Frederick the Great and His Family Part 48

"Yes, sire; your--"

"Be still!" said the king, sternly. "I do not yet wish to know--I have not the strength to bear it--wait a while."

Folding his hands upon his breast, he paced up and down his tent several times, laboring hard for breath. He stood still, and leaning against the window, said: "Now, Le Catt, I can endure any thing; speak--who is it?"

"Sire, it is her majesty."

"My wife?" interrupted the king.

"No, sire; her majesty--"

"My mother!" cried the king, in a heart-broken voice. "My mother!"

He stood thus for a while, with his hands before his face, his form bowed down and trembling like an oak swayed by a storm. Tears escaped through his hands and fell slowly to the ground--groans of agony were wrung from him.

Le Catt could stand it no longer; he approached the king and ventured to say a few consoling words.

"Do not seek to comfort me," said the king; "you do not know what inexpressible pain this loss has caused me."

"Yes, sire, I well know," said Le Catt, "for the queen-mother was the n.o.blest, most gracious princess that ever lived. I can therefore understand your sorrow."

"No, you cannot," said the king, raising his pale, tearful countenance.

"You carry your sorrow upon your lips--I upon my heart. The queen was the best of women, and my whole land may well mourn for her. It will not be forced grief, for every one who had the happiness to approach loved and admired her for her many virtues--for her great kindness. And I feel, I know, that sorrow for the ruin of Prussia has caused her death.

She was too n.o.ble a princess, too tender a mother, to outlive Prussia's destruction and her son's misfortune."

"But your majesty knows that the queen was suffering from an incurable disease."

"It is true I know it," said the king, sinking slowly upon his camp-stool. "I feared that I might never see her again, and still this news comes totally unexpected."

"Your majesty will overcome this great grief as a philosopher, a hero."

"Ah, my friend," said the king, sadly, "philosophy is a solace in past and future sufferings, but is utterly powerless for present grief; I feel my heart and strength fail. For the last two years I have resembled a tottering wall. Family misfortune, secret pain, public sorrow, continual disappointment, these have been my nourishment. What is there wanting to make of me another Job? If I wish to survive these distressing circ.u.mstances, I must become a stoic. For I cannot bring the philosophy of Epicurus to bear upon my great sorrows. And still," added the king, the dejected look disappearing from his countenance, and giving place to one of energy and determination, "still, I will not be overcome. Were all the elements to combine against me, I will not fall beneath them."

"Ah!" cried Le Catt, "once more is my king the hero, who will not only overcome his grief, but also his enemies."

"G.o.d grant that you are a true prophet!" cried the king, earnestly.

"This is a great era; the next few months will be decisive for Prussia: I will restore her or die beneath her ruins!"

"You will restore!" cried Le Catt, with enthusiasm.

"And when I have made Prussia great," said the king, relapsing into his former gloom, "my mother will not be here to rejoice with me. Each one of my home--returning soldiers will have some one--a mother, a sweetheart--to meet them with tears of joy, to greet them tenderly. I shall be alone."

"Your people will advance, gladly, to meet you; they will greet you with tears of joy."

"Ah, yes," cried the king, with a bitter smile, "they will advance to meet me joyfully; but, were I to die the same day, they would cry: 'Le roi est mort--vive le roi!' and would greet my successor with equal delight. There is nothing personal in the love of a people to its sovereign; they love not in me the man, but the king. But my mother loved not the king the warrior; she loved her son with her whole heart, and G.o.d knows he had but that one heart to trust in. Leave me, Le Catt.

Seek not to console me. Soon the king will gain the mastery. Now I am but the son, who wishes to be alone with the mother. Go." Fearing he had wounded Le Catt, he pressed his hand tenderly.

Le Catt raised it to his lips and covered it with kisses and tears. The king withdrew it gently, and signed to him to leave the room.

Now he was alone--alone with his pain, with his grief--alone with his mother. And, truly, during this hour he was but the loving son; his every thought was of his mother; he conversed with her, he wept over her; but, as his sorrow became more subdued, he took his flute from the table, the one constant companion of his life. As the soft, sweet tones were wafted through the tent, he seemed to hear his mother whispering words of love to him, to feel her hallowed kiss upon his brow. And now he was king once more. As he heard without the sound of trumpets, the beating of drums, the loud shouts and hurrahs of his soldiers, a new fire burned in his eyes, he laid his flute aside, and listened for a time to the joyous shouts; then raising his right hand, he said: "Farewell, mother; you died out of despair for my defeat at Collin, but I swear to you I will revenge your death and my defeat tenfold upon my enemies when I stand before them again in battle array. Hear me, spirit of my mother, and give to your son your blessing!"

CHAPTER X. IN THE CASTLE AT DRESDEN.

The Queen Maria Josephine of Poland, Princess elect of Saxony, paced her room violently; and with deep emotion and painful anxiety she listened to every noise which interrupted the stillness that surrounded her.

"If he should be discovered," she murmured softly, "should this letter be found, all is betrayed, and I am lost."

She shuddered, and even the paint could not conceal her sudden pallor.

She soon raised herself proudly erect, and her eyes resumed their usual calm expression.

"Bah! lost," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "who will dare to seize a queen and condemn her for fighting for her honor and her country?

Only the insolent and arrogant Margrave of Brandenburg could have the temerity to insult a queen and a woman in my person, and he, thank G.o.d, is crushed and will never be able to rally. But where is Schonberg," she said, uneasily; "if he does not come to-day, all is lost--all!"

Loud voices in the antechamber interrupted her; she listened in breathless expectation. "It is he," she murmured, "it is Schonberg; the officer on guard forbids his entrance. What insults I endure! I am treated as a prisoner in my own castle; I am even denied the right of seeing my own servants."

She ceased, and listened again; the voices became louder and more violent. "He is, apparently, speaking so loudly to attract my attention," she said; "I will go to his relief." She crossed the chamber hastily, and opened the door leading into the anteroom. "What means this noise?" she said, angrily; "how dare you be guilty of such unseemly conduct?"

Silence followed this question. The two gentlemen, who had just exchanged such angry words, were dumb, approached the queen, and bowed profoundly.

"I beg your majesty's forgiveness," said the Prussian officer, "my commander ordered me this morning to admit no one until he had seen your highness himself."

"I wished to announce to your majesty," said Schonberg, "that I had returned from my estate, and desired the favor of being again received into your service; this gentleman refused to allow me to enter."

The queen turned upon the officer with an expression of contempt. "Am I a prisoner, sir, allowed to see no one but my jailer?"

"Your majesty favors me with a question I am unable to answer," said the officer; "I am a soldier; and must obey the command of those above me. I know not whether your majesty is a prisoner."

The queen reddened; she felt that, in the excitement of pa.s.sion, she had forgotten her rank and dignity.

"It is true," she said, "it is not for you to answer this question.

I must demand a reply from your king. You are but a machine, moved by foreign power. I think you will not dare to keep my servants from me;"

and, without allowing the confused officer time to answer, she turned to the chamberlain, Baron von Schonberg. "I am delighted to receive you again; you shall resume your service immediately, as you desire it; follow me to my room, I have an important letter to dictate to you."

She stepped over the sill of the door, and gave the chamberlain a sign to follow her; as he approached the door, however, the officer stepped before him.

"Forgive me," he said, in a pleading tone; "I have strict orders to admit only those who usually surround the queen; do you understand, sir, to admit no one to her majesty this morning? I can make no exceptions."

"I belong to those who usually surround her majesty," said the chamberlain; "I have had an eight days' leave of absence; that cannot make an exception against me."

"Baron von Schonberg, did I not order you to resume your service, and to follow me?" said the queen; "why do you not enter?"

"Your majesty sees that I am prevented."

"Mercy, your highness, mercy," pleaded the officer, "I know I am seemingly wanting in reverence toward the holy person of the queen, but I cannot act otherwise." Maria Josephine looked proud and commanding; her eyes flashed angrily, and, with a loud voice, she exclaimed: