Part 18 (1/2)
”I am sure of it. The pa.s.sion and fire of his heart are yet concealed under the veil of youth. He is unmoved by a woman's tender smiles and her speaking and promising glances. He does not understand their meaning.”
”Have you tried these powerful weapons?”
”I have, and I confess wholly in vain; but I have not given up the contest, and I shall renew the attack until--”
The ladies now moved slowly away, and the princess heard no more, but she knew their voices; they were Madame von Brandt and Louise von Kleist, whom the king often called the ”loveliest of the lovely.” Louise von Kleist, the irresistible coquette, who was always surrounded by wors.h.i.+ppers and adorers, confessed to her friend that all her tender glances had been unavailing; that she had in vain attempted to melt the ice-rind of his heart.
”But she will renew her efforts,” cried Amelia, and her heart trembled with its first throb of jealousy. ”Oh, I know Louise von Kleist! She will pursue him with her tenderness, her glances of love, and bold encouragement, until he admires, falls at her feet a willing victim. But no, no, I cannot suffer that. She shall not rob me of my only happiness--the golden dream of my young life. He belongs to me, he is mine by the mighty power of pa.s.sion, he is bound to me by a thousand holy oaths. I am his first love. I am that happy woman whom he adores, and who is envied by the beauteous Louise von Schwerin. He is mine and he shall be mine, in spite of the whole world. I love him, and I give myself to him.”
And now she once more looked through the curtains and shrank back in sweet surprise. Right before her stood Trenck--the Apollo of Louise von Kleist, the Hercules and the Ganymede of Madame von Brandt, the beloved of the Princess Amelia--Trenck stood with folded arms immovable, and gazed piercingly in the crowd of maskers. Perhaps he sought for Amelia; perhaps he was sorrowful because she had withdrawn herself.
Suddenly he heard a soft, low voice whispering: ”Do not move, do not turn--remain standing as you are; but if you hear and understand me, bow your head.”
Frederick von Trenck bowed his head. But the princess could not see the rapturous expression which illuminated his face; she could not know that his breath almost failed him; she could not hear the stormy, tumultuous beating of his heart.
”Do you know who speaks? if you recognize me, incline your head.”
The music sounded loud and clear, and the dancing feet, the gay jest, and merry laughter of five hundred persona gave confidence and security to the lovers, Frederick was not content with this silent sign. He turned toward the recess and said in low tones: ”I know the voice of my angel, and I would fall upon my knees and wors.h.i.+p her, but it would bring danger and separation.”
”Still! say no more,” whispered the voice; and Trenck knew by its trembling tones, that the maiden was inspired by the same ardent pa.s.sion which glowed in every fibre of his being. That still small voice sounded in his ears like the notes of an organ: ”Say no more, but listen. To-morrow the Princess Ulrica departs for Sweden, and the king goes to Potsdam; you will accompany him. Have you a swift horse that knows the way from Potsdam to Berlin, and can find it by night?”
”I have a swift horse, and for me and my horse there is no night.”
”Four nights from this you will find the window which you know open, and the door which leads to the small stair, only closed. Come at the hour of eleven, and you will receive a compensation for the scarf you have lost this evening. Hush--no word; look not around, move onward indifferently; turn not your head. Farewell! in four days--at eleven--go!”
”I had to prepare a coat of mail for him, in order that he might be invulnerable,” whispered Amelia tremblingly; exhausted and remorseful, she sank back upon the tabouret. ”The beautiful Kleist shall not ravish my beloved from me. He loves me--me alone; and he shall no longer complain of my cruelty. I dare not be cruel! I dare not make him unhappy, for she might comfort him. He shall love nothing but me, only me! If Louise von Kleist pursues him with her arts, I will murder her--that is all!”
CHAPTER V.
A SHAME-FACED KING.
The king laid his flute aside, and walked restlessly and sullenly about his room. His brow was clouded, and he had in vain sought distraction in his faithful friend, the flute. Its soft, melodious voice brought no relief; the cloud was in his heart, and made him the slave of melancholy. Perhaps it was the pain of separation from his sister which oppressed his spirit.
The evening before, the princess had taken leave of the Berliners at the opera-house, that is, she had shown herself to them for the last time. While the prima donna was singing her most enchanting melodies, the travelling carriage of Ulrica drove to the door. The king wished to spare himself the agony of a formal parting, and had ordered that she should enter her carriage at the close of the opera, and depart, without saying farewell.
The people knew this. They were utterly indifferent to the beautiful opera of ”Rodelinda,” and fixed their eyes steadily upon the king's loge. They thus took a silent and affectionate leave of their young princess, who appeared before them for the last time, in all the splendor of her youth and beauty, and the dignity of her proud and royal bearing. An unwonted silence reigned throughout the house; all eyes were turned to the box where the princess sat between the two queens. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and the young Prince Ferdinand rushed, with open arms, to his sister.
”My dear, dear Ulrica!” he cried, weeping and sobbing painfully, ”must it then be so? Do I indeed see you for the last time?” With childish eagerness he embraced his sister, and leaned his head upon her bosom. The princess could no longer control herself; she mingled her tears with those of her brother, and drawing him softly out of view, she whispered weeping and trembling words of tenderness; she implored him not to forget her, and promised to love him always.
The queen-mother stood near. She had forgotten that she was a queen, and remembered only that she was a mother about to lose her child forever; the thought of royal dignity and courtly etiquette was for some moments banished from her proud heart; she saw her children heart-broken and weeping before her, and she wept with them.
[Footnote: Schneider's ”History of the Opera and the Royal Opera- House.”]
The people saw this. Never had the most gracious smile, the most condescending word of her majesty, won their hearts so completely as these tears of the mother. Every mother felt for this woman, who, though a queen, suffered a mother's anguish; and every maiden wept with this young girl, who, although entering upon a splendid future, shed hot tears over the happy past and the beloved home. When the men saw their wives and children weeping, and the prince not ashamed of his tears, they also wept, from sympathy and love to the royal house. In place of the gay jest and merry laughter wont to prevail between the acts, scarcely suppressed sobs were the only sounds to be heard. The glorious singer Salimberri was unapplauded. The Barbarina danced, but the accustomed bravos were hushed.
Was it the remembrance of this touching scene which moved the king so profoundly? Did this eternal separation from his beloved sister weigh upon his heart? The king himself knew not, or he would not acknowledge to himself what emotion produced this wild unrest. After laying his flute aside, he took up Livy, which lay always upon his writing-table, and tried to read a chapter; but the letters danced before his eyes, and his thoughts wandered far away from the old Roman. He threw the book peevishly aside, and, folding his arms, walked rapidly backward and forward.
”Ah me! ah me! I wish this were the day of battle!” he murmured.