"Why torment ourselves by further efforts?" cried another. "We shall
have to submit. Heaven itself is against us. See the ice-crust on the
Oder. This cold weather is a fresh ally of the French! So soon as the
Oder and the ditches are firmly frozen over, they will cross, and take
the city by assault. Of course, we shall be required again to risk our
lives in breaking the ice amid bullets and shells. The only question is,
whether you will do so."
"No! no!" shouted the crowd. "We have suffered enough! We will neither
break the ice in the Oder, nor extinguish the numerous fires. Too many
of our countrymen have fallen already; it is time for us to think of
saving the lives that remain!"
"No!" cried a powerful voice--"no! it is time for you to think of saving
your honor!"
"Count Puckler!" murmured the people, looking at the tall, imperious
man, who had mounted the curb-stone at the corner of the market-place,
and cast angry glances on the crowd.
"Will you listen to me?" asked the count, almost imploringly.
"Yes, yes," exclaimed a hundred voices, "we will listen to you!" And all
approached and encircled him.
"Now speak, count," said one of the men, standing closest to him. "We
know that you are a good patriot, and a noble friend of the people. Tell
us what we ought to do. Tell us whether you think that there is hope for
us!"
"There is," replied Count Puckler. "There is hope of succor."
"Ah, succor will not come," cried the people, scornfully, "and though it
should, the generals would act again as if they could not see any thing,
keep the gates shut, and fail to make a sortie. Speak of other hopes
that you think are still left to us, count!"
"Well, there is the hope that the weather will relax--that the Oder and
the ditches will not freeze, and that the enemy, consequently, will be
unable to cross them. By bombardment alone Breslau cannot be taken. Our
fortifications will resist the enemy's artillery a long while; and, if
you do not waver, but struggle on bravely, you may preserve to your king
his most beloved province and one of his best fortresses. Think of the
honor it would reflect on you if the whole world should say: 'The
citizens of Breslau preserved to their king the great capital of
Silesia! During the days of danger and distress they hastened fearlessly
to the ramparts, not only to carry food and refreshments to the
defenders, but to transform themselves into soldiers, to man the guns,
and hurl balls at the enemy!'"
"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and
their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were
grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts--we will
become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"
"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd;
"you will be crippled--die of hunger--ruin yourselves and your children;
and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau,
for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened
too much."
"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to
rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.
"No!" exclaimed Count Puckler, ardently--"no, he is not right! It is not
true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would
it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city,
than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of
Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole
of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of
Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire
to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush
for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your
wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"
"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight--fight for our honor and
our king."
"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a
procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was
headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded
paper in his hands.
The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Puckler,
now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and
wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most
venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.
"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What
is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your
hands?"
Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up
by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and
privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to
them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too
great; we have borne all we can--we must think of ourselves for the sake
of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor;
self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our
petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit
it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign
it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then,
to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees
that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands
and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this
morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on
the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do
not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to
set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and
sensible citizens will sign this petition."
The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Puckler was
still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at
the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many
left him and joined those marching to the city hall.
"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and
horror--"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many
tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for
Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and
that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful
now--faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long
years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the
whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let
us go together to the city hall--let us demand the petition that we may
tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not
capitulate, but resist till--"
"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall,
broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to
the count. "Count Puckler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue
talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a
miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your
high-sounding words.--Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary
of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been
ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list
of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only
twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel
left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation
will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish
to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will
be deposited there."
At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a
glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which
flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set
fire to several houses on the market-place.
"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are
firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the
petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent
wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled
the lame to walk.
Count Puckler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted
against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his
brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at
the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that
moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low
voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his
full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling
around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached
the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and
with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing,
and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible
influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering,
his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to
the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he
muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently,
and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"
"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the
parlor. Shall I announce you?"
"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and
hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without
waiting, he opened it and entered.
A joyful cry was heard--a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him
with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been
restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning--how
my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing
over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But
now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any
more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage
in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on
his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she
had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her
bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she
asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your
face?"
He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at
her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice--"Camilla, will you die
with me?"
"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why
should we die, Frederick?"
"Because I do not wish to live without honor," he exclaimed, with sudden
vehemence. "Because our misfortunes are so terrible that we must escape
from them into the grave. All is lost! Breslau will fall, and we shall
be obliged to prostrate ourselves at the conqueror's feet! But I will
not, cannot survive the disgrace of Prussia. 'Victory or death!' was the
motto which I once exchanged with Schill. I swore to him to live and die
with my country; I swore to the king, if Breslau fell, that I would die
the death of a traitor. Breslau falls; therefore I die!"
"No, no," exclaimed Camilla, clinging firmly to him, "you shall not
die--you must not die! You are mine; you belong to me, and I love you!
Hitherto you have lived for your honor as a man--now live for your heart
and its love! Listen to me, Frederick! How often have you implored me to
accelerate the day of our wedding, and I always refused! Well, I beseech
you to-day, give me your hand! Let us go together to my parents, and ask
them to send for a priest, and let our marriage take place to-day. And
then, dearest, when the gates of Breslau open to the enemy, we can find
a refuge at your splendid estate. The horrible turmoil of war and the
clashing of arms will not follow us thither. There, amidst the charms of
peaceful nature, let us commence a new life; with hearts fondly united,
we shall belong only to ourselves, and, forgetful of the outside world,
devote ourselves to our friends--to art and literature. Oh, my beloved,
is it not a blissful future that is inviting you and promising you
undisturbed happiness?" She laid her arms, from which the white lace
sleeves had fallen back, on his shoulders, and held her glowing face so
close to his own that her breath fanned his cheek; her ruby lips almost
touched his own, and her dark eyes were fixed on him with an expression
of unutterable tenderness.
The count pushed her back almost rudely. "The happiness you are
depicting to me is only given to the innocent, to the pure, and to those
who have no desires," he said, gloomily; "it is the happiness of gentle
doves, not of men. And I am a man! As a man of honor I have lived, and
as such I will die. My life harmonizes no more with yours. Will you go
with me, Camilla, into the land of eternal honor and liberty? Does not
this world of treachery and cowardice fill you with disgust as it does
myself? Does not your soul shrink with dismay at the infamy we behold
everywhere at the present time? Oh, I know your heart is noble and pure,
and despises the baseness which is now the master of the world. Let us,
therefore, escape from it. Come, dearest, come! I have two pistols at my
rooms. They are loaded, and will not fail us. A pressure of my
finger--and we are free! Say one word, and I will bring them--say, my
Camilla, that you will die with me!"
"I say that I will live with you!" she cried, in terror.
"Then you will not die with me?" he asked, harshly.
"No, Frederick, why should I die? I am so young, and love life; it has
given me nothing but joy--it has given you to me--you, whom I love, for
whom I will live, whom I will render happy! What do I care for the
misfortunes of Prussia--what do I care whether Breslau surrenders to the
enemy or not, while I am free to follow you--free to devote myself
entirely to my love!"
"A woman's heart!--a woman's love!" said Puckler, with a contemptuous
shrug of his shoulders. "I wish I resembled you; we then might be like
cooing doves in the myrtle-tree. But my heart is rather that of an
eagle--longing for the sun; and as he has set on earth, I shall fly
after him. Farewell, Camilla, farewell! Forget me not, and be happy!" He
imprinted a hasty, glowing kiss on her lips, and then turned toward the
door.
Camilla rushed after him, and, clinging to him with both her hands,
exclaimed: "Frederick, what are you going to do?"
"I go to the land of liberty, and will do what honor commands," he said,
disengaging himself from her grasp, and rushing from the room.
"Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, in the utmost terror, running to the
door; she could not open it, for he had locked it outside. "I must
follow and save him," she exclaimed, and gliding across the room, she
opened a small secret door in the opposite wall; scarcely touching the
floor, she passed through the parlor, without taking any notice of her
parents, who were sitting on the divan, and asked her in surprise for
the cause of her hurry and agitation. She did not see that they were
following her; nor did she hear them call her. Onward, onward she went
through the room to the corridor, into the hall, and up the staircase.
She rushed to the upper floor, and rang the bell violently, when the
footman of Count Puckler opened the door, and stared surprised at the
young countess. She passed him impetuously, and ran down the corridor
leading into the sitting-room of her betrothed. But it was locked.
Uttering a cry of despair, she sank breathless on her knees, and laid
her burning forehead against the door.
The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Puckler's footman, now
approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending
over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you
weep?"
Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed,
in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"
"Who?" asked her father, aghast.
"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous
regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not
survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die!
As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up
to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish!
Help me to save him!"
"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he
in this room?"
"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without
saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."
The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it
violently. "Count Puckler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your
father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your
door, and ask to be admitted!"
"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of
your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy--to have compassion on me!
Oh, do not close your heart against me--oh, let me come in, my dear
friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement
inside. But every thing remained silent.
"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by
force," exclaimed the count.
"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at
least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert
her."
"My Frederick, I love you so tenderly--do not repel me!" wailed Camilla.
All was silent. "I must use force," said the count, concealing his
anguish under the guise of anger. "Hasten to a locksmith," he added,
turning to the footman; "he is to come here at once, and bring his tools
with him. Notify also the officers at the neighboring police-station."
The footman withdrew.
"My beloved," cried Camilla, wringing her hands, and her face bathed in
a flood of tears, "my Frederick, I love you better than my life! Your
wish shall be complied with. Open your door, and admit me. If I cannot
live I will die with you! Oh, do not remain silent--give me a sign that
you are still living--tell me at least that you forgive me--that--"
She paused, for a song suddenly resounded in the room; it was not a song
of sorrow, but of wrath and manly courage. The words were as follows:
"Tod du susser, fur das Vaterland!
Susser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen
Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,
Sei mir willkommen!
Was das Lied nicht loset, lost das Schwert,
Blinkend Heil, umgurte meine Huften,
Von der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
Zierde der Tapfern!"[30]
[Footnote 30: See p. 18.]
The voice died away. Camilla was on her knees, with clasped hands; her
parents stood behind her in devout silence. Suddenly noisy footsteps
drew near. At the entrance of the corridor appeared the footman with the
locksmith, who came with his tools to open the door. The old count made
a sign to him to stand aloof. He had heard a movement in the room, and
he hoped Camilla's lover would voluntarily admit them.
A pause ensued--then a terrible report was heard in the room. Camilla
uttered a loud shriek, and sank senseless to the floor.
An hour later, the locksmith succeeded in opening the door, which had
been strongly bolted inside. Count Puckler sat in the easy-chair in
front of his desk, immovable, with his face calm and uninjured, the
pistol still in his hand. He had aimed well. The bullet had pierced his
heart. On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of paper, containing the
following words:
"Last greeting to Ferdinand von Schill, who took an oath with me that we
would live and die as faithful sons of our country! Our country is
sinking ignominiously into the dust; I will not, cannot survive the
disgrace, and, therefore, I die. Farewell, you who took that oath with
me--farewell Schill and Staps! I hope you will be happier than myself! I
am the first of us three who dies because he despairs of his country.
Will you survive me long? May God give you strength to do so! Farewell
until we meet again!
"FREDERICK VON PUCKLER."
On the following day the governor of Breslau commenced negotiations with
the enemy, and on the 7th of January, 1807, Breslau opened its gates to
the French troops, and the Prussian garrison laid down its arms.
CHAPTER XXII.
PEACE NEGOTIATIONS.
General von Zastrow, who had temporarily taken charge of the Prussian
department of foreign affairs, was pacing his room. His whole appearance
was indicative of care and anxiety. Whenever he passed the door leading
into the anteroom, he stood still and listened, and then, heaving a sigh
and muttering angry words, continued his walk. But at length it seemed
as if his expectations were to be fulfilled; he heard approaching steps.
The door opened, and the footman announced General von Kockeritz.
General von Zastrow quickly went to meet his visitor, and offered him
both his hands. "I thank your excellency from the bottom of my heart for
having yielded to my urgent supplications," he said, passionately, "and
at the same time I beg your pardon for having been so bold as to
request you to call upon me. But as you reside in the same house as
their majesties, and as the king comes to see you frequently and
unexpectedly, I believe we can converse here more freely and without
fear of being disturbed."
"You are right, my dear general," said Kockeritz; "it is better for us
to hold our little conferences at your house. My room, moreover, has
walls so thin that every word spoken there can be heard outside. Alas,
it is on the whole a miserable barrack in which the royal couple and
myself are obliged to stay here in Memel! Low, dark rooms--no elegance,
no accommodations, no comfort. Every thing is as narrow, gloomy, and
smoky as possible and then this fearfully cold weather! Yesterday,
during the heavy storm, an inch of snow lay on the window-sill in the
queen's room, and, I assure you, it did not melt! Nevertheless, her
majesty is perfectly calm and composed; she never complains, never
utters any dissatisfaction, but always tries to prove to the king that
she likes Memel very well, and that it is as beautiful a capital as
Berlin."
"Ah, my respected friend," said General von Zastrow, mournfully, "this
composure of the queen is very injurious to us. If she were more
melancholy--if she bewailed her misfortunes more bitterly--if she
manifested a more poignant sorrow, we should not be doomed to sit here
on the extreme frontier of Prussia, but might hope to make our triumphal
entry into Berlin, perhaps, in two weeks."
"Into Berlin?" asked General von Kockeritz, greatly surprised. "Why, you
are talking of a miracle which I am unable to comprehend."
"Oh, your excellency will understand it soon enough," replied General
von Zastrow, smiling, "if you will only be so kind as to listen to me a
little."
"I assure you, my friend, I am most anxious to hear your explanations; I
am burning with the desire to know how we are to bring it about to leave
this accursed, cold Memel and return to Berlin within so short a time."
"Well, what is the cause of our sojourn here?" asked General von
Zastrow. "What has driven us hither? What has deprived the king, our
august master, of his states, of his happiness--nay, almost of his
crown? What is the cause that our beautiful and amiable queen has to
undergo all sorts of privations and inconveniences, and is compelled to
reside, instead of in her palace at Berlin, in a miserable, leaky house
in Memel, where she is closer to the Bashkirs than to civilized people?
The war is the cause of all this!"
"Yes, if my advice had been followed, these calamities would never have
befallen us," replied General von Kockeritz, sighing; "we would have
remained on terms of friendship and peace with the great man whom Heaven
has sent to subjugate the world, and resistance against whom is almost
equivalent to blasphemy. He frequently and magnanimously offered us his
friendship, but at that time more attention was paid to the vain
boastings of the lieutenants of the guard; and the rhodomontades of
Prince Louis Ferdinand unfortunately found an echo in the heart of the
queen. The advice of older and more prudent officers was disregarded,
and the king, in spite of himself, was dragged into this war, which we
have had to expiate by the defeats of Jena and Auerstadt, and by the
loss of so many fortresses and provinces. And who knows what may be in
store for us yet? Who knows what mischief may yet threaten the crown and
life of Frederick William!"
"Well," said General von Zastrow, with a sarcastic smile, "it looks as
though the fortune of war were now turning in favor of the Russians.
Think of the great victories which the Russian General Benningsen has
already won. Did not twenty-four trumpeting postilions proclaim to us at
Konigsberg, on new-year's-day, the Russian victory of Pultusk?"
"Yes, but those twenty-four postilions and that emphatic announcement
were the most brilliant parts of the victory," said General von
Kockeritz, shrugging his shoulders. "Benningsen was not defeated by
Napoleon at Pultusk, but honorably maintained his position on the
battle-field--that is what the whole amounted to."
"Yes, but we are celebrating again a great and brilliant triumph. On the
7th and 8th of February the Russian General Benningsen and our General
Lestocq claim to have obtained another advantage over Napoleon and his
marshals. I suppose you are aware that Benningsen himself has arrived
here in order to communicate the news of the victory of Eylau to the
royal couple?"
"Yes, I know," said Kockeritz. "But I know also what this new success
really amounts to. The Russians are very liberal in issuing victorious
bulletins, and if they have not been massacred in a battle to a man, the
last ten survivors shout invariably, 'Victory! We have won the battle!'
That of Eylau is even more problematic than that of Pultusk. Pray tell
me, who held the battle-field of Eylau?"
"Napoleon with his French, of course."
"And who retreated from Eylau toward Konigsberg?"
"General Benningsen with his Russians."
"And these Russians, nevertheless, are audacious enough to claim a
victory!" exclaimed General von Kockeritz. "These fellows regard it such
when Napoleon, instead of pressing them on their retreat, remains where
he is, and gives them time to escape."
"They are in ecstasies, because they infer from this delay of Napoleon,
and from his unwonted inactivity, that he also stands in need of repose
and recreation," said General von Zastrow. "The severe winter, bad
quarters, hunger, and thirst, have greatly exhausted the strength of the
grand army, and the lion would like to rest a little. For this
reason--and now I come to the point concerning which I requested your
excellency to call on me--for this reason, the great Napoleon desires to
make peace. The conqueror of Jena himself offers it to the vanquished
King of Prussia."
"What? Do you really think that to be true?" asked General von
Kockeritz.
"I do not only think, but know it to be true," said Zastrow. "General
Bertrand arrived here an hour ago, and called on me with the request to
present him to the king, that he might deliver him an autograph letter
from the Emperor Napoleon. I told the general that I should return his
visit in half an hour, and then conduct him to his majesty. I wished to
profit by this half hour, my dear friend, to confer with you about this
matter."
"And did General Bertrand inform you that Napoleon would offer peace to
our king?"
"Yes, your excellency. He communicated to me the contents of the
imperial letter. The lion of Jena magnanimously offers once more to make
peace."
"We must strain every nerve to induce the king to accept these
overtures," exclaimed Kockeritz, quickly.
"Your excellency is the only man sufficiently powerful to induce the
king to come to such a decision," said Zastrow. "You must be so kind as
to prove to him that to continue the war with France is to bring about
the ruin of Prussia. If he does not accept the offer of Napoleon, he is
ruined, for the emperor would not forgive such obstinate hostility; and,
if Prussia will not live with him on terms of friendship, he will
annihilate her in order to be done with her."
"I shall not threaten the king by laying too much stress on the strength
of his enemy," said Kockeritz, "for that would wound the pride of his
majesty, and provoke his sense of honor to renewed resistance. But I
shall call his attention to the weakness and fickleness of Russia,
informing him that our friends, the Russians, are behaving in the most
shameful manner in those parts of Prussia which they are occupying, and
committing so many outrages that the inhabitants are praying on their
knees to God to grant victory to the French, so that they might deliver
them from the Russians. I shall tell him that the distress and the
extortions the Prussian farmers have to suffer at the hands of our
allies are perfectly incredible; that the peasants in the villages have
been stripped of every thing, to such an extent that they beg the
Cossacks, who have robbed them of their provisions, for their daily
bread; that many of them are dying of hunger, and that unburied corpses
have been found in the houses of several villages now occupied by our
troops. And, above all, I shall beseech his majesty to repose no
confidence in the Russian friendship! Whatever the czar may say about
his fidelity, he has not the power of carrying his point, and all his
resolutions will be frustrated by the resistance of his generals and of
his brother. The Grand-Duke Constantine and the larger and more powerful
part of the Russian nobility are anxious for peace; and Constantine,
whose views are shared by Benningsen, will leave no intrigues, no cabals
untried in order to gain the czar over to his opinion, and plunge him
into difficulties from which he will finally be able to extricate
himself only by making peace--a peace concluded at the expense of
Prussia. Russia and France will be reconciled over the corpse of
Prussia! Even now it is distinctly to be seen what we have to expect
from the czar's assistance. Our allies are doing nothing really to help
us, but whatever steps they are taking are exclusively for their own
safety. It is true, they advanced at first, but only in order to prevent
the French from approaching their frontier. Since that time, however, in
spite of the battle of Pultusk, the Russians have steadily retreated,
although the enemy did not compel them to do so. They accomplished thus
their own purpose, that is, to devastate a province of Prussia, and
protect themselves by this desert from a French invasion."
"It is true," said General von Zastrow, "our friends are ruining us by a
mere semblance of aid. If they really were honest and faithful allies,
would they not strain every nerve to preserve Dantzic to us? General
Benningsen did promise to succor the fortress and raise the siege, if
Dantzic held out only two months longer. But what is he doing to redeem
his promise? Absolutely nothing! We reproached him with his inactivity,
and he excused it by asserting that the army would first have to be
reenforced. He admits that the fall of that seaport would be a great
disaster, but refuses to do any thing decisive for its safety.
Therefore, if we do not give up the equivocal friendship of the
Russians--if we do not now make peace with France, Dantzic will be lost,
and Colberg and Graudenz will likewise fall, in spite of the efforts of
their heroic defenders, Schill and Colomb. Oh, I beg you induce the king
to accept the peace if the terms offered to him be not utterly
inadmissible. These Russians will never deliver us. Suppose even another
general than Benningsen, and better disposed than he, should advance
after his so-called victories in the same manner as Benningsen is
retreating now, he would restore to us no state, only a desert. The king
ought to believe us that they are utterly unwilling to render us
assistance, and that they only intend devastating our country in order
to protect themselves. Whatever the noble and generous Emperor Alexander
may order, it is certain that nothing will be done. Even though we
should protest and clamor against it in the most heart-rending manner,
we should be unable to bring about a change."
"But should we succeed in convincing the king," said General von
Kockeritz, "how are we to persuade the queen? Her heart, otherwise so
gentle and generous, is filled with hatred against Napoleon, and she
believes in the friendship of the Russian emperor."
"Will you take it upon yourself, your excellency, to persuade the king
to make peace with France?"
"I believe I shall be able to do it," said General von Kockeritz, after
a brief reflection.
"Well, for my part, I undertake to persuade the queen to acquiesce, at
least in silence, and not advocate so warmly the alliance with Russia."
"I should like to know by what charm you intend to accomplish such a
miracle."
"By a very simple one, your excellency. I shall cause my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, who is not merely lady of honor, but also reader
to the queen, to read to her majesty the last numbers of the _Berlin
Telegraph_, which I have just received. This seems like a riddle, but it
is not. That journal contains charges against the queen, which, it
appears to me, render it impossible for her to declare so loudly and
publicly in favor of a continued alliance with the Russian emperor. Her
majesty, therefore, must be informed of the contents of those articles;
she must know in what sense public opinion--or, if you prefer, the
wicked world--is interpreting her enthusiasm for the Russian alliance.
She must learn it this very hour, that, at this momentous crisis, she
may not try to stem the tide of events. We must tie her hands in order
to prevent her from destroying the work we are taking so much pains to
accomplish. While your excellency goes to the king in order to take his
heart by storm with your convincing eloquence, and I am afterward
conducting General Bertrand to his majesty (to whom he will present the
pacific overtures and the autograph letter from Napoleon), my niece, the
Countess von Truchsess, will read to the queen the articles published in
the _Telegraph_, and if the king should really hesitate, and desire to
hear the opinion of his wife, she, in her just indignation, will
assuredly not advocate his cause for whose sake she has to bear the
slanders of the public press."
"Heaven grant that you may be a true prophet, general!" said Kockeritz,
heaving a sigh. "The queen, however, is so magnanimous that she might
even overlook her personal wrongs, and the slanders heaped on her, if
she thought the welfare of the country was at stake. I believe she
esteems the honor of Prussia even higher than her own, and in case she
should believe the former to be endangered, would be willing to
sacrifice herself."
"I believe your excellency is mistaken, so far as that is concerned,"
said General von Zastrow, smiling. "The wife of Frederick William, aside
from being a high-minded queen, is a woman who has the utmost regard for
her reputation and virtue, and who, for the sake of her husband and
children, would not suffer a breath of suspicion upon her honor. Well,
we shall see whether you are right or not. It is high time for us to go
to work. As you have promised me your assistance, I am quite hopeful,
and believe we shall succeed in restoring peace to poor tormented
Prussia. Go, then, your excellency, to perform your part; I will go to
the Countess von Truchsess, to bring her the newspapers, and then it
will be high time to conduct General Bertrand to the king. Well, Heaven
bless us all, and cause Prussia to make peace at last with the Corsican
lion!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SLANDEROUS ARTICLES.
Queen Louisa was in her cabinet, engaged in reading the letters and
journals brought by the courier, who had just arrived from Berlin. She
glanced hastily over the papers, and then turned to the letters that lay
unopened before her. On the other side of the small table, standing in
front of the divan, sat the young Countess von Truchsess, who was
occupied in arranging the journals. The queen meantime was reading her
letters; during the perusal her features lighted up more and more, and a
delicate blush mantled her pale cheeks.
Louisa had but just recovered from a severe and dangerous illness, which
had attacked her soon after her arrival at Konigsberg. The suffering
which her courageous soul was enduring with so much constancy and
heroism had undermined her body; weaker than her mind, it had succumbed
to the burden of her grief. A nervous fever had confined her to her bed
for weeks; it had afforded her at least some consolation by rendering
her unconscious of misfortune, and causing her, in her delirious
moments, to live again through the joyful days of the past. While she
was dreaming and believing herself happy in the splendors of a former
life, real and fearful disasters had befallen her cause. She had not
learned that the French were approaching nearer to Konigsberg, and that
the unfortunate royal family were no longer safe there. She had not been
conscious in her fever that she had been lifted from her couch into the
travelling-coach, to be conveyed to Memel--that her carriage had been
transformed into a sick-bed, and that she had lain on the cushions with
burning cheeks, singing sweet lullabies, and rejoicing in her fancied
happiness.
But at length her fever subsided, and consciousness returned. All the
mournful news which during her illness had been concealed from her,
overwhelmed her as soon as she recovered, and for this reason her health
had improved but very slowly. At this hour, as we have said, the blush
had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were beaming again with the
fire of former days. The letters gave a glimmer of hope to her soul.
They told her of the brave defenders of the fortresses that had not
surrendered, and of heroic Ferdinand von Schill, who, with his soldiers,
was doing so much injury to the enemy, and who had succeeded in
capturing one of the commanding generals of the besieging army, Marshal
Victor. They told her of Graudenz, the commander of which had sworn to
be buried under the ruins of that fortress rather than open its gates to
the enemy; they told her also of Dantzic, which was still courageously
holding out and hoping for the succor the Russians had promised. And
these letters contained still other hopeful news: that Berlin, which,
according to former statements, was said to have already submitted to
Napoleon, was bowing very reluctantly to the behests of the autocrat,
and still waiting for the hour of deliverance.
"Oh, I knew well enough," said the queen, laying aside the last of her
letters, "I knew well enough that the inhabitants of Berlin are
affectionately devoted to us. I never doubted their constancy, and how
should I? Those whom you meet with a heart full of love are compelled,
as it were, to return your love. The king and I always loved Berlin, and
always counted on its fealty. I am glad, therefore, to hear that our
hopes will be fulfilled one day! It is still a dark, stormy night, but
daylight will come--the rising sun will dispel the storm and scatter the
darkness. You shake your head, Countess Truchsess? You do not believe in
my prophecies?"
"I do not believe in the fidelity of the inhabitants of Berlin, your
majesty," sighed the countess, "they are a frivolous, fickle people, who
revile those to-day whom they admired but yesterday."
"Oh!" exclaimed the queen, sinking back upon the sofa, "the throbbing of
my heart tells me that you have to communicate bad news! What is it?"
"No, most gracious queen, command me rather to be silent," said the lady
of honor, imploringly. "Your majesty looks so pale that I am afraid any
excitement would injure your weak nerves. You need repose and ought not
to be irritated; besides, what does your majesty care for the slanders
of the populace? Such arrows recoil from the pure."
"Ah," said the queen, with a faint smile, "you are dealing with me as
did Robert the hunter with the count in Schiller's 'Walk to the Forge.'
You are stimulating my curiosity by mysterious words--you are talking
about slanders, and yet you do not tell me what they are."
"Only with the difference, your majesty, that Robert the hunter told
falsehoods, which he himself had invented, while I alluded only to those
of others, and despise them from the bottom of my heart."
"Then you mean to say that I have been slandered," exclaimed the queen,
in a low voice. "Tell me, countess, what did your friends write to you?
What stories have been disseminated? I desire to know!"
"Gracious queen, my friends did not write any thing on the subject. I
saw only what, unfortunately, thousands have already seen."
"What did you see?" said the queen, angrily. "What do you refer to? Do
not speak any longer in riddles, if you please."
"Your majesty, I have glanced at the pamphlets and journals lying there,
and request you not to insist to-day on my reading to you the articles
contained in them."
"Ah, that is it!" exclaimed Louisa, laying both her hands on the
periodicals which the countess seemingly wished to withhold from her.
"These contain the slanders. I must know what they are. Read them to me,
countess." And the queen folded her arms with a resolute air.
"Have mercy on me, your majesty! I am really afraid--my lips cannot
easily recite those vile lines, and your majesty, besides, will be angry
with me for complying."
"No, no," exclaimed the queen, impatiently, "I am not angry with you.
You only did your duty in calling my attention to these things, and
having taken upon yourself the task of being my reader, perform it now!
What pamphlets are those sent to us?"
"Your majesty," said the countess, in an embarrassed tone of voice,
"there is, first, a pamphlet entitled 'A True Account of the Interview
of the Emperor Alexander with the King of Prussia at the Grave of
Frederick the Great.'"
"Read it," replied the queen, dryly, "it is always good to listen to the
true account of events in which we have taken part." And without
uttering a word--without even a frown, she listened to the comments on
the scene at the grave of Frederick. They were malicious and scornful,
representing it as a farce.
"Well," said the queen, when the countess had finished, "if that is the
worst, I feel at ease again. We must submit to abuse, and I sincerely
pardon all those who expose me to the derision of the world by depicting
me as a martial Joan of Arc. It has not been permitted me to live
quietly in the shade of domestic happiness. A queen stands alone on a
summit; she is seen and watched by every one, and it is, therefore, but
natural that she should be hated and abused more relentlessly than other
women, particularly if she be unhappy. For sovereigns are never
pardoned, although they are subject to human failings, and their
misfortunes are always regarded as their own faults. Let the malicious,
therefore, deride us as much as they please; the good will only love and
respect us the more. Proceed, countess! What else did we receive?"
"Nothing, your majesty, but a few numbers of the _Telegraph_."
"Ah, read them," exclaimed the queen. "I know that journal will not
slander me. Its editor, Professor Lange, is a patriot, and, for this
reason, I had promised to lend him the portrait of the king which I am
wearing in a locket, that he might give his readers a good likeness of
their beloved monarch. The disastrous events of the war, and my
departure from Berlin, prevented me from fulfilling my promise. But there will be better times for us, perhaps, and I shall then be able to reward all those who remain faithful to us." |
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