Thou seest that I cannot do otherwise! They would force me to perjury, and I dare not break my oath! I cannot forsake him whom I love!--When they curse me, Trude, kneel, and implor God to bless me, who is the Father of love! My conscience does not reproach me. I have worked for them when they needed it; now their adopted son, to whom they have sold their name, allows them a yearly rent, and I can work for myself.”

“Hark! there is the post-horn again, you must go,” murmured Trude, struggling to force back her tears.

“Bless me, mother,” implored Marie, kneeling.

“God’s blessing go with you,” she said, laying her hands upon her head, “and may it render of no avail the curses of men, but permit you to walk in love and happiness!”

“Amen, amen!” sighed Marie, “now farewell, dear mother, farewell!”

Marie rose, and kissing Trude again, flitted down the stairs, and out of the house, Trude following, holding her breath and listening in fearful excitement.

Again resounded the post-horn.

“They are gone,” murmured Trude, bowing her head and praying long and fervently.

The general was particularly fortunate this evening, which caused him to be unusually cheerful and satisfied. After every rubber he gathered up the thalers, until he had amassed a most satisfactory pile. As the clock struck ten, Frau von Werrig declared that they must finish and go to bed.

The general yielded, with a sigh, to her decision, for he knew, by long years of experience, that it would be in vain to defy her will. He shoved his winnings into a leather bag, which he always carried with him, and gave Leberecht the order to roll away his chair, when the servant, with a solemn bow, stepped closely to him, and begged the general to listen to him a moment.

“Well, what have you to say?” he asked.

“I have only one request--that you will permit me to prove that I am a faithful servant, who looks out for the good of his employers. You have given Trude five hundred thalers that she might watch over your daughter. I can show you how well she deserved it, and how differently your humble servant would have done.--Have the goodness, Frau von Werrig, to call Trude to bid Fraulein come down, for you have something important to communicate to her.”

His mistress proudly regarded him and seemed to try to read his meaning in his smiling, humble face. “And if my daughter comes, what have you to say?”

“If she comes, then I am a miserable fool and scoundrel, but I beg you to call Trude.”

It was a long time before the old woman appeared, confused and sleepy, asking--“what they wanted at such a late hour?”

“Go and tell my daughter that I wish to see her at once.”

Trude trembled, but composed herself, saying, “There is time enough to-morrow. Fraulein has been asleep a long time.”

“She lies,” sneered Leberecht, taking the precaution to protect himself behind the general’s arm-chair. “She knows that she is not in bed.”

“Oh, you sneak, you rascal,” cried Trude, shaking her fist at him, “how dare you say that I tell a lie? How can such a miserable creature as you impute to others what you do yourself every time that you open your mouth?”

“Frau von Werrig, she is only quarrelling, in order to gain time--every moment is precious. I beg you to go up-stairs, and see for yourself, if your daughter is there.”

“Fraulein has locked the door so as not to be disturbed.”

“Ah,” said Leberecht, “Trude has locked it, and has the key in her pocket.”

“Give up the key,” shrieked the general, who in vain tried to rise, “or I will call the police, and send you to prison.”

“Do it, but I will not give it to you.”

“Do you not see she has it?” cried Leberecht.

“Oh, you wretch, I will pay you--I will scratch your eyes out, you miserable creature!”

“Trude, be quiet,” commanded Ebenstreit; “the general orders to give up the key--do it!”

“Yes, do it at once,” shrieked Frau von Werrig, “or I will dismiss you from my service.”

“That you will not have to do, as I shall go myself. I will not give up the key.”

“The door is old, and with a good push one could open it,” said Leberecht.

“Come, my son, let us see,” said the mother.

They hastened up to the room, while the general scolded, furiously that he must sit still. Leberecht and Trude cast furious, menacing glances at each other.

Suddenly a loud crash was heard.

“They have broken open the door!” cried the general.

“I said that it was old and frail--what do you say now, beautiful Trude?”

The old woman wiped with her hand the drops of perspiration from her forehead, caused by her anguish. “You are a bad fellow, and God will punish you for your treason, that you have tormented a noble, unhappy girl. I saw that you were an eavesdropper, and you know all.”

“She is gone!” shrieked the mother, rushing into the room.

“The room is empty,” cried Ebenstreit. “Marie is not there. Tell us, Leberecht, what you know about it.”

“I will, if we can agree about the pay--the old woman bothers me, and beg the young gentleman to go into the next room with me.”

“O Almighty God, have compassion upon my poor little Marie,” murmured Trude, kneeling, and covering her face.

Ebenstreit in the mean time withdrew to the other room, followed by the servant.

“Speak!” commanded his master, “and tell me what you have to say.”

Leberecht shrugged his shoulders. “We are two men who have urgent business with each other. I am not at present a servant and you the master. I am a man who has an important secret to sell, and you are the man who would buy it.”

“What strange, unheard-of language is this?” said Ebenstreit, astonished.

“The language of a man who cannot only deprive the rich banker Ebenstreit of a lovely wife, but of his title also. You said yourself, sir, this morning, that it was only valid if you succeeded in marrying the daughter of General von Leuthen. No none knows where you can find your bride but me.”

“And Trude,” said Ebenstreit, quickly.

“You know she will not betray Fraulein, and you have not even tried to make her.”

“You are mistaken; Trude is as easily bought as any one.”

“You say that because she has taken five hundred thalers from you. She has not helped you, and it is useless to ask for your money, as she has not got it.”

“How so? Has she given it away?”

“You provided the money for your bride to run away and marry elsewhere, as Trude gave it to them.”

Ebenstreit stamped his foot with rage, striding backward and forward in furious excitement, while Leberecht watched him, sardonically smiling. “Let us come to an end with this business,” said Ebenstreit, stopping before his servant. “You know where Fraulein can be found, and you wish to sell the secret--tell me your price.”

“Three thousand thalers, and a clerkship in your bank, which you intend to continue under another name.”

“You are beside yourself. I am not so foolish as to grant such senseless demands.”

“Every hour that you wait I demand a thousand thalers more, and if you stop to reflect long your betrothed and your title both are lost.”

“You are a miserable scamp!” cried Ebenstreit, enraged; “I will inform the police. There are means enough to force you to give the information.”

“I do not believe it. Trude will not tell you, and I should like to know what can force me if I will not. The king has done away with torture, and I have informed you how to make me speak. Three thousand thalers and a clerkship in your office. Take care! it is almost eleven o’clock--at midnight I shall demand four thousand.”

It was a beautiful, clear, moonlight night. The world reposed in silence. Mankind with their cares and sorrows, their joys and hopes, had gone to rest. Over town and village, over highway and forest had flitted the sweet, consoling angel--Sleep. The sad were soothed, the heavy-laden were lightened of their burdens, to the despairing were brought golden dreams, to the weary rest. Sighing and sorrowful, he turned from those with a sad face whose conscience banished repose, and, ah! their number was legion. To the wakeful and blissful he smilingly glanced, breathing a prayer and a blessing; but these were few and far between--for happiness is a rare guest, and tarries with mortals but fitfully. As he glided past the joyful couple who, with watchful love and grateful hearts, sat in the carriage rolling over the silent, deserted highway, two tears fell from his eyes, and his starry wings were wider outspread to rush more quickly past.

“Look, my dear Marie, two stars just fell from heaven. They are a greeting to you, loved one, and they would say they guide us on our way.”

“Oh, Philip, it is a sign of ill-luck! Falling stars betoken misfortune!”

She clung closer to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. He pressed her more lovingly to his heart. “Do not fear, dear Marie; separation only could cause us unhappiness--we have long borne it, and now it is forever past. You have given yourself to me for my own, and I am yours, heart and soul; we speed on through the night to the morning of the bright, sunny future, never more to be parted.”

“Never!” she fervently murmured. “Oh, may God hear our prayer. Never, never to part! Yet, while the word falls from my lips, a shudder creeps through my soul.”

“Wherefore this despair, dearest? Reflect, no one will be apprised of our flight till early morning, and then they will not know whither we have fled. Meanwhile we rush on to Hamburg, where a packet-ship sails every Wednesday for England; arriving there, we will first go to Suffolk, to my old friend the vicar of Tunningham. I was his guest many weeks last year, and he often related to me the privilege which had been conferred on the parish church for a long time to perform valid marriages for those to whose union there were obstacles interposed elsewhere. He will bless the union of our love, and will accord me the lawful right to call you my own before God and man. We will not return at once to Germany. I have many connections and literary friends in London, who will assist me to worthy occupation. Besides, I closed an agreement some weeks since with the publisher Nicolai in Berlin for a new work. I will write it in London; it will be none the less favored coming from a distance.”

“My flowers and paintings will also be as well received in as in Berlin,” added Marie, smilingly.

“No, Marie, you shall not work. I shall have the precious care of providing for you, which will be my pride and happiness. Oh, my beloved, what a crowning bliss to possess a sweet, dear wife, who is only rich in imperishable treasures, and poor in external riches! What delight to toil for her, and feel that there lives in my intellect the power to grant her every wish, and to compensate her in the slightest degree the boundless wealth of her affection! To a loving mind there is no prouder, happier feeling than to be the only source of support to the wife of his love--to know that she looks to him for the fulfilment of her slightest wish in life. I thank my Maker that you are poor, Marie, and that I am permitted to toil for you. How else could I reward you for all you have sacrificed for me?”

“You cannot suppose, dear Philip, that the riches of my obtrusive lover would have been any attraction to me. Money could never compensate for the loss of your love. You are my life, and from you alone can I receive happiness or unhappiness. At your side I am rich and joyous, though we may outwardly need; without you I should be poor with superfluity. I am proud that we in spirit have freed ourselves from those fictitious externals with which the foolish burden themselves. Oh, my beloved Philip, my whole soul is exultant that we are never more to part--no, not even in eternity, for I believe that love is an undying sentiment, and the soul can never be darkened by death which is beaming with affection.”

“You are right, Marie, love is the immortality of the soul; through it man is regenerated and soars to the regions of eternal light. When I recall how desolate and gloomy was my life, how joyless the days dragged on before I loved you, I almost menaced Heaven that it created me to wander alone through this desert. The brightest sun’s rays now gild my future, and it seems as if we were alone in paradise, and that the creation entire glorified my happiness, and all the voices of Nature shouted a greeting to you, dearest. Oh, Marie, if I lived a thousand years, my heart would retain its youthful love and adoration for you, who have saved me from myself, have freed my soul from the constraining fetters of a sad, joyless existence. Repose your head upon my heart, and may it rest there many happy years, and receive in this hour my oath to love, esteem, and honor you as my most precious treasure! You shall be wife, child, sister, and friend. My soul shall be frank and open to you; for you I will strive and toil, and will cherish and foster the happiness received from you as my most treasured gift. Give me your hand, Marie.”

She laid it within his own strong, manly hand, gently pressing it.

The large full moon, high above them, lighted up these noble faces, making the eyes, which were bent upon each other, more radiant. Swiftly the carriage rolled on, the night-breeze fanning their cheeks and waving back their raven curls.

Moritz raised their clasped hands, and gazed at the starry heaven.

“We lift them up unto Thee, O God. Thou hast heard my oath, O Eternal Spirit, who dwellest among the stars; receive it, and bless the woman I love!”

“Receive also my oath, O my Maker. Regard the man to whom I have sworn eternal fidelity, bless him, and bless me. Let us live in love and die in constancy.”

Moritz responded, “Amen, my beloved, amen!”

They embraced each other fervently. Onward rolled the carriage through the tranquil, blissful night. Oh why cannot these steeds borrow wings from the night-wind? Why cannot the soaring spirit bear aloft its earthly tenement? With divine joy and heavenly confidence you gaze at the stars. You smilingly interchange thoughts of the blissful future, whilst dire misfortune approaches, and will soon seize you in its poisonous grasp! Do you not hear it? Does not the echo of swift-prancing steeds ring in your ears? Do you not hear the shrieking and calling after you?

They listen only to the voice of tenderness speaking in their hearts, and would that the solemn quiet of this dialogue might not be broken by a loud word from their lips.

The post-horn sounded! They halted at a lonely house near the highway. It is the station. Change horses! There is not a light to be seen. Three times the postilion blew a pealing blast ere they could awake the inmates. The window was at last opened, and a sleepy, complaining voice questioned the number of horses and the distance of the next post.

Slowly they were brought forward, and still more slowly were they attached to the carriage, and all arranged. What matters it? The night is lovely, and like a dream it seems to remain under the starry heavens, spread out like a canopy above them.

Does not your heart tell you that sorrow strides on like the storm? Do you not hear the voices still shrieking after you?

The postilion mounted his horse, and again the trumpet pealed forth its merry air, and was answered with a shout of triumph from the swift pursuers.

Marie raised her head from Philip’s shoulder. “What was it? Did you not hear it?”

“What, my beloved, what should I hear? Do the stars salute you? Do the angels greet their sister upon earth?”

“Hark! there it is again! Do you not hear it? Listen! does it not seem as if one called ‘Halt! halt!’”

“Yes, truly, I hear it now also! What can happen, love? Why trouble ourselves about the outer world and the existence of other beings?”

“I know not, but I am so anxious, my heart almost ceases to beat, with terror!”

“Halt! halt!” the wind carries forward the shriek, and above their heads it sounds like the screeching of ravens.

“Strange! For whom are they calling?” Moritz looked back along the highway. White and clear it lay in the moonlight, but, far in the distance was a black mass, taking form and shape at every moment!

Horsemen! horsemen! in full speed they come!

“Postilion! drive on! quick! Let the horses gallop! There is a forest near--drive us to that, that we may hide ourselves in the thicket! Onward, postilion! we are not thieves or murderers. A hundred thalers are yours, if you save us!”

The postilion beat his horses! In full chase they followed--more and more distinctly were heard the curses and yells.

“Oh, God in heaven, have mercy upon us in our need!”

“Faster, postilion!--in mercy, faster!”

“Halt! halt!--in the name of the king, halt!”

This startled the postilion, and he turned to listen, and again a furious voice yelled, “In the name of the king, halt!”

The postilion drew up. “Forgive me, sir, but I must respect the name of the king.”

Forward galloped the horsemen.

“Philip,” whispered Marie, “why do we live--why do we not die?”

He folded her in his arms, and passionately kissed her, perhaps for the last time. “Marie, be mindful of our oath--constant unto death!”

“Constant unto death!” she repeated.

“Be firm and defy all the storms of life!”

Marie repeated it, with heightened courage.

The horsemen surrounded the carriage, the riders upon panting steeds! Two officers in uniform sprang to the side, laying their hands upon Moritz’s shoulder. “Conrector Philip Moritz, we arrest you in the name of the king! You are accused of eloping with a minor, and we are commanded to transport you to Spandau until further orders!” Upon the other side two other horsemen halted. The foremost was Herr Ebenstreit, who laid his hand upon Marie, and saw not or cared not that she shudderingly shrank away.

“My dear Marie, I come as the ambassador of your parents, and am fully empowered to lead your back to your father’s house.”

She answered not, but sat immovable and benumbed with terror, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You arrest me in the name of the king,” cried Moritz; “I bow to the law. I beg only to speak to that man,” pointing to Ebenstreit, with contempt. “Sir, dismount, I have important business with you!”

“We have nothing to say to each other,” answered Ebenstreit, calmly.

“But I!” cried Moritz, springing forward, furious as a lion, “I have something to say to you, you rascal, and I will treat you accordingly!”

He savagely tore the whip from the postilion’s hand, and struck Ebenstreit in the face. “Now,” cried he, triumphantly, “I have forced you to give me satisfaction!”

The police swung themselves from their saddles, and Leberecht quickly dismounted. They clinched Moritz by the feet and hands. It was a desperate struggle, and Marie gazed at them with folded hands, praying without words. They seized him and held him fast with manacles. A shriek, and Marie sank fainting. Moritz’s head sank upon his breast, almost in the agony of death.

“Take him to the next station, my friends,” commanded Ebenstreit, “the carriage is already ordered to remove him to Spandau.” He dismounted, and now took the place by Marie, who still lay in a dead faint. “Postilion, mount and turn your carriage, I retain you until the next station. If you drive quickly, there is a louis d’or for you.”

“I will drive as if the devil were after me, sir!” shouted the postilion, and turned to gallop off, when Ebenstreit ordered him to halt, and Leberecht to get up on the box. Then turning to the officers, “Gentlemen,” said he, proudly, “you are witnesses to the ill-treatment and insults of this woman-stealer. You will certify that the blood flowed down my face.”

“I will myself make it known before all men,” cried Moritz, with a contemptuous laugh. “I have insulted you and branded you.”

“We will give our evidence,” respectfully replied the officers. “As soon as we have delivered our prisoner at Spandau, we will announce ourselves to you.”

“Then you will receive from me the promised reward of a hundred thalers. If you hush up the entire adventure, so that it is not noised about, after three months, still another hundred.”

“We will be silent, Herr Ebenstreit.”

“I believe you; a hundred thalers is a pretty sum. Forward, Leberecht, make the postilion push on, that we may arrive in Berlin before daybreak, and no one know of this abominable affair.”

The postilion laughed with delight, at the thought of the louis d’or. Upon the box sat Leberecht, a smile of malicious triumph upon his face. “This has been a lucky night,” said he; “we have all done a good business, but I am the most fortunate, with my three thousand thalers and a fine place. I wish he had waited an hour later, and then I should have had another thousand!”

Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. “Money is the king of the world--with it one can accomplish all things,” said he to himself; “if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have chosen me, nor the king have given me a title, nor could I have won back my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the power to revenge myself for the pain in my face.” He turned menacingly toward Moritz, who saw it not.

With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers, incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms, each end held fast by one of the riders.

The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken misfortune! Your star has fallen!

Since that painful night, four weeks had passed, four long ones to poor old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness. In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile.

Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited questions, and to her little by little the circumstances of the elopement--how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie’s secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them, informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier to provide fresh relays at every station.

Trude depicted the anger of her father and the threats of her mother to send her to prison. But before she could execute her purpose, Ebenstreit had brought home the unconscious child, and she herself had lifted her from the carriage and borne her, with the aid of her mistress, to her own little attic room.

Marie listened to these relations with a gloomy calmness and a defiant sorrow. Illness had wrought a peculiar change in her mind, and hardened the gentle, tender feelings of the young girl. Grief had steeled her soul, benumbed her heart, and she had risen from her couch as one born anew to grief and torture. Her present situation and lost happiness had changed the young, loving, tenderly-sensitive maiden to the courageous, energetic, and defiant woman, who recognized a future of self-renunciation, combat, and resignation.

Trude observed these changes with disquietude and care. She wished Marie would only once complain, or burst into tears. After the first storm of despair had passed, the tears refused to flow, and her eyes were bright and undimmed. Only once had profound emotion been awakened, as Trude asked her if she had forgotten her unhappy lover, and cared no more to learn his fate. It had the desired effect.

A deathly paleness overspread her delicate, transparent cheek. “I know how he is,” she said, turning away her face, “I realize his sufferings by my own. We are miserable, lost--and no hope but in death. Ere this comes, there is a desert to traverse in heat, and dust, and storm, and frost, alone, without consolation or support. Hush, Trude! do not seek to revive miserable hopes. I know my fate, and I will endure it. Tell me what you know about him? Where is he? Have they accused him? Speak! do not fear to tell me every thing!” But fearing herself, she threw her handkerchief quickly over her face, and sat with it covered whilst Trude spoke.

“I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet, regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded, as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But,” continued Trude, in a lower tone, “Herr Gedicke looked very sad and grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. ‘He has disappeared,’ he sighed, ‘and I know not if we shall ever see him again.’ ‘Oh, Jemima!’ I screamed, ‘you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!’ ‘No,’ said the director, ‘not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.’ It was in vain to ask further; he knew not or he would not say any thing. I believe your family know where poor Moritz is, for your mother speaks of him as one in the penitentiary, and quite triumphantly she told me yesterday that the king, in his new book of laws, had expressly condemned the person who elopes with a minor to be sent to the house of correction for ten years, and then she laughed so cruelly, that I trembled to hear her.”

As Trude related this, she searchingly glanced at Marie to observe the effect of her words, hoping to see her weep or complain and that, at last, grief would melt the icy crust around her heart.

But Marie sat motionless and without uttering a sound--not a sigh or a moan escaped her. After a long silence, when her grief was too deep for tears, she drew the handkerchief from her face, the pallor and rigidity of which startled Trude.

She sprang forward, folding her in her arms. “Marie, child of my heart, do weep, do complain! I know that he loved you dearly, and deserves that you should mourn for him. Have you no more confidence, though, in your old Trude? Is she no longer worthy to share your grief?”

Marie laid her languid head upon the bosom of her faithful nurse; a long-drawn, piercing cry of anguish was her response, she trembled violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

Trude raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring, “I thank thee, O Lord! Her heart is not dead! It lives, for it suffers!”

“It suffers,” groaned Marie, “the anguish of death.”

This passionate outburst of feeling was of but short duration. Her tears were dried, and her quivering face assumed its usually calm expression.

“Trude,” said she, gently, continuing to repose upon her bosom, “I am so wretched that words cannot express it or tears soothe it. If I should give myself up to sorrow and mourning I should die, and that cannot be, for I must live to wait for him--to rescue him. How I know not yet; my thoughts and resolutions are so confused that they flicker like the ignes fatui. I will force my mind to be calm, and these wandering lights shall unite in one glowing flame to destroy the walls and obstructions which confine him. He is a prisoner; I feel it in my heart, and I must live to free him. This is my task, and I will accomplish it; therefore I would be composed, and strong in myself. Wonder not that I weep or complain no more, and do not refer to my misfortune. I should die if I did not suppress this anguish, and I would become strong and active. Seek not to enfeeble me, but aid me to harden myself; refrain from complaint, that I may be silent. I think only of him, and I ask nothing further than to yield my life to free him. Let us never speak of it again, for I feel that all the firmness which I had gained has been swept from me in this giving way, and that I must begin anew.”

From this hour she commenced to build, and rose upon her grief as on a column which projects toward heaven; leaned upon it, and received, as Brisaeus from the earth, the power of life and action. She had already so conquered herself as to be able to leave her own quiet room, and descend to that of her parents. There she would sit calmly for hours, listening attentively to the conversation, hoping to catch some word that might give her a clew.

They avoided every exciting topic, and were milder and more thoughtful for her. Even her mother made no reproaches, and never alluded to the past, because she feared to delay her recovery, and remove the longed-for goal in hindering the marriage with Ebenstreit. The latter carefully avoided troubling her by his presence; when he heard Marie’s step in the anteroom, who descended at a certain hour every day, he withdrew by the other entrance.

“Who goes out every time I come in?” asked Marie, one day as she appeared in the sitting-room.

The general coughed with embarrassment, and glanced anxiously at his wife, whose eyes rested upon her daughter with a cold, searching expression. Their eyes met, and were riveted upon each other. A cold, cruel smile played around the thin, bloodless lips of the mother as she recognized the defiance and firmness in her child, and felt that she had recovered.

“It is your betrothed,” she answered, “our dear Ebenstreit--a good, generous, and self-sacrificing son, for whom we thank God every day, who wishes to spare you the annoyance of seeing him.”

“He need not inconvenience himself on my account. Nothing excites or wounds my feelings now. It would be a pity for your heartless, thankless daughter to deprive you of the society of your dear son. Let him remain; it is not necessary for us to notice one another.”

Her parents regarded each other astonished, and, as she ceased, they still listened to the dying tones of her voice, which sounded so strangely to them. “She is much changed,” mumbled the general to himself. “She does not seem the same person, she is so haughty and majestic. She might well inspire fear.”

The following day, as Marie entered the room, Ebenstreit was there. He approached her, extending both hands smiling, and greeting her with tender words, rejoicing at her recovery.

She took no notice of his friendly demonstrations, but coldly and harshly regarded his smiling face, and particularly the broad, blood-red scar which ran from forehead to chin. Then suddenly her face lighted up, and an expression of savage triumph shot from her eyes. “How disfigured you look,” she cried exultingly. “Where did you get that scar?”

“You know well, Marie,” he murmured, gloomily.

“Yes,” she cried, triumphantly. “I know it. He branded you, and you will wear this mark before God and man as long as you live.”

“You are very cruel to remind me of it, Marie,” he softly whispered.

She laughed aloud so wild and savagely, that even her mother was startled. “Cruel--I cruel!” she cried. “Ah, sir, it becomes you indeed to accuse me of it!”

Trude entered at this instant, pale and excited.

“What is the matter?”

“There is some one here who wishes to speak with you, Marie; he has something very important to tell you.”

“How dare you announce any one without my permission?” cried Frau von Werrig.

“Silence, mother!--if I may be allowed, let us hear who it is.--Speak, dear Trude, who is it?”

“It is the Director Gedicke from the Gray Cloister,” said Trude, with quivering voice.

Marie was startled--a glowing red overspread her cheeks, and she was obliged to lean against a chair for support.

“I forbid you to receive him,” said her mother.

She suddenly ceased, and stared at the door, which opened at that moment, the tall, dignified form of a venerable old man appearing.

“Pardon me, sir,” said he, with a cold, reserved manner, “if I enter before I receive permission. The command of the king, to which I believe we all yield without resistance, empowers me to do so.”

“How, sir, you come by the king’s order?” asked the general, who rose with difficulty. “Has his majesty given you a message for General von Leuthen?”

“No, general, I come with a communication from his majesty to Fraulein von Leuthen, the betrothed of Herr Ebenstreit, and the order runs to deliver the same personally and without witnesses.”

“Professor,” cried the mother, shrugging her shoulders, “you mistake us for very innocent people, if you suppose we believe this silly invention, and that you can gain a secret conversation by a ruse with our daughter. You are the director of the gymnasium, and naturally the friend of Conrector Moritz. In his name you will speak, and bring a secret message. Very sly, indeed, very sly, but it will not succeed.”

For response, the director drew two large folded documents from his pocket, approaching the general. “Do you recognize this seal?” he asked.

“Yes,” solemnly answered the general; “it is the royal seal from the king’s private cabinet.”

“Read the address upon this, and the unopened letter.”

“Truly, the latter is directed to my daughter, and the other to Professor Gedicke.”

Herr Gedicke opened the letter, asking the general if he could recognize the king’s handwriting.

“Yes,” he answered, “I know it well.”

“Have the goodness to read the lines upon the margin,” mid the professor, unfolding the letter, so that he could only read those referred to.

The general read: “Professor Gedicke shall go himself to Fraulein von Leuthen, and bring her to reason, reading the document to her without witnesses. I wish this affair to come to an end. Teach Mamselle mores! mores! mores! FREDERICK.”

“You have heard the royal command, ladies and gentlemen; will you respect it?” said the professor, turning around with an air of proud satisfaction.

“My dear son-in-law,” said the general, solemnly, “it is a royal command; give me your arm, as you know I am feeble; and you, my wife, take my other arm, and we will go into the next room. Hush! not a word--we have only to obey, and not reason.”

He seized his wife’s hand hastily and firmly, that she should not slip away, and winked to Ebenstreit, upon whose support he crossed the room, drawing his wife with him, and pushing open the door of the next with his foot.

Marie had stood during the whole transaction pale and rigid in the centre of the room, looking haughty and defiant as long as her parents and Herr Ebenstreit were present. Now, as the door closed, life and action were visible in this marble form; she rushed to the old gentleman, scarce respiring, and looking up at his dignified, sad face, asked: “Is he living? Tell me only this, or is he ill?”

“Yes, he lives, he does not suffer from bodily ills, but the sickness of the soul.”

“And do not I also?” asked she, with quivering voice. “Oh! I know what he suffers, as we are wretched from the same cause. But tell me, have you seen him?”

“Yes, Fraulein, I have.”

“Where is he? Where did you see him?”

“In prison!”

Marie grew paler, and retreated, shuddering. The director continued: “In a dark, damp prison at Spandau. The poor fellow has been there for two months without air, light, or occupation, and his only society is his own revengeful thoughts and angry love-complaints.”

Marie gave one hollow moan, covering her corpse-like face with her hands.

“In this abode of torture, in this dwelling of the damned, he must remain ten long years, if death does not release him?”

“What did you say?” she groaned. “Ten long years? Have they condemned him?”

“Yes, he was guilty of a great crime--eloping with a minor--who, with the king’s consent, and that of her parents, was betrothed to another. Read the sentence of the court, which was forwarded to me as the head of the college where Moritz was employed. See, here is the king’s signature, which affirms the sentence, rendering it legal, and here upon the margin are the lines your father read.”

Trembling, Marie perused the contents. “Ten years in the house of correction!” she murmured. “On my account condemned to a living death! No, no, it is impossible! It cannot be! Ten years of the best part of life! He condemned as a criminal! I will go to the king. I will throw myself at his feet, imploring for mercy. I am the guilty one--I alone! They should judge me, and send me to the penitentiary! I will go to the king! He must and will hear me!”

“He will not,” sighed the director. “Listen to me, poor child! As I heard the sentence, I felt it my duty to summon all my powers to rescue Moritz, for I love him as a son, and had set my hopes upon him.”

“I thank you for this kind word,” said Marie, seizing the hand of the old man, and pressing it to her lips.

“I went immediately to Minister von Herzberg, and, upon his advice, as he explained to me the king might lighten his punishment, I betook myself to Frederick’s winter-quarters at Breslau.”

“You noble, generous man, I shall love you for it as long as I live. Did you speak with the king?”

“Yes, and every thing that my heart or mind could inspire, to excuse and justify my unhappy friend, I have said--but all in vain. The king was much embittered, because he had had the grace to grant him an audience, and explain the impossibility of the fulfilment of his petition. I did not cease begging and imploring, until I softened the generous heart of the king.”

“Has he pardoned Moritz?” Marie asked, with brightening hopes.

“Under certain conditions he will allow that he should escape secretly from prison. They are formally written, and if Moritz consents and binds himself by oath, he will not only be freed, but provided with means to go to England, and receive immediately an appointment as translator to the Prussian embassy at London.”

“What are the conditions, sir?”

“They are, first, that Moritz shall by oath renounce every wish and thought of uniting himself with Fraulein von Leuthen; secondly, that before he leaves the prison, he shall write to the young lady, in which he shall solemnly release her, and enjoin it upon her as a duty to accept the hand of the man to whom her parents have betrothed her. These were the conditions, and the king commanded me to go to Spandau, and with sensible representations, to confer with Moritz, and persuade him to accept them, and assure himself of freedom, and an honorable future, free from care.”

“You saw Moritz?”

“Yes.”

“Did you communicate the conditions?”

“Yes.”

“And he?”

“He refused, with rage and indignation!”

“He refused?” cried Marie, joyfully. “Oh, my dear Philip, I thank you. You love me truly and faithfully. Your glorious example shall inspire me to be as firm as you.”

“Unhappy child, you know not what you are saying!” cried the director, sadly. “If you really love him, you could not follow his example. Read what the king has written.”

She took, in breathless silence, the document, and broke the seal, unfolding the paper, but her hand shook it so violently, that she could not distinguish the words.

She returned it to the director. “Read it, I cannot,” she said, and sank kneeling, looking up to the old man with unspeakable anguish, and listening to every word that fell from his lips. It ran thus:

“His majesty announces to Mademoiselle Marie von Leuthen that he is exceedingly indignant at her improper and undutiful conduct, which does not at all become a maiden loving of honor, and particularly a noble one. His majesty ennobled her father for a brave deed, and he is angry that the daughter should bring shame upon the title, in giving way, not only to a passion which is beneath her, but is so little mindful of morality as to flee from the paternal house, at night, in an improper manner, with a man whose wife, according to the command of the king and the will of her father, she could never be. If his majesty did not respect the former service of her father, and the new title, he would send the daughter to the house of correction, and punish her according to the law. But he will leave her to the reproaches of conscience, and let the weight of the law fall upon her partner in guilt, Philip Moritz. He is rightly sentenced to ten years in the house of correction, and he will not be released one year or one day from the same, as he is guilty of a great crime, and his sentence is just.”

“Just!” shrieked Marie, in anguish--“ten years just?”

The director continued to read: “His majesty will propose a last opportunity to the obstinate and inconsiderate young lady to reinstate her own honor, and release at the same time Conrector Moritz. His majesty has personal knowledge of the latter, and respects his scholarly attainments and capability and would bring an end to this affair for the general good. If mademoiselle, as becomes an honorable young woman, and an obedient daughter, follows the wishes of her father, and without delay marries Herr Ebenstreit, and leads a respectable life with him, the same hour of the ceremony Conrector Moritz shall be released, and a fit position be created for him. This is the final decision of the king. If the daughter does not submit in perfect obedience, she will burden her conscience with a great crime, and thank herself for Moritz’s unfortunate fate. His majesty will be immediately informed of her decision. If she listens to reason, to morality, and affection, she will submit to the proposition which Director Gedicke is commissioned to make known to her, and announce to her parents in his presence that she will obediently follow their commands, Conrector Moritz will be at once set at liberty; otherwise he will be sent to Brandenburg to the house of correction. This is the unalterable will of the king. Signed, in the name of the king, FREDERICK.”

“Now decide, my child,” continued the director, after a solemn pause. “I know nothing to add to this royal writing. If it has not itself spoken to your heart, your reason and your honor, words are useless.”

“O God, it is cruel--it is terrible!” cried Marie. “Shall I break my oath of constancy, becoming faithless, and suffer him to curse me, for he will never pardon me, but despise me!”

She sprang up like a tigress, with her eyes flashing. “Oh,” cried she, “he may even believe that I have been enticed by riches, by a brilliant future! No--no! I cannot consent! May God have mercy on me if the king will not! I will not break my oath! No one but Moritz shall ever be my husband!”

“Unhappy girl,” cried the old man, sadly, “I will give you one last inducement. I know not whether you have any knowledge of Moritz’s past life, so tried and painful, which has made him easily excited and eccentric. A danger menaces him worse than imprisonment or death. His unaccustomed life, and the solitude of his dark, damp prison, is causing a fearful excitement in him. He is habituated to intellectual occupation. When he is obliged to put on the prisoner’s jacket in the house of correction and spin wool, it will not kill him--it will make him mad!”

A piercing cry was Marie’s answer. “That is not true--it is impossible. He crazy!--you only say that to compel me to do what you will. His bright mind could not be obscured through the severest proofs.”

“You do not believe me? You think that an old man, with gray hair, and one foot in the grave, and who loves Moritz, could tell you a shameful untruth! I swear to you by the heads of my children, by all that is holy, that Moritz already suffers from an excitement of the brain; and if he does not soon have liberty and mental occupation, it is almost certain that he will become insane.”

Almost convulsed with anguish, Marie seized the old man’s hand with fierce passion. “He shall not be crazed,” she shrieked. “He shall not suffer--he shall not be imprisoned and buried in the house of correction on my account. I will rescue him--I and my love! I am prepared to do what the king commands! I will--marry the man--which--my parents have chosen. But--tell me, will he then be free?”

“To-day even--in three hours, my poor child!”

“Free! And I shall have saved him! Tell me what I have to do. What is the king’s will?”

“First sign this document,” said the director, as he drew a second paper. “It runs thus: ‘I, Marie von Leuthen, that of my own free will and consent I will renounce every other engagement, and will marry Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen, and be a faithful wife to him. I witness with my signature the same.’”

“Give it to me quickly,” she gasped. “I will sign it! He must be free! He shall not go mad!”

She rapidly signed the paper. “Here is my sentence of death! But he will live! Take it!”

“My child,” cried the old man, deeply agitated, “God will be mindful of this sacrifice, and in the hour of death it will beam brightly upon you. You have by this act rescued a noble and excellent being, and when he wins fame from science and art he will owe to you alone the gratitude.”

“He shall not thank me!” she whispered. “He shall live and--if he can be happy!--this is all that I ask for! What is there further to be done?”

“To announce to your parents in my presence that you will marry Herr Ebenstreit, and let the ceremony take place as soon as possible.”

“You swear that he shall then be released? You are an old man--reflect well; you swear to me that as soon as the marriage takes place, Philip Moritz will be free this very day and that he will be reinstated in an honorable, active occupation?”

“I swear it to you upon my word of honor, by my hope of reward from above.”

“I believe you. Call my parents. But first--you are a father, and love your children well. I have never had a father who loved me, or ever laid his hand upon my head to bless me. You say that you love Moritz as a son! Oh, love me for a moment as your daughter, and bless me!”

The old man folded her in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. “God bless you, my daughter, as I bless you!”

“I dare not tarry,” she shuddered. “Let my parents enter.”

Slowly the venerable man traversed the room. Marie pressed her hands to her heart, looking to heaven. As the door opened, and the general entered, leaning upon Ebenstreit’s arm, followed by his wife, Marie approached them with a haughty, determined manner, who regarded her with astonishment.

“Father,” she said, slowly and calmly, “I am ready to follow your wishes. Send for the clergyman: I consent to marry this man to-day, upon one condition.”

“Make it known, my dear Marie. Name your condition. I will joyfully fulfil it,” said Ebenstreit.

“I demand that we leave to-day for the East, to go to Egypt--Palestine--and remain away from this place for years. Are you agreed to it?”

“To all that which my dear Marie wishes.”

“You can now weave the bridal-wreath in my hair, mother. I consent to the marriage.”

Three hours later the preparations were completed. Every thing had awaited this for three months.

In the sitting-room, the decorators had quickly built a marriage-altar, and ornamented the walls with garlands of flowers, with festoons of gauze and silk, with flags and standards. The mother wore the costly silk which her rich son-in-law had honored her with for the occasion, and also adorned herself with the gold ornaments which were equally his gift. The father wore his gold-embroidered uniform, and imagined himself a stately figure, as the gout left him the use of his limbs this day.

The invited witnesses began to assemble. Just then Ebenstreit von Leuthen drove up in the handsome travelling-carriage, which was a wedding-gift to his wife, and excited the admiration of the numerous street public.

Old Trude, in her simple dark Sunday dress, had awaited the appearance of the bridegroom, and went to announce his arrival to the bride.

Marie was in her little garret-room, so unlike in its present appearance to its former simplicity and comfort--as unlike as the occupant to the rosy, smiling young girl, who, yonder by the little brown table in the window-niche, taught her pupils, or with busy, skilful hands made the loveliest flowers, the income of which she gave to her parents, joyfully and although she never received thanks or recognition for the same. Now the same little table was covered with morocco cases, whose half-open covers revealed brilliant ornaments, laces, and sweet perfumes; superb silk dresses, cloaks, and shawls, ornamented with lace, lay about upon the bed and chairs.

Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen had truly given his bride a princely dowry, and her mother had spread the things around room.

Since Marie gave her consent to the marriage, she had followed out their wishes without opposition. She wore a white satin dress, covered with gold lace, her arms, neck, and ears, adorned with diamonds. The coiffeur had powdered and arranged her hair, without her ever casting a glance into the Psyche-mirror which her betrothed had had the gallantry to send to her room. She let him arrange the costly bridal veil; but when he would place the crown of myrtle, she waved him back.

“Your work is finished,” she said; “my mother will place that, I thank you.”

As Trude entered, Marie was standing in the centre of the room, regarding it with sinister, angry looks.

“There you are, Trude,” she said, “I am glad to see you a moment alone, for I have something to tell you. I have spoken with my future husband, demanding that you live with me as long as I live. Immediately after the ceremony you will go to my future home and remain there as house-keeper during my absence.”

Sadly the old woman shook her head. “No, that is too important a place for me. I will not lead a lazy life, and play the fine woman. I was made to work with my hands.”

“Do what you will in the house,” answered Marie. “Only promise me that you will not leave me, and when I return that I shall find you there. If you leave me, I will never come back. Promise me!”

“Then I will promise you, my poor child,” sighed Trude.

Marie laughed scornfully. “You call me poor--do you not see I am rich? I carry a fortune about my neck. Go, do not bewail me--I am rich!”

“Marie, do not laugh so, it makes me feel badly,” whispered the old woman. “I came to tell you the bridegroom and the clergyman are there.”

“The time has arrived for the marriage of the rich and happy bride. Go, Trude, beg my mother to come up and adorn me with the myrtle-wreath.”

“Dear Marie, can I not do it?” asked Trude, with quivering voice.

“No, not you; touch not the fatal wreath! You have no part in that! Call my mother--it is time!”

Trude turned sadly toward the door, Marie glancing after her, and calling her back with gentle tone.

“Trude, my dear, faithful mother, kiss me once more.” She threw her arms around Marie’s neck and imprinted a loving kiss upon her forehead, weeping. “Now go, Trude--we must not give way; you know me; you well understand my feelings, and see into my heart.”

The old woman went out, drying her eyes. Marie uttered her last farewell. “With you the past goes forth, with you my youth and hope! When the door again opens, my future enters a strange, fearful life. Woe to those who have prepared it for me--woe to those who have so cruelly treated me! They will yet see what they have done. The good angel is extinct within me. Wicked demons will now assume their over me. I will have no pity--I will revenge myself; that I swear to Moritz!”

Her mother rustled in, clothed in her splendid wedding-garments. “Did you send for me, dear Marie?” she whispered.

“Yes, mother--I beg you to put on my myrtle-wreath.”

“How! have you no endearment for me?” she asked, smilingly. “Why do you say ‘you’ instead of ‘thou?’”

“It is better so, mother,” she coldly answered. “Will you adorn me with the bridal-wreath?”

“Willingly, my dear child; it is very beautiful and becoming.”

“Do you realize, mother, what you are doing? You place the wreath to consecrate me to an inconsolably unhappy life with the man that I hate and despise!”

“My dear child, I know that you think so to-day; but you will soon change, and find that wealth is a supportable misfortune.”

“Mother, one day you will recall these words. Crown me for the hated bridal. The sacrifice is prepared!”

The war terminated, the hostile armies returned to their different German countries. Frederick the Great had gained his point, forcing Austria to renounce the possession of Bavaria. The Prince of Zweibruecken had been solemnly recognized by him as the rightful heir to the electorate, and the lawful ruler and possessor of Bavaria. The Emperor Joseph had submitted with profound regret and bitter animosity to the will of his mother, the reigning empress, and consented to the peace negotiations of Baron von Thugut. Having signed the document of the same, in his quality of co-regent, he angrily threw aside the pen, casting a furious glance at the hard, impenetrable face of Thugut, saying: “Tell her majesty that I have accomplished my last act as co-regent, and I now abdicate. From henceforth I will still lie her obedient son, but no submissive joint ruler, to only follow devotedly her imperial will. Therefore I resign, and never will trouble myself in future about the acts of the government.” The emperor kept his word. He retired, piqued, into solitude, wounded in the depths of his soul, and afterward travelled, leaving the government entirely to the empress and her pious confessors.

Bavaria was rescued! It owed its existence to the watchfulness, sagacity, and disinterested aid of Prussia’s great king. The Elector Maximilian vowed in his delight that he, as well as his successors and heirs, would never forget that Bavaria must ascribe its continuance to Prussia alone, and therefore the gratitude of the princes of this electorate could not and never would be extinguished toward the royal house of Prussia. Frederick received these overflowing acknowledgments with the calmness of a philosopher and the smile of a skeptic. He understood mankind sufficiently to know what to expect from their oaths; to know that in the course of time there is nothing more oppressive and intolerable than gratitude, that it soon becomes a burden which they would gladly throw off their bent shoulders at any price, and become the enemy of him to whom they had sworn eternal thankfulness. Frederick regarded these oaths of Bavaria not as a security for the future, but as a payment on account of the past.

“I did not go forth to render the Bavarian princes indebted to me,” said he, to his only confidante, Count Herzberg, as he brought to him, at Sans-Souci, the renewed expression of thanks of the prince elector. “I would only protect Germany against Austria’s grasp, and preserve the equilibrium of the German empire. Believe me, the house of Hapsburg is a dangerous enemy for the little German principalities, and if my successor does not bear it in mind, and guard himself against their flatteries and cat’s-paws, Austria will fleece him as the cat the mouse who is enticed by the odor of the bacon. Prussia shall be neither a mouse in the German empire, nor serve as a roast for Austria. But she shall be a well-trained shepherd’s dog for the dear, patient herd, and take care that none go astray and are lost.”

“Your majesty has drawn an unfortunate character for the future of our country,” sighed Herzberg, thoughtfully, “and I must grant that it is sketched with severe but correct outlines so it follows that poor Germany has many combats and hardships in store.”

“What do you mean?” asked the king. “What characteristic did I name?”

“Your majesty pointed out Austria as the cat watching for prey in Germany. Prussia, on the contrary, as the shepherd’s dog, which should watch the native herd, and occasionally bite those who wander from the flock. The comparison is apt, and clearly exposes the natural hostility of the two nations. Nature has placed the cat and the dog in eternal enmity, and there is no compromise to be thought of, to say nothing of friendship. There may, now and then, be a truce; the cat may draw in her claws, and the dog may cease to howl and growl, but the combat will renew itself, and never end, but in the death of one party, and the victorious triumph of the other.”

“You are right,” said the king, nodding slightly. “From this natural hostility will proceed many combats and storms for our land, and much blood will be shed on its account. Let us look to the future, and try to ward off the coming evil, in erecting high barriers against the cat-like springs of the enemy. I will think out a security for Germany. But first, mon cher ami, we have to care for our own country and people. The war has greatly injured my poor subjects. Industry is prostrated and prosperity disturbed. We must seek new sources of acquisition, and sustain those which are exhausted. For this, we must think of fresh taxes, and other sources of income.”

“Sire,” said Herzberg, shrugging his shoulders, “the taxes are already so heavy that it will be difficult to increase them.”

“You are greatly mistaken,” cried the king, with increased animation. “I will impose a tax upon those things which are now exempt, and establish a capable administration for the purpose. Bread, flour, meat, and beer, the sustenance of the poor, shall remain as they are, for I will not that they shall pay more. But tobacco, coffee, and tea, are superfluous things, which the prosperous and rich consume. Whoever will smoke, and drink tea or coffee, can and shall pay for being a gourmand!”

“I beg pardon, but it is just these taxes which will create the greatest discontent,” answered Herzberg. “Your majesty will remember that the duty on coffee was complained of and criticised by every one, and the poor people grumbled more than all. In spite of the resistance of government, coffee has become, more and more, a means of nourishment and refreshment for the lower class.”

“I will teach them to renounce it,” cried the king, striking the table violently with his staff “I will not suffer so much money to go out of the country for this abominable beverage! My people shall re-learn to drink their beer, instead of this infamous stuff, as I had to do when a young man. What was good enough for the crown prince of Prussia, will to-day suffice for his subjects. I tell you, Herzberg, I will teach them to drink their beer, or pay dearly for this bad, foreign stuff. Then we will see which will conquer, Prussian beer or foreign coffee.”

“It is possible that the former will be victorious on account of their poverty and the high duties; but in any case the people will be discontented, and grumble against your majesty.”

“Do you suppose that I care for that?” asked the king, with a quick, fiery glance at the calm, earnest face of his confidant. “Do you think that I care for the applause of the people, or trouble myself about their complaints? I regard their shouting or their grumbling about as much as the humming or buzzing of a fly upon the wall. If it dares to light upon my nose, I brush it off; and if I can, I catch it. Beyond that, it is its nature to hum and buzz. Herzberg, you understand that if a ruler should listen to the praises or discontent of his subjects, he would soon be a lost man, and would not know his own mind. The people are changeable as the weather; to-morrow they crush under their feet what to-day they bore aloft, and praise one day what they stone the next. Do not talk to me about the people! I know this childish, foolish mass, and he is lost who counts upon their favor. It is all the same to me whether they like or hate me. I shall always do my duty to my subjects according to the best of my knowledge and ability, as it becomes an honorable and faithful officer. As the chief and most responsible servant of my kingdom, I should be mindful to increase her income and diminish her expenses--to lay taxes upon the rich, and lighten them for the poor. This is my task, and I will fulfil it so long as I live!”

“Oh,” cried Herzberg, with enthusiasm, “would that the entire nation might hear these words, and engrave them upon their hearts!”

“Why that, mon cher?” asked Frederick, shrugging his shoulders. “I do not ask to be deified; my subjects are perfectly welcome to discuss my acts, so long as they pay me punctually, and order and quiet are respected and preserved.”

“All that is done,” said Herzberg, joyfully. “The machine of state is so well arranged, that she has fulfilled her duty during the war, and will soon reestablish prosperity.”

“Particularly,” cried the king, “if we rightly understand the art of agriculture. In the end every thing depends upon him who best cultivates his field. This is the highest art, for without it there would be no merchants, courtiers, kings, poets, or philosophers. The productions of the earth are the truest riches. He who improves his ground, brings waste land under the plough, drains the swamps, makes the most glorious conquests over barbarism.”

“And those are also conquerors, sire,” said Herzberg, smiling, “who drain the mental swamps, and improve the waste mental ground. Such are those who increase the schools and instruct the people. I have caused the school authorities to report to me, according to your majesty’s command. A happy progress has been noticed everywhere. Cultivation and education are advancing; and since our teachers have adopted the principles of Rousseau, a more humane spirit is perceptible throughout our schools.”

“What principle do we owe to Jean Jacques?” asked the king.

“Sire, the principle that man is good by nature!”

“Ah, mon cher, who says that knows but little of the abominable race to which we belong!” [Footnote: The king’s words.--See “Prussia.” vol. iv., p. 221.]

“Do you not believe in this doctrine?” asked Herzberg.

The king raised his large blue eyes musingly to the busts placed upon the bookcases, and around the walls. They lingered long upon those of Homer, Plato, and D’Alembert; then turned to that of Voltaire, with its satyr-like face. “No, I do not believe it,” he sadly responded. “Mankind is an ignoble race; still one must love them, for among the wicked are always some worthy ones, whose light beams so brightly clear, that they change night into day. During my life I have learned to know many base, miserable creatures, but I have become reconciled to them, as I have also found some who were virtuous and excellent--some who were noble and beautiful, as the grains of wheat among the chaff. You belong to the latter, my Herzberg; and as in heaven many unjust will be forgiven for one just person, so will I upon earth forgive on your account the Trencks, Schaffgotschs, Goernes, Voltaires, Wallraves, Glasows, Dahsens, and all the traitors, poisoners, and perfidious ones, as they may be called. Remain by my side and sustain me, to prevent many a wicked thing and bring to pass much that is good. I shall always be grateful to you in my heart for it; that you can depend upon even if my weather-beaten face looks ill-humored, and my voice is peevish. Remember that I am a fretful old man, who is daily wasting away, approaching that bourne from which no traveller has ever returned.”

“God grant that your majesty may be far removed from this bourne!” said Herzberg, with emotion. “And He may grant it on account of your subjects, who are so much in need of your care and government.”

“There is no one upon earth who could not be replaced,” said the king, shaking his head. “When I am gone, they will shout to my successor. I trust my subjects will exchange a good ruler for their fretful old king. I have been very well satisfied with him during the campaign, and he has shown ability in the diplomatic mission to St. Petersburg. He has proved himself a soldier and a diplomat, and I hope he will become a great king. Herzberg, why do you not answer me, but cast down your eyes? What does your silence mean?”

“Nothing at all--truly nothing! The crown prince has a noble, generous heart, a good understanding; only--”

“Why hesitate, Herzberg? Go on--what is your ‘only?’”

“I would only say that the crown prince must beware and not be governed by others.”

“Oh, you mean that he will be ruled by mistresses and favorites?”

“I do fear it, your majesty! You well know that the crown princes are generally the antipodes of those ascendant to the throne. If the ruler has only an enlightened mind, and is free from prejudices, so--”

“Is his crown prince an obscurer,” added quickly the king, “having the more prejudices, and is capable of being ruled by mystics and exorcists. Is not that your meaning?”

Count Herzberg nodded. The king continued with animation: “Some one has told me of a new friend who returned from the war with the prince, and who belongs to the Rosicrucians and exhorters, and hopes to find many adherents here for such deceptions. Is it true?”

“Yes, sire. It is Colonel Bischofswerder, a Rosicrucian and necromancer and of course of very pleasant address. He has indeed already gained much power over the impressible mind of Frederick William, and his importance is greatly on the increase.”

“What does the crown prince’s mistress say to it? Is she not jealous?”

“Of which one does your majesty speak?”

The king started, and his eyes flashed. “What!” he cried with vehemence, “is there a question of several? Has the crown prince others besides Wilhelmine Enke, whom I have tolerated?”

“Sire, unfortunately, the prince has not a very faithful heart. Besides, it is Bischofswerder’s plan, as I suppose, to separate him from Wilhelmine, who will not subordinate herself to him, and who even dares to mock the necromancers and visionaries, and oppose them to the crown prince.”

“Does Enke do that?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire,” answered Herzberg, as the king rose and slowly paced the room. “And one must acknowledge that in that she does well and nobly. Otherwise one cannot reproach her. She leads a quiet, retired life, very seldom leaving her beautiful villa at Charlottenburg, but devotes herself to the education of her children. She is surrounded with highly-educated men, savants, poets, and artists, who indeed all belong to the enlightened, the so-called Illuminati, and which are a thorn in the eye to Colonel Bischofswerder. Your majesty will perceive that I have some good informants in this circle, and the latest news they bring me is that the bad influence is upon the increase. The Rosicrucians reproach the prince for his immoral connection with Wilhelmine Enke, as they would replace her by one who gives herself up to them.”

“That shall not take place,” cried the king. “No, we will not suffer that; and particularly when we are forced to recognize such abominable connections, we should endeavor to choose the most desirable. I cannot permit that this person, who has at least heart and understanding, should be pushed aside by Bischofswerder. My nephew shall retain her, and she shall drive away the Rosicrucians with all their deviltries. Herzberg, go and tell the crown prince, from me, that I order--”

His majesty suddenly stopped, and looked at Herzberg with surprise, who was smiling.

“Why do you laugh, Herzberg?”

“I was not laughing, sire. If my lip quivered against my will, it was because I stupidly and foolishly dared to finish the broken sentence.”

“Well, how did you manage to conclude it?”

“Sire, your majesty said, ‘Tell the crown prince that I order him’--and there you ceased. I added ‘order him to love Wilhelmine Enke, and be faithful to her.’ I beg pardon for my mistake. I should have known that your majesty could never command the execution of that which is not to be forced; that my great king recognizes, as well as I, that love is not compulsory, or fidelity either. Pardon me for my impertinence, and tell me the order which I shall take to the crown prince from my beloved king and master.”

The king stepped close up to the minister, and gazed with a half-sad, half-tender expression in the noble and gentle face of Herzberg, and in the sensible brown eyes, which sank not beneath the fiery glance of Frederick. Then, slowly raising his hand from the staff, he menaced him with his long, bony forefinger.

“Herzberg, you are a rogue, and will teach me morals. Indeed, you are right--love is not compulsory, but one can sometimes aid it. Say nothing to the prince. The interior of his house must, indeed, be left to himself, but we will keep our eyes open and be watchful. Do so also, Herzberg, and if you discover any thing, tell me; and if Wilhelmine Enke needs assistance against the infamous Rosicrucians, and with her aid this mystic rabble can be suppressed, inform me, and I am ready to send her succor. Ah! Herzberg, is it not a melancholy fact that one must fight his way through so much wickedness to obtain so little that is good? My whole life has passed in toil and trouble; I have grown old before my time, and would rest from my labors, and harvest in the last few years, what I have sown in a lifetime. Is it not sad that I hope for no fruit, and that the seed that I have scattered will be trodden under foot by my successor? I must gaze at the future without joy, without consolation!”

The king turned to the window, perhaps to hide the tears which stood in his eyes. Herzberg did not presume to interrupt the sad silence, but gazed with an expression of the deepest sympathy at the little bent form, in the threadbare coat. Grief filled his heart at the thought that this head was not only bowed down by the weight of years and well-deserved laurels, but also from its many cares and griefs, and hopeless peering into the future.

The king turned again, and his eyes were bright and un-dimmed. “We must never lose courage,” said he, “and we must have a reserve corps in life as well as upon the field of battle. For the world resembles the latter, and the former is a continual war, in which we must not be discouraged nor cast down, if there is not hope in our souls. I will cling to As you have said, and I have also found it true, that crown prince is a good and brave man, and possesses a keen understanding, we may succeed in bringing him from the erroneous ways in which his youth, levity, and the counsels of wicked friends have led him. We will try with kindness and friendliness, as I believe these have more effect upon him. Let us not even scorn to aid Wilhelmine in so far as is compatible with honor. If a mistress is necessary to the happiness of the prince, this one seems the most worthy of all to encourage. Beyond the clouds the stars are still shining, and it appears to me as if I see in perspective in the heaven of Prussia’s future, a star which promises a bright light with years. Do you not think with me, the little Prince Frederick William is a rising star?”

“Yes, your majesty,” answered Herzberg, joyfully, “He is a splendid little boy, of simple and innocent heart, and bright, vigorous mind, modest and unpretending.”

“You see,” cried the king, evidently cheered, “there is one star and we will watch over it, that it is not obscured. I must see the prince oftener. He shall visit me every month and his governors and teachers shall report to me every quarter. We will watch over his education, and train him to be a good king for the future, and guard ourselves against being pusillanimous, foolish, and fretful, and not be discouraged in life. I have entered my last lustrum, or five years. Hush! do not dispute it, but believe me! My physique is worn out, and the mental grows dull, and although I live and move about, I am half in the grave. There are two coffins in this room, which contain the greater part of my past. Look around, do you not see them?”

“No,” said Herzberg, as he glanced at the different articles of furniture, “I see none.”

“Look upon the table by the window--what do you there see?”

“Your majesty, there is an instrument-case and a sword-sheath.”

“They are the ones I refer to. In the case lies my flute, that is to say, my youth, love, poesy, and art, are encoffined there. In the sheath is my sword, which is my manhood, energy, laurels, and fame. I will never play the flute or draw the sword again. All that is past!”

“But there still remains for the great king a noble work to perfect,” cried Herzberg. “Youth has flown, and the war-songs are hushed. The poet and hero will change to the lawgiver. Sire, you have made Prussia great and powerful externally; there remains a greater work, to make her the same within. You have added new provinces, give them now a new code of laws. You will no longer unsheath the sword of the hero; then raise that of justice high above your subjects!”

“I will,” cried the king, with beaming eyes. “You have rightly seized and comprehended what alone seems to me worthy of will and execution. There shall be but one law for the high and the low, the poor and the rich. The distinguished Chancellor Carmer shall immediately go to work upon it, and you shall aid him. The necessity of such a reform we have lately felt in the Arnold process, where the judge decided in favor of the rich, and wronged the poor man. How could the judge sustain Count Schmettau against the miller Arnold, who had been deprived of the water for his mill, when it was so evident that it was unjust?”

“I beg pardon, majesty, but I believe the judge obeyed the very letter of the law, and--”

“Then this law must be annulled,” interrupted the king. “This is why I revoked the judge’s sentence, and sent the obstinate fellows to the fortress, sustaining the miller in his right deposing the arrogant Chancellor Furst. I had long resolved upon it, for I knew that he was a haughty fellow, who let the poor crowd his anteroom, and listened to the flattery of the high-born rabble who courted him. I only waited an occasion to bow his haughty head. This offered, and I availed myself of it, voila tout. It is to be hoped that it will be good example for all courts of justice. They will remember that the least peasant and beggar is a human being as much as the king, and that justice should be accorded to if they do not, they will have to deal with me. If a college of justice practises injustice, it is more dangerous than a band of robbers; for one can protect himself from the latter but the former are rascals wearing the mantle of justice, to exercise their own evil passions, from whom no man can protect himself, and they are the greatest scoundrels in the world and deserve a double punishment. I therefore deposed the unjust judge, and sent him to the fortress at Spandau, that all might take warning by his fate.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Seo “Prussia, Frederick the Great,” vol. iv.]

“This Arnold trial belongs to history,” said Herzberg. “The lawyers will refer to it after the lapse of centuries, and the poor and the oppressed will recall and bless the thoughtfulness of the great king, who would open just as wide a gate for them to enter the heaven of justice as to the rich and noble. This new code of laws will beam above the crown of gold and of laurels, with the splendor of the civil crown, whose brilliants are the tears of gratitude of your people.”

“May it be so,” said Frederick, with earnestness. “Now tell me, do you know what day of the month it is?”

“Sire, it is the 30th of May.’”

“Yes, you will remember it is the anniversary of Voltaire’s death, and after I have quarrelled for two years with the priests and so-called holy fathers at Rome, I have gained my point, and the honor shall be shown him here in Berlin which the priests and friars have refused to the immortal poet in his own country. To-day, exactly at the hour which Voltaire died, the mass for the dead will be read in the Catholic church, to free his immortal soul from purgatory. I have, indeed, no idea of an immortal soul. If there are any, and if it has to endure the threefold heat of which Father Tobias, of Silesia, related to me, I do not believe that the priests, for a few thalers, can loose the unhappy spirit from the bake-oven. But as they refuse burial to the spirit of Voltaire, in order to insult him after death, so must I avail myself of this occasion to offer a last homage to the great poet, which will take place at four o’clock. Go to the mass, Herzberg, and tell me to-morrow how it went off--whether the priests make right pious faces and burn much incense. Adieu. Au revoir, demain.”

As the king dismissed, with a friendly wave of the hand, his confidential minister, he passed into his cabinet, remaining an hour with his counsellors. At dinner appeared some of the generals, weather-worn and bent, with wrinkled faces and dull eyes. Souvenirs of the glorious years of fame and victory. The king nodded kindly to them, but during the entire meal, he only let some indifferent questions fall from his lips, which were devotedly and tediously answered by some one of the old generals. As their dry, peevish voices resounded through the high, vaulted room, it seemed to reawaken in Frederick’s heart the souvenirs of memory and become the echo of vanished days. He gazed up at the little Cupids, in the varied play of bright colors, looking down from the clouds, and the goddesses trumpeting through their long tubes the fame of the immortal, the same as formerly, when they smiled from the clouds upon the beaming face of the young king, dining in the distinguished circle of his friends Voltaire, D’Argens, Algarotti, La Melbrie, and Keith.

The Cupids were fresh as ever, and the goddesses had not removed the trumpets from their lips. But where were the of the merry round-table? Returned to dust. The jests and poesy have died away--all have sunken to decay and darkness. The king silently raised his glass of Tokay, gazing up to the clouds and Cupids, draining it slowly in sacrifice for the dead. Then with a vehement, contemptuous movement, he threw the glass over his shoulder, shivering it into a thousand pieces. The old generals, after dessert, had gently sunk into their afternoon nap, and now started, frightened, looking wildly around, as if they expected the enemy were approaching. Alkmene crept from under the king’s chair muffing with her long, delicate nose, the glistening pieces of glass, and the footman bent himself to carefully pick them up.

The king rose silently, saluting the old generals, pointing with his staff to the large folding-doors which led to the garden.

The footmen hastened forward to open them, and stand in stiff, military order upon each side. Frederick walked slowly out, mounting the two steps which led to the upper terrace, signing to the attendants to close the doors.

He was alone. Only Windspiel was there to spring about joyfully, barking, and turning to meet him, who wandered on the border of the terrace, where he had formerly walked with his friends. Now he stopped to gaze up the broad, deserted steps which led from terrace to terrace, as if he could re-people them with the well-known forms, and could see them approach and greet him with the look of endless love and constancy. Then he raised his eyes to heaven, as if to seek there those he in vain sought upon earth.

“Do you not see me, my friends?” he asked, in a gentle but sad voice. “Do you not look down wonderingly where you saw a cheerful, smiling king, upon the now bent, shrunken old man, cold and phlegmatic, who seldom speaks, and then causes every one to yawn? Oh, where have you fled, beautiful spring-time of life--wherein once we used to enliven our conversations with the wit of the Athenians, and the jest fluttered upon our lips as we glided through life in the bold enjoyment of youth? Banished is the dance, and I creep about, leaning upon my staff, enfeebled in body, and with saddened heart! Oh, awful change, unhappy old age! What does it aid me that I am a king? I have won many a battle, but now I am vanquished by age and death and am alone!” [Footnote: The king’s words.--See “Posthumous Works,” vol. x., p. 100.]

A slight breeze rustled through the trees, fanning, caressingly, the cheeks of the king. The perfume of sweet flowers rose from the terrace, and below rushed the cascade. The marble groups around the fountain glistened in the golden rays of the sun, and in the dark foliage fluttered and sang the merry birds of summer.

Suddenly the wind wafted from the church at Potsdam the clear tones of a bell, announcing to the king the hour of four, the death of Voltaire.

The king walked along to the rose-arbor, to the temple of friendship, where the bust of his sister Frederika was placed. He seated himself near the entrance, listening to the ringing voice of the bell, and recalling that the death-mass had now commenced in Berlin.

The service sacred to memory! The prayer for the immortal soul! As the lonely king sat there, calm and bowed down, a solemn prayer and holy mass rose from his own soul. He bowed lower his head, and, without realizing it himself, traced letters in the sand at his feet, with no witness but the blue heavens above him, and Windspiel who curiously eyed the lines. Thinking of the prayer for Voltaire’s undying soul, the king had written the word of profoundest mystery and revelation, of hope and prophecy--“Immortality.”

The wind gently rustled in the trees, wafting the perfume of flowers. Sweet stillness reigned around, and lowly sang the birds as if not to waken the king, who slept by the marble form of his beloved sister--Windspiel upon his knees, and in the sand at his feet the word traced by his own hand, “Immortality.”

Wilhelmine Enke was still living at her villa at Charlottenburg. She was, as formerly, the “unmarried” daughter of the hautboy-player, the favorite and friend of the crown prince; the same as two years previous, when he presented her before the Bavarian campaign, with this house and There was no change in her outward circumstances; her life passed regularly and calmly. The once fresh and beautiful cheek had lost somewhat of its youthful, roseate hue, and the smile of the ruby lips was less haughty, and the warmth of those brilliant eyes was subdued. This was the only perceptible difference wrought by the little vexations and troubles incident to her position. She had found some bitter drops in the golden goblet which the prince in his love pressed to her lips--drops which were uncongenial to lips accustomed to the sweets of life.

To-day she had awaited him at dinner, and had just received a very friendly but laconic letter, excusing himself until the following morning. This was an unpalatable drop. Wilhlemine paced back and forth the solitary, gloomy path, at the foot of the garden, re-reading this letter, and examining every word to search out its hidden meaning.

“They have brought this about,” she murmured, tearing the letter into little pieces, which lighted upon the shrubbery like butterflies. “Yes, it is their work. They have sought by all possible means to draw him into their power, and away from me. And they will succeed, as there are two of them, and the princess sustains them; and I am alone, unsupported. I am entirely alone--alone!”

“If you are alone, then, it is surely your own fault,” said an earnest, solemn voice, and at the same instant a tall form approached from the shrubbery which bordered the side of the garden.

“Cagliostro!” shrieked Wilhelmine, shrinking terrified away. “Oh, mercy upon me, it is Cagliostro!”

“Why are you so frightened, my daughter?” he asked, gently. “Why do you withdraw from me, and cast down your eyes?”

“I thought you were in Courland,” she stammered, confused.

“And whilst you thought me afar, you forgot your sacred oath and holy duty,” he replied, in a harsh, severe tone. “Oh my daughter, the Invisibles weep and lament bitterly over you.”

“I am curious to see these tears,” said Wilhelmine, who had now recovered her self-composure. “Do you think, Herr Magus, any of them could be found in the eyes of Colonel Bischofswerder and his intimate friend Woellner? Do you pretend that they also weep over me?”

“They do not belong to the Invisibles, but the Visibles. But their souls are true and faithful, and would have to mourn over the unhappy one who could forget her vows.”

“Then allow me to say that I abjure these tears, and laugh at the idea that these hypocrites and necromancers weep over me.”

“My daughter, what words are these, and how strangely altered you are! I have come from the far north, and but just alighted from the travelling-carriage. I came at once to see you, and hoped to be greeted joyfully with a kiss of love, and what do I hear instead? Harsh words filled with scorn and mockery, and disobedience against the Invisible Fathers, to whom you have sworn fidelity and submission!”

“You have forced me to it!” she cried, impetuously. “In my own house you came upon me and compelled me to take part in your mystic assembly.”

“If one loves humanity, he must insist upon its accepting happiness,” said Cagliostro, solemnly. “We recognized in you one of the elect, one of the great souls which are worthy to see the light, and sun themselves in the rays of knowledge. Therefore we accepted you among the spirits of the alliance, and--”

“And made great promises, of which not one has been fulfilled. Where is the title of countess, the influence, position, honor, and dignity, which you prophesied to me?”

“Where are the deeds you promised to perform, the witnesses of your fidelity and devotion?” he thunderingly demanded. “You have dared to rebel against the holy alliance! Your short-sighted spirit presumes to mock those eyes which perceive that you are straying away! Beware--Wilhemine, beware! I came to-day to warn you, when I return it will be to punish you. Turn, oh turn while there is yet time! Submit your will to the Fathers, as you have sworn to do! The promised reward will not fail, and Wilhelmine Enke will become a countess, a princess, and the most distinguished and powerful will bow before her. The Fathers demand of you repentance, and renunciation of the worst enemies of the Rosicrucians. Members, and even chiefs and pioneers of the Illuminati and Freemasons are welcomed at your house.”

“Why should they not be?” asked she, smiling. “They are happy, cheerful spirits, void of mysteries, and do not torture people with mysticisms. They have but one aim, a great and glorious one, to free the mind from superstition and hypocrisy. They encounter with open countenance the false devotees who would force men into spiritual servitude, that they may become the slaves of their will. You call them ‘Illuminati,’ while they have undertaken to illuminate the minds with the beams of knowledge which the Rosicrucians obscure in a mystical fog.”

“Unhappy one, do you dare to say that to me?” cried Cagliostro, menacingly.

“Yes,” she responded, keeping her large, brown eyes firmly fixed upon Cagliostro’s angry face. “That I dare to repeat to you, and I would also remark that we are not in the mystical assembly of the Rosicrucians, and your familiar ‘Du’ is out of place. I belong to the Illuminati, and mingle with the freethinkers. They have not, indeed, promised me titles, honors, or dignities, but they have amused me, have driven ennui from the house, and instead of mysticisms, brought me poesy, and instead of the invisible holy church, the Greek temple. It is possible my life may not be a godly one, but it is as happy as the gods, and that is something in this tedious world.”

“I regard you with astonishment,” said Cagliostro, “for I recognize in your countenance that the devil has won you over to his power, and in you he speaks with the bold insolence of the sinful. Subdue, unhappy child, your rash speech, that the Fathers may not hear of it, and crush you in their wrath.”

“I do not fear their thunderbolts, permit me to tell you. We are in Prussia; the great king watches over all his subjects; neither the Romish Church nor the Rosicrucians can obscure the light of knowledge. He will not suffer a ghost, sneaking in the dark, to exercise power here, and he will not refuse the protection to me which is accorded to the least of his subjects. I do not fear you, and I will tell you the truth entire, I believe you to be a hypocrite and a charlatan, who--”

“Miserable one!” interrupted Cagliostro, as he furiously rushed to her, seizing her by the arm--“cease, unhappy one, or your life is forfeited to the invisible avengers!”

Wilhelmine shook her head, and encountered his flaming eyes with a proud glance. “I repeat your own words--cease, or your life will be forfeited! Perhaps you think I do not know what happened to you in Mittau, where you were recognized as a charlatan, who fooled the poor creatures into the belief of his miraculous acts, which consisted in lightening their purses to the benefit of his own. You were obliged to flee from Mitlau in the night, to save yourself, your treasures, and wonderful man-traps, and the beautiful Lorenza Feliciana. Beware! The Empress of Russia had a certain Joseph Balsamo pursued, who had practised great deception, and people pretend that he resembles Count Cagliostro. The Empress Catherine is a good friend and ally of the King of Prussia, and if the happy idea should occur to me to propose seeking the necromancer here, the Great Kophta might come a miserable end.”

“On the contrary, it would only be a welcome occasion for the Great Kophta to reveal himself, and hurl his despicable, malicious enemy into the dust at his feet,” replied Cagliostro, calmly. “Try it, you faithless, fallen daughter of the Invisibles--try to unloose the pack of my enemies, to recognize that all their yelling and barking does not trouble the noble stag to whom God has given the whole world for His forestward that He should rule therein. I have listened to you unto the end, and I regard your invectives and accusations as not worthy of a reply or justification, and I laugh at your menaces. But I warn you, Wilhelmine Enke, defy not the Invisibles, and offend not the Holy Fathers, by your continued resistance. Turn, misguided child of sin--turn while there is yet time! In their name I offer you a last chance, their forbearance is without bounds, and their mercy long enduring.”

“I neither desire your forbearance nor mercy,” cried she, proudly. “I will have no companionship with my enemies, and the Rosicrucians are such, for Bischofswerder and Woellner both hate me, and would put me aside. There is no reconciliation where only hostility is possible.”

“The heavenly listen not to the voices of the earthly, and prove themselves, the most noble when the least deserved. They will protect and watch over you, even against your will, and never will they be deaf to your cry for aid in the hour of Here is a token of their grace toward you. Take this ring--do you recognize it?”

Wilhelmine regarded it attentively. “This is the ring which I gave at the tribute-altar instead of gold, which you desired.”

“The Invisibles sent it to you to-day as the precious pledge of their favor. You shall keep it, and wear it as a token of their heavenly forbearance, and when you turn back from the erroneous ways into which the Illuminati have led you, send it to the circle of Berlin directors, either Bischofswerder or Wollner, and they will come to your rescue. Farewell! I forgive you all your wicked words, which fall like spent arrows from the helmet of my righteousness.”

Cagliostro turned proudly away, and disappeared in the bushes.

Wilhelmine placed the ring upon her finger, turning it to watch the play of colors. “I do not know why,” said she, “but it has not the same brilliancy as formerly. I will take it to the jeweller Wagner, and ask him if it is the same stone. Perhaps the Great Kophta has tried some of his miracles upon it. I will at once send the servant to Minister von Herzberg, and inform him that Cagliostro is here. He has promised me protection in the name of the king, and I feel that I shall now have need of it.”

She hurried to the house, and devoted herself to the writing of the said letter--a task she was but little accustomed to. She had learned to speak French very prettily, and to express herself skilfully and wittily in German, and under her royal master, the crown prince Frederick William, gained much valuable scientific knowledge. But to write fluently was quite another thing, and it was a long time before the epistle was finished. However, happily accomplished, she commanded the servant to take it to Berlin.

He bowed with silent submission; but once having quitted the house, a cunning smile was visible upon his face, and he availed himself of a stage-coach which was going in the same direction. “I can afford this expense,” said he, arranging himself comfortably. “When I have money in my pocket why should I walk the long distance? I was very clever to tell Bischofswerder that the Minister von Herzberg had secretly visited my mistress, and it was equally clever of him to give me a louis d’or, and promise me the same every time that I should bring him important news. Indeed, I think to-day he may well thank me, and I believe, if I often inform him, he will advance me a degree, and at last I shall be admitted to the circle of the elect, while I now belong to the outside circle, who know nothing and hope every thing.”

While Wilhelmine’s servant gave himself up to his hopes, slowly down the broad avenue, an elegant four-in-hand carriage rolled past him, and stopped at the house where lived Colonel Bischofswerder, long before he had reached the Brandenburg Gate. A gentleman sprang out, hastening past the footman into the house, where a servant evidently awaited his arrival, and preceded him with devout mien, throwing open the wide folding-doors and announcing, in a solemn voice--“His excellency, Count Cagliostro.” He then respectfully withdrew, bowing profoundly as the count passed, and closed quickly and noiselessly the doors behind him.

The two gentlemen within hastened to meet the count, who nodded smilingly, and extended to them with a gracious condescension his white hand sparkling with diamonds. “My dear brothers,” said he, “you have unfortunately announced me the truth--Wilhelmine Enke is faithless--is an apostate.”

“A courtesan, ensnared by the devil of unchastity,” murmured the elder of the two--a man of long, lank figure, pale, pock-marked face, the broad high forehead shaded with but little hair, the watery blue eyes turned upward, as if in pious ecstasy, and the large, bony hands either folded as if in prayer, or as if in quiet contemplation, twirling his thumbs around each other. “I have always said so,” said he, with a long-drawn sigh; “she is a temptress, whom Satan, in bodily repetition of himself, has placed by the prince’s side, and his salvation cannot be counted upon until this person is removed.”

“And you, my beloved brother, think otherwise--do you not?” asked Cagliostro, gently.

“Yes,” answered Bischofswerder, “you know well, sublime master and ruler, how much I esteem and love the worthy and honorable Wollner, and how much weight his opinion has with me. In all my reports to the Invisible Fathers I have always particularly mentioned him, and it was upon my wish and proposal that they appointed him director of one of the three Berlin circles. He is occupied near me in the confederacy, and is also in the service of the crown prince, for it was by my especial, earnest recommendation that his highness called him to Berlin from the exchequer of Prince Henry at Rheinsberg, that he might give him lectures in politics and other branches of administration, I do not say it to boast, although I have always regarded it as an honor to have opened the way to a distinguished man, to have his great talents properly valued. I only say it to prove my high appreciation of dear brother Wollner, and to defend myself, master, in your eyes, that I differ in opinion from him, and do not advise a violent removal of this person, to whom the prince is more attached than he himself knows of.”

“It is not necessary to excuse yourself to me, my son,” said Cagliostro, pompously. “The eyes which the Invisibles have lighted up with a beam of revelation, see into the depths of things, and reveal the most hidden. I have glanced into your hearts, and I will tell you that which I have therein read. You, Hans Rudolph von Bischofswerder, belong to the world; its joys and sorrows agitate you. You have a longing for science and the knowledge of the Invisibles, and you would also enjoy the Visibles, and take part in the pleasures of life. What you would allow yourself, that you would also grant to your royal master, whose friend and leader you are, and who, one day, will be the future king and ruler of the visible world, and a faithful son and servant of the Invisibles. Is it not thus?”

“It is so,” answered Bischofswerder, who, with wondering astonishment, drank in every word that fell from Cagliostro’s lips as a revelation. “You have read the inmost thoughts of my heart, and what I scarcely suspected myself, you are knowing of, lord and master.”

“Toil and strive, my son, and you shall rise to the highest grade, in which presentiment and recognition, thinking and knowing, are one.”

He extended to Bischofswerder his hand, who fervently pressed it to his lips; then turned to Wollner, who, with upturned gaze and folded hands, might have been praying, for his thumbs were not turning around, but rested, quietly crossed.

“You, my son and brother,” continued Cagliostro, with his lofty, haughty reserve, “your thoughts are diverted from earth, and the joys of this world have no charm for you!” “I have laid the oath of virtue and chastity upon the altar of the Invisibles,” replied Wollner, with a severe tone of voice. “I have given myself to a pious life of abstinence, and sworn to employ every means to lead those that I can attain to upon the narrow path which leads to the paradise of science, of knowledge, and heavenly joys. How could I forget my oath, which is to win the prince, who is to become a light and shield in the holy order, from the broad course of vice, to the pathway of the blest? How can I bear to see him lost in sin who is elected to virtue, and who longs for the light of knowledge?”

“But, in order to bear the light in its brightness, he must have passed through the darkness and gloom of sin,” said Cagliostro. “After the days of error follow those of knowledge. This is what causes the mildness of our brother Theophilus, whom the earthly world calls Bischofswerder, whilst you, brother Chrysophorus, demand from the prince the severest virtue, which is the first great vow of the brothers advancing in the holy order of the Rosicrucians. You are both wrong and both right. It is well to be lenient as brother Theophilus, but that must have its limit, and the night wanderer who stands upon the brink of a precipice must be awakened, but not with violent words, or calling loudly his name, because a sudden awakening would only hasten his fall. Slowly and carefully must he be roused; as one would by degrees accustom the invalid eyes to the mid-day, so must the light of virtue and knowledge dawn upon the eyes, ill from vice, with prudent foresight. Hear my proposal. Summon the three circles of the brothers of the highest degree to a sitting to-night. You have told me that the prince desires to belong to the seeing ones, and be in communion with the spiritual world. This night his wish shall be fulfilled, to see the spirits, and a new future shall rise before him. My time is limited; let us arrange every thing, for the voices of the Invisibles already call me home.”

At this instant a modest knocking was heard at the door, which was repeated at different intervals.

“It is my servant,” said Bischofswerder, “and he has undoubtedly an important communication for me.”

He opened the door, speaking with the person outside in a low tone, and returned with a sealed note.

Cagliostro, apparently, was lest in deep thought and indifferent to the conversation without, directing quietly and calmly, in the mean time, a few questions to Wollner, and, as it seemed, listening only to his answers. Yet as Bischofswerder approached him, saying, “it is, indeed, important news; I have proof in hand that--” he interrupted him with a commanding motion, and finished the broken sentence: “--that Wilhelmine Enke is a powerful adversary, having connection with the court, as this letter from her is directed to Minister Herzberg. Is it not this that you would say, Theophilus?”

Astonished, he replied in the affirmative, begging his master to read it.

“It is unnecessary,” replied Cagliostro, waving back the letter; “to the seeing eyes every thing is revealed. This person announces to Minister von Herzberg that the deceiver and necromancer, Cagliostro, in his flight from Mittau, has visited her to menace her. She begs protection for herself and an arrest for me; that I am known as Count Julien, at the hotel King of Portugal, at Berlin, and that haste is necessary.”

Both gentlemen glanced astonished and enraptured, first at the sealed epistle and then at the great Magus.

“Open the letter and convince yourselves of the contents!” commanded Cagliostro.

“It is unnecessary,” cried Bischofswerder, with enthusiasm. “We recognize in you truth and knowledge; you have revealed to us the contents.”

“Nay, there is a lingering doubt in the mind of brother Chrysophorus!” said Cagliostro, regarding Woellner fixedly, who stood with downcast eyes before him.

“My ruler and master,” stammered Woellner, in confusion, “I dare not doubt, only--”

“You would only be convinced, open then the letter,” interrupted Cagliostro, sarcastically.

With a sharp knife, Bischofswerder cut the end of the envelope, and handed the letter to him.

“Give it to Chrysophorus,” commanded the count. “He shall read it, and may the incredulous become a believer!”

Woellner perused the epistle with a slightly tremulous voice, stopping now and then, at an illegible word, which his master quickly supplied to him, finishing the sentence as correctly as if he held the writing in his hand.

The contents were exactly as Cagliostro had given them, and the farther Wollner read, the more his voice quivered and Bischofswerder’s enthusiasm increased.

As the reading was finished, the former sank, with uplifted hands, before his master, as if imploring mercy from a mighty, crushing power.

“I have been unbelieving as Tobias, doubting as Paul; have mercy on me, O master! for in this hour the divine light of belief and knowledge banishes doubt from my sinful heart. I acknowledge thy supernatural power and heavenly wisdom! My whole being bows in humility before you and your sublimity, and henceforth I will only be your humble scholar and servant, the tool of your will. Forgive me, all-knowing one, if my heart doubted. Breathe upon me the breath of knowledge, and lay thy august right hand upon my head, and penetrate me with thy heavenly power.”

“Have mercy upon me also,” cried Bischofswerder, as he kneeled beside Woellner, and, like him, raised his hands imploringly to Cagliostro. “Breathe upon me the breath of thy grace, and regard me, the repentant and unworthy, with thy heavenly glance!”

Cagliostro looked to heaven, and from his lips there fell disconnected words of exhortation; suddenly he drew forth his hands, which he had pushed into his gown and crossed upon his breast, stretching them out with wide-spread fingers.

“Come to me, ye spirits!” he cried, in a loud, thundering voice. “Ye spirits of fire and air, come to me! Ye shall flame and burn upon the heads of these two persons and announce to them that the Invisibles are with us. Come to me, ye spirits of fire!”

He clinched his fingers, extending them again, and upon the points there danced and flickered a blue light. A heavenly smile shone upon the beautiful face of the Magus, his hands slowly sank upon the heads of the kneeling ones, the flames gliding upon their heads, resting there a moment, and then dying away.

“The Invisibles have proclaimed themselves to you through the sign of fire,” cried Cagliostro. “The sacred flame has glowed upon your heads, and I now press upon your brow the solemn kiss of consecration and knowledge!”

He bowed down to the kneeling ones. It seemed as if a cloud of perfume had passed over their glowing faces, or as if an odorous lily had been pressed upon their foreheads, and their hearts quivered with delight. He passed his hand lightly over their faces, and a feeling of rapture spread through their whole being. Then as he commanded them to rise, they obeyed, without realizing that they had limbs or body, but regarded the miracle-worker, entranced with his smile.

Cagliostro, with hasty decision and earnest, commanding air, made a few opposite strokes in the air, and immediately the faces of the magnetized looked as if they had awakened from a dream of splendor and delight to insipid, flat reality.

“I have permitted you to behold, for an instant, the mysteries and miracles which are serviceable to the knowing ones,” said Cagliostro, with calm earnestness. “Your souls were in communion with the Invisibles, and from the source of knowledge a spark of illumination fell upon your heads. Guard it as a heavenly secret that no one should know of, and now let us continue our conversation.”

“Permit me once more to lay my head at your feet, and receive power from the touch thereof,” implored Bischofswerder.

“Let me embrace your knees, and entreat pardon and grace,” begged Woellner, as he sank down to clasp them, and the former threw himself at the feet of his master, passionately kissing them.

Smilingly he received their homage, and assisted them to rise.

“Now let us speak in a human, reasonable manner, my friends. Brother Theophilus, you, first of all, return the letter to the envelope and seal it.”

Bischofswerder obeyed; taking from the table a little bottle and a small brush, he carefully applied an adhesive substance to the edges, pressing them firmly together.

“Master, no one could discover that it had been opened. Command what shall be done with it.”

“Give it to your servant, that he may return it to him who brought it, and the latter can now deliver it at its address.”

“To the Minister Herzberg!” they both cried, amazed. “It is impossible; he is a sworn enemy of the holy order and your own heavenly person. He could take the most violent measures, and cause your excellency to be arrested.”

“I believe it,” smiled Cagliostro. “The great Frederick would announce triumphantly that he had had the great Semiramis of the North taken, which the Russian police had failed to accomplish. It would be a welcome triumph for unbelievers and fools, and they would trumpet it joyfully through the world! It must not be; although my spirit in its power and might would soon release my body, yet I will not grant this momentary triumph to my enemies. My time is limited; I must forth to Egypt, where the Brothers of the Millennium will assemble in the course of a week in the pyramids, to announce to me their will for the coming century. I am the Spirit of God, which the Invisibles have willed to enter a human form, therefore it must be regarded as sacred and protected.”

“Allow me to guard, with my life, your sublime person!” cried Bischofswerder.

“And I also implore you to grant me the happiness to watch over the security of your heavenly self, and defend it to the last drop of my blood!” cried Woellner; “only tell us what we have to do.”

“Above all things obey my command concerning the letter,” replied the count, smiling.

Bischofswerder submissively went out with the epistle, returning in a few moments. “It is as you have ordered: in a quarter of an hour it will be in the hands of Minister Herzberg.”

“No,” replied the count, fixing his eyes upon empty space, “it will not be there, for Herzberg is not at home. I now see him driving in a carriage with four black steeds to the country. At this instant he is crossing a bridge, now he enters a town, turning down one of the streets, where the noise of the wheels is lost. Again I hear him, leaving by the gate, ascending a broad avenue.”

“It is the route to Sans-Souci,” murmured Bischofswerder, in a low voice, but the count must have understood him, as he repeated aloud:

“Yes, that is the route to Sans-Souci, and the lonely, fretful old king will keep his minister the entire day, and will not receive the missive from his secret female accomplice until his return in the evening, and then he will dispatch his bailiffs in all haste to the hotel to arrest Count St. Julien, and forward an order to every gate to forbid his departure. It will be too late, however--he will have already departed.”

“Departed!” cried the two gentlemen, frightened. “Will you, then, forsake us?”

“Hush, my brothers, be quiet!” answered Cagliostro. “I shall have departed for the profane, but I will remain here for the consecrated until to-morrow morning. It oft happens that the lofty even must come down, and the brilliant obscure themselves. To-day I must descend from my spiritual height, and humble myself in the dust of lowliness. When the unholy and unconsecrated essay to behold that which they should not with their earthly eyes; they must be blinded with earthly dust, and for those which are not worthy of miracles, we must sometimes condescend to jugglers’ tricks. By the latter I will mislead my enemies to-day. How many gates are there to the city of Berlin?”

“There are nine, master.”

“Send immediately messengers around in your circles to order eight travelling-carriages and sixteen large black trunks. Further, send me eight confidential discreet men of my height and size, with eight perukes, exactly the cut of mine. Command four post-horses, with two postilions for eight different addresses. This is all that is necessary for the moment.”

“All shall be faithfully and quickly accomplished,” said Bischofswerder, humbly. “We will divide the execution of your orders, and there only remains to appoint the time and place when and where to direct the postilions.”

“All this will follow; forget not, in trifling, earthly things, the great heavenly circumstances. Summon the consecrated of the highest degree of your circle to go to-night to the palace of Prince Frederick William at Potsdam, and under the very eyes of the old freethinking king we will open to the crown prince the doors of the spiritual world, and consecrate him to the highest degree. But first the Invisibles shall speak with him, and announce the heavenly region of the unapproachable. Finish the preparations, my brothers--fulfil exactly and punctually my orders, and then come to the hotel to receive my last commands.”

Cagliostro quitted the two confidants, entered his carriage awaiting him before the door, and drove to the hotel. The host and chief waiter received him with extreme deference, both accompanying him up the stairs--the latter throwing wide open the large doors of his room. The count turned, and, in addressing some indifferent question to the host, opened his gold-embroidered blue satin vest.

The host turned pale, and shrank back, as if seized with a sudden fright. Cagliostro passed on, motioning him to follow, which he humbly obeyed, sinking upon his knees as the door closed.

“Have you recognized the sign which I wear upon my breast?”

“Yes, master,” he stammered, bowing down with the greatest reverence.

“Then you belong to the elect of the Inner Temple, for the sign of knowledge is only made known to them.”

“I do, indeed, understand its mysteries, master, and I know that one of the Invisibles, in infinite condescension, appears in a visible form before me. Immeasurable as the happiness, is my obedience! Command me, master; my life and riches belong to the holy alliance!”

“Rise and receive my orders,” replied Cagliostro, with great dignity. In a brief, dictatorial manner he communicated the necessary arrangements; then dismissed him with a haughty nod, and entered the adjoining room of his wife, Lorenza Feliciana.

She had thrown herself upon the divan, in charming neglige. Her head was encircled with black ringlets, which she wore unpowdered, despite the fashion. Her eyes were closed, and her beautiful shoulders were but half concealed by a black lace veil.

She slept so quietly and soundly that the count did not awaken her upon entering. He approached her lightly upon the soft carpet, and stood regarding her attentively. A pleasant smile spread over his face, softening its expression, and his eyes beamed with passionate tenderness.

“She is indeed beautiful,” he murmured, softly. “No one could withstand the charm of this wonderful woman. Ah, would that I could crush these wicked spirits within me, silence all these seductive, sinful voices, and fly to some secluded valley of our dear fatherland, and there, reposing on her love, let life glide calmly on and smile at the past without regret, as a fading dream! Would that I could forget, and become again pure and innocent, blest in my affection, simple in my tastes, and without wants! But no, it is too late! I cannot retreat, the demons will not be driven out; to them my soul belongs, and I must fulfil my destiny!--Awake, Lorenza, awake!” Her beautiful form shook with fright; she started, opened her eyes, demanding, “What is the matter? Who is here?”

“It is I, Lorenza,” he said, sadly; “I was obliged to awaken you, to tell you something important.”

“Are the pursuers here? Have they discovered us? Are they coming to take us to prison?”

“No, no; be quiet, Lorenza, no one has discovered us!”

“Quiet!” she repeated, with a scornful laugh. “We have travelled day and night the last ten days, hiding ourselves in miserable holes and dens, under assumed names, believing our pursuers were at our hacks; and now that we are showing ourselves publicly, you ask me to be quiet! I have slept for the first time since that fearful night in Mittau, and it is very cruel and thoughtless of you to wake me, if the bailiffs are not here, and danger does not menace us.”

“For the moment we are safe, but I have something important to tell you.”

“Important?” she cried, shrugging her shoulders. “What is of consequence to me, since that night? Oh, when I think of it, I could shriek with rage, I could annihilate myself in despair!”

“It was indeed a dreadful experience, and my heart quakes when I think of it,” said Cagliostro, gloomily. “The secret assembly consisted of the highest and most influential of the Courland nobility. Suspecting no wrong, not even that there could be traitors among the believers who would falsify my spirit apparatus, I gave myself up to conjuring the departed.”

“And I upon my fairy throne,” added Lorenza, “couched in the innocent costume of the celestial, only veiled with a silvery cloud, heard a sudden shriek. The room was quite dark; I saw, upon opening my eyes, that no spirits enlivened it.”

“Every thing failed--that is to say, my assistants let it fail,” said the count, “and the assembly began to murmur. Suddenly, instead of the departed princes and heroes, what fearful forms arose!”

“Apes, cats, and other animals,” cried Lorenza, with a loud laugh. “Oh, what an irresistible sight! In spite of my anger I had to laugh, and laugh I did upon the fairy throne, like--”

“Like a foolish child who neither knows nor understands danger,” interrupted the count. “Your laughing soon ceased in the fearful tumult and uproar. They shrieked for light, the ladies fled, and the men menaced me with loud curses, calling me a charlatan, and threatening my life!”

“Mine also,” cried Lorenza; “oh, what insults and ill-treatment I was forced to listen to! They rushed upon me, shrieking for the brilliants and money which they had brought me as an offering. How they scolded and called me a deceiver! I was only very beautiful and coquettish, and that was no deception! I charmed them with my coyness, and they brought me the most costly presents, because I was a virtuous woman. Now they reproached me, demanding a return of them all, which they had forced upon me of their own free will. I was obliged to bear it silently in my costume of innocence, and as goddess I could not defend myself and speak with human beings--who pushed up to the throne. It was a very ridiculous position; happily I did not quite lose my senses, but let the apparatus play, and disappeared into my dressing-room below, which fortunately closed above me. I dressed, and rushed to your room to rescue my treasures.”

“Even in this extreme danger you only thought of your riches, not of me,” said Cagliostro, with a bitter smile.

“Have you not taught me yourself that money was the only thing worth striving to possess? Have you not revealed to in wisdom that riches alone make us happy, and procure for us honor, power, love, and constancy? Ah! Joseph, have you not made me the miserable, heartless creature that I am? Can you reproach me that your teaching has borne such good fruit? I am happy to be the priestess of wealth, and grateful for what you have made known to me.”

“It is true,” sighed Cagliostro, “I have taught you the truth of things; I have disclosed to you the world’s motive power. Riches are indeed the god upon earth, toward whom all are pressing, rushing on. We must all follow and serve him as slaves, or be crushed under the wheels of his triumphal car. Men talk and reason about the storm and pressure which is spreading through the world, and finally will reduce every thing to storm the eternal and undying bliss of wealth, and press on for gold.”

“To think that we have lost every thing!” cried Lorenza, springing up and stamping with her silken-shod foot; “every thing is lost that I have been years gaining, by hypocrisy, deception, and coquetry. They have robbed me! The shameful barbarians have seized all our effects. The police surrounded the house, guarding every entrance, and we were obliged to escape by the roof into the house of one of the brothers, leaving all our treasures behind.”

“You exaggerate, Lorenza, and represent it worse than it is. Look around; you are surrounded with luxury and comfort. Our great undertakings in Courland and St. Petersburg have failed, it is true, and the Russian empress has ordered me to be driven away and pursued. But the Invisible Fathers have not forsaken me, as they know that I am a useful tool in their hands. They have carefully provided me with money, passports, and instructions. We have lost thousands, but we will regain them, for the future is ours. I am protected by the order, and called to a new and important mission in Paris, to strive for the sacred aim of the Church.”

“And have they no mission for me?” asked Lorenza. “Is there nothing further for me to do in that city than to be a beautiful woman, and play tricks for my dear husband?”

“Great events await you in Paris, which we will aid you to prepare. The Invisible Fathers send you before me to the Cardinal de Rohan. You are going to Paris in the service of the revolution of minds. The carriage is ordered, and you are to set off this very hour.”

“And when are you going, Joseph?” Lorenza asked, with a touch of melancholy.

“I shall officially depart in an hour, but in reality at the same time that the Baroness von Balmore leaves the hotel in her travelling-carriage. Near the waiting-maid will a servant sit upon the box. I shall be he.”

“Officially you depart in an hour; what does that mean?” Cagliostro smiled. “It is a long story and a comical one. Come, seat yourself by me upon the sofa; repose your head upon me, and listen to what I will relate to you.”

Late in the afternoon of the same day a travelling-carriage drove up before the hotel “King of Portugal,” in the Burgstrasse, with two large black trunks strapped upon it behind the footman’s box, and the postilion, sitting by the coachman, playing the beautiful and popular air, “Es ritten drei Reuter cum Thore hinaus!”

Count St. Julien descended the stairs, followed by the host, and nodded in a lofty manner to the two waiters and hostler awaiting him at the entrance, who returned it by a profound bow, at the same time not failing to see the white hand extended with the trinkgeld.

The host himself closed the carriage door, and the count departed amid the merry peals of the postilion, the former gazing after him with the satisfaction of one who has made a good bargain. The servants watched it, too, until it had disappeared around the corner of the next street.

At this instant the quivering tones of a post-horn were heard, and an open caleche appeared and stopped before the hotel with two large black travelling-trunks upon it, and the postilion upon the box blowing the popular air, “Es ritten drei Reuter zum Thore hinaus!”

The host observed the empty carriage with a smile, but the servants asked themselves astonished what it meant, and as they turned and saw Count St. Julien descending the stairs, they were startled. He offered them the usual trinkgeld, entered the carriage, and rolled away with a commanding nod.

The host seemed speechless with astonishment, and stood as if rooted to the spot. The servants stared after the carriage until it turned the corner; when just then a post-horn was heard playing the agreeable melody of “Drei Reuter,” and a travelling-carriage with two large black trunks drove up to the door.

The servants turned pale, looking shyly toward the stairs. Slowly and with great dignity Count St. Julien descended, greeting them with a gentlemanly nod as he passed, and, extending his white hand with a trinkgeld, mounted his carriage, and drove away.

The host stood as if stunned, outside the door, looking right and left with unspeakable terror. The servants tremblingly fixed their eyes upon the stairs, no longer possessing the power to move, but heard the post-horn, and the carriage which drove up to the door the third time. Slowly and proudly Count St. Julien advanced. It was the same cold, grave face, with the thick black beard, and the powdered peruke, the curls of which overshadowed the brow and cheeks. He wore exactly the same dark-brown cloak over the black velvet dress. The white hand, with broad lace wrist-ruffles, reached them also a trinkgeld.

This time the fellows had scarcely self-possession sufficient to take the present, for every thing swam before their eyes, and their hearts one moment almost ceased to beat, and then palpitated with the feverish rapidity of terror.

“I would run away,” murmured the chief waiter, as Count St. Julien for the fourth time drove away, “if my feet were not riveted to the floor.”

“If I could move mine I would have gone long ago,” groaned the second waiter, the clear drops standing upon his forehead. “It is witchcraft! Oh, Heaven! they are coming again, playing the ‘Drei Reuter.’”

The count descended the stairs for the fifth time, whispered to the hostler, who was quite engrossed counting his money, handed the trinkgeld to the pale fellows by the door, and mounted his carriage, driving away amid the merry peals of the post-horn.

“Julius,” murmured the steward, softly, “give my hair a good pulling, that I may awake from this horrible dream.”

“I cannot,” he whimpered, “my hands and feet are lame. I cannot move.”

“I will,” said the hostler, courageously stretching forth his hand, and pulling it so vigorously that the steward was fully convinced of the reality of things.

Again the post-horn sounded the “Drei Reuter;” again the carriage stopped before the door, and the count descended, giving to every one a gift like the “Maedchen aus der Fremde,” and for the sixth time rolled away.

“We are bewitched; it is a ghost from the infernal regions!” groaned the steward.

“I cannot abide it any longer--I shall die!” said the second waiter.

“I do not mind it,” said the hostler, as he jingled the money; “if they are ghosts from hell, the eight groschen do not come from there, for they are quite cool. See how--Ah, there comes the count again!”

For the seventh time he passed down the stairway, by the servants, who wore no longer standing but kneeling, which the count received as a proof of their profound respect, and slipped the money into their hands.

“Praise God, all good spirits!” murmured the head waiter; but neither the count nor the money seemed to be moved by the pious exhortation, for he quietly entered his carriage, and the eight groschen lay in the servant’s hand, at which the hostler remarked that he would stand there all night if the count would only continually pass by with groschen. It pleased the count to descend the stairs yet twice more, divide the trinkgeld, and mount his carriage. As he drove away the ninth time, it appeared as if the Drei Reuter were determined to drive out of the gate and forsake the hotel “King of Portugal.” The host waited awhile, and talked with the neighbors, who, roused by the continual blast of the post-horn, were curious to know how it happened that so many guests were departing by extra posts. Whereupon the host, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, his eyes glaring, and shrugging his shoulders, declared that there had been but one gentleman at the hotel, but nine times he had seen him drive away, and the devil must have a hand in the matter!

Shaking his head, he returned to the hotel, and found the servants busily counting their money, occasionally casting covetous looks toward the stairs, as if they hoped the count would again descend.

Exactly as Cagliostro had foretold, Minister Herzberg did not return from Sans-Souci until late in the evening, and then found Wilhelmine’s letter in his cabinet.

Immediately the police were instructed to arrest Count St. Julien at the hotel “King of Portugal.”

An hour later the chief of the police came to say that the count had already been gone two hours. He repeated the account of the host, corroborated by the servants, of nine different counts having driven away from the hotel.

Herzberg smiled. “We have to deal with a very clever scoundrel,” said he, “and it is no other than the so-called Count Cagliostro, who was lately exposed as a bold trickster in Mittau and St. Petersburg, and about whose arrest the Empress Catharine is very much exercised. It would be very agreeable to the king to show this little attention to her imperial highness, and trap the adroit pickpocket.”

“We might succeed in catching him in his flight,” remarked the chief. “For the last six months the king has given orders that every passport should be examined at the gates, and the route of the travellers noted down, which is all registered and sent to the king. It would be very easy to discover by which gate he departed, and his route, and then have him pursued.”

“That is well thought of, director; hasten to put it into execution, and inform us of the result.” He returned in an hour to the minister’s cabinet, shaking his head gravely. “Your excellency, it is very strange, but he is a wizard. This man has driven out of the nine gates at the same hour and minute.”

Herzberg laughed. “This is one of his tricks, and by it I recognize the great necromancer.”

“Your excellency, this is no trickery, but witchery. It is impossible for any one man to drive out of the nine gates at the same hour, in the same carriage, with two large black trunks and a postilion blowing the same melody, and provided with a correct passport, which he shows and is recognized as Count St. Julien, who is going to Paris by Hamburg. Here are the nine registers from the different gates, all the same, if I am not bewitched and do not read straight.”

“This trick does honor to the count,” said Herzberg, smiling. “To-morrow you shall accompany me to Sans-Souci and read aloud the registers to the king. Do you think it will be impossible to pursue the count now?”

“I should be very happy to follow your excellency’s judgment in this matter, and arrest the rascal in any way that you could point out,” said the director.

“I am convinced that he is in the city; and driving put of the nine gates at the same time was the best manner to escape being discovered,” said Herzberg. “He is concealed in some one of the houses of the brothers, and we shall be obliged to let him escape this time.”

In order the more securely to carry out the initiation of Prince Frederick William, in company with Bischofswerder and Woellner, Cagliostro had arranged his pretended departure. For a long time the prince had expressed an extreme desire to be received into the mysteries of the miraculous and holy order, of which he had heard his friends speak with so much reverence. But he had been put off from time to time with regrets and shrugs of the shoulders, and expressions of the impossibility of granting the request.

“The spirits do not always appear even to the consecrated,” said Bischofswerder. “They make themselves known after many fervent prayers and implorings, and when we have withdrawn from every one who could entice us to doubt or disbelief. I fear that it would be impossible to conjure the spirits of the departed, so long as your highness honors a certain lady with your particular favor, who ridicules the sublime order and mingles with its enemies. How can they appear to those who have just been in the company of a friend of the Illuminati and unbelievers?”

“The spirit-world only reveals itself to the virtuous and pure,” said Woellner, in a harsh, dry voice. “Its inhabitants cannot approach those who are not chaste and innocent, for sin and vice surround them with a thick fog, which keeps them at a distance from the clear atmosphere of the sublime. If you would call up the spirits, you must remove this woman who entices you from the path of virtue, and renders the sphere impure around you.”

Despite the warnings and the great wish the prince had to be received into the spirit-world, and become a member of the highest grade of the Rosicrucians, he could not resolve to forsake her who had been his friend for ten years, and who had borne shame and degradation on his account, refusing eligible and rich men rather than leave him and become a legitimate wife. Wilhelmine was the beloved of his youth, the mother of his two dear children, and she alone knew how to drive away the ennui which pursued the prince, with her amiable, subtle wit. Nay, he could not be so ungrateful, so heartless, as to reject her who had so tenderly loved him when young and beautiful, now that the first bloom of youth and beauty had faded!

Bischofswerder and Woellner recognized this difficulty, and applied themselves the more energetically for its removal. They supposed that the unexpected arrival of Cagliostro would very naturally appear to the prince as a special messenger, sent, without doubt, from the fathers, to accomplish his conversion. They announced to the prince that the Invisibles had taken pity upon his desire for knowledge, and had consented to permit him to gaze into the regions of the blest, although he wandered in the path of vice, and that he must hold himself in readiness to accompany the messenger whenever he should be sent to call him.

For this reason the crown prince had written to Wilhelmine that she should not expect him until the following morning, and he did not quit his room the entire day, with excited expectation awaiting the summons. As evening set in the prince was cast down, and quite of the opinion that the Invisibles did not deem him worthy to enter their pure presence, and thought that Wilhelmine must be the hinderance. Whilst he was reflecting whether to sacrifice his beloved to the salvation of his soul, the secret door gently opened, and two men, masked and wrapped in black cloaks, entered and placed themselves near the door. The prince did not remark their entrance, and was quite frightened as he chanced to turn, and saw these two immovable figures.

With quivering voice he demanded their mission.

In the same tone, as if one were an echo of the other, they answered, “We desire nothing, but you demand knowledge of the spirit-world, and would have its mysteries revealed to you, which the Invisibles will now grant you. Follow us, therefore!” They reopened the secret door; one of the masked preceded the prince, and the other followed him.

The prince shuddered at the thought that he might be rushing into some unknown danger, and intrusting himself to those who would misuse his confidence. He demanded to see their faces, declaring himself prepared to follow, when acquainted with his guides.

“It would then be better to remain,” replied one of the masked. “He who lacks confidence is not worthy of it, and he who trusts only the Visibles, the Invisibles flee.”

The prince recognized the voice of Bischofswerder, and smiled, but he knew not that it was permitted him to hear it to inspire him with courage.

“Well, so let it be; the fathers shall see that I am a believer,” cried the prince.

Immediately one of the brothers put his own cloak, three-cornered hat, and mask upon his highness, still remaining cloaked and masked himself, much to the astonishment of the passive prince. “Come, now, the Invisibles await you,” said one of the masked. The prince stepped courageously into the little corridor which led to the secret stairway, one brother preceding him, causing a soft light to illumine their path, the other following him.

In silence they reached the side-door of the palace, where a close carriage awaited them.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Frederick William, as he entered, followed by the two brothers.

“To the Invisibles,” answered a strange voice.

Again the prince essayed to begin a conversation, his only response being, “Purify your heart and pray.” Silently they galloped over paved and unpaved streets, the prince heartily repenting having been drawn into this adventure. He thought of his charming and beloved Wilhelmine, and half determined to give the command to drive to Charlottenburg. The fact of Bischofswerder being with him, and fearful of appearing weak and wanting in courage in the eyes of his friend and favorite, prevented him.

After several hours’ drive, they stopped at the marble palace of Potsdam, near the one which the prince was accustomed to occupy. His highness looked cautiously around, and breathed more freely, as he felt that he was now surely among friends.

The white palace stood silent and deserted in the darkness, this palace at Potsdam being only used for the guests of the king. The carriage stopped at the side-door, where there was no sentinel, and they alighted, entering the palace, winding along the corridors in the same order as before, guided by the glimmering light of the one preceding. Solemn music, strange ringing sounds, fell upon the ear as they advanced. Sometimes they were sharp and cutting as glass, then threatening and penetrating as the wind, shrieking and moaning, causing one to be very nervous if not terrified.

The farther they proceeded the louder grew the sounds, and at intervals groans, moans and wailings were heard, as of those waiting and imploring for mercy.

One of the brothers now opened a door, and then placing themselves upon each side, the unknown voice announced to the prince that they had arrived at the long-sought-for goal.

“What have we come here for?” asked the prince.

“To behold that which you have many times petitioned to be permitted to see,” replied Bischofswerder, gently encouraging and inspiring Frederick William. “The Invisibles have at last yielded to your wishes, and the spirits which you summon will appear. If your courage fails you, and you dread the presence of the departed, command to be reconducted to your palace, and we will obey; but renounce forever the sublime happiness of beholding the Invisibles and of holding communion with the spirit-world!”

“I fear not, but wish to be in the company of the spirits,” answered the prince, proudly.

“Kneel,” they commanded, permitting him to enter, “and thrice summon in a loud voice the names of three departed, who will answer your questions. Beware of approaching them, for their glance is death and their breath destruction! Therefore remain kneeling, as it becomes a mortal in the presence of an immortal. Hope and pray, brother!”

As the door closed upon the prince, and he found himself in such impenetrable darkness, he sank upon his knees, for he dared not advance, and retreat was impossible, in spite of heart-quakings.

The shrill, penetrating music ceased, and a voice from a distance called: “Summon thrice those that thou desirest to see.”

“Marcus Aurelius, Leibnitz, and the distinguished elector,” called the prince in a loud voice.

“Who summoned me?” was responded in hollow, sepulchral tones, and directly over the crown prince a blue, vaporous light was visible--at first only a cloud, then by degrees increasing and condensing itself into a human shape, until it took the form of a Roman warrior of the olden time; no other than Marcus Aurelius, in helmet and coat-of-mail, with a pale, earth-colored face and glaring eyes.

“Who summoned me?” repeated the figure. The prince’s lips refused to respond, and shuddering he gazed upon the corpse-like face, so exact in feature to the old Roman emperor.

“You answer me not!” thundered the voice, “but I will tell you who you are--one lost in sin and an apostate!--the crown prince of Prussia, a future king, who will be called to govern a people, and knows not self-government! Turn from the path of vice while it is yet time; rise from the dust, that the ashes of retribution do not bury you in a living tomb, like the sinful Pompeians. No monument marks the place of the sinful; he sinks into the night of oblivion, or he is cursed by succeeding generations. Therefore turn from the errors of sin. Rise to virtue, that the blessed may approach you. I shudder in your presence. Woe to you! woe! woe!”

The cloud-portrait vanished, and darkness reigned for a moment. The prince cried in anguish: “I will hear no more; this air oppresses me--open the door--I renounce communion with the spirits; I will go out!”

The light reappeared in the dark room and another form hovered over the prince--of grave, obscure face, with a great peruke, staring at him. He recognized the distinguished philosopher Leibnitz, whom he had desired to see, but who now filled him with unspeakable terror. Like the former spirit, he also, when unanswered, reproached the erring prince, conjuring him to return to virtue.

As the menacing ghost disappeared, the prince felt for the door, and shook it with the power which terror lends, crying, “Open, open!” It opened not, and the third summoned, the great elector, Frederick William, appeared, with high, up-lifted arm, glittering eyes, advancing with angry mien, shaking his lion’s mane against the erring son of his house, whom he menaced with curses and revenge, if he did not renounce the courtesan who had seduced him to vice and unchastity.

“I will become better,” groaned the prince. “I will perform the wish of the spirits. Only have mercy on me--free me. Help! help! Open the door, Bischofswerder, I will do better. Open the door!”

This time it really opened, and a long train of dark, masked forms entered the dusky room surrounding the prince, wringing their hands, imploring him to turn from sin, and forsake the unholy woman.

They whimpered, they implored, sinking upon their knees, beating their clinched hands, and weeping: “Turn, beloved elect! Renounce Wilhelmine Enke; renounce vice! Repulse the seductress, and turn your countenance to Virtue which you have seen in all her beauty!”

“I will perform that which you demand,” wept the prince, as the deathly terror and nervous excitement made him yielding.

“Swear!” cried the chorus of masks.

“I swear that Wilhelmine Enke shall no longer be my mistress. I swear by all that is holy that I will renounce her! I--”

Voice failed him; there was a ringing and buzzing in his ears; every thing swam before his eyes, and he sank fainting. The prince awoke after long unconsciousness, and found himself upon his bed in the new palace at Potsdam, Bischofswerder at his side, watching him with the tenderest sympathy. He bent over him and pressed his hand to his lips with a cry of delight. “Heaven be praised; my dear prince, you have awaked to commence a new life! You now belong to the virtuous and honorable, whom the Invisible Fathers bless!”

“Is it true, Bischofswerder,” said the prince, languidly, “that I have sworn to renounce Wilhelmine Enke, and never to love her more?”

“You have sworn it by all that is holy, and all in heaven and on earth have heard your oath, and there is joy thereat.”

The prince turned his head, that Bischofswerder might not see the tears streaming down his cheeks.

The beautiful house which Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen possessed upon the finest street in Berlin, “Unter den Linden,” had been newly arranged and splendidly ornamented since his marriage and elevation to a title, and now awaited his arrival. For many weeks mechanics and artists had been busily employed; and the good housekeeper, old Trude, saw with bewildering astonishment the daily increasing splendor of gilded furniture, costly mirrors and chandeliers, soft carpets, tapestries, and gold-embroidered curtains, exquisite paintings and statuary, which the possessor had forwarded from Italy, and many other objects of art standing upon gilt and marble tables.

Every thing was completed. The bustle of the busy workmen had ceased, and Trude slowly wandered through the solitary rooms, examining every article. Her face bespoke dissatisfaction, and a smile of contempt was visible there.

“Miserable trash, for which they have sold my poor child!” murmured the old woman. “For these worthless, glittering toys have they ruined the happiness of the dear innocent heart, and on them the guilt will fall if her soul is lost! I remark how she is changed in her letters since her shameful, mercenary marriage. She writes of nothing but the arrangement of her house, and speaks as if the beauty and costliness of things were only to be thought of, and there is not even a confidential, heart-felt word for her old Trude. It would seem as if she had forgotten all former objects of interest. Oh, what trouble and sorrows the rich have! That good-for-nothing money hardens their hearts and makes them evil and selfish.”

The loud ringing of a bell sounded through the solitary drawing-rooms.

“That is, undoubtedly, the general’s wife,” said Trude, shaking her head. “She rings as if she would announce the king, with her nose turned up so high, or as if she were the money-sacks of her son-in-law!”

Trude was right; her shrill voice was heard ordering the steward, who had but just arrived. “It is abominable, it is unheard of!” she cried, as with a heavy push she burst open the door; “this man presumes to contradict me, and--ah, there you are, Trude!”

“Here I am,” she answered; “were you looking for me?”

“Yes, and I would ask you if my orders are not the same as if given by Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen or his wife, or have you instructed the new steward otherwise, which, it is laughable to say, you have engaged?”

“No, I have not instructed him thus. Dear Marie has not ordered it in her letter.”

“Dear Marie,” repeated Frau von Werrig. “How can you permit yourself to speak so intimately of the rich Baroness von Ebenstreit?”

“Very true, it is not right,” sighed Trude; “I beg pardon.”

“I came here to see if every thing was in readiness, and ordered the steward to ornament the doors and corridors with garlands of flowers; he has had the boldness to tell me he dares not do it!”

“He is right, Frau von Leuthen. Baroness Ebenstreit von Leuthen (have I got the title right?) wrote and expressly forbade any festivity to greet her arrival. Here is the letter--I carry it around with me; I will read it to you: ‘I expressly forbid any manifestation whatever to be made at our return, whether of garlands or flowers, as they are only hypocrisy and falsehood. I wish no one there to receive me--remember, Trude, no one! Inform my family that, as soon as I have recovered from the fatigue of the journey, I will make them the visit of duty with the baron.’”

“What cold, heartless words are these! One could hardly believe that a daughter was writing of her parents.”

“On her wedding-day she perhaps forgot that she had any,” said Trude, shrugging her shoulders, “and she should not be at once reminded of that trying occasion on her return. I expect her every moment, as the courier has already arrived an hour ago, and it would be better--”

“You cannot be so impudent as to tell me to leave? Indeed, I will not be prevented from waiting to receive my only child that I have not seen for three years. One can well believe that a mother would be impatient to embrace her dear daughter! I have no other happiness but my beloved child, and I long, unspeakably, to press her to my heart and tell her my sorrow.”

“Sorrow! is it possible that Frau von Werrig has any griefs? I supposed there was nothing in the world troubled her.”

“And yet I am very much tormented. I can well tell you, Trude, as you are familiar with our circumstances,” sighed the countess. “You know the general is tolerably well; the journeys to Wiesbaden and Teplitz have cured him of the gout unfortunately, so that he can go about.”

“Are you sorry for that, Frau von Werrig?”

“Certainly I am, Trude, as he has returned to his former habits, frequenting the society of drinking-houses and gamblers. Imagine the general played yesterday, lost all his ready money, and that was not enough, but signed away the year’s pension from Herr von Ebenstreit, during which time we have nothing but the miserable army annuity to live upon.”

“Then your income will be less to live upon than formerly, for dear Marie earned something with her flowers and lessons which she gave to you, although she was never thanked for it. She was then my dear good Marie, so industrious and patient, and worked untiringly for her parents! Then she forgot them not, and toiled early and late, and, oh, it breaks my heart to think of it, and I must cry in your presence!”

She raised the corner of her dark-blue apron and dried her eyes, holding it there as she continued to weep.

“What an ugly apron!” cried the countess, “and how meanly you are dressed altogether! Is that the way you intend to go looking as the housekeeper of a rich and genteel family? Go, Trude, quickly, and put something better on, that you may receive your master and mistress in a suitable dress.”

“I shall remain as I am, for I am very properly dressed. It may not be suitable for a housekeeper, but it becomes old Trude, and it is my Sunday frock, which I always wore when I was maid-of-all-work to you. You may not remember it, but dear Marie (I should say Baroness von Ebenstreit) will, perhaps, and it may recall her little room in the garret, and then--”

“And then she will at last think, Trude, how we took care of her, and how thankful she ought to be to her parents that they married her to a rich man. If Marie sees it at last--”

“You forget with whom you speak, Frau von Werrig,” Trude interrupted her, scornfully, “and that it does not become you to speak of Marie to old Trude, but you should remember her title.”

“Well, then, when Baroness von Ebenstreit enters this costly house, she must understand that her mother was mindful of her best interests, and that she owes all this to her; and you, Trude, must remind her of it, and tell her about my dreadful trial with her father, and that it is my daughter’s duty to release me from it, and beg her husband not to deduct the gambling-debt from the pension, but pay it this once. For it would be a dreadful injustice to make me suffer for the general’s rage for play, and show but little gratitude for the riches which I brought her. You will tell my daughter all this, Trude, and--”

“I will not tell her any thing at all, Frau von Werrig,” interrupted. Trude, warmly. “May my good genius keep me from that, and burdening my conscience with such falsehoods.--Hark! A carriage is coming, and a post-horn sounded. They have arrived!”

Old Trude hurried out just as they drove up to the door. The steward and two servants in livery rushed down the steps to assist them to alight, and Trude also to greet her favorite, who was now so pale, grave, and chilling in her appearance.

The large eyes of the lady rested with cold indifference upon the old woman, whose eyes were turned to her with the tenderest expression. “I thank you,” she said, coldly. “Husband! I beg you to give me your arm.” Proudly she passed the statuary, and over the soft carpets without comment, or even a word for old Trude.

The steward and housekeeper followed the silent couple.

“Shall I take you to your room first?” asked Ebenstreit, “or will you do me the pleasure to look at the newly-arranged drawing-rooms?”

“Certainly,” she replied, with indifference. “We will first look at the drawing-rooms, as we shall probably receive much company this winter, and they are of the first importance. You know that I dislike solitude.”

“Indeed, I recall that we are very seldom alone!” sighed her husband.

“It would be fearful if we were,” replied his wife, with marked indifference.

The steward just now opened the little door of the ante-room, sparkling with chandeliers and mirrors. “Ah! this is really beautiful, and well chosen,” cried Ebenstreit, looking about with an air of great pride and satisfaction. “Tell me, Marie, is it not worthy of you?”

Glancing coldly around, she replied: “It does not please at all. The furniture is very costly, and reminds one of the parvenu. Every thing recalls the riches of the newly-titled banker.”

Her husband’s brow contracted, but he did not trust himself to contest his dissatisfaction with his cold, proud wife, but sought another vent for it.

“You are very unkind, Marie. Have the goodness to tell me how you, with these severe ideas, can suffer that Trude for a moment should appear before us in this poor-looking dress which, indeed, does not recall any wealth!”

Frau von Ebenstreit’s eyes glanced quickly over the old who, she said, was the only object which did not bespeak the gaudiness of newly-acquired wealth, but she appeared as the respectable servant of an old and noble family in fitting dress. “Remain as you are, Trude, and do not let yourself be misled by our follies! I--but what is that I see?” she cried as the steward opened the next door at the silent nod of her husband.

“Oh, my beloved children, there you are at last; after three years’ absence I have the happiness to embrace you, my only daughter,” cried Frau von Werrig, as she approached them with outstretched arms and an affectionate smile, essaying to throw her arms around Marie’s neck, who waved her back.

“My child, my child,” whimpered the mother, “is it possible that my daughter can receive me thus after so long a separation?”

Turning to Trude, Marie asked her, with a reproving look and tone, if she had received her letter, or if she had forgotten her express commands that no one but the servants should be in the house to receive them.

“I did not forget it, my lady, and I have read the orders to Frau von Werrig, but she--”

“Knew that this wish had no reference to her, as she is her mother--Tell me, my beloved son, is it not very natural and fitting that I should be here to receive you?’

“I find it a matter of course,” answered Von Ebenstreit, to whom it appeared a relief to find an ally in the mother against his proud and beautiful wife. “I rejoice to see our dear mother here, and I beg Marie will join me.”

Marie cast an angry glance toward her husband, which so confused and perplexed him, that he looked down. Then advancing toward the drawing-room, with her usual cold demeanor, without further comment upon the ostentatious furniture, she commanded her husband to follow, who obeyed, giving his arm to his mother-in-law.

“Oh, this is glorious!” he cried, smiling. “What splendor, what luxury! Tell me, my dear mother, is not this beautiful reception-room very aristocratically and appropriately fitted up?”

“I should think a princess or a queen might be satisfied with it,” she cried, with enthusiasm. “Even in royal palaces there is nothing of the kind to compare to this gold-embroidered tapestry.”

“Baron,” said Marie, commandingly, “have the kindness to dismiss the steward. I wish to speak with you and Frau von Werrig.”

The steward slipped out without waiting to be sent, and Trude stood near the door, turning to the young baroness, as if to ask if she might remain.

“Did you not hear, Trude?” cried the mother, impatiently. “Tell her to go!”

“Remain, Trude,” said Marie, quietly. “You are familiar with the past. I have nothing to deny to you; shut the door and stay here.--And now,” she continued, as her voice lost its gentleness, when she addressed her mother, “if it is agreeable to you, I should like to have an understanding with you!”

“But, my child,” sighed the mother, “how strangely altered you are! You address me, your mother, as Frau von Werrig, and you speak to Ebenstreit in a very formal manner, who has been your dear, faithful husband for three years. Oh, my darling son, what does this ceremonious manner mean?”

“The very first hour, after our marriage, that we were alone my dear Marie severely reproved me for having addressed her in an intimate, affectionate manner, like the common class, as she called it, and I have never done so since.”

“You must be convinced that I am right,” said Marie, calmly, “and that it does not become two beings, who neither love nor esteem each other, and who live in the most ceremonious manner, to address one another with endearing epithets. At any rate we are not accountable to any one, and Frau von Leuthen must know the relations we bear to each other in the so-called marriage, as it is her arrangement for the most part.”

“And I pride myself upon it,” she cried, with animation. “I have brought about this marriage, which is good fortune to us, and I hope my daughter will prove her gratitude, and my son will show me the affection he has so often sworn to me.”

“I do not know what my husband may have sworn to you, but permit me to say, I do not understand whom you, Frau von Werrig, address as daughter here; if you accidentally refer to me, you are in error; I have never possessed a mother to love me, although formerly, during long years I endeavored with tender assiduity to win a parent’s heart. That is long past, however. The very day that I married Herr von Ebenstreit I renounced all family ties, and resolved to be self-reliant. My husband will witness that he has never known me to yield, and that I have always been firm and resolute in my decision.”

“No one would doubt it,” replied Ebenstreit, timidly. “We had a very strange marriage, which scarce deserves the name. We resemble more two companions who have joined in business, the one side reluctantly, and the other joyfully. I long for a happy married life, which has been quite impossible thus far.”

“And will be to the end, which you will yet learn; and Fran von Werrig should understand it, as she brought about the union, and should not be in doubt as to the conclusion.”

“I acknowledge that I am almost speechless and quite paralyzed with that which I see and hear. I should doubt that this cold, proud woman before me were my daughter, if it were not for the name she bears, and her features.”

“That which you and my husband have caused me to become. He knew that I neither loved nor esteemed him, and that a union with him seemed so unendurable that I would have sought refuge in death, if I had not vowed to support life to attain the aim which I imposed upon myself. That is all past; it is the future which we must arrange. I am glad that you are here, Frau von Werrig, that we may understand each other once for all; but you came against my wishes.”

“You must excuse it, dear Marie. It was the longing of mother’s heart which led me hither; the love--”

A cold, contemptuous glance of the large eyes caused the mother to cease, and quail before her daughter.

After a short pause Marie continued: “I wish to exercise alone and unhindered the executive rights of a lady in her own house. Do you acknowledge the justice of this, my husband?”

“Perfectly and unconditionally, dear Marie. You know that I have no other will but yours, which is my highest happiness to submit myself to in all things, always hoping to gain your love and win your heart; that--”

“That this woman has changed to stone,” said Marie, coldly, pointing to her mother. “As you then recognize me as the mistress of this house, I shall avail myself of my just right, and no one can prevent me, for I stand alone, absolved from all family ties. By my birth and your riches, I shall occupy the position of a woman of the world, and as such I shall live.”

“I am delighted to hear it, Marie,” cried her husband. “For this reason I have had the drawing-rooms furnished in the most costly manner, and I shall be proud to receive the aristocratic society who will come to render homage to my wife, as they have done everywhere in Paris, London, Rome, Madrid, and St. Petersburg. We have frequented the highest circle in all these cities, and they have crowded our drawing-rooms, charmed with the beauty, distinguished manners, tone of the world, of your daughter.”

“I beg of you to make but one subject the sole object of conversation,” said Marie, harshly. “I have said that I will avail myself of the privilege, as mistress of this house, of receiving no one whom I do not wish to see, and no one can enter without consent. Is it clearly understood, husband?”

“Yes,” he answered, somewhat agitated; “it is the right of every housekeeper--I understand you.”

“It is also clear to me,” cried Frau von Werrig, with difficulty suppressing her wrath. “But I will await the decisive word, and see whether it is possible for a daughter to have the insolent presumption to drive he mother from her house!”

“I have already informed you that I have no mother, and that no one has the right to call me daughter. If you await my decision, you shall now hear it; you are not included among those that I wish to receive in my house!”

“Ah, dear Marie, you are cruel!” cried her husband, quite frightened.

“She is a degenerate, good-for-nothing creature!” cried the mother.

“If I am so, who has caused it but you, both of you? Who broke my heart, and crushed it under foot until it ceased to feel, and turned to stone? Bear the consequences of your cruelty and heartlessness! I cannot change it, and I repeat, Frau von Werrig has not the right to enter this house, or to remain here any longer!”

Scalding tears fell from the mother’s eyes as she shrieked, “She drives me from her house!”

“I am only treating you as you behaved to one of the noblest and best of men,” replied Marie, voice and look betraying her deep feeling. “You thrust from your door, with scorn and contempt, a man worthy of your esteem and recognition, although you knew that my heart was breaking. I am only following your example and exercising my just rights, and am less guilty than you are, as neither of us has need of the respect or esteem of the other.”

“Can you suffer this, my son? Do you allow any one in your presence to treat me so shamefully? After all, it is your house; do speak and exercise your right as master here: tell your wife that I am her mother, and you, my adopted son, who bears my name, and that I have the just right to come here as often as it pleases me.”

“Speak your mind to Frau von Werrig,” said Marie, as Ebenstreit remained silent. “Decide which shall remain, as one or the other of us must leave; you are perfectly free to choose.”

“Then, naturally, there is no choice left me,” replied Ebenstreit, despondingly. “I declare myself for my wife, of course, who is the noblest and proudest beauty in Berlin, and will make my house the centre of attraction to the aristocracy, nobility, and wealth. This is my greatest pride, and to secure this I wooed my beautiful bride, and have submitted to all the sorrow and humiliation which have been my portion. If I must choose between the mother and daughter, I naturally prefer the latter.”

“He abandons me also!” cried the mother. “You are an ungrateful, wretched man! You forget that you owe every thing to me, and that without me you were a miserable mercenary, whose stupidity and tediousness were the ridicule of every one, and you had never gained the entrance to a genteel house. What have you now become? A high-born man, whose house every one will crowd, and who could even appear at court, as he bears our noble and distinguished name. To whom do you owe all this, but to me alone?”

“God in heaven, Thou hearest it!” cried Marie, solemnly, with uplifted arms. “She acknowledges that she alone has brought this misfortune upon me, and in this hour I stand justified.”

“Pardon, Frau von Werrig,” said Ebenstreit, haughtily; “you are going too far. After my fortune, I thank you for my position. I am certainly of insignificant birth, but I am ambitious and rich. I said to myself, ‘Money can bring about all that I wish,’ and you see it has accomplished it. My wealth procured me a title, a splendid house, a beautiful wife, and a position in society. I acknowledge that you aided me in the carrying out of my plans, but you would not have done it, if I had not been in a position to pay you. You receive a very considerable annuity from me, therefore you cannot accuse me of ingratitude, but must confess that you have driven a very good bargain. You must forgive me if I beg of you to end this painful scene.”

“That means that I must leave,” said Frau von Werrig, mildly, remembering the gambling debt and the annuity. “Very well, I will go, and promise you never to return, upon two conditions.”

“Have the goodness to communicate them,” said Ebenstreit.

“The first is, pay the gambling-debt of my husband, who has played away the entire sum you allow us yearly, and do not deduct it from our income. The second is, increase your allowance five hundred thalers, without letting the general know it, and pay it to me.”

“It is impossible,” cried Ebenstreit, terrified. “You mistake me for a Croesus, whose wealth is inexhaustible. If this expenditure and demand increase, my colossal fortune will be entirely wasted, and--”

“You exaggerate,” interrupted Marie, with a peculiar brilliancy in her eyes. “Such wealth as yours is never-ending, and the banking business, which you are still engaged in under another name, is an inexhaustible source of wealth. I beg you to accept these conditions, that we may at last be at peace.”

“Very well,” said Ebenstreit, to whom the words of Marie sounded as the sweetest music. “I will then accord your wishes, and you shall have the five hundred thalers for yourself.”

“For me alone?”

“Yes, for yourself alone, Frau von Werrig.”

“Who vouches for the fulfilment of your promise?”

“My word, Frau von Werrig.”

“I have no confidence but in a written promise.”

“Then I will have it made out, and bring you the document to-morrow morning.”

“Then our business is finished, and I can go.--Farewell, baroness; this is my last word to you. I cursed you from the moment you came into being. If you had been a son, the rich estate in trust of my family would have passed to you, of which I was the natural heir. As it was, it went to a distant relative, and we received nothing. Therefore your parents could not rejoice at your birth, and we only pardoned you when you married a rich man, who could free us from want, and now the separation is no grief to us. You have always been a disagreeable burden, and I am only quit of a discomfort, and renounce forever the sight of you.--Give me your arm, my son, and accompany me at least to the threshold of your house, that you may be able to say to this cold-hearted viper, that she is forever rid of the sight of her mother, who will never think of her but with chilling contempt.” She seized Ebenstreit by the arm, who had not the courage to resist her, and drew him along with her, casting a look of supreme disgust at old Trude, who stood pale and sad near the door.

As the door closed, and Marie found herself alone with her old friend and nurse, a peculiar change was visible in her sad face; something of its former sunny radiance brightened its usually sorrowful expression, and she turned to greet Trude with the smile of earlier, happier days, though it was tinged with sadness and grief. Impulsively she threw her arms around her faithful nurse, kissing her, and, with quivering lip, whispering: “A greeting and a blessing for you, dear mother! Take me to your kind, disinterested heart, and let me there find repose from all this torture and love the poor lost one, who--”

She drew suddenly back, her face assuming its usually cold, look as she heard her husband enter.

“She is gone, dear Marie. I hope that you are gratified with my decision, and perceive therein a proof of my excessive love and esteem for you,” said Ebenstreit, drawing a long breath.

“I did not desire this polite evidence of it,” she coldly responded. “We have solemnized our entrance into this house in a fitting manner, and the important matter remaining for us is to make known our arrival to the society of Berlin. The horses purchased in Alexandria, and the new carriage from London, have already arrived--have they not?”

“My book-keeper so informed me a fortnight since, when we were in Paris, and complained of the enormous sum which he had to disburse.”

“You must forbid him such a liberty once for all,” said she, and the strange blending of joy and scorn was visible in her face. “It is inadmissible for a subordinate to presume to complain to his master, or advise him. He has only to listen and obey. This all your inferiors must understand, and know that they will be dismissed who murmur or advise!”

“I will instruct them accordingly,” he sighed, “though I must confess my head-man well understands financial operations, and during the many years that he has been with me has won the right to be consulted and advised with.”

“Then prove your gratitude as it becomes a true cavalier and a nobleman,” dictated Marie. “Settle his salary as an annuity upon him, and replace him.”

“But he receives very great wages, and is still very active, though advanced.”

“The more the reason to pension him, that he may repose his remaining years and enjoy the fruit of his labors. But do as you like. I have only told you how a noble cavalier would act; if you choose to bargain and haggle, it is your own affair.”

“Heaven keep me from acting otherwise than as a nobleman!” cried Ebenstreit.

Marie nodded assent, desiring that the carriage might be ordered, with the Arab horses. “We will make our visits at once, as I will, for the first time, open our large house for a soiree to-morrow evening,” she added.

“Ah, that is charming!” said Ebenstreit, delighted. “I shall at last have the opportunity of seeing the aristocratic Berlin society, and enter upon the rank of my new title.”

“Yes,” she replied, with an expression of irrepressible scorn, “you will have this enjoyment. Send me the steward, I wish to give him a list of the invited guests. You can add to it at your pleasure.”

“I have no one to invite,” cried her husband.

“No matter! Make the necessary preparations. I will go to my room to make my toilet.”

“Will you not allow me to accompany you? You are not yet familiar with the house.”

“Trude will show it to me, and you can at the same time give the orders.”

Nodding proudly to Ebenstreit, she told Trude to precede her, following the old woman through the suite of brilliant rooms.

“Here is my lady’s dressing-room,” said Trude, entering one ornamented with mirrors, laces, and gauzes.

The French waiting-maid was busy within, unpacking the large trunks filled with silk and satin dresses which had been purchased by the dozens in Paris.

“Lay out an elegant visiting toilet; I will return directly, after Trude has shown me the house,” They entered the adjoining chamber, Marie’s sleeping-room and found the German maid arranging the lace and silk coverings for her mistress to repose herself after the long journey. Marie betrayed no inclination for repose, but questioned Trude as to whither the other door led to.

“Into the little corridor, baroness.”

“Did I not order that there should be but one entrance to my sleeping-room, and that from the dressing-room?”

“Your commands have been strictly obeyed,” replied Trude. “The only door from the corridor leads to my two rooms, and there is but one entrance to them upon the other side, which can be securely fastened.”

Into the simple, quiet room, at the baroness’s request, Trude opened the door, saying, “Here we can be alone.”

Marie pointed silently to the second door, and the old woman nodded: “That is it,” said she. “I have done every thing as you directed. After you left, they sent me the furniture of your little garret-room, which I have arranged exactly as it stood there.”

As Marie opened the door and found herself in the small room, so like the one where she had made flowers, given lessons, consoled by her only friend, Trude, her pride and reserve vanished. Sinking upon her knees, as if crushed, she gave way to her long-pent-up grief in one cry of anguish, clinging to Trude, and weeping bitterly.

“Here I am, my faithful nurse, returned to you more wretched and miserable than when I left: then, I felt that I could scorn the world, and now I despise myself. Oh, Trude, they have caused my wretchedness, they have made me selfish and unkind. I was contented until now, and rejoiced in my misery, and triumphantly thought of the time when I was wont to bewail my broken heart and lost soul. Once more with you, and surrounded with the souvenirs of my girlhood, I feel a horror of myself, and could sink in shame and contrition. I have become as bad as they are. Can you forgive the hard-hearted daughter who banished her own mother from her house? I felt that I could not endure her presence, and feared that an inveterate rancor and hate would overpower me, and that I should curse her.”

“She deserves it, my poor child,” whispered Trude, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “She has just told you that she never loved you, and in this painful scene she thought only of bargaining and making money. God has heard her and forgiven you as I do, and I beg and implore Him to punish those who have made you so wretched, and that He will have no mercy upon them, as they have shown none to you. It breaks my heart to see you so changed, and I can hardly believe this cold, haughty lady is my Marie. In your tears I recognize you, and I bless God that you can weep; your grief proves to me that you are yet the child of my heart.”

“Oh Trude, you know not how I have longed to see you; it was my only consolation in these painful years. When I doubted every human being, then I thought of you, and was comforted and sustained.”

“And was there no one else to think of, my child?”

“Yes,” she gently murmured, “I thought of him. Tell me all you know about him, and hide nothing from me in this hour.”

“I thought you would ask me, and I went to Director Gedicke yesterday, to inform myself.”

“What did you hear? Tell me the most important. Does he live? Is he restored to health?”

“He lives, but, for one year, he was so wretched that he could not teach; now he is better. Herr Gedicke went himself to Spandau, immediately after the wedding, and brought him back with him, relating as forbearingly and carefully as possible the circumstances of your marriage, and of your sacrificing yourself for him alone.”

“How did he receive it? What did he say?”

“Nothing. His eyes were fixed, and his lips uttered not a sound. This lasted for weeks, and suddenly he became excited, enraged, and they were obliged to bind him to keep him from injuring himself.”

“Tell me no more,” cried Marie, shuddering. “I thought myself stronger, nay, heartless, and yet it seems as if a hand of iron were tearing, rending my soul!”

“That is well,” said Trude, gently; “you must awaken from this hardened indifference; giving way to your grief in tears will soften your heart, and it will again be penetrated with the love of God and mankind. I will tell you every thing; you ought to know how poor, dear Moritz suffered. After he vented his rage he became melancholy, and withdrew to Halle in solitude, living in a hay-loft. His favorite books and an old piano were his only companions; no one presumed to intrude him, and they even conveyed his food secretly to him, shoving it through a door. He talked aloud to himself for hours long, and at night sang so touchingly, accompanying himself upon the piano, that those who listened wept.”

Marie wept also--scalding tears trickled through her fingers as she lay upon the floor.

Trude continued: “Moritz lived in this way one year; his friends knew how he was suffering, and they proved in their deeds how much they loved and esteemed him. The teachers at the Gymnasium divided his hours of instruction among them, that he should not forfeit his place and lose his salary. Even the king showed great sympathy for him, sending to inquire for him. Herr Gedicke visited him frequently at Halle; and once when about to mount the ladder to the hay-loft he met Moritz descending, carefully dressed, in a reasonable, gentle mood, and then he returned with him to Berlin. There was great rejoicing in the college over his return, and they feted him, witnessing so much love for him that it was really touching. He has been promoted to professor, and at the express command of the king he teaches the young Prince Frederick William in Latin and Greek. Oh, he is so much esteemed and--”

“And is married I hope,” murmured Marie. “Is he not happily married, Trude?”

“No. Herr Gedicke says he could marry a wealthy girl, for he is a great favorite, and is invited into the most distinguished society. He repels every one, and has become a woman-hater.”

“He hates them--does that mean that he hates me?”

“Yes, he thoroughly scorns and despises you; so much so that Herr Gedicke says you should know of it, and keep out of his way. He has sworn to publicly show his contempt for you, and therefore his friends wish you to be apprised of it, and not encounter him in society.”

“It is well, I thank you,” said Marie, rising; “I will act accordingly. Kiss me once more, my dear mother, and let me repose my weary head upon your bosom. Ah, Trude, what a sorrow life is!”

“You will yet learn to love it again, Marie.”

“If I thought that I could sink so low, I would kill myself this very hour. I know myself better, and only for revenge do I live. Hush! say nothing more. Look at me! I am cursed, and there in those gaudy rooms in my purgatory; here is my paradise, and here the wicked demon may dare to change into the sad, wretched wife, who mourns the happy days already flown, and weeps the inconsolable future. Oft will I come here in the night when those sleep who think me so proud and happy, and you alone shall behold me as I am. Now I must back to purgatory.--Farewell!”

A half hour later a splendid carriage drove from the house of Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. The people upon the street stood in wondering admiration of the beautiful Arab horses with the costly silver-mounted harness, and sought to catch a glimpse of the occupants of the carriage, an insignificant, meagre, blond-haired man, who appeared like a servant beside the lovely pale wife, though proud and indifferent, who kept her eyes fixed steadily before her.

The chasseur, with his waving plumes, sat upon the box beside the rich-liveried coachman.

As the married couple returned from their drive, having left their cards at the most distinguished houses in Berlin, the baroness handed the list of guests to be invited to the baron to examine. He glanced hastily over it, assuring her that every thing should be directed as she desired, deferring all to her superior knowledge. Suddenly he seemed confused, even frightened. “What is the matter? What were you about to remark?” asked Marie, indifferently.

“I was in error. I have, without doubt, read it wrong. I beg pardon for a foolish blunder, but will you tell me this name?”

Marie bent forward to look at the paper which her husband handed her, and, pointing with her finger, read “Professor Philip Moritz.”

“Do you intend to invite him?” asked Ebenstreit, quite alarmed.

“Why should I not? He belongs to the circle of friends and acquaintances, and it is natural that I should include him. Moreover, there is not a little gossip, and it is necessary to silence it. If you are not of my opinion, strike out the name.”

“Not at all, dearest. On the contrary, you are perfectly right, and I admire you for it.”

“Then give the list to the butler, for it is quite time that the invitations were given out.”

The evening of the soiree had arrived. In quick succession drove the carriages up the broad entrance to the mansion of Herr Ebenstreit, The curious street public pressed in compact masses near the gate to peep in, or at least catch a fugitive glance of the ladies alighting from their carriages, who were received by the butler at the foot of the carpeted steps. A host of gold-bespangled footmen lined the entrance upon each side, which was ornamented with the most exquisite hot-house plants, filling the air with perfume.

Two tall, stately footmen, with broad gold shoulder-bands and large gilt batons, stood at the door of the anteroom, which was brilliantly illuminated with chandeliers and side-lights, reflected in the numerous mirrors. The anteroom led into the reception-room by wide folding-doors, where the names were given to the usher, who announced them in a stentorian voice in the drawing-room. There stood the Baron von Ebenstreit to receive the guests, all smiles, and with bustling assiduity accompany them to the adjoining drawing-room to present them to the baroness.

Among the select company were conspicuous the most distinguished names of the aristocracy. Generals and staff-officers, countesses and baronesses were crowded together, with the ladies of the financial world, near ministers and counsellors in this gorgeous saloon, which was the delight and admiration of the envious, and excited the tongues of the slanderous. Those acquainted gathered in the window-niches and cosy corners, maliciously criticising the motley crowd, and eminently consoled with the sure prospect of the ruin of the late banker, surrounding himself with such unbecoming splendor and luxury, the bad taste of his arrogant, overdressed, and extravagant wife.

“Have you noticed her parure of diamonds?” whispered the Countess Moltke to Fran von Morien. “If they are real, then she wears an estate upon her shoulders.”

“The family estate of Von Leuthen,” laughingly replied Frau von Morien. “You know, I suppose, that the father of General von Leuthen was a brick-burner, and he may have succeeded in changing a few bricks into diamonds.”

“You are wicked, sweet one,” replied the countess, smiling. “One must acknowledge that her toilet is charming. I have never seen its equal. The gold lace over the rose-colored satin is superb.”

“Yes, and the mingling of straw feathers, diamonds, flowers, lace, and birds is truly ridiculous in her head-dress.”

“It must have been copied exactly from the one which the Queen Marie Antoinette wore at the ball at Versailles a fortnight since. The baroness was present at this court ball with her greyhound of a husband, and created quite a sensation with her costly recherchee toilet, as the French ambassador told us yesterday.”

“Certainly not by her manner,” said Frau von Morien. “She is insupportably arrogant and self-sufficient. What do you think of this pretentious manner of announcing our names as if we were at an auction where they sold titles?”

“It is a very good French custom,” remarked the countess. “But it does not become a lady of doubtful nobility and uncertain position, to introduce foreign customs here. She should leave this to others, and modestly accept those already in use by us.”

“One remarks the puffed-up parvenue,” whispered Frau von Morien. “Every thing smells of the varnish upon the newly-painted coat-of-arms.”

“Hush, my friend! I there comes the baroness leaning upon the arm of the French ambassador. She is indeed imposing in appearance, and one could mistake her for a queen.”

“Could any one ever suppose that this queen once made flowers to sell? Come, countess, I have just thought of a charming scene to revenge myself upon this arrogant personage.”

Giving her arm to the countess, she approached her hostess leaning upon the arm of the Marquis de Treves, the French ambassador, as they were standing beneath the immense chandelier of rock crystal, which sparkled above them like a crown of stars, causing her diamonds to look as if in one blaze of different hues.

“Oh, permit us to sun ourselves in your rays, ma toute belle,” said the Countess Moltke. “One could well fancy themselves in a fairy palace, so enchanting is everything here.”

“And the baroness’s appearance confirms this impression,” remarked the gallant Frenchman. “Fancy could not well paint a more lovely fairy in one’s happiest dreams.”

“Yes, truly I wander around as if in an enchanted scene. I feel as if I must seize myself by the head and be well shaken, to convince myself that I am really awake and not dreaming a chapter from Aladdin. I made the effort, but felt the wreath of roses in my hair, and--”

“And that convinced you of your wakefulness,” said the baroness, a little haughtily. Turning to the ambassador, she added: “Do you observe, monsieur le marquis, what a delicate attention this lady shows me in wearing a wreath of flowers which I manufactured?”

“Comment! The baroness is truly a fairy! She causes flowers to grow at her pleasure, and vies with Nature. It seems impossible. I can scarcely believe it.”

“And yet it is true,” said Frau von Morien. “The baroness, indeed, fabricated these roses three years since, when she had the kindness to work for me. You will acknowledge that I have kept them well?”

“It was no kindness of mine, but a necessity,” said the baroness, “and I must confess that I would not have undertaken so troublesome a piece of work from pure goodness or pleasure. You will remember that I was very poor before my marriage, and as Frau von Morien was one of my customers, it is very natural that she possesses my flowers. She gave me many orders, and paid me a very small price, for she is very practical and prudent, and understands bargaining and cheapening, and when one is poor they are obliged to yield to the shameless parsimony of the rich. I thank you, my dear benefactress, for the honor you have shown me in wearing my flowers, for it has been a pleasant occasion to explain ourselves and recognize each other. Have the kindness to recall other remembrances of the past.”

“I do not remember possessing any other souvenirs,” replied the countess, confused.

“Have you forgotten that I gave French lessons to your niece, the present Frau von Hohenthal? She came to me three times weekly, because the lessons were a few groschen cheaper at the house.”

At this instant the usher announced in a loud voice, “Professor Philip Moritz.”

A gentleman of slight proportions, in an elegant fashionable dress, appeared and remained standing in the doorway, his large black eyes wandering searchingly through the drawing-room. Herr von Ebenstreit approached, extending him his hand, uttering a few unintelligible words, which his guest appeared not to notice, but, slightly inclining, asked if he would present him to the lady of the house.

“Have the kindness to follow me,” said Ebenstreit, leading Moritz through the circle of jesting, slandering ladies and gentlemen, to the centre of the room, where Marie was still standing with the French ambassador and the two ladies.

“My dear,” said her husband, “I have brought you an old acquaintance, Professor Moritz.”

As Ebenstreit would retreat, Moritz commanded him to remain, placing his white-gloved hand upon his arm, and holding him fast. “I would ask you one question before I speak with the baroness.”

Moritz spoke so loud, and in such a strange, harsh, and repulsive manner, that every one turned astonished, asking himself what it meant. Conversation was hushed, and the curious pressed toward the peculiar group in the centre to the baroness, who regarded her husband perfectly composed, and the pale man, with the flashing eyes, the glance of which pierced her like daggers.

A breathless silence reigned, broken only by Ebenstreit’s trembling voice. “What is it, professor? How can I serve you?”

“Tell me who you are?” replied Moritz, with a gruff laugh.

“I am the Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen!”

“And the scar which you bear upon your face, is it not the mark of a whip, with which I lashed a certain Herr Ebenstreit three years since, who prevented my eloping with my betrothed? I challenged him to fight a duel, but the coward refused me satisfaction, and then I struck him in the face, causing the blood to flow. Answer me--are you this gentleman?”

Not a sound interrupted the fearfully long pause which followed. Every one turned astonished to Ebenstreit, who, pale as death, was powerless to utter a word, but stood staring at his opponent.

“Why do you not answer me?” cried Moritz, stamping his foot. “Are you the coward? Was this red scar caused by the whip-lash?”

Another long pause ensued, and a distinctly audible voice was heard, saying, “Yes, it is he!”

“Who replied to me?” asked Moritz, turning his angry glance away from Ebenstreit.

“I,” said Marie. “I reply for my husband!”

“You? Are you the wife of this man?” thundered Moritz.

“I am,” Marie answered.

“Is this invitation directed to me from you?” he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket. “Did you permit yourself to invite me to your house?”

“Yes, I did,” she calmly answered.

“And by what right, madame? This is the question I wish answered, and I came here for that purpose.”

“I invited you because I desired to see you.”

“Shameless one!” cried Moritz, furious.

“Sir,” cried the ambassador, placing himself before Moritz, defying his anger, “you forget that you are speaking to a lady. As her husband is silent, I declare myself her knight, and I will not suffer her to be injured by word or look.

“How can you hinder me?” cried Moritz, with scorn. “What will you do if I dash this paper at her feet, and forbid her to ever write my name again?” Making a ball of it, he suited the action to the word, casting a defiant look at the marquis.

“I shall order the footmen to thrust you out of the house. Here, servants, remove this man; he is an escaped lunatic, undoubtedly.”

Two footmen pressed forward through the circle which crowded around Moritz.

“Whoever touches me, death to him!” thundered Moritz, laying his hand upon a small sword at his side.

“Let no one dare lay a hand on this gentleman,” cried Marie, with a commanding wave of her hand to the lackeys. “I beseech you, marquis, and you, honored guests, to quietly await the conclusion of this scene, and to permit Herr Moritz to finish speaking.”

“Do you mean to defy me, madame?” muttered Moritz, gnashing his teeth. “You perhaps count upon my magnanimity to keep silent, and not disclose the secrets of the past to this aristocratic assembly. I stand here as its accusing spirit, and condemn you as a shameless perjurer.--I will ask you who are here rendering homage to this woman, if you know who she is, and of what she has been guilty? As a young girl she was as sweet and innocent as an angel, and seemed more like a divine revelation. To think of her, inspired and elevated one’s thoughts, and heaven was mirrored in her eyes. She was poor, and yet so infinitely rich, that if a king had laid all his treasures at her feet, as the gift of his love, he would receive more than he gave, for in her heart reposed the wealth of the whole human race. Oh! I could weep tears of blood in reflecting upon what she was, and what she has become. Smile and mock, ladies and gentlemen; my brain is crazed, and I weep for my lost angel.”

Moritz dashed his hands to his face, and stood swaying backward and forward, sobbing.

Sighs and regrets were heard in the room. The ladies pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes; others regarded with lively sympathy the handsome young man, who deeply interested them, and gazed reproachfully at the young baroness, expecting her to be crushed with these reproaches and tears, but who, on the contrary, stood with proud composure, her face beaming with joy, gazing at Moritz.

“It is past--my last tear is shed, and my last wail has been uttered,” cried Philip, uncovering his face. “My angel has changed into a despicable woman. I loved her as the wretched, disconsolate being adores the one who reveals paradise to him; and she fooled me into the belief that she loved me. We exchanged vows of eternal constancy and affection, and promised each other to bear joyfully every ill in life, and never separate until death. I should have doubted myself, rather than she who stood above me, like a divine revelation. I wished to win her by toil and industry, by my intellect, and the fame by which I could render my name illustrious. It was, indeed, nothing in the eyes of her grasping parents; they repulsed me with scorn and pride, but Marie encouraged me to perfect confidence in her affection. Whilst I wandered on foot to Silesia, like a poor pilgrim toward happiness, to humble myself before the king, to beg and combat for my angel, there came temptation, sin, and vulgarity, in the form of this pale, cowed-down man, who stands beside my betrothed gasping with rage. The temptation of riches changed my angel into a demon, a miserable woman bartered for gold! She betrayed her love, yielding it up for filthy lucre, crushing her nobler nature in the dust, and driving over it, as did Tullia the dead body of her father. She sold herself for riches, before which you all kneel, as if worshipping the golden calf! After selling her soul to a man whom she despised, even if he were not rich, she has had the boldness to summon me, the down-trodden and half-crazed victim, to her gilded palace, as if I were a slave to be attached to her triumphal car. I am a free man, and have come here only to hurl contempt in her face, to brand her before you all as a perjurer and a traitress, whom I never will pardon, but will curse with my latest breath! Now I have relieved my heart of its burden, I command this woman to deny what I have said, if she can.”

With a dictatorial wave of the hand, he pointed excitedly Marie. A deathlike stillness reigned. Even the lights seemed to grow dim, and every one was oppressed as if by excessive sultriness.

Again Moritz commanded Marie to acknowledge the truth of his accusations before the honored assembly.

She encountered his angry glance with calmness, and a smile was perceptible upon her lip. “Yes, said she, I acknowledge that I am a perjurer and a traitor. I have sold myself for riches, and yielded my peace of soul and my love for mammon. I might justify myself, but I refrain from it, and will only say that you have told the truth! One day you will cease to curse me, and, perhaps a tear of pity will glisten in the eye now flashing with scorn and anger. The poor wife who lies in the dust implores for the last blessing of your love!”

“Marie!” he cried, with heart-rending anguish, “oh, Marie!” and rushed toward her, kneeling before her, and clinging to her, pressing a kiss upon her hand and weeping aloud. Only for a moment did he give way, and then sprang up wildly, rushing through the crowd, out of the room.

A fearful silence ensued. No one had the courage to break it. Every one hoped that Marie, through a simulated fainting, would end the painful scene, and give the guests an opportunity to withdraw. No such thoughtfulness for her friends occurred to her.

She turned to the Marquis de Treves, who stood pale and deeply agitated behind her, and burst into a loud laugh.

“How pale you are! Have you taken this comedy for truth? Did you think this theatrical performance was a reality? You have forgotten what I told you a month since in Paris, that I had a native talent for acting. You would contest the matter with me, and I bet you that I could introduce an impromptu scene in my house, with such artistic skill, that you would be quite deceived.”

“Indeed I do recall it; how could I have forgotten it?” replied the marquis, with the ready tact of the diplomat.

“Have I won?” asked Marie, smiling.

“You have played your role, baroness, like an artiste of consummate talent, and to-morrow I shall have the honor to cancel the debt in your favor.”

“Now, then, give me your arm, marquis, and conduct me to the dancing-room, and you, worthy guests, follow us,” said. Marie, leading the way.

The merry music even was not sufficient to dissipate the awkward oppression, and by midnight the guests had taken leave, and Marie stood under the chandelier, pale and rigid, opposite her husband. He had summoned courage to bewail the terrible scene, weeping and mourning over her cruelty and his shame. Marie, with chilling indifference, regarded him without one visible trace of pity.

“You realized what you were doing when you imposed the scorn of this marriage upon me,” she said. “I have never deceived you with vain hopes! You have sown dragons’ teeth, and warriors have sprung up to revenge me upon you. Serve yourself of your riches to fight the combatants. See if you can bargain for a quiet conscience as easily as you purchased me! My soul is free though, and it hovers over you as the spirit of revenge.--Beware!”

She slowly turned and quitted the room. Her diamonds sparkled and blazed in the myriads of lights. The large mirrors reflected the image of a haughty woman, who swept proudly past like a goddess of revenge!

Ebenstreit stood gazing after her. He had a horror of the lonely still room, so gorgeous and brilliantly illuminated--a shudder crept over him, and he sank, weeping bitterly.

In the little room, the buried happiness of the past, Marie knelt, with outstretched arms, imploring heaven for mercy. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that I have been permitted to see him again! My sacrifice was not in vain--he lives! He is free, and his mind is clear and bright. I thank Thee that he still loves me. His anger is but love!”

The joy which Bischofswerder said, reigned in heaven and upon earth over the return of the crown prince to the path of virtue, in having forsaken Wilhelmine Enke, was of but short duration.

The Invisibles and the pious Rosicrucians soon learned that sagacious and cunning woman defied the spirits and abjured the oaths.

Since the night of his communion with the departed, Frederick William had never visited Charlottenburg--never seen the house which contained all that he held most dear; he had returned Wilhelmine’s letters unopened, and had even had the courage to refuse himself to the children, who came to see him.

If he had been left to consult his own heart, he would not probably have had sufficient resolution to have done this; Bischofswerder and Woellner never left him for a moment, as they said the Invisible Fathers had commanded them to tarry with the much-loved brother in these first days of trial and temptation, and to elevate and gladden him with edifying conversations and scientific investigations.

The prayers and exhortations were the duty of Woellner, who, besides this, continued his daily discourses upon the administration of government, preparing the prince for the important command of the royal regiments, which they hoped favorable destiny would soon grant him.

The scientific researches were the part of Bischofswerder, and he entered upon his duties with the zeal and pleasure of an inquiring mind, itself hopeful and believing.

In the cabinet arranged in the new palace at Potsdam, the prince and his dear Bischofswerder worked daily, many hours, to discover the great hope of the alchemist--the philosopher’s stone. Not finding it, unfortunately, they brewed all sorts of miraculous drinks, which were welcome to the prince as the elixir of eternal youth and constant love. In the evenings they communed with the spirits of the distinguished departed, which, moved at the earnest prayers of Woellner, and the fervent exhortation of the crown prince, always had the goodness to appear, and witness their satisfaction for their much-loved son, as they called him, for continuing brave and faithful, and not falling into the unholy snares of the seductress.

The crown prince, however, experienced not the least self-contentment. Each day renewed the yearning for the beloved of his youth and for his children, for which those of his wife were no compensation--neither the silent, awkward Prince Frederick William, nor his crying little brother. In his dreams he saw Wilhelmine dissolved in tears, calling upon him in most tender accents, and when he awoke, it was to an inconsolable grief. He wept with heart-felt sorrow; his oath alone kept him from hastening to her; it bound him, and fettered his earnest wish to see her, making him sad and melancholy.

The spirits had no pity nor mercy upon him. His two confidants encouraged his virtue and piety from morning till night, exalting his excited fancy with their marvellous relations and apparitions.

One day as they were on the point of commencing the morning prayers to the Invisibles, a royal footman appeared, with the command to betake themselves to Sans-Souci, where the king awaited them.

A royal carriage was in attendance to convey them. There was no alternative but obedience.

“Perhaps Fate destines us to become martyrs to the holy cause,” said Woellner, devoutly folding his hands.

“We may never enjoy the happiness of seeing our dear brothers of the confederacy again,” sighed Bischofswerder. “Our spirits will always be with you, my prince, and the Invisible Fathers will protect you in all your ways.”

The crown prince, deeply moved, separated from his friends with tears in his eyes; but as the carriage rolled away he felt relieved as of an oppressive burden, and breathed more freely.

At the same time a footman entered, bearing upon a golden salver a letter for the prince. Unobserved and free to act, he read it, and as he sat musingly thinking over its contents, so tender and affectionate, he re-read it, and rising, made a bold resolve, his face beaming with happiness, to order his carriage, which he did, and in a few moments more drove at full speed away from the palace.

Bischofswerder and Woellner, in the mean time, arrived at Sans-Souci. The footman awaiting them conducted them at once through the picture-gallery, into the little corridor leading to the king’s cabinet, and there left them to announce them to his majesty. Both gentlemen heard their names called in a loud voice, and the response of the king: “Let them wait in the little corridor until I permit them to enter.”

The footman returned and with subdued voice made known the royal command, and departed, carefully closing the door.

There was no seat in the narrow, little corridor, and the air was close and oppressive.

They could hear voices in mingled conversation; sometimes it seemed as if the king were communicating commands; again, as if he dictated in a suppressed voice. The Rosicrucians knew very well it was the hour of the cabinet council, and they waited patiently and steadfastly, but as their watches revealed the fact that three hours had passed, and every noise was hushed, they concluded they were forgotten, and resolved to remind the lackey of their presence.

“Indeed, this standing is quite insupportable,” whispered Woellner.

They both slipped to the entrance and tried the bronze knob, but although it turned, the door opened not, and was evidently fastened upon the outside. They looked alarmed at each other, asking what it could mean. “Can it be intentional? Are we imprisoned here? We must be resigned, although it is a severe experience.” At last, patience exhausted, they resolved to bear it no longer, and tapped gently at the door of the king. The loud bark of a dog was their only response, and again all was still.

“Evidently there is no one there,” sighed Bischofswerder. “It is the hour of dining of the king.”

“I wish it were ours also,” whined Woellner. “I confess I yearn for bodily nourishment, and my legs sink under me.”

“I am fearfully hungry,” groaned Bischofswerder; “besides, the air is suffocating. I am resolved to go to extremes, and make a noise.”

He rushed like a caged boar from one door to the other, shrieking for the lackey to open the door; but as before, a loud bark was the only response.

“The Lord has forsaken us,” whimpered Woellner. “The sublime Fathers have turned their faces away from us. We will pray for mercy and beg for a release!” and he sank upon his knees.

“What will that avail us here, where neither prayers nor devotion are heeded? Only energy and determination will aid us at Sans-Souci. Come, let us thump and bang until they set us free!” cried Bischofswerder, peevishly.

Their hands were lame, and their voices hoarse with their exertions; and no longer able to stand, they sank down upon the floor hungry and exhausted, almost weeping with rage and despair.

At last, after long hours of misery, they heard a noise in the adjoining room. The king had again entered his cabinet. The door opened, and the lackey motioned to the two gentlemen to enter. They rose with difficulty and staggered into the room, the door being closed behind them.

His majesty was seated in his arm-chair, with his three-cornered hat on, leaning his chin upon his hands, crossed upon his staff. He fixed his great blue eyes, with a searching glance, upon the two Rosicrucians; then turned to his minister, Herzberg, who was seated at the table covered with documents.

“These are, then, the two great props of the Rosicrucians?” asked Frederick--“the two charlatans whom they have told me make hell hot for the crown prince, continually lighting it up with their prayers and litanies.”

“Your majesty,” answered Herzberg, smiling, “these gentlemen are Colonel Bischofswerder and the councillor of the exchequer, Woellner, whom your majesty has commanded to appear before you.”

“You are the two gentlemen who work miracles, and have the effrontery to summon the spirit of our ancestor, the great elector, and the Emperor Marcus Aurelius?”

“Sire,” stammered Bischofswerder, “we have tried to summon spirits.”

“And I too,” cried the king, “only they will not come; therefore I wished to see the enchanters, and would like to purchase the secret.”

“Pardon me, most gracious sire,” said Woellner, humbly, “you must first be received in the holy order of the Rosicrucians.”

“Thanks,” cried the king, “I am not ready for the like follies, and whilst I live the Invisibles must take heed not to become too visible, or they will be taken care of. I will not permit Prussia to retrograde. It has cost too much trouble to enlighten the people, bring them to reason, and banish hypocrisy. Say to the Rosicrucians that they shall leave the crown prince in peace, or I will chase them to the devil, who will receive them with open arms! It could do no harm to appeal to the prince’s conscience to lead an honorable life, and direct his thoughts more to study than to love, but you shall not make a hypocrite of him and misuse his natural good-nature. If the Rosicrucians try to force the prince and rule him, I will show them that I am master, and will no longer suffer their absurdities, but will break up the whole nest of them! I have been much, annoyed at the deep despondency of the crown prince. You shall not represent to him that baseness and virtue are the same, and that he is the latter when he betrays those to whom he has sworn fidelity and affection. An honorable man must, above all, he cognizant of benefits, and not forsake those who have sacrificed their honor and love to him, and have proved their fidelity. Have you understood me, gentlemen?”

“It will be my holy duty to follow strictly your majesty’s commands,” said Bischofswerder.

“And I also will strive to promote the will of my king,” asserted Woellner.

“It will be necessary to do so, or you two gentlemen may find yourselves at Spandau. I would say to you once for all, I will not suffer any sects; every one can worship God in his own way. No one shall have the arrogant presumption to declare himself one of the elect. We are all sinners. The Rosicrucians are not better than the Illuminati or Freemasons, and none are more worthy than the tailor and cobbler who does his duty. Adieu!”

The king nodded quickly and pointed to the door out of which the two brothers were about to disappear, when he called them back.

“If the prince is not at the palace on your return, I advise you not to pursue him, but reflect that the Invisibles may have summoned him to a communion of spirits; I believe, too, that I kept you waiting; but without doubt you were comforted by the Fathers, who bore you away upon their wings, and gave you food and drink! Those who are protected by the spirits, and can summon them at pleasure, can never want. If you are hungry, call up the departed Lucullus, that he may provide for you to eat; and if you have no earthly seat, summon Semiramis that she may send you her hanging gardens for the quiet repose of the elect! I am rejoiced that you have enjoyed such celestial refreshments in the corridor. Adieu!”

The king gazed sadly after them. Approaching Herzberg, he said: “I felt, as I looked at the two rogues, that it was a pity to grow old. Did you think that I would let them off so easily?”

“Sire, I really do not understand you,” replied Herzberg, shrugging his shoulders. “I know not, in your most active youthful days, how you could have done otherwise.”

“I will tell you that, if I were not an old man, void of decision and energy, I would have had these fellows taken to Spandau for life!” said the king, striking the table with his staff.

“Your majesty does yourself injustice,” said Herzberg, smiling. “You were ever a just monarch in your most ardent youth, and never set aside the law. These men were not guilty of any positive crime.”

“They are daily and hourly guilty of enticing away from me the crown prince, and making the future ruler of my country an obscurer, a necromancer, and at the same time a libertine! I was obliged to overlook his youthful preference for Wilhelmine Enke, and wink at this amour, for I know that crown prince is human, and his affections are to be consulted. If he cannot love the wife which diplomacy chooses for him, then he must be permitted the chosen one of his heart to console him for the forced marriage. At the same time this person was passable, and without the usual fault of such creatures, a desire to rule and mingle in politics. She seems to be unambitious and unpretentious. These Rosicrucians would banish her by increasing the number of favorites, that they may rule him, and make the future King of Prussia a complete tool in their hands. They excite his mind, which is not too well balanced, and rob him by their witchcraft of the intellect that he has. They promise him to find the philosopher’s stone, and make a fool of him. Am I not right?”

“I must acknowledge that you are,” sighed Herzberg.

“And admit also that it would be just to send these in, famous fellows as criminals to Spandau.”

“Sire, unfortunately, there are crimes and offences which the law does not reach, and which cannot be judged.”

“When I was young,” said the king, “I tore up and stamped upon every weed that I found in my garden. Shall I now let these two grow and infect the air, because the law gives me no right to crush them? Formerly I would have torn them leaf from leaf, but now I am old and useless, my hand is weak, and lacks the strength to uproot them, therefore I suffer them to stand, and all the other abominable things which these rogues bring to pass. A cloud is rising, from which a storm will one day burst over Prussia; but I cannot dissipate it, for the little strength and breath that remains I have need of for the government; and, moreover, I have no superfluous time for the future, but must live and work only for the present.”

“But the blessing of your exertions will be felt in the future. The deeds of a great man are not extinguished with his death, but shine like a star, disseminating light beyond his grave!”

“This light is just what the Rosicrucians will take care to extinguish like a tallow candle with too long a wick, and it is good fortune that the astronomers have awarded me a little glorification in the heavens, and accorded me a star, for the Rosicrucians would not let it shine here below. I must console myself with this, and recall that when it is dark and lowering here, I have a star above in the sky!”

“This star is Frederick’s honor,” cried Herzberg. “It will beam upon future generations, and become the guiding light of the sons and nephews of your house, and they will learn to be as sagacious and wise as the Great Frederick.”

“There you have made a great error, Herzberg,” replied the king, quickly. “Future generations are newer taught by the past--grandchildren think themselves wiser than their grandparents. The greatest of heroes is forgotten, and his deeds buried in the dust of ages. You have given me a glorious title of honor, and I know how little I deserve it.”

“A title which will be confirmed in centuries to come, for every history will speak of Frederick the Second as Frederick Great.”

“In history it may be, but the people will speak of me as ‘Old Fritz’--that will be on the lips of those who love me, and expression of endearment; on the lips of those who hate me, one of disaffection. I am, indeed, ‘Old Fritz,’ which the Bischofswerders and Woellners also call me, and try to make the crown prince believe that I have outlived my period, and do not understand or esteem the modern time. In their eyes I am a dismantled ship of state, which the storms of life have rendered unseaworthy. They would refit the vessel, and give it a new flag, sending Old Fritz, the helmsman, to the devil! The day of my death they will hoist this flag, with ‘Modern Time’ inscribed upon it in large letters. I shall then be united in Elysium with Voltaire, Jordan, Suhm, and all my other friends, as we were wont to be at Sans-Souci, and look down with a pitying smile upon the Modern Time and Old Folly!--Vale!”

Both Bischofswerder and Woellner hastened to avail themselves of the commanding “adieu,” and quit the royal presence. Without, the carriage was ready to reconvey them to the new palace. They were so exhausted that neither of them uttered a word, the last injunctions of the king ringing in their ears.

Silently they alighted upon arriving, but as the footman came out to meet them they asked, simultaneously, if his royal highness had dined.

“His highness is not here, having departed immediately after the two gentlemen, and is not yet returned,” he answered.

“You may serve us something to eat as quickly as possible in the little dining-room. Let it be ready in a quarter of an hour,” commanded Bischofswerder.

“Now that we are alone, what do you think of this affair?” asked Woellner.

“I cannot vouchsafe a reply until I have eaten a pheasant’s wing, and drunken my champagne,” replied Bischofswerder.

He kept his word, preserving a solemn silence until a good half of the bird had disappeared, and many glasses of iced champagne.

Then Bischofswerder leaned back in his comfortable armchair with infinite ease, whilst his friend occupied himself with the most pious zeal with the pheasant, rejoicing at this revelation of the Invisibles. Bischofswerder let him enjoy it, and ordered the footman to serve the dessert and withdraw.

“Now I am prepared to reply to you, my dear friend, that we are alone. I believe the king would have sent us to Spandau at once if we had opposed his free-thinking opinions.”

“I am convinced of it,” sighed Woellner, eyeing the remains of the bird with a melancholy glance. “We shall have much to endure for the holy cause which we serve.”

“That is to say, we will have much to suffer if we, in fanatical indiscretion, do not submit to circumstances,” said Bischofswerder.

“You cannot traduce the sublime Fathers!” cried Woellner;--“for the body’s security, we cannot endanger the salvation of our souls, and, like Peter, deny our master.”

“No, my much-loved and noble friend. But we must be wise as serpents, and our duty to the holy order is to preserve its useful tools that they may not be lost. You will agree with me in this?”

“Indeed, I do admit it,” replied Wollner, pathetically.

“Further, you will acknowledge that we are very useful, and I might say indispensable tools of the Sublime Order of the Rosicrucians and the Invisible Fathers of the Order of Jesus? It is our task to secure an abiding-place to the proscribed and, cursed, to plough and sow the field, which will yield good fruit for humanity entire, and particularly our order, when the crown prince ascends the throne. We will here erect a kingdom of the future, and it is all-important to lay so secure a corner-stone in the heart of his highness that nothing can shake or dislodge it. Who could perfect this work if we were not here? Who would dare to undertake the difficult task if we should fail? Who would carry on a secret and continued warfare with this artful and powerful seductress if we were conquered?”

“No one would do it,” sighed Woellner, “no one would sacrifice themselves like Samson for this Delilah.”

“We will together be the Samson,” replied Bischofswerder, drawing a glass of sparkling champagne. “We will be the Samson which the Philistines drove out, but this woman shall not practise the arts of Delilah upon us in putting our eyes out or cutting off our hair. Against two Samsons the most artful and beautiful Delilah is not wary enough; and if we cannot conquer her, we must resort to other means.”

“What may they be, dear brother?”

“We must compromise the matter.”

Woellner sprang up, and a flush of anger or from champagne overspread his face “Compromise with the sinful creature!” he cried, impetuously. “Make peace with the seductress, who leads the prince from the path of virtue!”

“Yes, we must be on friendly terms with this woman, who could greatly injure us as an enemy, and aid us infinitely as a friend. This is my intention, and I am the more convinced that we must accept this middle course, as she is protected by the king.”

“Because he knows from his spies that she mingles with the Illuminati and the Freemasons, and that she is our opponent,” said Woellner.

“The more the reason, my noble zealot, to win her friendship, who will have validity and power until the crown prince reigns, and this old godless freethinker of a king is in his gravel Then Prussia will commence a new era, and we shall be lords, and guide the machine of state. For such lofty aims one ought to be ready to compromise with his Satanic majesty even. Then why not with this little she-devil, whose power is fading every year with her youth and beauty?”

“It is quite true, we should be mindful of the device of our Invisible Fathers. The end sanctifies the means,” sighed Woellner.

“I believe it to be indispensable, and you will grant that I am right. Do you not see that the prince has availed himself of our absence to go there, and has not yet returned?”

“What!” shrieked Woellner, clasping his hands--“you do not mean that--”

“That Rinaldo has returned to the enchanted garden of Armida.”

“Oh, let us hasten to release him at once, and revue his soul from perdition!” cried Woellner, springing up.

“On the contrary, let us await him here without a word of reproach upon his return. This will touch his tender heart which we must work upon, if we would get him into our power, for to us he must belong. Fill our glasses with the sparkling wine, and drink to the contract with Wilhelmine Enke.”

Just as merrily they quaffed the champagne in the little cosy dining-room at Charlottenburg, where the prince and Wilhelmine were rejoicing over a reconciliation, no one being present but the two children. Their joyous laugh and innocent jests delighted the father, and the beaming eyes, sweet smile, and witty conversation of his favorite, filled his heart with pleasure.

Not a word of reproach escaped her, but exultant and joyous she hastened with outstretched arms to meet him, kissing away all his attempts to implore pardon, and thanking him that he had returned to her.

At first the prince gave himself up to the joy of the reunion with his beloved Wilhelmine sad children; but now, as the first outburst had passed, the quiet, happy dinner being finished, and they had returned to the sitting-room, a tinge of melancholy earnestness overshadowed his amiable face.

Wilhelmine threw her arms gently around his neck as she sat beside him upon the divan, and looked up to him with a tender questioning glance. “Your thoughts are veiled, dearest; will you not confide to me that which lies concealed there?”

“Ah, Wilhelmine, it is a mourning veil, and hides the sorrow of renunciation.”

“I do not understand you, Frederick,” she smilingly replied. “Who could compel you to an abnegation which would cause you grief?”

“Listen to me, Wilhelmine, and understand that I am suffering from circumstances--an oath taken in the pressure of the moment. Try to comprehend me, my dear child.”

Drawing her closer to him, he faithfully related to her the night of the communion of the spirits, and his consequent oath.

“Is that all, my dear?” she replied, smiling, as he finished.

“What do you mean?” he asked, astonished.

“Nothing more than I would know if you have only sworn to renounce Wilhelmine Enke!”

“What could I have done more prejudicial to you?” he cried, not a little irritated.

“Surely you could not injure or grieve me more, and therefore I am not a little surprised that the pious Fathers could so carelessly word their oaths. You have sworn to renounce your affection to and separate from Wilhelmine Enke; so it follows that the Invisibles only demand that you give up my name, not myself, and that is easily changed, and my dear prince will not become a perjurer.”

“I do not quite understand you; but I perceive by the arch expression of your face that you have conceived a lucky escape for your unhappy Frederick William. Explain to me, dearest, your meaning.”

“I must change my name by marrying some one!” she whispered.

“Marry! and I give you to another? I will never consent to that,” he cried, alarmed.

“Not to a husband, only a name,” said she. “These Rosicrucians are such extraordinarily virtuous and pure beings, loving you so infinitely and disinterestedly, that it grieves them that my love for you does not shun the light, and throw over itself the mantle of hypocritical virtue! We will yield to the zealous purity of the Rosicrucians,” continued Wilhelmine, her eyes sparkling, “and wrap this Wilhelmine Enke in a mantle of virtue by giving her a husband; and then, when she walks out with her children the passers-by will not have to blush with shame, and cry, ‘There goes the miss with her children!’ I have conceived and planned during this long and painful separation, and I am resolved to submit humbly to the pious Fathers, who are so zealously watchful for the salvation of your soul and my good fame.”

“That is to say, you are determined to snap your fingers at them! Your plan is a good one, but you will find no one to aid you in a sham marriage!”

“I have already found one,” whispered Wilhelmine, smiling. “Your valet de chambre Rietz is willing to stand with me in a sham marriage.”

“My body-servant!”

“Yes, Frederick William! You will confess that I am not ambitious, and only consent to it to secure our happiness from the persecution of these virtuous men. Here is the contract,” said she, drawing from her dress-pocket a paper, which she unfolded. “He promises to give me his name, and regard me as a stranger always, for the sum of four hundred thalers annually, with the promise of promotion to confidential servant when the noble crown prince shall ascend the throne. [Footnote: Historical.--See F. Forster, “Latest Prussian History,” vol. 1., p. 74] Will you sign it?”

“I will do any thing that will grant me your affection, in spite of my unhappy oath. Give me the paper. I will sign it. When is the wedding?”

“The moment that you, my dear lord and master, have inscribed your name,” said Wilhelmine, handing him the pen, and pointing to the paper.

The prince wrote the desired signature, quickly throwing the pen across the room, shouting, “Long live Wilhelmine Rietz, who has rescued me from perjury and sin! Come to my arms, outstretched to press to my heart the most beautiful, most intelligent, and most diplomatic of women!”

Two days later it was related in Berlin that Wilhelmine Enke had married the princely valet de chambre Rietz, the crown prince being present at the ceremony, which took place at a small village near Potsdam.

Under the head of marriages, the Berlin newspapers announced “Wilhelmine Enke to Carl Rietz.”

“Ah, my Rosicrucians,” cried Wilhelmine, laughingly, as she read this notice, a mischievous triumph sparkling in her eyes; “ah, my heroes in virtue, for once you are outwitted, and I am victorious! I would like to witness their surprise. How they will laugh and swear over it! The favorite of a prince married to a valet de chambre! Wait until the prince becomes a king, then Wilhelmine Rietz will develop into a beautiful butterfly, and the wife of the valet de chambre will become a countess--nay, a princess. The Great Kophta has promised it, and he shall keep his word. I wear his ring, which sparkles and glistens, although the jeweller declares the diamond has been exchanged for a false stone. No matter, if it only shines like the real one. Every thing earthly is deception, falsehood, and glitter. Every one is storming and pressing on in savage eagerness toward fortune, honor, and fame! I will have my part in it. The storm and pressure of the world rage in my own heart. The fire of ambition is lighted in my soul, and the insatiable thirst for fortune consumes me. Blaze and burn until the day that Frederick William ascends the throne; then the low-born daughter of the trumpeter will become the high-born countess. The false stone will change to the sparkling diamond and Cagliostro shall then serve me.”

Since the soiree at the house of the rich banker, Ebenstreit, an entire winter had passed in pleasures and fetes. The position of Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen had been recognized in aristocratic society, thanks to his dinners, soirees, balls, fetes, and particularly to his lovely, spirited, and proud wife. Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen had reached the acme of his ambition; his house was the resort of the most distinguished society; the extravagance and superb arrangements of his dinners and fetes were the theme of every tongue. This excessive admiration flattered the vain, ambitious parvenu extremely, and it was the happiest day of his life when Prince Henry of Prussia, brother of Frederick the Great, did him the unspeakable honor to dine with him. This gratifying day he owed to his wife, and, as he said, it ought to be kept as the greatest triumph of money over prejudice and etiquette--the day upon which a royal prince recognized the rich and newly-created noble as his equal. Ebenstreit’s entrance into the highest circle of aristocracy was due to the management and tone of the world of his wife, who understood the elegancies of life, passing as an example and ideal of an elegant woman, of which her husband was very proud. He lauded his original and crafty idea of devoting his money to such a satisfactory purchase as a sensible and ladylike wife, although the union was not a happy one, and, in the proper acceptation of the word, no marriage at all.

Whilst all were entertained at the fetes, and envied the splendor and wealth of Baron von Ebenstreit, there were many sinister remarks as to the possibility of sustaining this expenditure upon such a grand scale. It was whispered about that the banking-house, conducted under another name, had lost in extensive speculations, and that the baron lived upon his principal instead of his interest. The business community declared that the firm entered into the most daring and senseless undertakings, and that it must go to ruin. The old book-keeper, Splittgerber, who had for many years conducted the business, had been pensioned by the baron, and commenced for himself. His successor had once ventured to warn the nobleman, and represent to him the danger which threatened him, for which he was immediately dismissed, and the fact communicated to the entire house, at a special assemblage of the clerks for the purpose, with the warning of a like fate for every subordinate who should presume to criticise the acts of the principals, or proffer advice to them. Since this no one had ventured to repeat the offence, but every member of the house occupied himself in drawing a profit from the general and daily increasing confusion, and save something from the wreck which would inevitably ensue. The baron, with pretentious unconcern, dazzled by his unusual honors, permitted his business affairs to take their course with smiling unconcern, and when unsuccessful, to hide the mistakes of the banker under the pomp of the baron.

Marie, indulging in the style of a great lady, appeared not to notice or trouble herself at all about these things. She entertained most luxuriantly, and spent enormous sums upon her toilet, changed the costly livery of her numerous retinue of servants every month, as well as the furniture of the drawing-rooms; and presented with generous liberality her superfluous ornaments, dresses, and furniture to her dear high-born friends, who greedily accepted them, and were overflowing in their tender protestations and gratitude, whilst they in secret revolted at the presumption of the arrogant woman, who permitted herself to send them her cast-off things.

They rejoiced to receive them, however, and reappeared in her splendid drawing-rooms, enduring the pride and neglect of the baroness, and calling her their dear friend, whom they in secret envied and hated.

Did Marie know this, or did she let herself be deceived by these friendly protestations? Occasionally, when her friends embraced and kissed her, a languid smile flitted over her haughty face; and once as she wandered through the suite of rooms, awaiting her guests, she caught the reflection of a beautiful woman in the costly Venetian mirrors, sparkling with diamonds and wearing a silver-embroidered dress with a train. She gazed at this woman with an expression of ineffable scorn, and whispered to her: “Suffer yet awhile, you shall soon be released. This miserable trash will disappear. Only be firm--I hear already the cracking of the house which will soon fall a wreck at your feet!”

Others heard it also. As preparations were being made for a grand dinner, with which the Baron and Baroness von Ebenstreit would close the season, the former head bookkeeper of the baron appeared at the palace, demanding, with anxious mien, to see the principal.

Just at the moment the baron and his wife were in the large reception-room, which the decorator was splendidly arranging, under the direction of the baroness, with flowers, festoons, columns, and statues. Ebenstreit was watching admiringly the tasteful and costly display as the footman announced the former book-keeper and present banker, Splittgerber.

“He must come at another time,” cried Ebenstreit, impatiently, “I am busy now; I--”

“Excuse me, baron,” replied an earnest, gentle voice behind him, “that I have followed the lackey and entered unbidden. I come on urgent business, and I must indeed speak with you instantly!”

“Be brief then, at least,” cried Ebenstreit, peevishly. “You see that my wife is here, and we are very busy arranging for a grand dinner to-day.”

Herr Splittgerber, instead of replying, cast a peculiarly sad, searching glance through the beautifully-adorned room, and at the two lackeys, who stood on each side of the wide folding-doors.

“Permit that these servants withdraw, and order them to close the doors,” said the book-keeper, almost commandingly. Ebenstreit, overruled by the solemn earnestness, obeyed against his will.

“Would you like me to leave also, sir?” said Marie, with a calm, haughty manner. “You have only to ask it and the baron will, undoubtedly, accord your request.”

“On the contrary, I beg you to remain,” quietly replied Splittgerber, “for what I have to say concerns you and your husband equally.”

“Now, then, I beg you to say it quickly,” cried Ebenstreit, impatiently; “I repeat, that we are very busy with preparing for to-day’s festival.”

“You will not give any fete to-day,” said Splittgerber, solemnly.

Ebenstreit, cringing and frightened, gazed at the old man who looked sadly at him.

The baroness laughed aloud, sneeringly. “My dear sir, your tone and manner remind me of the wicked spirit at the horrible moment in the story when he comes to demand the bartered soul, and the enchanted castle falls a wreck!”

“Your comparison is an apt one, baroness,” sighed the old man.--“I came to you, baron, because I loved your father. I have served your house thirty years, and amassed the little I had to commence business with in your service. Moreover, when you so suddenly dismissed me, you not only gave me my salary as a pension, but you funded the annuity with a considerable sum, which makes me, through your house, independent in means.”

“You may thank my wife for that. She demanded, when I dismissed you, that I should compensate you with the liberality of a true nobleman.”

“Oh, would that you had not done it, baroness!” cried Splittgerber--“would that you had permitted the old faithful pioneer in the business to remain by your husband! He might have warded off this misfortune and saved you by his experience and advice.”

“For this very reason I demanded your removal. You permitted yourself to proffer advice which I felt did not become you,” replied Marie, with a strange smile of triumph.

“And, I repeat, would that you had not done it!” sighed the old man. “I came to warn you, to conjure you, to save yourselves--to flee while there is yet time.”

“Oh, mercy! what has happened?” cried Ebenstreit, terrified.

“The banking-house of Ebenstreit, founded under the name of Ludwig, associated with Ehlert of Amsterdam, four months since, to buy and load ships for the Calcutta market. Herr Ebenstreit gathered together the last wrecks of his fortune remaining from his ruinous speculations, to win enormously in this investment. Besides, he indorsed the notes of the Amsterdam house for the sum of eighty thousand dollars, which has been drawn, so that their notes are protested there. Herr Ebenstreit will have to pay this sum!”

“What else?” asked Ebenstreit, almost breathless.

“The house of Ehlert, in Amsterdam, has failed; the principal has fled with the coffers; the notes for eighty thousand dollars were protested, and you, baron, must pay this sum to-day, or declare yourself a bankrupt, and go to prison for debt.”

Instantaneously a suppressed cry and a laugh were heard. Ebenstreit sank upon a seat, concealing his pallid face with his hands, while Marie stood at his side, her face beaming with joy.

“I am lost, I do not possess the eighth part of that sum! I cannot pay it. I must submit, for there are no further means to prevent it.”

“No,” replied Marie, with haughty tranquillity, “you have no further means to prevent it. The rich banker Ebenstreit will leave this house, no longer his own, to enter the debtor’s prison poor as a beggar--nay, worse, a defrauder!”

“Oh, how cruel you are!” groaned Ebenstreit.

“Did you say, baroness, that this house is no longer his?” asked Splittgerber, alarmed.

“No,” she triumphantly cried. “It belongs to me, and all that is in it--the pictures, statues, silver, diamonds, and pearls. Oh, I am still a rich woman!”

“And do you mean to retain this wealth if your husband becomes bankrupt? Do you not possess a common interest?” asked Splittgerber.

“No, thank Heaven, the community of interest was given up a year since,” cried Ebenstreit, joyfully. “Baroness von Ebenstreit is the lawful possessor of this house and furniture. I was not so indiscreet as you supposed. I have at least secured this to my wife, and she will be a rich woman even if I fail, and will not let me starve. I shall divide about ten per cent with my creditors, but my wife will be rich enough for us both.”

“This gives me to understand that you intend to make a fraudulent bankruptcy. You have settled every thing upon your wife to save yourself from the unhappy consequences of your failure. You will still be a rich man if your wife should sell her house, works of art, diamonds, gold and silver service, and equipages.”

“Yes, indeed, a very rich man,” said Marie. “In the last few weeks I have had my property estimated, and it would at least bring three hundred thousand dollars.”

“If the baron only possessed this, he could pay his creditors, and have a small amount over, sufficient to live upon economically and genteelly. But you would rather enjoy splendor, and are not particular about living honorably. You will undoubtedly sell your property, and go to Paris, to revel in luxury and pleasure, while your defrauded creditors may, through you come to poverty and want.--Baron, I now see that your wife did well to bring about my removal. I should have, above all things, given you the unwelcome advice to sustain your honor unblemished, and dispose of your costly surroundings for the benefit of your creditors, that when you die it may be with a clear conscience. You prefer a life of luxury and ease, rocking your conscience to sleep until God will rouse it to a fearful awaking. But do as you like. I came here to offer you assistance, thinking that you would dispose of this property, and after paying your creditors have sufficient to live upon. Then I could be permitted to prove my fidelity to you. I now see that I was a fool. Yet in parting I will still beg of you to avoid the unfavorable impression of this dinner. The bill of exchange will be presented at four o’clock, and the bearer will not be satisfied with the excuse of your non-payment on account of dinner-company. You will be obliged to settle at once or be arrested. I have learned this from your chief creditor, and I begged him to have forbearance for you. I shall now justify him in showing you none, as you do not deserve it!--Farewell!”

The old book-keeper turned with a slight nod, and strode away through the drawing-room.

“Have you nothing to say to him? Will you let him go thus?” asked Marie, impetuously.

“Nothing at all. What should I say?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Then I will speak with him.” Marie called loudly after Splittgerber, saying, “I have a word to speak to you.”

The book-keeper remained standing near the door, and turning with downcast face, demanded of Marie what she wished.

“I have something to tell you,” she replied, with her usual tranquil, proud demeanor, approaching Splittgerber, who regarded her with severity and contempt, which she met with a gentle, friendly expression, a sweet smile hovering on her lips.

Marie came close up to the old man, who awaited her with haughty defiance, and never advanced one step to meet her--a lady splendidly bedecked with diamonds and gold-embroidered satin. She whispered a few words in his ear. He started, and, astonished, looked into her face, as if questioning what he heard. She nodded, smiling, and bent again to say a few words.

Suddenly Splittgerber seemed metamorphosed. His gloomy face brightened a little, and his insolent glance was changed to one of deep emotion, Bowing profoundly as he held the baroness’s proffered hand to take leave, he pressed it most respectfully to his lips.

“You will return in an hour?” Marie asked.

“Yes; I shall seek the gentlemen, and bring them with me,” he graciously replied.

“Thanks; I will then await you.”

Splittgerber departed, and Marie returned to Ebenstreit who, amazed, muttered some unintelligible words, having listened to her mysterious conversation with the old book-keeper.

“Now to you, sir!” said she, her whole tone and manner changing to harsh command; “the hour for settling our accounts has arrived--the hour that I have awaited, purchasing it by four years of torture, self-contempt, and despair. This comedy is at an end. I will buy of you my freedom. Do you hear me? I will cast off these galley-chains. I will be free!”

“Oh, Marie!” he cried, retreating in terror, “with what fearful detestation you regard me!”

“Do you wonder at it? Have I ever concealed this hate from you, or ever given you hope to believe that a reconciliation would be possible between us?”

“No, truly you have not, but now you will forgive me, for you know how I love you, and have provided for your future. You will remain rich, and I shall be poor.”

Marie regarded him with unspeakable contempt. “You are more despicable than I thought you were. You do not deserve forbearance or pity, for you are a dishonorable bankrupt, who cares not how much others may suffer, provided his future is secured. I will not, however, suffer the name which I have borne against my will, to be defamed and become a mark for scorn. I will compel you to remain an honest man, and be just to your creditors. I propose to pay the bills of exchange, which will be presented to you to-day, provided you will consent to my conditions.”

“Oh, Marie, you are an angel!” he cried, rushing toward her and kneeling at her feet, “I will do all that you wish, and consent to every thing you propose.”

“Will you swear it?” she coldly replied.

“I swear that I accept your conditions.”

“Bring the writing-materials from the window-niche, and seat yourself by this table.”

Ebenstreit brought them, and seated himself by the Florentine mosaic table, near which Marie was standing.

She drew from her pocket a paper, which she unfolded and placed before him to sign. “Sign this with your full name, and add, ‘With my own free will and consent,’” she commandingly ordered him.

“But you will first make known to me the contents?”

“You have sworn to sign it,” she said, “and unless you accept my conditions, you are welcome to be incarcerated for life in the debtor’s prison. You have only to choose. If you decide in the negative, I will exert myself that your creditors do not free you. I should trust in the justice of God having sent you there, and that man in miserable pity should not act against His will in freeing you. Now decide; will you sign the paper, or go to prison as a dishonorable bankrupt?”

He hastily seized the pen and wrote his name, handing the paper to Marie, sighing.

“You have forgotten to add the clause, ‘With my own free will and consent,’” she replied, hastily glancing at it, letting the paper drop like a wilted leaf, and her eyes flashing with scorn.

Ebenstreit saw it, and as he again handed her the paper, he exclaimed, “I read in your eyes the intense hate you bear me.”

“Yes,” she replied, composedly, “not only hate, but scorn. Hush! no response. You knew it long before I was forced to stand at the altar with you. I warned you not to unite yourself to me, and you had the impious audacity to defy me with your riches. The seed of hate which you then sowed, you may to-day reap the fruits of. You shall recognize now that money is miserable trash, and that when deprived of it you will never win sympathy from your so-called friends, but they will turn from you with contempt, when you crave their pity or aid.”

“I think that you exaggerate, dearest,” said Ebenstreit, fawningly. “You have many devoted friends among the ladies, and I can well say that I have found, among the distinguished gentlemen who visit our house, many noble, excellent ones who have met me with a warmth of friendship--”

“Because they would borrow money of the rich man,” interrupted Marie.

“Of course my coffers have always been accessible to my dear friends, and I prized the honor of proving my friendship by my deeds.”

“You will realize to-day how they prove their gratitude to you for it. Go, receive the good friends whom you have invited. It is time that they were here, and I perceive the carriages are approaching.”

Marie motioned to the door, with a dictatorial wave of her hand, and Ebenstreit betook himself to the reception-room. Just as he crossed the threshold, the usher announced “Herr Gedicke! Ebenstreit greeted him hastily in passing, and the old man went on to meet the baroness, who was hastening toward him.

“You have most graciously invited me to your house to-day, and you will excuse me that my earnest wish to see you has brought me earlier than any other guest.”

“I begged you to come a quarter of an hour sooner, for I would gladly speak with you alone a few moments.”

“I thought so, and hastened up here.”

“Did not my old Trude go to see you some days since?” asked Marie, timidly.

“She did, and you can well understand that I was much affected and surprised at her visit. I thought that you had forgotten me, baroness, and that every souvenir of the past had fled from your memory. I now see that your noble, faithful heart can never forget, and therefore has never ceased to suffer, which I ought to regret, for your sake, but for my own it pleased me to receive your kind greeting.”

Marie pressed her hand to her eyes and sighed audibly. “Pray do not speak so gently to me--it enervates me, and I would force myself to endure to-day. Only tell me, did Trude communicate to you my wishes, and will it be possible for you to fulfil them?”

“Your brave, good friend brought me a thousand dollars, praying me to convey this to Herr Moritz in order to defray the expenses of a journey to Italy.”

“Have you accomplished it, and in such a manner that he does not suspect the source from whence it came? He would not receive it if he had the least suspicion of it. I have seen him secretly several times as he passed to and fro from the Gymnasium, and he appeared to me to grow paler and more languid every day.”

“It is true that since you have come back he has changed. The old melancholy seems to have returned.”

“He needs distraction; he must go away and forget me. It has always been his earnest wish to travel in Italy. You must tell him that you have succeeded in getting the money for him.”

“I bethought myself of Moritz’s publisher, represented to him how necessary it was for the health of Professor Moritz to travel, begged of him to order a work upon Italy, and particularly the works of art of Rome, and propose to Moritz the acceptance of the money for that object, as he was quite too proud to receive it as a present.”

“That was an excellent idea,” cried Marie. “Has it been accomplished?”

“Yes, as Herr Maurer made the proposal, and Moritz replied, sighing, that he had not the means for such a journey, the publisher immediately offered him half of the remuneration in advance; consequently he starts to-morrow for Italy, unknowing of the thousand dollars being your gift.” [Footnote: This work, which was published after his return, still excites the highest interest, and is entitled “Travels of a German in Italy during 1786 and 1787.--Letters of Philip Carl Moritz,” 8 vols., Berlin, published by Frederick Maurer.]

“How much I thank you!” she joyfully cried. “Moritz is saved; he will now recover, and forget all his grief in studying the objects of interest in the Eternal City.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Herr Gedicke. “Were you not also in Italy?”

“I was indeed there two years, but it was very different with me. It is difficult to forget you are a slave, when listening all the while to the clanking of your chains.”

“My poor child, I read with sorrow the history of the past years in your grief-stricken face. It is the first time we have met since your marriage.”

“See what these years have made of me!--a miserable wife, whom the world esteems, but who recoils from herself. My heart has changed to stone, and I feel metamorphosed. The sight of you recalls that fearful hour, melting my heart and causing the tears to flow. At that time you blessed me, my friend and father. Oh, grant me your blessing again in this hour of sorrow! I implore you for it, before an important decision! I long for the sympathy of a noble soul!”

“I know not, my child, with what grief this hour may be laden for you; but I lay my hand again upon your head, imploring God in His divine mercy to sustain you!”

“Countess von Moltke and Frau von Morien!” announced the usher. In brilliant toilets the ladies rustled in, hastening toward the baroness, who had now regained her wonted composure, and received them in her usual stately manner.

“How perfectly charming you look to-night!” cried Countess Moltke. “To me you are ever the impersonation of the goddess of wealth and beauty strewing everywhere with lavish generosity your gifts, and turning every thing to gold with your touch.”

“But whose heart has remained tender and gentle,” added Frau von Morien.--“You are indeed a goddess, always enhancing the pleasures of others. To-day I wear the beautiful bracelet which you sent me because I admired it.”

“And I, ma toute belle,” cried the countess, “have adorned myself with this superb gold brocade which you so kindly had sent from Paris for me.”

“You have forgotten, countess, that you begged of me to give the order for you.”

“Ah, that is true! Then I am your debtor.”

“If you are not too proud to receive it as a present?”

“Oh, most certainly not; on the contrary, I thank you, my dear.--Tell me, my dear Morien, is not this woman an angel?”

At this instant the French ambassador, Marquis Treves, appeared among the numerous guests, whom the baroness stepped quickly forward to welcome, withdrawing with him into the window-niche.

“Welcome, marquis,” she said, quickly, in a low voice, “Have you brought me the promised papers?”

Drawing a sealed packet from his coat-pocket, he handed it to the baroness with a low bow, saying: “I would draw your attention to the fact once more, dear madam, that I have abided by the price named by yourself, in making this sale, although I am still of the opinion that it is below its value.”

“The sum is sufficient for my wants, and I rated its value according as it is taxed.”

“There are a hundred thousand dollars in bills of exchange, payable at the French embassy at any moment,” said the marquis.

“I thank you, sir, for this proof of friendly attention; and as it may be the last time we meet, I would assure you that I shall always remember your many and thoughtful kindnesses.”

“You speak, baroness, as if you would forsake the circle of which you are the brightest ornament.”

“No, the friends will forsake me,” she replied, with a peculiar smile. “Ere an hour shall pass not one of all these numerous guests will remain here.--Ah, there comes the decision! See there, marquis!”

The usher announced “Banker Splittgerber.” The old man entered followed by two men of not very presentable appearance, and whose toilet was but little in keeping with the brilliantly-decorated room and the aristocratic guests.

Never heeding the sneers nor contemptuous smiles, the faithful book-keeper wound his way, through the crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by the two men, up to Ebenstreit, who, with instinctive politeness, had placed himself near Marie.

“Gentlemen,” said Splittgerber, in a loud voice, “this is Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen, principal of the banking-house Ludwig.”

The two gentlemen approached, one of them saying, “They sent us here from your office.”

“This is not the place for business,” replied Ebenstreit. “Follow me!”

“No, gentlemen, remain here,” cried Marie. “Our guests present are such intimate, devoted friends that we have nothing to conceal from them; but on the contrary, I am convinced they will only be too happy of the occasion to prove their friendship, of which they have so often assured us.--These gentlemen demand the payment of a bill of exchange for eighty thousand dollars. Take my portfolio, Ebenstreit; there is a pencil in it. Go around and make a collection; undoubtedly the entire sum will be soon noted down.”

Ebenstreit approached the Baron von Frankenstein, saying: “Pardon me if I recall to your memory the sum of one thousand louis d’ors, due for four black horses three months since.”

“My dear sir,” cried the baron, “this is a strange manner to collect one’s debts. We were invited to a feast, and a pistol is pointed at us, demanding our debts to be cancelled!”

“How strange! How ridiculous!” heard one here and there among the guests, as they, with one accord, pressed toward the door to make their exit, which they found fastened.

“Remain,” cried Marie, with stately dignity. “I wish you honored guests to be witness of this scene in the hour of justification, as you were also present at the one when one of the noblest and best of men cursed me.--Banker Splittgerber, take these bills of exchange for one hundred thousand dollars. Pay these gentlemen, and devote the remainder to the other debts as far as it will go.”

As the three men withdrew by a side-drier, Marie exclaimed: “I will now explain to you that Baron von Leuthen is ruined--poor as a beggar when he will not work.”

“Marie,” cried Ebenstreit, terrified, rushing toward her, and seizing her by the arm. “Marie--”

She threw off his hand from her in anger. “Do not touch me, sir, and do not presume either to address me with any endearments. You have yourself said that our marriage was not a veritable one, but was like the union of associates in business, and now I would inform you it is dissolved: the one is a bankrupt; the other a woman whom you cursed, and who reclaims of you four years of shame and degradation. You wonder at my speaking thus, but you do not know this man, my friends.”

As she spoke, a door opened at the farther end of the room, and Trude entered in her simple dress, followed by Philip Moritz. Unobserved the two glided behind the charming grotto which had been arranged with flowers and wreaths in one of the niches. Every eye was turned upon the pale, stately beauty, erect in the centre of the room.

“Stay here, for no one can see us,” whispered Trude. “I could not bear to have you leave Berlin without hearing the justification of my dear Marie, and may God pardon me for letting you come here unbeknown to her! Listen, and pray to Him to forgive you the great injustice that you have done her. Be quiet, that no one may see you, and Marie be angry with her old Trude.”

“Yes,” continued Marie, with chilling contempt, “you should know this man before whom you have all bowed, pressed the hand, and called your friend, because he was rich, and, thanks to his wealth alone, became a titled man--a baron, buying the hand of a poor but noble maiden, whom he knew despised him, and passionately loved another, having sworn eternal constancy to him. I am that young girl. I begged, nay implored him, not to pursue me, but he was void of pity, mocked my tears, and said he could buy my love, and my heart would at last be touched by the influence of his wealth. I should have preferred to die, but Fate ordered that the one I loved, by my fault, should by imprisonment atone our brief dream of bliss. I could only save him by accepting this man; these were the conditions. I became his wife before the world, and took my oath in his presence to revenge myself, and after four years I shall accomplish it. I have spent his money, and of the rich man made a beggar. God be praised, I can now revenge myself in freeing myself!”

“Free yourself? It is not true! You are my wife still,” replied Ebenstreit, alarmed.

A radiant smile flitted over Marie’s face as she defied Ebenstreit with the law of the Great Frederick, who had decided that every unhappy couple without offspring could separate by their own free will and consent, having signed a paper to that effect.

“Is that the paper which you have made me sign?” cried Ebenstreit, alarmed.

“Yes, drawn up by my notary, and both of our names are signed to it.”

“It is a fraud!” cried Ebenstreit. “I will protest against it.”

“Do it, and you will find it a vain effort. I promised to pay your debt if you would put your name to the document then placed before you, which you did. Ask the Marquis Treves how I paid your debts: he will answer you that he has given me the money.”

“I had the honor to pay to the baroness one hundred thousand dollars, as she rightly informs you.”

“Yes,” continued Marie, “the marquis is the present possessor of this house and all that it contains--furniture, statues, and pictures; also the equipages and silver. To my mother I sent my diamonds, costly laces, and dresses, to indemnify her for the annuity which Herr von Ebenstreit settled upon her as purchase-money which he cannot pay, now that he is ruined.”

“Marquis,” cried Ebenstreit, pale with anger, “have you really bought this house and its contents?”

“I have done so, and the one hundred thousand dollars the baroness has paid over to Herr Splittgerber.”

“Oh! I am ruined,” groaned Ebenstreit--“I am lost!” and, covering his face with his hands, he rushed from the room.

Marie gazed at him with a sad expression, saying: “Ladies and gentlemen, you now know to whom this house belongs. You can no longer say that I am the daughter whom the late General von Leuthen sold to a rich man. I am free!”

At this moment a side-door opened, and Frau von Leuthen was heard saying to old Trude: “Let me in! it is in vain to hold me back. I will have an explanation from my daughter, and learn what all this means.” As she pushed herself into the room, she exclaimed: “Ah, it is a fete day! There is the baroness in all her glory and splendor. She is not crazed, as I feared this morning, when she sent me all her ornaments and fine dresses and laces, with a note, sealed with black, inscribed upon it, ‘Will Of the Baroness Ebenstreit von Leuthen.’ I opened it, and read: ‘I give to my mother my precious ornaments, laces, and dresses, to secure to her the pension which she has lost.--Marie. ‘I came here to learn if my daughter were dead, and what the conclusion of this lost pension may be, and I find--”

“You find the confirmation of all that I wrote to you,” replied Marie, coldly. “Baron Ebenstreit von Leuthen is ruined. I have secured to you, in the sum which my jewels and laces will bring you, the annuity, so that you have not lost the money promised you for your daughter, and the marriage you have arranged has at least borne good fruit to you.”

“You are a cruel, ungrateful child,” cried the mother. “I have long known it, and rejected you from my heart, and from all shame I will yet protect the name you bear. I have just seen a sign in the Friedrich-strasse, ‘Flower manufactory of Marie von Leuthen.’ What does this mean? Terrified, I stared speechless at these fearful words, and at the busy workmen preparing the house.”

“I will explain it to you,” cried Marie, with radiant mien. “I have again become the flower-maker, and beg your favor, Countess von Moltke, Frau von Morien, and all the other ladies. I am free, and no longer the wife of a hated husband--no longer the distinguished and wealthy woman. All delusion and mockery have vanished. The costly dress and jewels that I now wear I will cast of from me as the last souvenir of the past.”

Unclasping the diamond necklace and bracelets, she handed them to her mother, saying: “Take them, and also this dress, the last finery I possess.” She unloosed the band, and the long white satin train fell at her feet. Emerging from it as from a silvery cloud, she stood before them in a simple white dress, as she was clothed in her girlhood. “Take them all,” she joyfully cried. “Take them, mother, it is all past. I am now myself again. Farewell, witnesses of this scene! I now quit your circle; and you, my mother, I forgive you; may the thoughts of your unhappy child never trouble you, waking or sleeping; may you forget that your daughter lives, and is wretched. Revenge has not softened my grief, or removed your curse from my head!”

“I will lift it off your brow, Marie!” cried Moritz, suddenly appearing from the window-niche, with beaming face and outstretched arms, approaching Marie, whom surprised and alarmed, retreated. “Oh, noble, courageous woman, forgive me that I have been an unbidden witness to this scene, though by this means I now clearly recognize your strength of mind, and elevation of soul, and the wrong that I have committed in doubting and cursing you during these four years of gloom and despair. I bow before you, Marie, and implore you, upon my knees, to forgive me all the cruel, harsh words that I have uttered--that I have dared as a wretched fool to doubt you in this long night of despair. The day is dawning again upon us; a new sun will yet cheer us with its rays. Do not turn from me, but look at me, and grant me forgiveness.--My dear friend and father, speak for me, for you know what I have suffered. Beg of her to forgive me.”

“Marie,” said the venerable old man, approaching her, gently putting his arm around her, “God has willed that you, my poor, long-tried child, should pass through a season of extreme sorrow. You are now released, and all that belonged to you has vanished!”

As he spoke, he signed to the guests to withdraw. Many had already escaped the painful scene by the side-door. Marie was now alone in the magnificent apartment, with Herr Gedicke and Moritz. She still stood, with concealed face, in the centre of the room.

“Oh, Marie,” implored Moritz, “hide not your dear face from me! Read in mine the deep grief of the past and the bliss of the future. I thank God that this unnatural union is severed, and that you are free. Be courageous to the end!” Moritz impetuously drew her hand away, revealing her tearful countenance, as her head sank upon his shoulder. “Can you not forgive me, Marie?” he cried, with deep emotion. “We have both wandered through a waste of grief, and now approach life radiant with happiness. Oh, speak to me, Marie; can you not love me and forgive me?”

She gazed into his eyes, and in their depths read that which gradually softened her hardened features, and caused a smile to play upon her lip. “I love you dearly, devotedly; let this be our parting word. Go forth into the world, Moritz; my affection will follow you whithersoever you wander, and my soul will be true to you through all eternity, though we are forever separated. The poor wife, with her dismal retrospections, must not cast a shadow upon your future. Go, my beloved--Italy awaits you, and art will console you!”

“Follow me, dear Marie; only by your side am I happy. You are free and independent,” cried Moritz.

“Oh, father,” cried Marie, leaning upon the venerable old man, “explain to him that I am still the wife of that hated man!”

“She is right, Philip; do not urge her further. She must first be legally separated, and this weary heart must have time to recover its wonted calm. Go to Italy, and confide your future and happiness to my care. Marie has lost a mother, but she shall find a father in me. I will watch over her until your return.”

Just then the door opened, and Trude entered. “Every thing is ready; all the things which used to stand in the little garret-room are packed and sent to the manufactory. Shall we go, too, dear child?”

“Yes,” she cried, embracing the faithful old woman. “Farewell, Philip--Italy calls you!”

“I will go, but when I return will you not be my wife?”

Marie gazed at Moritz, radiant with happiness, saying: “The answer is engraven upon my heart. Return, and then I will joyfully respond to your love before God and man!”

End of Project Gutenberg’s Old Fritz and the New Era, by Louise Muhlbach