XLI. TWO GERMAN SAVANTS…

XLI. TWO GERMAN SAVANTS

A Post-chaise, drawn by four horses, had just driven up to the hotel of The German Emperor, the first and most renowned inn in the city of Frankfort-on-the-Main. The porter rang the door-bell as loudly and impetuously as he only used to do on the arrival of aristocratic and wealthy guests. Hence the waiters rushed to the door in the greatest haste, and even the portly and well-dressed landlord did not deem it derogatory to his dignity to leave the dining-room, for the purpose of welcoming the stranger in the post-chaise, drawn by the four horses.

In this post-chaise he perceived a gentleman of prepossessing and jovial appearance, and with a handsome and tolerably youthful face. His large blue eyes looked gayly and boldly into the world; a genial smile was playing on his broad and rather sensual-looking lips; and his voice was clear, strong, and sonorous.

“May I find here with you comfortable rooms, and, above all, a good supper?” he asked the landlord, who, pushing aside his waiters and the stranger’s footman, stepped up to the carriage, in order to open the door.

“Sir,” replied the landlord, proudly, “The German Emperor is noted for its good rooms and excellent table!”

The stranger laughed merrily. “Truly,” he said, gayly, “these are splendid prospects for Germany. If The German Emperor furnishes good rooms and an excellent table, I am sure Germany would be unreasonable to ask for any thing else! Well, my dear landlord, give me, then, good rooms and a supper.”

“Do you want rooms on the first or on the second floor?” asked the landlord, respectfully walking behind the stranger, who had just entered the hall.

“Of course, on the first floor; Heaven forbid that I should have to climb two flights of stairs!” replied the stranger. “I like to live in comfortable and elegant rooms. Give me, therefore, three fine rooms on the first floor.”

“Three rooms!” said the landlord, hesitatingly. “I must observe to you, sir, that all the rooms on the first floor have been reserved for the Duke of Baden, who will arrive here to-morrow or day after to-morrow, and stop at The German Emperor, like all princes coming to our city. I do not know if I can spare three rooms.”

“Oh, you surely can, as the duke will only arrive to-morrow or day after to-morrow, while I am here to-day,” said the stranger.

“Give me the rooms you had intended for the duke; then I shall be sure to get good ones, and I shall take them at the same price you will charge him.”

The landlord bowed respectfully, and snatched the silver candle-stick from the hand of the head-waiter, in order to have the honor of conducting the stranger up-stairs to his rooms. The waiters, who had stood on both sides of the hall in respectful silence, now hastily rushed toward the post-chaise, in order to assist the stranger’s footman in unloading the trunks and packages belonging to his master.

“As far as the supper is concerned, pray imagine I were the expected Duke of Baden, and make your arrangements accordingly,” said the stranger, ascending the staircase. “I particularly enjoy a good supper. If you have any pheasants to serve up to me, I shall be content with them; only see to it that they be well larded with truffles.”

And his voice died away in the large corridor which he was now walking down, preceded by the landlord, in order to take possession of the best rooms in the hotel.

The waiters were engaged in unloading the trunks, and improved this opportunity to inquire of the stranger’s footman, clad in a rich livery, the rank, name, and title of his master.

He told them the gentleman had just arrived from Loudon, where he had been living for a year; he was now on his way to Vienna, and would leave Frankfort on the following day.

“This trunk is very heavy,” said one of the waiters, vainly trying to lift from the carriage a small trunk, mounted with strips of brass, and covered with yellow nails.

“I should think so,” said the footman, proudly. “This trunk contains my master’s money and jewelry. There are at least twelve gold watches, set with diamonds, and as many snuff-boxes. The Queen of England sent to my master on the day of our departure a magnificent snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of her majesty, and richly set with diamonds: and the snuff-box, moreover, was entirely filled with gold pieces. Come, take hold of the trunk on that side; I shall do so on this, and we will take it directly up to my master’s rooms.”

Just as they entered the hall with their precious load, another carriage drove up to the door. But this time it was only a miserable, rickety old basket-chaise, drawn by two lean jades with lowered heads and heaving bellies.

The porter, therefore, did not deem it worth while to ring the bell for this forlorn-looking vehicle; but he contented himself with leisurely putting his hands into his pockets, sauntering down to the chaise, and casting a disdainful glance into its interior.

There was also a single gentleman in it, but his appearance was less prepossessing and indicative of liberality than that of the former stranger. The new-comer was a little gentleman, with a pale face and a sickly form. His mien was grave and care-worn; his dark eyes were gloomy and stern; his expansive forehead was thoughtful and clouded.

“May I have a room in your hotel?” he asked, in a clear, ringing voice.

“Certainly, sir, as nice and elegant as you may desire,” said the porter, condescendingly.

“I do not require it to be nice and elegant,” replied the stranger. “Only a small room with a comfortable bed; that is all I care for.”

“It is at your disposal, sir,” said the porter; and beckoning the youngest waiter to assist the stranger in alighting, he added: “Take the gentleman to one of the smaller rooms on the first floor.”

“Oh, no,” said the stranger, “I do not ask for a room on the first floor; I shall be satisfied with one on the second floor. Be kind enough to pay my fare to the coachman; he gets ten florins. You may put it down on my bill.”

“And will you give me no drink-money?” asked the coachman, angrily. “The gentleman will assuredly not refuse me drink-money after a three days’ journey?”

“My friend, I did not agree to pay you any thing but those ten florins,” said the stranger. “I will comply with your demand, however, for you have been an excellent driver.”

He handed half a florin to the coachman, and entered the hotel with measured steps.

“Do you want supper?” asked the waiter, conducting him upstairs.

“Yes, if you please,” said the stranger; “but no expensive supper, merely a cup of tea and some bread and meat.”

“A poor devil!” muttered the porter, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully, and following the stranger with his eyes. “A very poor devil! only a room on the second floor; tea and bread and meat for supper! He must be a savant, a professor, or something of that sort.”

Meantime the footman and the waiter had carried the heavy trunk, with the gold and other valuables, up-stairs to the rooms of the stranger on the first floor. These rooms were really furnished in the most sumptuous manner, and worthy to be inhabited by guests of princely rank. Heavy silk and gold hangings covered the walls; blinds of costly velvet, fringed with gold, veiled the high arched windows; precious Turkish carpets adorned the floor; gilt furniture, carved in the most artistic manner and covered with velvet cushions, added to the splendor and beauty of the rooms.

The stranger lay on one of the magnificent sofas when the trunk with his valuables was brought in. He ordered the footman with a wave of his hand to place the trunk before him on the marble table, wrought by some Florentine artisan, and then he leisurely stretched out his legs again on the velvet sofa.

Scarcely had the door closed again behind the footman and the waiter, however, when he hastily rose, and drawing the trunk toward him, opened it with a small key fastened to his watch-chain.

“I believe I will now at length add up my riches,” he said to himself. “The time of the golden rain, I am afraid is over, at least for the present; for, in Germany, an author and savant is never taken for a Danae, and no one wants to be a Jove and lavish a golden rain upon him. The practical English, who are more sagacious in every respect, know, too, how to appreciate a writer of merit, and pay him better for his works. Thank God I was in England! Let us see now how much we have got.”

He plunged his hands into the small trunk and drew them forth filled with gold pieces.

“How well that sounds!” he said, throwing the gold pieces on the table, and constantly adding new ones to them. “There is no music of the spheres to be compared with this sound, and no view is more charming than the aspect of this pile of gold. How many tender love-glances, how many sumptuous dinners, how many protestations of friendship and love-pledges, how many festivals and pleasures do not flash forth from those gold pieces, as though they were an enchanted mine! As a good general, I will count my troops, and thus enable myself to draw up the plans of my battles.”

A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard but the music of the gold pieces, which the traveller arranged in long rows on the marble table, and the figures which he muttered, while his countenance grew every moment more radiant.

“Five hundred guineas!” he exclaimed joyfully; “that sum is equivalent to three thousand three hundred and thirty-three dollars in Prussian money; there are, besides, two thousand-pound notes in my wallet, amounting to over thirteen thousand dollars, which, together with my guineas, will amount to over sixteen thousand dollars cash. Oh, now I am a rich man! I no longer need deny to myself any wish, any enjoyment. I can enjoy life, and I WILL enjoy it. As a stream of enjoyment and delight my days shall roll along, and to enjoyment glory shall be added, and throughout all Germany my voice shall resound; in all cabinets it shall reecho, and to the destinies of nations it shall point out their channel and direction. For great things I am called, and great things will I accomplish. I will not allow myself to be used by these lords of the earth as a journeyman, to whom the masters assign work for scanty pay. Their equal and peer, I will stand by their side, and they shall recognize it as a favor which they cannot weigh up with gold, if I take the word for them and their interests, and win battles for them with my pen.”

There was a gentle knock at the door, and quickly he threw his silken handkerchief over the gold pieces and papers, and closed the cover of his casket before he gave permission to enter.

It was only a few waiters, who carried a well-spread table, in the midst of which a splendid pheasant stretched its brownish, shining limbs, and filled the whole room with the odor of the truffles with which it was stuffed. By its side shone, in crystal bottles, the most precious Rhine wine, looking like liquid gold, and a silent, still undisclosed pie gave a presentiment of a piquant enjoyment.

The traveller sipped the several odors with smiling comfort, and took his place at the table with the full confidence that he would be able to fill the next half hour of his life with enjoyment and to advantage.

In this confidence he was not disappointed, and when he finally rose from the table, on which nothing but bones had remained of the pheasant, and nothing but the bare crust of the pie, his countenance beamed with satisfaction and delight.

The waiters made haste to remove the table, and the head waiter made his appearance with the large hotel register, in which he asked the traveller to enter his name.

He was ready for it, and already took the pen to write his name, when suddenly he uttered a cry of surprise, and excitedly pointed with his finger to the last written line of the book.

“Is this gentleman still in your hotel, or has he already left?” he asked, hastily.

“No, your honor, this gentleman arrived only an hour ago, and he will stay here to-night.” said the head waiter.

“Oh, what a surprise,” said the traveller, starting up. “Come, please to conduct me at once to this gentleman.”

And, with impatient haste, he ran to the door, which the head waiter opened to him. But upon the threshold he suddenly stopped and seemed to pause.

“Pray wait for me here in this hall; I shall follow you immediately,” he said, as he returned to his room, closed its door, and hastened to the table in order to put his gold and his papers into the casket and to lock it.

In the mean while, the traveller in the small room of the second floor had finished his frugal meal, and was now occupied with making up his account and entering the little travelling expenses of the last few days into his diary.

“It is after all an expensive journey,” he muttered to himself; “I shall hardly have a few hundred florins left on my arrival at Berlin. It is true the first quarter of my salary will at once be paid to me, but one-half of it I have already assigned to my creditors, and the other half will scarcely suffice to furnish decently a few rooms. Oh, how much are those to be envied, the freedom and cheerfulness of whose minds are never disturbed by financial troubles!”

A loud knock at the door interrupted him; he hastened to put back his money into his pocket-book, when the door was hastily opened and the stranger of the first story appeared in it with a smiling countenance.

“Frederick Gentz!” exclaimed the owner of the room, in joyful surprise.

“Johannes Muller!” smilingly exclaimed the other, running up to him with outstretched arms, and tenderly embracing the little man, the great historian. “What good fortune for me, my friend, that I put up at this hotel, where I was to have the pleasure of meeting you! Accidentally I found in the hotel register your name, and at once I rushed to welcome you.”

“And by coming you afford to my heart a true joy,” tenderly said Johannes Muller, “for nothing can afford a greater joy than the unexpected meeting with a beloved and esteemed friend, and you know you are both to me.”

“I only know that you are both to me!” exclaimed Gentz. “I only know that during my present journey I am indebted to you for the most precious hours, for the most sublime enjoyments. I had taken along for my reading your work on the ‘Furstenbund’ [‘Alliance of Princes’). I wished to see whether this book which, on its first appearance, so powerfully affected me, would still have the same effect upon me after an interval of twenty years. The world since then has been transformed and changed, I myself not less; and I was well aware how far my views on many most important topics would differ from yours. This, indeed, I found to be the case, and yet the whole reading was for me an uninterrupted current of delight and admiration. For four weeks I read in my leisure hours nothing but this book, and I felt my mind consecrated, strengthened, and nerved again for every thing great and good.”

“If you say this,” exclaimed Muller, “I have not labored in vain, although a German author feels sometimes tempted to believe that all his labors, all his writing and thinking were useless efforts, and nothing but seed scattered upon barren and sterile soil, and unable to bear fruit. Oh, my friend, what unfortunate days of humiliation and disgrace are still in store for Germany! But let us not talk of this now, but of you. Come, let us seat ourselves side by side upon this divan. And now tell me of your successes and your glory. The report of it has reached me, and I have learned with unenvying delight with what enthusiasm the whole literary and political world of England has received you, and how the court, the ministers, and the aristocracy of Loudon have celebrated the great German writer and politician.”

“It is true I have met in Loudon with much kindness and a flattering reception,” said Gentz, smilingly. “You know a German writer must go abroad if he lays claim to recognition and reward, for, as the proverb says, ‘The prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.’ I had, therefore, to go to England in order to secure for my voice, which until then was little heeded, some authority even in Germany.”

“And now, when you have so eminently succeeded in this, you return I hope forever to Germany?”

“It almost seems so. I follow a call of the Austrian minister, Cobenzl, and have been appointed in Vienna as Aulic councillor, with a salary of four thousand florins.”

“And in which ministry will you work?”

“Not in any particular one. I have been engaged for extraordinary services exclusively, with no other obligation than, as Minister von Cobenzl expressly writes, to work by my writings for the maintenance of the government, of morals, and order.”

A smile stole over the delicate features of Muller.

“Exactly the same words which the Minister von Thugut said to me two years ago. And you have had the courage to accept the position?”

“Yes, I have accepted it, because I hope thus to render a service to the fatherland, and to be of advantage to it. I have forever east off my Prussianism, and shall henceforth become an Austrian with body and soul.”

“How wonderful are the dispensations of fate! for I must reply to you that I have cast off forever my Austrianism, and shall henceforth become a Prussian with body and soul.”

“Ah, you go to Prussia! You leave the Austrian service?”

“Yes, forever. I follow a call to Berlin.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Gentz, “I have not the courage to complain that I have to do without you in Vienna, for fate in its wisdom has disposed of both of us, and it will make us available for the great, sublime cause of Germany. Being both stationed at one place, our efforts could not be so far reaching, so powerful, and therefore fate sets you up in the north of Germany, and me in the south, in order that our voices may resound hither and thither throughout Germany, and awaken all minds and kindle all energies for the one grand aim, the delivery and the honor of Germany.”

“You still believe, then, in the honor of Germany and the possibility of its delivery,” Muller inquired, with a sigh.

“Yes. I still believe in it,” Gentz exclaimed, with enthusiasm; “but to that end many things must yet be done, many things must be aimed at and changed. Above all, two things are necessary. In the first place, the old enmity between Austria and Prussia must disappear, and both must firmly unite with each other and with England against France. It is this which I in Vienna and you in Berlin must never lose sight of--which we must aim at with all the power of our spirit and of our eloquence; for it is one of the last measures which are left for maintaining the independence of Europe and for averting the deluge of evils which break forth more terribly every day. From the moment when Austria and Prussia shall stand upon one line and move in one direction, there will be nowhere in Germany particular interests. All the greater and lesser princes would at once and without hesitation place themselves under the wings of this powerful alliance--the well-disposed cheerfully and out of conviction, and the unpatriotic ones through fear. So much of the constitution as has been rescued from this last shipwreck, would be safe for the duration of this alliance; and so much of it as must be altered, would be altered according to the principles of justice and of the common weal, and not according to the disgraceful demands of French and Russian land agents.”

“You are right,” exclaimed Johannes Muller; “a close alliance of Austria and Prussia is necessary, and only through it, and through it alone, the maintenance of the European equilibrium is possible, but for the present we must lean on the power of Russia and the resources of England.”

“No, no,” Gentz exclaimed, vehemently; “no communion with Russia! Russia is a friend who can never be trusted, for whenever it shall be her advantage she will at any moment be ready to become the most bitter enemy of her friends. But really we have had a striking and terrible example, of this when the Emperor Paul suddenly separated from Germany and England in order to ally himself with France. But the union of France and Russia is the most threatening and terrible combination for the whole remainder of Europe. Of all the wounds which during the last ten years have been inflicted upon the old political system, and in particular upon the independence of Germany, those which were caused by the temporary agreement between France and Russia were the deepest and most incurable. If this comet should rise a second time over our heads, the world will go up in flames. What is to resist the combined power of these two colossuses unless the united weight and the united bulk of Germany hinders their embrace? The western colossus has long since broken through its old barriers; all the outposts are in its power, all the fortresses which do not belong to it are dismantled, all the points of military defence are outflanked. From Switzerland and Italy, from the peaks of the conquered Alps, it may irresistibly pounce upon the centime of the Austrian monarchy and invade the exposed provinces of the undefended Prussian kingdom. And now let it please Providence to elevate upon the Russian throne a prince full of ambition and thirst of conquest, and the subjugation of Germany, the dissolution of all the empires still existing, a double universal monarchy would, under the present circumstances, be the next consequence; and if the present system, or rather the present hopeless languor should continue for several more years, this must sooner or later be the inevitable destiny of Germany.”

“There is now for Germany only one enemy,” Johannes Muller said, vehemently, “and this enemy is France--is Bonaparte! A new crisis approaches; of this I am convinced. Bonaparte will not be satisfied with the title and the office of a First Consul for life; he will place a crown upon his head, and threateningly oppose himself with his sceptre to all monarchies, and they will either have to humble themselves before him or to unite against him. Therefore, no other, no possible future enemy, should be thought of at this time, but only the universal foe and his government, so incompatible with general tranquillity. Let all the hatred of the nation be poured down on him, and on him alone, by everywhere spreading the conviction that nothing interferes with the preservation of peace throughout the world but his existence.” [Footnote: Muller’s own words.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. vii., p. 58.] “There is something else I would wish for Germany,” said Gentz, musingly. “I will now reveal to you my innermost thoughts, my friend, for I am satisfied that our meeting here was a dispensation of fate. Providence has decreed that we, the intellectual champions of Germany, should agree here on the plans of our campaign and concert measures for our joint action. Therefore, you shall descend with me into the depths of my heart and see the result to which I have been led by many years’ reflection concerning the causes and progress of the great convulsions of our day, and by my own grief at the political decay of Germany. The result is the firm belief that it would be by far better for Germany to be united into one state. Oh, do not look at me in so surprised and angry a manner! I know very well, and I have reflected a great deal about it, how salutary an influence has been exerted by the dismemberment of Germany on the free development of the individual faculties; I acknowledge that, considered individually, we might very probably not have reached, in a great and centralized monarchy, the proud and glorious eminence we are occupying at the present time, and so far, as a nation, after all, only consists of individuals, I am unable to perceive exactly how ours, without anarchy, could have acquired the distinction which it might boast of if it were a nation! But whenever I think that it is no nation--whenever I think that France and England, with greatly inferior faculties and means, have grown up to that true totality of human life--to that true nationality which nothing is able to destroy--whenever I think and feel that foreigners, on whom we may look down from our exalted stand-point, in matters of politics, trample on our necks, and are allowed to treat us as though we were their servants, all consolations derived from our grand and magnificent individuality vanish and leave me alone with my grief. [Footnote: Gentz’s own words.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. vii., p. 20.] I am free to confess to you that I have already gone so far on the road of those mournful reflections as to consider it very doubtful whether the whole history of Germany was ever treated from a correct point of view. I know but too well that the princes of the house of Austria seldom, if ever, deserved to be the rulers of Germany; but I do not believe that there are any reasons why we should exalt at the discomfiture of their plans. It is a matter of great indifference to me whether a Hapsburg, Bavarian, Hohenzollern, or Hohenstaufen succeed in bringing the empire under one hat; I only place myself on an Austrian stand-point because that house has the best prospects and is under the highest obligations to accomplish the unity of Germany. Now you know my innermost thoughts; criticise and correct them, my friend!”

“I will neither criticise nor correct them,” said Muller, offering his hand to Gentz with a tender glance; “I will only exchange views with you. I imagine, therefore, at this moment, we were pacing, as we did a year ago, previous to your journey to England, the splendid hall of the imperial library, where the sixteen statues of the Hapsburg emperors reminded us of their era. Before which of them will we place ourselves and say: ‘What a pity that you, wise and noble prince, are not the sole ruler of Germany; you were worthy, indeed, that the moral and political welfare of the whole nation should be left to the decision of your will, and that every thing should be submitted to your power!’”

“It is true,” muttered Gentz, mournfully; “in the history of Germany there is no emperor, king, or prince to whom we might or should talk in this manner.”

“Nor is that the cause of our misfortunes,” said Muller; “the want of one ruler has not produced them, and it is not so bad that we have not got but one neck, and cannot consequently be struck down at one blow. The fault, on the contrary, is our own. If we had a single great man, even though he were neither an emperor nor a king, if he were only a Maurice of Saxony, a Stadtholder of Holland, he would attract the nation in times of danger and distress; it would rally around him and he would stand above it. That we have not such a man is owing to our deplorable system of education, and to the wrong direction which our mode of thinking has taken. Every thing with us has fallen asleep, and we are in a condition of almost hopeless stagnation. The old poetry of fatherland, honor, and heroism, seems to be almost extinct among us; we are asleep, and do not even dream. In order to recover our senses, a conceited tyrant, who will mock us while plundering our pockets, is an indispensable necessity. Providence, perhaps, has destined Bonaparte to become the tyrant who is to awaken Germany from its slumber by means of cruelties; he is, perhaps, to revive among the Germans love of honor, liberty, and country; he is, perhaps, to be the scourge that is to torture us, so that we may overcome our indolence, and that our true national spirit may be aroused. I hope the tyrant will accomplish this, and deliver Germany. God knows I would not like to serve him, but to the liberators of the world I should willingly devote my ideas and my feelings, nay, my blood. [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. vii., pp. 39, 40.] Then let us hope, wait, and prepare. Let us not occupy ourselves with Germany as it might be, perhaps, in its unity, but with Germany as it CAN be with its confederate system. The Germans are not qualified, like the English or French, to live in a single great state. The climate, their organization, that miserable beer, the insignificant participation in the commerce of the world, prevent it; the somewhat phlegmatic body of the state must have an independent life in each of its parts; the circulation issuing from a single head would be too imperceptible. We must be satisfied with the glory which a Joseph, a Frederick the Great, and the enthusiasm of the whole people gave to us, and if the next struggle should terminate successfully, will give to us to the greatest extent. [Footnote: Ibid., vol. vii., p. 46.] We must struggle on for the welfare of the entire people, and the individuals should unite into one great harmonious whole. Like myself, you consider concord between Austria and Prussia at present the only remedy for the ills of Germany; let us, therefore, strive for it, let us direct our whole strength to this point, to this goal.”

“Yes, let us do so!” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically. “We are both destined and able to be the champions of Germany; let us fulfil our task. No matter how much greater, how much more exalted and brilliant your name may be than mine, for my part I am proud enough to believe that I have certain talents which ought to unite our political efforts. Hence, you cannot and must not reject and neglect me; you must accept the hand which I offer you for this great and holy compact, for the welfare of Germany. We must keep up an active and uninterrupted correspondence with each other, and freely and unreservedly communicate to each other our views about the great questions of the day. It seems to me wise, necessary, and truly patriotic that such men as we should hold timely consultations with each other as to what should be done, and how, where, and by whom it should be done. The wholesome influence we may exert, stationed by fate as one of us is in Berlin, and the other in Vienna, by faithfully uniting our efforts, will be truly incalculable. Now say, my friend, will you conclude such a covenant with me? Shall we unite in our active love for Germany in our active hatred against France?”

“Yes, we will!” exclaimed Johannes Muller, solemnly. “I truly love and venerate you; I will struggle with you incessantly until we have reached our common noble goal. Here is my hand, my friend; its grasp shall be the consecration of our covenant. Perhaps you do not know me very intimately, but we must believe in each other. All our studies, all our intellectual strength, our connections, our friendships, every thing shall be devoted to that one great object, for the sake of which alone, so long as it may yet be accomplished, life is not to be disdained.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. vii., p. 40.]

“Yes, be it so,” said Gentz, joyfully. “The covenant is concluded, and may God bless it for the welfare of Germany!”

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XLII. THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON

A new era had dawned for France! On the eighteenth of May, 1804, she had changed her title and commenced a new epoch of her existence.

On the eighteenth of May, 1804, the French Republic had ceased to exist, for on that day Bonaparte, the First Consul, had become Napoleon, the first Emperor of France. There was no more talk of liberty, equality, and fraternity. France had again a master--a master who was firmly determined to transform the proud republicans into obedient subjects, and to restore law and order if necessary by means of tyranny. Woe to those who wanted to remember old republican France under the new state of affairs; woe to those who called Napoleon Bonaparte the assassin of the republic, and wished to punish him for his criminal conduct! George Cadoudal and Pichegru had to atone with their lives for such audacious attempts, and Moreau, Bonaparte’s great rival, was banished from his country.

Woe to those, too, who hoped that the old royal throne of the fleur-de-lis would take the place of the dying republic! the royalists as well as the republicans were punished as traitors to their country, and the Duke d’Enghien was executed in the ditch of Vincennes because he had dared to approach the frontier of his country. Sentence of death had been passed upon him without a trial, without judgment and law; and even the tears and prayers of Josephine had been unable to soften Bonaparte’s heart. The son of the Bourbons had to die the death of a traitor, that the son of the Corsican lawyer might become Emperor of France.

Europe was no longer strong enough to punish this bloody deed; it was not even courageous enough to denounce it and to ask the First Consul, Bonaparte, by virtue of what right he had ordered his soldiers in the midst of peace to enter a German state in order to arrest there the guest of a German prince like a common felon, and to have him executed for a crime which was never proved against him. The sense of honor and justice seemed entirely extinct in Germany, and the princes and people of Germany were solely actuated by the all-absorbing fear lest powerful France might assume a hostile attitude toward them.

Not a voice, therefore, was raised in Germany in favor of the Duke d’Enghien, and against a violation of the German territory, directly conflicting with the existing treaties and the tenets of international law. The German Diet, upon whom it was incumbent to maintain the honor and rights of all the German states, received the news of this bloody deed in silence, and were only too glad that none of the members of the empire arose in order to complain of the proceedings of France. It was deemed most prudent to pass over the matter, and to accept what could not be helped as an accomplished fact.

But from this lazy quiet they were suddenly startled by the warnings of Russia and Sweden, who, having warranted the maintenance of the constitution of the German empire, now raised their voices, and loudly and emphatically pointed out “the danger which would arise for every single German state if Germany should allow measures to be taken which threatened her quiet and safety, and if deeds of violence should be deemed admissible or be passed over without being duly denounced.” [Footnote: Vide Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 518.]

A sudden panic seized the German Diet, for these Russian and Swedish voices rendered further silence out of the question. The Diet were, therefore, compelled to speak out, to complain, and to demand an apology and redress, for Russia and Sweden required it, by virtue of their relation to the empire; foreign powers required the German Diet, much to its dismay, to maintain and defend the honor of Germany.

But the Diet dared not listen to them, for France asked them to be silent; it threatened to consider any word of censure as a declaration of war. The ministers of the German princes, greatly embarrassed by their position between those equally imperious parties, found a way not to irritate either, and to maintain their silence and impartiality; they DESERTED! That is to say, the German Diet, suddenly, and long before the usual time, took a recess, a long recess, and when the latter had at length expired, the unpleasant affair was not taken up, and the Diet considered a more important question of the day. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 525.] This more important question was to congratulate France on having elected an emperor, who, as the Austrian minister said, at a meeting of the Diet, “was so precious to all Europe, and by whose accession to the throne his colleagues could only feel honored.”

The Diet had been silent about the assassination of the Duke d’Enghien, but they spoke out and proffered their congratulations when Bonaparte had become emperor, and they pretended to be glad to hail him as the founder of a new dynasty.

Napoleon Bonaparte, therefore, had now attained his object; he had reestablished the throne in France; he had placed a crown on his head. More fortunate than Caesar, he had met with no Brutus at the steps of his throne, but had ascended it without being hindered, amidst the acclamations of France, which called him her emperor; amidst the acclamations of Italy, which called him her king, and had willingly cast aside her title of Cisalpine Republic in order to become the kingdom of Lombardy, and to adorn Napoleon at Milan with the iron crown of the old Lombard sovereigns.

Napoleon had just returned to France from this coronation at Milan, and repaired to the vast camp at Boulogne, where an army comprising a hundred and fifty thousand infantry and ninety thousand cavalry, eager for the fray, were waiting for the word of Napoleon which was to call them forth to new struggles and new victories.

The immense rows of the soldiers’ tents extended far across the plain and along the sea-shore, and in the centre of this city of tents, on the spot where lately the traces of a camp of Julius Caesar had been discovered, there arose the emperor’s tent, looking out on the ocean, on the shore of which the ships and gunboats of France were moored, while the immense forest of the masts and flags of the British fleet was to be seen in the distance.

But this forest of British masts did not frighten the French army; the soldiers, as well as the sailors, were eager for the fray, and looked with fiery impatience for the moment when the emperor would at length raise his voice and utter the longed-for words: “On to England! Let us vanquish England as we have vanquished the whole of Europe!”

No one doubted that the emperor purposed to utter these words, and that this camp of Boulogne, this fleet manned with soldiers and bristling with guns, were solely intended against England, the hereditary foe of France.

The emperor, however, hesitated to utter those decisive words. He distributed among the soldiers the first crosses of the Legion of Honor; he drilled the troops; he accepted the festivals and balls which the city of Boulogne gave in his honor; he stood for hours on the sea-shore or on the tower of his barrack, and with his spy-glass looked out on the sea and over to the English ships; but his lips did not open to utter the decisive words; the schemes which filled his breast and clouded his brow were a secret, the solution of which was looked for with equal impatience by his generals and by his soldiers.

It was a delightful morning; a cool breeze swept from the sea through the tents of the camp, and, after the preceding spell of debilitating hot weather, exerted a most refreshing and invigorating effect upon the languishing soldiers. The sun which had scorched every thing for the last few days, was to-day gently veiled by small, whitish clouds, which, far on the horizon, seemed to arise, like swans, from the sea toward the sky, and to hasten with outspread wings toward the sun.

The emperor, whom the warm weather of the last few days had prevented from riding out, ordered his horse to be brought to him. He wished to make a trip to the neighboring villages, but no one was to accompany him except Roustan, his colored servant.

In front of the emperor’s barrack there stood, however, all the generals and staff-officers, all the old comrades of Napoleon, the men who had shared his campaigns and his glory, who had joyfully recognized the great chieftain as their emperor and master, and who wished to do him homage to-day, as they were in the habit of doing every morning so soon as he left his barrack. Napoleon, however, saluted them to-day only with a silent wave of his hand and an affable smile. He seemed pensive and absorbed, and no one dared to disturb him by a sound, by a word. Amid the solemn stillness of this brilliant gathering, the emperor walked to his horse, who, less timid and respectful than the men, greeted his master with a loud neigh and a nodding of the head, and commenced impatiently stamping on the ground. [Footnote: Napoleon’s favorite horse, who always manifested in this manner his delight on seeing his illustrious master.--Constant, vol. ii., p. 81.]

The emperor took the bridle which Roustan handed to him and vaulted into the saddle. He raised his sparkling eye toward the sky and then lowered it to the sea with its rocking ships.

“I will review the fleet to-day,” said the emperor, turning to his adjutant-general. “Let orders be issued to the ships forming the closing line to change position, for I will hold the review in the open sea. I shall return in two hours; let every thing be in readiness at that time.”

He set spurs to his horse and galloped away, followed by Roustan. His generals dispersed in order to return to their barracks. The adjutant-general, however, hastened to Admiral Bruix for the purpose of delivering the orders of the emperor to him.

The admiral listened to him silently and attentively; and then he raised his eyes to the sky and scanned it long and searchingly.

“It is impossible,” he said, shrugging his shoulders; “the orders of the emperor cannot be carried out to-day; the review cannot take place. We shall have a storm to-day, which will prevent the ships from leaving their moorings.”

“Admiral,” said the adjutant, respectfully, “I have delivered the orders of the emperor to you; I have informed you that the emperor wishes that every thing should be ready for the review on his return, within two hours. Now you know very well that the wish of the emperor is always equivalent to an order, and you will make your preparations accordingly.”

“In two hours I shall have the honor personally to state to his majesty the reasons why I was unable to comply with his orders,” said Admiral Bruix, with his wonted composure and coolness.

Precisely two hours later the emperor returned from his ride. The generals and staff-officers, the whole, brilliant suite of the emperor, stood again in front of his barrack, in order to receive the returning sovereign.

Napoleon greeted them with a pleasant smile; the ride seemed to have agreed with him; the cloud had disappeared from his brow; his cheeks, generally so pale, were suffused with a faint blush, and his flaming eyes bad a kind glance for every one.

He dismounted with graceful ease, and stepped with kind salutations into the circle of the generals.

“Well, Leclerc, is every thing ready for the review?” he asked his adjutant.

General Leclerc approached him respectfully. “Sire,” he said, “Admiral Bruix, to whom I delivered the orders of your majesty, replied to me that the review could not take place to-day because there would be a storm.”

The emperor frowned, and an angry flash from his eyes met the face of the adjutant.

“I must have misunderstood you, sir.” he said. “What did the admiral reply when you delivered my orders to him?”

“Sire, he said it was impossible to carry them out, for a storm was drawing near, and he could not think of ordering the ships to leave their moorings.”

The emperor stamped violently his foot. “Let Admiral Bruix be called hither at once!” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice, and two orderlies immediately left the circle and hastened away.

Several minutes elapsed; Napoleon, his arms folded, his threatening eyes steadfastly turned toward the side on which the admiral would make his appearance, still stood in front of his barrack, in the midst of his suite. His eagle eye now discovered the admiral in the distance, who had just left his boat and stepped ashore. No longer able to suppress his impatience and anger, Napoleon hastened forward to meet the admiral, while the gentlemen of his staff followed him in a long and silent procession.

The emperor and the admiral now stood face to face. Napoleon’s eyes flashed fire.

“Admiral,” exclaimed the emperor, in an angry voice, “why did not you carry out my orders?”

The admiral met Napoleon’s wrathful glance in a calm though respectful manner. “Sire,” he said, “a terrible storm is drawing near. Your majesty can see it just as well as I. Do you want to endanger unnecessarily the lives of so many brave men?”

And as if Nature wanted to confirm the words of the admiral, the distant roll of thunder was heard, and the atmosphere commenced growing dark.

Napoleon, however, seemed not to see it, or the calm voice of the admiral and the rolling thunder, perhaps, excited his pride to an even more obstinate resistance.

“Admiral,” he replied, sternly, “I have issued my orders. I ask you once more why did not you carry them out? The consequences concern only myself. Obey, therefore!”

“Sire,” he said, solemnly, “I shall not obey!”

“Sir, you are an impudent fellow!” ejaculated Napoleon, and, advancing a step toward the admiral, he menacingly raised the hand in which he still held his riding-whip.

Admiral Bruix drew back a step and laid his hand on his sword. A terrible pause ensued. The emperor still stood there, the riding-whip in his uplifted hand, fixing his flaming, angry eyes on the admiral, who maintained his threatening, manly attitude, and, with his hand on his sword, awaited the emperor’s attack. The generals and staff-officers, pale with dismay, formed a circle around them.

The emperor suddenly dropped his riding-whip; Admiral Bruix immediately withdrew his hand from his sword, and, taking off his hat, he awaited the end of the dreadful scene in profound silence.

“Rear-Admiral Magou,” said the emperor, calling one of the gentlemen of his suite, “cause the movements I had ordered to be carried out at once: As for you,” he continued, slowly turning his eyes toward the admiral, “you will leave Boulogne within twenty-four hours and retire to Holland. Begone!”

He turned around hastily and walked toward his barrack. Admiral Bruix looked after him with an aggrieved air, and then turned also around in order to go. While walking through the crowd of generals and staff-officers, he offered his hand to his friends and acquaintances in order to take leave of them; but few of them, however, saw it, and shook hands with him; most of them had averted their eyes from the admiral, whom the sun of imperial favor did not illuminate any longer, and who consequently was so entirely cast in the shade, that they were unable to perceive him.

Rear-Admiral Magou had in the mean time carried out the orders of the emperor. The ships which before had been at anchor near the outlet of the harbor, keeping it entirely closed, had moved farther into the sea, while the other vessels in the harbor were going out.

But Admiral Bruix’s prediction began already to be fulfilled; the sky was covered with black clouds from which lightning was bursting forth in rapid succession. The thunder of the heavens drowned the roar of the sea, which arose like a huge, black monster, hissing and howling, and fell back again from its height, covered with foam, and opened abysses into which the ships seemed to sink in order to be hurled up again by the next wave. The storm, with its dismal yells, attacked the masts and broke them as though they were straws, and lashed the ships, which had already left the harbor, out into the sea, to certain ruin, to certain death.

The emperor had left his barrack and hurried down to the beach with rapid steps. With folded arms and lowered head, gloomy and musing, he walked up and down in the storm. He was suddenly aroused from his meditations by loud screams, by exclamations of terror and dismay.

Twenty gunboats, which the rear-admiral had already caused to be manned with sailors and soldiers, had been driven ashore by the storm, and the waves which swept over them with thundering noise menaced the crews with certain death. Their cries for help, their shrieks and supplications were distinctly heard and reechoed by the wails and lamentations of the masses that had hastened to the beach in order to witness the storm and the calamities of the shipwreck. The emperor looked at his generals and staff-officers who surrounded him, dumbfounded with horror; he saw that no one had the courage or deemed it feasible to assist the poor drowning men. All at once the gloomy air vanished from his face, it became radiant with enthusiasm; the emperor was transformed once more into a hero, daring every thing, and shrinking back from no danger.

He immediately entered one of the life-boats and pushing back the arms of those who wished to detain him, he exclaimed in an almost jubilant voice: “Let me go, let me go! We must assist those unhappy men!”

But his frail bark was speedily filled with water; the waves swept over it with a wild roar, and covered the whole form of the emperor with foaming, hissing spray. He still kept himself erect by dint of almost superhuman efforts; but now another even more terrible wave approached and swept, thundering and with so much violence over the bark, that the emperor, reeling and losing his equilibrium, was about falling overboard, when his generals dragged him from the boat and took him ashore. He followed them unhesitatingly, stunned as he was by the wave, and as he stepped ashore, a flash burst forth from the cloud; a majestic thunder-clap followed; the howling storm tore the hat from the emperor’s head and carried it, as if on invisible wings, high into the air and then far out into the sea where the waves seemed to receive it with roars of exultation, driving it down to their foaming depth.

But the courageous example given by the emperor had exerted an electric effect on the masses which heretofore had apparently been stupefied with horror. Every one now felt and recognized it to be his sacred duty to make efforts for the rescue of the unfortunate men who were still struggling with the waves and shouting for help; officers, soldiers, sailors, and citizens, all rushed into the life-boats or plunged into the sea in order to swim up to the drowning men and save them in time from a watery grave.

But the sea was not willing to surrender many of its victims. It wanted, perhaps, to prove its superior divine majesty to the imperial ruler which had defied it, and punish him for his presumption.

Only a few were rescued, for the storm did not abate during the whole day; it lashed up the sea into waves mountain-high, or opened abysses frightful to behold. Night finally descended on the angry waters and spread its black pall over the scene of death and despair.

In the morning the beach was covered with hundreds of corpses which the sea had thrown ashore. An enormous crowd thronged the shore; every one came to look with fainting heart and loud lamentations among the mute, pale corpses for a husband, a friend, or a brother; shrieks and wails filled the air and even penetrated to the emperor’s barracks.

He had not slept during the whole night; he had been pacing his rooms, restless, with a gloomy air and pale cheeks: now, early in the morning, he once more hastened down to the beach. Thousands of persons, however, had preceded him thither. When they beheld the emperor they stepped gloomily aside; they did not receive him, as heretofore, with loud exultation and joyful acclamations; they looked at him with a reproachful air, and then turned their eyes in mute eloquence to the corpses lying in the sand.

The emperor was unable to bear the silence of the crowd and the sight of these corpses; pale and shuddering, he turned away and walked back to his barrack slowly and with lowered head. But he did not fail to hear the murmurs of the crowd which had only been silent so long as it had seen his face, and which, now that he had turned away, gave free vent to its grief and indignation.

The emperor heard painful sighs when he reached his barrack, and sent immediately for Roustan, in order to give him secret instructions. Thanks to these instructions, Roustan’s agents hastened all day through the city of Boulogne and through the camp for the purpose of distributing money in the name of the emperor wherever persons were lamenting and weeping, or where gloomy glances and mourners were to be met with, thus allaying their grief by means of the shining magic metal which heals all wounds and dries all tears.

The emperor, however, had still a more effectual charm for allaying the indignation of the crowd, or at least for stirring up again the jubilant enthusiasm of his soldiers.

Telegraphic dispatches of the highest importance had reached the camp; courier after courier had followed them. The emperor assembled all his generals in the council-chamber of his barrack, and when they left it, after a consultation of several hours, the rumor spread through the camp that the emperor would now at length utter those longed-for words and lead his army to new struggles, to new victories.

These joyful tidings spread like wildfire among the troops; every one hailed them with a radiant face and merry glances. Every one saw himself on the eve of fresh honors and spoils, and only asked whither the victorious course of the emperor would be directed this time--whether to England, which constantly seemed to menace France with its forest of masts, or whether to Austria, whose hostile friendship might have been distrusted.

The emperor had not yet spoken the decisive words to any member of his suite, but he had sent for the grand-marshal of the palace and ordered him to hold every thing in readiness for his departure; to settle all accounts and bills against the emperor, and to beware on this occasion of not paying too much to any one.

On the day after receiving these orders, the grand-marshal, without being announced, appeared before the emperor, who was in the council-chamber of his barrack, engaged in studying attentively the maps spread out on the large table before him.

Napoleon only looked up for a moment, and then continued to stick pins into the maps, thus designating the route which his army was to take.

“Well, Duroc,” he asked, “is every thing ready for our departure? Have all bills been paid?”

“Sire, they are all paid except one, and I must dare to disturb your majesty in relation to this one bill.”

“I suppose it is very high and fraudulent?” asked the emperor, hastily. With these words he rose and approached the grand-marshal.

“Sire,” said the latter, “I do not know whether it is fraudulent or not, but it is very high. It is the bill of Military Intendant Sordi, who built this barrack, and to whom its fitting up had been intrusted.”

“Well, how much does he charge for it?” asked Napoleon.

“Sire, he asks fifty thousand francs.”

“Fifty thousand francs!” exclaimed Napoleon, almost in terror. “I hope you have not paid this impudent bill?”

“No, sire, I have not; on the contrary, I requested M. Sordi to reduce the sum.”

“And he has done so, of course?” exclaimed Napoleon, gloomily. “Just like these men. They ask us to confide in them, and yet they try on every occasion to cheat us. How much did he deduct from his bill?”

“Nothing at all, sire. M. Sordi asserts that he did not charge too much for a single article; he was unable, therefore, to make even the slightest deduction.”

“And so you have paid the bill?”

“No, sire, I said that I could not pay it until your majesty had given me express orders to do so.”

“Well done,” said the emperor, nodding to him. “Send word to the military intendant that I want to see him immediately. I wish to talk to him myself.”

The grand-marshal withdrew, and Napoleon returned to his maps. He continued to mark them with long rows of pins, and to draw circles and straight lines on them.

“If the Austrians are bold enough to advance,” he said to himself, in a low voice, “I shall beat them in the open field; should they remain stationary and wait for me to attack them, I shall inflict upon them a crushing defeat at Ulm. It is time for me to make these overbearing Germans feel the whole weight of my wrath, and, as they have spurned my friendship, to crush them by my enmity. That little Emperor of Austria dares to menace me; I shall prove to him that menacing me is bringing about one’s own ruin. I shall assemble my forces here in this plain, and here--”

“Sire, the military intendant, M. de Sordi, whom your majesty has ordered to appear before you,” said the emperor’s aide-de-camp, opening the door of the council-chamber.

“Let him come in,” ejaculated Napoleon, without averting his eyes from the map.

The aide-de-camp retired, and the tall, powerful form of Intendant Sordi appeared in the door. His face was pale, but calm; his features indicated boldness and a fixed purpose; he was evidently conscious of the importance of the present moment, and felt that it would decide his whole future.

The emperor continued scanning his maps. M. de Sordi stood at the door, waiting for the emperor to address him. When he saw that the latter tarried very long, he advanced a step, and, as if accidentally, pushed against the chair standing at his side.

The noise aroused Napoleon from his meditation, and reminded him of the person he had sent for.

He therefore hastily turned around to him. “Sir,” he said, “you have spent a great deal too much money for the decoration of this miserable barrack; yes, indeed, a great deal too much. Fifty thousand francs! What do you mean, sir? That is frightful; I shall not pay that sum!”

M. de Sordi met the flaming glances of the emperor with smiling calmness.

“Sire,” he said, lifting up his hand and pointing at the ceiling, “I may truthfully say that the clouds of gold brocade adorning the ceiling of this room, and surrounding the propitious star of your majesty, have cost alone not less than twenty-five thousand francs. Had I consulted, however, the hearts of your subjects, the imperial eagle, which now again will crush the enemies of France and of your throne, would have spread out its wings amidst the most magnificent and precious diamonds.” [Footnote: The ceiling of the room was decorated with golden clouds, amidst which, on a blue ground, was an eagle, holding a thunderbolt, and pointing it at a star, the star of the emperor.--Constant, vol. i., p. 246.]

Napoleon smiled. “Very well,” he said; “you believe the hearts of my subjects to be very prodigal. I am not, however, and I repeat to you I shall not pay that sum now. But as you tell me that this eagle, which costs so much money, will crush the Austrians, you will doubtless wait until it has done so, and then I will pay your bill with the rix-dollars of the Emperor of Germany and the Fredericks d’or of the King of Prussia.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Constant, vol. i., p. 246.]

He dismissed him smilingly with a wave of his hand, and returned to his maps.

A few hours later Napoleon, followed by all his generals and adjutants, repaired to the camp. Ascending a small mound, specially prepared for the occasion, he surveyed with radiant eyes the surging, motley, and brilliant sea of soldiers who surrounded him on all sides, and who greeted his appearance with thundering shouts of exultation.

A wave of his hand commanded them to be still, and, as if fascinated by a magician’s wand, the roaring masses grew dumb, and profound silence ensued. Amidst this silence, Napoleon raised his clear, ringing-voice, and its sonorous notes swept like eagle-wings over the sea of soldiers.

“Brave soldiers of the camp of Boulogne,” he said, “you will not go to England. The gold of the English government has seduced the Emperor of Austria, and he has again declared war against France. His army has crossed the line of demarcation assigned to it, and inundated Bavaria. Soldiers, fresh laurels are awaiting you beyond the Rhine; let us hasten to vanquish once more enemies whom we have already vanquished. On to Germany!” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Constant, vol. i., p. 282.]

“On to Germany!” shouted the soldiers, jubilantly. “On to Germany!” was repeated from mouth to mouth, and even the sea seemed to roar with delight and its waves, thundering against the beach, to shout, “On to Germany!”

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XLIII. NAPOLEON AND THE GERMAN PRINCES

The Emperor of France with his army had crossed the boundaries of Germany. He had come to assist his ally, the Elector of Bavaria, against the Austrians who had invaded Bavaria; not, however, in order to menace Bavaria, but, as an autograph letter from the Emperor Francis to the elector expressly stated, to secure a more extended and better protected position.

The Elector of Bavaria, Maximilian Joseph, had declared, in a submissive letter to the Austrian emperor, that he was perfectly willing to let the Austrian regiments encamp within his dominions. “I pledge my word as a sovereign to your majesty.” he had written to the Emperor of Germany, “that I shall not hinder the operations of your army in any manner whatever, and if, what is improbable, however, your majesty should be obliged to retreat with your army, I promise and swear that I shall remain quiet and support your projects in every respect. But I implore your majesty on my knees to permit me graciously to maintain the strictest neutrality. It is a father, driven to despair by anguish and care, who implores your majesty’s mercy in favor of his child. My son is just now travelling in southern France. If I should be obliged to send my troops into the field against France my son would be lost, and the fate of the Duke d’Enghien would be in store for him, too; if I should, however, remain quietly and peaceably in my states, I should gain time for my son to return from France.” [Footnote: “Memoires sur l’Intereor du Palais de Napoleon,” by De Bausset, vol. i., p. 59.]

But on the same day, and with the same pen, on which the ink with which he had written to the Emperor of Germany was not yet dry, the elector had also written to the Emperor of France and informed him “that he was ready to place himself under his protection, that he would be proud to become the ally of France, and that he would thenceforward lay himself and his army at the feet of the great and august Emperor of France.”

And the courier who was to deliver the letter with the sacred pledges of neutrality to the Emperor of Germany, had not yet reached Vienna when the Elector of Bavaria secretly fled from Munich to Wurzburg, where his army of twenty-five thousand men was waiting for him.

He sent his army, commanded by General Deroy, to meet the Emperor of the French; it was not to attack him as the enemy of Germany, but to hail him as an ally and to place itself under his direction. He then issued a proclamation.

“We have separated from Austria,” he said, “from Austria, who wanted to ensnare and annihilate us by her perfidious schemes, and to compel us to fight at her side for foreign interests; from Austria, the hereditary foe of our house and of our independence, who is just now going to make another attempt to devour Bavaria, and degrade her to the position of an Austrian province. But the Emperor of the French, Bavaria’s natural ally, hastened to the rescue with his brave warriors, in order to avenge you; your sons will soon fight at the side of men accustomed to victory; soon, soon the day of retribution will be at hand.” [Footnote: Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 611.]

Thanks to the hatred of the Germans against their German brethren, thanks to the hatred of the Bavarians against the Austrians, this proclamation had been received with joyful acclamations throughout the whole state, and Bavaria felt proud and happy that she should fight under the Emperor of the French, her “natural ally,” against the Emperor of Germany.

The French army was drawn up in line in the plain near Nordlingen, in order to solemnly receive its German auxiliaries. They were the first German troops that Napoleon had gained over to his side, and therefore he wished to welcome them pompously and with all honors. Amidst the jubilant notes of all the bands of the French army, amidst the enthusiastic shouts of the French soldiers, the Bavarians marched into the French camp. The emperor, in full uniform, surrounded by all his generals, welcomed General Deroy and the Bavarian officers; accompanied by a wave of his sword, he said to them:

“I have placed myself at the head of my army in order to deliver your country, for the house of Austria intends to annihilate your independence. You will follow the example of your ancestors, who constantly preserved that independence and political existence which are the first blessings of a nation. I know your valor, and am sure that I shall be able after the first battle to say to your sovereign and to my people, that you are worthy to fight in the ranks of the grand army.”

The Bavarian soldiers hailed this proud address with the same exultation with which the Bavarian people had received the proclamation of the elector; and never had the French soldiers manifested greater enthusiasm for their chieftain and emperor than did these German soldiers, the first German auxiliaries of the emperor.

Napoleon received their jubilant shouts with a gracious smile.

“Duroc,” he said, turning to his friend and comrade, who was riding at his side--“Duroc, listen to what I am going to say to you. The Germans are not good patriots; they are capable of loving the conqueror of their country just as well as their legitimate sovereign. Even at the time of Julius Caesar there was no harmony among the Germans; and while Arminius opposed the Romans heroically, Segestes declared in favor of them. If, as a modern Julius Caesar, I should wish to conquer Germany, I believe I should find there no Arminius, but certainly many Segesteses.”

“But, perhaps, a few Thusneldas, sire,” said Duroc, laughing; “and your majesty knows full well that it was Thusnelda, after all, who filled her husband with so undying a hatred against the Romans.”

“And the son of Thusnelda became a prisoner of the Romans!” exclaimed Napoleon; “he became a miserable slave of the Romans, and preferred a life of humiliation and disgrace to an honorable death. The Germans are great talkers; they are always ready to fight with their tongues for the honor of their country, but they do not like to die for it. But who are the Thusneldas with whom you threatened me? Did you allude to Queen Caroline of Naples, the daughter of Maria Theresa?”

“Oh, no, sire; she is no longer a German, but an Italian intriguer--a--”

“She is, as I told her own ambassador in Milan, a modern Athalia, a daughter of Jezebel,” said Napoleon, interrupting him vehemently. “But patience, patience, I shall punish her for her bitter hatred and intrigues.”

“Sire, it was in your power to receive ardent love at the hands of Queen Caroline, instead of her hatred, which is, perhaps, nothing but concealed love. I suppose your majesty knows what the queen said only a few years ago to the French minister?”

“No, I do not, or perhaps I have only forgotten it,” replied Napoleon, carelessly. “Did she want to make a postillon d’amour of him?”

“Nearly so, sire. She told him she would willingly travel four hundred leagues in order to see General Bonaparte. She added that you were the only great man in the world, and none but idiots were seated at the present time on all the thrones of Europe.” [Footnote: Queen Caroline actually said this to the French minister.]

“A very flattering remark for her husband and for her nephew, the Emperor of Austria,” said Napoleon. “She referred, however, only to those who are seated on thrones, but the tender queen has been able to discover a few real men by the side of her husband’s throne. I have never hankered after becoming the rival of Acton and Nelson. I do not like passionate and ambitious women. They must be gentle and charming like Josephine if they are to please me.”

“I wish the empress were here and able to hear your words,” exclaimed Duroc.

“Does she again doubt my constancy?” asked Napoleon, quickly. “Have my brothers again frightened her by threats of a divorce? Let her be reassured, I do not think of a separation from her, and all the Thusneldas of Germany cannot become dangerous to me. But you have not yet told me the names of those Thusneldas. Let me hear them.”

“Sire, first there is the beautiful Queen of Prussia. She is said to be a bitter enemy of France.”

“Yes, a bitter enemy of MINE!” exclaimed Napoleon, with a gloomy and threatening glance; “a short-sighted woman, who does not see that she will ruin her good-natured, weak, and irresolute husband if she carries him along with her on this path of hostility and hatred. She will repent one day having scorned my friendship, for, if she succeeds in gaining her husband over to an alliance with Russia, I shall be inexorable, and mercilessly trample the whole vacillating and fickle Prussia in the dust. And do you still know of another Thusnelda?”

“Yes, sire; it is the wife of the Elector Frederick of Wurtemberg, who is also said to have filled her husband with ardent hatred against France, and with fervent patriotism for Germany. The elector and electress are reported to have taken a solemn oath in the presence of their whole court never to bow or submit to France, and never to prove recreant to the interests of Germany.”

“I shall compel them to believe that the interests of Germany require them to bow to France and to become our allies!” exclaimed Napoleon, proudly. “The electress of Wurtemberg is a daughter of George the Third of England, a daughter of my mortal enemy; hence, she shall bow to me or feel my power and my wrath. The time for hesitation and procrastination is over. I want to have my friends at my side and my enemies opposite me. Let the German princes choose whether they will go with France against Austria, their common despot, or whether, like Austria, they wished to be conquered by France! We shall see which side Wurtemberg will espouse, for Ney is already with his corps on the road to Stuttgart, and in the course of a few days I shall pay a visit to the elector and electress at their own palace.”

And a few days later Napoleon really kept his word: he paid a visit to the elector and electress at Louisburg, after Ney had compelled the government of Wurtemberg to open the gates of Stuttgart to his troops.

The elector received the emperor at the foot of the palace staircase, where only an hour ago he had assured his courtiers he would not receive the upstart Napoleon as an equal and shake hands with him; but as Napoleon now saluted him with a kind nod, and gave him his hand, the elector bowed so deeply and respectfully that it almost looked as if he wished to kiss the small, white, imperial hand which he had seized so joyfully and reverentially. [Footnote: “Memoirs of General de Wolzogen,” p. 24.]

The electress, who entered at the side of her husband, received the emperor in the large and brilliant throne-room of the palace. Her face was pale and gloomy when she bowed ceremoniously to the hereditary foe of her house, and not the faintest tinge of a smile was to be seen on her lips when she replied to the emperor’s address.

Napoleon’s face, however, was strangely mild and winning to-day, and yet radiant with dignity and grandeur. It was the face of a conqueror who does not intend to treat those whom he has subjugated with arrogance and rigor, but desires to win their affection by gentleness and love. Hence, his eyes had only mild and kind glances, and on his finely-formed lips there was playing that smile which the Empress Josephine said was the sunbeam of his face, and irresistible to any woman.

Nor was the electress able to withstand this smile and this kind bearing of Napoleon. She had expected to find in the emperor an ardent enemy of her native England, and he now paid a glowing and eloquent tribute to the English, to their country, to their institutions and character. Napoleon had been described to her as a barbarian, taking interest only in warfare and every thing connected with it; and now she found him to be an admirer of the English poets, and heard him expatiate enthusiastically on Ossian, some of whose most magnificent verses he recited to her in a French translation.

The stern features of the electress gradually began to relax; the smile gradually returned to her lips, and she bent her proud head more graciously to the “upstart” Napoleon.

“Oh, sire!” she exclaimed, joyfully, and for the first time she did not avoid addressing him with the title due to his rank--“oh, sire, he who admires the English poets so enthusiastically cannot possibly be an enemy of England!”

“I am not by any means,” said Napoleon, smiling; “I know no enmity whatever; peace is the sole aim of my efforts, and I believe Fate has sent me to mankind for the purpose of establishing eternal peace. It is true, I have to conquer peace by wars and commotions, but I shall conquer it, and you, princess, you and your husband must help me to do so. I intrust to your hands a noble task, which the high-minded and proud daughter of England is worthy of, and the German elector will not hinder the noble endeavors of his wife, especially as the honor and welfare of Germany are at stake.”

“I am ready and willing to do for Germany what I can, and whatever your majesty may command me to do,” exclaimed the elector. “Will your majesty now tell me what I must do?”

“You must conclude an alliance with France, in order to save Germany,” said the emperor, almost sternly.

“Sire, I have not the power to conclude such an alliance--I am unable to do so,” said the elector, sighing.

“Your state can if you cannot,” said Napoleon, quickly.

“But the representatives of my people will not consent.”

“I shall protect you against these representatives of your people. You will tell them, besides, that you have saved Wurtemberg by becoming my ally. For he who is not for me is against me, and I shall annihilate those who are against me, and their states shall fall to ruin. Those, however, who are for me I shall elevate, and it seems to me I see already a royal crown on the noble brow of the electress. I suppose,” asked Napoleon, turning again with a smile toward the electress, “your royal highness would not be dissatisfied if you should become the queen of your people; it would be agreeable to you to be called ‘your majesty,’ and if it were only because it would remind you in so pleasant a manner of your royal parents who are addressed with the same title?”

“Oh, sire,” exclaimed the electress, with radiant eyes, and unable to conceal her joy--“oh, sire, you are right, it would remind me most pleasantly of my paternal home and of England.”

“But would not a royal crown crush my state which is too small for it?” asked the elector.

“Well, we shall enlarge it so as to render it able and worthy to support a royal crown,” exclaimed Napoleon, hastily. “I believe I shall have the power and opportunity to bestow on my ally, the elector of Wurtemberg, some aggrandizements in Germany to compensate and reward him for the auxiliaries which he is to furnish to me. Besides, your task is a truly grand one. You shall assist me in subduing Austria, that arrogant Austria which would like to treat all Germany as her property, and who considers all German princes as her servants and vassals.”

“You are right,” said the elector, vehemently; “Austria constantly endeavors to meddle with my prerogatives in an unbecoming and arrogant manner. She would like to degrade us to the position of vassals who must always be ready to obey their emperor, but who, when they are themselves in danger, never can count on the assistance and support of their emperor.”

“Let us, then, dispel Austria’s illusion as though she were your master,” said Napoleon, smiling. “Become my ally, and believe me, we shall have the power to teach the Emperor of Austria to respect the KING of Wurtemberg, my ally. Will you be my ally for that purpose? Will you assist me, as a German prince, in delivering Germany from the yoke Austria has laid around her neck?”

“Sire, I am ready to save Germany with my life-blood!” exclaimed the elector, “and as your majesty has come to deliver Germany from Austria, it would be a crime for any German prince to withhold his assistance from you. Hence, I accept your alliance. Here is my hand! I shall stand by you with my troops and with my honor!” [Footnote: The whole account of this interview is strictly historical. Vide “Memoirs of General de Wolzogen,” and Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii. p. 613. The Elector of Wurtemberg became the third German ally of the French emperor, the Electors of Bavaria and Baden having preceded him. He furnished ten thousand German troops to Napoleon.]

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XLIV. QUEEN LOUISA’S PIANO LESSON

The queen sat at the piano, practising one of Reichardt’s new songs which her singing-teacher, the royal concert-master and composer, Himmel, had just brought to her. The queen wore a most brilliant costume, which, however, seemed calculated less for her silent cabinet and for the music-teacher than for a great gala-day and an aristocratic assembly at court. A white satin dress, inter-woven with golden flowers, and closely fitting, according to the fashion of that period, surrounded her noble figure. Her splendid white arms were bare, and her wrists were adorned with two bracelets of gold and precious stones. Her neck and shoulders, showing the noble lines and forms of a Venus of Melos, were uncovered like her arms, and adorned only with jewelry. Her hair, surrounding a forehead of classical beauty in waving masses, was fastened behind in a Grecian knot holding the golden diadem, set with diamonds, which arose on the queen’s head. [Footnote: A portrait, representing the queen precisely in this costume, may be seen at the royal palace in Berlin.] A gentle blush mantled her cheeks, and a smile of melancholy and tenderness trembled on her purple lips. She had her hands on the keys, and her eyes were fixed on the music-book before her; but she had suddenly ceased singing in the middle of the piece, and her voice had died away in a long sigh.

Mr. Himmel, the concert-master, stood behind her; he was a man more than forty years of age, with a broad, full face, beaming with health, and a tall and slender form which would have been more fitting for the head of an Apollo than for this head, which reminded the beholder of a buffalo rather than of a god.

When the queen paused, a joyful smile overspread his features, which had hitherto been gloomy and ill at ease. “Your majesty pauses?” he asked, hastily. “Well, I wish your majesty joy of it. That Mr. Reichardt, of Halle, is too sentimental and arrogant a composer, and never should I have dared to lay these new pieces of his before your majesty if you had not asked me to bring you every thing written by Reichardt. Well, you have seen it now; it displeases your majesty, and I am glad of it, for--”

“For,” said the queen, gently interrupting him, “for the great composer Himmel is again jealous of the great composer Reichardt. Is it not so?”

She raised her dark-blue eyes at this question to Himmel’s face, and he saw to his dismay that there were tears in those eyes.

“What!” he asked in terror, “your majesty has wept?”

She nodded in the affirmative, smiling gently. “Yes,” she said, after a pause, “I have wept, and hence I could not continue singing. Do not scold me, do not be angry with me, my dear and stern teacher. This song has moved me profoundly; it is so simple and yet so touching, that it must have come out of the depths of a truly noble heart.”

Mr. Himmel replied only with a low sigh and an almost inaudible murmur, which the queen, however, understood very well.

“Perhaps,” she said, trying gently to heal the jealous pangs of the composer, “perhaps I was so deeply moved by the words rather than by the music; these words are so beautiful that it seems to me Goethe never wrote any thing more beautiful.”

And bending over the music-book, she read in an undertone:

“Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass, Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte Auf seinem Bette einsam sass, Der kennt euch nicht, Ihr himmlischen Machte!”

[Footnote: “He who never ate his bread with tears, He who never, through nights of affliction, Sat on his lonely bed, He does not know you, powers of heaven!”]

“Say yourself, Mr. Himmel, is not that beautiful and touching?” she asked, looking up again to her teacher.

“Beautiful and touching for those who have wept much and suffered much,” said Himmel, harshly; “but I cannot conceive why these words should touch your majesty, whose whole life has hitherto illuminated the world like an uninterrupted sunny spring morning.”

“Hitherto,” repeated the queen, musingly, “yes, hitherto, indeed, my life was a sunny spring morning, but who is able to fathom what clouds may soon appear on the horizon, and how cloudy and gloomy the evening may be? This song reechoes in my soul like a melancholy foreboding, and clings to its wings as if it wanted to paralyze their flight. ‘He who never ate his bread with tears,’ ah, how mournful it sounds, and what a long story of suffering is contained in these few words!”

The queen paused, and two tears, glistening more beautifully than the diamonds of her golden diadem, slowly ran down her cheeks.

Concert-master Himmel was not courageous enough to interrupt the silence of the queen, or, may be, he had not listened very attentively to her words, and his thoughts perhaps were fixed on matters of an entirely different character, for his air was absent and gloomy; his eyes glanced around the room, but returned continually to the lovely form of the queen.

Suddenly Louisa seemed to arouse herself violently from her gloomy meditation, and after hastily wiping the tears from her eyes she forced herself to smile.

“It is not good to give way to melancholy forebodings,” she said, “particularly in the presence of a stern teacher. We must improve our time in a more useful manner, for time is a very precious thing; and if I had not judiciously profited by my short leisure to-day, I should not have had a single hour to spare for my teacher, for there will be a reception in the palace to-night, and I must previously give audience to several visitors. I have, therefore, made my evening toilet in the afternoon, and thereby gained time to take my dear singing-lesson. But now let us study, so that your pupil may redound to your honor.”

“Oh, your majesty,” ejaculated Himmel, “my honor and my happiness!”

“Hush, hush,” said Louisa, interrupting him, with an enchanting smile, “no flattery! no court-phrases! Here I am not the queen, nor are you my devoted subject; I am nothing but an obedient pupil, and you are my rigorous master, who has a right to scold and grumble whenever I sing incorrectly, and who very frequently avails himself of this privilege. Do not apologize for it, but go on in the same manner, for I will then only learn the more.”

“Your majesty sings like an angel,” murmured Himmel, whose eyes were fixed steadfastly on the queen.

“Well, as far as that is concerned, you are a competent judge,” exclaimed Lousia, laughing, “for being Himmel (heaven), you must know how the angels sing, and your opinion cannot be disputed. The angels, then, sing incorrectly, like your obedient pupil? Let the angels do so, but not your pupil. Come, Mr. Himmel, sit down. It does not behoove the maestro to stand at the side of his pupil. Sit down.”

She pointed with a graceful wave of her hand at the chair standing at her side, and Mr. Himmel, complying with her order, sat down. His glances returned involuntarily to the queen, whose beauty only now burst on his short-sighted eyes, and whom he believed he had never seen so lovely, so fascinating and graceful. Her beautiful face seemed to him like that of a fairy queen, and her wonderful shoulders, her superb, dazzling neck, which he had never seen unveiled and so very near, appeared to him like the bust of a goddess, moulded by Phidias from living marble.

“Well, let us commence,” said the queen, calmly. “Pray play the melody in the treble and let me play the accompaniment a few times; I shall then be better able to sing the song.”

She commenced eagerly playing the prelude, while a deeper blush mantled her cheeks. It was Himmel’s turn now to begin with the melody; his eyes, however, were not fixed on the music, but on the queen, and hence he blundered sadly.

“Well?” asked the queen, looking at him in charming confusion. “You do not play correctly.”

“Yes, I have blundered, your majesty,” said Himmel, gloomily; “I have blundered, for I am only a man after all, and cannot look into the sun without having a coup de soleil. Your majesty, I have had such a coup de soleil, and you see I have lost my reason in consequence.”

With these words he bent over the queen and imprinted a glowing kiss on her shoulders; then he hastily rose, took his hat, and rushed out of the room. [Footnote: historical]

The queen’s eyes followed him with an air of surprise and embarrassment; then she burst into ringing, charming laughter.

“Ah,” she said, “if that austere ‘Madame Etiquette,’ the mistress of ceremonies, should have seen that, she would have either died with horror, or her wrath would have crushed the criminal. I believe I will confess the terrible crime to her. Oh, my dear mistress of ceremonies! my dear mistress of ceremonies!” she cried.

The door of the adjoining room opened immediately, and the Countess von Voss made her appearance.

“Your majesty has called me,” she said, and, after looking around the room, she cast a glance of surprise on the clock.

“Ah, my dear countess, you are surprised that Mr. Himmel, my singing-master, has already left, although the hour has only half expired?” asked the queen, merrily.

“Your majesty,” said the countess, sighing, “I really ought no longer to be surprised at any thing, nor wonder at any violation of etiquette, for such things, unfortunately, occur every day and every hour. Your majesty knows, moreover, that this Mr. Himmel is altogether distasteful to me.”

“And why?” asked the queen, gayly.

“Your majesty, because it is contrary to etiquette for a queen to take lessons, and to have a teacher.”

“What!” exclaimed Louisa. “According to etiquette, then, a queen is not permitted to learn any thing after ascending the throne?”

“No, your majesty, for it is entirely unbecoming that one of your subjects should become the teacher of his queen, and that anybody should be permitted and dare to censure her.”

“Well, do not you do so very often, my dear countess?” asked the queen, good-naturedly.

“I dare not censure the queen, but merely to defend and maintain etiquette, as my duty and official position require me to do. But a queen who takes lessons must descend from her throne so long as her teacher is with her; must renounce her exalted position, and obey instead of commanding. In such a case, therefore, etiquette is altogether out of the question.”

“You are right,” said Louisa, merrily. “Mr. Himmel, the concert-master, at least, entirely coincides with you, and he takes no notice whatever of etiquette. Shall I confess to you, my dear countess, why Mr. Himmel has run away to-day half an hour before the regular time?”

“Run away?” asked the mistress of ceremonies, in dismay. “He has dared to run away in the presence of your majesty?”

“Yes, he has dared to do so, but previously he has dared to do something a great deal worse. He has--but, dear countess, sit down; you might turn giddy.”

“Oh no, your majesty, permit me to stand. Your majesty was going to communicate graciously to me what Mr. Himmel--this teacher of a queen is not even a nobleman--has dared to do in the presence of your majesty.”

“Well, listen to me,” said the queen, smiling; and bending down closely to the ear of the countess, she whispered: “He has kissed my shoulder!”

The mistress of ceremonies uttered a piercing cry and tottered back in dismay.

“Kissed!” she faltered.

“Yes, kissed,” sighed the queen; “I really believe it is still to be seen.”

She walked with light, swinging steps to the large looking-glass, and looked at her shoulder with a charming, child-like smile.

“Yes, that small red spot there is Mr. Himmel’s crime!” she said. “Tell me what punishment he has deserved, countess.”

“That is a question for the courts alone to decide,” said the mistress of ceremonies, solemnly; “for we shall bring the occurrence, of course, at once to their notice. Orders should be issued immediately to arrest him, and his punishment should be as unparalleled as was his offence. Your majesty will permit me to repair at once to the king in order--“.

“No, my dear mistress of ceremonies,” said the queen, who was still standing in front of the looking glass and contemplating her own form, not with the contented looks of a conceited woman, but with the calm, stern eyes of a critic examining a work of art--“no, my dear mistress of ceremonies, we shall take good care not to raise a hue and cry about it. And Mr. Himmel is not so culpable, after all, as he seems to be.”

“What! Your majesty intends to defend him?”

“Not to defend, but to excuse him, my dear countess. He was at my side as my dear old teacher, and I was to him not a queen, but a pupil; and, moreover, a pupil with very beautiful shoulders. My dear countess, I am really more culpable than poor Himmel, for, if the queen becomes a pupil, she must remember that her teacher is a man, and she must not treat him merely as an automaton instructing her. The only judge who is able to decide this matter is my husband, the king. He shall pronounce judgment on it, and if he permits Mr. Himmel to come back, I shall go on with my singing-lessons. However,” added the queen, smiling, and blushing delicately, “in future I shall wrap a shawl around my shoulders. And now, my dear countess, pray let us not mention this little affair to anybody. I shall submit it to the king and ask him to decide it.”

“I shall be silent because your majesty orders me to keep the occurrence secret,” sighed the countess. “But it is unheard-of, it is dreadful. It is rank treason, and the offended royal majesty will forgive without punishing.”

“Oh, yes, I will!” exclaimed the queen, joyfully. “Forgiving without punishing, is not that the most sacred and sublime power of a queen; is it not the most brilliant gem in our crown? How miserable and deplorable would monarchs be if God had not conferred the right of mercy upon them! We stand ourselves so much in need of mercy and forbearance, for we commit errors and faults like other mortals, and yet we judge and punish like gods. Let us be merciful, therefore, that we may be judged mercifully.”

The door of the anteroom opened at this moment, and the chamberlain-in-waiting entered.

“Your majesty,” he said, “Prince Louis Ferdinand and Minister von Hardenberg beg leave to wait on your majesty.”

“I expected these gentlemen at this hour,” said the queen, glancing at the clock; “let them come in, therefore. And you, my dear countess, farewell.”

“Your majesty orders me to withdraw?” asked the mistress of ceremonies, hesitatingly, “Etiquette requires that the queen should give her audiences only in the presence of her mistress of ceremonies, or of one of her ladies of honor.”

“My dear countess,” said the queen, with a slight tinge of impatience, “I am not going to give any audience, but merely to receive a friendly visit from my royal cousin and his friend; as I know it is their intention to communicate to me matters which no one except myself can hear, I shall receive them alone. Hence be so kind as to withdraw.”

“His royal highness Prince Louis Ferdinand and his excellency Minister von Hardenberg!” shouted the footman, opening the folding-doors.

The queen nodded a parting greeting to the mistress of ceremonies, and advanced a few steps to meet the visitors, while the countess, heaving mournful sighs, disappeared through the side-door.

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XLV. THE CONFERENCE

Prince Louis Ferdinand, a nephew of Frederick the Great, and Minister von Hardenberg, were at that time the most popular men in Prussia, because they were known to be the leaders of the party which at the court of Berlin considered the accession of Prussia to the coalition of Russia, England, and Austria, as the only means to save the country, while Minister von Haugwitz, Lombard, the first secretary of foreign affairs, and General Kockeritz, constantly renewed their efforts to win the king to an alliance with France.

Prince Ferdinand, a fine looking young man, scarcely thirty years of age, in his brilliant uniform, in which his tall and noble form presented a very imposing appearance, and in which he looked like the incarnation of an heroic warrior, was consequently the special favorite of the soldiers, who told the most astonishing and incredible stories about his intrepidity and hardihood. He was, besides, the favorite of the ladies, who called him the best-looking and most amiable man in the whole monarchy; and, with amiable indulgence, attributed his many adventures and acts of inconstancy, his wild and dissipated life, his extravagance and numerous debts, to the genius of the prince. He was, indeed, an extraordinary man, one of those on whose brow Providence has imprinted the stamp of genius,--not to their own good, but to their misfortune, and who either miserably perish by their genius, or constantly inflict with it the most painful wounds upon others.

Minister von Hardenberg, who now, after a long struggle, had succeeded in overcoming the influence of Minister von Haugwitz, and, with him, that of the French party, was one of those rare and extraordinary statesmen who have made diplomacy not a business, but the task of their whole life, and who have devoted to it all the strength, all the thoughts and feelings of their soul. A native of Hanover, and receiving rapid promotion at the hands of the government of that country, he had, nevertheless, soon entered the service of the Duke of Brunswick, who had charged him, after the death of Frederick the Great, to take the king’s will, which had been deposited in the ducal archives at Brunswick, to Berlin. [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. i., p. 202.] King Frederick William the Second, who was so sagacious as to perceive and appreciate the diplomatic talents of the young ambassador, had induced him to enter his service, and intrusted to him the difficult mission of negotiating the annexation of Baireuth to Prussia, of settling the claims of the margrave, of paying the crushing burden of the debts of Baireuth as speedily as possible, and of restoring the country, which had suffered so much, to its former prosperity and content. Afterward he had been appointed minister of state and war in Prussia, and since that time he had always displayed the greatest activity and zeal in serving Prussia according to the dictates of his honest conviction, but at the same time also to guard the interests of the great fatherland, the interests of Germany. The influence of France, above all, seemed to him to endanger these interests; hence he believed it to be specially incumbent upon him to preserve at least Prussia from this noxious influence and to push her over to the other side, to the side of the coalition, than to allow her to be devoured, like a poor little bird, by the French basilisk. These endeavors, which kept up a continual conflict between him and the special favorites and confidants of the king, Haugwitz and Kockeritz, had gained him the love and esteem of all Prussian patriots, and secured him an extraordinary popularity. These two favorites of the Prussian people now entered the queen’s cabinet.

Louisa replied to the familiar and friendly--rather than respectful--greeting of the prince with a smile and a nod, and received the respectful bow of the minister with the calm and proud dignity of a queen.

“Well, my merry and reckless cousin,” she said, turning to the prince, “are there again some sins to be confessed, some neglects of discipline to be hushed up, some tears to be dried, and the mercy of the king to be implored for the extravagant freaks of our genius? And is it for that reason that you have brought along so eloquent an advocate and attorney?”

“No, your majesty,” said the prince, heaving a sigh, “this time, unfortunately, I have to confess to you no merry freaks and agreeable sins, and I am afraid I am about to become a steady man, and to turn my back on all extravagant pranks. Hence, the minister has not accompanied me this time in order to defend me and to implore the gracious intercession of my royal cousin, but we have come for the purpose of repeating to your majesty Prussia’s cry of anguish and distress, and of beseeching you to assist us in saving her from the ruin on the verge of which she is tottering at the present time!”

The queen looked alternately at the prince and at the minister with grave, wondering eyes. “It is a political conference, then, you wish to hold with me?” she asked; and when the two gentlemen made no reply, she continued more rapidly and in a slightly agitated voice--“in that case, gentlemen, I must request you to leave me, for I am no politician, and I do not aspire to the role of a political intriguer. I am the wife of the reigning king, but not a reigning queen; my sole endeavor is to render the king a happy husband at home, and to cause him to forget at my side politics and the vexations of his official position.”

“I am afraid, your majesty,” said Minister von Hardenberg, solemnly--“I am afraid the time for such an idol on the throne is past; and instead of causing the king to forget the vexations of his position, it will now be the great task of your majesty to bear them with him.”

“And we have come to beg my noble and magnanimous cousin to do so,” exclaimed the prince, enthusiastically. “We have come to implore your assistance and cooperation in the name of Prussia, in the name of all German patriots, and in the name of your children!”

“In the name of my children?” ejaculated the queen, turning pale. “Speak! speak! what has happened? what calamity threatens my children? I decline listening to you as a queen, but I will do so as a mother, who anxiously desires to secure the happiness of her children. What evils, what calamities do you refer to?”

“The independence, nay, perhaps the whole existence of Prussia, is menaced,” said Minister von Hardenberg, solemnly. “We have to choose whether Prussia is to be an isolated state, shunned by everybody, and despised by everybody--a state which France will be able to devour with impunity and amid the jeers of the whole world, as she has devoured Italy, Holland, and the left bank of the Rhine--or whether Prussia will preserve her power, her independence, and her honor, by not staving off a division any longer, but meeting her friends as well as her enemies with open visor, and by assuming at length an active and resolute attitude instead of the vacillating and hesitating course she has so long pursued!”

“We ought to oppose the Emperor of France in a manly manner,” exclaimed the prince, energetically. “If we do not interfere with his proceedings, he will soon be our master as he is of all those who call themselves his allies, and who are really nothing but his slaves. My heart kindles with rage when I now see all Germany trembling with fear before this son of a Corsican lawyer, this tyrant who assassinated the noble and innocent Duke d’Enghien, and who, not contenting himself with chaining France, would like to catch the whole world in his imperial mantle so as to fatten its golden bees on it. And he will succeed in doing so, unless we resist him, for his word is now already the law of half the world, and this emperor carries out whatever he wants to do. Truly, if he should feel some day a hankering for a dish of princes’ ears, I should no longer deem my own ears safe, nor those of your young princes either!” [Footnote: Prince Louis Ferdinand said this to the queen.--Vide “Rahel and her Friends,” vol. i.]

The queen did not smile at this jest which the prince had uttered in an angry voice, but she turned once more with a grave and anxious air to the minister.

“Tell me, has any thing occurred?” she asked. “Has there been a change in the political situation?”

“Yes, your majesty,” replied the minister, “there has been a change in the political situation; the Emperor Napoleon has dared to violate our neutrality, and if Prussia should not now demand satisfaction she either loses her honor, or she places herself before the whole world as the ally of France, and defies thereby the open hostility of Austria, Russia, and England.”

“You dare to say that Prussia’s honor has been attacked, and to doubt that the king will hold the offender responsible for such an outrage?” exclaimed the queen, with flashing eyes. “The king, who is the incarnation of honor, will not permit even the shadow of a stain to fall on Prussia’s honor; in generous anger he will hurl back the insolent hand that will dare to shake the palladium of our honor.”

“Oh, if you think and speak thus,” said the prince, enthusiastically, “I have no longer any fears, but consider Prussia as saved already from the dangers now menacing her. As I see your majesty now, in your wondrous beauty, with those eyes reflecting your inward heaven, with this face so radiant with enthusiasm, you seem to be the genius whom Providence has sent to Prussia to guard and protect her, and to guide her on the right path and to the right goal. O, queen! fulfil the mission which Providence has intrusted to you; follow your noble and sacred vocation; be the genius of Prussia; and impart to the vacillating and timid, firm, manly courage and energetic resolution! Queen, I implore you, on my knees, have pity on Prussia, have pity on your children: be the genius of Prussia!”

And quite beside himself, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering with emotion, the prince knelt down before the queen and raised his folded hands imploringly to her.

“Your majesty, permit me also to bend my knees before you,” said Minister von Hardenberg, solemnly, “to adore and worship you as the genius of Prussia, from whom we expect our salvation, our peace, and our honor! Oh, queen, you alone have the power to touch the heart of the king and to remove the doubts of his noble and honorable mind; you alone will be able to accomplish what neither our arguments nor our supplications could bring about; you alone will be able to elevate the vacillation of your husband to the strength of high-spirited and courageous resolution!”

“No, not a word against the king!” exclaimed the queen, almost sternly. “Let no one dare to assert that the king lacks manly determination and vigorous courage. If he is hesitating when you would wish to act, it is because he looks into the future more prudently and sagaciously than you, while you only think of the present time; it is because he weighs and calculates the consequences, while you only care for the action of the moment. But arise, gentlemen: let us not perform a sentimental scene at a time when it is of the highest importance to be prudent and to reflect. Let us converse, therefore, gravely and soberly; explain to me what has happened, and what danger is menacing Prussia and my children. I comply now with your wish; let us hold a political conference. Let us sit down, then, and commence.”

She took a seat on the sofa, and invited the gentlemen to sit down on the two chairs opposite her.

“Now tell me what has occurred, and what has changed the political situation. Minister von Hardenberg, pray give me a full and plain account of the state of our political affairs, for I have already told you that I never meddle with politics, and do not know much about them; indeed I have been too happy, and my life too much absorbed by my happiness, to have made it necessary for me to think of politics. But I see very well that the time of quiet happiness is over now! Let us, then, speak of politics. You said, a few minutes ago, Prussia had been insulted by France?”

“Yes, your majesty, Prussia has been insulted. Her most sacred right, her neutrality, has been violated,” replied Hardenberg. “The king, in his generous endeavor to preserve the blessings of peace to his people, intended to maintain a strict neutrality amid all these wars and storms agitating the world, and the friend and ally of no party and no power, to rely exclusively on his own strength. He wanted to wait, to mediate, and conciliate, but not to attack, act, and decide. There may be times when such a role is a weighty and dignified one--may secure the peace of the world; but it always depends on those between whom one wishes to act as a neutral mediator. One may remain neutral between men of honor, between princes, to whom their word is sacred, and who do not dare to violate treaties, but not between those to whom their word is sacred only so long as their own advantage requires it, and who do not violate treaties only so long as they do not interfere with their selfish plans. It is a principle of neutrality not to open one’s territory to either of the contending powers, and this principle has always been strictly observed. When Russia, now that she is going to send her troops for the second time to Germany for the purpose of assisting the Austrians, informed the king that she would march these troops through Southern Prussia and Silesia, the king deemed this information equivalent to a declaration of war, and his majesty immediately ordered the whole army to be placed on the war footing. We should now be at war with Russia, if the Emperor Alexander had not sent on the day after the first dispatch had arrived here, another dispatch to the king, in which he apologized, and declared that he had been too rash in making the above-named demand. [Footnote: Vide Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. 11., p. 635. “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. viii., p. 474.] But this step of Russia, this mere threat of violation of our neutrality, had sufficed to induce Prussia to place her army on the war footing, and to do so AGAINST the coalition of Austria, Russia, and England. A cry of horror resounded throughout Germany when the people heard of this first step by which Prussia seemed to declare publicly FOR France and AGAINST the coalition, and this cry was reechoed abroad, of which the conduct of the King of Sweden gave us a striking proof. Your majesty is aware that this king, through his ambassador, M. de Bernstorf, returned to his majesty the King of Prussia the order of the Black Eagle which he had received from the late lamented king, accompanying it by an insulting letter in which he stated, that ‘he could not wear an order which the king had recently also sent to Monsieur Bonaparte.’”

“And on the same day that this offensive return of the highest Prussian order took place,” exclaimed Prince Louis Ferdinand, with a harsh, angry laugh, “on the same day the King of Prussia received from the Emperor of France the grand cordon and seven other grand crosses of the Legion of Honor to be distributed among the princes and ministers. And not only did we receive these seven orders, but in return for them we sent seven orders of the Black Eagle to Paris.” [Footnote: Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 76.]

“But you forget to add that the king returned on the same day the Scraphine order to the King of Sweden, and recalled his ambassador, so that we are now in a state of war with Sweden,” said the queen, eagerly.

“Oh, my royal cousin, you betray your secrets,” exclaimed the prince, joyfully, “you wanted us to believe that your majesty did not care at all for politics, and now you know the most minute details so accurately.”

“I take a lively interest in every occurrence which grieves the heart of my husband,” said the queen; “and that event made a very painful impression upon him.”

“Oh, your majesty, it was only a prelude to other mortifications and insults which we shall have to suffer if the king will not avenge them,” said Hardenberg, energetically. “It has been said that Prussia was siding with France merely because she would not grant Russia a passage through her neutral territory, and because she placed her army in a menacing position against Russia. But what would the world say if it should learn what has now occurred?”

“Well, what has occurred?” asked the queen, breathlessly.

“The Emperor of France has carried out what Russia only threatened to do. The Emperor of France, without applying for permission, has marched a portion of his army, commanded by Bernadotte, through Prussian territory. He has marched his troops, contrary to treaties and to international law, through Prussian Franconia, Anspach, and Baireuth.”

The queen uttered a cry of surprise, and her cheeks turned pale. “Does the king already know it?” she asked.

“He has known it since yesterday,” said Hardenberg, gravely. “We kept the matter secret, because we would only lay it before the public together with the decision of his majesty.”

“And has the king come already to a decision?” asked the queen.

“He has, your majesty,” said Hardenberg, solemnly. “When Russia threatened to violate our territory, we placed our army on the war footing, and it is still in arms. Now that France dares to do what Russia only threatened to do, we do not turn our arms against her in order to avenge the insult, but we take our pen and write and ask France to explain her startling proceedings. It is true we threaten, but do not strike!”

“No, we do not strike!” exclaimed the prince, laughing scornfully; “we mobilize our army against our natural friends and allies, but we do not draw the sword against our natural enemies and adversaries. The army of Frederick the Great is ready for war, and yet it remains idle and looks on quietly while the insatiable conqueror is penetrating farther and farther into the heart of Germany; while he is scattering broadcast the seeds of treachery, discord, and mischief; while he is persuading the German princes to turn traitors to Germany; while he is poisoning and corrupting the hearts of the people and degrading their characters to such an extent, that the sense of fidelity, honesty, and constancy will soon become extinct in Germany, and all the Germans will be nothing but a horde of slaves, who will be happy if this tyrant does not apply the lash too often to their backs, and who will kiss his feet, so that he may step at least mildly and gently on their necks! If the tyrant should succeed now in humiliating Austria, who alone has been courageous enough to oppose him; if Napoleon should defeat the Austrian army, Germany would be lost and become nothing but a French province like Italy and Holland: all the German princes would lay their crowns at the feet of Napoleon, and be glad if he should suffer them only as governors in their former states, or leave them at least their empty titles after depriving them of their possessions!”

“No, no,” exclaimed the queen, “we must not, we shall not permit that! Prussia is ready to maintain the honor of Germany; Prussia will rise like a hero accustomed to victory; she will drive the invader from her territory, and compel him, with arms in her hands, to keep the peace, if she is unable to obtain it with her pen. You are right, the time of neutrality and hesitation is past, and henceforth we must act. I shall no longer remain neutral, I shall act too. You have appealed to the mother and wife and shown her the danger threatening her children and her husband; you have reminded the daughter of Germany of the horrors menacing her fatherland; you have pointed out to the Queen of Prussia the evils impending over her people; the mother, the wife, and the queen has heard and understood you. The time of neutrality is past; we must move the heart of the best and most magnanimous king by our prayers and remonstrances, in order that he may listen to us, and no longer to the insinuations and flatteries of his enemies, so that he may discern his friends as well as his enemies. The king is hesitating only because, in generous self-abnegation, he prefers the happiness of his people to his own wishes and to the gratification of his own desires. A soldier by nature and predilection, he compels himself to be a peaceable ruler, because he believes it is necessary for the happiness of his people. Let us prove to him that his subjects refuse to accept this generous sacrifice, and that they are joyfully ready to remove the stains from their honor with their heart’s blood. Let public opinion speak out and come to our assistance. I say, ‘to OUR assistance,’ for henceforth I shall side with you, I shall be a member of your party, and a determined and outspoken enemy of France!”

“May God bless your majesty for these words!” said Hardenberg, deeply moved; “I am once again in hopes that Prussia will be saved, for she has now won an ally who brings more to her than armies and arms, and who places the enthusiasm and indomitable determination of a great chieftain at the head of our people.”

“And with this chieftain at our head we shall vanquish every French army,” exclaimed Prince Louis, enthusiastically, “with this chieftain at our head we shall triumphantly march against the enemy, and one idea, one sentiment will animate all of us: Queen Louisa is watching and praying for us! Oh, my queen, would that that blessed day of battle could dawn for us! Command the sun of that day to rise and to shine into all Prussian hearts, and to fire them with patriotism so as to shrink back no longer from death and wounds, but only from dishonor and degradation! Oh, my blood burns like fire in my veins; it would like to burst forth in a fiery torrent and drown and burn every Frenchman. Queen, have mercy on me--let the solemn day when I may shed my blood for the fatherland dawn without delay!”

“Live and labor for the fatherland!” said the queen, with flaming eyes, and her face radiant with enthusiasm. “It is not the most exalted and difficult task to die an heroic death for a great idea, but it is even more noble and difficult to nourish and preserve this idea in the gloomy days of adversity, and not to abandon it and give it up in a period of affliction, but to remain its guardian and priest, even though fate may seem to reject it and to humiliate us with it. Now that I am entering a new life-path, I say to you, from the bottom of my heart, we will struggle for the honor, liberty, and independence of Prussia and Germany, but we will be determined, too, not only to die for these ideas, but also to suffer and bear affliction for them. Oh, it seems to me as though I were looking at this moment into the future, and as though I did see there much misery and distress in store for us, many storms and thunder-clouds!”

“But the sun is hidden behind the thunder-clouds, and when the thunder has died away it will shine again,” said Hardenberg.

“And it will then shine on the heads of my husband and of my children!” exclaimed the queen, raising her radiant eyes to heaven. “Above all, it will shine on the Prussian people from the face of their adored Queen Louisa,” said the prince.

The queen smiled sadly. “Let us not speak of the sun, but of the thunder-clouds preceding it. They are gathering around us; let us see how we can break through them. You may count on my earnest assistance. My husband and my children are in danger, I feel and see it. France is the enemy menacing them. Henceforward we will oppose this enemy with open visor. I promise it to you in the name of Prussia, in the name of my husband, and of my children. Here, take my hand; we will stand by each other, and struggle together against France for the honor and glory of Prussia. You will fight with your sword and with your pen, and I shall do so with my word and my love. May the people support us, may God bless us!”

“May God bless us!” repeated the prince and the minister, reverentially kissing the queen’s hands.

“And now, gentlemen, go,” said the queen, after a short pause “Let us not desecrate this solemn moment by any additional words. Every thing for Prussia! Let that be our watchword! and so I bid you farewell for to-day. Every thing for Prussia!”

“Every thing for Prussia!” repeated the two gentlemen, taking leave of the queen.

Louisa sent a long, melancholy look after them; then she turned hastily around and crossed the room with rapid steps; the sudden draught produced by her quick passage blew the music-paper from the piano to the floor; it fell exactly at the queen’s feet.

She picked it up; it was the song she had sung an hour ago. A painful smile played on the lips of the queen, and raising her eyes sadly to heaven, she whispered, in a low voice:

“Oh, my God, grant that this may not be an omen, and that I may not be compelled to eat my bread with tears, and to weep through nights of affliction! But if it must be, O God, give me strength to bear my misfortunes uncomplainingly, and to be a comfort to my husband, a mother to my children!”

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XLVI. THE OATH AT THE GRAVE OF FREDERICK THE GREAT

The wishes of the queen had rapidly been fulfilled; public opinion had declared in Berlin with rare energy and emphasis against France, and the people had received the news of the violation of Prussia’s neutrality with a unanimous cry of rage and horror. The inhabitants of Berlin, usually so peaceable and addicted to pleasure, seemed all at once transformed into heroes grave and eager for war, who no longer knew any other aim than to avenge as speedily as possible the insult offered to them, and to call France to account for the outrage she had committed against Prussia.

“War! war!” That was the word of jubilee and supplication now resounding on every street, and in every house; like one exulting prayer of the whole nation, it rose to the windows of the royal palace, and seemed to rap gently at them, so that the king might open them and let it penetrate into his heart.

The people spoke everywhere of this one great affair; they asked each other, in conversation: “Shall we take up arms? Shall we declare war against France?”

Those who answered these questions in the negative were treated in the most contemptuous manner; the people turned their backs on them, with angry glances and threatening murmurs: to those, however, who replied in the affirmative, they offered their hands joyfully and greeted them as friends and allies.

Minister von Haugwitz was known to be an adherent of the French and an opponent of the war; the people rushed to his house and broke his windows, shouting loudly and angrily, “We do not want peace! Let all the French and friends of the French perish!”

Minister von Hardenberg, on the other hand, was hailed by the people with the most enthusiastic applause wherever he made his appearance; and on their return from the house of Minister von Haugwitz, they hurried to Hardenberg’s humble residence in order to cheer him and to shout, “War! war! We want war with France!”

Not only the people in the streets, however, but also the best classes of the public participated in this general enthusiasm, and did not hesitate to give vent to it in public. Even the royal functionaries found suddenly sufficient energy to show themselves as German patriots, and it was certainly not unintentional that “Wallenstein’s Camp,” by Schiller, was to be performed at the Royal Theatre during those days of general excitement.

Everybody wished to attend this performance; all Berlin rushed to the Royal Theatre, and the fortunate persons who had succeeded in obtaining tickets were envied by the thousands unable to gain admission. The theatre was crowded; the pit was a surging sea, the gallery was filled to suffocation, and in the boxes of the first and second tiers the aristocratic, elegant, educated, and learned world of all Berlin seemed to have met. All faces were glowing, all lips were smiling, all eyes were sparkling; every one was aware that this was to be a political demonstration, and every one was happy and proud to participate in it.

When Prince Louis Ferdinand made his appearance in the small royal proscenium-box, all eyes turned immediately toward him, and when he bent forward from his box, and seemed to greet the audience with his merry eyes and winning smile, there arose a storm of applause as though a favorite singer had just concluded an aria di bravura and received the thanks of the enraptured listeners. Suddenly, however, the loud applause died away, perhaps because the prince had waved his hands as if he wished to calm this roaring sea--perhaps because the attention of the audience was attracted by somebody else. The eyes of the crowd turned from the prince toward an adjoining box. Four gentlemen, in brilliant uniforms, had just entered it; but these uniforms were not those of the Prussian army, and the broad ribbons which these gentlemen wore across their breasts, were not the ribbons of Prussian orders. The newcomers, who had entered the box, were the members of the French embassy--General Lefevre, with his attaches, and General Duroc, whom Napoleon had recently again sent to Berlin in order to strengthen the friendly relations of France and Prussia. It was certainly a mere accident that Prince Louis Ferdinand, just at the moment when these gentlemen intended to salute him, turned to the opposite side, and did not see and acknowledge their greetings; it was certainly a mere accident that the audience, which had just now shouted and applauded jubilantly, all at once commenced hissing loudly.

The members of the French embassy took good care not to refer this hissing to themselves; they took their seats quietly near the balustrade of the box, and seemed to take no notice of the loud murmurs and the threatening glances of the audience.

The band now struck up the overture. It was a skilfully arranged medley of well-known popular war-songs, interlarded with the Dessauer and Hohenfriedberger march, as if the enthusiasm of the audience were to be carried to the highest pitch by brilliant reminiscences of the heroic deeds and imperishable glory of Prussia.

All at once a joyful murmur spread through the pit, the boxes, and the gallery. “The king, the queen!” whispered everybody, and all those hundreds of faces turned toward the small proscenium-box which the royal couple had just entered.

The queen, radiantly beautiful, with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, greeted the audience with an enchanting smile; the king, whose brow seemed unusually gloomy and clouded, cast only a hesitating and anxious glance over the house, and then withdrew behind the crimson curtain of the box.

The stage-curtain rose; the performance commenced. The audience followed it with the most ardent sympathy; every word referring to the liberty and independence of Germany, was hailed with thunders of applause, and jubilant shouts resounded at every allusion to foreign tyranny and despotism. The actors had now reached the last part of the piece, the merry, soul-stirring horseman’s song concluding the whole. “WOHLAUF, KAMERADEN AUF’S PFER, AUF’S PFERD!” sang the chorus on the stage, and the audience followed every verse, every line, with breathless attention. All at once people looked in great surprise at each other, and then listened with the utmost suspense to the singers, who had added to the merry horseman’s song a verse which had not been heard heretofore. And when the last words of this verse had died away, the whole audience shouted and roared, “DA CAPO! DA CAPO!” In the pit, in the boxes, in the gallery, in short, every one rose to their feet, and all eyes again turned to the box in which the members of the French embassy were seated, and thus, standing, in a jubilant tone and with threatening glances, the whole audience joined the chorus of the actors on the stage; for they knew already the words of the additional verse by heart, and sang in a thundering voice:

“Wohlauf, Kameraden, zur Schlacht, zum Krieg, In’s Feld, in die Freibeit gezogen. Zur blutigeu Schlacht, zum rachenden Sieg Uber den, der uns Freundsehaft gelogen! Und Tod und Verderhen dem falschen Mann, Der treulos den Frieden brechen kann!”

[Footnote: “On, comrades, to battle, to war--let us march into the field and fight for liberty! To bloody battle, to avenging victory over him who has lied friendship to us! And death and destruction to the false man who has perfidiously broken the peace!”

This whole scene is strictly in accordance with history; and the additional verse, if not literally the same, renders at least the sentiment of the lines which were sung on that memorable evening.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. viii., p. 496, and “Napoleon; a Memoir,” by--, vol. ii., p. 73.]

And the audience repeated once more the last two lines

“Und Tod und Verderben dem falschen Mann, Der treulos den Frieden brechen kann!”

All eyes then turned to the royal box. The king was still hidden behind the small curtain. The queen had risen. Folding her hands, as if praying, she had raised her eyes to heaven, and two tears ran slowly down her cheeks.

Prince Louis Ferdinand bent toward Minister von Hardenberg, who had just entered his box. “Do you see the queen?” he said, in a low voice. “Does she not look really like a genius praying for Prussia?”

“Ah, and, perhaps, weeping for Prussia!” whispered Hardenberg--“But let us not give way now to gloomy anticipations. I am the bearer of good and unexpected news. Listen to me. The king and the queen will rise in a few minutes in order to leave the box, and who knows whether the audience will be patient and calm enough to witness the whole ballet, which is just commencing? I see some of my agents already below in the pit, where they have made their appearance in order to circulate my news.”

“I beseech your excellency, be here your own agent, and communicate the news to me.”

Minister Hardenberg bent closer to the prince’s ear. “I suppose you know that, thanks to the influence of the queen, I have induced the king to sign a tolerably warlike and threatening note to the Emperor of the French?”

“But will this note really be forwarded to Napoleon?”

“It has already been forwarded. But I had sent also a messenger to the Emperor of Russia with a copy of this note, and the emperor, it seems, has understood my mission, for--But, just look, my prophecy commences being fulfilled. The king and the queen rise and leave their box; and notice, too, the migration beginning in the pit, and among the occupants of the orchestra-stalls. The beautiful ballet-girls will soon dance before empty benches.”

“But do not let me die with curiosity, your excellency. Tell me at length what has occurred.”

“A surprise, prince. The Emperor Alexander will reach Berlin within an hour!”

“Are you not jesting? Do you speak in earnest?”

“In dead earnest, prince. The emperor comprehends that the favorable hour must be improved, and he comes in order to conquer the friendship of Frederick William, and to overcome his indecision, so that they may then vanquish the French invader with their united forces. The emperor is a very sagacious man, and being half a German, he knows doubtless the German proverb, ‘Strike while the iron is hot.’ Our noble queen, with both of us and our excellent people, will help the emperor to strike the iron. Look, the people commence striking already. They rush from the theatre in order to receive the Emperor Alexander at the gate, and to cheer him while he is riding to the palace. Let us follow the example of the people of Berlin. Let us go to receive the Emperor Alexander--if it please God, our ally--at the gate.” [Footnote: The Emperor Alexander arrived in Berlin quite unexpectedly on October 23, 1805; the courier who had announced his arrival had reached the Prussian capital only a few hours previously.]

Hardenberg’s predictions were to be fulfilled this time. Thanks to the powerful allies who were fighting for his policy and for Prussia, the king summoned up sufficient courage to take a decisive resolution. Those allies of Hardenberg and Prussia were now not only the queen, Prince Louis Ferdinand, and public opinion, but they were joined by the Emperor Alexander, who had arrived from Poland, and the Archduke Anthony, whom the Emperor of Austria had sent to Berlin at the same time for the purpose of winning the friendship of the king. But still another ally suddenly and unexpectedly entered the lists for Hardenberg’s policy and for the coalition, and this ally was the good fortune and genius of Napoleon.

Dreadful tidings reached Berlin simultaneously with the arrival of Archduke Anthony. Napoleon had gained another victory; he had defeated the Austrians at Ulm; [Footnote: October 20, 1805] twenty-three thousand Austrians had laid down their arms at the feet of the Emperor of the French, and then started as prisoners of war for France. Surrounded by a brilliant staff, Napoleon made the humiliated, vanquished Austrians file off before him, between the French army, which was drawn up in two lines. When they laid down their arms, and when this flashing pile rose higher and higher, Napoleon’s face, which, amidst the hail of bullets and the dangers of the battle, had preserved its marble, antique calmness, became radiant, as if lighted up by a sunbeam, and he turned with a gracious smile toward the Austrian generals and officers, who approached him humbly and with lowered heads, in order to thank him for giving them permission to return to Austria, and for not compelling them to accompany their soldiers as prisoners of war to France.

But this smile disappeared rapidly from the emperor’s countenance, which now became threatening and angry. In a voice rolling like thunder over the heads of the humiliated Austrians, the emperor said: “It is a misfortune that men so brave as you, whose names are honorably mentioned wherever you have fought, should now become the victims of the stupidities of a cabinet which only dreams of senseless schemes, and does not hesitate to endanger the dignity of the state and of the nation. It was an unheard-of proceeding to seize me by the throat without a declaration of war; but it is a crime against one’s own people to bring about a foreign invasion; it is betraying Europe, to draw Asiatic hordes into our combats. Instead of attacking me without any good reason whatever, the Austrian cabinet ought to have united with me for the purpose of expelling the Russian army from Germany. This alliance of your cabinet is something unheard of in history; it cannot be the work of the statesmen of your nation; it is, in short, the alliance of the dogs and shepherds with the wolf against the sheep. Had France succumbed in this struggle, you would have speedily perceived the mistake you have committed.” [Footnote: “Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol. 11., p. 159.]

Such were the tidings which Archduke Anthony had brought with him from Vienna; such was the new ally Hardenberg had won for his policy and for Prussia.

This new victory, this new conquest Napoleon had made in Germany, loomed up before the king as a danger which menaced himself, and compelled him to take up arms for his own defence. The threatening and defiant language of the French emperor sounded truly revolting to the heart of the German king, and instead of being intimidated by this new and unparalleled triumph, by this threatening language Napoleon had made use of, he was only provoked to offer him resistance; he perceived all at once that he could only be the servant and slave of this powerful man, or his enemy, and that Napoleon never would tolerate any one as an equal at his side. What were those three German princes who had found three crowns on the battle-field of Ulm? Those new Kings of Wurtemberg and Bavaria, that Grand-duke of Baden, were only vassals and servants of the Emperor of France, who had first given, and then PERMITTED them to wear these crowns.

King Frederick William needed no such crown. A genius stood at his side and breathed with a heavenly smile into his ear: “It is better to die in an honorable struggle for freedom than to live in splendor and magnificence, but with a stain on your honor.”

And the king listened to the voice of his genius: he listened to the voice of his minister, who implored him to defend the integrity of his state for the sake of the honor and welfare of Prussia and Germany; he listened to the voice of his people, who demanded war loudly and ardently; he listened to the voice of the Emperor Alexander, who vowed to him eternal love and eternal friendship; he listened, finally, to the voice of his own heart, which was the heart of a true German, and felt deeply the insult offered to him.

King Frederick William listened to all these voices, and resolved at length on war against France.

On the 3d of November the Emperor Alexander and King Frederick William signed at Potsdam a SECRET treaty, by which Prussia agreed to intervene between Napoleon and the allies. By virtue of this treaty Prussia was to summon the Emperor of the French to reestablish the former treaties, and to restore the former state of affairs; that is to say, to give up almost all his conquests, to indemnify Sardinia, to recognize the independence of Naples, of the German empire, of Holland, of Switzerland, and to separate the crown of Italy from that of France. If France should not consent to these conditions, Prussia agreed to ally herself openly and unreservedly with the coalition, and take the field with an army of 180,000 men. A Prussian negotiator was to lay these conditions before the Emperor Napoleon, and the term at which Prussia should be obliged to act should expire four weeks after the date of the treaty. [Footnote: Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 652.]

The king, who, in his kindness, was anxious to indemnify Minister von Haugwitz for the coldness with which he had been latterly treated, and for his broken windows, had commissioned him to deliver a copy of the treaty of Potsdam to Napoleon, and to negotiate with him. Haugwitz, therefore, left Berlin in order to repair to the emperor’s headquarters. It is true, he did not know exactly where to find them, but he was satisfied that Napoleon would take care to make his whereabouts known to him by fresh deeds of heroism and victories, and Count Haugwitz, therefore, set out.

According to the wishes of the King of Prussia, the treaty of Potsdam, for some time at least, was to be kept secret; only those immediately concerned should be informed of its contents, but not the public generally, and no one was to suspect that Prussia had at length given up her policy of neutrality.

This secrecy, however, was distasteful to the Emperor Alexander; moreover, it made Minister von Hardenberg fear lest the king, at the decisive moment, might be once more gained over to his former favorite policy of neutrality by the French party at court. It would be wise, therefore, to force the king so far forward as to render it impossible for him to recede, and to betray so much of the secret of the concluded alliance as was required to fasten the king to it.

Hence, the emperor, at the hour of his departure for Austria, requested the Queen and King of Prussia to accompany him to the grave of Frederick the Great. At midnight, on the 5th of November, they repaired, therefore, to the garrison church at Potsdam, the lower vault of which contains the coffin of the great king. A single torch-bearer accompanied the three august visitors, whose steps resounded solemnly in the silent, gloomy halls.

Arriving at the king’s coffin, the emperor knelt down; his face, lighted up by the glare of the torch, was radiant with enthusiasm. On the other side of the dark vault stood the king and the queen, both with folded hands; the king with a gloomy and reserved air, the queen with her eyes turned to heaven, and her face beaming with pious emotion and joy.

Alexander, still remaining on his knees, now raised his folded hands toward heaven. “At the grave of the most heroic king,” he said in a loud and solemn voice--“at the grave of Frederick the Great, I swear to my ally, the King of Prussia, an oath of everlasting love and constancy; I swear an oath of everlasting constancy and love to the sacred cause which has united us for the most exalted purpose. Never shall my constancy waver; never shall my love grow cold! I swear it!”

He kissed the coffin and rose from his knees; his eyes, glistening with tears, then turned toward the king, as he said:

“It is your turn now, my brother, to swear the oath.”

The king hesitated.

The queen laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and bent her beautiful face so close to him that he felt her breath, like the kiss of an angel, on his cheek.

“Swear the oath, my friend, my beloved,” she whispered; “swear to be faithful to the holy alliance against the French tyrant; swear everlasting constancy and love to our noble ally.”

The king hesitated no longer; he raised his head resolutely and approached the coffin. Laying his hand upon it, he repeated in a grave and calm voice the words which the queen had uttered before, and which she now whispered with trembling lips.

All three then grasped each other’s hands over the coffin; thus they stood a long while, deeply moved and silent.

All at once this silence was interrupted by the loud, ringing notes of the church clock, announcing the first hour of the new day. The sounds died away, and the chime of the bells now commenced playing in clear and sweet notes the old German hymn, “Ueb immer Treu und Redlichkeit, bis an dein kuhles Grab!” [Footnote: Holty’s beautiful hymn, “Be honest and faithful until they lay thee in thy cool grave.”]

The king inclined his head, as if in silent prayer; an almost imperceptible, strange smile overspread the noble features of the emperor. The queen, however, glowing with enthusiasm, exclaimed:

“God and the spirit of Frederick the Great give us the motto of our alliance: ‘Ueb immer Treu und Redlichkeit, bis an dein kuhles Grab!’ Let us remember it as long as we live!”

“Let us remember it,” repeated the two sovereigns, with a firm, manly grasp. They looked at each other, and with their eyes bade each other a last farewell.

Then they turned silently away and left the royal vault.

Five minutes later, the Emperor Alexander of Russia was on his way to Olmutz, in order to join there the Emperor Francis of Austria, who had fled thither from Napoleon and his victorious army.

At Olmutz the plan for the campaign of the third coalition against Napoleon was to be agreed upon.

THE FALL OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE.

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XLVII. EVIL TIDINGS

It was in the last days of November, 1805. After the victory of Ulm, the Emperor Napoleon had established his headquarters in Brunn, where he seemed to wait for his adversaries to attack him. There was no longer one enemy opposed to him; he had no longer to cope with Austria alone, but also with Russia, whose emperor was now at Olmutz with the Emperor of Austria, for the purpose of agreeing with him on the plan of operations by which Napoleon was to be defeated. The Russian army had already formed a junction with the Austrian forces, and even the Russian life-guards, the elite of their army, had left Russia in order to accompany their emperor to the great decisive battle.

But Napoleon had likewise brought his guards along, and these splendid troops were impatient and eager to fight the last decisive battle with the Austrians and with “the hordes of the Russian barbarians.”

Napoleon, however, still hesitated; his plans apparently had not been matured, and he seemed undecided whether to advance still further or to content himself with the victories he had already obtained.

This last alternative was urged on him by his generals, who believed the victory of Ulm to be so brilliant a triumph that the French army might repose on its laurels, instead of drawing the sword once more.

Napoleon, however, did not assent to these views of his generals.

“If we had to cope only with the Austrians we might be satisfied, but there are the Russians, too, and it will be necessary for us to send them home. We must give them their passports.”

Greatly elated at this idea, the emperor ordered his horse to be brought to him.

“We will examine the country a little,” he said to his generals; “accompany me, gentlemen.”

And surrounded by his brilliant staff, consisting of the most illustrious and victorious officers of his army, the emperor rode out far into the plain between Brunn and Vichau, crowned all around with hills and mountains. His bold, searching glances surveyed the country in every direction; not a height, not a tree, not a ravine, escaped his attention; he examined every thing, and seemed to engrave them on his soul. It was near nightfall when he returned with his generals from this long ride to his headquarters. He had all day been taciturn and absorbed, and none of his generals had been permitted to participate in his plans and observations. He had only sometimes directed their attention by a laconic word or by a wave of his hand to some peculiarity of the landscape, and the generals had received these words and gestures like the mysterious hints of an oracle, with the most respectful attention, in order to weigh them in their minds, and to indelibly engrave them in their memory. On his arrival at the door of his headquarters, the emperor turned his pale, grave face once more to the plain which they had just left.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a loud voice, “study that part of the country as closely as possible; you will have to play a role in it within a few days. General Suchet, on the left side of your division there is an isolated mound, commanding your entire front. Cause fourteen cannon to be placed on it in the course of the present night.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words. Vide “Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 169.] He nodded to the gentlemen and entered his cabinet.

He paced his room for a long while with folded arms, compressed lips, and a gloomy air.

“I need a few days more,” he muttered. “If they should attack me now, quickly and resolutely, I must succumb; if they give me three days’ time, however, I shall defeat them.”

When he then stooped musingly before his desk, he suddenly noticed the papers lying on it.

“Ah,” he said, hastily seizing a large, sealed letter, “a courier, who has brought dispatches in my absence! From the minister of the navy--news from the fleet!”

He broke the seal hurriedly and unfolded the paper. While reading it his mien became still more gloomy; a cloud of anger settled on his expansive brow, and his cheeks, which had hitherto only been pale, turned livid.

The glance which he now cast toward heaven would have reminded the spectator of the Titans who dared to hurl their missiles even at the Sovereign Deity; the words muttered by his quivering lips were an angry oath.

With this oath he crumpled up the paper in his hand, threw it down and stamped on it; then, as if ashamed of his own violence, he sank down on a chair, and laid his hands slowly, and with a deep sigh, on his trembling, pale face. The modern Titan had now found out for the first time that there was a God enthroned in heaven more powerful than himself; for the first time an invisible hand had stopped him in his hitherto victorious course.

The paper he had just trampled under foot announced to him the first great defeat, the first check his grand schemes had met with.

The French fleet had been completely beaten and almost annihilated by the English at Trafalgar. [Footnote: October 21, 1806.] England, the only enemy who had constantly opposed Napoleon in a menacing and fearless manner, detested England had gained a magnificent triumph. She had destroyed the whole naval power of France, and won a brilliant victory; a victory which humiliated France and overwhelmed her with disgrace. It is true it was a dearly-bought victory for England, for Nelson, her greatest naval hero, had paid for his immortal triumph with his life. The French admiral, Villeneuve, who was defeated at Trafalgar, had not even been lucky and wise enough to expiate his ignominy by his death; he had fallen, a despairing prisoner, into the hands of the English, and served as a living trophy to the triumphant conqueror’s. [Footnote: Admiral Villeneuve was released by the English government. Napoleon banished him to Rennes, where he committed suicide on the 26th of April, 1806, by piercing his heart with a pin.]

Such were the terrible tidings which Napoleon had just received; it was the first thunderbolt which the God of heaven had hurled down upon the powerful Titan.

But the Titan did not feel crushed by it; the thunderbolt only served to fan the fire in his breast.

He rose from his seat, and his eyes flashed with anger.

“I cannot be everywhere,” he said, aloud, “but my enemies shall soon find out that I am here, and I shall know how to avenge the disgrace of Trafalgar by a brilliant victory.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.]

The door behind him opened at this moment, and the chief of the imperial cabinet, M. de Bourrienne, entered.

“Sire,” he said, “the two Austrian envoys, Count de Giulay and Count Stadion, have returned, and beg your majesty to grant them an audience.”

“So late at night!” exclaimed the emperor. “Why did they not come in the daytime?”

“They pretend to have been detained by the impassable state of the roads, but assert to be able to lay before your majesty some highly important intelligence, which would seem entirely calculated to bring about the conclusion of peace so longed for by Austria.”

“Let the gentlemen come in,” said the emperor, after a short reflection, and he placed his foot again on the crumpled paper, as if he wished to choke the secret of its contents, so that it might not betray itself to the Austrians. Bourrienne had gone out, and the two Austrian envoys, Count Giulay and Count Stadion, now appeared on the threshold.

“You return to me,” said the emperor, hastily, to them; “my conditions have been accepted, then? I told you I should not negotiate separately with Austria, but that I should require Russia to participate in the negotiations, and to be included in the treaty of peace on which we might agree. You come, then, in the name of the Emperors of Austria and Russia?”

“No, sire,” said Count Stadion, respectfully, “we come only in the name of Austria.”

“The emperor, our august master,” began Count Giulay--but Napoleon interrupted him quickly.

“I shall listen to you only if you are authorized to speak in the name of the two emperors,” said Napoleon. “I already told you so yesterday, and I do not see what should induce me to-day to change my mind. The state of affairs is precisely the same.”

“Pardon me, sire, it is not,” said Count Giulay, firmly.

The emperor fixed a piercing glance on him, as if he wished to read in the innermost recesses of his heart.

“And why is it not the same?” he asked, while his eye slowly turned toward the foot, under which he concealed the sinister dispatch.

“Your majesty was yesterday pleased to say that Austria, although she might boast of the active support of Russia, could never count on the assistance of Prussia, and that Prussia’s neutrality was as useful to France as Russia’s active support to Austria.”

“Why do you repeat the words I uttered yesterday?” asked the emperor, impetuously.

“Sire, because Prussia is no longer neutral,” said Count Stadion, solemnly.

“Because Prussia is ready to become, like Russia and England, the active ally of Austria,” added Count Giulay.

Napoleon’s flashing, gloomy eyes looked alternately at the two Austrian envoys.

“How did you obtain that information?” he asked at last.

“Sire, from his majesty the Emperor of Russia. He has concluded a treaty with the king at Potsdam, by which Frederick William III. declares his readiness to participate in the campaign and to assist Austria, unless your majesty should condescend to accept the conditions which the King of Prussia is to propose as mediator between the coalition and France.”

“Ah, the King of Prussia is going to propose conditions to me?” exclaimed Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders. “Do you know those conditions?”

“The King of Prussia will propose to your majesty to surrender the crown of Italy, not to disturb the princes of Italy in their possessions and independence, to recognize the independence of the German empire, of Holland, of Switzerland, to--”

“Enough!” said Napoleon, impatiently. “The Emperor Alexander has taken the liberty to tell you a story, and your credulity must have greatly delighted him. Can you seriously believe that the King of Prussia would in his infatuation go so far as to hope that I should accept propositions of so ridiculous a description? Truly, even if I were a vanquished and humiliated emperor, I should stab myself with my own sword rather than submit to such a disgrace. It seems I have not yet engraved my name deeply enough into the marble tablets of history, and I shall prove to these overbearing princes, who believe their legitimacy to be the Gorgon’s head they only need show in order to crush me--I shall prove to them WHO I AM, AND TO WHOM the future belongs, whether to THEM or to ME! However, it is unnecessary to say so much about things which do not exist.”

“Sire, the treaty of Potsdam DOES exist,” said Count Stadion. “The envoy whom the King of Prussia has sent off to lay its stiputions before your majesty would have reached your headquarters already if he had travelled as rapidly as the Emperor Alexander, who left Potsdam simultaneously with him.”

“Well, let him come; I shall see, then, whether you have told me a story or not,” replied Napoleon. “If the King of Prussia has dared to do this, by God, I will pay him for it! [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide Hormayer. vol. i., and Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 680.] But this does not change my resolutions and plans in any respect. I shall enter into negotiations with Austria only on condition that Russia participates in them. State it to those who have sent you, and now farewell.”

He nodded to the two gentlemen, and turning his back to them, stepped to the window. Only when a slight jarring of the door told him that they had withdrawn, the emperor turned around and commenced again, his hands folded behind his back, slowly pacing the room.

He then stopped before the large table in the middle of the room, and unrolled one of the maps lying on it. It was a map of southern Germany. After spreading it on the table, the emperor commenced marking it with pins, the variously-colored heads of which designated the different armies of the Russians, Austrians, and French.

The emperor was engaged all night in this task, in studying the map, and in measuring and calculating the distances some of his troops would have to march before reaching the field of action. The wax-candles in the silver chandelier burned down, but he did not notice it; the fire in the fireplace had gone out, but he did not feel it; the door of his cabinet was softly opened from time to time, and the pale face of his vale de chambre Constant, who was evidently exhausted with long waking, appeared, but the emperor did not heed it. His soul was concentrated on one idea, on one aim, viz., to pursue the glorious course of his victories, to humiliate Germany as he had humiliated Italy, and to drown the echoes of Trafalgar by a brilliant triumph.

Morning was already dawning, when Napoleon at length rose from the table and commenced again slowly pacing the room.

“Time, time!” he said, “I only need three days for moving up the third corps, which is already on the march from Bohemia. Time! And yet I must gain a great and brilliant victory before Prussia allies herself openly with Austria and Russia against France. If I should not succeed in doing so, the army of my enemies would be increased by one hundred and fifty thousand men. Hence,” he said, after a pause, quite merrily and hopefully, “hence, I must succeed.”

He returned to the map and pointed his finger at it.

“The Austrians are over there at Olmutz,” he said, quickly. “Here, the Russian guards; there, the united corps of Kutusof and Buxhowden; farther on, the vanguard under Prince Bagration. If they should advance now rapidly, resolutely, directly toward my front, the odds would be too overwhelming; if they should tarry, or if I should succeed in causing them to hesitate until I have got my Bohemian corps in line, I should defeat them. Let us try it, therefore; let us feign inactivity and timidity, so that they may not become active. Cunning is the best ally of a general; let us try to deceive them.”

He went to his desk, and taking some gilt-edged paper, commenced writing rapidly.

Fifteen minutes later an orderly requested General Savary to repair to the emperor’s cabinet.

Napoleon received the general with a kindly smile, but he was silent, and looked almost irresolutely at the letter he held in his hand. Suddenly, however, he seemed to come to a firm resolution, and handing the letter to Savary, he said: “Take this letter to Olmutz; deliver it to the Emperor of Russia, and tell him that, having learned that he had arrived at the headquarters of his army, I had sent you to welcome him in my name. If he should converse with you, and put questions to you, you know the replies that should be made under such circumstances. Go.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide “Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 171.]

“And now,” said the emperor, when Savary had left him, “now we will sleep a little. Constant!”

The door opened immediately, and the VALET DE CHAMBRE entered.

“Ah, I am afraid you have had a bad night of it,” said the emperor, kindly.

“Sire, your majesty has again been awake all the night long, and--”

“And consequently,” said Napoleon, interrupting him--“consequently you have been awake, too. Well, console yourself; we shall soon have more quiet nights; console yourself, and do not report me to the Empress Josephine when we have returned to Paris. My dear Josephine hates nothing so much as sleepless nights.”

“Sire, the empress is right; she ought to hate them,” said Constant, respectfully. “Your majesty, taking no rest whatever in the daytime, needs repose at least in the night. Your majesty sleeps too little.”

“By doing so I am better off than the sluggards, inasmuch as my life does not only consist of days, but also of nights,” replied Napoleon, good-humoredly. “I shall have lived eighty years then in the space of forty. But be quiet, Constant, I will now comply with your wishes and sleep.”

Constant hastened to open the door leading to the bedroom.

“Oh, no,” said the emperor, “if I say I will sleep, I do not mean that I will go to bed. Beds are, on the whole, only good for old women and gouty old men. When I was second lieutenant, I once made the experiment not to go to bed for six months, but to sleep on the floor or on a chair, and it agreed very well with me. Give me the handkerchief for my head, and my coat, Constant.”

Constant hurried with a sigh to the bedroom in order to fetch the articles Napoleon had ordered; and while he was wrapping the silken handkerchief around the emperor’s head, and assisted him in putting on his gray, well-lined, and comfortable cloth-coat instead of the uniform, the emperor softly whistled and hummed an air.

He then snugly stretched himself in his arm-chair, and kindly nodding to Constant, he said: “As soon as General Savary has returned, let him come in.”

Constant softly glided into the anteroom. He met there some of his acquaintances.

“I have important news for you, gentlemen,” he said. “We shall fight a battle in two or three days.”

“Did the emperor tell you so?”

“No, he is not in the habit of speaking of such things. But during the night-toilet he whistled Marlborough’s air, and he does so only when there is to be a battle.” [Footnote: “Memoires de Constant,” vol. iv., p. 109.]

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XLVIII. BEFORE THE BATTLE

Five hours later General Savary reentered the emperor’s cabinet; he was still lying on his arm-chair and sleeping; but when the general accosted him in a low voice, Napoleon opened his eyes and asked eagerly: “Well, did you see the czar?”

“Yes, sire, I saw him and conversed with him.” “Ah,” exclaimed Napoleon, quickly, “tell me all about it; do not omit any thing. How did he look when he read my letter?”

“Sire, when I had delivered your letter to the Emperor Alexander, he went with it into an adjoining room, from which he returned only half an hour later, with a reply in his hand.”

“Give me the letter, Savary!”

“Sire, here it is.”

Napoleon took it hastily; but when he fixed his eyes on the address, he frowned.

“Ah, this emperor ‘by the grace of God’ believes he need not address me with the title conferred upon me by the French nation,” he said, hastily. “He does not write to the Emperor of the French, but ‘to the chief of the French government.’ [Footnote: historical.--Vide “Memoires du Due de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 187.] Did you read the address, Savary?”

“The Emperor Alexander called my attention to it himself, sire. I remember his words distinctly. They were as follows: “The address does not contain the title which your chief has assumed since then. I do not set any great value on such trifles; but it is a rule of etiquette, and I shall alter it with pleasure as soon as he has given me an opportunity for doing so.” [Footnote: Alexander’s own words.--Vide “Memoires du Due de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 187.]

“And what did you reply to him?”

“Sire, I replied, ‘Your majesty is right. This can only be a rule of etiquette, and the emperor will not judge it in any other way. When he was general-in-chief of the Italian army he already gave orders and prescribed laws to more than one king; contented with the homage of the French, he only deems it a satisfaction for them to be recognized.’” [Footnote: Historical.--Vide “Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 167.]

“Your reply was fitting and to the point,” said Napoleon, with a pleasant nod, while he opened the emperor’s letter and glanced over it. “Phrases, empty words,” he then exclaimed, throwing the letter contemptuously on the table. “Talleyrand was right when he said language was given to us for the purpose of concealing our thoughts. Those men use it for that purpose.”

“Sire, the emperor did not conceal his thoughts during our interview,” replied the general. “I conversed with him long and freely, and I may say that he uttered his opinions very frankly. The Emperor Alexander said: ‘Peace was only to be thought of if your majesty should stipulate reasonable terms which would not hurt anybody’s feelings, and which would not be calculated to weaken the power and importance of the other princes and to increase that of France. France was a power already large enough; she needed no aggrandizement, and the other powers could not tolerate such a one.’”

“Ah, I shall teach them to tolerate it nevertheless; I shall prove to all of them that France is at the head of all monarchies, and compel them to recognize the Emperor of France with bowed heads!”

He paced the room hastily with angry eyes and panting breast. His steps, however, became gradually more quiet, and the furrows disappeared from his forehead.

“I need two days more,” he muttered to himself--“two days, and I must have them, Savary.” He then said aloud, turning to the general: “Did you make no further observations? Did you not notice the spirit animating the Russian camp?” “Sire, the whole youth of the highest Russian nobility were at the emperor’s headquarters, and I conversed with many of them; I heard and observed a great many things.”

“Well, and what do they think of us?”

Savary smiled. “Sire,” he said, “those young men did not breathe any thing but war and victory, and they seemed to believe that your majesty wished to avoid active hostilities since the Russians had formed a junction with the Austrians.”

“Ah, did they seem to believe that?” exclaimed Napoleon, joyfully. “Well, we will try to strengthen their belief. General, take a bugler along and return to the headquarters of the emperor. Tell him that I propose to him an interview for to-morrow in the open field between the two armies, the time and hour to be designated by himself, and a cessation of hostilities to take place for the next twenty-four hours. Go!”

“I believe,” said the emperor, when he was alone again, “I believe I have gained my second day also, and I only want a third one, in order to be able to vanquish all my enemies. Those arrogant Russians believe, then, that I wish to avoid a battle, and to remain in my present position? I will try to strengthen this opinion of theirs; earthworks shall be thrown up, and the batteries shall be fortified. Every thing must have the appearance of anxiety and timidity.”

And Napoleon summoned his generals and gave them aloud these new orders, but, in a whisper, he instructed them to begin the retrograde movement, and to let the troops occupy the positions he had selected for them on the extensive ground he had reconnoitered yesterday.

And the night expired, and half the next day, before General Savary returned from his mission. In the mean time Napoleon had changed his quarters. He had repaired to the camp of his army, and a bundle of straw was now his only couch. He had impatiently looked for Savary, and went to meet him with hasty steps.

“Why so late?” he asked.

“Sire, it was almost impossible for me to reach the emperor. He had left Olmutz. All the night long I was conducted from bivouac to bivouac, in order to find Prince Bagration, who could alone take me to the emperor.”

“And you have seen the emperor?” asked Napoleon, impatiently.

“Yes, sire, after overcoming many obstacles and difficulties, I succeeded in penetrating to the emperor. I submitted your majesty’s proposition to him. The emperor replied: ‘It would afford him the greatest pleasure to see and make the acquaintance of your majesty, but time was too short for it now. Moreover, before entering into such negotiations, he would have to consult the Emperor of Austria, and learn your majesty’s views, so as to be able to see whether such an interview would be advisable or not. Hence, he would send one of his confidential advisers with me, and intrust him with a mission to your majesty. The reply which he would bring to him from your majesty would decide the matter.’”

“Ah, and the third day will pass in this manner!” exclaimed Napoleon, joyfully. “Where is the emperor’s envoy? and who is it?”

“Sire, the emperor sent his first aide-de-camp, Prince Dolgorouki, with me.”

“Where is he?”

“Sire, I left him with the grand-guard; he is waiting there for your majesty’s orders.”

Napoleon rose hastily from the straw, on which he had been sitting with folded arms.

“My horse!” he shouted; and when Roustan had brought his charger, he vaulted into the saddle and galloped so rapidly forward that his suite were scarcely able to overtake him. On arriving close to the grand-guard, he halted and alighted, and while he sent off Savary to conduct Prince Dolgorouki to him, he muttered: “Only a third day!”

He received the prince with the calmness and composure of a proud imperator, of a chieftain accustomed to victory. A wave of his hand caused his suite to stand back; and when the officers had withdrawn, he commenced conversing with Prince Dolgorouki, while walking up and down with him.

The emperor suddenly approached the members of his suite, and they heard him say in a loud and angry voice:

“If that is all you wish to say to me, hasten to inform your emperor that I had not thought at all of such conditions when I applied for an interview with him; I should only have shown him my army; and, as to the conditions, relied on his honesty. He wishes a battle; very well, let us fight. I wash my hands of it!” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide “Memoires du Due de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 196.]

He turned his back to Prince Dolgorouki with a slight wave of his hand; and fixing his flaming eagle-eyes on his generals, he said, shrugging his shoulders:

“Russia will make peace if France will give up Belgium, and, first of all things, cede the crown of Italy to the King of Sardinia. Oh, those men must be crazy!. They want me to evacuate Italy, and they will find out soon that they cannot even get me out of Vienna. What would have been their terms, and what would they have made of France, if they had beaten? Well, let things turn out as it may, please God, but in less than forty-eight hours I will pay them well for their arrogance!” [Footnote: Ibid, p. 198.]

And instead of mounting again on horseback, he continued walking on the highway, muttering to himself, and with his riding-whip knocking off the small grass-blades he met on the road. He had now reached the first infantry post of his army. The sentinel was an old soldier, who was unconcernedly filling his pipe while holding his musket between his legs.

The gloomy eyes of the emperor turned to him, and pointing over to the position of the enemy, he said, angrily: “Those arrogant fellows believe they can swallow us without further ceremony!”

The old soldier looked smilingly at the emperor with his shrewd eyes, and quietly continued filling his pipe with the small finger of his right hand.

“Oh, oh, they cannot swallow us so fast! We shall lie down, your majesty!--”

The emperor laughed loudly, and his face became radiant. “Yes,” he said, “you are right, we will lie down as soon as they try to swallow us; and then we will choke them!”

He nodded to the soldier, and vaulting into the saddle he returned to headquarters. Night was coming on already, and looking up to the moonlighted sky, the emperor murmured: “Only one more day, and then I shall defeat them!”

And fate gave him that day. It is true, the combined forces of the Austrians and Russians approached his positions, but did not attack them. They drew up in a long line directly in front of the French camp, and so close to it that their movements could be plainly seen.

Napoleon was on horseback all day; he inspected every regiment of his whole army; his eyes beamed with enthusiasm, and a wondrous smile played on his lips.

The Bohemian corps had arrived: the delay of three days had borne fruits; he now felt strong enough to defeat his enemies. He spoke in a merry tone to the soldiers here and there, and they replied to him with enthusiastic shouts. He inspected the artillery parks and light batteries with searching glances, and then gave the necessary instructions to the officers and gunners.

Only after inspecting every thing in person, after visiting the ambulances and wagons for the wounded, he returned to his bivouac in order to take a frugal meal. He then summoned all his marshals and generals, and spoke to them about every thing they would have to do on the following day, and about what the enemy might do. To each of them he gave his instructions and assigned his position; and already on the evening of this day he issued to his soldiers a proclamation, admonishing them to perform deeds of heroism on the following day.

“Soldiers,” he said to them in his proclamation, “the Russian army appears before you to average the Austrian defeat of Ulm. They are the same battalions that you beat at Holabrunn, and, that you have since been constantly pursuing to this spot.”

“The positions which we occupy are formidable; and while they are marching to turn my right, they will present their flank to me.”

“Soldiers, I shall myself direct your battalions. I shall keep out of the fire, if, with your usual bravery, you throw disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks. But, if the victory should be for a moment uncertain, you will see your emperor the foremost to expose himself to danger. For victory must not hang doubtful on this day, most particularly, when the honor of the French infantry, which so deeply concerns the honor of the whole nation, is at stake.”

“Let not the ranks be thinned upon pretext of carrying away the wounded; and let every one be thoroughly impressed with this thought, that it behooves us to conquer these hirelings of England, who are animated with such bitter hatred against our nation.”

“This victory will put an end to the campaign, and we shall then be able to return to our winter quarters, where we shall be joined by the new armies which are forming in France, and then the peace which I shall make will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself.”

The soldiers received this proclamation with jubilant shouts; and when Napoleon, after night had set in, rode once more through the camp, the first soldiers who perceived him, eager to light him on his way, picked up the straw of their bivouac and made it into torches, which they placed blazing on the tops of their muskets. In a few minutes this example was followed by the whole army, and along the vast front of the French position was displayed this singular illumination. The soldiers accompanied the steps of Napoleon with shouts of “Vive l’Empereur!” promising to prove on the morrow that they were worthy of him and of themselves. Enthusiasm pervaded all the ranks. They went as men ought to go into danger, with hearts full of content and confidence.

Napoleon retired, to oblige his soldiers, to take some rest. With a feeling of the most unbounded satisfaction, he threw himself on the straw in his tent, and smilingly rejecting the services of his valets de chambre, Roustan and Constant, who implored him to permit them to wrap him in warmer clothes, he said:

“Kindle a good fire and let me sleep as a soldier who has a hot day before him on the morrow ought to sleep.”

He pressed his head into the straw and fell asleep; and he was still sleeping when the marshals and generals at daybreak came to the emperor’s tent to awaken him as he had ordered them to do.

They surrounded the open tent in respectful silence and looked at the chieftain who was to fight a great battle to-day, and who was now lying on the straw with a calm, serene face, and with the gentle slumber of a child.

But they durst not let him sleep any longer, for the emperor, who had regulated every movement of the present day by the hour and minute, would have been very angry if any delay had occurred. General Savary, therefore, approached the sleeping emperor and bent over him. Then his loud and earnest voice was heard to say: “Sire, the fixed hour has come.”

Napoleon, opened his eyes and jumped up. Sleep had suddenly fallen from him like a thin veil; as soon as he rose to his feet he was once more the great emperor and general. He cast a long, searching look on the gray, moist, and wintry horizon, and the dense mist which shrouded every thing at a distance of ten paces caused his eyes to sparkle with delight,

“That mist is an excellent ally of ours, for it will conceal our movements from the enemy. Issue your orders, gentlemen; let the whole army take up arms as silently as possible.”

The emperor then mounted on horseback and rode through the camp to see the infantry and cavalry form in column.

It was now seven o’clock in the morning. The mist began to rise; the first feeble rays of the December sun pierced it and commenced gradually illuminating the landscape.

The emperor placed himself on a small knoll, where his eye embraced the whole field of battle; his marshals were on horseback at his side, anxiously awaiting his order to commence the combat.

Profound silence reigned everywhere; but suddenly it was interrupted by a very brisk fire of artillery and musketry. A radiant flash seemed to light up the emperor’s face, and proudly raising his head, he said, in an imperious voice:

“To your posts, gentlemen; the battle is about to commence!” [Footnote: The battle of Austerlitz, Dec. 2,1805.]

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Chapter XLIX

“GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER!”

For three days the utmost uneasiness and commotion had reigned in Vienna. Nobody wanted to stay at home. Everybody hastened into the street, as if he hoped there to hear at an earlier moment the great news which the people were looking for, and as if the fresh air which had carried to them three days ago the thundering echoes

of the cannon, would waft to them to-day the tidings of the brilliant victory supposed to be achieved by the Emperors Francis and Alexander.

But these victorious tidings did not come; the roar of the cannon had a quicker tongue than the courier who was to bring the news of the victory. He did not come, and yet the good people of Vienna were waiting for him with impatience and, at the same time, with proud and joyful confidence. It is true no one was able to state positively where the battle had been fought, but the people were able to calculate the spot where the great struggle had probably taken place, for they knew that the allies had occupied the immediate environs of Olmutz, and then advanced toward Brunn and Austerlitz, where the French army had established itself. They calculated the time which the courier would consume in order to reach Vienna from the battle-field, and the obstacles and delays that might have possibly impeded his progress were taken into consideration. But no one felt anxious at his prolonged absence; no one doubted that the allies had obtained a great victory.

For their two armies were by far superior to the French army, and Napoleon himself had not hoped for a victory this time; he had fallen back with his army because he wished to avoid a battle with the superior forces of the enemy; he had even gone so far in his despondency as to write to the Emperor of Russia and to sue for peace.

How could people think, therefore, that Napoleon had won the battle, the thunders of which had filled the Viennese three days ago with the utmost exultation?

No, fate had at length stopped the onward career of the conqueror, and it was on Austrian soil that his eagles were to be struck down and his laurels to wither.

Nobody doubted it; the joyful anticipation of a great victory animated every heart and beamed from every eye. They longed for the arrival of the courier, and were overjoyed to celebrate at length a triumph over those supercilious French, who had latterly humiliated and angered the poor people of Vienna on so many occasions.

It is true the French embassy had not yet left Vienna. But that was only a symptom that it had not yet been reached by a courier from the battle-field; else it would have fled from Vienna in the utmost haste.

But the people did not wish to permit the overbearing French to depart from their city in so quiet and unpretending a manner; they wanted to accompany them at least with loud jeers, with scornful shouts and curses.

Thousands, therefore, surrounded the house of the French embassy, where Talleyrand, Napoleon’s minister of foreign affairs, had been staying for some days, and no longer did they swallow their wrath and hatred, but they gave vent to it loudly; no longer did they threaten only with their glances, but also with their fists, which they raised menacingly toward the windows of the French minister.

And while thousands had gathered around the embassy building, other thousands strolled out toward Mohringen, and stared breathlessly down the road, hoping to behold the longed-for messenger who would announce to them at length the great victory that had been won.

All at once something in the distance commenced stirring on the road; at times glittering objects, resembling twinkling stars, were to be seen, and then motley colors were discerned; it came nearer and nearer. No doubt it must be a column of soldiers; perhaps some of the heroic regiments which had defeated the French army were already on their homeward march.

Ah, the proud and sanguine people of Vienna regretted now exceedingly that there were no longer any French regiments in the capital, and that they had left their city only a week ago and rejoined Napoleon’s army. Now there would have been an opportunity for them to take revenge for the hospitality which they had been compelled for the last two weeks to extend to the French. Now they would have chased the French soldiers in the most ignominious manner through the same streets which they had marched hitherto with so proud and confident a step.

The soldiers drew nearer and nearer; the people hastened to meet them like a huge boa constrictor with thousands and thousands of movable rings, and thousands and thousands of flashing eyes.

But all at once these eyes became fixed and dismayed; the joyful hum, which hitherto had filled the air as though it were a vast multitude of gnats playing in the sun, died away.

Those were not the uniforms of the Austrians, nor of the Russians either! Those were the odious colors of France. The soldiers marching toward Vienna were French regiments.

And couriers appeared too, the longed-for couriers! But they were no Austrian couriers; the tri-colored sash was wrapped around their waists, they did not greet the people with German words and with fraternal German salutations. They galloped past them and shouted “VICTOIRE! VICTOIRE! VIVE L’EMPEREUR NAPOLEON!”

The people were thunderstruck; they did not stir, but stared wildly and pale with horror at the regiments that now approached to the jubilant music of their bands, and treated the Viennese to the notes of the Marseillaise and the air of Va-t-en-guerrier; they stared at the sullen, ragged men who marched in the midst of the soldiers, like the Roman slaves before the car of the Triumphator. These poor, pale men wore no French uniforms, and the tri-colored sash was not wrapped around their waists, nor did they bear arms; their hands were empty, and their eyes were fixed on the ground. They were prisoners, prisoners of the French, and they wore Russian uniforms.

The people saw it with dismay. The good Viennese had suddenly been hurled from their proud hopes of victory into an abyss of despair, and they were stunned by the sudden fall, and unable to speak and to collect their thoughts. They stood on the road, pale and breathless, and witnessed the spectacle of the return of the victorious columns with silent despondency.

All at once the brilliant column, which had filed through the ranks of the people, halted, and the band ceased playing. An officer galloped up and exchanged a few words with the colonel in command. The colonel made a sign and uttered a few hurried words, whereupon four soldiers stepped from the ranks, and forcing a passage through the staring crowd, walked directly toward a small house situated solitary and alone on the road, in the middle of a garden.

Every inhabitant of Vienna knew this house and the man living in it, for it was the residence of Joseph Haydn.

When the four soldiers approached the door of the popular and well-known maestro, the people seemed to awake from their stupefaction, a unanimous cry of rage and horror resounded, and thousands and thousands of voices shouted and screamed, “Father Haydn! They want to arrest Father Haydn!”

But, no. The four soldiers stopped at the door, and remained there as a guard of honor.

And the band of the next regiment, which had just come up, halted on the road too, and, in stirring notes, the French musicians began to play a melody which was well known to everybody, the melody of the great hymn from the “Creation,” “In verdure clad.” [Footnote: Historical.]

It sounded to the poor Viennese like a cruel mockery to hear a band of the victorious French army play this melody composed by a German maestro, and tears of heart-felt shame, of inward rage, filled many an eye which had never wept before, and a bitter pang seized every breast.

The French musicians had not yet finished the tune, when a window in the upper story of the house was opened, and Joseph Haydn’s venerable white-haired head appeared. His cheeks were pale, and his lips trembled, for his footman, who had just returned home, had brought him the news that the French had been victorious again, and that Napoleon had defeated the two emperors at Austerlitz.

Joseph Haydn, the old man, was pale and trembling, but Joseph Haydn, the genius, was courageous, joyful, and defiant, and he was filled with noble anger when he heard that the trumpeters of the French conqueror dared to play his German music.

This anger of the eternally-young and eternally-bold genius now burst forth from Haydn’s eyes, and restored to his whole bearing the vigor and elasticity of youth.

Leaning far out of the window, he beckoned the people with both arms, while they were looking up to him and waving their hats to salute him.

“Sing, people of Vienna!” he shouted, “oh, sing our favorite hymn!”

The music had just ceased, and Joseph Haydn now commenced singing in a loud, ringing voice, “GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER FRANZ!”

And thousands of voices sang and shouted all at once, “GOTT ERHALTE FRAN DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER FRANZ!”

Joseph Haydn stood at the window, and moved his arm as though he were standing before his orchestra and leading his choir.

The people sang their favorite hymn louder and more jubilantly, and to the notes of this prayer of a whole people, of this jubilant hymn, by which the Viennese honored their unfortunate, vanquished emperor in the face of the conquering army, the French marched up the road toward the interior of the city.

Joseph Haydn was still at the window; he led the choir no longer; he sang no more. He had folded his hands and listened to the majestic anthem of the people, and the tears, filling his eyes, glistened like diamonds.

The people continued shouting and singing, in spite of the French, the hymn of “GOTT ERHALTE FRANZ DEN KAISER, UNSERN GUTEN KAISER FRANZ!”

And the victorious French marched silently through the opened ranks of the people.

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L. PATRIOTISM

Princess Marianne von Eibenberg had just returned from a party which the British ambassador, Lord Paget, had given in her honor, and which was to celebrate at the same time the victory which the two emperors, the allies of England, were firmly believed to have achieved over the usurper.

Marianne Eibenberg, therefore, wore a brilliant toilet. She was adorned with diamonds and costly jewelry, and looked as beautiful and proud as a queen. She had now reached the acme of her career. She was still lovely, and besides she had become, as it were, the protectress of the most refined society of Vienna and the centre of the intellectual as well as aristocratic circles. She had accomplished her purpose. Marianne Meier, the Jewess, was now a noble lady, to whom everybody was paying deference; and Marianne, princess von Eibenberg, felt so much at home in her new position, that she had herself almost forgotten who and what she had been in former times. Only sometimes she remembered it, only when such recollections secured a triumph to her, and when she met with persons who had formerly, at the best, tolerated her with proud disdain in good society, and who did not deem it now beneath their dignity to solicit an invitation to her reception-room as a favor.

This reception-room was now the only resort of good society in Vienna, the only place where people were sure to meet always amidst the troubles and convulsions of the times with the most refined and patriotic men, and where they might rely on never finding any persons of doubtful patriotism, much less any French.

But, it is true, since the imperial family had fled from Vienna, the reception-room of the Princess von Eibenberg had gradually become deserted, for the members of the aristocracy had retired to their estates and castles, and the ministers and high functionaries had accompanied the emperor and the imperial court to Olmutz.

The ambassadors, too, were about to repair thither; hence, the party given by the British minister, Lord Paget, to his adored friend the Princess von Eibenberg, was to celebrate not only the supposed victory, but also his departure from the capital.

Marianne, as we stated already, had just returned from this party. With rapid steps, absorbed in profound reflections, she was pacing her boudoir, muttering, now and then, inaudible words, and from time to time heaving deep sighs as if feeling violent pain. When she walked past the large Venetian mirror, she stopped and contemplated the brilliant and imposing form it reflected.

“It is true,” she said, mournfully, “the Princess von Eibonberg is a beautiful and charming lady; she has very fine diamonds and a very aristocratic title; she is living in grand style; she has very many admirers; she is adored and beloved on account of her enthusiastic patriotism; she has got whatever is able to beautify and adorn life, and yet I see a cloud on this forehead which artists compare with that of the Ludovisian Juno, and diplomatists with that of Pallas Athene. What does this cloud mean? Reply to this question, you, whom I see there in the mirror; reply to it, proud woman with the precious diadem, how does it come that you look so sad, although the world says that you are happy and highly honored?”

She paused, and looked almost expectantly at her own image in the looking-glass. The clock commenced all at once striking twelve. “Midnight!” whispered Marianne; “midnight, the hour in which ghosts walk! I will also call up a ghost,” she said, after a short pause; “I will call it up and compel it to reply to me.”

And raising her arm toward the glittering, radiant image in the looking-glass, she said in a loud and solemn voice: “Marianne Meier, rise from your grave and come hither to reply to my questions! Marianne Meier, rise and walk; it is the Princess von Eibenberg who is calling you! Ah, I see you--it is you, Marianne; you are looking at me with the melancholy eyes of those days when you had to bear so much contumely and disgrace, and when you were sitting mournfully by the rivers of Babylon and weeping. Yes, I recognize you; you still wear the features of your ancestors of the tribe of Levi; men pretend not to notice them any longer, but I see them. Marianne Meier, now listen to what I am going to tell you, and reply to me: tell me what is the matter with the Princess von Eibenberg? What is the reason she is not happy? Look around in her house, Marianne Meier; you will behold there such opulence and magnificence as you never knew in the days of your childhood. Look at her gilt furniture, her carpets and lustres; look at the beautiful paintings on the walls, and at the splendid solid plate in her chests. Look at her velvet and silk dresses, adorned with gold and silver embroidery; look at her diamonds, her other precious stones and jewelry. Do you know still, Marianne Meier, how often, in the days of your childhood and early youth, you have longed, with scalding tears, for all those things? Do you know still, Marianne Meier, how often you have wrung your hands and wailed, ‘Would to God I were rich! For he who is rich is happy!’ The Princess von Eibenberg is rich, Marianne Meier; why, then, is she not happy? If it had been predicted to you at that time, when you were only sighing for wealth, Marianne Meier, that you would be a princess one day, and carry your Jewish head proudly erect in the most aristocratic society, would you not have believed that this was the acme of happiness, and that your boldest wishes had been fulfilled? Ah, Marianne Meier, I have reached this acme, and yet it seems to me that I am much more remote from happiness than you ever were at that time! You had then something to struggle for; you had a great aim. But what have I got? I have reached my aim, and there is nothing for me to accomplish and to struggle for! That is the secret of my melancholy; I have nothing to struggle for. I have reached the acme of my prosperity, and every step I advance is a step down-hill toward the grave, and when the grave closes over me nothing will remain of me, and my name will be forgotten, while the name of the hateful usurper will resound through all ages like a golden harp! Oh, a little glory, a little immortality on earth; that, Marianne Meier, is what the ambitious heart of the Princess von Eibenberg is longing for; that is the object for which she would willingly sacrifice years of her life. Life is now so boundlessly tedious and empty; it is nothing but a glittering phrase; nothing but a smiling and gorgeous but dull repetition of the same thing! But, hark! What is that?” She suddenly interrupted herself. “It seemed to me as if I heard steps in the small corridor. Yes, I was not mistaken. Somebody is at the door. Oh, it is he, then; it is Gentz.”

She rushed toward the door, and opening it hastily, she said, “Is it you, my beloved friend?”

“If you apply this epithet to me, Marianne, yes, it is I,” replied Gentz, entering the room.

“And to whom else should I apply it, Frederick?” she asked, reproachfully. “Who but you has got a key to my house and to this door? Who but you is allowed to enter my house and my room at any hour of the day or night?”

“Perhaps Lord Paget, my powerful and fine-looking rival,” said Gentz, carelessly, and without the least shade of bitterness, while he sat down on the sofa with evident symptoms of weariness and exhaustion.

“Are you jealous of Lord Paget?” she asked, taking a seat by his side, and placing her hand, sparkling with diamond-rings, on his shoulder. “Remember, my friend, that it was solely in obedience to your advice that I did not reject the attentions of the dear lord and entered into this political liaison.”

“I know, I know,” said Gentz, deprecatingly; “nor have I come to quarrel with you about such trifles. I have not come as a jealous lover who wishes to upbraid his beloved with the attentions she has shown to other men, but as a poor, desponding man who appears before his friend to pour his lamentations, his despair into her bosom, and to ask her for a little sympathy with his rage and grief.”

“My friend, what has occurred?” asked Marianne, in dismay.

“Where have you been during the week, since I have not seen you? You took leave of me in a hurried note, stating that you would set out on an important journey, although you did not tell me whither you were going. Where have you been, Frederick?”

“I was in Olmutz with the emperor and with the ministers,” sighed Gentz. “I hoped to promote there the triumph of the good cause and of Germany; I hoped to witness a brilliant victory, and now--”

“And now?” asked Marianne, breathlessly, when Gentz paused.

“Now I have witnessed a disgraceful defeat,” groaned Gentz.

Marianne uttered a cry, and her eyes flashed angrily. “He has conquered again?” she asked, in a husky voice.

“He has conquered, and we have been beaten,” exclaimed Gentz, in a loud and bitter tone. “The last hope of Germany, nay, of Europe, is gone; the Russians were defeated with us in a terrible battle. The disaster is an irretrievable one, all the armies of Prussia being unable to restore the lost prestige of the coalition! [Footnote: Gentz’s own words.--Vide Gentz’s “Correspondence with Johannes von Muller,” p. 150.] The Russians have already retreated, and the Emperor Alexander has set out to-night in order to return to his dominions.”

“And HE,” muttered Marianne, “HE is celebrating another triumph over us! He is marching onward proudly and victoriously, while we are lying, crushed and humiliated, in the dust of degradation. Is it Thy will that it should be so, God in heaven?” she asked, turning her eyes upward with an angry glance. “Hast Thou no thunderbolt for this Titan who is rebelling against the laws of the world? Wilt Thou permit this upstart to render all countries unhappy, and to enslave all nations?”

“Yes, God permits him to do so,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing scornfully. “God has destined him to be a scourge to chastise us for our own impotence. We do not succumb owing to his greatness, but owing to our weakness. The Austrian cabinet is responsible for our misfortunes! I have long since perceived the utter lack of ability, the contemptible character, nay, the infamy of this cabinet; in former times I used to denounce our Austrian cabinet to the other cabinets of Europe as the real source of the calamities of our period, and to unveil to them the whole terrible truth. Oh, if they had heeded MY warnings, when I wrote last June, and as late as in the beginning of August, to many prominent men, ‘Beware with whom you enter into a coalition! Do not be deceived by an illusory semblance of improvement. They are the same as ever! With them no great undertaking, either in the cabinet or in the field, will succeed; their rejection is the conditio sine qua non of the preservation of Europe. It was all in vain! Finally, I was left alone with my warnings; every one deserted me!” [Footnote: Gentz’s “Correspondence,” etc., p. 144.]

“I did not desert you, Frederick,” said Marianne, reproachfully, “and I compelled Lord Paget, too, to support your views. Thanks to our united efforts, that stupid Count Colloredo, at least, was forced to withdraw from the cabinet.”

“That is a consolation, but no hope,” said Gentz. “So long as the other ministers will retain their positions, every thing will be in vain. Every thing is so diseased and rotten that, unless the whole be thrown away, there is no reasonable hope left. I hoped the Emperor of Russia would boldly denounce the incapacity of the cabinet, and by his powerful influence succeed in cleansing our Augean stable, but he is too gentle for such an undertaking, and has no man of irresistible power and energy at his side. He beheld our misery; he greatly deplored it, but refused to meddle with the domestic affairs of Austria. Thus every thing was lost, and he was himself disgracefully defeated.”

“And now we have submitted altogether?” asked Marianne. “We have made peace with the usurper?”

“We have BEGGED him to make peace with us, you mean, and he will dictate the terms in which we shall have to acquiesce. Oh, Marianne, when I think of the events of the last few days, I am seized with rage and grief, and hardly know how I shall be able to live henceforward. Just listen HOW we have begged for peace! Yesterday, two days after the battle, the Emperor Francis sent Prince John of Lichtenstein to Napoleon, who had established his headquarters at Austerlitz, in a mansion belonging to the Kaunitz family, to express to the conqueror his wish to have an interview with him at the advanced posts. Napoleon granted it to him, and the Emperor of Germany went to his conqueror to beg for peace. He was accompanied by none but Lamberti to the meeting, which was to take place in the open field. Bonaparte received him, surrounded by all his generals, chamberlains, and masters of ceremonies, and with the whole pomp of his imperial dignity.” [Footnote: This account of the interview of the two emperors may be found verbatim in a letter from Gentz to Johannes von Muller. Vide “Correspondence,” etc., p. 154.]

“Oh, what a terrible disgrace and humiliation!” exclaimed Marianne, bursting into tears, while she tore the diadem with a wild gesture from her hair and hurled it to the floor. “Who dares to adorn himself after events so utterly ignominious have occurred?” she ejaculated--“who dares to carry his head erect after Germany has been thus trampled under foot! The Emperor of Germany has begged the invader to make peace; he has humbly solicited it like a beggar asking alms! And has the conqueror graciously granted his request? Oh, tell me every thing, Frederick! What took place at that interview? What did they say to each other?”

“I can tell you but little about it,” said Gentz, shrugging his shoulders, “for the two emperors conversed without witnesses. Bonaparte left his suite at the bivouac fire kindled by his soldiers, and Lamberti also went thither. The two emperors then embraced each other like two friends who had not met for years.” [Footnote: Historical.]

“And the Emperor Francis had not sufficient strength to strangle the fiend with his arms?” asked Marianne, trembling with wrath and grief.

“He had neither the strength nor the inclination, I suppose,” said Gentz, shrugging his shoulders. “When Napoleon released the unfortunate Emperor Francis from his arms, he pointed with a proud glance toward heaven and said: ‘Such are the palaces which your majesty has obliged me to inhabit for these three months.’”

“‘The abode in them,’ replied the Austrian monarch, ‘makes you so thriving that you have no right to be angry with me for it.’”

“‘I only ask your majesty,’ said Napoleon, hastily, ‘not to renew the war against France.’”

“‘I pledge you my word as a man and a sovereign that I shall do so no more,’ replied Francis, loudly and unhesitatingly. The conversation then was continued in a lower tone, and neither Lamberti nor the French marshals were able to understand another word.” [Footnote: “Memoires du Duo de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 218.]

“The interview lasted two hours, and then the two emperors parted with reiterated demonstrations of cordiality. The Emperor Francis returned silently, and absorbed in his reflections to his headquarters at Austerlitz. Hitherto he had not uttered a word; but when he saw the Prince von Lichtenstein, he beckoned him to approach, and said to him in a low voice, and with suppressed anger, ‘Now that I have seen him, he is more intolerable to me than ever.’ [Footnote: Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 690.] That was the only utterance he gave to his rage; as for the rest, he seemed contented with the terms he obtained.”

“And were the terms honorable?” asked Marianne.

“Honorable!” said Gentz, shrugging his shoulders. “Napoleon demanded, above all, that the Russian army should retire speedily from the Austrian territories, and the emperor promised this to him. Hence, the Emperor Alexander has departed; the Russian army is retreating; one part of it is going to Prussia, while the other is returning to Poland. The cabinet of Vienna, therefore, is free; that is to say, it is left to its own peculiar infamy without any bounds whatever, and thus peace will be made soon enough. Those contemptible men will submit to any thing, provided he gives up Vienna. Finance-minister Fichy said to me in Olmutz yesterday, ‘Peace will be cheap, if we have merely to cede the Tyrol, Venice, and a portion of Upper Austria, and we should be content with such terms.’ Ah, if THEY could only be got rid of, what a splendid thing the fall of the monarchy would he! But to lose the provinces, honor, Germany, Europe, and to KEEP Fichy, Ungart, Cobenzl, Collenbach, Lamberti, Dietrichstein--no satisfaction, no revenge?-not a single one of the dogs hung or quartered,--it is impossible to digest THAT!” [Footnote: Gentz’s own words.--Vide his “Correspondence with Johannes von Muller,” p. 155.]

“It is true,” said Marianne, musingly, and in a low voice, “this is a boundless disgrace; and if men will submit to it, and bow their heads, it is time for women to raise theirs, and to become lionesses in order to tear the enemy opposing them! And what do you intend doing now, my friend?” she then asked aloud, forcibly dispelling her painful emotions. “What are your prospects? What plan of battle will you draw up for us?”

“I have no prospects at all, and I have given up drawing plans of battle,” said Gentz, sighing. “After exhausting my last strength for five days during my sojourn in Olmutz, I am done with every thing, and I have withdrawn weary and satiated ad nauseam. Our ministers have gone to Presburg, for the purpose of negotiating there with the plenipotentiaries of Bonaparte about the terms of peace.”

“And where is he at present--where is the proud triumphator?” asked Marianne, hastily.

“He left Austerlitz to-night, and will reside again at Schonbrunn until peace has been concluded.”

“Ah, in Schonbrunn!” said Marianne, “that is to say, here in Vienna. And you, Frederick, will you remain here, too?”

“After making peace, they will banish me, of course, from Vienna; for Bonaparte knows my hatred against him, and moreover, he knows it to be implacable. Hence, I prefer going voluntarily into exile, and shall repair to Breslau, where I shall find plenty of friends and acquaintances. There I will live, amuse myself, be a man like all of them, that is to say, gratify nothing but my egotism, and take rest after so many annoyances and struggles.”

“That cannot be true--that cannot be possible!” exclaimed Marianne, ardently. “A patriot, a man like you, does not repose and amuse himself, while his country is plunged into misery and disgrace. I repeat to you what Arnauld said to his friend Nicole, when the latter, tired of the struggle for Jansenism, declared to him that he would retire and repose: ‘Vous reposer! Eh! n’avez-vous pas pour vous reposer V’eternite toute enliere?’ If those men were filled with so undying an enthusiasm for an insipid quarrel about mere sophistries, how could you take rest, since eternity itself, whether it be repose or motion, offers nothing more sublime than a struggle for the liberty and dignity of the world?”

“God bless you for these words, Marianne!” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically, while he embraced his friend passionately, and imprinted a glowing kiss on her forehead. “Oh, Marianne, I only wished to try you; I wanted to see whether, with the ardor of your love for me, the ardor of the holy cause represented by me, had also left you; I only wanted to know whether, now that you love me no longer--”

“And how can you say that I love you no longer?” she interrupted him. “Have I deserved so bitter a reproach?”

“It is no reproach, Marianne,” said Gentz, mournfully; “you have paid your tribute to the vacillating, changeable, and fickle organization peculiar to every living creature; and so have I, perhaps. We are all perishable, and hence our feelings must be perishable also. Above all, love is a most precious, fragrant, and enchanting rose; but its life lasts but a day, and then it withers. Happy are those, therefore, who have improved this day and enjoyed the beauty of the rose, and passionately inhaled its fragrance. We did so, Marianne; and when we now look back to our day of blissful love, we may say, ‘It was delightful and intoxicating, and with its memories it will shed a golden, sunny lustre over our whole life.’ Let us not revile it, therefore, for having passed away, and let us not be angry with ourselves for not being able to prolong it. The rose has faded, but the stem, from which it burst forth, must remain to us; it is our immortal part. That stem is the harmony of our sentiments; it is the consonance of our ideas; in short, the seeds of friendship have ripened in the withered flower of our love. I have not, therefore, come to you, Marianne, to seek for my beloved, but to find my friend? the friend who understands me, who shares my views, my grief, my despair, and my rage, and who is ready to aspire with me to one goal, and to seek with me for it in one way. This goal is the deliverance of Germany from the chains of slavery.”

“Above all, the annihilation of the tyrant who wants to enslave us!” exclaimed Marianne, with flashing eyes. “Tell me the way leading to that goal; I will enter it, even if it should be necessary for me to walk on thorns and pointed swords!”

“The goal lies before us clearly and distinctly,” said Gentz, sadly; “but the way leading to it is still obstructed, and so narrow and low that we are compelled, for the time being, to advance very slowly on our knees. But we must take spades and work, so that the way may become wider and higher, and that we may walk on it one day, not with bowed heads, but drawn up to our full height, our eyes flashing, and sword in hand. Let us prepare for that day; let us work in the dark shaft, and other laborers will join us, and, like us, take spades and dig; and in the dead of night, with curses on our lips and prayers in our hearts, we will dig on, dig like moles, until we have finally reached our goal, and burst forth into the sunshine of the day which will restore liberty to Germany. At the present time, Secret societies may become very useful. I always hated and despised whatever bore that name; but necessity knows no law, and now I am obliged to hail them as the harbingers of a blessed future. [Footnote: Gentz’s own words.--Vide “Correspondence,” etc., p. 163.] Like the first church, the great secret society of Germany ought to be enthusiastic, self-reliant, and thoroughly organized; its aim ought to be the destruction of Bonaparte’s tyranny, reconstruction of the states, restoration of the legitimate sovereigns, introduction of a better system of government, and, last, everlasting resistance to the principles which have brought about our indifference, prostration, and meanness. And now, Marianne, I come to ask you as the worthiest patriot, as the most intrepid and generous man I know and revere--Marianne, will you join this, secret society?”

He gave her his hand with a glance full of the most profound emotion; and she returned his glance with her large, open eyes, warmly grasping his hand.

“I will, so help me God!” she said, solemnly; “I will join your secret society, and I will travel around and win over men to our league. I will seek for catacombs where we may pray, and exhort, and encourage each other to struggle on with unflagging zeal. I will enlist brethren and adherents in all circles, in the highest as well as in the lowest; and the peasant as well as the prince, the countess as well as the citizen’s wife, shall become brethren and sisters of the holy covenant, the aim of which is to be the deliverance of Germany from the tyrant’s yoke. My activity and zeal to promote the good work you have begun shall prove to you, my friend, whether I love you still, and whether my mind has comprehended you.”

“I counted on your mind, Marianne, after I ceased building my hopes on your heart!” exclaimed Gentz, “and I was not mistaken. Your mind has comprehended me; it is the same as mine. Let us, therefore, go to work with joyful courage and make our first steps forward. The time when there was still a hope that the sword might save our cause is past; the sword lies broken at our feet. Now we have two weapons left, but they are no less sharp, cutting, and fatal than the sword.”

“These weapons are the tongue and the pen?” said Marianne, smiling.

“Yes, you have understood me,” said Gentz, joyfully, “these are our weapons. You, my beautiful comrade, will wield one of these weapons, the tongue, and I shall wield the other, the pen. And I have already commenced doing so, and written in the sleepless nights of these last few days a pamphlet which I should like to flit, like a pigeon, over Germany, so that everywhere it may be seen, understood and appreciated. The title of this pamphlet is Germany in her Deepest Degredation. It is an outcry of my grief, by which I intend arousing the German people, so that they may wake up at last from their long torpor, seize the sword and rise in the exuberance of their vigor for the purpose of expelling the tyrant. But, alas! where shall I find one who will dare to print it; a censor who will not expunge its most powerful passages; and, finally, book-sellers who will venture to offer so bold a work to their customers?”

“Give your manuscript to ME!” exclaimed Marianne, enthusiastically; “I will cause it to be printed, and if there should be no booksellers to circulate it, I will travel as your agent throughout the whole of Germany, and in the night-time secretly scatter your pamphlet in the streets of all the German cities, so that their inhabitants may find it in the morning--a manna fallen from heaven to nourish and invigorate them. Give your manuscript to me, Frederick Gentz; let it be the first solemn act of our secret league!”

“Just see how well I understood you, and how entirely I counted on your cooperation, Marianne,” said Gentz, drawing a small package from his side pocket and placing it in her hands. “Here is my manuscript; seek for a printer and for a bookseller to publish it; give it the blessing of your protection, and promote its general circulation to the best of your ability.”

“I shall do so most assuredly,” replied Marianne, placing her hand on the package, as though she were taking an oath. “In less than a month’s time the German people shall read this pamphlet. It shall be only the first comet which the secret league of which we are now members causes to appear on the dark firmament. Count on me; your manuscript will be published.”

Gentz bent over her hand and kissed it. He then rose.

“My purpose is accomplished,” he said; “I came to Vienna only to see you and enlist you as a member of my secret society. My purpose is accomplished, and I shall set out within an hour.”

“And why are you in such a hurry, my friend? Why depart in so stormy and wintry a night?” asked Marianne. “Remain with me for another day.”

“It is impossible, Marianne,” said Gentz, deprecatingly. “Friends like ourselves must have no secrets from each other, and are allowed fearlessly to tell each other every thing. The Countess of Lankoronska is waiting for me; I shall set out with her for Breslau.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Marianne, reproachfully, “Lord Paget, too, is going to leave Vienna, but I do not desert you in order to accompany him; I remain.”

“You are the sun around which the planets are revolving,” said Gentz, smiling; “but I am nothing but a planet. I am revolving around my sun.”

“You love the Countess of Lankoronska, then?”

“She is to me the quintessence of all womanly and of many manly accomplishments!” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically.

“And she will also join our secret society?” asked Marianne. “No,” said Gentz, hastily. “My heart adores her, but my mind will never forget that she is a Russian. Next to cold death and the French, I hate nothing so cordially as the Russians.”

“Still you have lived for a month with a Russian lady, of whom you are enamoured.”

“And precisely in this month my hatred has increased to an astonishing extent. I despise the Austrians; I am indignant at their weakness, but still I also pity them; and when I see them, as was the case this time, trampled under foot by the Russian barbarians, my German bowels turn, and I feel that the Austrians are my brethren. During the last few days I have frequently met Constantine, the grand-duke, and the other distinguished Russians; and the blind, stupid, and impudent national pride with which they assailed Austria and Germany generally, calling our country a despicable part of earth, where none but traitors and cowards were to be found, cut me to the quick. I know very well that we are at present scarcely allowed to maintain our dignity as Germans; our government has reduced us to so degrading a position; but when we keep in mind what the Russians are, compared with US; when we have mournfully witnessed for two months that they are unable, in spite of the bravery of their troops, to make any headway against the French, and that they have injured rather than improved our condition; when we see those insulting and scorning us who cannot even claim the merit of having saved us, only then we become fully alive to the consciousness of our present degradation and abject misery!” [Footnote: Gentz’s own words--“Correspondence,” pp. 159, 167.]

“God be praised that such are your thoughts!” exclaimed Marianne, “for now I may hope at least that the Countess of Lankoronska, even though every thing should fail here, will not succeed in enticing you to Russia. I am sure, Gentz, you will not accompany her to the cold, distant north.”

“God forbid!” replied Gentz, shuddering. “If every thing should fail, I shall settle somewhere in the southern provinces of Austria, in Carinthia or in the Tyrol, where one may hear the people speak German, and live there with the plants and stars which I know and love, and with God, in some warm nook, no matter what tyrant or proconsul may rule over me. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 167] And now, Marianne, let us part. I do not promise that our meeting will be a joyful one, for I hardly count on any more joyful days, but I say that we will meet at the right hour. And the right hour will be for us only the hour when we shall have reached the goal of our secret league; when we shall have aroused the German people, and when they will rise like a courageous giant whom no one is able to withstand, and who will expel the invader with his hordes from the soil of Germany! Farewell!”

“Farewell,” said Marianne, feelingly. “My friend will always be welcome, and cordial greetings will be in store for him whenever he comes. Remember that, my friend; I say no more ‘my beloved,’ for the Countess of Lankoronska might be jealous!”

“And she might inform Lord Paget of it,” said Gentz, smiling. He then kissed Marianne’s hand, and took his hat and overcoat. “Farewell, Marianne, and do not forget our league and my manuscript.”

“I shall not forget any thing, for I shall not forget you,” she replied, giving him her hand.

Thus, hand in hand, they walked to the door; then they nodded a last silent greeting to each other, and Gentz left the room.

Marianne listened to his steps until they had died away. She then drew a deep breath, and commenced once more slowly pacing the room.

The tapers on the silver chandeliers had burned down very low, and their liquid wax trickled slowly and lazily on the marble table. Whenever Marianne passed them, the draught fanned them to a blaze; then they shed a lurid light on the tall, queenly form in the magnificent dress, and grew dim again when Marianne stepped back into the darker parts of the long room.

Suddenly she exclaimed in a joyful voice: “Yes, I have found it at last! That is the path leading to the goal; that is the path I have to pursue.” With rapid steps she hastened back to the looking-glass. “Marianne Meier,” she cried aloud?--“Marianne Meier, listen to what I am going to tell you. The Princess von Eibenberg has discovered a remedy to dispel her weariness and dull repose--a remedy that will immortalize her name. Good-night, Marianne Meier, now you may go to sleep, for the Princess von Eibenberg will take care of herself!”

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