Berlin and Sans-Souci Part 27

"Faithful hearts are rare," said the king. "I have met this blue- eyed daughter of Heaven but seldom upon my path, and it is perhaps for this reason that her grandeur and her beauty are so enchanting to me. Farewell, sir abbot, and greet the brother Anastasius for me."

"Will not your majesty allow me to accompany you to the city?"

"No, it is better that I go on foot. In a quarter of an hour, I shall be there; my carriage and my guard await me, and I wish no one to be acquainted with the adventures of this day. It remains a secret between us for the present."

Frederick greeted him once more, and then stepped lightly onward toward the city. The coach of the abbot returned slowly to the cloister.

The king had advanced but a short distance, when the sound of an approaching horse met his car. He stood still and looked down the highway. This time the Austrian uniform did not meet his eye; he recognized in the distance the Prussian colors, and as the horse approached nearer, he marked the uniform of a young officer of his life-guard. Before Frederick found time for surprise, the rider had reached him, checked his horse with a strong hand, sprang from the saddle, bowed profoundly before the king, and reached him the reins.

"Will not your majesty do me the favor to mount my horse?" said Trenck, calm and unembarra.s.sed, and without alluding by word or smile to the adventure of the day.

The king looked at him searchingly. "From whence come you?" said he sternly.

"From Glatz, where the pandours carried me as a prisoner, and delivered me to Colonel Trenck."

"You were then a prisoner, and were released without ransom?"

"Colonel Trenck laughed merrily when his pandours delivered me to him, and declared I was the King of Prussia."

"Colonel Trenck knows you?"

"Sire, I saw him often in my father's house."

"Go on: he recognized you, then?"

"He knew me, and said laughingly, he had sent to take Frederick, King of Prussia, and not Frederick von Trenck, prisoner. I was free, I might go where I wished, and as I could not go on foot, he presented me with one of his best horses; and now I am here, will not your majesty do me the honor to mount this horse?"

"I mount no Austrian horse," said the king in a harsh tone.

The young officer fixed his glance for one moment, with an expression of regret upon the proud and n.o.ble animal, who with dilating nostrils, flas.h.i.+ng eyes, and impatient stamping of the fore-feet, stood by his side, arching gracefully his finely-formed and muscular throat. But this expression of regret soon vanished. He let go the bridle and bowing to the king he said, "I am at your majesty's command."

The king glanced backward at the n.o.ble steed, who, slender and graceful and swift as a gazelle, was in a moment so far distant as to be no larger than a flying eagle. He then advanced toward Frankenstein: both were silent; neither gave another thought to the gallant horse, who, riderless and guided by instinct alone, was far on the way to Glatz. Once before they reached the city, the king turned and fixed his eyes upon the open, youthful, and handsome face of Trenck.

"I believe it would be better for you if this colonel of pandours were not your relation," said the king thoughtfully; "there can no good come to you from this source, but only evil."

Frederick von Trenck turned pale. "Does your majesty command that I shall change my name?"

"No," said the king after a moment's reflection. "The name is a holy inheritance which is handed down from our fathers, and it should not be lightly cast away. But be careful, be careful in every particular. Understand my words, and think upon my warning, Baron von Trenck."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE LEVEE OF A DANCER.

In Behren Street, which was at that time one of the most recherche and beautiful streets of Berlin, order and quiet generally reigned.

To-day, however, an extraordinary activity prevailed in this aristocratic locality; splendid equipages and gallant riders, followed by their attendants, dashed by; all seemed to have the same object; all drew up before the large and elegant mansion which had for some time been the centre of attraction to all the courtly cavaliers of the Prussian capital. Some of the royal princes, the young Duke of Wurtemberg, counts, amba.s.sadors, and generals, were to-day entreating an audience.

Who dwelt in this house? What distinguished person was honored by all these marks of consideration? Why was every face thoughtful and earnest? Was this a funeral, and was this general gloom the expression of the heart's despair at the thought of the loved and lost? Perhaps the case was not quite so hopeless. It might be that a prince or other eminent person was dangerously ill! "It must be a man," as no woman was seen in this grand cavalcade. But how account for those rare and perfumed flowers? Does a man visit his sick friend with bouquets of roses and violets and orange-blossoms? with rare and costly southern fruits in baskets of gold and silver? This would indeed be a strange custom!

But no! In this house dwelt neither prince nor statesman, only a woman. How strange that only men were there to manifest their sympathy! In this pitiful and dreary world a woman who has made a name for herself by her own beauty and talent is never acknowledged by other women. Those who owe their rank to their fathers and husbands, are proud of this accidental favor of fate; they consider themselves as the chosen accomplices and judges of morals and virtue, and cast out from their circles all those who dare to elevate themselves above mediocrity. In this house dwelt an artiste- -the wors.h.i.+pped prima donna, the Signora Barbarina!

Barbarina! ah! that was an adored and a hated name. The women spoke of her with frowning brows and contemptuous laughter, the men with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and boundless enthusiasm; the one despised and abhorred her, even as the other exalted and adored her. And truly both had cause: the women hated her because she stole from them the eyes and hearts of their lovers and husbands; the men wors.h.i.+pped her as a blossom of beauty, a fairy wonder, a consecrated divinity.

These two parties were as zealous as the advocates of the white and red rose. The women fought under the banner of the faded, withered white rose; the men gathered around the flag of her glowing sister, the enchanting Barbarina. This was no equal contest, no doubtful result. The red rose must conquer. At the head of her army stood the greatest of warriors. The king was at the same time Barbarina's general and subject. The white rose must yield, she had no leader.

Possibly Elizabeth Christine desired to lead the army of martyrs; possibly the same rage and scorn swelled in her heart which spoiled the peace of other women. But her modest and trembling lips betrayed nothing of the secret storms of her bosom; her soft and gentle smile veiled her shrouded wishes and the hopes there buried in her heart.

One could scarcely believe that this timid, pious queen could wors.h.i.+p an earthly object, or yield herself one moment to the bare pa.s.sion of hate. Truly Elizabeth Christine hated no one, not even Barbarina--this woman who had given the last blow to her tortured heart, and added the pa.s.sion of jealousy to her despised love.

Elizabeth Christine was indeed jealous, but not in the common way; she felt no scorn, she uttered no reproach; silent tears and earnest prayers for strength were her only speech.

The king had given her no occasion to complain of his love for Barbarina; she did not know that he had ever approached her, even spoken to her; she knew, however, with what looks and smiles of rapture he gazed upon her, and she would joyfully have given her life for one such glance or smile. That, however, which was not known to Elizabeth, was fully understood by the whole court. It was known that more than once the Barbarina had supped with the king at the house of General Rothenberg; it was known that the king, every time the Barbarina danced, was behind the curtain, and that, he had commanded the court painter, Pesne, to paint her portrait, life size, for him.

Was not this enough to exalt the signora in the eyes of every courtier and every diplomatist to the first rank of beauty and power? Would they not, indeed, have hastened to acknowledge her claims, even had she not been the loveliest and most enchanting creature? She was indeed a queen, a powerful enchantress. Men struggled for one smile, one glance; they bowed down to all her caprices and humors; wors.h.i.+p, submission, and obedience were the tribute brought by all. Her house was besieged with visits and pet.i.tions as if it were the palace of a fairy queen. Barbarina had her court circle, her levees, her retinue. [Footnote: Schneider, "History of the Opera and Opera-Houses in Berlin."] All her subjects rendered her a glad and voluntary service, and received no other compensation than a gay smile or friendly word.

All this splendor, consideration, and wors.h.i.+p, of which she was the s.h.i.+ning centre, seemed to make no impression upon the heart of the proud and self-reliant artiste; she was accustomed to it, and moved on in silent majesty; her whole life had been a triumphant march.

Like a summer morning glittering in the dew and suns.h.i.+ne, she had had her little griefs and tears, but they resembled the dew-drops in the flower-cups, s.h.i.+ning for a moment like costly diamonds, then kissed away by the sun. Barbarina wept when the king separated her from her lover, Lord Stuart, and forced her to fulfil her contract and come to Berlin. She wept no more. Was it because she was too proud? or had the sun of royal favor kissed away her tears?

Barbarina's tears had ceased to flow, but she smiled rarely. She had the grace and imposing beauty of the Roman, and never forgot that she was a daughter of that proud nation who had ruled the world, and, even though disenthroned, preserved her majesty and renown.

Barbarina was a glowing, pa.s.sionate woman, and pa.s.sion adorns itself with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, with a clear and touching pallor and crimson lips, but never with the innocent smile and harmless jest. She was never heard and rarely seen to laugh. Laughter was not in harmony with her proud beauty, but smiles illuminated and glorified it. She was imperial to look upon; but, filled with all sweet charity and gentle grace, womanly and tender; with a full consciousness of her power, she was humble and yielding. In the midst of her humility she was proud, and sure of success and victory; one moment she was the glowing, ardent, and yielding woman; the next the proud, genial, imposing artiste. Such was Barbarina; an incomprehensible riddle, unsearchable, unfathomable as the sea--ever changing, but great in every aspect.

Barbarina had appeared the evening before, but her dance had been interrupted by a sudden indisposition exactly at the moment when the king appeared in the opera-house. No one knew that the king had returned from his mysterious journey to Silesia; every one believed him to be absent, and the ballet had been arranged without any reference to him. Frederick arrived unexpectedly, and changing his travelling-dress hastened to the opera, no doubt to greet the two queens and his sisters. Barbarina was seized with indisposition at the moment of the king's entrance. She floated smilingly and airily over the stage; her small feet seemed borne by the Loves and Graces.

Suddenly she faltered, the smile vanished from her lips, and the slight blush from her cheek, and with a cry of pain she sank insensible upon the floor.

The curtain fell, and an intermission of a quarter of an hour was announced. The king, who was conversing with the queen-mother, appeared to take but little interest in this interruption, but Baron Swartz approached and announced that Signora Barbarina was ill and could not appear again during the evening. Frederick gave such an angry exclamation, that the queen-mother looked up astonished and questioning. Elizabeth Christine sighed and turned pale. She comprehended the emotion of her husband; guided by the instinct of jealousy, she read the king's alarm and disappointment, which he tried in vain to hide under the mask of scorn.

"It appears to me," said the king, "that the signora is again indulging in one of her proud and sullen moods, and refuses to dance because I have returned. I will not submit to this caprice; I will myself command her to dance."

He bowed to the two queens, stepped behind the curtain, and advanced to the boudoir of the signora. The door was fastened within. The king stood hesitating for a moment; he heard the sound of weeping and sobbing--the signora was in bitter pain or sorrow.

"She is truly ill," said he.

"She has cramp," suggested Baron Swartz, who had followed the king.

Frederick turned hastily. "Is that dangerous" he asked, in a tone which betrayed his alarm and agitation.

"Not dangerous, sire, but the physician who was with her has declared that absolute quiet was necessary. Will your majesty command that another dancer shall take her place?"

"No," said Frederick; "the pas which belongs to Barbarina shall be danced by no other. Salimberri and Astrea shall sing an aria and the house be dismissed. Go to their majesties and say to them I pray they will excuse me; I only came to greet them, and, being much fatigued by my journey, I will now retire."

Bowing to the baron, the king left the opera-house and entered the palace. But in the silence of the night, when all others slept, the soft tones of his flute melted on the air.

Barbarina was ill. For this reason her house was besieged; for this reason every face was clouded. Her adorers were there begging to see her, and thus find comfort and encouragement; each one wished to prove his sympathy by some marked attention. They hoped that these glorious and costly fruits might win for them a smile of grat.i.tude.

The reception-room of Barbarina was like a royal conservatory, only the life-giving and dazzling sun was hidden from view. Barbarina was in her boudoir, and all these gallant cavaliers waited in vain for her appearance. It was the hour of her levee, the hour when her door was open to all who had enjoyed the honor of being presented to her.

The courtiers stood in groups and conversed in light whispers over the on-dits of the day, and turning their eyes from time to time to the portiere of purple velvet which separated them from the boudoir of the signora; from that point must the sun rise to illuminate this dusky room.