Chapter XIII: Book III: I.--New Plans (5)

The city of Berlin was to-day in a state of unusual stir and excitement. Everybody made haste to finish his noon-day meal, and nobody thought of complaining especially that this repast was so sparingly provided and served in such small portions, and that the dread specter of hunger was ever stalking nearer to the inhabitants of the unhappy, much-plagued town. They were to-day looking forward to a spectacle--one, moreover, for which no money was to be paid, which could be had gratis, just by being upon the street in right time and struggling to obtain a good position on the cathedral square, before the palace, or much better, before Count Schwarzenberg's palace. For to-day the count gave a great banquet in his palace on Broad Street, and it was well worth the trouble of contending for a place before the palace, and not even being frightened by a few cuffs and blows. The whole fashionable world of Berlin, all the nobility of the regions round about, were invited to this feast, and the whole court was to appear there. And it was so rarely that the Electoral family was ever to be seen by the town. They had passed almost a year in the Mark, but in such quiet and retirement did they live that their presence would hardly have been recognized if on Sunday in the cathedral church, which stood in the center of the square between the palace and Broad Street, their lofty personages had not been discernible behind the glass panes of the Electoral gallery. But to-day they were not to be seen in the seriousness of devotion, with their solemn, church-going faces, but in the pomp and splendor of their exalted station, in the glitter of their earthly greatness. And, above all things, they were to see the Electoral Prince, the Prince who had but just returned home, the hope of the downtrodden land, the future of the Mark Brandenburg!

How the good people hurried with joyful, eager faces along toward Broad Street, with what hasty movements did they rush across the Spree Bridge! A black, surging throng of men stood before the castle on the cathedral square, a dense, motionless mass before Count Schwarzenberg's palace. Only one passage was left free, broad enough to allow the carriage to drive across the castle square to the palace, and on both sides of this stood the halberdiers of the Stadtholder's bodyguard, threateningly presenting their halberds toward those who ventured to step forward. The Stadtholder in the Mark had his own bodyguard--fine, athletic fellows, of proud bearing, in splendid uniforms, trimmed everywhere with genuine gold and silver lace, while, as everybody knew, the members of the Electoral bodyguard wore nothing but imitation lace upon their uniforms. The Elector's bodyguard, indeed, were paid and clothed by citizens, and they, on account of their want and distress, had refused to pay the last bodyguard tax, while the Stadtholder's bodyguard consisted of members of his household and was paid and clothed by himself. And Count Schwarzenberg was very rich, and the citizens were very poor, but still the count had never once practiced mildness and mercy, and relieved the poor cities of their taxes and imposts, or given of his wealth to their poverty.

To-day, however, he gave a _fête_, a splendid _fête_, and however much at other times they dreaded and hated him, his _fête_ they could still look upon, and with longing eyes behold all its magnificence. It was, indeed, glorious to look upon, and they saw, moreover, how much the Stadtholder honored and esteemed the Elector, for never before had he displayed such splendor, when he merely invited the high nobility. Above the grand door of entrance was stretched a canopy of crimson cloth, edged with gold, the golden pillars of the canopy reaching out even into the street. The four stone steps leading from the front door were covered with fine carpeting, which also stretched away to the street, to the spot where the guests were to alight from their carriages. On both sides of the carpet stood serried ranks of the Stadtholder's lackeys in their flashy gold-trimmed liveries. They were headed by the count's two stewards, with golden wands in their hands, broad gold bands about their shoulders, and monstrous three-cornered hats upon their heads. It was very fine to look upon, and not merely the merry urchins, who were swinging upon the iron railings of the count's park, opposite the palace on the side of the cathedral square, enjoyed the spectacle, but the respectable burgher, with his well-dressed wife upon his arm, found his pleasure in it as well. The front doors were wide open, and they could look into the gorgeous columned hall, decorated with garlands and vases of fresh flowers. Yes, it was plainly to be seen that the Stadtholder felt himself greatly honored by the high company he was to receive to-day, and this even reconciled the good people a little to the proud, imperious Count Schwarzenberg.

And now the distinguished guests came riding up. There were the noblemen from the country round about, in their antiquated, rumbling vehicles, drawn by beautiful, handsomely harnessed horses. There were the Quitzows, the Götzes and Krockows, the Bülows and Arnims, and as often as a carriage arrived the musicians, stationed on both sides of the palace, blew a flourishing peal of trumpets, and the noblemen bowed right and left, greeting, although no one had greeted them except Count Schwarzenberg's chamberlain, von Lehndorf, who received the guests upon the threshold of the house. But now resounded a loud shouting and huzzaing, rolling nearer and ever nearer, like a monstrous wave, and an unusual, joyful movement pervaded the densely packed mass of men. "They come! they come!" sounded from mouth to mouth, and small people raised themselves on tiptoe, and tall ones turned their heads toward the corner of the cathedral square. Already they saw the foot runner, with his plumed hat and golden staff, as he came bounding on, then the two foreriders in their bright blue liveries, with low, round caps upon their heads, and then the electoral equipage, the great gilded coach of state, drawn by four black horses.

"Who is sitting in the coach of state? Is the Electoral Prince in it? Does he come in the same carriage with his father?"

The people grew dumb from impatience and expectancy, in the midst of their cries of joy; they wanted to see! All eyes shone with curiosity as the equipage rolled on. Over in the park, behind the railing, stood the drummers, and they began to beat a roll, which the boys riding on the railing seconded with genuine rapture. The trumpeters blew a flourish, and now Count Schwarzenberg himself issued from the broad palace door, followed by his son, the young Count John Adolphus. Ah! how glorious to behold was the Stadtholder in the Mark in his official costume as Grand Master of the Order of St. John, his breast quite covered with the stars of the order, whose gems glittered and sparkled so wondrously; and how handsome looked the young count, in his white suit of silver brocade, with puffs of purple velvet, his short, ermine-edged mantle of purple velvet, confined at the shoulders by clasps. The two counts made haste down the steps to the equipage. The Stadtholder in his amiable impatience opened the carriage door himself, and offered the Elector George William both his hands to assist him in alighting. And now, laboriously, gasping, with flushed face, and a forced smile upon his lips, the Elector dismounted from his carriage. Leaning upon his favorite's arm, slowly and clumsily he moved forward to the house, his stout, lofty form bent, his gait heavy, and his blue eyes, which were only once turned to the gaping multitude, sad--oh, so sad! The people looked with pity and compassion upon the poor, peevish gentleman, who, in spite of the great Prince's star upon his breast and the Electoral hat with its waving plumes, was not by far so splendid to behold as the proud, stately Count Adam, who strode along at his side.

While the Stadtholder was conducting the Elector into the palace, the Electress alighted from the carriage, the two young Princesses following her. A loud cry of joy and admiration rang out, and called a smile to the lips of the Electress, a deep blush to the cheeks of the Princesses. The Electress's robe, with its long train of gold brocade, was wondrous to behold, and above it the blue velvet mantle with black ermine trimmings; and how beautifully the diadem of diamonds and sapphires gleamed and sparkled on the brown hair of the Princess! Again the Stadtholder came out of the palace with hasty steps, flew to the Electress, and offered her his arm, to lead her into the palace. Nor need the two Princesses walk alone behind; they, too, have their knight--young Count Schwarzenberg, who had received the Electress. He offered his arm to the Princess Charlotte Louise, which she accepted with a lovely smile and a becoming blush. Ah! what a handsome couple that was, and how remarkably their dress corresponded, for the Princess was also dressed in silver brocade, and from her shoulders fell a mantle of purple velvet edged with ermine. The little Princess Sophie Hedwig stepped behind her. But who was this young man, who suddenly stepped forward, made his way through the throng, and offered her his arm? Nobody had seen him or observed him, and he had come on foot, accompanied by a single page. Who was this handsome young man, in light-blue velvet suit, who with the young Princess on his arm mounted the steps with her, laughing merrily.

"It is he! It is the Electoral Prince! It is Frederick William! Cheers for our Electoral Prince! Hurrah for Frederick William! Welcome, welcome home! Long live our Electoral Prince!"

Within the hall, at the window, stood the Elector, and these shouts emanating from thousands of throats darkened his countenance. The people had kept silence when their Sovereign showed himself to them, and now they exulted on seeing his son!

Without, at the head of the steps, stood the Electoral Prince, and the shouting of so many thousand voices summoned a glad smile to his face. How handsome he was, and what a happiness it was to look at him! How like a lion's mane fell his thick, fair brown hair on both sides of his narrow oval face, how like brilliant stars sparkled his large, dark-blue eyes, and what bold thoughts were written upon his broad, clear brow! And how stately and impressive was his figure, too--how slender, and yet how firm and athletic! Yes, those broad shoulders were well fitted to bear the burden of government, and behind that breast beat surely a strong, great heart!

"Long live the Electoral Prince! Three cheers! Long live Frederick William!"

He bowed once more, nodding and bestowing kind greetings upon those on both sides, then entered the palace, followed by his page in black velvet suit.

Who is that page? Nobody observes him, nobody has looked at him. Who troubles himself about the servant when he looks at the master?--who asks why the page's face is so pale, why his glance so feverish and restless? Very few know the court painter Gabriel Nietzel, and those who do know him will surely never imagine that it is he who to-day acts as page to the Electoral Prince Frederick William. He mingles with the host of gold-bedizened servants and lackeys in the entrance hall, and follows them into the banqueting hall. The doors of the house are closed; for the gaping crowd without the festival is ended, for the high-born guests within it is but just begun. The two wings of the doors leading into the banqueting hall are thrown open by the halberdiers, the musicians in the gilded balcony to the rear blow a loud, dashing flourish, and the Elector enters the hall, followed by the Electress, who leans upon the arm of Count Schwarzenberg. On both sides of the hall stand the lords and ladies of the nobility, who bow down to the ground, nothing being visible but the bowed necks of men, the courtesying forms of women--all is reverence, solemnity, and silence. In the middle of the long table, just before that immense, solid mirror of Venetian crystal, are the places of the Electoral pair, as may be seen by those throne-like armchairs, on whose tall, straight backs is carved a golden crown--as may be seen by the glittering gold plate of both covers.

How gorgeously is the long table laid, nothing to be seen but gold and silver plate! In the center is a huge piece of chased silver, representing Cupids and genii, who in golden shells, cornucopias, and vases offer the rarest fruits, the most delicious confections! Before each lady's plate, in wondrously cut goblets, is a magnificent bouquet of flowers; before each gentleman's, a silver bowl. A gold-bedizened lackey is behind each chair; two stand behind the chairs of each of their Electoral Highnesses.

"Why stands that page behind the Electoral Prince's chair?" asks the Stadtholder, loud enough to be heard by the Prince, who is near him.

Frederick William breaks off in the midst of his conversation with the young Count John Adolphus, and turns smilingly to the Stadtholder.

"Pardon, your grace," says he kindly. "I wished to preserve a memento of this handsome entertainment, the first entertainment by which my return home has been solemnized, and with my father's permission I have brought with me the court painter Gabriel Nietzel, in order that he may look upon the feast and make a sketch of the scene. Since, of course, he could have no place at the table, he has assumed a page's garb, that he may have the privilege of standing behind my chair. I fancy that the vain man would willingly immortalize himself in that picturesque costume. But as he has put on a page's clothes, he will also perform a page's part, and I have therefore at his request consented that he shall wait upon me to-day and hand me all my food. Does your grace also grant him this upon my bequest?"

"Oh, most gracious Prince, you need never make requests; you have only to command. Away there, you fellows! away from the Electoral Prince's chair, vacate your places for the page! Mr. Court Painter Nietzel, take good care not to be negligent in your duties, to-day be nothing but the Electoral Prince's page so long as we are at table, afterward you can again be the court painter!"

The page bowed in silence, and Count Schwarzenberg paid no further attention to him, but followed the Electoral pair, who were making the circuit of the hall, here and there addressing a friendly word to some member of the nobility, sweeping past before an answer could be stammered forth. The circuit was completed; a thrice repeated nourish of trumpets resounded; the Chamberlain von Lehndorf rushed to the window, and with a white handkerchief made a signal down to the pleasure garden. Cannon thundered forth salutes, informing the town that the Elector had just sat down to table, that the feast at the house of the Stadtholder in the Mark had begun.

A choice, a sumptuous banquet! Delicious viands, splendid wines! Gradually they forgot a little the requirements of rigid etiquette and pompous silence; gradually tongues were loosened, and there was talking and laughing; even the Elector lost his hard, peevish nature, his face glowed with a brighter hue, his form became more elastic, and cheerful words sounded from his lips.

A choice, a sumptuous banquet! The Electress laughed, and had totally forgotten that Count Adam Schwarzenberg, sitting at her side, was her detested enemy. She chatted as cozily and earnestly with him as if he were one of her most devoted friends and servants. Opposite her sat her two daughters, and Princess Charlotte Louise inclined with a pleasant smile toward Count John Adolphus, who sat beside her, and had just been painting to her with glowing eloquence the glories of the imperial city, gorgeous Vienna.

Now his bold glance darted across at the Electoral pair; they were busy talking and eating; nobody was noticing him.

"Princess, dear, adored Princess, do you hear me when I speak so softly?"

"I hear you, Sir Count."

"Sir Count!" repeated he, sighing. "You retract your word, then? You thrust me again into the ranks of your court cavaliers and counts? You have no longer a word of welcome for the poor, pitiable man who worships you, who is blessed if he can only look at you, only hear the tones of your sweet voice, and who has been longing for this with desire and painful rapture for three long months? Not one word of welcome for me?"

"I welcome you--welcome you with my whole heart! Have you only been away three months? Were they not three years?"

"Seems it so to you, my adored mistress? I believe it was three hundred years--three eternities. And yet these eternities have not altered your angelic face. It is still ever radiant in its heavenly, rosy beauty, and not a feature betrays that you have suffered on my account, that you have longed for me."

"Then my face belies me, for I have longed for you; therefore the months lengthened into years, and it seems to me as if I have become a very old, sedate person since I last saw you."

"Oh, dearest, how I long for one moment of solitary communing with you, when I can kneel at your feet, cover your hands with kisses, and tell you how inexpressibly I love you! Be not cruel, Louise, in this hour of reunion. Tell me that you, too, long for such a moment--that you will grant it to me."

"And if I should say so, how would it help us? You know well that I am watched day and night. My mother never lets me leave her side, and our governess watches over me still, just as if I were a child that could not walk a step without an attendant, nor write a line without her reading it."

"Ah, you dear, sweet angel! if you only loved me half as ardently as I love you, your pretty, prudent little head would already have devised some means whereby poor John Adolphus would not have to plead in vain for one blissful moment passed alone with you."

"I love you, John Adolphus, but oh, I dare not love you! The wrath of my mother would be boundless if she even suspected it."

"She need not suspect it beforehand, nor hear anything about it before we are certain of your father's gracious consent."

"You esteem that possible? You believe that my father will ever consent for me--"

"For you to condescend to become my wife? I hope so--hope that the Emperor's favor exalts me a little, so that the chasm which separates us is not too great for you to cross, for you to carry in your bosom a strong heart and a true love. About all these things I must speak with you, sweetest Princess, for here we must be cautious. Only see with what earnest looks the Electress is already regarding us! Be pitiful, Louise; tell me that you will consent to meet me alone for one quarter of an hour."

"Pass by the cathedral, then, to-morrow about ten o'clock of the forenoon. Old Trude will be there and have a message for you, and--"

"Long live our most gracious Sovereign! Long live George William!" cried Count Schwarzenberg, rising from his seat and holding the golden bumper aloft in his right hand.

All the guests started from their seats, and joined in the shouts: "Long live our most gracious Sovereign! Long live George William!" And the golden goblets clashed against one another, and the trumpets and kettledrums chimed in with crashing peals.

The Electoral Prince, too, would rise from his seat, but his head swam, all was whirls and turns before his eyes, and he sank back upon his chair.

Gabriel Nietzel stooped over him. "How are you, gracious sir? Are you not well?"

"Quite well as yet, Gabriel. Only give me a fresh glass of water and put some sugar in it."

Gabriel Nietzel flew to the sideboard, and, while he filled a glass with water, his pale lips murmured, "Your evil genius bade you say that!" And while he shook into the glass the white pulverized sugar, which, by the way, he had not taken from the bowl standing on the sideboard, in the depths of his heart he whispered, "Rebecca, this I do for you!"

He took up the tall tumbler and presented it to the Electoral Prince. Frederick William seized the glass and drank, in long draughts. It had done him good, his head was easy again, there was no longer such a fearful roaring in his ears.

George William's countenance glowed and his eyes burned. He loved the pleasures of the table, and the wine was costly and had driven all ill humor from his heart. He now felt quite comfortable, quite happy, and bent friendly glances across upon his son, who was so splendid, so glorious to look upon, and the sight of whom, although he would probably not acknowledge it to himself, rejoiced his father's heart.

Frederick William had just removed the great goblet from his lips, and placed it half full upon the table. The Elector saw it, the cold liquor looked inviting, and at the same time he would give his son a public token of his kindly disposition: all the guests must see how high in his favor stood the Electoral Prince.

"You drink water, my son?" he asked. "That is wise and prudent, and deserves to be imitated at this table of reveling. I will follow your example, Frederick William. Hand your glass across the table to me, son."

The Electoral Prince hastily rose from his seat, and tried to hand the glass to his father; but his hand trembled so violently that he could not hold the glass; it escaped from his hands, and fell with a crash upon the table.

The Electress uttered a piercing cry, the Princesses shrieked aloud. The music stopped in the midst of a strain commenced, the guests interrupted their conversation, and all eyes were directed to the middle of the table, where the Electoral family was seated. What did it mean? Prince Frederick William rose from his seat. His countenance was pale as death, but he still tried to keep a smile upon his lips. He bowed across the table to his father. "Your pardon, sir. Permit me to absent myself, for I am not quite well."

"Go, my son!" exclaimed George William. "That comes from not being accustomed to strong Hungarian wine!" And the Elector turned, laughing, to his wife, who glanced anxiously at her son. "Your wise son," said he, "has learned everything, only he has not learned to drink. He has not been taught that in your uncle's polite and polished court, and we must supply their negligence here."

The Electoral Prince reeled through the hall, waving off all who approached him or offered him assistance. "It is nothing, nothing at all," he said with cheerful, broken voice. "I have taken a little cold. Let me get away unnoticed."

All kept their seats, as the Prince desired, and as the Elector required by tarrying himself at the table. Only the Stadtholder, in his capacity of host, had risen from the table to offer his guidance to the Electoral Prince. He approached him, proffering the support of his arm.

"Will your highness do me the honor to rest upon my arm, and permit me to escort you to your carriage?"

The Electoral Prince shuddered, and, suddenly lifting his head, flashed an angry glance from his already clouded eyes into the proud, composed countenance of the count. But it quickly vanished, Frederick William accepted Schwarzenberg's proffered arm, and, leaning upon him, tottered out of the hall into the antechamber. His countenance was deadly pale, dark circles were under his eyes, his lips were colorless, his eyes bloodshot. But still he maintained his erect position by mere force of will, and even controlled himself so far as to smile and address a few friendly words to the count.

"My heavens, noble sir!" cried Schwarzenberg, with an expression of painful horror, "this is more than a mere passing indisposition. You are really sick--you are suffering!"

"Not so, count. I am not suffering at all, and it is only a trifling ailment. My father is quite right--the strong wine has mounted to my head. I am not used to drinking and feasting, that is all. To-morrow will--Count, I beg you to lead me to my carriage. It is dark before my eyes!"

And the Prince sank back groaning and half unconscious. The count beckoned the princely Chamberlain von Götz to approach, and the two gentlemen, aided by a few lackeys, bore the Prince carefully out to the carriage. Then Frederick William opened his eyes, his wandering glance strayed around, and his lips stammered softly: "Where is Gabriel Nietzel? Is he with me?"

But Gabriel Nietzel was nowhere to be seen; only the Chamberlain von Götz was there, and he got into the carriage, which bore the deadly sick Prince at full gallop to the palace.

Count Schwarzenberg looked after the retreating vehicle with earnest, thoughtful face, then turned to re-enter the palace. On the threshold stood Gabriel Nietzel, and the eyes of the two men met in one glance of awe and horror.

"Your grace sees I have kept my word," murmured Gabriel Nietzel.

"Away!" commanded the count imperiously. "If you are not out of Berlin in one hour I shall have you arrested by the police, and accuse you as the murderer of the Electoral Prince, for you alone waited upon him! Be off!"

But Gabriel Nietzel stirred not from the threshold, and the look which he fixed upon the count was not humble and reverential, but threatening. "Sir," asked he shortly and harshly--"sir, where are Rebecca and my child?"

"At your lodgings, you fool! Hurry, I tell you!" And with ungentle hand the count thrust the painter from the door, and returned to the banqueting hall to inform the Elector and his spouse with smiling, almost mocking gesture, that the young gentleman himself had said that the strong wine had slightly affected his head, and produced a temporary indisposition.

The Elector laughed aloud, and the anxious brow of the Electress cleared up again. The entertainment quietly proceeded.

Why should they be uneasy about the young gentleman, who had no other sufferings than those resulting from unwonted indulgence in strong drink?

The Electoral Prince had meanwhile arrived with his chamberlain at the castle. No one came to meet them. All the servants had dispersed hither and thither, in pursuit of their own business or enjoyments. They knew, indeed, that Count Schwarzenberg's feast would be continued to a late hour of the night, and who could imagine that the Electoral Prince would return home in so unexpected a manner? The castle was deserted, and the chamberlain must needs summon to his aid the sentinel who was pacing up and down before the castle, in order to lift the Prince from his carriage and into the entrance hall. Now he called aloud for help, since the Prince had become perfectly helpless, and lay senseless upon the stone bench in the hall.

The porter, who was only asleep in his lodge, rushed out, and old Dietrich, the valet, also came hurrying down the steps.

They bore the Prince to his own apartments, put him to bed upon his own couch, and, as the Chamberlain von Götz saw the old faithful Dietrich standing beside his young master, sobbing and so full of grief, he kindly laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"It is nothing of moment, good old man. The Prince has only taken too much wine, that is all. Be comforted. To-morrow will make all straight again."

Dietrich sorrowfully shook his head. "You are mistaken, Sir Chamberlain; this is not the effect of wine. The Electoral Prince is much too fine and noble a gentleman for that; he never drinks more than he can stand. Just see how pale and wretched he looks. My dear young master is sick, very sick. They have murdered him, they have killed him, they--"

"Hush, Dietrich, for God's sake, hush!" interposed the chamberlain, turning pale. "Guard your tongue, that it never again utter such horrible words; guard your thoughts, that they dare not even think anything so dreadful."

"It is true, nevertheless," murmured the old man, and, as he bent over the Electoral Prince and watched him with loving looks, the tears fell hot and fast from his eyes upon Frederick William's pale face. These tears roused the latter, restored him to consciousness.

There was yet one man who loved him, who sympathized with him, who wept when he saw him suffer!

The Electoral Prince opened his eyes, and, on recognizing old Dietrich, nodded to him and murmured softly, "Dietrich, I am suffering fearfully."

"Hear, Sir Chamberlain," said Dietrich; "the dear Prince recognizes me, he has his reason, he knows what he sees and says, so you see it is not wine that--But he says that he suffers fearfully, and I believe it indeed; for what burns his vitals is--I must go for the physician, Dr. White; he must try every means; he must know what ails the Prince--what they have done to him; and he must apply remedies. Stay here, Sir Chamberlain; I will run for Dr. White."

And old Dietrich hastily started to leave the couch, but the Prince's hand was laid upon his arm, and held him fast.

"Stay, Dietrich, stay! You, dear Götz, go you, I beg, for Dr. White and fetch him here; he must come immediately, for I am really sick. I suffer. Make haste, dear Götz. You are younger, brisker than my good old Dietrich; therefore I choose you."

The chamberlain pressed a kiss upon the Prince's burning, trembling hand.

"Dearest sir, as swiftly as a man's anxious heart can move his feet I shall hasten to the doctor and bring him here!"

The chamberlain flew on tiptoe from the apartment, and all was still. Nothing was heard but the low moans and sighs of the Prince, who lay there with pallid features and shaking limbs, while over him bent weeping his faithful old servant.

After a while the Prince raised himself a little, slowly opened his eyes, and cast a sad, sweeping glance around the room.

"Dietrich, are we alone?" he asked, in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.

"Quite alone, gracious sir."

"Then hear what I have to say to you. Incline your ear close to me, for you alone must hear me. When the physician comes, take good care not to repeat to him what you said just now to the chamberlain. He and all the world must think that it is actually nothing but wine which has made me sick. He will prescribe medicine for me. Have it prepared forthwith. You alone must stay with me. Tell them I have ordered it, and Götz must return to the banquet and tell them it was nothing but wine. Dietrich, do not give me the medicine, but throw it away. There is only one kind of physic for me--milk, only milk, that is my cordial. Give me milk, Dietrich, milk directly, for the pains are coming on again, so dreadfully, oh, so dreadfully! But do not tell anybody. Nobody must know what I suffer! It burns like fire! Milk, Dietrich, milk!"

IX.--LOVE'S SACRIFICE.

As if borne on the wings of the wind, Gabriel Nietzel had flown through the streets to his own abode. It lay in a quiet, retired quarter of the town, and, as he turned into the street and looked up to the house, he saw leaning far out of one of the windows a woman, who, her face shaded by her hand, was gazing down into the street. He recognized the form, although he could not see her countenance, and uttered a loud cry of joy. This cry of joy found an echo in the window above, and the form vanished. Gabriel Nietzel rushed into the house and up the steps. On the top step stood a woman with outstretched arms, and again Gabriel uttered a cry of joy and pressed his wife firmly to his breast, as firmly as if he would never let her leave the spot, as if his love would keep and hold her there forever. He bore her through the open door into their chamber, bore her to the cradle standing in the center of the room, and then sank with her on his knees.

They looked at one another, and then at the child, which lay there quietly with wide-open eyes, in sweet contentment.

"My child! my child!" cried Gabriel; and it was as if now for the first time he saw his boy, as if he had but just been sent him by Heaven, and for a moment, in the blissful consciousness of being a father, he forgot all--yes, _all_. He snatched up the child and hugged and kissed it, lost in rapture and delight. But all at once there came over him the memory of those pale, quivering features, the dimmed eyes, and drooping form. A shudder ran through his whole frame; with a shriek of horror he let the child fall back in its cradle, and clasped both hands before his face.

Rebecca tore back his hands, and her large black eyes gazed searchingly into his countenance. She now for the first time saw how pale he was, and how disturbed his mien. She now for the first time saw that he avoided her look, and that his breast heaved convulsively.

"Gabriel," she said, with firm, impressive voice--"Gabriel, something is the matter with you! Something has happened to you--something shocking, dreadful!"

"Nothing!" he cried, hastily leaping up--"nothing! But we must begone! We are to stay here no longer. We must away immediately--this very hour!"

"I know it," replied Rebecca quietly, her eyes fixed immovably upon her beloved--"I know it, Gabriel, and I have prepared everything, as Count Schwarzenberg himself directed. I have been in Berlin ever since this morning, but feared to come here until you had gone to the banquet. I have made all needful arrangements. I have hired a vehicle, which is waiting for us outside the Willow-bank Gate. The count says we are to go on foot; that no one in the city must see you set out, and give intelligence with regard to your movements. Since you have been gone I have packed up all our effects in boxes, and our kind, faithful friend Samuel Cohen will send them after us to Venice. What is indispensable for present use I have packed up in yonder trunk, which we must take with us. All is ready, Gabriel, and we can go. Only one thing I know not, have you money enough for our journey?"

"Money enough!" repeated Gabriel, with a hoarse, mocking laugh. "I have more money in my pocket than I ever had in my whole life put together. I have so much money that we can buy a house in Venice, on the Ghetto; and we shall, too, and I will live there with you, and will become a Jew, and take another name, for my own name horrifies me. I will not, can not hear it again!"

"Why not?" asked she earnestly. "It is a fine name--the name of a painter, an artist. Why would you never again hear your own name, Gabriel Nietzel?"

"Because it is notorious, infamous!" groaned he--"because it is the name of a--"

"Well, why do you hesitate, Gabriel?" asked Rebecca in anguish of soul, while she laid both her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed upon him with wistful glances. He would have avoided her eyes, but could not; his looks must sink deep into those glittering, black eyes. Deep they looked, deep as the sea, and he thought to himself that a secret could be buried there, and rest secure in the bottom of her heart.

"Gabriel Nietzel," asked Rebecca, in a voice at once threatening and tender--"Gabriel Nietzel, what have you done? What lies heavy upon your soul?"

"Nothing, my Rebecca, nothing! Ask no questions! We must begone! Make haste, dearest, take the child, and come; for if we do not hurry, we are lost!"

She slowly shook her noble, graceful head and stirred not from her place.

She kept Gabriel in his with her hands, which she pressed more firmly upon his shoulders.

"Gabriel, my dear, precious Gabriel, what have you done? Tell me. I demand to know it as my right. When we were married on the Lido, in the solemn stillness of the night, when we joined hands, and both swore in the presence of your and my God that we would ever love one another, and that death alone should part us, when you said, 'I take you to be my wife,' and I said, 'I take you to be my husband,' then we likewise swore that we would live truly and confidentially with one another, and have no secrets from each other. Gabriel, fulfill now your oath. I demand it of you, by the memory of that hour, by my love for you, by our child. Gabriel, what have you done?"

"I can not tell it, and you may not hear it, Rebecca. For, once uttered, that word will be a two-edged sword, and plunge us both in misery and shame!"

"Shame! There is no shame for the Jewess! Misery! Tell me a form of misery which I have not suffered and endured from childhood up! My mother was stabbed in Venice by a nobleman because she would not break her faith with my father and desert him. My father was known as a sorcerer and vender of poisons. The noblemen used secretly to resort by night to our wretched house upon the Ghetto, and paid him great sums for his drugs, but if he showed himself upon the streets by day, the populace hooted and cast stones after him. And when they saw me, they hissed and mocked, bestowing opprobrious epithets upon me, and even went out of the way to avoid the contamination of my touch, for I was the daughter of a poisoner, a secret bravo--I was a Jewess! But when I was grown, then the young noblemen came to my father, not merely for the sake of his drugs and medicines, but also--hush! Not a breath of it! You were my deliverer--my savior! You rescued me from all distress; you were to me as the Messiah, in whom my people have hoped for a thousand years. I followed you, and I shall go with you my whole life long--go with you to the scaffold, if needs be. I know it, Gabriel, I read it in your countenance; you have committed a crime!"

"A crime! A fearful crime!" said he, shuddering. "Turn your head away, Rebecca, I am not worthy that you should look upon me!"

"I do look upon you, Gabriel, I condemn you not. I am thinking of what we said to one another in the count's picture gallery. I called to you to rescue me at any price. I told you that if I could purchase deliverance thereby, I was ready to commit a crime. That to be with you again I would abjure the faith of my fathers, although I knew I should die of penitence after the perpetration of such a crime."

"And I replied to you, Rebecca, that I, too, was ready to perpetrate a crime for the sake of rescuing you and calling you my own again, and that I would not die of penitence."

"And yet you do repent, Gabriel, you shudder at yourself for you have done it, you have committed a crime. I will have my share in it, half of it belongs to me. In the sight of God, I am your wife, and you have sworn to share everything with me. Then divide with me, Gabriel; I claim my right. Share with me your crime, or I shall think that you love me no more, and then I shall go away, and you will never see me more."

"I do love you, Rebecca--I do love you! For your sake I have become a criminal, a murderer! I have purchased you at the price of my soul! Lay your ear close to my mouth, and I will tell you my dreadful secret: Rebecca, I am a murderer, a cursed murderer! I have committed a murder, which will cry out to Heaven against me as long as I live; for him whom I have murdered had never done me harm, but only good, and he confided in me, and trusted to my faith. Rebecca, I am cursed, and my name will be a byword in the mouths of men while books of history last. Rebecca, I have poisoned the Electoral Prince Frederick William!"

She uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back, as if struck by a thunderbolt.

"The Electoral Prince Frederick William! Not Count Schwarzenberg! The noble youth; not that detested evildoer, not him, who has deserved death a thousandfold?"

"He had not merely my life in his power, but yours and our child's. It would have profited me nothing to murder him; we should only all three have been irretrievably lost. I was forced to obey his orders--to perform the horrible deed--in order to save you and myself."

Rebecca pressed both hands tightly across her brow, and stared long at vacancy. "He must be saved!" she said. Then, after a pause, in a tone of firm determination, "Yes, he must be saved!"

"What could we do to save him?" sighed Gabriel hopelessly. "Nothing! You know your father's drugs are subtle, and never fail in their effects!"

"You administered to him some of the medicine which my father presented you with?" asked she, with a wondrous gleam of light in her black eyes.

"Yes, I gave him some. You know when we took leave of your father he handed me three boxes as a keepsake, saying that they were the only dowry he could give me with you, but that many a prince would pay us immense sums for them, if we should sell them to him for his dear relations; for in these boxes were the deadliest poisons, leaving behind not a trace of their existence. The contents of one box causes instantaneous death, and he therefore called it 'the apoplexy powder.' The contents of the second box killed more slowly, and prolonged the patient's life ten or twelve days; therefore he called it 'the inflammatory powder.' The third powder, however, because it works slowest of all, he called 'the consumptive powder.'"

"And of which powder did you give to the Electoral Prince?" asked Rebecca breathlessly.

"Of the inflammatory powder, for it was least dangerous to us."

"Did the Prince drink the whole potion poured out for him?"

"No, he only drank half, and when he tried to hand it to his father, who asked for it, the glass fell from his trembling hands, and its contents were spilled upon the table."

"Therefore the Prince only took half a powder?"

"Only half. But still he must die, for your father told me one pinch would produce death; and I gave him two, that the count might see its effects."

Rebecca did not reply. She had sunk upon her knees and folded her hands. Her lips moved as if in silent prayer.

"What think you?" asked Gabriel Nietzel, after a pause. "Why do you not speak to me? Do you despise me, because I have confessed my crime to you? Do you turn away from the poisoner, the murderer?"

"No," said she, suddenly drawing herself up erect. "No, I do not despise you, but I love you, and because I love you I will not that you should be a criminal. Had you poisoned the count, then I should have said, 'You have accomplished a good work. God has killed him by your hand; you are nothing more than the executioner, who has inflicted merited death upon the wicked, and has rid the world of him. Lift up your head and be joyful, for you were a tool in God's hand!' But you have poisoned a noble, good man, the son of your benefactress, and his death would cry out against you, and our child would be punished for the crime of his father. 'For I am a God of vengeance,' says the Lord, 'and I will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.' I love you, Gabriel, and no sin or crime could separate me from you; for have you not taken to your heart the daughter of a criminal, and sinned for her sake? But our child shall not suffer for what his parents have done. The God of our fathers shall not take vengeance on our child, the sun and happiness shall shine upon him; for we, Gabriel, we have known night and misfortune, and tasted all the bitterness of life. Gabriel, our child must be free from stain of guilt or crime, and therefore must the Electoral Prince be saved."

"Say how can it be done, show me a way to save him!"

"I know the way, and I will take it. I would save you and the child from bloodguiltiness and sin. Swear to me, Gabriel, that you will do what I shall require of you. Think of that hour upon the Lido when I gave myself to you. Think of the hour when this child was born, and I laid it in your arms and said: 'Take it. It is a gift of my love. Take the child with whom God has blessed us, and pronounced us pure!' And you swore to me with tears that you would be a faithful father to our child all his life, and shield him as far as in you lay from all the pains of earth. By the memory of that oath I now require you, Gabriel Nietzel, to lay your hand upon my child's head, and solemnly swear to me, by God, by our child, and by your love for me, to do exactly what I shall now demand of you."

With reverential, timid admiration Gabriel Nietzel looked into Rebecca's countenance, which was beaming with energy and beauty. He could not turn away his glance from her, for it seemed as if his inmost soul was held spellbound by her large, flaming eyes, resting fixedly upon him. Ever looking at Rebecca, he laid his hand upon the head of the child that lay slumbering in the cradle, and said in a distinct, solemn voice: "I swear by God, by our child, and by my love for you, Rebecca, that I shall do exactly what you will require of me."

She nodded her head as proudly and gravely as if she had been a queen, who had just received the homage of her vassal.

"Listen then, Gabriel," she said. "You take the trunk, I take the child, and let us be going, for the wagon is waiting for us outside the Willow-bank Gate, as you know. Do not speak to me by the way, for I have still much to plan and ponder. Time does not stand still, and every moment increases the Prince's peril. If help does not reach him to-night, then is he lost beyond hope of recovery. Come!"

Already a question was trembling on Gabriel Nietzel's lips. He wished to ask, "Can he by any possibility be saved?" But she had said, "Do not speak to me," and, obedient to his oath, he remained dumb, took up the trunk, and followed Rebecca, who had tenderly lifted the child from its crib and had just gone out of the door. Swiftly they passed side by side through the streets, which were still deserted, for all loungers and street idlers were still tarrying in Broad Street or on the castle square. Many a time Gabriel cast a look of questioning entreaty upon Rebecca, but she saw it not; she seemed to see nothing whatever, for her eyes were gazing afar off; like a somnambulist, she strode along, and even when the baby in her arms began to cry she took no notice of it, nor sought to comfort it with tender, soothing words. At last they had passed the gate behind the willow bank, and found themselves without the city. There stood the wagon waiting for them, covered with a tilt of gray canvas. The Jewish boy who sat on the back seat under the canvas awning had fallen asleep, resting his head against the great wooden arch to which the cover was secured. The two lean little horses were greedily eating of the oats in the dirty bags around their necks. Not a creature was to be seen. The wretched conveyance had excited no attention whatever, and caused not a single passer-by to pause.

Rebecca stepped up to the wagon and gently laid the child in the straw with which the vehicle was filled. Then, with a silent wave of the hand, she ordered Gabriel to set down the trunk he was carrying. He did so, and Rebecca took a key out of her pocket, knelt down before the trunk, and sought hither and thither among its contents. First she took from the bottom of the trunk a packet with five seals, and, as she hastily stuck it in her bosom, her eye was uplifted to heaven with a glance of glowing gratitude. Then she took out a white dress and a long white veil, carefully concealing these things under the great black mantle which enveloped her figure. Finally, she locked the trunk and handed the key to Gabriel.

"Place the trunk gently in the wagon, so as not to wake the child," she said. Gabriel silently obeyed, and then, standing on the footboard of the wagon, reached down his hand to her, as if he would ask her to follow.

She shook her head quickly. "Come, Gabriel," said she, "come, let us step across and talk under yon tree. The child sleeps and David Cohen sleeps, too. Nobody hears us. Come."

With hasty steps they crossed over to the great linden tree which stood at the side of the road. The birds sang and hopped about amid its dense foliage, and the hot sunbeams drew forth the most delicious fragrance from the blossoms with which each branch was laden. But the pair who walked up and down under the tree heeded neither the singing of the birds nor the perfume of the flowers. They were alone with one another and the sad, gloomy thoughts with which both their souls were filled.

"Gabriel," said Rebecca, recovering breath, "I will go to free you from the stain of blood, for if it remain it would not merely poison the Electoral Prince but your whole life. My father gave you only the half of my dowry, as he called it. The other half he retained and gave me. After he had presented you with the poison, and I was alone with him in his chamber, he held out to me the sacred volume, and required me to take three oaths, by the memory of my murdered mother and by the hatred and revenge which we had sworn to the whole world upon her beloved body. First, I must swear that I would never abjure the faith of my fathers and become a Christian. Secondly, I must swear that I would rear the child that God would give me in our own religion, and never while I lived consent to its being made a Christian. Thirdly, I must swear to preserve the sealed packet he intrusted to me as my greatest treasure, my most precious possession, and only to tell you of it in case of the most extreme danger and necessity; that I was only to make use of the contents to purchase wealth or happiness. 'I have given death into your dear Gabriel's hand,' he said, 'into your hand, my daughter, I give life, and surely that is something much more rare and precious. He has the poisons; I give you the antidotes. They are worth tons of gold; they are my most precious treasure, and twenty years have I labored ere I discovered them. When I succeeded, I thanked God for this glorious discovery, and then thrice I swore upon the sacred volume, with my face turned to the East and with loud voice, that never should a Christian obtain these priceless antidotes through me, that never would I impart knowledge of them to a Christian. I will keep my oath, and divulge the holy secret only to you, my Rebecca. Guard it in your bosom under three sacred seals, and only in the most perilous hour of your life break the seal, which I herewith lay upon your lips. But never may you transfer this precious treasure to other hands; no Christian may ever touch it. Would you save life, then you must do it yourself, and only from your own hands may the one smitten with death receive life.'