Painful and bitter were the days for Henry that followed his first disappointment. He passed them in rigid seclusion, in his lonely chambers; he would see no one, no cheerful word or gay laughter was allowed in his presence. The servants looked at him sorrowfully; and when the prince appeared at the parade the day after his painful interview with Louise, even the king found him so pale and suffering, he begged him to take a week’s leave and strengthen and improve his health.
The prince smiled painfully at the king’s proposition, but he accepted his leave of absence, and withdrew to the solitude of his rooms. His heart was wounded unto death, his soul was agonized. Youth soon laid its healing balm upon his wounds and closed them; anger and contempt dried his tears, and soothed the anguish of his heart.
The king was right when he said of his brother, “He is a man, and will recover.” He did recover, and these days of suffering made a man of him; his brow, once so clear and youthful, had received its first mark of sorrow; the lines of his face were harsh and stern, his features sharper and more decided. He had experienced his first disappointment—it had nerved and strengthened him.
Before his eight days’ leave of absence had expired, his door was again open to his circle of friends and confidants.
His first invited guest was the grand chamberlain, Baron Pollnitz. The prince welcomed him with a bright and cheerful face.
“Do you know why I wished to see you?” he asked. “You must tell me the chronique scandaleuse of our most honorable and virtuous city. Commence immediately. What is the on dit of the day?”
“Ah,” sighed Pollnitz, “life is now stupid, dull, and monotonous. As you say, every one has become most honorable and virtuous. No scandals or piquant adventures occur; baptisms, marriages, and burials are the only events. This is really a miserable existence; for as I do not wish to be baptized or to marry, and as I am not yet ready for burial, I really do not know why I exist.”
“But those that are married and baptized, doubtless know why they exist,” said the prince, smiling. “Tell me something of this happy class. Whose, for example, is the latest marriage?”
“The latest marriage?” said Pollnitz, hesitating—“before answering, I must allow myself to ask after the condition of your heart. Does it still suffer?”
“No,” cried the prince, “it does not suffer; it received a heavy shower of cold water, and was cured instantly.”
“I rejoice to hear it, your highness, and congratulate you on your recovery, for truly there is no more painful disease than a suffering heart.”
“I told you that I had recovered fully; tell me, therefore, your news without hesitation. You spoke of a marriage. Who were the happy lovers?”
“Your highness, Madame von Kleist has married,” murmured Pollnitz.
The prince received this blow without betraying the slightest emotion.
“When did the marriage take place?” he asked, with perfect composure.
“Yesterday; and I assure your highness that I never saw a happier or more brilliant bride. Love has transformed her into a blushing, timid maiden.”
Prince Henry pressed his hand upon his heart with a quick, unconscious movement.
“I can well imagine that she was beautiful,” said he, controlling his voice with a great effort. “Madame von Kleist is happy, and happiness always beautifies. And the bridegroom, M. du Trouffle, was he also handsome and happy?”
“Your highness knows the name of the bride-groom,” said Pollnitz, appearing astonished.
“Yes, Madame von Kleist told me herself when she announced her approaching marriage. But I am not acquainted with Du Trouffle—is he handsome?”
“Handsome and amiable, your highness, and besides, a very good officer. The king gave him, as a wedding present, a major’s commission.”
“Then the beautiful Louise is now Mrs Major du Trouffle,” said the prince, with a troubled smile. “Were you present at the wedding?”
“Yes, in the name of the king.”
“Did she speak the decisive Yes, the vow of faith and obedience, with earnestness and confidence? Did she not blush, or droop her eyelids in doing so?”
“Oh, no; she smiled as if entranced, and raised her eyes to heaven, as if praying for God’s blessing upon her vows.”
“One thing more,” said the prince, fixing his large, gray eyes with a searching expression upon Pollnitz—“what is said of me? Am I regarded as a rejected lover, or as a faithless one; for doubtless all Berlin knows of my love for this lady, you having been our confidant.”
“Oh, my prince, that is a hard insinuation,” said Pollnitz, sadly.
“Your highness cannot really believe that—”
“No protestations, I pray you,” interrupted the prince, “I believe I know you thoroughly, but I am not angry with you nor do I reproach you: you are a courtier, and one of the best and rarest type; you have intellect and knowledge, much experience and savoir vivre; I could desire no better company than yourself; but for one moment cast aside your character as a courtier, and tell me the truth: what does the world say of this marriage in regard to me?”
“Your highness desires me to tell you the truth?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Now the important moment has come,” thought Pollnitz. “Now, if I am adroit, I believe I can obtain the payment of my debts.”
“Well, then, your highness,” said Pollnitz, in answer to the prince, “I will tell you the truth, even should I incur your displeasure. I fear, my prince, you are regarded as a rejected lover, and Madame du Trouffle has succeeded in throwing a holy lustre around her beautiful brow. It is said that she refused your dishonorable proposals, and preferred being the virtuous wife of a major, to becoming the mistress of a prince.”
“Go on,” said the prince, hastily, as Pollnitz ceased, and looked searchingly at him. “What do they say of me?”
“That you are in despair, and that you have retired to your chambers to weep and mourn over your lost love.”
“Ah, they say that, do they?” cried the prince, with flashing eyes and darkened brow; “well, I will show this credulous world that they are mistaken. Is the king in Sans-Souci?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Well, go to him, and announce my visit; I will follow you on foot.”
“We have won the day,” cried Pollnitz, as he approached the king; “the prince desires to make you a visit. He will be here immediately.”
“Do you know what my brother wishes of me?” asked the king.
“I do not know, but I suspect, sire. I think he wishes to marry, in order to pique his faithless sweetheart.”
“Go and receive the prince, and conduct him to me; then remain in the antechamber, and await until I call.”
When Pollnitz left, the king seized his flute hastily aim began to play a soft, melting adagio. He was still playing, when the door opened, and the prince was announced. Henry stood in the doorway, and made the king a ceremonious bow. The king continued to play. The low, pleading notes of the flute floated softly through the room; they touched the heart of the prince, and quieted its wild, stormy beating.
Was that the king’s intention, or did he intend to harmonize his own spirit before speaking to his brother? Perhaps both, for Frederick’s glance softened, and his face assumed a kind and mild expression.
When the adagio was finished, the king laid his flute aside and approached the prince.
“Forgive me, brother,” he said, offering his hand—“forgive me for keeping you waiting, I always like to conclude what I commence. Now, I am entirely at your service, and as I am unfortunately not accustomed to receive such friendly visits from you, I must ask you what brings you to me, and how I can serve you?”
The fierce, violent nature of the prince slumbered but lightly. The king’s words aroused it, and made his pulse and heart beat stormily.
“How you can serve me, my brother?” he said, hastily. “I will tell you, and truthfully, sire.”
The king raised his head, and glanced angrily at the burning face of the prince.
“I am not accustomed to have my words repeated, and all find that out here to their cost,” he said, sternly.
“Have the goodness, then, to tell me why you have pursued me so long and unrelentingly? What have I done to deserve your displeasure and such bitter humiliations?”
“Rather ask me what you have done to deserve my love and confidence,” said the king, sternly. “I refer you to your own heart for an answer.”
“Ah, your majesty promised to answer my questions, and now you evade them, but I will reply frankly. I have done nothing to deserve your love, but also nothing to make me unworthy of it. Why are you, who are so good and kind to all others, so stern and harsh with me?”
“I will tell you the truth,” said the king, earnestly. “You have deserved my displeasure, you have desired to be a free man, to cast aside the yoke that Providence placed upon you, you had the grand presumption to dare to be the master of your own actions.”
“And does your majesty desire and expect me to resign this most natural of human rights?” said the prince, angrily.
“Yes, I desire and expect it. I can truthfully say that I have given my brothers a good example in this particular.”
“But you did not do this willingly. You were cruelly forced to submission, and you now wish to drive us to an extremity you have, doubtlessly, long since forgotten. Now, you suffered and struggled before declaring yourself conquered.”
“No,” said the king, softly, “I have not forgotten. I still feel the wound in my soul, and at times it burns.”
“And yet, my brother?”
“And yet I will have no pity with you. I say to you, as my father said to me: ‘You must submit; you are a prince, and I am your king!’ I have long since acknowledged that my father was right in his conduct to me. I was not only a disobedient son, but a rebellious subject. I richly deserved to mount the scaffold with Katte.”
“Ah, my brother, there was a time when you wept for this faithful and unfortunate friend,” cried the prince, reproachfully.
“The sons of kings have not the right to choose their own path, destiny has marked it out for them; they must follow it without wavering. I neither placed the crown upon my head, nor the yoke upon your neck. We must bear them patiently, as God and Providence have ordained, and wear them with grace and dignity. You, my brother, have acted like a wild horse of the desert—I have drawn the reins tight, that is all!”
“You have caught, bound, and tamed me,” said the prince, with a faint smile; “only I feel that the bit still pains, and that my limbs still tremble. But I am ready to submit, and I came to tell you so. You desire me to marry, I consent; but I hold you responsible for the happiness of this marriage. At God’s throne, I will call you to justify yourself, and there we will speak as equals, as man to man. What right had you to rob me of my most holy and beautiful possession? What right have you to lay a heavy chain on heart and hand, that love will not help me to bear? I hold you responsible for my miserable life, my shattered hopes. Will you accept these conditions? Do you still wish me to marry?”
“I accept the conditions,” said the king, solemnly. “I desire you to marry.”
“I presume your majesty has chosen a bride for me?”
“You are right, mon cher frere. I have selected the Princess Wilhelmina, daughter of Prince Max, of Hesse-Cassel. She not only brings you a fortune, but youth, beauty, and amiability.”
“I thank you, sire,” said the prince, coldly and formally. “I would marry her if she were ugly, old, and unamiable. But is it allowed me to add one condition?”
“Speak, my brother, I am listening.”
The prince did not answer immediately; he breathed quickly and heavily, and a glowing red suffused his pale, trembling face.
“Speak, my brother. Name your conditions,” said the king.
“Well, then, so be it. My first condition is that I may be allowed to have a brilliant wedding. I wish to invite not only the entire court, but a goodly number of Berliners; I desire all Berlin to take part in my happiness, and to convince every one, by my gay demeanor and my entertainment, that I joyfully accept my bride, the princess.”
The king’s eyes rested sorrowfully upon his brother’s countenance. He fully understood the emotions of his heart, and knew that his brother wished to wound and humiliate his faithless sweetheart by his marriage; that Henry only submitted to his wishes because his proud heart rebelled at the thought of being pitied as a rejected lover. But he was considerate, and would not let it appear that he understood him.
“I agree to this first proposition,” said the king, after a pause, “and I hope you will allow me to be present at this beautiful fete, and convince Berlin that we are in hearty unison. Have you no other conditions?”
“Yes, one more.”
“What is it?”
“That my marriage shall take place, at the latest, in a month.”
“You will thus fulfil my particular and personal wish,” said the king, smiling. “I am anxious to have this marriage over, for, after the gayeties, I wish to leave Berlin. All the arrangements and contracts are completed, and I think now there is no obstacle in the way of the marriage. Have you another wish, my brother?”
“No, sire.”
“Then allow me to beg you to grant me a favor. I wish to leave a kind remembrance of this eventful hour in your heart, and I therefore give you a small memento of the same. Will you accept my castle of Rheinsberg, with all its surroundings, as a present from me? Will you grant me this pleasure, my brother?”
The king offered his hand, with a loving smile, to Henry, and received with apparent pleasure his ardent thanks.
“I chose Rheinsberg,” he said, kindly, “not because it is my favorite palace, and I have passed many pleasant and happy days there, but because none of my other palaces are so appropriate for a prince who is discontented with his king. I have made that experience myself, and I give you Rheinsberg, as my father gave it to me. Go to Rheinsberg when you are angry with me and the world; there you can pass the first months of your marriage, and God grant it may be a happy one!”
The prince answered him with a cold smile, and begged leave to withdraw, that he might make the necessary preparations for his wedding. “We will both make our preparations,” said the king, as he bade the prince farewell—“you with your major-domo, and I with Baron Pollnitz, whom I shall send as ambassador to Cassel.”
The feasts, illuminations, and balls given in honor of the newly-married couple, Henry and his wife, the Princess Wilhelmina, were at an end. The prince and his followers had withdrawn to Rheinsberg, and many were the rumors in Berlin of the brilliant feasts with which he welcomed his beautiful bride. She was truly lovely, and the good Berliners, who had received her with such hearty greetings when she appeared with the prince on the balcony, or showed herself to the people in an open carriage, declared there could be no happier couple than the prince and his wife; they declared that the large, dark eyes of the princess rested upon the prince with inexpressible tenderness, and that the prince always returned her glance with a joyous smile. It was therefore decided that the prince was a happy husband, and the blessings of the Berliners followed the charming princess to Rheinsberg, where the young couple were to pass their honeymoon.
While the prince was giving splendid fetes, and seeking distraction, and hoping to forget his private griefs, or perhaps wishing to deceive the world as to his real feelings, the king left Sans-Souci, to commence one of his customary military inspection trips. But he did not go to Konigsberg, as was supposed; and if Trenck really had the intention of murdering him during his sojourn there, it was rendered impossible by the change in the king’s plans. Frederick made a tour in his Rhine provinces. At Cleves he dismissed his followers, and they returned to Berlin.
The king declared he needed rest, and wished to pass a few days in undisturbed quiet at the castle of Moyland.
No one accompanied him but Colonel Balby, his intimate friend, and his cabinet-hussar, Deesen. The king was in an uncommonly good humor, and his eyes sparkled with delight. After a short rest in his chamber, he desired to see Colonel Balby.
To his great astonishment, the colonel found him searching through a trunk, which contained a few articles of clothing little calculated to arrest the attention of a king.
“Balby,” said the king, solemnly, but with a roguish sparkle of the eye, “I wish to present you this plain brown suit. I owe you a reward for your hearty friendship and your faithful services. This is a princely gift. Take it as a mark of my grateful regard. That you may be convinced, Balby, that I have long been occupied in preparing this surprise for you, I inform you that these rich articles were made secretly for you in Berlin, by your tailor; I packed them myself, and brought them here for you. Accept them, then, my friend, and wear them in memory of Frederick.”
With a solemn bow, the king offered Balby the clothes.
The colonel received this strange present with an astonished and somewhat confused countenance.
The king laughed merrily. “What,” he said, pathetically, “are you not contented with the favor I have shown you?”
Balby knew by the comic manner of the king that the sombre suit hid a secret, and he thought it wise to allow the king to take his own time for explanation.
“Sire,” he said, emphatically, “content is not the word to express my rapture. I am enthusiastic, speechless at this unheard-of favor. I am filled with profound gratitude to your majesty for having in vented a new costume for me, whose lovely color will make me appear like a large coffee-bean, and make all the coffee sisters adore me.”
The king was highly amused. “This dress certainly has the power of enchantment. When Colonel Balby puts on these clothes he will be invisible, but he shall not undergo this transformation alone. See, here is another suit, exactly like yours, and this is mine. When I array myself in it, I am no longer the king of Prussia, but a free, happy man.”
“Ah, you are speaking of a disguise,” cried the colonel.
“Yes, we will amuse ourselves by playing the role of common men for a while, and wander about unnoticed and undisturbed. Are you agreed, Balby, or do you love your colonel’s uniform better than your freedom?”
“Am I agreed, sire?” cried the colonel; “I am delighted with this genial thought.”
“Then take your dress, friend, and put it on. But stay. Did you bring your violin with you, as I told you?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well, then, when you are dressed, put your violin in a case, and with the case under your arm, and a little money in your pocket, go to the pavilion at the farthest end of the garden; there I will meet you. Now hasten, friend, we have no time to lose.”
According to the king’s orders, Colonel Balby dressed and went to the pavilion. He did not find the king, but two strange men there. One of them had on a brown coat, the color of his own, ornamented with large buttons of mother-of-pearl; black pantaloons, and shoes with large buckles, set with dull white stones; the lace on his sleeves and vest was very coarse. He wore a three-cornered hat, without ornament; from under the hat fell long, brown, unpowdered hair.
Behind this stranger there stood another, in plain, simple clothes; under one arm he carried a small bag, and under the other a case that contained either a yard-stick or a flute. He returned the colonel’s salutation with a grimace and a profound bow. A short pause ensued, then the supposed strangers laughed heartily and exclaimed:
“Do you not know us, Balby?”
Their voices started the colonel, and he stepped back.
“Sire, it is yourself.”
“Yes, it is I, Frederick—not the king. Yes, I am Frederick, and this capital servant is my good Deesen, who has sworn solemnly not to betray our incognito, and to give no one reason to suspect his high dignity as royal cabinet-hussar. For love of us he will, for a few days, be the servant of two simple, untitled musicians, who are travelling around the world, seeking their fortunes, but who, unfortunately, have no letters of recommendation.”
“But who will recommend themselves by their talents and accomplishments.”
The king laughed aloud. “Balby, you forget that you are a poor musician, chatting with your comrade. Truly your courtly bow suits your dress as little as a lace veil would a beggar’s attire; you must lay your fine manners aside for a short time, for, with them, you would appear to the village beauties we may meet like a monkey, and they would laugh at instead of kissing you.”
“So we are to meet country beauties,” said Colonel Balby, no longer able to suppress his curiosity. “Tell me, sire, where are we going, and what are we going to do? I shall die of curiosity.”
“Make an effort to die,” said the king, gayly; “you will find it is not so easy to do as you imagine. But I will torture you no longer. You ask what we are going to do. Well, we are going to amuse ourselves and seek adventures. You ask where we are going. Ask that question of the sparrow that sits on the house-top—ask where it is going, and what is the aim of its journey. It will reply, the next bush, the nearest tree, the topmost bough of a weeping willow, which stands on a lonely grave; the mast of a ship, sailing on the wide sea; or the branch of a noble beech, waving before the window of a beautiful maiden. I am as incapable of telling you the exact aim and end of our journey, friend, as that little bird would be. We are as free as the birds of the air. Come! come! let us fly, for see, the little sparrow has flown—let us follow it.”
And with a beaming smile illuminating his countenance, like a ray of the morning sun, the king took the arm of his friend, and followed by his servant and cabinet-hussar, Deesen, left the pavilion.
As they stood at the little gate of the garden, the king said to Deesen,
“You must be for us the angel with the flaming sword, and open the gates of paradise, but not to cast us out.”
Deesen opened the gate, and our adventurers entered “the wide, wide world.”
“Let us stand here a few moments,” said the king, as his glance rested upon the green fields spread far and wide around him. “How great and beautiful the world appears to-day! Observe Nature’s grand silence, yet the air is full of a thousand voices, and the white clouds wandering dreamily in the blue heavens above, are they not the misty veils with which the gods of Olympus conceal their charms?”
“Ah! sire,” said Balby, with a loving glance at the king’s hand some face—“ah, sire, my eyes have no time to gaze at Nature’s charms, they are occupied with yourself. When I look upon you, I feel that man is indeed made in the image of God.”
“Were I a god, I should not be content to resemble this worn, faded face. Come, now, let us be off! Give me your instrument, Deesen, I will carry it. Now I look like a travelling apprentice seeking his fortune. The world is all before him where to choose his place of rest, and Providence his guide. I envy him. He is a free man!”
“Truly, these poor apprentices would not believe that a king was envying them their fate,” said Balby, laughing.
“Still they are to be envied,” said the king, “for they are free. No, no, at present I envy no one, the world and its sunshine belong to me. We will go to Amsterdam, and enjoy the galleries and museums.”
“I thank your majesty,” said Balby, laughing, “you have saved my life. I should have died of curiosity if you had not spoken. Now, I feel powerful and strong, and can keep pace with your majesty’s wandering steps.”
Silently they walked on until they reached a sign-post.
“We are now on the border—let us bid farewell to the Prussian colors, we see them for the last time. Sire, we will greet them with reverence.”
He took off his hat and bowed lowly before the black and white colors of Prussia, a greeting that Deesen imitated with the fervor of a patriot.
The king did not unite in their enthusiasm; he was writing with his stick upon the ground.
“Come here, Balby, and read this,” he said, pointing to the lines he had traced. “Can you read them?”
“Certainly,” said Balby, “the words are, ‘majesty’ and ‘sire.’”
“So they are, friend. I leave these two words on the borders of Prussia; perhaps on our return we may find and resume them. But as long as we are on the soil of Holland there must be no majesty, no sire.”
“What, then, must I call my king?”
“You must call him friend, voila tout.”
“And I?” asked Deesen, respectfully. “Will your majesty be so gracious as to tell me your name?”
“I am Mr. Zoller, travelling musician, and should any one ask you what I want in Amsterdam, tell them I intend giving a concert. En avant, mes amis. There lies the first small village of Holland, in an hour we shall be there, and then we will take the stage and go a little into the interior. En avant, en avant!”
The stage stood before the tavern at Grave, and awaited its passengers. The departure of the stage was an important occurrence to the inhabitants of the little town—an occurrence that disturbed the monotony of their lives for a few moments, and showed them at least now and then a new face, that gave them something to think of, and made them dream of the far-off city where the envied travellers were going.
Today all Grave was in commotion and excitement. The strangers had arrived at the post-house, and after partaking of an excellent dinner, engaged three seats in the stage. The good people of Grave hoped to see three strange faces looking out of the stage window; many were the surmises of their destiny and their possible motives for travelling. They commenced these investigations while the strangers were still with them.
A man had seen them enter the city, dusty and exhausted, and he declared that the glance which the two men in brown coats had cast at his young wife, who had come to the window at his call, was very bold—yes, even suspicious, and it seemed very remarkable to him that such plain, ordinary looking wanderers should have a servant, for, doubtless, the man walking behind them, carrying the very small carpet-bag, was their servant; but, truly, he appeared to be a proud person, and had the haughty bearing of a general or a field-marshal, he would not even return the friendly greetings of the people he passed. His masters could not be distinguished or rich, for both of them carried a case under their arms. What could be in those long cases, what secret was hidden there? Perhaps they held pistols, and the good people of Grave would have to deal with robbers or murderers. The appearance of the strangers was wild and bold enough to allow of the worst suspicions.
The whole town, as before mentioned, was in commotion, and all were anxious to see the three strangers, about whom there was certainly something mysterious. They had the manners and bearing of noblemen, but were dressed like common men.
A crowd of idlers had assembled before the post-house, whispering and staring at the windows of the guests’ rooms. At last their curiosity was about to be gratified, at last the servant appeared with the little carpet-bag, and placed it in the stage, and returned for the two cases, whose contents they would so greedily have known. The postilion blew his horn, the moment of departure had arrived.
A murmur was heard through the crowd, the strangers appeared, they approached the stage, and with such haughty and commanding glances that the men nearest them stepped timidly back.
The postilion sounded his horn again, the strangers were entering the stage. At the door stood the postmaster, and behind him his wife, the commanding postmistress.
“Niclas,” she whispered, “I must and will know who these strangers are. Go and demand their passports.”
The obedient Niclas stepped out and cried in a thundering voice to the postilion, who was just about to start, to wait. Stepping to the stage, he opened the door.
“Your passports, gentlemen,” he said, roughly. “You forgot to show me your passports.”
The curious observers breathed more freely, and nodded encouragingly to the daring postmaster.
“You rejoice,” murmured his wife, who was still standing in the door, from whence she saw all that passed, and seemed to divine the thoughts of her gaping friends—“you rejoice, but you shall know nothing. I shall not satisfy your curiosity.”
Mr. Niclas still stood at the door of the stage. His demand had not been attended to; he repeated it for the third time.
“Is it customary here to demand passports of travellers?” asked a commanding voice from the stage.
Niclas, and taking the two mysterious cases from the stage, he placed them before the strangers.
“Let us go into the house,” whispered the king to his friends. “We must make bonne mine a mauvais jeu,” and he approached the door of the house—there stood the wife of the postmaster, with sparkling eyes and a malicious grin.
“The postilion is going, and you will lose your money,” she said, “they never return money when once they have it.”
“Ah! I thought that was only a habit of the church,” said the king, laughing. “Nevertheless, the postmaster can keep what he has. Will you have the kindness to show me a room, where I can open my bag at leisure, and send some coffee and good wine to us?”
There was something so commanding in the king’s voice, so imposing in his whole appearance, that even the all-conquering Madame Niclas felt awed, and she silently stepped forward and showed him her best room. The servant followed with the two cases and the bag, and laid them upon the table, then placed himself at the door.
“Now, madame, leave us,” ordered the king, “and do as I told you.”
Madame Niclas left, and the gentlemen were once more alone.
“Now, what shall we do?” said the king, smilingly. “I believe there is danger of our wonderful trip falling through.”
“It is only necessary for your majesty to make yourself known to the postmaster,” said Colonel Balby.
“And if he will not believe me, this fripon who declares that no one could tell by my appearance whether I was a rascal or not, this dull-eyed simpleton, who will not see the royal mark upon my brow, which my courtiers see so plainly written there? No, no, my friend, that is not the way. We have undertaken to travel as ordinary men—we must now see how common men get through the world. It is necessary to show the police that we are at least honest men. Happily, I believe I have the means to do so at hand. Open our ominous bag, friend Balby, I think you will discover my portfolio, and in it a few blank passes, and my state seal.”
Colonel Balby did as the king ordered, and drew from the bag the portfolio, with its precious contents.
The king bade Balby sit down and fill up the blanks at his dictation.
The pass was drawn up for the two brothers, Frederick and Henry Zoller, accompanied by their servant, with the intention of travelling through Holland.
The king placed his signature under this important document.
“Now, it is only necessary to put the state seal under it, and we shall be free; but how will we get a light?”
“I cannot tell who is a rascal, you may be one for aught I know.”
Balby uttered an angry exclamation and stepped nearer to the daring postmaster, while his servant shook his fist threateningly at Niclas.
The king dispelled their anger with a single glance.
“Sir,” he said to Niclas, “God made my face, and it is not my fault if it does not please you, but concerning our passports, they are lying well preserved in my carpet-bag. I should think that would suffice you.”
“No, that does not suffice me,” screamed Niclas. “Show me your passports if I am to believe that you are not vagabonds.”
“You dare to call us vagabonds?” cried the king, whose patience now also appeared exhausted, and whose clear brow was slightly clouded.
“The police consider everyone criminal until he has proved he is not so,” said Niclas, emphatically.
The king’s anger was already subdued.
“In the eyes of the police, criminality is then the normal condition of mankind,” he said, smilingly.
“Sir, you have no right to question the police so pointedly,” said Niclas, sternly. “You are here to be questioned, and not to question.”
The king laughingly arrested the uplifted arm of his companion.
“Mon Dieu,” he murmured, “do you not see that this is amusing me highly? Ask, sir, I am ready to answer.”
“Have you a pass?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then give it to me to vise.”
“To do so, I should have to open my bag, and that would be very inconvenient, but, if the law absolutely demands it, I will do it.”
“The law demands it.”
The king motioned to his servant, and ordered him to carry the bag into the house.
“Why this delay—why this unnecessary loss of time?” asked Niclas. “The postilion can wait no longer. If he arrives too late at the next station, he will be fined.”
“I will not wait another minute,” cried the postilion, determinately. “get in, or I shall start without you.”
“Show me your passports, and then get in,” cried Niclas.
The strangers appeared confused and undecided. Niclas looked triumphantly at his immense crowd of listeners, who were gazing at him with amazement, awaiting in breathless stillness the unravelling of this scene.
“Get in, or I shall start,” repeated the postilion.
“Give me your passports, or I will not let you go!” screamed “We can demand them if we wish to do so.”
“And why do you wish it now?” said the same voice.
“I wish it simply because I wish it,” was the reply.
A stern face now appeared at the door, looking angrily at the postmaster.
“Think what you say, sir, and be respectful.”
“Silence!” interrupted the one who had first spoken. “Do not let us make an unnecessary disturbance, mon ami. Why do you wish to see our passports, sir?”
“Why?” asked Niclas, who was proud to play so distinguished a part before his comrades—“you wish to know why I desire to see your passports? Well, then, because you appear to me to be suspicious characters.”
A gay laugh was heard from the stage. “Why do you suspect us?”
“Because I never trust people travelling without baggage,” was the laconic reply.
“Bravo! well answered,” cried the crowd, and even Madame Niclas was surprised to see her husband show such daring courage.
“We need no baggage. We are travelling musicians, going to Amsterdam.”
“Travelling musicians All the more reason for mistrusting you; no good was ever heard of wandering musicians.”
“You are becoming impertinent, sir,” and Balby, the tallest and youngest of the two friends, sprang from the stage, while the servant swung himself from the box, where he was sitting with the postilion, and with an enraged countenance placed himself beside his master.
“If you dare to speak another insulting word, you are lost,” cried Balby.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice murmured in his ear:
“Do not compromise us.”
The king now also left the stage, and tried to subdue the anger of his companion.
“Pardon, sir, the violence of my friend,” said the king, with an ironical smile, as he bowed to the postmaster. “We are not accustomed to being questioned and suspected in this manner, and I can assure you that, although we are travelling musicians, as it pleased you to say, we are honest people, and have played before kings and queens.”
“If you are honest, show me your passports; no honest man travels without one!”
“It appears to me that no rascal should travel without one,” said the king. “I will obtain one immediately,” said Balby, hastening to the door.
The king held him back. “My brother, you are very innocent and thoughtless. You forget entirely that we are suspected criminals. Should we demand a light, and immediately appear with our passes, do you not believe that this dragon of a postmaster would immediately think that we had written them ourselves, and put a forged seal under them?”
“How, then, are we to get a light?” said Balby, confused.
The king thought a moment, then laughed gayly.
“I have found a way,” he said; “go down into the dining-room, where I noticed an eternal lamp burning, not to do honor to the Mother of God, but to smokers; light your cigar and bring it here. I will light the sealing-wax by it, and we will have the advantage of drowning the smell of the wax with the smoke.”
Balby flew away, and soon returned with the burning cigar; the king lit the sealing-wax, and put the seal under the passport.
“This will proclaim us free from all crime. Now, brother Henry, call the worthy postmaster.”
When Niclas received the passport from the king’s hand his countenance cleared, and he made the two gentlemen a graceful bow, and begged them to excuse the severity that his duty made necessary.
“We have now entirely convinced you that we are honest people,” said the king, smiling, “and you will forgive us that we have so little baggage.”
“Well, I understand,” said Mr. Niclas, confusedly, “musicians are seldom rich, but live from hand to mouth, and must thank God if their clothes are good and clean. Yours are entirely new, and you need no baggage.”
The king laughed merrily. “Can we now go?” he asked.
“Yes; but how, sir? You doubtlessly heard that the postilion left as soon as you entered the house.”
“Consequently we are without a conveyance; we have paid for our places for nothing, and must remain in this miserable place,” said the king, impatiently.
Niclas reddened with anger. “Sir, what right have you to call the town of Grave a miserable place? Believe me, it would be very difficult for you to become a citizen of this miserable place, for you must prove that you have means enough to live in a decent manner, and it appears to me—”
“That we do not possess them,” said the king; “vraiment, you are right, our means are very insufficient, and as the inhabitants of Grave will not grant us the rights of citizens, it is better for us to leave immediately. Have, therefore, the goodness to furnish us with the means of doing so.”
“There are two ways, an expensive and a cheap one,” said Niclas, proudly: “extra post, or the drag-boat. The first is for respectable people, the second for those who have nothing, and are nothing.”
“Then the last is for us,” said the king, laughing. “Is it not so, brother Henry?—it is best for us to go in the drag-boat.”
“That would be best, brother Frederick.”
“Have the kindness to call our servant to take the bag, and you, Mr. Niclas, please give us a guide to show us to the canal.”
The king took his box and approached the door.
“And my coffee, and the wine,” asked Mrs. Niclas, just entering with the drinks.
“We have no time to make use of them, madame,” said the king, as he passed her, to leave the room.
But Madame Niclas held him back.
“No time to make use of them,” she cried; “but I had to take time to make the coffee, and bring the wine from the cellar.”
“Mais, mon Dieu, madame,” said the impatient king.
“Mais, mon Dieu, monsieur, vous croyez que je travaillerai pour le roi de Prusse, c’est-a-dire sans paiement.”
The king broke out into a hearty laugh, and Balby had to join him, but much against his will.
“Brother Henry,” said the king, laughing, “that is a curious way of speaking; ‘travailler pour le roi de Prusse,’ means here to work for nothing. I beg you to convince this good woman that she has not worked for the King of Prussia, and pay her well. Madame, I have the honor to bid you farewell, and be assured it will always cheer me to think of you, and to recall your charming speech.”
The king laughingly took his friend’s arm, and nodded kindly to Madame Niclas as he went down the steps.
“I tell you what,” said Madame Niclas, as she stood at the door with her husband, watching the departing strangers, who, in company with the guide and their servant, were walking down the street that led to the canal—“I tell you I do not trust those strangers, the little one in particular; he had a very suspicious look.”
“But his passport was all right.”
“But, nevertheless, all is not right with them. These strangers are disguised princes or robbers, I am fully convinced.”