Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 48

"Did I not say that I desired to be alone?" said he, indignantly.

Perceiving his sister, he now arose, an expression of anxiety pervading his countenance. "Ah, my sister! your sad face proclaims you the bearer of bad news," said he; "and very important it must have been to bring you unannounced to my presence."

"My brother, misfortune has always the privilege of coming unannounced to the presence of princes, to implore pity and mercy at their hands. I claim this holy privilege for the unfortunate lady who has prayed for my intercession in her behalf. Sire, will you graciously accord her an audience?"

"Who is she?" asked the king, discontentedly,

"Sire, it is the Countess Lostange," said Amelia, in a scarcely audible voice.

"The mother of the rebellious Lieutenant von Trenck!" exclaimed the king, in an almost threatening tone, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily.

"Yes, it is the mother of the unfortunate Von Trenck who implores mercy of your majesty!" exclaimed the countess, falling on her knees at the threshold of the door.

The king recoiled a step, and his eye grew darker. "Really, you obtain your audiences in a daring manner--you conquer them, and make the princess your herald."

"Sire, I was refused admission. In the anguish of my heart, I turned to the princess, who was generous enough to incur the displeasure of her royal brother for my sake."

"And was that which you had to say really so urgent?"

"Sire, for five months has my son been languis.h.i.+ng in prison, and you ask if there is an urgent necessity for his mother's appeal. My son has incurred your majesty's displeasure; why, I know not. He is a prisoner, and stands accused of I know not what. Be merciful--let me know his crime, that I may endeavor to atone for it."

"Madame, a mother is not responsible for her son; a woman cannot atone for a man's crimes. Leave your son to his destiny; it may be a brighter one at some future day, if he is wise and prudent, and heeds the warning which is now knocking at his benighted heart." At these words, the king's glance rested for a moment on the countenance of the princess, as if this warning had also been intended for her.

"It is, then, your majesty's intention to cheer a mother's heart with hope? My son will not be long a captive. You will pardon him for this crime of which I have no knowledge, and which you do not feel inclined to mention."

"Shall I make it known to you, madame?" said the king, with severity. "He carried on an imprudent and treasonable correspondence, and if tried by court-martial, would be found guilty of high treason. But, in consideration of his youth, and several extenuating circ.u.mstances with which I alone am acquainted, I will be lenient with him. Be satisfied with this a.s.surance: in a year your son will be free; and when solitude has brought him to reflection, and the consciousness of his crime, when he is more humble and wiser, I will again be a gracious king to him. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs, i., 82.] Write this to your son, madame, and receive my best wishes for yourself."

"Oh, sire, you do not yet know all. I have another confession to make, and--"

A light knock at the door communicating with the antechamber interrupted her, and a voice from the outside exclaimed: "Sire, a courier with important dispatches from Silesia."

"Retire to the adjoining apartment, and wait there," said the king, turning to his sister.

Both ladies left the room.

"Dispatches from Silesia," whispered the countess. "The king will now learn all, I fear."

"Well, if he does," said the princess, almost defiantly, "we are here to save him, and we will save him."

A short time elapsed; then the door was violently thrown open, and the king appeared on the threshold, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with anger.

"Madame," said he, pointing to the papers which he held in his hand, "from these papers I have undoubtedly learned what it was your intention to have communicated to me. Your son has attempted to escape from prison like a cowardly criminal, a malefactor weighed down with guilt. In this attempt he has killed and wounded soldiers, disarmed the governor of the fortress, and, in his insolent frenzy, has endeavored to scale the palisades in broad daylight. Madame, nothing but the consciousness of his own guilt could have induced him to attempt so daring a flight, and he must have had criminal accomplices who advised him to this step--accomplices who bribed the sentinel on duty before his door; who secretly conveyed money to him, and held horses in readiness for his flight. Woe to them if I should ever discover the criminals who treasonably induced my soldiers and officers to break their oath of fidelity!"

"I, your majesty, I was this criminal," said the countess. "A mother may well dare to achieve the freedom of her son at any price. It is her privilege to defend him with any weapon. I bribed the soldiers, placed the horses in readiness, and conveyed money to my son. It was Trenck's mother who endeavored to liberate him."

"And you have only brought him to greater, to more hopeless misery!

For now, madame, there can be no mercy. The fugitive, the deserter, has forfeited the favor of his king. Shame, misery, and perpetual captivity will henceforth be his portion. This is my determination.

Hope for no mercy. The articles of war condemn the deserter to death. I will give him his life, but freedom I cannot give him, for I now know that he would abuse it. Farewell."

"Mercy! mercy for my son!" sobbed the countess. "He is so young! he has a long life before him."

"A life of remorse and repentance," said the king with severity. "I will accord him no other. Go!"

He was on the point of reentering the library. A hand was laid on his shoulder; he turned and saw the pale countenance of his sister.

"My brother," said the princess, in a firm voice, "permit me to speak with you alone for a moment. Proceed, I will follow you."

Her bearing was proud, almost dictatorial. Her sternly tranquil manner, her clear and earnest brow, showed plainly that she had formed an heroic determination. She was no longer the young girl, timidly praying for her lover; she was the fearless woman, determined to defend him, or die for him. The king read this in her countenance, it was plainly indicated in her royal bearing; and with the reverence and consideration which great spirits ever accord to misfortune, he did homage to this woman toward whom he was so strongly drawn by sympathy and pity.

"Come, my sister, come," said he, offering his hand.

Amelia did not take his hand; by his side she walked into the library, and softly locked the door behind her. One moment she rested against the wall, as if to gather strength. The king hastily crossed the room, and looked out at the window. Hearing the rustle of her dress behind him, he turned and advanced toward the princess.

She regarded him fixedly with cold and tearless eyes.

"Is it sufficient if I promise never to see him again?" said she.

"The promise is superfluous, for I will make a future meeting impossible."

She inclined her head slightly, as if this answer had been expected.

"Is it enough if I swear never to write to him again, nevermore to give him a token of my love?"

"I would not believe this oath. If I set him at liberty he would compromise you and your family, by boasting of a love which yielded to circ.u.mstances and necessity only, and not to reason and indifference. I will make you no reproaches at present, for I think your conscience is doing that for me. But this much I will say: I will not set him at liberty until he no longer believes in your love."

"Will you liberate him if I rob him of this belief? If I hurl the broken bond of my promised faith in his face? If I tell him that fear and cowardice have extinguished my love, and that I bid him farewell forever?"

"Write him this, and I promise you that he shall be free in a few months; but, understand me well, free to go where he will, but banished from my kingdom."

"Shall I write at once?" said she with an expression of utter indifference, and with icy tranquillity.

"Write; you will find all that is necessary on my escritoire."

She walked composedly to the table and seated herself. When she commenced writing, a deathly pallor came over her face; her breath came and went hurriedly and painfully. The king stood near, regarding her with an expression of deep solicitude.

"Have you finished?" said he, as she pushed the paper aside on which she had been writing.

"No," said she calmly, "it was only a tear that had fallen on the paper. I must begin again." And with perfect composure she took another sheet of paper, and began writing anew.

The king turned away with a sigh. He felt that if he longer regarded this pale, resigned face, he would lose sight of reason and duty, and restore to her her lover. He again advanced to the window, and looked thoughtfully out at the sky. "Is it possible? can it be?" he asked himself. "May I forget my duties as head of my family, and only remember that she is my sister, and that she is suffering and weeping? Must we then all pay for this empty grandeur, this frippery of earthly magnificence, with our heart's blood and our best hopes?

And if I now deprive her of her dreams of happiness, what compensation can I offer? With what can I replace her hopes, her love, the happiness of her youth? At the best, with a little earthly splendor, with the purple and the crown, and eventually, perhaps, with my love. Yes, I will love her truly and cordially; she shall forgive the brother for the king's harshness; she shall--"

"I have finished," said the sad voice of his sister.

The king turned from the window; Amelia stood at the escritoire, holding the paper on which she had been writing in one hand, and sustaining herself by the table with the other.

"Read what you have written," said the king, approaching her.

The princess bowed her head and read: