XIII. THE TWO GRENADIERS
Smiling, and with elastic step, the king advanced to meet the two grenadiers, who stood rooted to the spot as he approached them. “Grenadiers,” said he, “why are you not with your comrades?”
“Our comrades fled,” said one.
“It is dishonorable to fly,” said the other.
The king was startled. These voices were familiar, he had surely heard them before.
“I ought to know you,” said he, “this is not the first time we have spoken together. What is your name, my son?”
“Fritz Kober is my name,” said the grenadier.
“And yours?”
“Charles Henry Buschman,” said the other.
“You are not mistaken, sir king! we have met and spoken before, but it was on a better night than this.”
“Where was it?” said the king.
“The night before the great, the glorious battle of Leuthen,” said Fritz Kober, gravely; “at that time, sir king, you sat at our tent-fire and ate dumplings with us. Charles Henry knows how to cook them so beautifully!”
“Ah! I remember,” said the king; “you made me pay my share of the costs.”
“And you did so, like a true king,” said Fritz Kober. “Afterward you came back to our tent-fire, and Charles Henry Buschman told you fairy tales, nobody can do that so beautifully as Charles Henry, and you slept refreshingly throughout.”
“No, no, grenadier,” said the king, “I did not sleep, and I can tell you to-day all that Charles Henry related.”
“Well, what was it?” said Fritz Kober, with great delight.
The king reflected a moment, and then said, in a soft voice:
“He told of a king who was so fondly loved by a beautiful fairy, that she changed herself into a sword when the king went to war and helped him to defeat his enemies! Is that it. Fritz Kober?”
“Nearly so, sir king; I wish you had such a fairy at your side to-day.”
“Still, Fritz,” whispered Charles Henry Buschman, “our king does not need the help of a fairy; our king can maintain his own cause, and God is with his sword.”
“Do you truly believe that, my son?” said the king, deeply moved. “Have you still this great confidence in me? Do you still believe that I can sustain myself and that God is with me?”
“We have this confidence, and we will never lose it!” cried Charles Henry, quickly. “Our enemies over there have no Frederick to lead them on, no commander-in-chief to share with them hunger and thirst, and danger and fatigue; therefore they cannot love their leaders as we do ours.”
“And then,” said Fritz Kober, thoughtfully, “I am always thinking that this war is like a battle of the cats and hounds. Sometimes it looks as if the little cats would get the better of the great bulldogs; they have sharp claws, and scratch the dogs in the face till they can neither see nor hear, and must for a while give way; they go off, however, give themselves a good shake, and open their eyes, and spring forward as great and strong and full of courage as ever; they seize upon the poor cats in the nape of the neck and bite them deadly with their strong, powerful teeth. What care they if the cats do scratch in the mean while? No, no, sir king, the cats cannot hold out to the end; claws are neither so strong nor so lasting as teeth.”
“Yes,” said the king, laughing, “but how do you know but our foes over there are the hounds and we are the little cats?”
“What!” cried Fritz Kober, amazed, “we shall be the cats? No, no, sir king, we are the great hounds.”
“But how can you prove this?”
“How shall I prove it?” said Fritz Kober, somewhat embarrassed. After a short pause, he cried out, gayly, “I have it--I will prove it. Those over there are the cats because they are Russians and Austrians, and do not serve a king as we do; they have only two empresses, two women. Now, sir king, am I not right? Women and cats, are they not alike? So those over there are the cats and we are the bull dogs!”
Frederick was highly amused. “Take care,” said he, “that ‘those over there’ do not hear you liken their empresses to cats.”
“And if they are empresses,” said Fritz Kober, dryly, “they are still women, and women are cats.”
The king looked over toward the camp-fires, which were boldly shining on the horizon.
“How far is it from here to those fires?” said he.
“About an hour,” said Charles Henry, “not more.”
“One hour,” repeated the king, softly. “In one hour, then, I could know my fate! Listen, children, which of you will go for me?”
Both exclaimed in the same moment, “I will!”
“It is a fearful attempt,” said the king, earnestly; “the Cossacks are swarming in every direction, and if you escape them, you may be caught in the camp and shot as spies.”
“I will take care that they shall not recognize me as an enemy,” said Charles Henry, quietly.
“I also,” said Fritz Kober, zealously. “You stay, Charles Henry, we dare not both leave the king. You know that only this evening, while upon the watch, we swore that, even if the whole army of the enemy marched against us, we would not desert our king, but would stand at our post as long as there was a drop of blood in our veins or a breath in our bodies.”
The king laid his hands upon the two soldiers and looked at them with much emotion. The moon, which stood great and full in the heavens, lighted up this curious group, and threw three long, dark shadows over the plain.
“And you have sworn that, my children?” said the king, after a long pause. “Ah, if all my men thought as you do we would not have been defeated this day.”
“Sir king, your soldiers all think as we do, but fate was against us. Just as I said, the cats outnumbered us to-day, but we will bite them bravely for it next time. And now tell me, sir king, what shall I do over there in the camp?”
Before the king could answer, Charles Henry laid his hand upon his arm.
“Let me go,” said he, entreatingly; “Fritz Kober is so daring, so undaunted, he is not cautious; they will certainly shoot him, and then you have lost the best soldier in your army.”
“Your loss, I suppose, would not be felt; the king can do without you.”
“Listen, children,” said the king, “it is best that you both go; one can protect the other, and four ears are better than two.”
“The king is right, that is best--we will both go.”
“And leave the king alone and unguarded?”
“No,” said the king, pointing to the two sleepers, “I have my two adjutants, and they will keep guard for me. Now, listen to what I have to say to you. Over there is the enemy, and it is most important for me to know what he is doing, and what he proposes to do. Go, then, and listen. Their generals have certainly taken up their quarters in the village. You must ascertain that positively, and then draw near their quarters. You will return as quickly as possible, and inform me of all that you hear and see.”
“Is that all?” said Fritz Kober.
“That is all. Now be off, and if you do your duty well, and return fresh and in good order, you shall be both made officers.” Fritz Kober laughed aloud. “No, no, sir king, we know that old story already.”
“It is not necessary that you should promise us any thing, your majesty,” said Charles Henry; “we do not go for a reward, but for respect and love to our king.”
“But tell me, Fritz Kober, why you laughed so heartily?” said the king.
“Because this is not the first time that your majesty has promised to make us officers. Before the battle of Leuthen, you said if we were brave and performed valiant deeds, you would make us officers. Well, we were brave. Charles Henry took seven prisoners, and I took nine; but we are not officers.”
“You shall be to-morrow,” said the king. “Now, hasten off, and come back as quickly as possible.”
“We will leave our muskets here,” said Charles Henry; “we dare not visit our enemies in Prussian array.”
They placed their arms at the house door, and then clasping each other’s hands, and making a military salute, they hastened off. The king looked after them till their slender forms were lost in the distance.
“With fifty thousand such soldiers I could conquer the world,” murmured he; “they are of the true metal.”
He turned, and stepping up to the two sleepers, touched them lightly on the shoulders. They sprang up alarmed when they recognized the king.
“You need not excuse yourselves,” said Frederick kindly, “you have had a day of great fatigue, and are, of course, exhausted. Come into the house, the night air is dangerous; we will sleep here together.”
“Where are the two grenadiers?” said Goltz.
“I have sent them off on duty.”
“Then your majesty must allow us to remain on guard. I have slept well, and am entirely refreshed.”
“I also,” said the second lieutenant. “Will your majesty be pleased to sleep? we will keep guard.”
“Not so,” said the king, “the moon will watch over us all. Come in.”
“But it is impossible that your majesty should sleep thus, entirely unguarded. The first Cossack that dashes by could take aim at your majesty through the window.”
Frederick shook his head gravely. “The ball which will strike me will come from above, [Footnote: The king’s own words.--See Nicolai, p. 118.] and that you cannot intercept. No, it is better to have no watch before the door; we will not draw the attention of troops passing by to this house. I think no one will suppose that this miserable and ruinous barrack, through which the wind howls, is the residence of a king. Come, then, messieurs.” He stepped into the hut, followed by the two adjutants, who dared no longer oppose him. “Put out that light,” said the king, “the moon will be our torch, and will glorify our bed of straw.” He drew his sword, and grasping it firmly in his right hand, he stretched himself upon the straw. “There is room for both of you--lie down. Good-night, sirs.”
Frederick slightly raised his three-cornered hat in greeting, and then laid it over his face as a protection from the moonlight and the cold night air. The adjutants laid down silently at his feet, and soon no sound was heard in the room but the loud breathing of the three sleepers.
XIV. THE RIGHT COUNSEL
Hand in hand the two grenadiers advanced directly toward the battle-field. Before they could approach the enemy’s camp they must borrow two Austrian uniforms from the dead upon the plain. It was not difficult, amongst so many dead bodies, to find two Austrian officers, and the two Prussian grenadiers went quickly to work to rob the dead and appropriate their garments.
“I don’t know how it is,” said Charles Henry, shuddering, “a cold chill thrills through me when I think of putting on a coat which I have just taken from a dead body. It seems to me the marble chillness of the corpse will insinuate itself into my whole body, and that I shall never be warm again.”
Fritz Kober looked up with wide-open eyes! “You have such curious thoughts, Charles Henry, such as come to no other man; but you are right, it is a frosty thing.” And now he had removed the uniform and was about to draw off his own jacket and assume the white coat of the Austrian. “It is a great happiness,” said he, “that we need not change our trousers, a little clearer or darker gray can make no difference in the night.”
Charles Henry was in the act of drawing on the coat of the dead man, when Fritz Kober suddenly seized his arm and held him back. “Stop,” said he, “you must do me a favor--this coat is too narrow, and it pinches me fearfully; you are thinner than I am, and I think it will fit you exactly; take it and give me yours.” He jerked off the coat and handed it to his friend.
“No, no, Fritz Kober,” said Charles Henry, in a voice so soft and sweet, that Fritz was confused and bewildered by it. “No, Fritz, I understand you fully. You have the heart of an angel; you only pretend that this coat is too narrow for you that you may induce me to take the one you have already warmed.”
It was well that Fritz had his back turned to the moon, otherwise his friend would have seen that his face was crimson; he blushed as if detected in some wicked act. However, he tore the uniform away from Charles Henry rather roughly, and hastened to put it on.
“Folly,” said he, “the coat squeezes me, that is all! Besides, it is not wise to fool away our time in silly talking. Let us go onward.”
“Directly over the battle-field?” said Charles Henry, shuddering.
“Directly over the battle-field,” said Kober, “because that is the nearest way.”
“Come, then,” said Charles, giving him his hand.
It was indeed a fearful path through which they must walk. They passed by troops of corpses--by thousands of groaning, rattling, dying men--by many severely wounded, who cried out to them piteously for mercy and help! Often Charles Henry hesitated and stood still to offer consolation to the unhappy wretches, but Fritz Kober drew him on. “We cannot help them, and we have far to go!” Often the swarming Cossacks, dashing around on their agile little ponies, called to them from afar off in their barbarous speech, but when they drew near and saw the Austrian uniforms, they passed them quietly, and were not surprised they had not given the pass-word.
At last they passed the battle-field, and came on the open plain, at the end of which they perceived the camp-fires of the Russians and Austrians. The nearer they approached, the more lively was the scene. Shouts, laughter, loud calls, and outcries--from time to time a word of command. And in the midst of this mad confusion, here and there soldiers were running, market-women offering them wares cheap, and exulting soldiers assembling around the camp-fires. From time to time the regular step of the patrouille was heard, who surrounded the camp, and kept a watchful eye in every direction.
Arm in arm they passed steadily around the camp. “One thing I know,” whispered Fritz Kober, “they have no thought of marching. They will pass a quiet, peaceful night by their camp-fires.”
“I agree with you,” said Charles Henry, “but let us go forward and listen a little; perhaps we can learn where the generals are quartered.”
“Look, look! it must be there,” said Fritz Kober, hastily.
“There are no camp-fires; but there is a brilliant light in the peasants’ huts, and it appears to me that I see a guard before the doors. These, certainly, are the headquarters.”
“Let us go there, then,” said Charles Henry; “but we must approach the houses from behind, and thus avoid the guard.”
They moved cautiously around, and drew near the houses. Profound quiet reigned in this neighborhood; it was the reverence of subordination--the effect which the presence of superior officers ever exercises upon their men. Here stood groups of officers, lightly whispering together--there soldiers were leading their masters’ horses; not far off orderlies were waiting on horseback--sentinels with shouldered arms were going slowly by. The attention of all seemed to be fixed upon the two small houses, and every glance and every ear was turned eagerly toward the brilliantly lighted windows.
“We have hit the mark exactly,” whispered Fritz Kober; he had succeeded with his friend in forcing his way into the little alley which separated the two houses. “We have now reached the head-quarters of the generals. Look! there is an Austrian sentinel with his bear’s cap. Both the Austrian and Russian generals are here.”
“Let us watch the Russians a little through the window,” said Charles Henry, slipping forward.
They reached the corner, and were hidden by the trunk of a tree which overshadowed the huts. Suddenly they heard the word of command, and there was a general movement among the files of soldiers assembled about the square. The officers placed themselves in rank, the soldiers presented arms; for, at this moment, the Austrian General Loudon, surrounded by his staff, stepped from one of the small houses into the square. The Cossacks, who were crouched down on the earth before the door, raised themselves, and also presented arms.
While Loudon stood waiting, the two Prussian grenadiers slipped slyly to the other hut.
“Let us go behind,” whispered Charles Henry. “There are no sentinels there, and perhaps we may find a door, and get into the house.”
Behind the hut was a little garden whose thick shrubs and bushes gave complete concealment to the two grenadiers. Noiselessly they sprang over the little fence, and made a reconnoissance of the terrain--unseen, unnoticed, they drew near the house. As they stepped from behind the bushes, Fritz Kober seized his friend’s arm, and with difficulty suppressed a cry of joy.
The scene which was presented to them was well calculated to rejoice the hearts of brave soldiers. They had reached the goal, and might now hope to fulfil the wishes of their king. The quarters of the Russian general were plainly exposed to them. In this great room, which was evidently the ball-room of the village, at a long oak-table, in the middle of the room, sat General Soltikow, and around him sat and stood the generals and officers. At the door, half a dozen Cossacks were crouching, staring sleepily on the ground. The room was brilliantly illuminated with wax-lights, and gave the two grenadiers an opportunity of seeing it in every part. Fate appeared to favor them in every way, and gave them an opportunity to hear as well as see. The window on the garden was opened to give entrance to the cool night air, and near it there was a thick branch of a tree in which a man could conceal himself.
“Look there,” said Charles Henry, “I will hide in that tree. We will make our observations from different stand-points. Perhaps one of us may see what escapes the other. Let us attend closely, that we may tell all to our king.”
No man in this room guessed that in the silent little garden four flashing eyes were observing all that passed.
At the table sat the Russian commander-in-chief, surrounded by his generals and officers. Before him lay letters, maps, and plans, at which he gazed from time to time, while he dictated an account of the battle to the officer sitting near him, Soltikow was preparing a dispatch for the Empress Elizabeth. A few steps farther off, in stiff military bearing, stood the officers who were giving in their reports, and whose statements brought a dark cloud to the brow of the victorious commander. Turning with a hasty movement of the head to the small man with the gold-embroidered uniform and the stiffly-frizzed wig, he said--
“Did you hear that, sir marquis? Ten thousand of my brave soldiers lie dead upon the battle-field, and as many more are severely wounded.”
“It follows then,” said the Marquis Montalembert, the French commissioner between the courts of Vienna, Petersburg, and Paris, “it follows then, that the king of Prussia has forty thousand dead and wounded, and, consequently, his little army is utterly destroyed.”
“Who knows?” said Soltikow; “the king of Prussia is accustomed to sell his defeats dearly. I should not be at all surprised if he had lost fewer soldiers than we have.” [Footnote: Soltikow’s own words--See Archenholtz, p 206.] “Well, I think he has now nothing more to lose,” said the marquis, laughing; “it rests with you to give the last coup de grace to this conquered and flying king, and forever prevent--”
The entrance of an officer interrupted him. The officer announced General von Loudon.
Soltikow arose, and advanced to the door to welcome the Austrian general. A proud smile was on his face as he gave his hand to Loudon; he did this with the air of a gracious superior who wished to be benevolent to his subordinate.
The quick, firm glance of Loudon seemed to read the haughty heart of his ally, and, no doubt for this reason, he scarcely touched Soltikow’s hand. With erect head and proud step he advanced into the middle of the room.
“I resolved to come to your excellency,” said Loudon, in a sharp, excited tone; “you have a large room, while in my hut I could scarcely find accommodation for you and your adjutants.”
“You come exactly at the right hour,” said Soltikow, with a haughty smile; “you see, we were about to hold a council of war, and consider what remains to be done.”
A dark and scornful expression was seen in Loudon’s countenance, and his eyes rested fiercely upon the smiling face of Soltikow.
“Impossible, general! you could not have held a council of war without me,” said he, angrily.
“Oh, be composed, general,” said Soltikow, smiling, “I would, without doubt, have informed you immediately of our conclusions.”
“I suppose you could not possibly have come to any conclusion in my absence,” said Loudon, the veins in whose forehead began to swell.
Soltikow bowed low, with the same unchanged and insolent smile.
“Let us not dispute about things which have not yet taken place, your excellency. The council of war had not commenced, but now that you are here, we may begin. Allow me, however, first to sign these dispatches which I have written to my gracious sovereign, announcing the victory which the Russian troops have this day achieved over the army of the King of Prussia.”
“Ah, general, this time I am in advance of you,” cried Loudon; “the dispatches are already sent off in which I announced to my empress the victory which the Austrian troops gained over the Prussians.”
Soltikow threw his head back scornfully, and his little gray eyes flashed at the Austrian.
Loudon went on, calmly: “I assure your excellency that enthusiasm at our glorious victory has made me eloquent. I pictured to my empress the picturesque moment in which the conquering Prussians were rushing forward to take possession of the batteries deserted by the flying Russians, at which time the Austrian horsemen sprang, as it were, from the ground, checked the conquerors, and forced them back; and by deeds of lionlike courage changed the fate of the day.”
While Loudon, seeming entirely cool and careless, thus spoke, the face of the Russian general was lurid with rage. Panting for breath, he pressed his doubled fist upon the table.
Every one looked at him in breathless excitement and horror--all knew his passionate and unrestrained rage. But the Marquis Montalembert hastened to prevent this outburst of passion, and before Soltikow found breath to speak, he turned with a gay and conciliating expression to Loudon.
“If you have painted the battle of to-day so much in detail,” said he, “you have certainly not forgotten to depict the gallant conduct of the Russian troops to describe that truly exalted movement, when the Russians threw themselves to the earth, as if dead, before advancing columns of the Prussian army, and allowed them to pass over them; then, springing up, shot them in the back.” [Footnote: Archenholtz, Seven Years’ War, p. 257.]
“Certainly I did not forget that,” said Loudon, whose noble, generous heart already repented his momentary passion and jealousy; “certainly, I am not so cowardly and so unconscionable as to deny the weighty share which the Russian army merit in the honor of this day; but you can well understand that I will not allow the gallant deeds of the Austrians to be swept away. We have fought together and conquered together, and now let us rejoice together over the glorious result.”
Loudon gave his hand to Soltikow with so friendly an expression that he could not withstand it. “You are right, Loudon; we will rejoice together over this great victory,” cried he. “Wine, here! We will first drink a glass in honor of the triumph of the day; then we will empty a glass of your beautiful Rhine wine to the friendship of the Austrians and Russians. Wine here! The night is long enough for council; let us first celebrate our victory.”
The Cossacks, at a sign from the adjutants, sprang from the floor and drew from a corner of the room a number of bottles and silver cups, which they hastened to place upon the table. The secretaries moved the papers, maps, etc.; and the table, which a moment before had quite a business-like aspect, was now changed into an enticing buffet.
Soltikow looked on enraptured, but the marquis cast an anxious and significant look upon the Austrian general, which was answered with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Both knew that the brave General Soltikow, next to the thunder of cannon and the mad whirl of battle, loved nothing so well as the springing of corks and the odor of wine. Both knew that the general was as valiant and unconquerable a soldier as he was a valiant and unconquerable drinker--who was most apt while drinking to forget every thing else but the gladness of the moment. The marquis tried to make another weak attempt to remind him of more earnest duties.
“Look you, your excellency, your secretaries appear very melancholy. Will you not first hold a council of war? and we can then give ourselves undisturbed to joy and enjoyment.”
“Why is a council of war necessary?” said Soltikow, sinking down into a chair and handing his cup to the Cossack behind him to be filled for the second time. “Away with business and scribbling! The dispatches to my empress are completed; seal them, Pietrowitch, and send the courier off immediately; every thing else can wait till morning. Come, generals, let us strike our glasses to the healths of our exalted sovereigns.”
Loudon took the cup and drank a brave pledge, then when he had emptied the glass he said: “We should not be satisfied with sending our exalted sovereigns the news of the day’s victory--it lies in our hands to inform them of the complete and irrevocable defeat of the enemy.”
“How so?” said Soltikow, filling up his cup for the third time.
“If now, in place of enjoying this comfortable rest, and giving our enemy time to recover himself, we should follow up the Prussians and cut off the king’s retreat, preventing him from taking possession of his old camp at Reutven, we would then be in a condition to crush him completely and put an end to this war.”
“Ah, you mean that we should break up the camp at once,” said Soltikow; “that we should not grant to our poor, exhausted soldiers a single hour of sleep, but lead them out again to battle and to death? No, no, sir general; the blood of my brave Russians is worth as much as the blood of other men, and I will not make of them a wall behind which the noble Dutchmen place themselves in comfortable security, while we offer up for them our blood and our life. I think we Russians have done enough; we do not need another victory to prove that we are brave. When I fight another such battle as I have fought to-day, with my staff in my hand and alone I must carry the news to Petersburg, for I shall have no soldiers left.[Footnote: “Frederick the Great.”--Geschow, p. 200.] I have nothing to say against you, General Loudon. You have been a faithful ally; we have fought, bled, and conquered together, although not protected by a consecrated hat and sword like Field-Marshal Daun, who ever demands new victories from us while he himself is undecided and completely inactive.”
“Your excellency seems to be somewhat embittered against Daun,” said Loudon, with a smile he could not wholly suppress.
“Yes,” said Soltikow, “I am embittered against this modern Fabius Cunctator, who finds it so easy to become renowned--who remains in Vienna and reaps the harvest which belongs rightly to you, General Loudon. You act, while he hesitates--you are full of energy and ever ready for the strife; Daun is dilatory, and while he is resolving whether to strike or not, the opportunity is lost.”
“The empress, my exalted sovereign, has honored him with her especial confidence,” said Loudon; “he must therefore merit it.”
“Yes; and in Vienna they have honored you and myself with their especial distrust,” said Soltikow, stormily, and swallowing a full cup of wine. “You, I know, receive rare and scanty praise; eulogies must be reserved for Daun. We are regarded with inimical and jealous eyes, and our zeal and our good-will are forever suspected.”
“This is true,” said Loudon, smiling; “it is difficult for us to believe in the sincere friendship of the Russians, perhaps, because we so earnestly desire it.”
“Words, words!” said Soltikow, angrily. “The German has ever a secret aversion to the Russian--you look upon us as disguised tigers, ever ready to rob and devour your glorious culture and accomplishments. For this reason you gladly place a glass shade over yourselves when we are in your neighborhood, and show us your glory through a transparent wall that we may admire and envy. When you are living in peace and harmony, you avoid us sedulously; then the German finds himself entirely too educated, too refined, for the barbaric Russian. But when you quarrel and strive with each other, and cannot lay the storm, then you suddenly remember that the Russian is your neighbor and friend, that he wields a good sword, and knows how to hew with it right and left. You call lustily on him for help, and offer him your friendship--that means, just so long as hostilities endure and you have use for us. Even when you call us your friends you distrust us and suspect our good-will. Constant charges are brought against us in Vienna. Spresain languishes in chains--Austria charges him with treachery and want of zeal in the good cause; Fermor and Butterlin are also accused of great crimes--they have sought to make both their sincerity and ability suspected by the empress, and to bring them into reproach. This they have not deserved. I know, also, that they have charged me with disinclination to assist the allies--they declare that I have no ardor for the common cause. This makes bad blood, messieurs; and if it were not for the excellent wine in your beautiful Germany, I doubt if our friendship would stand upon a sure footing. Therefore, sir general, take your cup and let us drink together--drink this glorious wine to the health of our friendship. Make your glasses ring, messieurs, and that the general may see that we mean honorably with our toast, empty them at a draught.”
They all accepted the challenge and emptied a cup of the old, fiery Rhine wine, which Soltikow so dearly loved; their eyes flashed, their cheeks were glowing.
Loudon saw this with horror, and he cast an anxious glance at Montalembert, who returned it with a significant shrug of the shoulder.
“And now, your excellency,” said Loudon, “that we have enjoyed the German wine, let us think a little of Germany and the enemy who can no longer disturb her peace, if we act promptly. Our troops have had some hours’ rest, and will now be in a condition to advance.”
“Always the same old song,” said Soltikow, laughing; “but I shall not be waked up from my comfortable quarters; I have done enough! my troops also.”
“I have just received a courier from Daun,” said Loudon, softly; “he makes it my duty to entreat your excellency to follow up our victory and crush the enemy completely.”
“That will be easy work,” said Montalembert, in a flattering tone. “The army of the King of Prussia is scattered and flying in every direction; they must be prevented from reassembling; the scattering troops must be harassed and more widely separated, and every possibility of retreat cut off for Frederick.”
“Well, well, if that must be,” said Soltikow, apathetically, placing the cup just filled with wine to his lips, “let Field-Marshal Daun undertake the duty. I have won two battles; I will wait and rest; I make no other movements till I hear of two victories won by Daun. It is not reasonable or just for the troops of my empress to act alone.” [Footnote: Soltikow’s own words.--See Archenholtz, p. 266.]
“But,” said the Marquis Montalembert, giving himself the appearance of wishing not to be heard by Loudon, “if your excellency now remains inactive and does not press forward vigorously, the Austrians alone will reap the fruits of your victory.”
“I am not at all disposed to be jealous,” said Soltikow, laughing; “from my heart I wish the Austrians more success than I have had. For my part, I have done enough. [Footnote: Historical.] Fill your glasses, messieurs, fill your glasses! We have won a few hours of happiness from the goddess Bellona; let us enjoy them and forget all our cares. Let us drink once more, gentlemen. Long live our charming mistress, the Empress Elizabeth!” The Russian officers clanged their glasses and chimed in zealously, and the fragrant Rhine wine bubbled like foaming gold in the silver cups. Soltikow swallowed it with ever-increasing delight, and he became more and more animated.
The officers sat round the table with glowing cheeks and listened to their worshipped general who, in innocent gayety, related some scenes from his youth, and made his hearers laugh so loud, so rapturously, that the walls trembled, and Fritz Kober, who was crouching down in the bushes, could with difficulty prevent himself from joining in heartily.
The gayety of the Russians became more impetuous and unbridled. They dreamed of their home; here and there they began to sing Russian love-songs. The Cossacks, on the floor, grinned with delight and hummed lightly the refrain.
The wine began to exercise its freedom and equality principles upon the heart, and all difference of rank was forgotten. Every countenance beamed with delight; every man laughed and jested, sang and drank. No one thought of the King of Prussia and his scattered army; they remembered the victory they had achieved, but the fragrant wine banished the remembrance of the conquered. [Footnote: See Prussia; Frederick the Great.--Gebhard, p. 73.]
Montalembert and Loudon took no part in the general mirth. They had left the table, and from an open window watched the wild and frenzied group.
“It is in vain,” whispered Loudon, “we cannot influence him. The German wine lies nearer his heart than his German allies.”
“But you, general, you should do what Soltikow omits or neglects. You should draw your own advantage from this tardiness of the Russian general, and pursue and crush the King of Prussia.”
“I would not be here now,” said Loudon, painfully, “if I could do that. My hands are bound. I dare not undertake any thing to which the allies do not agree; we can only act in concert.”
A loud roar of laughter from the table silenced the two gentlemen. Soltikow had just related a merry anecdote, which made the Cossacks laugh aloud. One of the Russian generals rewarded them by throwing them two tallow-candles. This dainty little delicacy was received by them with joyful shouts.
“Let us withdraw,” whispered Montalembert, “the scene becomes too Russian.”
“Yes, let us go,” sighed Loudon; “if we must remain here inactive, we can at least employ the time in sleep.”
No one remarked the withdrawal of the two gentlemen. The gay laughter, the drinking and singing went on undisturbed, and soon became a scene of wild and drunken confusion.
“We can now also withdraw,” whispered Charles Henry to Fritz Kober. “Come, come! you know we are expected.”
With every possible caution, they hastened away, and only after they had left the camp of the Russians and Austrians far behind them, and passed again over the battle-field did Fritz Kober break silence. “Well,” said he, sighing, “what have we to say to the king?”
“All that we have heard,” said Charles Henry.
“Yes, but we have heard nothing,” murmured Fritz. “I opened my ears as wide as possible, but it was all in vain. Is it not base and vile to come to Germany and speak this gibberish, not a word of which can be understood? In Germany men should be obliged to speak German, and not Russian.”
“They did not speak Russian, but French,” said Charles Henry; “I understood it all.”
Fritz Kober stopped suddenly, and stared at his friend. “You say you understood French?”
“Yes, I was at home on the French borders. My mother was from Alsace, and there I learned French.”
“You understand every thing,” murmured Fritz, “but for myself, I am a poor stupid blockhead, and the king will laugh at me, for I have nothing to tell. I shall not get my commission.”
“Then neither will I, Fritz; and, besides, as to what we have seen, you have as much to tell as I. You heard with your eyes and I with my ears, and the great point arrived at you know as much about as I do. The Russians and Austrians are sleeping quietly, not thinking of pursuing us. That’s the principal point.”
“Yes, that’s true; that I can also assure the king--that will please him best. Look! Charles Henry, the day is breaking! Let us hasten on to the king. When he knows that the Austrians and Russians sleep, he will think it high time for the Prussians to be awake.”
XV. A HERO IN MISFORTUNE
The two grenadiers returned unharmed to the village where the king had at present established his headquarters. The first rays of the morning sun were falling upon the wretched hut which was occupied by his majesty. The peaceful morning quiet was unbroken by the faintest sound, and, as if Nature had a certain reverence for the hero’s slumber, even the birds were hushed, and the morning breeze blew softly against the little window, as if it would murmur a sleeping song to the king. There were no sentinels before the door; the bright morning sun alone was guarding the holy place where the unfortunate hero reposed.
Lightly, and with bated breath, the two grenadiers crept into the open hut. The utter silence disturbed them. It seemed incredible that they should find the king in this miserable place, alone and unguarded. They thought of the hordes of Cossacks which infested that region, and that a dozen of them would suffice to surround this little hut, and make prisoners of the king and his adjutants.
“I have not the courage to open the door,” whispered Fritz Kober. “I fear that the king is no longer here. The Cossacks have captured him.”
“God has not permitted that,” said Charles Henry, solemnly; “I believe that He has guarded the king in our absence. Come, we will go to his majesty.”
They opened the door and entered, and then both stood motionless, awed and arrested by what they beheld.
There, on the straw that was scantily scattered on the dirty floor, lay the king, his hat drawn partially over his face, his unsheathed sword in his hand, sleeping as quietly as if he were at his bright and beautiful Sans-Souci. “Look!” whispered Charles Henry; “thus sleeps a king, over whom God watches! But now we must awaken him.”
He advanced to the king, and kneeling beside him, whispered: “Your majesty, we have returned; we bring intelligence of the Russians and Austrians.”
The king arose slowly, and pushed his hat back from his brow.
“Good or bad news?” he asked.
“Good news!” said Fritz. “The Austrians and Russians have both gone to bed; they were sleepy.”
“And they have no idea of pursuing your majesty,” continued Charles Henry. “Loudon wished it, but Soltikow refused; he will do nothing until Daun acts.”
“So you sat with them in the council of war?” asked the king, smiling.
“Yes, we were present,” said Fritz Kober, with evident delight; “I saw the council, and Charles Henry heard them.”
The king stood up. “You speak too loud!” he said; “you will waken these two gentlemen, who are sleeping so well. We will go outside, and you can continue your report.”
He crossed the room noiselessly, and left the hut. Then seating himself before the door, on a small bench, he told the two grenadiers to give him an exact account of what they had seen and heard.
Long after they had finished speaking, the king sat silent, and apparently lost in thought. His eyes raised to heaven, he seemed to be in holy communion with the Almighty. As his eyes slowly sank, his glance fell upon the two grenadiers who stood before him, silently respectful.
“I am pleased with you, children, and this time the promise shall be kept. You shall become subordinate officers.”
“In the same company?” asked Fritz Kober.
“In the same company. That is,” continued the king, “if I am ever able to form companies and regiments again.”
“We are not so badly off as your majesty thinks,” said Fritz Kober. “Our troops have already recovered from their first terror, and as we returned we saw numbers of them entering the village. In a few hours the army can be reorganized.”
“God grant that you may be right, my son!” said the king, kindly. “Go, now, into the village, and repeat the news you brought me to the soldiers. It will encourage them to hear that the enemy sleep, and do not think of pursuing us. I will prepare your commissions for you to-day. Farewell, my children!”
He bent his head slightly, and then turned to re-enter the hut and awaken his two adjutants. With a calm voice he commanded them to go into the village, and order the generals and higher officers to assemble the remnants of their regiments before the hut.
“A general march must be sounded,” said the king. “The morning air will bear the sound into the distance, and when my soldiers hear it, perhaps they will return to their colors.”
When the adjutants left him, the king commenced pacing slowly up and down, his hands crossed behind him.
“All is lost, all!” he murmured; “but I must wait and watch. If the stupidity or rashness of the enemy should break a mesh in the net within which I am enclosed, it is my duty to slip through with my army. Ah! how heavily this crown presses upon my head; it leaves me no moment of repose. How hard is life, and how terribly are the bright illusions of our earlier years destroyed!”
At the sound of the drum, the king shivered, and murmured to himself: “I feel now, what I never thought to feel. I am afraid my heart trembles at the thought of this encounter, as it never did in battle. The drums and trumpets call my soldiers, but they will not come. They are stretched upon the field of battle, or fleeing before the enemy. They will not come, and the sun will witness my shame and wretchedness.”
The king, completely overcome, sank upon the bench, and buried his face in his hands. He sat thus for a long time. The sounds before the door became louder and louder, but the king heard them not; he still held his hands before his face. He could not see the bright array of uniforms that had assembled before the window, nor that the soldiers were swarming in from all sides. He did not hear the beating of drums, the orders to the soldiers, or military signals. Neither did he hear the door, which was gently opened by his adjutants, who had returned to inform him that his orders had been obeyed, and that the generals and staff officers were awaiting him outside the hut.
“Sire,” whispered at length one of the adjutants, “your commands have been fulfilled. The generals await your majesty’s pleasure.”
The king allowed his hands to glide slowly from his face. “And the troops?” he asked.
“They are beginning to form.”
“They are also just placing the cannon,” said the second adjutant.
The king turned angrily to him. “Sir,” he cried, “you lie! I have no cannon.”
“Your majesty has, God be praised, more than fifty cannon,” said the adjutant, firmly.
A ray of light overspread the countenance of the king, and a slight flush arose to his pale cheek. Standing up, he bowed kindly to the adjutants, and passed out among the generals, who saluted him respectfully, and pressed back to make way for their king. The king walked silently through their ranks, and then turning his head, he said:
“Gentlemen, let us see what yesterday has left us. Assemble your troops.”
The generals and staff officers hurried silently away, to place themselves at the head of their regiments, and lead them before the king.
The king stood upright, his unsheathed sword in his right hand, as in the most ceremonious parade. The marching of the troops began, but it was a sad spectacle for their king. How little was left of the great and glorious army which he had led yesterday to battle! More than twenty thousand men were either killed or wounded. Thousands were flying and scattered. A few regiments had been formed with great trouble; barely five thousand men were now assembled. The king looked on with a firm eye, but his lips were tightly compressed, and his breath came heavily. Suddenly he turned to Count Dolmer, the adjutant of the Grand Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, who had arrived a few days before with the intelligence of a victory gained at Minden. The king had invited him to remain, “I am about to overpower the Russians, remain until I can give you a like message.” The king was reminded of this as he saw the count near him.
“Ah,” he said, with a troubled smile, “you are waiting for the message I promised. I am distressed that I cannot make you the bearer of better news. If, however, you arrive safely at the end of your journey, and do not find Daun already in Berlin, and Contades in Magdeburg, you can assure the Grand Duke Ferdinand from me that all is not lost. Farewell, sir.”
Then, bowing slightly, he advanced with a firm step to the generals. His eyes glowed and flashed once more, and his whole being reassumed its usual bold and energetic expression.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a clear voice, “fortune did not favor us yesterday, but there is no reason to despair. A day will come when we shall repay the enemy with bloody interest. I at least expect such a day; I will live for its coming, and all my thoughts and plans shall be directed toward that object. I strive for no other glory than to deliver Prussia from the conspiracy into which the whole of Europe has entered against her. I will obtain peace for my native land, but it shall be a great and honorable peace. I will accept no other: I would rather be buried under the ruins of my cannon, than accept a peace that would bring no advantages to Prussia, no fame to us Honor is the highest, the holiest possession of individuals, as it is of nations; and Prussia, who has placed her honor in our hands, must receive it from us pure and spotless. If you agree with me, gentlemen, join me in this cry, ‘Long live Prussia! Long live Prussia’s honor!’”
The generals and officers joined enthusiastically in this cry, and like a mighty torrent it spread from mouth to mouth, until it reached the regiments, where it was repeated again and again. The color-bearers unfurled their tattered banners, and the shout arose from thousands of throats, “Long live Prussia’s honor!”
The king’s countenance was bright, but a tear seemed to glitter in his eye. He raised his glance to heaven and murmured:
“I swear to live so long as there is hope, so long as I am free! I swear only to think of death when my liberty is threatened!” Slowly his glance returned to earth, and then in a powerful voice, he cried: “Onward! onward! that has ever been Prussia’s watch-word, and it shall remain so--Onward! We have a great object be fore us--we must use every effort to keep the Russians out of Berlin. The palladium of our happiness must not fall into the hands of our enemies. The Oder and the Spree must be ours--we must recover to-morrow what the enemy wrenched from us yesterday!”
“Onward! onward!” cried the army, and the words of the king bore courage and enthusiasm to all hearts.
Hope was awakened, and all were ready to follow the king; for however dark and threatening the horizon appeared, all had faith in the star of the king, and believed that it could never be extinguished.
I. THE TERESIANI AND THE PRUSSIANI
At the splendid hotel of the “White Lion,” situated on the Canale Grande, a gondola had just arrived. The porter sounded the great house-bell, and the host hastened immediately to greet the stranger, who, having left the gondola, was briskly mounting the small white marble steps that led to the beautiful and sumptuous vestibule of the hotel.
The stranger returned the host’s profound and respectful salutation with a stiff military bow, and asked in forced and rather foreign Italian if he could obtain rooms.
Signer Montardo gazed at him with a doubtful and uncertain expression, and instead of answering his question, said:
“Signor, it appears to me that you are a foreigner?”
“Yes,” said the stranger, smiling, “my Italian has betrayed me. I am a foreigner, but hope that will not prevent your showing me comfortable and agreeable rooms.”
“Certainly not, signor; our most elegant and sumptuous apartment is at your command,” said the host, with a flattering smile. In the mean time, however, he did not move from the spot, but gazed with confused and anxious countenance first at the stranger, and then at his large trunk, which the men were just lifting from the gondola.
“Will you please show me the rooms?” cried the stranger, impatiently advancing into the hall.
The host sighed deeply, and threw a questioning glance at the head waiter, who returned it with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I will first show you into the dining-saloon,” murmured the host, hastening after the stranger. “Will you please step in here, excellency?” and with humble submission he opened the large folding doors before which they stood, and conducted the stranger into the magnificent saloon which served as dining-saloon and ball-room.
“Now, excellency,” continued the host, after he closed the door, and had convinced himself by a rapid glance that they were alone, “forgive my curiosity in asking you two questions before I have the honor of showing you your rooms. How long do you intend to remain here?”
“A few days, sir. Well, your second question?”
The host hesitated a moment; then looking down, he said:
“Your excellency is a German?”
“Yes, a German,” said the stranger, impatiently.
“I thought so,” sighed the host.
“Will you show me my rooms or not? Decide quickly, for I know there are other handsome hotels on the Canale Grande where I would be willingly received.”
The host bowed with an aggrieved expression. “Signor, I will show you rooms. Will you have the kindness to follow me?”
Like one who had come to a desperate decision, he advanced and pushed open a door which led to a long passage, with rooms on each side; he passed them all hastily, and entered a small, dark, side-passage, which was little in keeping with the general elegance of the building; the walls were not covered with tapestry, as those of the large halls, but with dirty whitewash; the floor had no carpet, and the doors of the rooms were low and small.
The host opened one of them and led the stranger into a small, simply-furnished room, with a little dark closet containing a bed. “Signor,” he said, with a profound bow, “these are, unfortunately, the only two rooms I can offer you.”
“They are small and mean,” said the stranger, angrily.
“They are quiet and remote, and you will have the advantage of not being disturbed by the ball which the club of the Prussiani are to hold in my grand saloon to-night.”
As he finished, he looked at the stranger hastily and searchingly, to see what impression his words had upon him. He was decidedly astonished and confused.
“The Prussian Club?” he said. “Are there so many Prussians here, and are they to celebrate a gay feast when it appears to me they have every reason to mourn for their king’s misfortune?”
It was now the stranger who gazed searchingly at the host, and awaited his answer with impatience.
“You ask if there are many Prussians here?” said the host, pathetically. “Yes, there are a great many in la bella Venezia, eccellenza, chi non e buon Prussiano, non e buon Veneziano. You say further, that the Prussians have no reason to celebrate a festival, but should mourn for their king’s misfortunes. No, your excellency, the Prussians will never have reason to despair, for a hero like the great Frederick can never succumb. His sun is clouded for a moment, but it will burst forth again brilliant and triumphant, and blind all his enemies. The Prussians celebrate this feast to defy the Teresiani. They have their club at the hotel of the ‘Golden Fleece,’ and held a grand ball there yesterday in honor of their victory at Mayen. ‘Tis true the king has lost two battles, the battles of Kunersdorf and Mayen, but the Prussians do not despair; for if the king has lost two battles, he will win four to make up for them, and the Austrians, French, and Russians will flee before him, as they did at Zorndorf and Rossbach. The Prussians wish to celebrate this feast to convince the Teresiani that they are not disturbed by the king’s apparent misfortune, and are now celebrating the victories that their great king is still to achieve.”
The stranger’s face beamed with delight. “The Prussians have great confidence in their king,” he said, with forced composure; “but you have not yet told me why so many Prussians are stopping here?”
The host laughed. “Signor does not occupy himself with politics?”
“No,” answered the stranger, with hesitation.
“Well, otherwise you would have known that there are many Prussians in the world, and that all the world takes an interest in this war in which a single hero battles against so many powerful enemies. Yes, yes, there are Prussians in all Europe, and the great Frederick is joyfully welcomed everywhere; but nowhere more joyfully than in our beautiful Italy; and nowhere in Italy is he more welcomed than in our beautiful Venice. The nobles and the gondoliers decide for or against, and Venice is divided into two great parties: the first for the King of Prussia, the latter for the Austrian empress, Maria Theresa. But I assure you the Teresiani are mean and despicable, bought enthusiasts, and cowardly fools.”
“Consequently, you do not belong to them, signor,” said the stranger, smiling; “you are a good Prussiano.”
“I should think so,” cried the host, proudly; “I am a good patriot, and our watchword is, ‘Chi non e buon Prussiano, non e buon Veneziano.’”
“If that is so,” cried the stranger, gayly, as he kindly offered the host his hand, “I congratulate myself for having stopped here, and these small, mean rooms will not prevent my remaining. I also am a Prussian, and say, like yourself, what care we for the battles of Kunersdorf and Mayen? Frederick the Great will still triumph over his enemies.”
“Ah, signor, you are a Prussian” cried the host, with a true Italian burst of joy. “You are heartily welcome at my hotel, and be convinced, sir, that I shall do every thing to deserve your approval. Come, sir, these rooms are too small, too mean, for a follower of Frederick; I shall have the honor of showing you two beautiful rooms on the first floor, with a view of the Canale Grande, and you shall pay no more for them. Follow me, sir, and pardon me that you were not at once worthily served. I did not know you were a Prussiano, and it would have been most dangerous and impolitic to have received a stranger who might have been a Teresiano; it might have deprived me of all the Prussian custom. Have the goodness to follow me.”
He stepped forward briskly, and conducted the stranger across the passage through the grand saloon into the hall. The head waiter was standing there engaged in an excited conversation with the gondoliers who, having placed the traveller’s trunk in the hall, were cursing and crying aloud for their money. While the waiter was assuring them, that it was not decided whether the stranger would remain with them or not, and perhaps they would have to carry his trunk farther, the host nodded smilingly at the head waiter and said, proudly, “His excellency is not only a German, but a Prussian.”
The clouded faces of the waiters and gondoliers cleared immediately, and they gazed at the traveller with a significant smile as he mounted the splendid steps with the host.
“He is a Prussian!” cried the waiters. “Evviva il Re di Prussia!” cried the gondoliers, as they raised the trunk and carried it nimbly up the steps.
The saloon into which the host conducted his guest was certainly different from the small, unclean rooms he had shown him before. All was elegance, and with a feeling of pride he led the stranger to the balcony which offered a splendid view of the imposing and glorious Canale Grande, with its proud churches and palaces.
“And now, signor,” said the host, humbly, “command me. If I can serve you in any manner, I shall do so with pleasure. Any information you desire, I am ready to give. Perhaps your excellency has--?”
“No,” said the stranger, quickly, “I have no political mission, and my letter to the prior is of a very innocent nature. I am a merchant, and by chance have become possessed of several costly relics, and hope that the prior of the cloister may purchase them.”
“Ah, relics,” said the host, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders; “do you know, sir, that no one now is enthusiastic about such things? Politics leave us no time for piety; the Pope has lost his influence, and even the Romans are good Prussiani, and care not for Frederick the Great being a heretic. The Pope blesses his enemies and celebrates their victories with brilliant masses and costly presents. The Romans are indifferent to all this, and pray for their hero-king, the Great Frederick, and in spite of the Pope desire him to triumph.”
“Ah,” said the traveller, with apparent sadness, “then I shall certainly not succeed with my relics, but I hope I shall do better in the city with my fans; for them I desire your advice. Will you please tell me the names of a few large commercial houses where they might buy some of my beautiful fans? But they must be good Prussiani, as you will soon see.” He stepped to his trunk, unlocked it, and took from it an etui containing a number of fans.
“Look here, sir. I saw these fans in Geneva, and thinking I might perhaps do a good business with them in Italy, I bought several dozen. Examine the charming and tasteful paintings.” He opened one of the fans; it was of white satin, with quite an artistic painting of a large Prussian eagle about to devour a white lily.
The host clapped his hands with delight. “Delicious!” he cried, laughing. “The Prussian eagle devouring the French lily; this is charming prophecy, a wonderful satire. You bought these fans in Geneva; there are Prussians in Geneva also, then.”
“Every lady in Geneva has such a fan, and there are no better Prussians in Berlin than in Geneva.”
“I am delighted, truly delighted,” cried the Italian, enthusiastically.” The time will come when all the people of Europe will be Prussians and only princes Teresiani.”
“Nevertheless, the people will have to obey their princes,” said the stranger, with a watchful glance; “and if they command it, will war against the great king.”
“Not we, not the Italians,” cried the host, violently; “our Doge would not dare to side with the Teresiani, for he knows very well that would occasion a revolution in Venice and, perhaps, endanger his own throne. No, no, signor; our exalted government is too wise not to adopt a neutral position, while secretly they are as good Prussians as we are.”
“But the Lombardians and the Sardinians?” asked the stranger, expectantly.
“They also are Prussians; even if their king is a Teresiano, as they say, his people are Prussians like ourselves.”
“And the Neapolitans?”
“Well, the Neapolitans,” said the host, laughing, “the Neapolitans are, as you know, not renowned for their bravery; and if they do not love the great Frederick, they fear him. The Neapolitans are the children of Italy, knowing only that Naples is a beautiful city, and fearing a barbarian might come and devour it. In their terror they forget that no one is thinking of them, and that they are separated by Italy and the Alps from all warlike people. The king of Naples thinks it possible that Frederick may one day ascend Vesuvius with his conquering army and take possession of Naples. Since the king’s last victories, Ferdinand has increased the number of his troops and doubled the guard in his capital.”
The host laughed so heartily at this account, that the stranger was irresistibly compelled to join him.
“The King of Naples is but a boy nine years old. His ministers are older than himself, and should know a little more geography, signor. But corpo di Bacco, here I am talking and talking of politics forgetting entirely that your excellency is doubtless hungry, and desires a strengthening meal.”
“‘Tis true, I am a little hungry,” said the stranger, smiling.
“In a quarter of an hour the most splendid dinner, that the celebrated White Lion can prepare, shall be ready for you, signor,” cried the host, as he rushed hastily from the room.
The stranger gazed thoughtfully after him. “It appears to me that I have been very fortunate in coming here; the good host seems to be a good Prussian, and I have learned more from him in a quarter of an hour than I would have done in a long journey through Italy. I shall now be able to act with zeal and energy. But I must not forget the role I have to play. I am a merchant trading with fans, curiosities, and relics, and very anxious to bring my wares to market.”
The entrance of the waiter interrupted him, and soon the savory dishes invited the traveller to refresh himself.
II. FREDERICK THE GREAT AS A SAINT
“And now to business,” said the Traveller, when he had finished dining. “It is high time I were on my way, if I am to leave this place to-day.” He hastened to his trunk and took from it several bundles and packages, some of which he put in his pockets and some, like a true merchant, he carried under his arm. Then putting on his large, black felt hat, he turned to leave the room. In passing the mirror he looked at himself, and broke out into a merry laugh at his appearance.
“Truly,” said he, “I look like a veritable shop-keeper, and he who takes me for any thing else, must be of a more political turn of mind than my host, Signor Montardo, the Prussiano.”
He turned and left the room to obtain the address of some merchants and a guide from his host. In spite of remonstrances Signer Montardo insisted on accompanying him.
“Otherwise,” said he, “some one might address you who is not on our side, and if you were then to show him your fans, there would be a fearful scandal; the other party is quite as hot-headed as we are, and many a pitched battle has taken place between the Teresiani and the Prussiani. Come, sir; I must accompany you. We will not go by the canal, but through the small by-streets; they will lead us quickest to the Riva di Schiavoni, and then to the Rialto, which is our destination.”
“Is that far from the convent of San Giovanni e Paolo?” asked the stranger.
“Ah, you are still determined to offer your relics to the abbot?” said the host, laughing.
“Yes, and hope to sell them.”
“Well, I wish you luck. The Rialto is not far from there. I will go with you until within the vicinity of the convent, but not farther.”
“And why not?”
“Because the door-keeper is a raging Teresiano, and would undoubtedly close the door in your face, were I at your side.”
“But did you not tell me the abbot was a Prussia, no?”
“Yes, the abbot, but the porter is not; nor are many of the monks, I am sorry to say.”
“Ah, even the monks are occupied with politics?”
“Signor,” cried the host, pathetically, “every one here interests himself in politics; and when you hear that our little children are divided into Teresiani and Prussiani, you will credit me. There was a slight revolution yesterday in the Riva Peschiera. It was occasioned by a fishwoman’s refusing to sell my cook some beautiful trout; she declared God had not created fish for the Prussiani, which, in her opinion, was another name for heathen and unbeliever. My cook insisted on having the fish, and, as unfortunately there were many Prussiani among the fishwomen, it soon came to hard words and still harder blows, and was terminated by the arrest of the principal disturbers.”
They were now entering the Riva di Schiavoni, and the talkative Signor Montardo was continuing his merry tales when he was interrupted by cries and shouts of laughter and derision, and they were almost surrounded by a large crowd of excited men.
“We are fortunately at the end of our walk,” said Signor Montardo, “for there is the house of my worthy friend Cicernachi, dealer in fancy goods, and it is to him we are going. Let us press forward to see what this crowd means. I presume my friend Cicernachi has prepared another surprise for the good people of Venice.”
He made a way for himself and friend with his broad shoulders, and soon stood in front of the shop around which the crowd was collected. A cry of astonishment escaped the stranger, and he pointed to the entrance of the shop. “You see there,” said he, “a speaking likeness of Frederick the Great.”
There hung at the front of the store a large engraving in a rich golden frame. It was the portrait of Prussia’s hero king--of Frederick the Great--and beneath burnt a bright lamp, its light shedding a rosy tint over Frederick’s noble countenance.
“Ah! I understand it now,” whispered the host. “Cicernachi has done this to enrage the Teresiani. To show his boundless reverence for the king, he has placed a burning lamp beneath his picture, an honor due only in our country to the saints. Let us hear what the people have to say of it.”
Just then a Teresiano commenced a speech, accompanied by violent gesticulations, against this insult to the Church. “How can you suffer this heretic to be represented by you as a saint?” cried he, in a voice of rage. “Do you not know that the Pope has excommunicated the King of Prussia? Do you not know that he is an enemy to God, to the Church, and to our holy Catholic religion? Away, then, with this lamp! The fires of hell will devour him, but no holy lamp shall enlighten his darkened soul.”
“He is right, he is right,” cried some among the crowd. “Away with the lamp! Break Cicernachi’s windows, for he is a Prussiano. He makes a saint of a heretic! Put out the lamp!”
“Do not venture to touch the lamp,” cried others. “Back! back! or our fists shall close your eyes until neither the lamp nor the great Frederick is visible to you.”
“Put out the lamp, in God’s name!” cried the infuriated Teresiani. And the cry was repeated by many of his party, as they pressed forward. But the Prussiani, amongst whom were our host and the stranger, had already formed a wall of defence before the store, and were energetically beating back the approaching Teresiani. And then there occurred a tumult, such as can only occur among passionate Italians. Wild shouts, curses, and threats were heard--eyes sparkling with rage, doubled fists, and here and there a dagger or a knife was seen.
But the noise suddenly ceased, and a deep stillness prevailed. No sound was heard but the quiet even tread of the solemn silent forms that stood suddenly, as if they had risen from the earth in their midst. No one had seen them come--no word was spoken by them, and still many retreated timidly, fearfully from them; their presence was enough to quiet these enraged masses, to silence their anger. Even Signor Montardo deserted his prominent position before the lamp, and was gazing anxiously at the dark forms passing slowly through the crowd.
“The sbirri!” whispered he to the stranger. “The servants of the Council of Ten! Whom will they take with them?”
But it seemed as if these much-feared men only desired to cause the people to remember them only, to threaten--not to punish. They wished to remind the people that the law was watching over them. Completely hid by their long mantles, they passed with bowed heads through the crowd. Thus without addressing or noticing any one, they passed into one of the small by-streets leading from the Rialto.
As the last one disappeared, life once more animated the crowd. All breathed more freely when relieved from their much-feared presence, and soon they commenced talking again of Cicernachi’s new saint.
“You see,” whispered Montardo to the stranger, “that our government is neutral. It will not punish neither the Prussiani nor the Teresiani; only warns us not to carry our zeal too far, and reminds us that it is against the law to carry a dagger or a knife in the streets. But now let us enter the shop, and I will introduce you to Cicernachi.”
He took the stranger’s arm, and entered the shop, where a tall, slim man met him. His long black hair hung in wild disorder on both sides of his expressive countenance, his eyes sparkled with fire, and on his full red lip there was a proud, triumphant smile.
“Well, Montardo,” said he, “you come undoubtedly to congratulate me on this victory over these miserable Teresiani.”
“Certainly, sir.” cried Montardo, laughingly, “it was a most original idea.”
“Do you know why I have done it?” said Cicernachi, “yesterday the Teresiani placed before their restaurants the bull of Pope Clement XI., which has just been confirmed and renewed by Clement XIII. It was printed on white satin, and enclosed in a beautiful gilt frame, and underneath it burnt a sacred lamp.”
“What are the contents of this bull?” said Montardo.
“I will tell you the beginning.” said Cicernachi, “I do not recollect all. It sounded thus: ‘You have long known that Frederick, margrave of Brandenburg, in contempt for the authority of the Church, took to himself the name and insignia of king, a profane and unheard of act among Christians. He has thus unwisely enough become one of those of whom it is said in the Bible, ‘They reigned, but not through Me; they were princes, but I did not know them.’ Do you conceive now why I placed the king’s picture before my store? why I burnt a lamp beneath it? I think this glorious portrait is more deserving of a sacred lamp than the Pope’s nonsensical bull.”
“You are right, signor,” said the stranger, advancing to Cicernachi and shaking hands with him. “Permit me to thank you in the name of my great and noble king whom you have this day defended in so original a manner from the malicious charges of his enemies. I give you my word of honor that the king shall hear of it through me; I know it will rejoice him.”
“Ah, signor,” said Montardo, laughing, “you forget that you are an honest merchant who does not concern himself about politics.”
“I can never forget I am a Prussian,” said the traveller; “and how could I forget it?” continued he, laughing. “My whole business consists of Prussian wares.”
“Truly you have some very beautiful articles,” said Montardo. “You will be charmed with them, Cicernachi; it will be another opportunity to annoy the Teresiani. Look at this merchant’s fans.”
The stranger opened several fans. Cicernachi’s eyes sparkled with delight at the sight of the painting. “How many have you, signor?” said he.
“Twelve.”
“I take them all, and regret you have not more.”
“But Cicernachi, where has all your wisdom gone to?” cried Montardo. “You have not even asked the price; or do you, perhaps, think the stranger gives them to you for nothing?”
“No, no; I forgot it,” said Cicernachi, gazing with delight at the fans which the stranger was spreading out before him. “What is their price, signor?”
The stranger was silent for a moment, and then said, in a hesitating manner: “I paid ten francs for each fan in Geneva.”
“I give twice that,” said Cicernachi, quickly.
The stranger started up hastily, blushing with annoyance. “Sir,” said he, “I take from no one a higher price than I gave.”
“Ah, signor, signor,” cried Montardo, “you have again forgotten that you are but a merchant. No merchant sells his goods for what he gave for them. Remember that.”
“I will make a good business with these fans,” said Cicernachi. “I give you twenty-four francs, and will ask fifty for them. The ladies of our nobility, many of whom are Prussiani, will be delighted to annoy their opponents in so elegant a manner. Are you content, sir?”
“I am satisfied,” said the stranger, blushing with embarrassment.
“Is this all you have for sale?”
“No, I have something else,” said the stranger, opening another package. “As you are Prussiano, these neat little coins and medals, with pretty caricatures of the enemies of the king on them, will no doubt please you.”
“Ah, let us see them,” cried both Italians. They examined with eagerness the medals upon which the enemies of Frederick were represented in various laughable situations and positions.
“I take them all!” cried Cicernachi, enraptured.
The stranger laughed. “I cannot sell you my whole business,” said he; “I must retain something. I will give you one of each. You must accept them as a token of my esteem, and must not pay me for them.”
“Signor!” cried Montardo, in an imploring tone, “remain at my hotel as long as you please, and when I bring you your bill lay some of these coins upon it, and I shall be richly paid.”
The stranger promised: then having received, with visible annoyance, the money for the fans, left the store with Montardo to pay his visit to the Convent Giovanni e Paolo.
III. THE CLOISTER BROTHERS OF SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO
The Prior of San Giovanni e Paolo had just returned from the second mass celebrated in the beautiful church of his cloister, the burial-place of the great Titiano Vicelli. With his arms folded across his back, he walked slowly and thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood before a large table at which a monk was occupied in unfolding letters and maps.
“This, your worship,” said the monk, opening a new paper, “is an exact plan of the region around Mayen; we have just received it, and the positions of the two armies are plainly marked down. If agreeable to your worship, I will read the bulletins aloud, and you can follow the movements of the troops upon the map.”
The prior shook his head softly. “No, Brother Anselmo, do not read again the triumphant bulletins of the Austrians and Russians; they pain my ears and my heart. Let us rather look at the map to see if the present position of the army offers any ground of hope.”
“I have marked it all out with pins,” said Father Anselmo; “the black pins signify the army of the allies, the white pins the army of the King of Prussia.”
The prior bowed over the map, and his eye followed thoughtfully the lines which Father Anselmo marked out. “Your pins are a sad omen,” he said, shaking his head. “The black ones surround like a churchyard wall the white ones, which stand like crosses upon the solitary graves in the midst of their black enclosures.”
“But the white pins will break through the enclosure,” said Father Anselmo, confidently. “The great king--“Father Anselmo stopped speaking; suddenly the door opened, and the father guardian asked if he might enter.
The prior blushed slightly, and stepped back from the table as the sharp eyes of the father guardian wandered around the room and fell at last with a sarcastic expression upon the table covered with maps and plans.
“Welcome, Brother Theodore,” said the prior, with a slight nod of the head.
“I fear that I disturb your worship in your favorite occupation,” said the father guardian, pointing to the maps. “Your worship is considering the unfortunate condition of the heretical king whom God, as it appears, will soon cast down in the dust, and crush at the feet of the triumphant Church.”
“We must leave results, at all events, to God,” said the prior, softly; “He has so often evidently lent his aid to the King of Prussia, that I think no one can count confidently upon Frederick’s destruction now.”
“The Holy Father at Rome has blessed the weapons of his adversaries, consequently they must triumph,” cried Father Theodore, unctuously. “But pardon, your worship, I forgot my errand. A stranger wishes to see the prior of the cloister; he has rare and beautiful relics to sell, which he will only show to your worship.”
“Our church is rich enough in relics,” said the prior.
“Your worship does not attach any especial value to such things,” said the father guardian with a derisive smile; “but I must allow myself to recall to you that the Holy Father in Rome has only lately addressed a circular to all the cloisters, recommending the purchase of rare relics to the awakening and advancing of the true faith.”
“You, father guardian, must understand that matter best,” said Brother Anselmo, sticking four new pins into his map. “I think you brought back this circular about six months since, when you returned to take the place of guardian.”
The father was in the act of giving an angry answer, but the prior came forward, and pointing to the door, said, “Introduce the stranger with the relics.”
A few moments later the traveller from the hotel of Signor Montardo entered the prior’s room. He received a kindly welcome, and was asked to show his treasures.
The stranger hesitated, and looked significantly at the two monks. “I begged to be allowed to show them to your worship alone,” said he.
“These two fathers are consecrated priests, and may therefore dare to look upon the holy treasures,” said the prior, with a scarcely perceptible smile.
“I solemnly swore to the man from whom I bought these relics that I would only show them to the most worthy member of your order; he was a very pious man, and bitter necessity alone forced him to sell his precious treasures; he prayed to God to grant them a worthy place, and never to allow them to be desecrated by unholy eyes or hands. As the most holy and worthy brother is ever chosen to be the prior, I swore to show the relics only to the prior. Your worship will surely not ask me to break my oath?”
The prior made no answer, but nodded to the two monks, who silently left the room.
“And now, sir, show your treasures,” said the prior, as the door closed behind them.
“Your worship,” said the stranger, rapidly, “I have nothing but a letter from the Abbe Bastiani, which I was to give to your own hands.” He drew a letter from his bosom, which he handed to the prior, who received it with anxious haste and hid it in his robe; then, with quick but noiseless steps he passed hastily through the room, and with a rapid movement dashed open the door; a low cry was heard, and a black figure tumbled back upon the floor.
“Ah! is that you, father guardian?” said the prior, in a tone of sympathy. “I fear that I hurt you.”
“Not so, your worship; I only returned to say to you that it is the hour for dinner, and the pious brothers are already assembled in the hall.”
“And I opened the door to call after you, father, and entreat you to take my place at the table. As I am in the act of looking at these holy relics, and touching them, I dare not soil my hands so soon afterward with earthly food. You will, therefore, kindly take my place, and I will not appear till the evening meal. Go, then, worthy brother, and may God bless you richly.” He bowed and raising his right hand, made the sign of the cross, while the father guardian slowly, and with a frowning brow, passed through the room. Having reached the opposite door, he paused and looked back; but seeing the prior still standing upon the threshold of his room, and gazing after him, he dashed open the door and disappeared. “Now, sir,” said the prior, entering and closing the door carefully, “we are alone, and I am ready to listen to you.”
“I pray your worship to read first the letter of your brother, the Abbe Bastiani.”
“Ah! he has told you that I am his brother?” said the prior, eagerly. “He trusts you then, fully? Well, I will read the letter.” He opened and read it impatiently. “This is a very laconic and enigmatical letter,” said he. “My brother refers me wholly to you; he assures me I can confide entirely in your silence and discretion, and entreats me to assist you in the attainment of your object. Make known to me then, signor, in what way I can serve you, and what aim you have in view.”
“First, I will give your worship a proof that I trust you fully and unconditionally. I will tell you who I am, and then make known my purpose; you will then be able to decide how far you can give me counsel and aid.”
“Let us step into this window-niche,” said the prior; “we will be more secure from eavesdroppers. Now, signor, I am ready to listen.”
The stranger bowed. “First, I must pray your worship’s forgiveness, for having dared to deceive you. I am no merchant, and have nothing to do with relics; I am a soldier! my name is Cocceji, and I have the honor to be an adjutant of the King of Prussia. My royal master has intrusted me with a most important and secret mission, and I am commissioned by your brother, the Abbe Bastiani, to ask in his name for your assistance in this great matter.”
“In what does your mission consist?” said the prior, calmly.
The Baron Cocceji smiled. “It is difficult--yes, impossible to tell you in a few words. Your worship must allow me a wider scope, in order to explain myself fully.”
“Speak on!” said the prior.
“I see, by the maps and the arrangements of the pins, that your worship knows exactly the position and circumstances of my royal master, whom all Europe admires and wonders at, and whom his enemies fear most when they have just defeated him. They know that my king is never so great, never so energetic and bold in action, as when he is seemingly at a disadvantage, and overwhelmed by misfortunes. The bold glance of the great Frederick discovers ever-new fountains of help; he creates in himself both power and strength, and when his enemies think they have caught the royal lion in their nets, his bold eye has already discovered the weak spot; he tears it apart, and makes his foes, bewildered with terror and astonishment, fly before him. It is true, the king has just lost three battles! The Austrians and Russians defeated him at Hochkirch, at Kunersdorf, and at Mayen. But what have they gained? They have, in these three battles, lost more than the king; they have exhausted their resources--their own, and those of their allies; but Frederick stands still opposed to them, full of strength and power. His army is enlarged; from every side, from every province, shouting crowds stream onward to join the colors of their king. Enthusiasm makes a youth of the graybeard, and changes boys to men. Each one of them will have his part in the experience and fame of the great Frederick, and demands this of him as a holy right. The king’s treasury is not exhausted; the people, with joy and gladness, have offered up upon the altar of the fatherland, their possessions, their jewels, and their precious things, and submit with enthusiasm to all the restrictions and self-denials which the war imposes upon them. They desire nothing but to see their king victorious; to help him to this, they will give property, blood--yes, life itself. It is this warm, enthusiastic love of his people which makes the king so fearful to his enemies; it protects him like a diamond shield, steels him against the balls of his adversaries, and fills his proud, heroic soul with assurances of triumph. All Europe shares this enthusiasm and these convictions of ultimate success with the Prussians and their dear-loved king. All Europe greets the hero with loud hosannas, who alone defies so many and such mighty foes, who has often overcome them, and from whom they have not yet wrung one single strip of the land they have watered with their blood, and in whose bosom their fallen hosts lie buried in giant graves. This has won for him the sympathy of all Europe, and the love and admiration of even the subjects of his great and powerful foes. In France--that France, whose warriors suffered so shameful a defeat at Rossbach, and whose government is filled with rage and thirsty for revenge against this heroic king--even in France is Frederick admired and worshipped. Even in the palace of the king, they no longer refuse to acknowledge his worth and glory. But lately, the young Duke de Belleisle exhorted the Marquise de Pompadour to implore King Louis to prosecute the war with earnestness and ardor, otherwise King Frederick might soon be expected in Paris with his army. The Marquise de Pompadour cried out warmly, ‘Good! then I shall at last see a king!’ In Germany, his enemies seek in vain to arouse the fanaticism of the people against the heretical king. Catholic Bavaria--the Palatinate-Main--enter murmuringly and reluctantly into this war against this Protestant king, although they wear the beads in their pockets, and the scapular over their shoulders. Even if Frederick the Second is now overcome by his enemies, in the public opinion he is the conqueror, and the whole world sympathizes with him. But public opinion is his only ally, and the sympathy of the people is his only source of revenue, outside of the subsidy from England, which will soon be exhausted. Frederick, therefore, must look after other allies, other friends, who will render him assistance, in so far as not to unsheathe the sword against him, and to prepare some difficulties for his adversaries, and occupy a portion of their attention. Such friends the king hopes to find in Italy; and to attain this object, I would ask counsel and help of your worship.”
“And in how far is it thought that I can be useful in this matter?” said the prior, thoughtfully.
“Your worship has a second brother, who is minister of the King of Sardinia, and it is well known he is the king’s especial confidant and favorite.”
“And my noble brother, Giovanni, merits fully the favor of his king!” said the prior, heartily. “He is the most faithful, the most exalted servant of his master!”
“In all his great and good characteristics, he resembles his brother, the Prior of San Giovanni, and I hope, in this also, that he is the friend of the King of Prussia!” said the stranger.
“But I fear neither the friendship of my brother Giovanni nor my own can be useful to the King of Prussia. I am a poor and powerless monk, suspected and watched. My offence is, that I have not, like the fanatical priests of the Church, wished for the destruction and death of the great Frederick. My brother is the minister of a king, whose land is neither rich enough in gold to pay subsidies, nor in men to place an army in the field.”
“Well, then, we must take occasion to increase the territory of the King of Sardinia!” said Baron Cocceji. “We must give him so large a realm, that he will be a dangerous neighbor to France and Austria. This is the plan and the intention of my king. Upon these points turn the proposals I will make in Turin, for the furtherance of which, I pray your assistance. The King of Sardinia has well-grounded claim to Milan, to Mantua, and to Bologna, by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle; why not make himself King of Lombardy? Unhappy Italy is like unhappy Germany--torn to pieces. In place of obeying one master, they must submit to the yoke of many. The dwellers in Italy, instead of being Italians, call themselves Milanese, Venetians, Sardinians, Tuscans, Romans, Neapolitans, and I know not what. All this weakens the national pride, and takes from the people the joyful consciousness of their greatness. Italy must be one in herself, in order to be once more great and powerful. Let the King of Sardinia take possession of Upper Italy, and he will, with his rightful inheritance, and as King of Lombardy, be a powerful prince--feared by his enemies, and welcomed by his allies.”
“And do you think that Naples would look quietly on and witness this rapid growth of Sardinia?” said the prior, laughing.
“We will give to Naples an opportunity at the same time to enlarge her borders the young King of Naples has energy; he has proved it. When his father, Don Carlos, was called by right of succession to the Spanish throne, he had himself declared King of Naples, not regarding the right of the Duke of Parma, to whom, according to the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, the Neapolitan throne rightly belonged. King Ferdinand is already a usurper! Let him go on, even as successfully in the same path--he has taken Naples--let him take Tuscany and the States of the Church, and, as King of Lower Italy, he will be as powerful as the King of Sardinia. In order that both may obtain possession of these lands uninterrupted and uninjured, will the King of Prussia so completely occupy the attention of Austria and France in Germany and Flanders as to make it impossible for them to interfere with Naples and Sardinia?” [Footnote: Preuss, “History of Frederick the Great.”]
“By Heaven! a great and bold idea; altogether in harmony with the energetic spirit of Frederick,” cried the prior. “If the two Italian kings resemble the great Frederick, they will adopt this plan with enthusiasm.”
He had risen, and stepped hastily backward and forward, now and then murmuring a few disconnected words; he then drew near the table and stood earnestly regarding the maps.
Cocceji did not dare to interrupt him by word or sound; he watched him, however, closely. At last, however, the inward struggle seemed to be over, he stood quietly before the baron, and, fixing his dark, earnest eyes with a thoughtful expression upon him, he said, softly: “You have confided to me a great and dangerous enterprise. If I did my duty as the unconditional subject of the Pope, and as a priest of the holy Church, of which Frederick is the bitter antagonist, I should arrest you here, as a dangerous negotiator and enemy, and above all, I should give speedy notice of this conspiracy, which not only threatens Clement as head of the Church, but as sovereign of the States of the Church. But--what would you have?--I was not born a priest, and my heart and my spirit have never been able to accommodate themselves fully to the discipline of my order. I have always remained, I fear,” said he, with a graceful smile, “the true brother of the free-thinking Abbe Bastiani; and it appears to me, it lies in our blood to love and pay homage to the great and intellectual King of Prussia. I will, therefore, listen to and follow the voice of my blood and of my heart, and forget a little that I am a priest of the only church in which salvation can be found. As far as it lies in my power, I will promote your object. I will give you letters to Turin, not only to my brother Giovanni, but to Father Tomaseo, the king’s confessor. He is my most faithful friend, and sympathizes fully with me. If you can win him and my brother Giovanni, you have won the king, and he will lend a willing ear to your proposals. Your plans are bold, but my brother and Father Tomaseo are daring, undaunted men; the progress of Italy and the greatness of their king lies nearest their hearts. They are both influenced by my judgment, and when you hand them my letters, you will at least be a most welcome guest.”
He gave the baron his hand, and listened with a kindly smile to the enthusiastic thanks of the over-happy soldier, whose first diplomatic mission seemed to promise so favorably.
“Be, however, always prudent and discreet, signor,” said the prior, laughing. “Play your role as merchant; do not lay it aside for one moment while in Turin. Leave Venice as quickly as possible; no doubt the brother guardian, who was sent from Rome as a spy, who watches not only all my actions, but my words and thoughts, has remarked our long interview, and is already suspicious. As he has a fine nose, he may soon discover a part of your secret! Do not return to the cloister. During the day I will send you the promised letters by a faithful brother. As soon as you receive them, be off! My best wishes and my prayers accompany you. Without doubt, you are, like your great king, a heretic. I cannot, therefore commend you to Mary Mother, and the saints, but I will pray to God to watch over you.”
The prior stopped suddenly and listened! Loud cries of wild alarm forced themselves upon his ear; the sounds appeared to come from directly under his feet, and waxed louder and fiercer every moment.
“It is in the dining-room,” said the prior, “follow me, sir, I beg you, we may need your help--some one is murdering my monks!” They hastened from the room with flying feet; they passed through the long corridors and down the steps; the cries and roars and howls and curses became ever clearer.
“I was not mistaken,” said the prior, “this comes from the refectory.” He rushed to the door and threw it hastily open, then stood, as if chained to the threshold, and stared with horror at the mad spectacle before him.
There were no murderous strangers there playing wild havoc amongst his monks: but the worthy fathers themselves were making the fierce tumult which filled the prior with alarm. The saloon no longer resembled the ascetic, peaceful refectory of cloister brothers. It was changed into a battle-field, upon which the two hosts thirsting for blood stood opposed.
The table upon which the glasses, plates, and dishes seemed to have been thrown together in wild disorder, was shoved to one side, and in the open space the monks stood with flashing eyes, uttering curses and imprecations; not one of them remarked that the prior and Cocceji stood at the door, astonished spectators of this unheard-of combat.
“Silence!” said the father guardian, making frantic gesticulations toward the monks who stood opposed to him and his adherents--“silence! no one shall dare within these sacred walls to speak of the Prussian heretical king in any other way than with imprecations. Whoever wishes success to his arms is an apostate, a traitor, and heretic. God has raised the sword of His wrath against him, and He will crush him utterly; He has blessed the weapons of his adversaries as Clement has also done. Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty!”
The monks by his side roared out, “Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty!”
“She will not be victorious over Frederick of Prussia,” cried Father Anselmo, the leader of the opposite party. “The Pope has blessed the arms of Daun, but God himself has blessed the weapons of Frederick. Long live the King of Prussia! Long live the great Frederick!”
“Long live the great Frederick!” cried the monks by the side of Father Anselmo.
The party of the father guardian rushed upon them with doubled fists; the adversaries followed their example. “Long live Theresa!” cried the one. “Long live Frederick!” cried the other--and the blows and kicks fell thickly right and left, with the most lavish prodigality.
It was in vain that the prior advanced among them and commanded peace--no one regarded him. In their wild and indiscriminate rage they pressed him and shoved him from side to side, and in the heat of the battle several powerful blows fell upon his breast; so the poor prior took refuge again at the door near Cocceji, who was laughing merrily at the wild disorder.
The cries of “Long live Theresa!”
“Long live Frederick!” were mingling lustily in the bloody strife.
The father guardian was enraged beyond bearing, and his flashing eye looked around for some sharp weapon with which to demolish Father Anselmo, who had just exclaimed, “Long live Frederick, the victor of Leuthen and Zorndorf!” He seized a large tin cup, which was near him upon the table, and with a fierce curse he dashed it in the face of Father Anselmo, and the blood burst from his nose. This was the signal for a new order of attack. Both parties rushed to the table to arm themselves; the cups whizzed through the air and wounded severely the heads against which they were well aimed. Here and there might be heard whimperings and piteous complaints, mixed with curses and frantic battle-cries--“Long live Theresa!”
“Long live Frederick!” Some of the warriors crept from the contest into the corners to wipe the blood from their wounds and return with renewed courage to the contest. A few cowards had crept under the table to escape the cups and kicks which were falling in every direction.
Father Anselmo remarked them, and with loud, derisive laughter he pointed them out.
“The Teresiani live under the table, no Prussiano has crept there. All the Teresiani would gladly hide as they have often done before.”
The Prussiani accompanied these words of their leader with joyous shouts.
The father guardian trembled with rage; he seized a large dish from the table and dashed it at Anselmo, who dodged in time, and then with a powerful arm returned the compliment. It was a well-directed javelin. The tin dish struck the father guardian exactly in the back--he lost his balance, and fell to the earth. The Prussiani greeted this heroic deed of their chief with shouts of triumph. “So shall all the Teresiani perish!”
The battle waxed hotter and fiercer, the air was thick with missiles.
“They will murder each other!” cried the prior, turning to the Baron Cocceji. “Not so, your worship; there will only be a few blue swellings and bleeding noses--nothing more,” said Cocceji, laughing.
“Ah, you laugh young man; you laugh at this sad spectacle!”
“Forgive me, your worship; but I swear to you, I have never seen warriors more eager in the fray, and I have never been more curious to witness the result of any battle.”
“But you shall not witness it,” said the prior, resolutely. “You shall no longer be a spectator of the unworthy and shameful conduct of my monks. I pray you to withdraw instantly; in a few hours I will send you the letters, and if you believe that I have rendered you the least service, I ask in return that you will tell no one what you have seen.”
“I promise, your worship,” said Cocceji, with forced gravity. “If the people without shall ask me what all this tumult means, I will say that the pious fathers in the cloister are singing their ‘floras.’” [Footnote: Baron Cocceji did not keep his word, as this whole scene is historic.]
Baron Cocceji bowed to the prior, and returned with gay and hopeful thoughts to the hotel of the “White Lion.”
A few hours later, a monk appeared and desired to speak with the stranger about the holy relics.
Cocceji recognized in him the worthy Father Anselmo, the victor over the father guardian.
“Will you do me a great pleasure, worthy father?” said he. “Tell me which party remained in possession of the field after your great battle.”
An expression of triumphant joy flashed in Father Anselmo’s eyes.
“The Prussiani were victorious, and I think the Teresiani will never dare to recommence the strife; four of their monks lie in their cells with broken noses, and it will be some weeks before the father guardian will be capable of performing his duties as spy; he is sore and stiff, and his mouth is poorer by a few teeth. May all the enemies of the great Frederick share his fate! May God bless the King of Prussia and be gracious to his friends!”
He greeted the baron with the sign of the cross, and withdrew.
The baron remembered the warning of the prior, and hastened quietly from Venice. Already the next morning he was on the highway to Turin. [Footnote: This diplomatic mission failed, because of the faint heart of the King of Sardinia. He rejected the bold propositions of Frederick entirely, and said, in justification of himself, that since the alliance between the powers of France and Austria, he had his head between a pair of tongs, which were ever threatening to close and crush him. Baron Cocceji was not more fortunate in Naples, and after many vain efforts he was forced to return home, having accomplished nothing.--Duten’s “Memoirs of a Traveller.”]
IV. THE RETURN FROM THE ARMY
It was a sunny, summer day-one of those days which incline the heart to prayer, and bring tears of happiness to the eyes. There are no such days in cities; if we would enjoy them we must go into the country--we must seek them in peaceful valleys, in fragrant forests, where the silence is unbroken, except by the fluttering leaves and the singing of birds. We must understand the eloquent silence of Nature in order to enjoy the holy Sabbath quiet of a summer day; and we must be able to hear the language which the flowers breathe forth, to understand the sighing of the wind, and the rustling of the trees.
Very few can do this, but few would care for it. God has not opened the eyes of the hearts of many of us to this extent; these things are hidden by a thick veil from the many; they cannot see the heavenly beauty of Nature--they do not understand the fairy tale which she is ever telling. This is gentle, idyllic, fairy lore, unsought by the learned. It whispers of roses, of dancing elves, of weeping clouds, of dreaming violets.
Happy are those who listen to these fables, who are not called by the necessities of life to hear the roar of cannon--to find all these sweet and holy songs overpowered by the noise of war, the horrors of bloodshed!
War, destructive war, still held a lighted torch over unhappy Germany; cities and villages were in ruins--even the peace of Nature was destroyed. The valleys, usually so quiet, now often resounded with the roar of cannon. The fields remained uncultivated, the meadows uncared for; there were no strong hands to work. The men and youths were gone, only the old graybeards and the women were in the villages, and the work advanced but slowly under their trembling hands. Unhappiness and want, care and sorrow were in the land.
Even in the once peaceful and happy village of Brunen on the Rhine, misery had made itself felt. Grief and anguish dwelt with the bereaved mothers, with the forsaken brides, and the weak old men; with the useless cripples, who had returned from the war, and who spent their time in relating the dangers through which they had passed, in telling of the sons, the brothers, the husbands, and the fathers of those who listened to their tales--those dear ones who were, perhaps, now stretched upon the battle-field.
But on this bright day no one in the village gave a thought to the beauties of Nature, for a new misfortune weighed heavily upon the hearts of the unhappy inhabitants. They were no longer the subjects of the hero-king, who was so worshipped by all; under whose colors their fathers and sons still fought. The French army, led by the Duke de Broglie and the Count de St Germain, had taken possession of all that part of the country, and held it in the name of their king. It was declared a French province, and the inhabitants, helpless and forsaken, were compelled to acknowledge the French as their masters, and to meet the taxes which were imposed upon them.
It was a most bitter necessity, and no one felt it more deeply than the old shepherd Buschman, the father of Charles Henry. He sat, as we first saw him, on the slope of the field where his flock was grazing, guarded and kept in order by the faithful Phylax. His eye was not clear and bright as then, but troubled and sorrowful, and his countenance bore an expression of the deepest grief. He had no one to whom he could pour forth his sorrows--no one to comfort him--he was quite alone Even his youngest son, Charles Henry, the real Charles Henry, had been compelled to leave him. The recruiting officers of the king had come a short time before the French troops had taken possession of the province, and had conscripted the few strong men who were still left in the village of Brunen.
But this time the men of Brunen had not answered joyfully to the demand. Even old Buschman had wished to keep his son Charles Henry with him. Had he not sent six sons to the field of battle, and had they not all died as heroes? Charles Henry was his last treasure, his one remaining child; his grief-torn heart clung to him with the deepest devotion. To be parted from him seemed more bitter than death itself. When the recruiting officer came into the hut of Buschman and summoned Charles Henry to follow him as a soldier, the eyes of the old man filled with tears, and he laid his hands upon the arm of his son as if he feared to see him instantly torn from his sight.
“Captain,” he said, with a trembling voice, “I have sent the king six sons already; they have all died in his service. Tell me truly, is the king in great need? If so, take me as well as my son--if not, leave me my son.”
The officer smiled, and extended his hand to the old man. “Keep your son,” he said. “If you have lost six sons in the war, it is right that you should keep the seventh.”
Buschman uttered a cry of joy, and would have embraced his son, but Charles Henry pushed him gently back, and his father read in his countenance a determination and energy that he had rarely seen there.
“No, father,” he said, “let me go--let me be a soldier as my brothers were. I should have gone four years ago, when I was prevented, and Anna Sophia--Ah, let me be a soldier, father,” he said, interrupting himself. “All the young men of the village are going, and I am ashamed to remain at home.”
The old man bent his head sadly. “Go then, my son,” he said; “God’s blessing rest upon you!”
Thus Charles Henry went; not from a feeling of enthusiasm for the life of a soldier--not from love to his king--but merely because he was ashamed to remain at home.
He had now been absent several months, and his father had not heard from him. But the news of the lately lost battle had reached the village, and it was said that the Prince Royal of Brunswick, in whose corps Charles Henry was, had been defeated. The old shepherd remembered this as he sat in the meadow this bright summer morning. His thoughts were with his distant son, and when he raised his eyes to heaven it was not to admire its dazzling blue, or its immeasurable depth, but to pray to the Almighty to spare his son. The peaceful tranquillity of Nature alarmed the old man--she speaks alone to those who have an ear attuned to her voice--she says nothing to those who listen with a divided heart. Buschman could endure it no longer; he arose and started toward the village. He longed to see some human being--to encounter some look of love--to receive sympathy from some one who understood his grief, who suffered as he did, and who did not wear the eternal smile that Nature wore.
He went to the village, therefore, and left the care of his flock to Phylax. It comforted his heart as he passed through the principal street of Brunen and received kind greetings from every hut he passed. He felt consoled and almost happy when here and there the peasants hurried toward him as he passed their huts, and begged him to come in and join them at their simple mid-day meal, and were quite hurt when he refused because his own dinner was prepared for him at home. These men loved him--they pitied his loneliness--they told him of their own cares, their own fears--and as he endeavored to console and encourage them, he felt his strength increase--he was more hopeful, more able to bear whatever God might send.
“We must be united in love,” said Buschman; “we will help each other to bear the sorrows that may come upon us. To-morrow is Sunday; in the morning we will go to the house of God, and after we have whispered to Him the prayers which He alone must hear, we will assemble together under the linden-tree in the square and talk of the old times and those who have left us. Do you not remember that it was under the linden-tree we heard of the first victory that our king gained in this fearful war? It was there that Anna Sophia Detzloff read the news to us, and we rejoiced over the battle of Losovitz, And I also rejoiced and thanked God, although the victory had cost me the lives of two of my sons. But they perished as heroes. I could glory in such a death; and Anna Sophia read their praises from the paper. Ah, if Anna lived, I would at least have a daughter.”
He could speak no more, emotion arrested the words on his lips; he bowed to his friends and passed on to his lonely hut. His little table was spread, and the young girl who served him, and who slept in his hut at night, was just placing a dish of steaming potatoes before his plate. The old man sat down to his solitary meal; he ate only to sustain his body; his thoughts were far away; he took no pleasure in his food. In the middle of his meal he started up; a shadow had fallen across the window, and two loving, well-known eyes had seemed to look in on him. Buschman, as if paralyzed with delight, let fall his spoon and looked toward the door. Yes, the bolt moved, the door opened, and there stood the tall figure of a Prussian soldier.
The old man uttered a cry and extended his arms. “Oh, my son, my beloved son, do I indeed see you once more?”
“Yes, father, I am here; and God willing, we will never again be parted.” And Charles Henry hastened to the outstretched arms of his father, and kissing him tenderly, pressed him to his heart.
“The thought of you, dear father, has led me here,” he said; “but for you I would not have returned to Brunen; I should have wandered forth into the world--the world which is so much greater and more beautiful than I ever dreamed. But your dear old eyes were before me; I heard your loved voice, which called to me, and I returned to you.”
“God be praised!” said his father, folding his hands, and raising his eyes gratefully toward heaven. “Oh how kind and merciful is God, to give me back my last, my only son, the support of my old age, the delight of my eyes! You will not leave me again. This is not merely a leave of absence; you have obtained your release, the war is ended, the king has declared peace.”
The eyes of the old man were dimmed with tears; he did not perceive how Charles Henry trembled, and that a deep flush mounted to his brow.
“No, father,” he said, with downcast eyes, “I will never leave you again. We have all returned home. It will be bright and gay once more in the village, and the work will go forward, for there is a great difference between a dozen old men and as many young ones. It was most needful for us to return. The corn is ripe, and should have been already gathered. We must go to work. To-morrow shall be a happy day for the village; the whole neighborhood shall perceive that the twelve young men of Brunen have returned. We met a violinist on the way, and we engaged him for to-morrow. He must play for us under the linden tree, and our fathers and mothers, and sisters and sweethearts must join us, and we will dance and sing and make merry.”
“What a coincidence!” said the old shepherd, with a bright smile. “We had already decided that we would meet together tomorrow under the linden. We wished to sit there and mourn together over our lost sons. To sing and dance is much better, and perhaps the old grayheads will join you.”
“You must dance with me, father,” said Charles Henry, laughing. “I will take no refusal.”
“I will, my son, I will; joy has made me young again, and if Phylax, the old graybeard, does not mind, and will allow me, I will dance with you, but you know he is always jealous of you. I am sure the whole village will envy you your gay young partner. But now, my son,” he continued gravely, “tell me of our king, and how is it that he has declared peace so suddenly, and whether he has been victorious or the reverse.”
“I know nothing of the king,” said Charles Henry; “I was not near him, but in the division of the Duke of Brunswick.”
“I know that, my son; but the duke would not proclaim peace without the knowledge and consent of the king.”
“Oh, father, they will compel the king to make peace,” cried Charles Henry. “And as for the Duke of Brunswick, he has given up the attack against Wesel and has withdrawn to Westphalia, and the French are in possession of the entire lowlands, which, it is to be hoped, they will retain.”
“You hope that?” asked his father, with astonishment.
“Well, yes, father. The French king is now, and perhaps will always be, the lord of Cleve; and, as his subjects, we must wish him success, and hope that he will always conquer the King of Prussia.”
“What do you say, my son?” asked the old man, with a bewildered expression. “I fear you are right. The French are our masters now, and, as our king has declared peace with France, we have the unhappiness of being French subjects. May God protect us from such a fate! It would be fearful if we dared not call the great hero--king our king, and, if we should live to see the day when our sons should be compelled, as French soldiers, to go to battle against their king. Only think, Charles Henry, you would not be allowed to wear your fine Prussian uniform on Sundays, and it is so becoming to you, and is as good as new. But how is it, my son, that they have left you the uniform? They are usually taken from the released soldiers and put amongst the army stores.”
“We all came home in our Prussian uniforms,” said Charles Henry, “but of course we will lay them aside to-day.”
“Why to-day?”
“Because we are French subjects, and therefore it is not proper for us to wear the uniform of the enemy, the King of Prussia. That is also the reason why we have returned home. When we learned that Cleve had fallen into the possession of the French, we knew that we were no longer the subjects of the King of Prussia, and we dared not fight under his flag against the French, whose subjects we had become. We considered that, and we thought how much it would injure you all here in Brunen if it were known that your sons were in the army of the Prussian king. Principally on that account we determined to return home, and we left our regiment yesterday morning, which was on the point of marching off to Minden, and we walked the entire day and half the night. We slept a few hours in a forest, and at the break of day we recommenced our journey. And now, father, that I have seen you, and you know every thing, I will go to my room and take off this uniform, and become a peasant once more.” He sought to leave the room hastily, for the amazed, horror-struck expression of his father was most disagreeable to him.
But Buschman placed his hand so heavily upon his son’s arm that he was compelled to remain. “Say it is a jest, Charles,” he cried, in an excited voice. “It is not possible for my son, the brother of my six hero-boys, to speak thus! It is merely a jest, Charles. You wished to joke with your old father. It is not true that you have deserted the flag of our king; put an end to this cruel jest, Charles Henry, and show me your leave of absence which every honest soldier obtains before leaving his regiment. Do you hear, Charles Henry? Show it to me quickly.” He extended his trembling hand toward his son, while with the other he still held his arm in a powerful grasp.
“Father,” said Charles Henry, fiercely, “I have no such paper. It is as I told you; we have left the Prussian army because we are no longer the subjects of the King of Prussia, and it is not necessary for us to remain in the service. We wish to become peasants once more.”
“You lie! you lie!” cried his father. “You are no deserter--it is impossible that my son should be a deserter.”
“No, father, I am no deserter,” returned his son, defiantly, as he freed his arm from the old man’s grasp. “I am no deserter--I have only done my duty as a subject of the French king. I have left the flag of the enemy, and I am here ready and willing to obey my new master as a true subject. That is all I have to say, father, and I believe when you consider, you will see that I was right, and that you will be pleased for me to take off the Prussian uniform and remain with you.” He did not wait for his father’s answer, but left the room hastily, as if he feared to be again detained.
The old man arose to follow him, but his feet refused their accustomed office; with a deep groan, he sank upon his chair, and as the scalding tears streamed from his eyes, he murmured: “Oh, my God! my son is a deserter! Why did you permit me to live to see this shame? Why did you not close my eyes that they might not meet this disgrace?”
V. THE BRAVE FATHERS AND THE COWARDLY SONS
The clear bell of the village church was sounding for mass, calling the pious inhabitants of Brunen to worship in the temple of God. All the hut-doors were opening, and men and women in Sunday attire wending their way in solemn stillness to church. They were followed by their children--the maidens with downcast, modest eyes, the boys with bright and joyous faces, proud of the thought that they were old enough to go to church.
From the distant farm came the servants, two and two, up the broad chestnut alley, greeting here and there the church-goers, and walking on with them, chatting softly. They all remained standing a short time under the great linden, waiting until the bell ceased, until the church-door was opened and the minister appeared with the sacristan and the four choir-boys. Not until then were they allowed to enter the church.
A bright-looking crowd was assembled under the linden; it seemed as if all the inhabitants of the village were there. All felt the necessity of visiting God’s house to-day to thank Him for the safe return of their sons, brothers, and lovers. The twelve boys who had returned were under the linden in their handsomest Sunday attire. But why did they stand alone? Why was such a wide space left between them and the other villagers? Why did the men avoid looking at them? Why did the maidens step timidly back and remain silent when they approached and tried to speak with them? Why were they all whispering together, pointing at the boys and turning their backs upon them when they drew near?
“Leave them alone,” whispered one of the boys to the others; “they will be more friendly this afternoon when the music is playing and the wine and cake is handed.”
“There is my father, and I must go and meet him,” said Charles Henry, as he hastened toward the old man who was approaching the square.
All drew back from Charles Henry, and as he stood opposite his father, like actors upon the stage they found themselves alone amongst the spectators, who were gazing at them with breathless expectation.
“Good-morning, father,” said Charles Henry, with forced gayety, as he offered his hand to his father. “You slept so late to-day, and went to bed so early yesterday, that I have not been able to speak to you since our first greeting. So I bid you good-morrow now.”
The old man looked quietly at him, but he did not take the proffered hand, and tried to pass him.
“Father,” continued Charles Henry, “you must be tired; our hut lies at the other end of the village, and that is a long walk for your old legs. Rest yourself on me, father, and allow your son to lead you to church.” He stretched forth his hand to take the old man’s arm, but Buschman pushed it back, and passed him, without looking, without even speaking to him.
Charles Henry sprang after him. “Father,” he cried, “do you not hear me? Can you--”
The old man did not really appear to hear him, for he walked toward the village justice with a quiet, unmoved face, as the latter advanced to meet him.
“Friend,” said Buschman, in a loud, firm voice, “I am fatigued with my walk; will you lend me your arm?”
He leaned heavily upon the offered arm, and walked quickly onward. All heard these words, but only the justice saw the tears which rolled down his pale, sunken cheeks.
“You were very harsh, father,” murmured the justice, as they walked on.
“Were you more forgiving?” said the old man, with a trembling voice. “Was not your son amongst the twelve, and did you speak to him, or look at him?”
“He did not pass the night in my house; I drove him away!” said the justice gloomily.
“Oh, oh!” sighed the old man; “how bitter is our grief! We love our children most when they give us most sorrow; but it must be so, friend, we cannot act otherwise. Let us enter the church, and pray God to give us strength to do what is right.”
Supported by the justice, he entered the churchyard, while from the other side the minister, followed by the sacristan and the choirboys, was just appearing.
“See,” murmured the justice, “our good old minister has not come to-day to preach to us; but has sent his assistant. There is certainly some disagreeable order of the archbishop to read to us, and our pastor is not willing to read it; he is a good Prussian, and loves the great king.”
The young minister advanced smilingly to meet the two old men.
“Well,” said he, with sanctimonious friendliness, as he offered both of them a hand, “allow me to congratulate you.”
“For what?” asked both of them, astonished.
“For the happiness of yesterday. Can there be a greater joy for fathers than to receive their sons safe and sound from the tumult of battle? Your sons have returned home, faithfully fulfilling their duty to their new master, his Catholic majesty of France. They abandoned the flag of the heretic king, laid aside his uniform, and are again simple peasants, ready to assist their fathers in the field. Come, my young friends, that I may give you the blessing of the Church, for so resolutely fulfilling your duty.”
He held out his hand to the young men, who were just entering the churchyard. They obeyed his call the more readily, as it was the first welcome they had received--the first kind word they had heard since their return. As they approached the minister, the other men drew back, and entered the church hastily, followed by their wives and children.
“You will see, father,” murmured the justice, as they seated themselves together in the pew, “that there is an order to-day. Whenever the assistant is so delighted and friendly, there is something wrong. They are certainly meditating some villanous trick against Frederick, and therefore our good pastor is not here.”
The justice had prophesied aright. When the services were over, and the congregation about to leave the church, the assistant again mounted the pulpit, and desired them to remain for a while, and hear what he had to communicate, in the name of the archbishop, Sir Clement Augustus of Bavaria.
“His eminence, the most honorable archbishop, sends his dear and faithful children the holy blessing and salutation of the Church. These are his words: ‘We, Clement Augustus, archbishop of Bavaria, entreat and command our children in Christ to be faithful to their new government and their new king, Louis XV. of France, whose apostolic majesty has taken the sword of the Lord into his blessed hand, to fight the enemies of the Church, and to chastise and punish the rebellious heretic prince who has arbitrarily named himself King of Prussia. God’s anger is against him, and He will crush and destroy the presumptuous mockers of the Lord. Woe unto them who will not listen to God’s voice, who in their mad blindness cling to this heretic! Woe unto you if, in the delusion of your hearts, you still offer him love and faith! You are released from all duty to him as subjects, and you now have the blessing of the Church. I, as your shepherd, made so by the holy Pope of Rome, command you, therefore, to be faithful to your new master--pray that God may bless his arms, and grant him victory over his ungodly enemy. My anger and dire punishment shall reach any one who refuses to obey this command. He who dares to stand by the heretic king, is himself a heretic, and a rebellious subject of the Church. Be on your guard; heavy punishment shall meet those who dare to rejoice over the fame of the so-called great Frederick. Such rejoicing will be regarded as blasphemy against the holy Mother Church. To conclude, we remain your loving father, and send our dear children in Christ our most gracious love and greeting.’”
The men listened to the message of the fanatic archbishop with gloomy faces and downcast eyes; but the twelve boys, who at first stood alone in the aisle, not daring to seat themselves with the others, now gazed boldly and triumphantly around, seeming to ask if the villagers did not now acknowledge that they had acted wisely in returning.
With renewed courage, and somewhat proudly, they were the first to leave the church, and placed themselves in two rows at the door. While the congregation was passing by they invited their dear friends and relations to meet them that afternoon under the great linden, where they would hold a little festival to celebrate their safe return.
“We shall come,” said the men, with earnest, solemn voices. “We will be there,” said the mothers, gazing with tearful eyes at the triumphant faces of their sons. The young maidens whom the boys invited to dance, passed them in silence.
Old Buschman, alone, did not answer his son’s invitation, nor did he follow the rest to the village, but turned to the side of the churchyard where his wife was buried. He seated himself upon her grave, and murmured a few words with trembling lips, raising his face toward heaven. A sob escaped him every now and then, and the tears rolled slowly from his eyes. From time to time he wrung his hands, as if bewailing his sorrow to God and beseeching His mercy, then brushed away his tears--angry with himself for being so moved.
He sat there a long, long time, struggling with his grief--alone with God and his shame. Approaching steps aroused him; he looked up. The village justice stood before him, and gazed at him with a melancholy smile.
“I knew I would find you here, Father Buschman, and I came for you. The time is come; we are all assembled on the square awaiting you.”
“I come!” said the old man, as he stood up resolutely, giving a last loving farewell glance at his wife’s grave.
The old man no longer needed his friend’s arm to support him, his steps were firm; his form manly and erect, his venerable countenance glowed with energy.
By the side of the village justice he walked to the square, under the great linden. There every thing looked bright and gay. The boys had taken advantage of the dinner hour to make worthy preparations for their festival. They had brought fresh evergreens from the woods, and had made wreaths and festooned them from tree to tree around the square. The ground was covered prettily with flowers and leaves, and the bench under the tree was decorated with a wreath of field-flowers.
On one side of the square stood several tables covered with bottles of wine and beer and cake and bread; not far from the tables was a throne adorned with flowers, where sat the fiddler, gazing proudly around him, like a king who knows he is the crowning point of the feast.
It certainly had been a long time since the merry sound of the fiddle had been heard in the village of Brunen. The throne was surrounded by little boys and girls listening with wondering delight at the gay music. But the grown girls stood afar off and did not look even once at the enticing fiddler, but hid themselves timidly behind the mothers, who were standing with stern faces gazing at the groups of men waiting anxiously on the other side of the square.
The stillness and universal silence began at last to make the boys uneasy. They had tried in vain to engage the men in conversation. They received no answer to their questions, and when they turned to the women and the maidens, they also remained dumb. The returned soldiers then went to the other side of the square to talk to the fiddler and the children; but when they began to fondle and play with the little ones, they were called by their fathers and mothers and bade to remain at their side.
The boys gazed questioningly at one another.
“I am curious to know what this means; are we to remain standing here all night?” muttered one of them.
“It appears to me that they are waiting for some one,” murmured another.
“They are expecting my father,” said Charles Henry; “and see, there he comes from the churchyard. The justice went for him.”
When the old man arrived at the square the men advanced to meet him, conducted him gravely to the bench under the great linden, and assisted him to stand upon it. There he towered above them, and his pale, venerable face, his silver hairs were visible to all. Every eye was directed to him, and breathless silence ensued. The old man raised his arm and pointed toward the side where the twelve boys stood.
“Come to me, Charles Henry Buschman,” he said, solemnly; and as his son advanced rapidly to him, he continued: “I ask you in the name of God, if what you told me yesterday is true? Have you secretly left the flag of your king, our sovereign--the great King Frederick of Prussia? Is it true that you have forsaken your regiment and the flag to which you swore to be faithful?”
“It is true,” said Charles Henry, with assumed daring, “but we were not only justified in doing so--our duty compelled us. We are no longer Prussian subjects, but subjects of the King of France. You all heard to-day what the minister read to us in church--how the archbishop commanded us to be faithful to our new sovereign. We could no longer wear the Prussian uniform or be Prussian soldiers, therefore we returned to our village.”
“You returned as dishonored, faithless soldiers!” cried the old man, looking angrily at his son--“you returned covered with shame--miserable deserters--to the disgrace of your fathers, mothers, your brothers, sisters, sweethearts, and your friends. You have deserted the flag of your rightful king, to whom you swore the oath of allegiance--an oath which God received, and which no man can annul. Men of Brunen! shall we stand this shame that our sons bring upon us? Shall the world point their fingers at us and say: ‘These are the fathers of soldiers who deserted their regiment, and were false to their king?’”
“No!” cried they all, as with one voice--“no, we will not stand this--we will have no deserters as sons!”
The old man bowed his head in silence; then turned slowly to the side where the women stood.
“Women and maidens of Brunen! Will you allow your sons and brothers who are covered with shame, to stay amongst you? Will you receive the deserters in your houses and at your tables? Will you open your arms to them and call them sons and brothers?”
“No, no!” cried the women and maidens, simultaneously; “we will not receive them in our houses, or at our tables. We will have no deserters for sons or brothers!”
The old man stood erect, and, as if inspired with a mighty enthusiasm, raised his arm toward heaven, and his countenance beamed with holy light.
“They must return to their flag,” he cried, in a commanding voice “With your blood you must wash the shame from your brows, and from ours. If God preserves your lives, and you redeem your honor as brave soldiers of the King of Prussia, then and then only we will receive you as our sons and welcome you to our arms.”
“So shall it be!” cried the men and the women, and the maidens murmured their acquiescence.
The old man stepped from the bench and walked forward slowly to the other side of the square where the twelve young men were standing gazing at him with terrified faces.
“Return!” cried the old man, stretching his arm toward them--“return to the flag of your king; we want no deserters amongst us; away with you!”
“Away with you!” cried the men--“away from our village!”
The children, influenced by their parents, cried out with shrill voices: “Away from our village--away!”
The youths were at first stunned, and gazed with staring eyes at the crowd of angry faces and flashing eyes which menaced them, then seized with terror, they fled.
“Away with you! away with the deserters!” was thundered after them. “Away with you!” cried their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends.
This fearful cry sounded to them like the peal of the last judgment. With trembling knees, and faces pale as death, they rushed down the principal street of the village. The crowd started after them, and like the howling of a storm, shouted behind them: “Away with you!--away with the deserters!”
On they ran, as if pursued by furies, farther, farther down the street, but the villagers still chased them. Once only Charles Henry dared to look around at the pursuers. It was a fearful sight. At the head of the rest he saw his old father, with his pale face, his white hair flying in the wind; raising his arms threateningly toward him, he cried out in a thundering voice: “Away with you!--away with the deserters!”
Charles Henry rushed onward--a cry of terror escaped his lips, and he fled like a madman.
They had passed the borders of the village--it was quiet behind them--they dared to look back--they were alone. But on the boundary-line the villagers stood--their faces turned toward the fugitives--and like the distant croakings of a raven there sounded in the air: “Away with you!--away with the deserters!”
Breathless, with tottering knees, the boys sank down--with hollow eyes, speechless with terror, sorrow, and humility, they gazed at each other.
They did not dare return to the village. Perhaps to appease the anger of their relations, perhaps because they repented of their cowardice, they returned to their regiment, acknowledged their crime, and prayed for forgiveness.
Thus the brave fathers of the village of Brunen punished their cowardly sons, and drove the dishonored and faithless boys to their duty, perhaps to their death. [Footnote: This account is historical.]
VI. THE TRAITOR’S BETRAYAL
Count Ranuzi was alone in his apartments. He sat at his writing-table reading over the two letters he had just written; a triumphant smile was upon his lip as he finished. “It will succeed,” murmured he, softly; “we will take Magdeburg without a blow, and thus deprive the King of Prussia of his most valuable fortress. The plan cannot miscarry; and then I have only to convince the empress that I was the soul of this undertaking--that I led the intrigue. Ah, I shall succeed at last--I shall occupy a position worthy of me--and as general of our order I shall rule the world. I shall earn this title at Magdeburg--there I will build my throne--there I will reign! But I must consider it all once more, to see if no error, no mistake, has escaped me. I first formed a connection with the officer yon Kimsky, an Austrian prisoner, because through him I could make connections between the town and the citadel. Kimsky, at my wish, made some of his town friends acquainted with the officers of the citadel. It was then necessary to give these new friends some clew, some aim that would appear innocent to them, and conceal the real plan. I chose Trenck as the protecting shield for my undertaking. To inspire him with confidence in my agents, I obtained a sort of credential letter from Princess Amelia, and interested her in my cause. She provided me with money, and gave me, besides the one to Trenck, a letter of recommendation to a sure, trustworthy friend in Magdeburg. I was now much nearer my design. On the pretence of working for Trenck, I worked for myself, for my position of general of the Jesuits, and for a fortress for my empress. And thus far all my plans have succeeded. Trenck has formed a connection with three Prussian officers of the citadel. These, touched with sympathy for his pitiful condition, have determined to do all in their power to release him, and are, therefore, in constant companionship with those whom Trenck calls his friends. These, in the mean time, are my agents and subordinates, they act for me while acting for Trenck; the Prussian officers do not anticipate that, in helping Trenck to his freedom, they are helping the Empress of Austria to a new fortress. But so it is. There is no error in my plan, it will succeed. I can rely on Trenck; he is a subject of Maria Theresa, and his thirst for revenge is mighty. He will gain a fortress for his empress. The avenger, through whom God has chosen to punish this arrogant, heretical king, will arise from the depths of a subterranean prison. All that is now left to be done is to acquaint Vienna with the information of this undertaking, so that we may be assured that an Austrian regiment will be in the vicinity of Magdeburg at the proper time, and storm the citadel at a sign from us, and not have that, which we had taken by strategy, torn from us by the King of Prussia’s superior force. Now is a favorable time for this. For Frederick, the humiliated, defeated king, is many miles from Magdeburg; he has been compelled to raise the siege of Dresden, and the Austrian troops are lying there like the Russians at Frankfort. Nor are the French far off. All these armies will be prepared to hasten to our aid. All that now remains to be done is to get this news safely to Vienna. But how to accomplish this is a hard question. It were well could I go myself. But I am a prisoner of war, and, until Magdeburg is in our power, this chain will clog me. Another must be sent--a messenger full of courage, determination, and hardihood. I have said this in my letter to Captain von Kimsky; he must seek such a man amongst our sworn friends of the citadel, and give him the sheet of paper I send in my letter. How harmless, how insignificant this sheet of paper seems! and still, were it to fall in the King of Prussia’s hands, it would save him a strong fortress and several millions of thalers, for all the money of the Dresden treasury was brought to Magdeburg for safe-keeping. Ah! ah! how much would Frederick give for these two lines of writing, and how richly would he reward him who gave him the key to it! I will send the key by a different messenger, and therefore this second letter. But even if both my messengers were intercepted, all is not lost. I have notified Trenck also to write to Vienna for money and help. He must continue to be the shield behind which we intrench ourselves. Should the undertaking miscarry, we will lay it upon Trenck; should it succeed, it will be through me, and I will not be tardy in claiming my reward. The general of our order is old; should he, however, persist in living, his tenacious nature must--“He did not dare to finish the sentence; but a wild, demoniac smile supplied the words his lips dared not utter. He arose and walked several times up and down his chamber, completely lost in ambitious dreams of the future, for whose realization, as a true Jesuit, he shunned no means, mindful of the motto of their order: “The end sanctifies the means.”
He saw a ring upon his hand--that ring, full of significance, before which kings had often bowed, which was to the Jesuits what the crown is to the king--the sacred sign of power and glory--the indisputable sign of invisible but supreme power. He saw himself, this ring upon his hand, subjugating nations, rewarding his friends, punishing his enemies. He suddenly awoke from his dreams, and remembered the present with a weary smile.
“I must not forget, in dreams of the future, the necessity for action. I have many important things to do this day. I must take these letters to Marietta, see her address and post them; then I must seek La Trouffle and receive from her leave of absence, on the plea of visiting a sick friend at Magdeburg. This will be a tedious undertaking, for she will not agree willingly to a separation without great persuasion. I have much influence over her, and a woman in love cannot refuse a request to the object of her tenderness. I will obtain, through Madame du Trouffle, a near and influential relative of the commandant of Berlin, permission to visit Magdeburg, and through Marietta Taliazuchi I will post my two important letters.” He laughed aloud as he thought of these two women, so tenderly devoted to him, both so willing to be deceived by him.
“They love me in very different ways,” said he, as he finished his toilet preparatory to going out. “Marietta Taliazuchi with the humility of a slave, Louise du Trouffle with the grateful passion of an elderly coquette. It would be a problem for a good arithmetician to solve, which of these two loves would weigh most. Marietta’s love is certainly the more pleasant and comfortable, because the more humble. Like a faithful dog she lies at my feet; if I push her from me, she comes back, lies humbly down, and licks the foot that kicked her. Away, then, to her, to my tender Marietta.”
Hiding his letters in his breast, he took his hat and hastened in the direction of Marietta’s dwelling. She received him in her usual impassioned manner; she told him how she had suffered in their long separation; how the thought that he might be untrue to her, that he loved another had filled her with anguish.
Ranuzi laughed. “Still the same old song, Marietta; always full of doubt and distrust? Does the lioness still thirst after my blood? would she lacerate my faithless heart?”
Kneeling, as she often did, at his feet, she rested her arms on his knees; then dropping her head on her folded hands, she looked up at him.
“Can you swear that you are true to me?” said she, in a strange, sharp tone. “Can you swear that you love no other woman but me?”
“Yes, I can swear it!” said he, laughing.
“Then do so,” cried she, earnestly.
“Tell me an oath and I will repeat it after you.”
She looked at him firmly for several moments, and strange shadows crossed her emotional countenance.
Ranuzi did not perceive them; he was too inattentive, too confident of success, to entertain doubt or distrust.
“Hear the oath!” said she, after a pause. “‘I, Count Carlo Ranuzi, swear that I love no other woman but Marietta Taliazuchi; I swear that, since I have loved her, I have not nor ever shall kiss or breathe words of love to any other woman. May God’s anger reach me, if my oath is false!’”
The words fell slowly, singly from her lips, and she gazed with unflinching eyes up at him.
Not a muscle in his countenance moved. Laughing gayly, he repeated her words; then bent and kissed her black, shiny hair. “Are you satisfied now, you silly child?”
“I am satisfied, for you have sworn,” said she, rising from her knees.
“Will this quiet you now, Marietta?”
“Yes, forever.”
“Well, then, now a moment to business. There are two important letters, my beautiful darling. You see how boundless my love for you is--I confide these letters to your care, and entreat you to post them as usual. My heart and my secrets are in your lovely hands.”
He kissed the hands, and gave her the letters.
Marietta took and looked at them in a timid, fearful manner.
“Do they contain dangerous secrets?” said she.
“Dangerous in the extreme, my lovely one.”
“Were they intercepted and opened, would you be liable to death?” said she, in a low, trembling voice.
He saw in these words only her solicitude and love for him.
“Certainly, I would be lost--I would have to die were these letters opened. But fear not, my beauteous Marietta--they will not be opened; no one would dream of intercepting the harmless letters you direct to your friends at Magdeburg. Apart from that, no one is aware of our close connection. We have carefully guarded the holy secret of our love; when your husband returns from Italy, this bad world will have no evil rumors to tell of us, and you will be enclosed in his arms as his faithful wife. When does he come?”
“I expect him in three weeks.”
“Many glorious, quiet evenings will we enjoy together before his return. And now, farewell--I must leave you.”
“You must leave me?”
“I must, Marietta.”
“And where are you going?” said she, looking at him earnestly.
“Jealous again,” said he, laughing. “Calm yourself, Marietta, I go to no woman. Besides this, have you not my oath?”
“Where are you going?” said she, with a sharp questioning look.
“I have an engagement to meet some friends--the meeting takes place in the house of a Catholic priest. Are you satisfied, Marietta? or do you still fear that some dangerous rendezvous calls me from you?”
“I fear nothing,” said she, smiling; “you have reassured me.”
“Then, my beloved, I entreat you to command me to go, for if you do not, though I know I ought, I cannot leave you. But, no--first I will see you direct these letters.”
“You shall,” said she, taking a pen and directing them.
Ranuzi took the letters and examined them.
“This simple feminine address is the talisman that protects me and my secret. And this I owe to you, my darling, to you alone. But will you finish your work of mercy? Will you post these letters at once?”
“I will do so, Carlo.”
“Will you swear it?” said he, laughing; “swear it to me by our love.”
“I swear it--swear it by my love.”
“And now, farewell, Marietta!--farewell for to-day. To-morrow I hope to see you again.”
He took her in his arms and whispered words of love and tenderness in her ear. He did not notice, in his impatience to leave, how cold and quiet she was. He took his hat, and bowing gayly left the room.
She stood where he had left her, her arms hanging listlessly at her side, her head bowed upon her breast. She listened intently to his every movement. Now he was on the last stair, now in the hall--when he had crossed it he would be at the street door. With a wild shriek she fled from the room, and hastened down the steps.
“Carlo! Carlo! wait a moment!”
His hand was on the door-knob; he stood still and looked back. She was by his side--pale, with burning eyes and trembling lips, she threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately.
“Farewell, my Carlo!--farewell, thou lover of my soul, thou light of my eyes!”
She kissed his mouth, his eyes, his hands; she pressed him to her heart, and then she pushed him from her, saying, in cold, rough tones, “Go! go, I say!”
Without again looking at him she hurried up the stairs. Ranuzi, laughing and shaking his head at her foolishness, left the house with a contented and assured heart.
VII. THE ACCUSATION
This time Marietta did not call him back; she did not gaze after him from the window, as she was accustomed to do; she stood, pale as death, in the middle of the room, with panting breath, with flashing eyes; motionless, but with eager and expectant mien, as if listening to something afar off.
To what was Marietta listening? Perhaps to the echo of his step in the silent, isolated street; perhaps to the memories which, like croaking birds of death, hovered over her head, as if to lacerate and destroy even her dead happiness; perhaps she listened to those whispering voices which resounded in her breast and accused Ranuzi of faithlessness and treachery. And was he, then, really guilty? Had he committed a crime worthy of death?
Marietta was still motionless, hearkening to these whispered voices in her breast.
“I will deliberate yet once more,” said she, walking slowly through the room, and sinking down upon the divan. “I will sit again in judgment upon him, and my heart, which in the fury of its pain still loves him, my heart shall be his judge.”
And now she called back once again every thing to her remembrance. The golden, sunny stream of her happy youth passed in review before her, and the precious, blissful days of her first innocent love. She recalled all the agony which this love had caused her, to whose strong bonds she had ever returned, and which she had never been able to crush out of her heart. She thought of the day in which she had first seen Ranuzi in Berlin; how their hearts had found each other, and the old love, like a radiant Phoenix, had risen from the ashes of the past, to open heaven or hell to them both. She remembered with scornful agitation those happy days of their new-found youthful love; she repeated the ardent oaths of everlasting faith and love which Ranuzi had voluntarily offered; she remembered how she had warned him, how she had declared that she would revenge his treachery and inconstancy upon him; how indolently, how carelessly he had laughed, and called her his tigress, his anaconda. She then recalled how suddenly she had felt his love grow cold, how anxiously she had looked around to discover what had changed him--she could detect nothing. But an accident came to her assistance--a bad, malicious accident. During the war there were no operas given in Berlin, and Marietta was entirely unoccupied; for some time she had been giving singing lessons--perhaps for distraction, perhaps to increase her income; she had, however, carefully preserved this secret from Ranuzi--in the unselfishness of her love she did not wish him to know that she had need of gold, lest he might offer her assistance.
One of her first scholars was Camilla von Kleist, the daughter of Madame du Trouffle, and soon teacher and scholar became warm friends. Camilla, still banished by her mother to the solitude of the nursery, complained to her new friend of the sorrows of her home and the weariness of her life. Carried away by Marietta’s sympathy and flattering friendship, the young girl had complained to the stranger of her mother; in the desire to make herself appear an interesting sacrifice to motherly tyranny, she accused that mother relentlessly; she told Madame Taliazuchi that she was always treated as a child because her mother still wished to appear young; that she was never allowed to be seen in the saloon in the evening, lest she might ravish the worshippers and lovers of her mother. Having gone so far in her confidences, the pitiable daughter of this light-minded mother went so far as to speak of her mother’s adorers. The last and most dangerous of these, the one she hated most bitterly, because he came most frequently and occupied most of her mother’s time and thoughts, she declared to be the Count Ranuzi. This was the beginning of those fearful torments which Marietta Taliazuchi had for some months endured--tortures which increased with the conviction that there was truly an understanding between Ranuzi and Madame du Trouffle; that Ranuzi, under the pretence of being overwhelmed with important business, refused to pass the evening with her, yet went regularly every evening to Madame du Trouffle.
Marietta had endured this torture silently; she denied herself the consolation of complaining to any one; she had the courage, with smiling lips, to dispute the truth of Camilla’s narratives, and to accuse her of slander; she would have conviction, she longed for proof, and Camilla, excited by her incredulity, promised to give it.
One day, with a triumphant air, she handed Marietta a little note she had stolen from her mother’s writing-desk. It was a poem, written in French, in which Ranuzi, with the most submissive love, the most glowing tenderness, besought the beautiful Louise to allow him to come in the evening, to kneel at her feet and worship as the faithful worship the mother of God.
Marietta read the poem several times, and then with quiet composure returned it to Camilla; but her cheeks were deadly pale, and her lips trembled so violently, that Camilla asked her kindly if she was not suffering.
“Yes,” she replied, “I suffer, and we will postpone the lesson. I must go home and go to bed.”
But Marietta did not go home. Beside herself, almost senseless with pain and rage, she wandered about through the streets, meditating, reflecting how she might revenge herself for this degradation, this faithlessness of her beloved.
At last she found the means; with firm step, with crimson cheeks, and a strange smile upon her tightly-compressed lips, she turned toward the castle. There she inquired for the Marquis d’Argens, and Ranuzi’s evil genius willed that D’Argens should be found at that time in Berlin--he was generally only to be seen at Sans-Souci. Marietta did not know the marquis personally, but she had heard many anecdotes of the intellectual and amiable Provencal; she knew that the marquis and the king were warmly attached, and kept up a constant correspondence. For this reason, she addressed herself to D’Argens; she knew it was the easiest and quickest way to bring her communication immediately before the king. The marquis received her kindly, and asked her to make known her request.
At first Marietta was mute, regret and repentance overcame her; for a moment she almost resolved to be silent and to go away. Soon, however, her wrath was awakened, and armed her with the courage of despair: with panting breath, with strange disordered taste, she said: “I have come to tell you a secret--an important secret, which concerns the king.”
The good marquis turned pale, and asked if it related to any attempt upon the life of the king?
“Not to his life, but it was a secret of the greatest importance,” she replied. Then, however, when the marquis asked her to make a full disclosure, she seemed suddenly to see Ranuzi’s handsome face before her; he looked softly, reproachfully at her with his great fathomless eyes, whose glance she ever felt in the very depths of her heart; she was conscious that the old love was again awake in her, and by its mighty power crowding out the passion of revenge. A lingering hesitation and faint-heartedness overcame her--confused and stammering, she said she would only confide her secret to the king himself, or to that person whom the king would authorize to receive it.
The marquis, in a vivacious manner, pressed her to speak, and made conjectures as to the quality of her secret. Marietta found herself involved in a net of cross-questions and answers, and took refuge at last in absolute silence. She rose and told the marquis she would return in eight days, to know whom the king had selected to receive her communication.
The eight clays had now passed, and Marietta had, during this time, many struggles with her own heart--her ever newly awakening love pleaded eloquently for forgiveness--for the relinquishment of all her plans of vengeance. [Footnote: The marquis, in one of his letters to the king, described his interview with Madame Taliazuchi, with great vivacity and minuteness, and expressed his own suspicions and conjectures; which, indeed, came very near the truth, and proved that, where he was warmly interested, he was a good inquisitor. He entreated Frederick not to look upon the matter carelessly, as in all probability there was treason on foot, which extended to Vienna. Madame Taliazuchi had much intercourse in Berlin with the captive Italian officers, and it might be that one of these officers was carrying on a dangerous correspondence with Vienna. In closing his letter, the marquis said: “Enfin, sire, quand il serait vrai que tout ceci ne fut qu’une bete italienne qui so serait echauffee, et qui aurait pris des chimeres pour des verites, ce qui pourrait encore bien etre, cette femme ne parait rien moins que prudente et tranquille. Je crois, cependant, que la peine qu’on aurait prise de savoir ce qu’elle veut declarer serait si legere, qu’on ne la regretterait pas, quand meme on decouvrirait que cette femme n’est qu’une folle.”--“Oeuvres de Frederic le Grand,” vol. xix. p. 91.] She had almost resolved not to seek the marquis again, or if she did so, to say that she had been deceived--that the secret was nothing--that she had only been bantered and mystified. But now, all these softer, milder feelings seemed burnt out in the wild fire of revenge and scorn which blazed through her whole being. “He is a traitor--a shameless liar!” she said, pressing her small teeth firmly and passionately together; “he is a coward, and has not the courage to look a woman in the face and confess the truth when she demands it; he is a perjurer, for he took the oath which I exacted from him--he swore to love me alone and no other woman; he had the impudent courage to call down the vengeance of God upon himself if he should break this oath. Why do I hesitate longer?” cried she, springing from her seat; “the perjured traitor deserves that my betrayed and crushed heart should avenge itself. He called down the vengeance of God upon himself. Let it crush him to atoms!”
Now all was decision, courage, energy, and circumspection. She took the two letters she had received from Ranuzi and concealed them in her bosom, then dressed herself and left her dwelling.
With a firm step she passed through the streets which led to the castle. As she drew near the house of Madame du Trouffle, she hesitated, stood still, and looked up at the windows.
“If only this once he did not deceive me! If he is not here; if he told me the truth!” His countenance had been so open, so calm, so smiling when he said to her that he had a rendezvous with some friends at the Catholic priest’s; and in a graceful, roguish mockery, asked her if she was jealous of that meeting. No, no! this time he was true. He could not have played the hypocrite with such smiling composure. Scarcely knowing what she did, Marietta entered the house, and asked if Camilla was at home--then hastened on to the door of Camilla’s room.
The young girl advanced to meet her with a joyous greeting. “I am glad you have come, Marietta. Without you I should have been condemned to pass the whole evening shut up in my room, wearying myself with books. But I am resolved what I will do in future. If mamma insists upon my being a child still, and banishes me from the parlor when she has company, I will either run away, or I will invite company to amuse me. My cousin, Lieutenant Kienhause, is again in Berlin; his right arm is wounded, and the king has given him a furlough, and sent him home. When mamma is in the saloon, I will invite my cousin here.” She laughed merrily, and drew Marietta dancing forward. “Now I have company, we will laugh and be happy.”
“Who is in the saloon?” said Marietta, “and why are you banished to-day?”
“Well, because of this Italian count--this insufferable Ranuzi. He has been here for an hour, and mamma commanded no one to be admitted, as she had important business with the count.”
“And you believe that he will remain the whole evening?” said Marietta.
“I know it; he remains every evening.”
Marietta felt a cold shudder pass over her, but she was outwardly calm.
“Poor child!” said she, “you are indeed to be pitied, and, if you really desire it, you shall have my society; but first, I have a commission to execute, and then I will bring some notes, and we will sing together.” She kissed Camilla upon the brow, and withdrew.
The last moment of respite had expired for Ranuzi; there was no longer a ray of mercy in Marietta’s heart. Rushing forward, she soon reached the castle, and announced herself to the marquis. She was introduced into his study, and the marquis advanced to meet her, smiling, and with an open letter in his hand.
“You come at the right time, madame,” said he; “an hour since I received this letter from his majesty.”
“Has the king named the person to whom I am to confide my secret?” she said, hastily.
“Yes, madame, his majesty has been pleased to appoint me for that purpose.”
“Let me see the letter,” said Marietta, extending her hand.
The marquis drew back. “Pardon me,” said he, “I never allow the king’s letters to pass out of my own hands, and no one but myself can see them. But I will read you what the king says in relation to this affair, and you will surely believe my word of honor. Listen, then: ‘Soyez, marquis, le depositaire de mes secrets, le confidant des mysteres de Madame Taliazuchi, l’oreille du trone, et le sanctuaire ou s’annonceront les complots de mes ennemis.’ [Footnote: “I will give the conclusion of this letter which the polite marquis did not read aloud: ‘Pour quitter le style oriental, je vous avertis que vous aurez l’oreille rebattue de miseres et de petites intrigues de prisonniers obscurs et qui ne vaudront pas genre de Madame Taliazuchi--elles envisagent les petites choses comme tres-importantes; elles sont charmees de figurer en politique, de jouer un role, de faire les capables d’etaler avec faste le zele de leur fidelite. J’ai vu souvent que ces beaux secrets reveles n’ont ete que des intrigues pour auirs au tiers ou an quart a des gens auxquelles ces sortes de personnes veulet du mal. Ainsi, quoique cette femme vous puisse dire, gardez-vous bien d’y ajouter foi, et que votre cervelle provencal ne s’echauffe pas an premier bruit de ces recits’”--CEuvres, vol xix., p.92.] Madame, you see that I am fully empowered by the king to receive your confidence, and I am ready to hear what you will have the goodness to relate.” He led her to a divan, and seated himself opposite to her.
“Tell the king to be on his guard!” said Marietta, solemnly. “A great and wide-spread conspiracy threatens him. I have been made a tool by false pretences; by lies and treachery my confidence was surreptitiously obtained. Oh, my God!” cried she, suddenly springing up; “now all is clear. I was nothing but an instrument of his intrigues; only the weak means made use of to attain his object. He stole my love, and made of it a comfortable, convenient robe with which to conceal his politics. Alas! alas! I have been his postillion de politique.” With a loud, wild cry, she sank back upon the divan, and a torrent of tears gushed from her eyes.
The marquis sprang up in terror, and drew near the door; he was now fully convinced that the woman was mad.
“Madame,” said he, “allow me to call for assistance. You appear to be truly suffering, and in a state of great excitement. It will be best for you, without doubt, to forget all these political interests, and attend to your physical condition.”
Marietta, however, had again recovered her presence of mind; she glanced with a wan smile into the anxious countenance of the marquis.
“Fear nothing, sir, I am not mad; return to your seat. I have no weapons, and will injure no one. The dagger which I carry is piercing my own heart, and from time to time the wound pains; that is all. I promise you to make no sound, to be gentle and calm--come, then.”
The marquis returned, but seated himself somewhat farther from the signora.
“I tell you,” said Marietta, panting for breath, “that he made use of my credulity--made me a tool of his political intrigues--these intrigues which threaten the lands if not the life of the king. The treason I will disclose would place an important fortress in the hands of the Austrians.”
“And you are convinced that this is no chimera?” said the marquis, with an incredulous smile.
“I am convinced of it, and I have the incontestable proof with me.” She took the two letters which she had received from Ranuzi, and gave them to the marquis. “Take them, and send them to the king, but, not to-morrow, not when it is convenient, but to-day; even this hour. If you are not prompt, in eight days King Frederick will be a fortress the poorer. Besides this, say to his majesty to be ever on his guard against the captive officers in Berlin, especially on his guard against my countryman, Count Ranuzi. He is the soul of this enterprise; he has originated this daring undertaking, and, if this falls to pieces, he will commence anew. He is a dangerous enemy--a serpent, whose sting is most deadly, most to be feared when he seems most gentle, most quiet. Say to King Frederick he will do well to protect himself from the traitor, the Austrian spy, Ranuzi.” Marietta stood up, and bowing to the marquis, she advanced to the door. D’Argens held her back.
“Madame,” said he, “if these things are really so, Count Ranuzi is a man to be feared, and we should make sure of him.”
“He is indeed a dangerous man,” said Marietta, with a peculiar smile. “Ask the beautiful Madame du Trouffle; she will confirm my words.”
The black, flashing eyes of the marquis fixed themselves searchingly upon the face of the signora. He remembered that the king had warned him to be upon his guard as to the communication of Madame Taliazuchi, that such mysteries were often nothing more than feigned intrigues, by which the discoverer sought to bring sorrow and downfall to an enemy.
“Ah, signora! I understand now,” said the marquis; “you did not come here for patriotism or love for Prussia or her king, but from frantic jealousy; not to serve King Frederick, but to overthrow Ranuzi.”
Marietta shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous expression.
“I am an Italian,” said she, laconically.
“And the Italians love revenge,” said the marquis.
“When one dares to injure them--yes.”
“This Count Ranuzi has dared to injure you?”
A flash of scorn flamed for a moment in her eyes, then disappeared. “Would I otherwise have betrayed him?” said she. “I am an Italian, and you cannot ask that I shall feel patriotism for King Frederick or for Prussia. Count Ranuzi is my countryman, judge, then, how deeply I have been injured when I betray him, and give him over to death.”
“To death? it is also then a crime worthy of death which these letters will disclose to the king? You do not deceive yourself? Your thirst for revenge does not make these things appear blacker, more important than they really are?”
“No, I do not deceive myself. I speak but the simple truth.”
“Then,” said the marquis, with horror, “it is dangerous to leave Ranuzi at liberty. I must apply to the commandant of Berlin, and ask that he be arrested upon my responsibility.”
Marietta was already at the door, but these words of the marquis arrested her. With her hand resting upon the bolt, she stood and turned her pale face back to D’Argens. “Certainly, it would be best and surest to arrest him instantly,” said she; and her heart bounded with delight when she said to herself, with cruel pleasure: “When once arrested, he can go no more to Madame du Trouffle.”
The marquis did not reply, but he stepped thoughtfully through the room. Marietta’s eyes followed every movement with a fiery glance. At length the marquis stood before her.
“I cannot take upon myself the responsibility of arresting this man. I do not know that these letters, which I shall send to the king, are really as dangerous as you say. The king must decide; I will send them off by a courier to-day. But, in every event, Ranuzi must be watched, and you shall be his guard. You must see that he does not escape. I make you answerable. Ranuzi must not leave Berlin, and when the king’s answer is received, he must be found here.”
“You shall find him with me,” said she; “and if not, I shall at least be able to tell you where he is. Fear nothing; he shall not escape! I am his guard! When you receive the reply of the king, have the goodness to inform me. This is the only reward I demand.” [Footnote: D’Argens wrote to the king: “Si votre majeste ne m’avait point ecrit en propres termes. Quoique cette femme puisse vous dire, gardez-vous bien d’y ajouter foi. J’anrai prie le commandant de faire arreter le nomme Ranuzi jusqu’a ce qu’elle eut mande ce qu’elle veut qu’on en fasse; cet homme me paraissant un espion de plus aeres. Mais je me suis contente de dire a Madame Taliszuchi que si cet homme sortait de Berlin, avant la response de votre majeste elle en repondrait, et elle m’a assure qu’elle le retiendrait.”--CEuvres, vol. xix., p. 93.]
“I will inform you, madame,” said the marquis, opening the door; “and, as to the Count Ranuzi, I read in your features that you hate him with a bitter hatred, and will not allow him to escape.”
VIII. REVENGE
Five days had passed since Marietta’s interview with the marquis. They had wrought no change in her heart; not for a single instant had her thirst for revenge been allayed. Her hatred of Ranuzi seemed to have become more intense, more passionate, since she understood his plans--since she had learned that he had never loved her, and that she was merely the instrument of his intrigues. Since that time she had watched his every thought and deed.
One day while apparently embracing him, and whispering words of endearment in his ear, she had secretly drawn a folded paper from his pocket, which had just been brought to him by a strange servant who, having vainly sought him at his own house, had followed him to that of Marietta. Having thus obtained the paper, she made an excuse for leaving the room in order to inspect it. She carefully closed the door of the room in which Ranuzi sat, and then examined the paper. After reading it, she drew her note-book from her pocket, and hastily tearing out a leaf, she wrote upon it with a pencil. “Lose no time, if you do not wish him to escape. He has received to-day, through the agency of Madame du Trouffle, the necessary passport and permission to go to Magdeburg. I have no longer the power to detain him. What is done must be done quickly.”
She folded the paper and passed cautiously through the hall and into the kitchen where her maid was. “Listen, Sophie,” she said; “take this note and go as quickly as you can to the castle and ask for the Marquis d’Argens. You must give the note into his own hands, and if you bring me an answer within the hour, I will reward you as if I were a queen. Do not speak, only go.”
The maid hurried down the steps, and Marietta returned, smilingly, to Ranuzi, who received her with reproaches for her long absence.
“I have arranged a little supper for us, and have sent my maid to obtain some necessary articles. You will not leave me to-day, as you always do, to go to your conference with the Catholic priest.”
“I would not, Marietta, but I must,” said Ranuzi. “Believe me, my dear child, if I followed the dictates of my heart, I would never leave this room, which in my thoughts I always call my paradise, and in which I enjoy my only bright and happy moments. But what would you have, my angel? It is not ordained that men should have undisturbed possession of the joys of paradise. Mother Eve sinned, and we must expiate her misdeeds. I must leave you again to-day to join that conference which you so heartily detest.”
“But not yet,” she said, tenderly, putting her arms about his neck. “You will not leave me yet?”
Thus besought, he promised to remain. Never was he more amiable, more brilliant, more attentive, or more tender. Never was Marietta gayer, more excited, or more enchanting. Both had their reasons for this--both had their intentions. Love smiled upon their lips, but it was not in their hearts--each wished to deceive the other. Ranuzi wished to quiet every suspicion by his tenderness--she must not dream that this was their last meeting, and that he intended leaving Berlin this night, perhaps forever. Marietta wished to chain him to her side and prevent his departure.
Time flew by amid gay laughter and tender jests, and at length Marietta heard the house-door open and hurried steps mounting the stairway. It was the maid who had returned. Marietta’s heart beat so violently that she could scarcely conceal her emotion.
“The maid has returned with her purchases,” she said, hastily; “I will go out and tell her that you cannot remain with me to-day.” She left the room and met Sophie in the hall, who was quite out of breath with her hurried walk, and who handed her a note. Marietta broke the seal with trembling hands. It contained only these words: “Keep him but a few moments longer, and one will arrive who will release you from your watch, and relieve you forever from your enemy by bearing him to prison. The answer of the one to whom I sent your paper has come; he is condemned.”
“Very well, Sophie,” said Marietta, concealing the paper in her bosom. “When the count leaves, you shall receive your reward. Now listen; the soldiers are coming. As soon as you hear them on the steps, you must tap at my door, that I may know they have arrived.”
She hastened back to Ranuzi, but she no longer smiled--she no longer approached him with open arms--but she advanced toward him with flashing eyes, with her arms folded haughtily across her breast, and her countenance pale with passion.
“Ranuzi, the hour of revenge has come! You have most shamefully betrayed and deceived me--you have mocked my love--you have trodden my heart under foot. Lies were upon your lips--lies were in your heart. And whilst you swore to me that you loved no other, you had already betrayed me to a woman. I am acquainted with Madame du Trouffle, and I know that you visit her every evening. This was the conference with the Catholic fathers, for whose sake you left me. Oh, I know all--all! I will not reproach you; I will not tell you of the martyrdom I suffered--of the wretched days and nights through which I wept and sighed, until at length I overcame the love I had borne you. That suffering is passed. But you have not forgotten that I once said to you: ‘Should you forsake me, or turn faithlessly from me, I will be revenged.’”
“I have not forgotten,” said Ranuzi, “and I know that you will fulfil your promise, but before you do so--before you point me out to the government as a dangerous spy--you will listen to my defence, and only then if you are not satisfied, will you condemn me, and revenge yourself.”
“I have all-sufficient proof,” she said. “Day by day, hour by hour, have these proofs been forced upon me, as the contents of the poisoned cup are forced upon the condemned man. My love and happiness are dead, but you also shall die--you also shall suffer as I have done. My love was insufficient to keep for me a place in your memory; perhaps my revenge will do so. When you are wretched and miserable, think of me and repent.”
“Repent of what?” he asked, proudly. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed--nothing of which I repent. I have offered up my entire life, my every thought and desire, to a holy, a noble cause. To it I have subjected all my feelings, wishes, and hopes, and had it been necessary, I would without tears have sacrificed all that was dearest to me on earth. It became necessary for the good of this cause that I should appear to betray your love. A plan had been formed in which this woman you have just named could alone aid me. I dared not ask my heart what it suffered, for my head told me that this woman was necessary to me, and it became my duty to obtain her assistance by any means. So I became the daily companion of Madame du Trouffle, so--”
A light tap at the door interrupted the count, and startled him inexplicably.
“What does that mean?” he asked, turning pale.
Marietta laughed aloud. “That means,” she said, slowly and scornfully, “that you will not go to Magdeburg to-morrow--that you cannot make use of the passport which your beloved Madame du Trouffle obtained for you. Ah, you wished to leave me secretly--you did not wish me to suspect your intended departure. You were mistaken, Ranuzi. You will remain in Berlin, but you will never go to her again. I will prevent that.”
At this moment loud knocking was heard at the door, and two policemen entered the room without waiting for an invitation, and through the open door armed soldiers might be seen in the hall guarding the entrance.
When Ranuzi first beheld these servants of justice, he shuddered and became deathly pale, but as they approached him, he recovered his wonted composure, and advanced proudly and coldly to meet them.
“Are you Count Ranuzi?” asked one of the policemen.
“I am,” he said, calmly.
“I arrest you in the name of the king; you are our prisoner.”
“With what offence am I charged?” asked he, as he slowly placed his hand in his bosom.
“The court-martial will inform you.”
“Ah, I am to be tried by a court-martial. Spies and conspirators are always thus tried. I am charged then with spying and conspiring,” cried Ranuzi, and then slowly turning to Marietta, he asked:
“And this is your work?”
“Yes; this is my work,” she said, triumphantly.
“You must come now,” said the policeman, roughly, as he stepped nearer to Ranuzi, at the same time giving his companion a sign to do the same. “Come immediately and quietly. Do not compel us to use force.”
“Force,” cried Ranuzi, shrugging his shoulders, as he drew his hand from his bosom and pointed a pistol toward the policemen, from which they shrunk back terrified. “You see that I need not fear force,” he said. “If you dare to approach nearer or lay your hand on me I will fire on both of you, for happily my pistol has more than one ball, and it never fails. You see that we are playing a dangerous game, upon whose issue may depend your lives as well as mine. I can shoot you if I desire it, or I can direct this weapon against my own brow if I wish to avoid investigation or imprisonment. But I promise you to do neither the one nor the other, if you will give me the time to say a few words to this lady.”
“Be quick, then,” said the policeman, “or I will call in the soldiers, and they can shoot you as easily as you could shoot us.”
Ranuzi shrugged his shoulders. “You will be very careful not to shoot me. The dead do not speak, and it is very important for my judges that I should speak. Go to that door; I give my word that I will follow you.”
As if to strengthen his words, he raised the hand which held the pistol, and the two men withdrew with threatening glances, to the door.
Ranuzi then turned again to Marietta, who turned her great flashing eyes upon him with an expression of anger and astonishment, mixed with hatred and admiration.
“Marietta,” he said, gently. She trembled at the sound of his voice. He perceived this, and smiled. “Marietta,” he repeated, “you have betrayed me; you have revenged your love! I do not reproach you, my anaconda, but I pray you to tell me one thing; did you send the last letters which I gave you to the post?”
“No,” she replied, compelling her eyes, with a mighty effort, to meet his.
“Wretch! What did you do with them.”
“I sent them to the King of Prussia.”
Ranuzi uttered a shriek, and fell back a step. “Then I am indeed lost,” he murmured, “as well as that unhappy creature, who pines for light and freedom. Poor Trenck! Poor Amelia! All is lost; all through the jealousy of this wretched woman. I tell you, Marietta,” he continued aloud, as he placed his hand heavily on her shoulder, “it is not necessary that I should curse you, you will do that yourself. This hour will act as deadly poison on your heart, of which you will die. It is true, you have revenged yourself. Today you rejoice in this, for you believe that you hate me, but tomorrow you will repent; to-morrow grief will overtake you, and it will grow with every day--you will feel that you must love me for ever and ever; you must love me, because you have wrought my ruin. Yes, you are right--you have discovered the means to keep yourself in my remembrance. In my dungeon I will think of you. I will do so, and curse you; but you also will think of me; and when you do, you will wring your hands and curse yourself, for revenge will not kill the love in your heart. Be that your punishment. Farewell!”
He passed before her, and quietly approached the policemen. “Come, gentlemen, I am quite ready to follow you; and that you may be entirely at ease I will leave my pistol here. It is my legacy to that lady--my last souvenir. Perhaps she may use it in the future.”
He placed the pistol upon her writing-table and hastily approached the door. “Come, gentlemen; I am your prisoner!”
He signed to them to follow him, and walked proudly through the hall.
Marietta stood there trembling and deadly pale--her eyes dilated, her lips opened, as if to utter a shriek. Thus she watched him, breathless, and as if enchained with horror.
Now she saw him open the door of the hall, and throwing back at her one cold, flashing glance, he went out, followed by the police and the soldiers.
“He is gone! he is gone!” she shrieked, as if in a frenzy. “They are leading him to imprisonment--perhaps to death. Oh, to death! It is I who have murdered him. He is right. I am indeed cursed. I have murdered him, and I love him.” And with a wild shriek she sank fainting to the ground.
IX. TRENCK
Trenck still lived; neither chains nor years of loneliness had broken his strength or bowed his spirit. His tall, gigantic form had shrunk to a skeleton; his hair had whitened and hung around his hollow face like an ashen veil. Heavy chains clasped his feet and his throat, a broad iron band encircled his waist, which was attached to the wall by a short chain--a thick bar held his hands apart; but still he lived. For years he had paced, with short, restless steps, this little space that covered his grave; but he smiled derisively at the coarse stone which bore his name.
Trenck still lived. He lived because he had a fixed desire, a grand aim in view--he thirsted for freedom, and believed it attainable. Trenck could not die, for without was liberty, the sun, life, and honor. He would not die; for to be willing to die, he must first have lived. His life had been so short--a few fleeting years of youth, of careless enjoyment--a joyous dream of love and ambition! This had been his fate. Then came long, weary years of imprisonment--a something which he knew not, but it was not life--had crept to him in his prison, and with a cruel hand marked years upon his brow--years through which he had not lived, but suffered. And still he remained young in spite of gray hairs and wrinkles. He glowed with hope and defiance, his sluggish blood was warmed from time to time with new hopes, new expectations. His imagination painted wonderful pictures of future happiness. This hope always remained smiling and vigorous; notwithstanding his many disappointments--his many useless attempts to escape, Trenck still hoped for freedom. As often as the subterranean passages which he dug were discovered, he recommenced his work, and dug new ones; when the sentinels whom he had won by gold and flattery were detected and punished, he found means to obtain other friends.
Truly, friends did not fail; the buried but still living prisoner had friends who never forgot him; bold, loving friends, risking their lives for him. The mighty power of his great misfortunes won him friends. The soldiers who guarded him were seized with shuddering horror and pity at the sight of this sunken form, reminding them of the picture of the skeleton and the hour-glass which hung in the village church. Trenck knew how to profit by this. The officers, who came every day to inspect his prison, were charmed and amazed by the freshness of his spirit, his bright conversation, and gay remarks. These interviews were the only interruption to the dulness of their garrison life. They came to him to be cheered. Not being willing to sit with him in the dark, they brought their lights with them; they opened the door of his cell that they might not be obliged to remain with him in the damp, putrid air. They wondered at his firmness and courage; they sympathized with his youth and loneliness, and this sympathy made for him, earnest, useful friends, who revelled in the thought that Trenck’s renewed attempts at escape would at last be crowned with happy results, that he would obtain his freedom.
He was on the eve of a great day. To-morrow he would live again, to-morrow he would be free; this time it was no chimera, no dream--he must succeed.
“Yes, my plan cannot fail,” murmured Trenck, as he sat upon his stone seat and gazed at the iron door, which had just closed behind the Commandant Bruckhausen. “My cruel jailer has discovered nothing, carefully as he searched my cell; this time I have dug no mines, broken no walls; this time I shall pass through that door, my comrades will greet me joyfully, and the poor prisoner shall be the mighty commander of the fortress. Only one night more, one single night of patience, and life, and love, and the world shall again belong to me. Oh, I feel as if I would go mad with joy. I have had strength to endure misfortunes, but perhaps the rapture of freedom may be fatal. My God! my God! if I should lose my senses! if the light of the sun should scorch my brain! if the hum of the busy world should crush my spirit!”
He lifted his hands in terror to his brow; he felt as if wrapped in flames, as if fire were rising from his brain; the chains rattled around him with unearthly sounds. “The slightest error, the least forgetfulness would endanger my plan. I will be quiet--I will repeat once more all that we have agreed upon. But first away with these slavish chains, to-morrow I shall be a free man; I will commence my role to-day.”
He removed the handcuffs, and with his free right hand loosened the girdle from his waist, at the point where the blacksmith, who fastened it upon him, told him it might be opened by a pressure light as a feather. Now he was free; he stretched with delight his thin, meagre form, and let his arms swing in the air as if to prove their muscle.
This was a sweet, a wonderful prelude to freedom; many weeks and months he had worked upon these chains to prepare for the moment of freedom. Now these chains had fallen. He was already a free man; he cared not for these dark, damp walls. He did not see them; he was already without, where the sun was shining, the birds were singing; where the blue arch of heaven looked down upon the blooming earth. What did he care for the death-like stillness which surrounded him? he heard the noise in the streets; he saw men running here and there in busy haste; he listened to their bright conversation, their merry laughter; he mixed among them with lively greeting, and shared their joys and cares.
Suddenly he again pressed his brow fearfully, and cried; “I shall go mad! A thousand dancing pictures and happy faces are swarming around me; I shall go mad! But no, I will control myself; I will be calm.” He raised his head with his accustomed bold defiance. “I will look freedom in the face; my eyelids shall not quiver and my heart shall beat calmly. I will be quiet and thoughtful. I will think it all over once more. Listen to me, oh friend! you, who have heard all my sighs and my despair; you, who know my misery; listen to me, oh gloomy cell. You have always been faithful; you have never wished to forsake or leave me; and when I struggled to escape, you called me always back. But this is our last day together; you shall hear my confession, I will tell you all my plans, by what means I shall escape from you, my true friend, my dark, dreary cell. Know first that this garrison is composed of nine hundred men, who are much dissatisfied. It will not be difficult to win them, particularly if they are well bribed. Besides this, there are two majors and two lieutenants conspiring with me; they will tell their soldiers what to do. The guard at the star-port, is composed of but fifteen men, and if they do not obey me willingly, we will know how to compel obedience. At the end of the star-port lies the city gate. At this only twelve men and one officer are stationed; these we shall easily overpower. On the other side, close to the gate, the Austrian Captain von Kimsky is awaiting me with the remainder of the prisoners of war. All the officers, who have pledged themselves to assist my undertaking, are concealed in a safe house rented for this purpose. At my first call they will rush forward and fall upon the guard; we will overpower them and enter the city. There other friends await us; one of them, under some pretext, holds in his quarters arms for his company, and at my call he will join me with his armed band. Oh my God! my God! I see every thing so plainly and clearly before me. I see myself rushing joyfully through the streets, dashing into the casemates, which contain nine thousand prisoners. I call to them: ‘Up, comrades, up; I am Frederick von Trenck, your captain and your leader; arm yourselves and follow me.’ I hear them greet me joyfully and cry, ‘Long live Trenck!’ They take their arms and we rush to the other casemates, where seven thousand Austrian and Russian prisoners are confined. We free them, and I head a little army of sixteen thousand men. Magdeburg is mine; the fortress, the magazine of the army, the treasury, the arsenal, all is in our power. I shall conquer all for Maria Theresa. Oh, King Frederick! King Frederick! I shall avenge myself on you for these long years of misery, for the martyrdom of this fearful imprisonment. Trenck will not be obliged to leave Magdeburg; he will drive away the Prussians, and make himself master.”
He laughed so loudly that the old walls echoed the sound, and a wailing sigh seemed to glide along the building. Trenck started and looked timidly around him.
“I am still alone,” he murmured, “no one has heard my words; no, no one but you,” he continued cheerfully, “my old silent friend, my faithful prison. To-morrow morning the officer on guard will enter and order the sentinels to remove the bed; as soon as they enter I shall rush out and lock the door. The sentinels being locked up, I put on the clothes which are lying in readiness for me in the passage, and then forward to my soldiers. I shall distribute gold freely among them--a friend will meet me with the money at the house of Captain von Kleist, and if he has not sufficient, Amelia has richly supplied me. Arise, arise from your grave, my secret treasures.”
He crouched close to the wall and removed the mortar and chalk carefully; he then drew out a stone and took from under it a purse full of gold.
His eye, accustomed to the darkness, saw the gold through the silk net; he nodded to it and laughed with delight as he poured it out and played madly with it. His countenance suddenly assumed an earnest expression.
“Poor Amelia,” he murmured softly, “you have sacrificed your life, your beauty, and your youth for me. With never-failing zeal you have moved around me like my guardian angel, and how am I repaying you? By taking from your brother, King Frederick, his finest fortress, his money, his provisions; by compelling you and yours to fly from a city which no longer belongs to you, but to the Empress of Austria, your enemy. With your money I have taken this city; Amelia, you are ignorant of this now, and when you learn it, perhaps you will curse me and execrate the love which has poisoned your whole life. Oh, Amelia! Amelia, forgive me for betraying you also. My unfortunate duty is forcing me onward, and I must obey. Yes,” he said, springing from his seat, “I must yield to my fate, I must be free again--I must be a man once more; I can sit no longer like a wild animal in his cage, and tell my grief and my despair to the cold walls. I must reconquer life--I must again see the sun, the world, and mankind--I must live, suffer, and act.”
He walked violently to and fro, his whole being was in feverish expectation and excitement, and he felt alarmed. Suddenly he remained standing; pressing his two hands against his beating temples, he murmured:
“I shall indeed go mad. Joy at my approaching deliverance confuses my poor head; I will try to sleep, to be calm--collect my strength for to-morrow.”
He lay down upon his miserable couch, and forced himself to be quiet and silent--not to speak aloud to himself in his lonely cell, as he was accustomed to do. Gradually the mad tension of his nerves relaxed, gradually his eyes closed, and a soft, beneficial slumber came over him.
All was still in the dark cell; nothing was to be heard but the loud breathing of the sleeper; but even in sleep, visions of life and liberty rejoiced his heart--his face beamed with heavenly joy; he murmured softly, “I am free!--free at last!”
The hours passed away, but Trenck still slumbered--profound stillness surrounded him. The outer world had long since been awake--the sun was up, and had sent a clear beam of its glory through the small, thickly-barred window, even into the comfortless, desolate cell, and changed the gloom of darkness into a faint twilight.
X. “TRENCK, ARE YOU THERE?”
Trenck slept. Sleep on, sleep on, unfortunate prisoner, for while asleep you are free and joyous; when you awake, your happy dreams will vanish; agony and despair will be your only companions.
Listen! there are steps in the passage; Trenck does not hear them--he still sleeps. But, now a key is turned, the door is opened, and Trenck springs from his pallet.
“Are you there, my friends? Is all ready?”
But he totters back with a fearful shriek, his eyes fixed despairingly upon the door. There stood Von Bruckhausen, the prison commandant, beside him several officers, behind them a crowd of soldiers.
This vision explained all to Trenck. It told him that his plan had miscarried--that again all had been in vain. It told him that he must remain what he was, a poor, wretched prisoner--more wretched than before, for they would now find out that when alone he could release himself from his chains. They would find his gold, which he had taken from its hiding-place, and was now lying loosely upon the floor.
“I am lost!” said he, covering his face with his hands, and throwing himself upon his bed.
A malignant smile brightened up Von Bruckhausen’s disagreeable countenance, as his eye took in the broken chains, the glittering gold, and the despairing prisoner. He then ordered the soldiers to raise the chains and fasten them on him.
Trenck made no resistance. He suffered them quietly to adjust his iron belt, to fasten the chain around his neck. He seemed insensible to all that was passing. This fearful blow had annihilated him; and the giant who, but a short time before, had thought to conquer the world, was now a weak, trembling, defenceless child. When he was ordered to rise to have the chains annexed to his iron girdle, and fastened to the wall, he rose at once, and stretched out his hand for the manacles. Now the commandant dared approach Trenck; he had no fear of the chained lion, he could jeer at and mock without danger. He did it with the wrath of a soul hard and pitiless; with the deep, unutterable hate of an implacable enemy; for Trenck was his enemy, his much-feared enemy; he drove sleep from his eyes--he followed him in his dreams. Often at midnight Von Bruckhausen rose in terror from his couch, because he dreamed that Trenck had escaped, and that he must now take his place in that dark, fearful tomb. Surrounded by gay companions, he would turn pale and shudder at the thought of Trenck’s escaping--Trenck, whose fearful cell was then destined to be his. This constant fear and anxiety caused the commandant to see in Trenck not the king’s prisoner, but his own personal enemy, with whom he must do battle to his utmost strength, with all the wrath and fear of a timid soul. With a cold, malicious smile he informed him that his plot had been discovered, that his mad plan was known; he had wished to take the fortress of Magdeburg and place upon it the Austrian flag. With a jeering smile he held up to him the letter Trenck had sent to his friend in Vienna, in which, without mentioning names, he had made a slight sketch of his plan.
“Will you deny that you wrote this letter?” cried the commandant, in a threatening voice.
Trenck did not answer. His head was bowed upon his breast; he was gazing down in silence.
“You will be forced to name your accomplices,” cried the enraged commandant; “there is no palliation for a traitor, and if you do not name them at once, I shall subject you to the lash.”
An unearthly yell issued from Trenck’s pale lips, and as he raised his head, his countenance was expressive of such wild, such terrible rage, that Bruckhausen drew away from him in affright. Trenck had awakened from his lethargy; he had found again his strength and energy, he was Trenck once more--the Trenck feared by Von Bruckhausen, though lying in chains, the Trenck whom nothing could bend, nothing discourage.
“He who dares to whip me shall die,” said he, gazing wildly at the commandant. “With my nails, with my teeth, will I kill him.”
“Name your accomplices!” cried Bruckhausen, stamping upon the ground in his rage.
It was Trenck who now laughed. “Ah, you think to intimidate me with your angry voice,” said he. “You think your word has power to make me disclose that which I wish to keep secret. You think I will betray my friends, do you? Learn what a poor, weak, incapable human being you are, for not one of the things you wish shall occur. No, I shall not be so contemptible as to betray my friends. Were I to do so, then were I a traitor deserving of this wretched cell, of these fearful chains, for I would then be a stranger to the first, the holiest virtue, gratitude. But no, I will not. I was innocent when these chains were put on me--innocent I will remain.”
“Innocent!” cried the commandant; “you who wished to deliver to the enemy a fortress of your sovereign! You call yourself innocent?”
Trenck raised himself from his bed, and threw back his head proudly. “I am no longer a subject of the King of Prussia,” said he; “he is no longer my sovereign. Many years ago I was thrown into prison at Glatz without court-martial or trial. When I escaped, all my property was confiscated. If I had not sought my bread elsewhere, I would have starved to death, or gone to ruin. Maria Theresa made me a captain in her army--to her I gave my allegiance. She alone is my sovereign. I owe no duty to the King of Prussia--he condemned me unheard--by one act he deprived me of bread, honor, country, and freedom. He had me thrown into prison, and fettered like some fearful criminal. He has degraded me to an animal that lies grovelling in his cage, and who only lives to eat, who only eats to live. I do not speak to you, sir commandant,” continued he--“I speak, soldiers, to you, who were once my comrades in arms. I would not have you call Trenck a traitor. Look at me; see what the king has made of me; and then tell me, was I not justified in fleeing from these tortures? Even if Magdeburg had been stormed, and thousands of lives lost, would you have called me a traitor? Am I a traitor because I strive to conquer for myself what you, what every man, receives from God as his holy right--my freedom?” While he spoke, his pale, wan countenance beamed with inspiration.
The soldiers were struck and touched with it--their low murmurs of applause taught the commandant that he had committed a mistake in having so many witnesses to his conversation with the universally pitied and admired prisoner.
“You will not name your accomplices?” said he.
“No,” said Trenck, “I will not betray my friends. And what good would it do you to know their names? You would punish them, and would thereby sow dragons’ teeth from which new friends would rise for me. For undeserved misfortune, and unmerited reproach, make for us friends in heaven and on earth. Look there, sir commandant--look there at your soldiers. They came here indifferent to me--they leave as my friends; and if they can do no more, they will pray for me.”
“Enough! enough of this,” cried the commandant. “Be silent! And you,” speaking to the soldiers, “get out of here! Send the blacksmith to solder these chains at once. Go into the second passage--I want no one but the blacksmith.”
The soldiers withdrew, and the smith entered with his hot coals, his glowing iron, and his panful of boiling lead. The commandant leaned against the prison-door gazing at the smith; Trenck was looking eagerly at the ceiling of his cell watching the shadows thrown there by the glowing coals.
“It is the ignus fatuus of my freedom,” said he, with a weary smile. “It is the fourth time they have danced on this ceiling--it is the fourth time my chains have been forged. But I tell you, commandant, I will break them again, and the shadows flickering on these walls will be changed to a glorious sun of freedom--it will illuminate my path so that I can escape from this dungeon, in which I will leave nothing but my curse for you my cruel keeper.”
“You have not, then, despaired?” said the commandant, with a cold smile. “You will still attempt to escape?”
Trenck fixed his keen, sparkling eyes upon Von Bruckhausen, and stretching out his left arm to the smith, he said: “Listen, sir commandant, to what I have to say to you, and may my words creep like deadly poison through your veins! Hear me; as soon as you have left my cell--as soon as that door has closed behind you--I will commence a new plan of escape. You have thrown me in a cell under the earth. The floor in my other cell was of wood--I cut my way through it. This is of stone--I shall remove it. You come daily and search my room to see if there is not some hole or some instrument hidden by which I might effect my escape. Nevertheless I shall escape. God created the mole, and of it I will learn how to burrow in the ground, and thus I will escape. You will see that I have no instruments, no weapons, but God gave me what He gave the mole--He gave my fingers nails, and my mouth teeth; and if there is no other way, I will make my escape by them.”
“It is certainly very kind of you to inform me of all this,” cried the commandant. “Be assured I shall not forget your words. I shall accommodate myself to them. You seek to escape--I seek to detain you here. I am convinced I shall find some means of assuring myself every quarter of an hour that your nails and teeth have not freed you. The smith’s work I see is done, and we dare entertain the hope that for the present you will remain with us. Or perhaps you mean to bite your chains in two as soon as I leave?”
“God gave Samson strength to crush with his arms the temple columns,” said Trenck, gazing at the blacksmith, who was now leaving the room. “See, the ignis fatuus has disappeared from my cell, the sun will soon shine.”
“Trenck, be reasonable,” said Von Bruckhausen, in an entreating tone. “Do not increase your misery--do not force me to be more cruel to you. Promise to make no more attempts to escape, and you shall not be punished for your treacherous plot!”
Trenck laughed aloud. “You promise not to punish me. How could you accomplish it? Has not your cruelty bound me in irons, in chains, whose invention can only be attributed to the devil? Do I not live in the deepest, most forlorn cell in the fortress? Is not my nourishment bread and water? Do you not condemn me to pass my days in idleness, my nights in fearful darkness? What more could you do to me?--how could you punish any new attempt to escape? No, no, sir commandant; as soon as that door has closed on you, the mole will commence to burrow, and some day, in spite of all your care, he will escape.”
“That is your last word!” cried Von Bruckhausen, infuriated. “You will not promise to abandon these idle attempts at escape? You will not name your accomplices?”
“No! and again no!”
“Well, then, farewell. You shall remember this hour, and I promise you, you shall regret it.”
Throwing a fearful look of malignant wrath at Trenck, who was leaning against his pallet, laughing at his rage, the commandant left the prison. The iron door closed slowly; the firm, even tread of the disappearing soldiers was audible, then all was quiet.
A death-like stillness reigned in the prisoner’s cell; no sound of life disturbed the fearful quiet. Trenck shuddered; a feeling of inexpressible woe, of inconsolable despair came over him. He could now yield to it, no one was present to hear his misery and wretchedness. He need not now suppress the sighs and groans that had almost choked him; he could give the tears, welling to his eyes like burning fire, full vent; he could cool his feverish brow upon the stone floor, in the agony of his soul. As a man trembles at the thought of death, Trenck trembled at the thought of life. He knew not how long he had sighed, and wept, and groaned. For him there was no time, no hour, no night--it was all merged into one fearful day. But still he experienced some hours of pleasure and joy. These were the hours of sleep, the hours of dreams. Happier than many a king, than many powerful rulers and rich nobles upon their silken couches, was this prisoner upon his hard pallet. He could sleep--his spirit, busy during the day in forming plans for his escape, needed and found the rest of sleep; his body needed the refreshment and received it.
Yes, he could sleep. Men were hard and cruel to him, but God had not deserted him, for at night He sent an angel to his cell who consoled and refreshed him. It was the angel of slumber--when night came, after all his sorrow, his agony, his despair endured during the day, the consoling angel came and took his seat by the wretched prisoner. This night he kissed his eyes, he laid his soft wings on the prisoner’s wounded heart, he whispered glorious dreams of the future into his ear. A beautiful smile, seldom seen when he was awake, now rested upon his lips.
Keep quiet, ye guards, without there--keep quiet, the prisoner sleeps; the sleep of man is sacred, and more sacred than all else is the sleep of the unfortunate. Do not disturb him--pass the door stealthily. Be still, be still! the prisoner sleeps--reverence his rest.
This stillness was now broken by a loud cry.
“Trenck, Trenck!” cried a thundering voice--“Trenck, are you asleep?”
He woke from his pleasant dreams and rose in terror from his bed. He thought he had heard the trumpets of the judgment-day, and listened eagerly for the renewing of the sound.
And again the cry resounded through his cell. “Trenck, are you there?”
With a wild fear he raised his hand to his burning brow.
“Am I mad?” murmured he; “I hear a voice in my brain calling me; a voice--”
The bolts were pushed back, and Commandant Von Bruckhausen, accompanied by a soldier, with a burning torch, appeared on the threshold.
“Why did you not answer, Trenck?” said he.
“Answer--answer what?”
“The sentinel’s call. As you swore to me you would make new attempts to escape, I was compelled to make arrangements to prevent your succeeding. The guards at your door are commanded to call you every quarter of an hour during the night. If you do not answer at once, they will enter your cell to convince themselves of your presence. Accommodate yourself to this, Trenck. We shall now see if you are able to free yourself with your nails and teeth!”
He left the room, the door was closed. It was night once more in the prisoner’s cell--but he did not sleep. He sat upon his pallet and asked himself if what had passed was true, or if it was not some wild and fearful dream.
“No, no, it cannot be true; they could not rob me of my last and only pleasure--my sleep! soft, balmy sleep!”
But listen. There is a voice again. “Trenck, Trenck, are you there?”
He answered by a fearful yell, and sprang from his bed, trembling with terror. It was no dream!
“It is true!--they will let me sleep no more. Cowardly thieves! may God curse as I curse you. May He have no pity with you, who have none with me! Ah, you cruel men, you increase my misery a thousandfold. You murder my sleep. God’s curse upon you!”