The dining-room doors were thrown open.
Count Wedel entered the king's cabinet.
Immediately both the folding doors were opened, Count Wedel raised his staff, the king appeared in the colonel's uniform of his Austrian regiment, the star of the Order of St. Stephen upon his breast, the cross of Maria Theresa around his neck. He leant on the arm of the crown prince.
He greeted his guests by a slight inclination of the head, and entered the dining-room. They all followed him.
Lieutenant von Wendenstein slowly recovered after the crisis was happily passed; and though at times he suffered from great weakness there was no serious drawback in his convalescence, and the physician gave his friends good hopes that his health in the future would not be impaired.
But no sooner did he really progress, no sooner did his strength really return, his eyes grow bright, and a slight colour tinge his cheek, than Helena withdrew from her office of nurse, and left the care of the invalid entirely to the charge of Madame von Wendenstein and his sister, whilst she bestowed all her attentions upon the old lady, as if anxious lest she should miss any of her home comforts.
It was very unnecessary, for Madame von Wendenstein wanted nothing more than the sight of her son's improvement day by day.
With beaming eyes and radiant smile she watched the progress of his recovery, and with the quick perceptions of a mother's love she noted every shade of colour and of expression on the face of her son betokening the return of life and youthful strength.
She grew lively and cheerful, and showed much interest in the arrangements of the Lohmeier household; she had often expressed her surprise and great satisfaction at the orderly way in which everything was arranged; at the beautiful house linen, the excellent cooking, and the order in the house work, and she was amazed that so young a girl as Margaret should be so good a manager. She had kindly bestowed the rich treasures of her experience upon her young hostess, for whom she felt great affection, and old Lohmeier regarded this distinguished lady, who yet was so well acquainted with all household details, with the greatest veneration, especially when he saw the interest his daughter, the pride of his heart, had excited in her mind.
The lieutenant remarked that Helena no longer appeared at his bed-side; his eyes often rested upon her enquiringly when he was able to rise and go into his mother's room, but he said very little, he was not quite sure whether the sweet and charming picture which filled his mind was the result of a feverish imagination or the truth.
Helena was quiet and dreamy; she seldom looked at Wendenstein, the feelings she had so plainly shown in the days of anguish and danger were now most carefully concealed.
Madame von Wendenstein often turned her mild eyes sympathizingly upon the young girl; but she did not say a word, for she held that every true woman's heart is a tender flower, which must bud and blossom in its own way, shrinking back and closing at a rough touch. In her quiet pious way she had committed both these young hearts into God's hand, and she trusted that in His good time they would come to a happy understanding.
The candidate came very little. He was unwearied in consoling and exhorting the sick, and the whole town spoke of him with esteem and admiration. He said a few kind and hearty words to Lieutenant von Wendenstein when he first saw him, after his recovery appeared certain, reminding him of the gratitude he ought to feel for the life restored to him when on the threshold of death; but Wendenstein felt a strange shudder pass through him as he spoke, and he sat still afterwards for some time in deep thought, pursuing the frightful and alarming recollections which arose in his mind, but which he could not completely recall. Whenever he saw the candidate the same feeling of cold and deadly fear returned, and again his memory refused to recall the reason. He blamed himself greatly for his aversion to so excellent a man, and the more his recovery progressed and his nerves strengthened, the more he struggled to feel kindness and friendship for the young clergyman.
After some time of this quiet life, the day came when the ladies and the lieutenant, who could now walk slowly, determined to return home. Notwithstanding her joy at her son's recovery Madame von Wendenstein had a new and deep cause for grief. The incorporation of Hanover with Prussia was quite decided upon, and the president had told his wife in a short and mournful letter that he should resign, as he could not at his age change his masters. He should go to Hanover for a time, and then he would buy an estate for his son the lieutenant, as he no longer wished him to remain in the army under present circumstances. The whole family could reside with him.
This letter Madame von Wendenstein received the evening before her journey. As she read it large tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She was then to return, only to leave the old house that for so many years had sheltered her, the home filled with so many remembrances of her quiet happy life. But she was accustomed always to conform to her husband's will without questioning it, and when she thought of leaving the old house at Blechow, which after all belonged to the office the president was about to resign, and of going to an estate which would really be her son's, and of the pleasure of arranging and founding a house for him, she dried her tears. She thought of the children and grandchildren who would always live there, and a smile played round her lips as she again read the president's letter.
The lieutenant's eyes sparkled with joy.
"Oh! how I thank my father!" he cried; "how grateful I am to him for allowing me to leave the service. It would have been too painful to forget the old flag for which I shed my blood."
And holding out his hand to his mother with a smile he said--
"And how beautiful my dear mother will make our new home; oh! it will be charming!"
He gazed at Helena who sat opposite to him, bending over her work. She did not raise her eyes; but she felt his look, and a deep blush passed over her face, and Madame von Wendenstein saw it with a quiet smile; from the sorrowful present she foresaw a bright and happy future.
Whilst this went on in the apartments upstairs, Margaret sat with her father and Fritz Deyke at their simple evening meal.
The young girl turned the new potatoes skilfully out of their brown coats, they were first-fruits of the year, and she prepared them for her father and the guest who had become like one of themselves.
They were all three silent, and the young peasant looked very mournful.
"You do not eat," said the old man, looking at his guest's plate, though he himself showed but little appetite.
"Perhaps I have not done them well," said Margaret, trying to make a little joke; but her voice was dismal.
Fritz Deyke gave a quick glance at her pale face and downcast eyes.
"I cannot!" he cried, as he threw down his knife and fork upon the plate. "When I think that I am to go to-morrow, I really wish I had never come; when I sit at home and think of how happy we used to be, especially how beautifully Margaret did everything at dinner time--no wonder I cannot eat!"
Old Lohmeier looked at him sympathetically, it was plain that he was sorry to part with the kind, goodhearted young fellow.
"Stay here," he said simply, "you know we should like to keep you."
Margaret looked at him with bright eyes swimming with tears.
"I cannot help it," he said, "I must go some time, and the longer I stay the worse it will be."
He sighed deeply, and his eyes met those of the young girl.
Margaret put down her head and sobbed aloud. Then she sprang up, covered her face with her hands, and leaned her head against a large chest that stood in the corner, weeping bitterly.
Fritz Deyke rushed to her.
"My God!" he cried, and tried to withdraw her hands from her face, "I cannot bear it, you will break my heart!"
He stood still for a moment before the weeping girl with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. Then he walked quickly back to the table and stood before the old man.
"Herr Lohmeier," he said in a firm tone, "I can no longer restrain my feelings. I intended to go home first and come to an understanding with my father, and then to come back here, but I cannot do it. I cannot see her cry, I must speak, and as to my father, I know beforehand quite well what he will say. Herr Lohmeier, I cannot be happy without Margaret, I have enough, much more than enough to keep a wife. I know you think me an honest fellow--give me your daughter!"
Margaret did not move, she kept her hands over her face, the low sound of her weeping was heard throughout the room, whilst Fritz Deyke looked at her father in breathless suspense.
He gazed gravely before him. He did not look much surprised, perhaps he had expected something of the kind, but for a time he was silent and thoughtful.
"It is all right as far as I am concerned," he said at last, "I have grown very fond of you, and I can trust my daughter's happiness to you, but there are two persons to ask about it--in the first place, my daughter."
With one bound Fritz was by Margaret's side.
"Margaret," he cried, "will you go with me?" And putting his arm round her, he drew her gently to the table opposite to her father.
She let her hands glide down from her face; her eyes were full of tears, but they beamed with affection and confidence, and whilst she gazed at her young lover, she said in a loud firm voice:
"Yes!"
"Well, that is one person," said old Lohmeier, laughing, "but the consent of the second is a graver matter, I mean your father. These are sad times, and your father, a thorough-going Hanoverian, will scarcely welcome a Prussian daughter-in-law to his house; she is the daughter of a stiff true Prussian, and I would disinherit her if she ever forgot the love she owes her king."
Fritz Deyke was silent for a moment.
"Herr Lohmeier," he then said, "you know I am a Hanoverian with all my heart and soul, and that it is a great grief to me that we are now to be Prussian, but what can I do, or how can Margaret help it? We did not make the politics and we can't change them; would to God Prussia and Hanover could come to as good an understanding as we have done. However," he added more warmly, "I cannot complain, for if Prussia takes my country at least it gives me the best thing it has, and my annexation is a peaceful one, of heart to heart."
He embraced Margaret, and looked imploringly at the old man.
But he continued grave and thoughtful--
"Will your father think so?" he asked.
Fritz considered a moment, then he cried suddenly,
"Wait a moment!" and rushed from the room.
Lohmeier looked after him with surprise. "Where is he going?" he asked.
"I think I know," said Margaret; "he has often told me what a great respect his father has for Madame von Wendenstein, and how he will do anything at a word from her."
Fritz soon came back.
"Madame von Wendenstein begs you to go to her," said he to old Lohmeier with a look of delight.
He stood up at once, brushed his sleeve with the tips of his fingers, stroked his grey hair with the palm of his hand and went upstairs.
Fritz and Margaret remained alone.
He seated himself and gently drew the young girl into a chair beside him.
What did they say? So little and yet so much, their speech was so old and yet so new, one more variation on the eternal melody of love, that rings in the human heart from the cradle to the grave, and whose endearing tones pass with the soul into the great harmony of Eternity.
Madame von Wendenstein led old Lohmeier into her son's sick room, and there they remained together for half an hour, and the result of their conversation was, that he consented to his daughter's betrothal to Fritz, upon condition that old Deyke's approval was gained; and that he might learn to know his future daughter-in-law, Madame von Wendenstein invited Margaret to go home with her. She undertook to introduce her lover's father to her, and to instruct her in the house-keeping arrangements of her own country. Old Lohmeier accepted the invitation with much pride, for his veneration for this lady who had passed many weeks in his house, was immense. He informed the young people with great dignity and importance, "that he had talked the matter over with his much honoured friend Madame von Wendenstein," and they both felt extremely happy, though Margaret was rather alarmed at the prospect of meeting with the stern old Bauermeister, of whom Fritz always spoke in terms of the greatest respect.
Thus their departure drew near. Some time before, Madame von Wendenstein had endeavoured to propose some remuneration for all the trouble and expense her son's illness had occasioned, but it had been so decidedly refused by the old brewer, and he had appeared so hurt at the proposal, that she had never again renewed it. On the day of her departure she gave Margaret a beautiful cross of rubies and diamonds, on a string of large pearls.
"I have wept many tears here," she said gently. "Let the pearls remind you of this, my child; but the sacred love we adore in the Cross, the sign of the Holy Passion and of our redemption, has dried my tears, and raised and comforted my heart. Let the cross remind you of this; and if you, too, shed tears of grief, look at this cross, with firm faith and loving resignation."
Tears were in Margaret's eyes as she received the cross; and old Lohmeier took Madame von Wendenstein's fine white hand in his own with emotion, and pressed his lips upon it. He carefully locked up the pearl necklace and the cross in an old oaken chest, in which he kept the simple but massive ornaments of his late wife; they were all to be Margaret's when she married, and entered the large old farmhouse as its mistress.
And then they set out, accompanied by a thousand good wishes from old Lohmeier, who promised, when all was arranged, to think of retiring from his business, and of spending the last years of his life quietly near his daughter's new home.
Thus in the spot where so bloody a battle had raged between Hanover and Prussia, Christian compassion had caused two young hearts to reap a harvest of love from the seeds of hatred. Thus was the will of the Eternal accomplished, who turns evil into good; and where demons have led men into strife and hatred, His unwearied care removes their gloomy traces by that bright child of heaven--Reconciliation.
Their return to Blechow was grave and sad. The president silently strained to his breast the son restored to him from the gates of death; silently, too, he kissed the brow of his wife. The days that followed were calm and melancholy.
The president worked hard with Auditor von Bergfeld, that he might leave everything in the most perfect order for his successor. Madame von Wendenstein went quietly about the house, occupied in the melancholy task of displacing the treasures collected during more than twenty years of house-keeping, and the remembrances they awakened were known only to her eye and her heart. All those treasures had to be packed in huge coffers, and conveyed to the new house. And the enormous oaken chests looked so sad, with their opened doors and their empty trays, and throughout the house sighed the gloomy spirit of departure and separation, the spirit that moves through human life like a messenger of death, touching the heart with a shrinking foreboding of the last great farewell of eternity. Every farewell breaks a flower from the wreath adorning the spring-time of our lives, until the last blooms are buried beneath the wintry snows of death. But every blossom leaves a fruit behind, whose seed is in itself; and these will bear purer, fairer flowers, and spring up into imperishable beauty beneath the life-breath of eternal spring.
Fritz Deyke had a long conversation with his father, who looked very black at first, when he heard what his son had to say. He loved his son, he had unbounded confidence in him, and he knew he would make no unworthy choice; but to have a town young lady for his daughter-in-law, to have a Prussian mistress in Hanoverian Wendland was not at all to his mind. But he said nothing, and, at his son's request, he went to the castle to see Madame von Wendenstein.
The old lady he had always regarded as a model of womanly perfection, and she told him of all the attention and kindness her son had received in old Lohmeier's house, taking care to describe the excellent burgher position held by Margaret's father. Then she kindly and warmly urged him not to visit the misfortunes of the times upon innocent heads; and he held out his hand to her, and said,--
"It shall be as my son wishes. He is good and true: the wife he brings to my house shall be welcome, and my blessing shall rest upon her."
Then Madame von Wendenstein opened the door into the next room, and Margaret, blushing deeply, and trembling from agitation, entered; but her eyes were bright and candid. She was dressed in the costume of the rich peasant women of Wendland. She went up quickly to the old man, and kissed his hand, and a warm tear fell upon the hand hardened with toil.
A gentle smile passed over the stern, furrowed face of the old peasant; his eyes looked milder than they had done for many a day, as he gazed down upon the young girl's strong, yet slender form. He stroked her glossy hair, and said, in a low voice,--
"God bless you, my daughter!"
Then everything was said, and everything was settled. Old Deyke was a man of few words; but his words were like a rock--you might have built a house upon them when they were spoken.
He took Margaret to his farm, and as she walked at his side, and told him artlessly how amazed she had been at the wonderful treasures of the old castle, and as she let a word fall showing every now and then, how much she knew about housekeeping, his face grew brighter and brighter. But when she sent the maidservants out of the kitchen, and lighted the fire, and cooked the dinner herself with skilful hands; when she laid the cloth, arranging everything so quickly and prettily, whilst Fritz watched her with delighted eyes; when at last she brought the old man's pipe, and lighted it for him, and then looked up at him with loving, imploring eyes, he looked at her through tears: the image of his dead wife rose before him, and he held out his hand to his son, saying,--
"I thank you for bringing me such a daughter."
The young people knelt down before him, and he said, in a low half choking voice:
"God bless and keep you, my dear, dear children!"
The lieutenant was very quiet and thoughtful. His wound was quite healed, his nerves were grown strong again, and the wonderful reparatory powers of youth sent his blood through his veins as quickly as before. He seldom saw Helena: when she came up from the Vicarage she was surrounded by the others, and he could only exchange a few words with her. The old merry confidence between the two friends from childhood would not return; there was something new and strange between them, which closed their lips when it sought expression in words.
One afternoon, when the president was hard at work with Auditor von Bergfeld, and Madame von Wendenstein, her daughters and Margaret were busy in the melancholy occupation of dismantling the house, the lieutenant walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the pastor's.
The roses had withered in the pretty little garden, and the autumnal asters raised their many-coloured heads, overtopped by the tall and brilliant sunflowers.
Helena sat at the open window, and often raised her eyes from her work to look dreamily over the cornfields; her father and the candidate had gone out to make some visits in the village; she was alone with her thoughts.
Suddenly she trembled slightly, a blush spread hastily over her delicate face, she let her work fall into her lap; Lieutenant von Wendenstein had entered the garden, and was approaching the house.
A moment later he knocked at the door of the sitting-room; she made an effort to cry "Come in," and he entered.
He looked delighted when he saw that Helena was alone.
He came to her quickly and took her hand.
"My father is out," she said, with downcast eyes and trembling voice, "will you take a chair?"
The lieutenant remained standing before her, and looked at her long and affectionately. Then he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon it.
Blushing deeply, she tried to draw her hand away; he held it with gentle force.
"I am so very glad to find you alone," he said; "I have wanted so long to ask you something I am not quite sure about."
She raised her eyes to his with surprise and enquiry, she wished to speak, but she found no words.
"Helena," he said, in a low voice, "when I was wounded and ill in Langensalza, without strength enough to think clearly, dizzy with fever, a sweet image was always before me,--I saw a consoling angel looking at me so kindly, so lovingly,--I held her helping hand in mine, I pressed it to my lips, and from the depths of my heart I said, 'dear Helena.'"
She withdrew her hand quickly, and seated herself on the chair near the window; pale and trembling, her eyes sought the ground.
He went up to her and continued in urgent terms:
"Tell me,--for sometimes a gloomy veil comes over my memory,--tell me, this image that never leaves my heart, that follows me everywhere--was it real?"
She gave no answer, but sat still and motionless.
"Helena," he said imploringly, "I saw eyes that told me such good and loving things in a mute language,--those eyes are near me night and day. Helena, look at me once more, that I may see whether the image in my heart was the dream of fever, or the truth."
He sank on his knees before her, and seized her hand as it hung beside her, looking up at her with an earnest loving gaze.
Then she slowly raised her eyes, and in her eyes lay her answer; those eyes again spoke the mute language that found an echo in his heart. Again he pressed her hand to his lips, and again she permitted it with a loving smile, and in a soft voice, happy and triumphant, he whispered, "Dear, dear Helena!"
They sat for a long time in silence; he was never weary of gazing on the beloved features which in the days of his deadly peril were graven so deeply in his soul.
Then he sprang up, bent over her and held her in his arms.
The door opened, the pastor and candidate entered.
The old gentleman looked much surprised at this unexpected scene, an evil flash of hatred darted from the candidate's sharp eyes, but he quickly fixed them on the ground and an oily smile played around his mouth.
Helena bent down her head in charming confusion. The lieutenant hastened to the pastor and seized his hand energetically.
"Dear sir," he said, in a decided voice, "my dear playmate, Helena, watched over my life, and saved it when it hung on the feeblest thread,--I have implored her to watch over it henceforth,--for ever,--and--she will." He looked at the young girl with eyes full of happiness and continued, "Will you unite our hands before the altar of our dear old church, where we made our vows at our confirmation?"
And he looked the old clergyman honestly in the face.
He was still lost in astonishment at the turn affairs had taken, and which he had never perceived.
He looked at his daughter. Her deep blushes, and the bashful, yet imploring expression of her eyes, convinced him that God had joined two hearts together, and that it would ill beseem him to part them. He loved von Wendenstein, and could only rejoice at the prospect of being more closely connected with him; but his intentions and plans for his daughter had been so different, he could not accommodate himself at once to the change.
Helena sprang to her feet, she hurried to her father and threw herself upon his breast.
The old gentleman looked gravely at his nephew, he stood with downcast eyes, and gentle smiles.
"My dear Herr von Wendenstein," said the pastor, "you well know the great esteem I have ever entertained for you and your family, and if my daughter has given you her heart, as a father and as a priest I must lay my hand upon your heads and bless you. I must own, however, that all this has greatly surprised me. I had quite different ideas as to my daughter's future life," and he again looked enquiringly at the candidate.
But he came up to the pastor, and said in a calm voice, though without raising his eyes:
"Let there be no discord in the friendly harmony of this hour, my dear uncle. You know I am devoted above all things to my sacred calling; earthly wishes, however dear to my heart, cannot disturb the spiritual calm of my soul, and if heaven has decreed that my hopes and desires are to be denied, I shall only see a gracious dispensation of Providence, intended to turn away my soul from earthly things, that all its powers may be devoted to the accomplishment of my sacred office. I shall pray for my cousin's happiness with my whole soul! I congratulate you most heartily, Herr von Wendenstein," he added, holding out his hand to the young officer. He seized it and looked at the young clergyman with emotion. But the hand was cold as ice, and a deep shudder passed through his nerves, as he felt its smooth serpent-like pressure.
The last time that all the family friends assembled around the hospitable board of the old Castle of Blechow, was at the celebration of the lieutenant's betrothal with Helena. The president had thus willed it, and he also insisted that old Deyke, Fritz, and Margaret, as well as Lohmeier, who was with them, should take part in the family festivity, which was also a day of farewell. The president wished to make a sad farewell less melancholy, by thus solemnizing the union of two hearts.
He wished that all should carry away a happy recollection of their last day at Blechow, and that the last rays of the old times should sink brightly into the ocean of the past.
Everything was packed up, and ready to start; only the dinner service and the heavy old plate was still used, and displayed its glories for the last time.
The president's eldest son had arrived early in the morning, and had had a long and serious conversation with his father.
He told him he had been offered the assistant-secretaryship in the Ministry of the Interior in Berlin, and he expressed a wish to accept the appointment, since he hoped by this means to alleviate the condition of his native country, under its new circumstances. Yet he left the decision entirely to his father.
The president stood for a long time in grave thought
"You are young, my son," he said, at last, in a gentle voice; "your life belongs to the future--you must go forth and work in the present--you ought not to bury yourself in the past. The king has released all his civil servants from their oath; you are therefore free,--seize the opportunity of making a career for yourself, and of labouring for the general good. But never forget that good and faithful Hanover is your fatherland,--keep that remembrance sacredly in your heart, and when you can, work that it may be treated lovingly, for the sake of it; fair and honourable history in the past. My blessing be upon you in your new path!"
The son kissed his father's hand in silence, and nothing more was said by either of them on the subject.
The guests sat around the table in the dining-room of the old castle with grave emotion. Old Deyke took his place beside the president with great dignity. Fritz and Margaret sat beside each other embarrassed, but happy,--the lieutenant's eyes sparkled with joy. Helena's fair face expressed thoughtful happiness; and though a tear sometimes shone in Madame von Wendenstein's soft eyes, when she looked at her son and his lovely bride, such a happy smile came to her lips, that it was hard to say whether the pearly drop came from the bitter cup of grief or the pure spring of joy.
"Do you remember, dearest Helena," said the lieutenant, "how you showed me the dark cloud, which was driven away from the silver beams of the moon? You see it has returned, and now rests in its pure, full light; but it brings no storm, no tempest, but blessing and happiness to the garden of our lives!"
She looked at him with her loving eyes, smilingly.
"I think," she whispered, "you have found the magic key of the kingdom of dreams and fancies, which you once thought you could only have from my hands."
"And did I not have it from your hands?" he said; "you gave it to me when I was on the borders of death, and I will guard it truly in the golden light of life!"
The dessert was brought. A post-horn was heard.
The old servant in a few minutes announced Baron von Klentzin.
"The successor to your office in Blechow, my dear father," said the assessor; "the civil commissioner von Hardenberg has desired him to release you."
They all rose gravely.
The Prussian entered; he was a tall, slender young man, elegant in his appearance, graceful in his movements.
The president advanced towards him with calm dignity.
"You are welcome, Baron von Klentzin, to my house,--the house that is still mine, and that to-morrow will be yours. We are celebrating a family festivity,--the betrothal of my son,--and I beg you will join us."
He introduced the young man to his wife, and to the others, and then requested him to be seated beside Madame von Wendenstein. He signed to the servant to fill his guest's glass with champagne.
"To-morrow I shall resign my office to you, and I hope you will find everything in order," said the old gentleman,--"to-day allow me to treat you as my guest."
Baron von Klentzin bowed.
"I enter your circle as a stranger," he said, "and I feel I can scarcely be welcome. But I beg you, sir, and all here present, to believe that I deeply respect your feelings,--we know what love to the Fatherland is,--and," he added warmly, "we come to you with open hands and hearts. May the future unite us all, without grief or bitterness, in one glorious Germany! Now, permit me to empty my glass to the happiness of the youthful pair!"
"Sir," said the president, with deep melancholy in his voice, "it has ever been the unalterable custom at my table to drink to the health of our king and commander-in-chief. He is no longer sovereign of this country. You will understand how I wish this last day not to deviate from the old custom of my house. A new time arises, but let us think of the old with thankfulness and love!"
Baron von Klentzin seized his glass.
"Only from love of the past can bloom a blessing on the future," he said feelingly; "and far be it from me to prevent, by my presence, the last farewell to such a past."
They all rose.
The president said, solemnly--
"'The King!' who was our lord, and to whom the service of my life belongs. May God's blessing be upon him!"
They all repeated the toast.
Herr von Klentzin, deeply moved, touched his glass against his host's, and the slight sound reverberated through the room.
They all emptied their glasses silently.
That was the last toast to George V. in the old castle of Blechow. Klentzin looked down thoughtfully.
"We have won a fair country," he said to himself; "God grant that we may win these hearts to true brotherhood."
King William had returned to Berlin. The nation received him with the wildest joy, scarcely knowing how to express its delight and enthusiasm at this unparalleled seven days' campaign, the wonderful success of which had placed Prussia so high amongst the first-class powers of Europe, and had so completely consolidated the unity of Germany. The first wild burst of delight was over in Berlin. Everything began to return to its accustomed course, at least outwardly, for every heart still swelled high with the proud feeling of victory.
Early one morning King William entered his cabinet. He was dressed, as always, in uniform, with the iron cross and the Order of Merit.
"Is Schneider here?" he enquired of the attendant on duty.
"At your majesty's command. He waits in the anteroom."
At a sign from the king, Louis Schneider entered, with a large portfolio under his arm.
"Good morning, Schneider," cried the king. "Everything has returned to its accustomed order, and we can begin regular work. What is there in the way of literature? What have you got in that great portfolio?"
"Allow me first, your majesty, to offer you my most hearty congratulations on the successful termination of the war. Here, on the very spot," said Schneider, with emotion, "where I stood last time--that day when your majesty regarded the future so anxiously, and found yourself so completely without allies,--your majesty has again experienced that the King of Prussia is not weak when he stands alone!"
"If he has those two Allies who gave us our device," said the king, with a calm smile, "God and the Fatherland!"
He was silent for a moment. Schneider opened his portfolio.
"Well, what have you in the newspapers?" asked the king.
"Nothing, your majesty, but variations upon one theme--joy at our victories, gratitude to our royal conqueror, his soldiers, and his ministers. The whole press is one great dithyrambus, expressing its emotions now majestically, now pathetically, now comically. But good advice to Prussia and the North-German Confederacy is not wanting. It is incredible how much didactic writing is produced on the future well-being of Germany. Would your majesty like an example?"
The king was silent, and looked thoughtfully before him.
"Schneider," he said, "how ungrateful men are!"
Schneider gazed at the king in amazement.
"Your majesty," he cried, "I cannot, alas! deny that ingratitude is a characteristic of the human race; but I thought the present time was really an exception, everyone is so anxious to express gratitude to your majesty, to the generals."
"It is just at the present time," said the king gravely, "that I think the world, and Berlin especially, so very ungrateful. They thank me, in the most exaggerated words, my Fritz too, all my generals; butOneMan they forget, and yet that man had a great share in the success that God has given us."
Schneider still looked at the king enquiringly.
"No one thinks of my brother, the late king," said King William, in a voice that trembled slightly.
Deep emotion appeared on Schneider's animated face, a tear shone on his eyelashes.
"Yes, by God!" he cried, in his sonorous voice, "your majesty is right; we are ungrateful."
"How deep, how true," said the king, "was his devotion to Germany's greatness, and to Prussia's destiny; how much he did to strengthen the army, and to organize the government of Prussia, that she might be ready to fulfil her high calling. Prussia's future greatness was clear to his enlightened mind; and if the rough hand of revolution had not interfered in the carrying-out of his plans and views----"
The king paused suddenly, and pursued his thoughts in silence.
Schneider's eyes rested with warm affection upon the thoughtful features of his generous and simple-minded sovereign.
"If God has granted to us to pluck the fruit," continued the king, "yet ought we not to forget whose careful hand planted the tree and watered its roots in time of drought; truly he has not deserved it of us."
The king turned to his writing-table, and took up a sheet of paper.
"I have written down a few of my thoughts," said he with some hesitation, "but chiefly facts, as to what the late king did for Prussia, how he strengthened the army, and the nation, and laboured for the unity of Germany. I should like a leading article to be written from this and published in the 'Spener Gazette,' that all Berlin may read it. Will you see to this?"
He held out the paper to Schneider, who took it respectfully, his eyes resting on the king's face with admiration and surprise.
"I will attend to it at once,--does your majesty wish for an especial title?"
"It must be made rather striking," said the king, "that every one may read it. Let it be called 'A Royal Brother,'" he added after a moment's thought; "if all forget him, his brother must not forget him."
"I will carry out your majesty's wishes at once," said Schneider, "and," he added with much emotion, "I shall henceforth look upon what has passed to-day as the most beautiful incident of my life. The victor of Königgrätz amidst the rejoicing of his people places half his laurels on his brother's grave."
"It hurts me to find how little they thought of my brother in their rejoicings," said the king, with a gentle smile, "for I have only built upon the foundation he laid. Now go, and take care that the article appears shortly, we will do nothing else to-day. This you will do with your whole heart. I know your faithfulness to your late king."
He offered his hand to Schneider, but would not permit him to press it to his lips.
The king turned away and walked silently to his writing-table, and in silence Schneider left the cabinet.
Count Bismarck too had returned, and was devoting himself with resistless energy to the work before him of organizing and arranging the new state of affairs.
Late one evening the count again sat in his cabinet before his large writing-table, piled with papers, busily occupied in reading despatches, and in thinking over what was laid before him. There was a sharp knock at the door leading from the ante-room.
The count looked up. His confidant only would come in that manner.
"Come in!" he exclaimed. Baron von Keudell entered. The minister nodded to him with a smile.
"What brings you here, dear Keudell?" he asked, laying aside a paper which he had just looked through, "has anything happened?"
"Something decidedly strange has happened, your excellency, which I must at once impart to you. Monsieur Hansen is here, and has just been with me."
"Hansen, the Danish agitator?" asked Bismarck.
"The same," said Keudell, "only this time he is not the Danish agitator, but the French agent."
A cloud gathered on Count Bismarck's brow.
"What do they still want in Paris?" he cried. "Are they not yet satisfied? Benedetti must have understood me perfectly."
"I think they wish to make one more secret effort," said von Keudell. "I beg you to hear Monsieur Hansen yourself, he is to a certain extent accredited by Drouyn de Lhuys, and he can really tell us much that it interests us to know."
"Drouyn de Lhuys is no longer minister," said Count Bismarck.
"He has resigned, certainly," replied Keudell, "and Lavalette is in his place until Moustier arrives, but his credentials prove that Hansen has something to propose, which is not to follow the usual course of diplomacy until it is known how we shall receive it."
"Well," said Bismarck, after a short pause, "why should I not hear him? My mind, though, is made up as to all these proposals, direct or indirect. Where is Monsieur Hansen?"
"I brought him with me; he is waiting down stairs, and if your excellency desires----"
"Be so kind as to bring him here," said the minister; "I shall find you when I join the countess?"
Keudell bowed, a minute afterwards he took Monsieur Hansen to the cabinet and withdrew as soon as Bismarck had received the unimportant-looking little man with great cordiality, and had requested him to be seated at his writing-table.
The count's keen grey eyes rested enquiringly on the clever face of the Dane.
"Your excellency," said Hansen, "I thank you in the name of my country for your generosity to Denmark, after your complete success, expressed in Article V. of the peace stipulations."
Count Bismarck bowed slightly.
"I have nothing against Denmark," he said; "on the contrary I esteem and respect that sturdy little nation, and I heartily wish Prussia and Denmark to live together on friendly terms. I rely upon your countrymen not to throw difficulties in the practical fulfilment of the principles which must guide us in regard to Denmark."
"I wish to be of use to your excellency," said Hansen. "I have come to impart my ideas upon the delicate relations existing between newly constituted Germany and France."
Count Bismarck made a slight movement intimating that he was willing to listen.
"I ought to impart to your excellency that I have been initiated into the negociations that have already taken place."
Bismarck remained silent.
"The emperor," continued Hansen, "is in a very painful position. He has the greatest repugnance to interrupting in any way the right of a great people to national development, by being inimical to the great events just accomplished in Germany."
A scarcely perceptible smile passed over the minister's grave face.
"On the other hand," added Hansen, "it is impossible to deny that the great increase in the political and military strength of Prussia, has greatly troubled public opinion in France. Napoleon is less able to neglect public opinion than any other sovereign in Europe, since his government is based on the free will of the people, and founded on the votes of public opinion in France. At one time," said he as Bismarck still looked at him calmly and remained silent, "the emperor believed France would be satisfied by compensations which would increase her defensive power, and form some balance to the great additions in the offensive strength of Germany. He is, however, very unwilling to urge this question in any way that can disturb or endanger the present friendship between France and Germany."
Again a slight smile passed over Bismarck's face.
"The emperor," pursued Hansen, "thinks there is a way which might for ever prevent disagreement. It is founded on the principle that friction can best be prevented between two powerful military nations, not by fortified frontiers, but by neutral territory. His idea is to form a state in imitation of Belgium upon the Rhine, as an excellent means of maintaining peaceful relations between France and Germany. The King of Saxony would appear to be a suitable head to this Roman Catholic country."
"Peace is concluded with Saxony," said Count Bismarck.
"And I did not intend to suggest this idea," replied Hansen; "it would be better on many accounts to bestow this kingdom of the Rhine upon the Prince of Hohenzollern, and thus to found a dynasty whose connection with the Prussian royal family would prevent any mistrust in Germany."
"The princes of Hohenzollern are not related to our royal family," said Count Bismarck.
"They are a branch of the same family," replied Monsieur Hansen. "I believe I may assure your excellency that if this suggestion meets with your approval, the affair may quickly be arranged in the usual diplomatic way."
He was silent.
For a moment Count Bismarck looked down thoughtfully, then he raised his eyes, and fixing them calmly on Hanson's expectant face, he said in a firm voice:
"I will not ask who has empowered you to make this proposal. I shall regard this idea as your private and personal notion, and in return I will plainly and candidly express my own opinion on the subject. Germany, by her success in a great war, has made a vast step forwards in her national constitution. The German nation is not obliged to account for this to any one, she need not trouble herself as to whether other nations are pleased or displeased by the exercise of her national rights, but above all she is not called upon to pay a bribe to any other country, and thus to purchase the Unity of Germany. As long as I am the Prussian minister, as long as I influence the fate of Germany," he cried, "such a bribe shall not be paid, under whatever form it may be disguised! That is my private opinion," he added, "you thus see it would be quite superfluous to express the ideas you proposed to me in any official way; the answer of the Prussian Government would be exactly the same as that I have just given you."
"Your excellency," said Monsieur Hansen, who was evidently disconcerted at the count's decided refusal to continue the discussion, "I am really grateful to you for the regard you have shown to the national feeling's of Denmark, and I honestly desire to do you a service in this matter. I wish you to understand," he continued gravely, "that from what I know of the state of affairs, and the popular displeasure in Paris, war will sooner or later be unavoidable, if this last basis of a favourable understanding with France is refused. I may affirm, with the fullest conviction, war can then be only a question of time."
Count Bismarck stood up, his eyes flashed proudly.
"Then let war come," he cried firmly; "I fear it not, and never will I avoid it by sacrificing the honour of Germany! The valiant armies of Prussia and of her allies, who smote Austria, will take the field against France with far greater enthusiasm, if we are forced to do so. You may tell that to anyone who is interested in knowing my views; but you may also add, that no one prizes more highly than I do the good understanding between France and Germany. The French and German nations are formed rather to progress hand in hand, than to wrestle with each other in deadly strife. I will do all in my power to maintain peace and friendship,--all, except sacrificing the honour and dignity of Germany."
"I beg your excellency at least to believe that I have been actuated only by the purest motives, in making a proposal I believed conducive to the interests of both nations."
"I thank you for it," said Bismarck politely; "it has served to clear up the situation perfectly."
Monsieur Hansen left the cabinet with a low bow.
"He would play the same game with Germany that he did with Italy," cried the count as soon as he was alone; "but from me he shall gain neither a Savoy nor a Nice!"
He left his cabinet, and repaired to his wife's drawing-room.
The ladies with Baron von Keudell sat around the tea-table.
The count entered, and greeted them affectionately.
"Have you seen the new 'Kladderadatsch?'" asked the countess, pointing to the well-known comic face upon a newspaper that lay on the table.
The count seized it, and turned to the large picture on the last page.
It represented an infirm old beggar, with the features of the Emperor Napoleon, standing before the door of a house, hat in hand, asking an alms. A window was open, and the minister-president was represented looking from it with a movement of refusal, and beneath was printed, "Nothing given away here."
With a merry laugh, the count threw the paper on the table.
"It is strange," he said, "how cleverly they often describe the situation by a drawing. There is more told in this picture than in many a long leading article."
At one draught he emptied the crystal goblet of foaming beer which was handed to him.
"I must ask you a favour, Keudell," he said gravely: "will you play me that Funeral March of Beethoven. You remember it. You played it one evening before the war."
Keudell rose with alacrity, and seated himself at the piano.
Again the impressive chords of the mighty Hymn of Death arose,--the ladies listened breathlessly.
Count Bismarck drew himself to his full height; his grave, strongly-marked features shone with enthusiasm.
He drew a deep breath as Herr von Keudell ended.
"Many heroes have fallen," he said, in a deep voice, "but the prize is won,--their blood has not flowed in vain. Time has brought many sorrows,--discords will still echo in the future. May the Almighty resolve them into the glorious harmony of a great United Germany!"
His voice swelled through the room,--the countess looked at him with tearful eyes. Solemnly, and as if involuntarily, Keudell raised his hands, and let them sink upon the keys. Then that War-cry of the Faith arose, in the glorious tones in which the great Reformer expressed his rooted confidence in the God of Battles.
Count Bismarck raised his eyes upwards, a look of happiness passed over his excited features, and, following the melody, his lips whispered softly--