Marianne, a few days later, went one morning to the drawing-room of Countess von Voss.
The room was full of ladies. Dr. Hufeland was there, the Englishman, and the Queen herself, busy with her lint.
The talk was very violent.
News had come to Memel that the Czar had made a separate peace with Napoleon, and that the Emperor of the French, in his hatred of Frederick William, meant to rob him of his kingdom, proposing that he be no longer called King of Prussia, but only Marquis of Brandenburg.
"The monster! The upstart! The villain!" The room was full of abuse of Napoleon.
"I hate him; I would kill him!" cried one lady, her face hot with wrath.
The Queen lifted her blue eyes from her work.
"Dear Mademoiselle," she said, "we cannot lighten our sorrow by hating the Emperor, and malicious thoughts can only make us more unhappy."
The lady bit her lips and coloured, but even she had to laugh with the rest when the parrot of the Countess suddenly called out in French:
"Down with the upstart! Down with Napoleon!"
While the room was yet echoing with the merriment, a servant announced a courier from Memel.
"A letter from the King," cried the Queen, and seized it with eager fingers.
Reading it hastily, all watching, she suddenly burst into tears.
"My Queen, my dear, dear Queen, what is it?" and the Countess flew to her side.
The Queen, recovering herself, clung to her old friend.
The King wished her to come to Memel, to stay with him and plead the cause of her country with Napoleon, to entreat for a better peace.
Her voice quivered as she told of the request, and for a moment her blue eyes gazed pathetically at her friends in the Saal.
The whole room was silent, though indignation flashed across a face or two.
Each knew that Napoleon had treated the Queen most shamefully, and that it was cruel that she must plead before him, must entreat a favour.
"It is the hardest thing I have had to do," at last the Queen's sweet voice broke the silence, her body quivering as a rose on its stem when the blasts blow. "It is the greatest sacrifice I can make for my country." And her lips shook pathetically.
Then she stood in silence, holding the letter in her hand, while the company waited. Marianne felt her heart beat until it was near bursting. They all knew that the Queen could say that she was not well. The winds and cold of Memel had never agreed with her. As an excuse to save herself it would be quite justifiable.
Marianne leaned forward eagerly. It seemed to her at that moment as if all her life was to be settled.
"I will do it," said the Queen; "the King wishes it." And then the whole room relaxed from its tension.
"Perhaps," added the Queen, folding the letter with trembling fingers, her lips quivering, "I can do good, be of some service."
"Most certainly, Majesty," urged General Kalreuth, following the courier, his face eager to have his way.
He had brought her a second letter.
It was from the Czar, entreating her to come, and setting before her all that she with her talents and beauty might accomplish.
"To do my full duty, dear General," said the poor Queen, the tears in her voice, "is my only wish. As the loved wife of the King, as the mother of my children, as the Queen of my people."
She swayed, as if faint. Then sudden strength seemed to come, and a smile, like sunlight after clouds, suddenly illumined her face, which was even lovelier in her sadness.
"And, dear friends," she gazed kindly at the people about her, "I believe firmly in God. And, dear General," again she smiled, "I do not believe Napoleon will be secure on his throne. Truth and righteousness only abide. Napoleon is only politically clever."
So the good Queen, who loved everybody better than her own ease or comfort, kissed the lively, handsome Crown Prince; simple, honourable, sensible little William; shy, beautiful Charlotte, and answered jolly little Carl's many questions as to when she was going, and, loosening baby Alexandrina's arms from her neck, set forth with the old Countess and her Maids of Honour to meet her foe in Tilsit.
She knew that she must smile when her heart was weeping for her country; she knew that she must be pleasant and beg favours of the man who had treated her as no woman has ever before been treated in history.
"Truly," she said to the old Countess, "I am like Atlas, and carry the sorrow of the world."
The Countess pressed her hand and listened while the Queen continued, for to her she might say things which might distress her husband.
"I cannot, I may not forget the King in this crisis. He is very unfortunate and possesses a true soul, but how with my broken wing"—she had not been well and was very nervous, always having to stand the noise of the children and the laughter of the Maids of Honour in the tiny house in Memel—"can I do anything? How can I do anything?" she repeated pathetically.
Full of foreboding, she and the Countess and the Maid of Honour, Countess Tauentzein, came to Tilsit, or rather to the village of Piktupöhnen, where her husband was in lodgings because of the truce with Napoleon.
The State Minister Hardenburg, General Kalreuth, and the Czar surrounded her.
"Plead with Napoleon," they urged, "for Silesia, for Westphalia, and for Magdeburg, but especially for Magdeburg."
Napoleon, who, having all he wanted, was more amiable, sent greetings at once to Louisa, explaining that according to the terms of the truce he could not come to Piktupöhnen, and therefore he entreated her to come to Tilsit that he might pay her his respects immediately.
His state carriage, drawn by eight horses and escorted by splendid French dragoons, conveyed them to a plain, two-story house in Tilsit.
An hour later a messenger announced her royal foe, the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
According to etiquette, the Queen awaited him at the head of the stairs, a smile of welcome forced by politeness to her lips.
"What this costs me," she had said to her ladies, "God alone knows, for if I do not positively hate this man, I cannot help looking on him as the man who has made the King and the whole nation miserable. It will be very difficult for me to be courteous, but that is required of me."
The two Countesses were, by accident, in the hall below when the King met the Emperor and conducted him in.
The Countess von Voss, who hated him with all her old heart, shrugged her shoulders at the sight of the small, bloated-looking man who stared at her rudely.
With him came Talleyrand, his famous Minister, his eyes alert, his expression watchful.
The Emperor lifted his eyes; his whole face softened; for, standing with her hand on the rail of the stair, he saw a slight, graceful woman, golden-haired, and arrayed in a white gown of tissue, or gauze, a narrow ribbon sash tied short-waisted fashion, its ends hanging to the embroidered border of her gown; her mantle on her shoulders, a tiny tissue scarf twisted across her throat, like a frame for her face of loveliness.
Never had "The Rose of the King" looked more beautiful, for excitement had brought back colour to pale cheeks, a fire to eyes faded from weeping. And about her whole figure was a girlish pathos.
Napoleon mounted the stairs heavily, for he had grown very stout in Prussia.
"I am sorry," said the Queen, her sweet voice welcoming him, "that you have had to mount so inconvenient a staircase."
Napoleon stared in the bold, rude way he did at everybody.
"One cannot be afraid of difficulties," he said, with a bow, "with such an object in view." And he gazed at her with bold admiration.
"And while reaching up to attain the reward at the end," he added, again bowing.
"For those who are favoured by Heaven," returned the Queen, "there are no difficulties on earth."
Napoleon made no answer, but stared at her as if enchanted.
Approaching, he touched the material of her dress, like a child.
"Is it crêpe," he inquired, "or Indian gauze?"
The Queen's face flushed, but she controlled herself most beautifully.
"Shall we talk of light things at such a moment?" she asked, and led the way into the room prepared for his reception.
Then she inquired concerning his health, adding the hope that the severe climate of North Germany had agreed with him.
"The French soldier," he answered bluntly, "is hardened to bear every kind of climate."
Then he looked at her curiously, as if making a study of the woman of whom he had heard so much and whom he had treated so cruelly, and who, in that poor little house in Tilsit, stood before him as bravely as the Duchess had in Weimar.
He admired her beauty, but her sorrows were absolutely nothing to him. In a short time he was to divorce the wife who had borne with his weaknesses and who loved him through many long years of both joy and trouble. So he was not likely to treat the Queen of Prussia very gently, merely because she was a woman who loved her husband and her country.
"How could you think of making war upon me?" he demanded.
Though his manner and tones were irritating, the Queen took no offence, but answered politely:
"We were mistaken in our calculations on our resources," she said.
"And you trusted in Frederick's fame and deceived yourselves—Prussia, I mean." Napoleon swung his riding whip to and fro as she talked, and stared steadily.
The Queen's blue eyes met his bold ones, though they filled a little as she continued:
"Sire, on the strength of the great Frederick's fame we may be excused for having been mistaken with respect to our own powers, if, indeed, we have entirely deceived ourselves."
Napoleon's face softened quickly. He tried to change the subject, but the Queen, treating him as a kind man and a friend, told him in an almost girlish way of all her sufferings, of all she had endured, and why she had come to Tilsit. He tried again and again to change the subject, but she persisted, beseeching him to be kind and merciful, for the love of man and because of the laws of justice with which God rules all the kingdoms.
Napoleon's answer was all kindness. He had never seen such a woman. She had not a thought for herself, and when she spoke of her husband the tears splashed down her cheeks on the crêpe dress the Emperor had admired so openly.
"Sire," implored the sweetest voice that ever had fallen on his ears, "be kind, be generous, be merciful to your fallen foe. Sire," the Queen gazed like a child in his face, "give us Magdeburg, only Magdeburg."
The conqueror of Europe wavered.
"You ask a great deal," he said dubiously, "but I will think of it."
Why not make this lovely woman happy? he tells us that he thought, and kindness for a moment entirely changed his countenance.
Now, of all men in the world, the King of Prussia was the most unlucky. There was no one who could so irritate Napoleon as he could, and at that moment his entering the room probably changed the history of Prussia; at least Napoleon himself says it did.
But he had begun to be uneasy waiting below. He thought he could help matters, and in his zeal entered, and entered at the wrong moment.
There he stood, handsome, dignified and honest-faced, wanting, as always, to do the right thing, and blundering.
For once the Queen had no smile ready for him, and her face showed her chagrin, for Napoleon, catching himself up hastily, with a relieved face turned to Frederick William.
"Sire," he said, "I admire the magnanimity and tranquillity of your soul amid such numerous and heavy misfortunes."
The King of Prussia hid his feelings. If he was conquered by the man who was complimenting his behaviour, he was a Hohenzollern, but alas, too, he was tactless.
"Greatness and tranquillity of soul," he answered shortly, "can only be acquired by the strength of a good conscience."
Never did a King make a more unfortunate answer.
Napoleon turned away with a glare, and after inviting the King and Queen to dine with him, departed, followed by Talleyrand, his whole mood changed to hardness.
When they were below the Minister looked inquiringly at the Emperor.
"I knew," said Napoleon, his eyes firing, "that I should see a beautiful woman and a Queen with dignified manners, but I found a most admirable Queen and at the same time the most interesting woman I ever met with." Again his face looked soft and almost yielding.
Talleyrand's laughter rang out in sarcastic mockery.
"And so, sire," he said, with a sneer, "you will sacrifice the fruits of victory to a beautiful woman. What will the world say?" His voice was mocking.
Napoleon flushed and bit his lip, the hard look returning.
Talleyrand, seizing the moment, hastened to show what a gain Magdeburg would be to French interests and how its loss would cripple Napoleon.
"You cannot give it up, sire," he pleaded; "you cannot."
Napoleon, his lips curling in amusement, shook his head. He was again the Emperor, the Conqueror.
"No, no," he answered, "Magdeburg is worth a hundred Queens."
Then he laughed, as if he had escaped a great weakness, and his eyes narrowed.
"Happily," he swung his whip, "the husband came in, and trying to put his word into the conversation, spoilt the whole affair and I was delivered."
As for the Queen, she was repeating every word of Napoleon's to Frederick William.
"He promised, Fritz," and she clung to his hand, "that he would think of it. Moreover," she added, "I shall see him at dinner. Something then may be done." And she caressed him tenderly, her whole body quivering from the strain she had been under.
In honour of Napoleon, Queen Louisa arrayed herself for the dinner in her most regal splendour. Her dress was white, most delicately embroidered, a velvet and ermine mantle flowed from her shoulders, a diamond star shone in her golden hair, and the crown of Prussia was arranged to surmount her exquisite tissue, or gauze, turban.
When her maid had given the last touch she stood before her mirror in the small Tilsit house. Near by stood her dearest friend, Frau von Berg, gazing at her in loving admiration.
But the Queen's thoughts were bitter. With a shrug she turned from the mirror to her companion.
"Do you remember, dear friend," she asked, with a sad smile, "how the old Germans of the pagan times used to dress the maidens they would sacrifice to their gods in gorgeous raiment and jewels?"
Frau von Berg nodded.
"Yes, dear Queen," she said, the tears starting.
"I am such a victim," said the Queen. "But the question is, will the angry god whom the world now adores be, through me, appeased and reconciled?"
Frau von Berg had no answer.
Then in came the two Countesses in splendid raiment, and off went the Prussian Court to dine with Napoleon.
Certainly Napoleon was most courteous.
He was at the carriage door to open it for Queen Louisa. He led her to the table and placed her by his side, the King of Prussia sitting on his left, and the Czar by Queen Louisa.
The table was long, it was well set, and there were many guests arrayed in court splendour, but one person did the talking, and that person was Napoleon.
The Queen, alone, was expected to answer.
Why, he began, had she been so foolish as to go to the seat of war? Did she know that Napoleon's hussars had almost captured her?
The Queen with a smile shook her head.
"No, no, sire," she said with forced gaiety, "that I cannot believe. I never saw a Frenchman while I was on that journey."
"But why did you expose yourself to danger?" persisted the Emperor, though he knew quite well that it was an old Prussian custom for Queens to accompany their husbands to the battle.
"Why did you not await my arrival at Weimar?" he asked.
"Really, sire," said the poor Queen, trying to be merry, "I felt no inclination to do so."
At that Napoleon laughed and changed the subject, without a thought for all the Queen had endured on her journey.
"How is it that the Queen of Prussia wears a turban? That," he added, "is not complimentary to the Emperor of Russia, who is at war with the Turk."
Now, the Queen of Prussia knew how to make a pretty answer. It was one of her charms.
"I think," and she smiled, "it is rather to compliment Rustan," and she glanced at Napoleon's favourite Eastern servant, who, wearing a superb turban, stood behind the chair of his imperial master.
Napoleon was delighted, and the two began to discuss the province of Silesia and the old ones of Prussia, which now were perhaps to be ceded to France.
Frederick William, who had been silent, at once expressed his opinion, and, as usual, got into trouble with Napoleon.
"Your Majesty," he said, and his brow darkened, while he twisted his handkerchief and knotted it in a way he had, "does not know how grievous it is to lose territories which have descended through a long line of ancestors, territories which are, in fact, the cradle of one's race," he added gloomily.
Now, Napoleon was a man who had made his own fortunes, his name had not been royal, and his race had no such cradle.
A sarcastic smile played on his lips and a laugh of derision rang through the room.
"Cradle!" he said, and his lips curled in amusement. "When the child has grown to be a man he has not much time to think about his cradle!"
The guests gazed down at their plates.
Why on earth had the King spoken?
But the Queen saved the day.
"The mother's heart," she said, "is the most lasting cradle."
Then she enquired about Madame Bonaparte, whom above all living people Napoleon honoured, and the Empress Josephine, and Napoleon's good humour came back and he talked steadily through the whole dinner, everybody being forced to listen and eat in silence.
"That odious man," whispered the Countess Tauentzein, when at last they arose from dinner; "he has the manners of a peasant."
"And how ugly," answered Countess von Voss. "Did you notice how fat he is, and how bloated his face, and how brown his complexion?"
"He is altogether without figure, the wretch!" answered the other. "See how he rolls his great eyes, and how severe is his expression!"
"But his mouth is beautiful," admitted the old Countess, "and his teeth perfect. But see how he looks the very picture of success!" She lowered her voice cautiously. "But what a happy day it will be for the world when God takes him!"
As for Napoleon, his eyes never left the Queen. He followed her everywhere.
For a moment she stood alone in the room, in whose window-seat stood a pot in which grew a rosebush with one lovely flower.
Napoleon broke off its stem, and bearing it in his hand he approached the Queen and offered it to her, smiling.
"Sire," she said, her blue eyes pleading, "with Magdeburg?"
Napoleon still offered the rose, his face flushing.
"I must point out to your Majesty," he said, "that it is for me to beg, for you to accept, or decline."
It was the Queen's turn to flush.
"There is no rose without a thorn," she said, "but these thorns," she gazed at the rose, "are too sharp for me."
And turning, she left Napoleon with a rose in his hand, his lips pressing themselves together.
He had given the Queen her answer. Prussia was to lose Magdeburg. The Queen had appealed in vain.
The banquet ended in a dance, and at a late hour the King and Queen returned to their lodgings in Piktupöhnen.
The next day the King and Napoleon had a talk, and those listening heard hot words and angry voices.
Frederick William was entreating for Magdeburg. Napoleon answering with scowling insolence.
"You forget," said the Emperor, his eyes narrowing, "that you are not in a position to negotiate. Understand that I wish to keep Prussia down and to hold Magdeburg that I may enter Berlin when I wish to. I believe in the stability of but two sentiments—vengeance and hatred. For the future, the Prussians must hate the French; but I will put it out of their power to injure them."
Again, that day, the Queen was forced to dine with Napoleon. She prayed to be excused, but all begged her to go. It would appear better, for the treaty now was signed.
"I have given Prussia a few concessions because of its Queen," announced Napoleon, but what they were it was hard to guess.
The King of Prussia must give up half of his dominions; he must reduce his army to 42,000 men; he must pay 140,000,000 francs as the cost of the war, and he must acknowledge the Confederation of the Rhine and all the kingdoms Napoleon might set up anywhere. Jerome Bonaparte, as King of Westphalia, was to receive half of the Kingdom of Prussia.
Knowing this, the Queen sat in her ermine and jewels; she talked with Napoleon, she smiled, she thanked him for his hospitality.
When she left he led her to the carriage.
"I regret, your Majesty," he said, "that I must not do what you asked me."
"And I regret," said the Queen, "that, having had the honour of knowing the hero of the age, whom I can never forget, the impression left on my mind must always be painful. Had you been generous, sire, I would be bound to you by an everlasting gratitude."
"Indeed, your Majesty," returned Napoleon, "I lament that so it must be; it is my evil destiny."
"And I have been cruelly deceived," were the Queen's last words, and off drove her carriage.
The two Royal Foes parted, never again to meet.
That day Louisa thought herself the vanquished, and before the world Napoleon wore the laurels of victory. Seventy years later the President of France wrote that it was his belief that, at Tilsit, Napoleon was conquered; that had he then been generous and bound the King and Queen of Prussia to him by a tie of gratitude his last days need not, perhaps, have been spent on the island of St. Helena, for in his troubles they would have been his ally.
When the Queen reached her room she turned to her ladies in tears.
"When I am dead," she said, "it will be as with Queen Mary of England; not Calais, but Magdeburg will be graven on my poor heart in letters of blood."
Peace was signed on the seventh, and on June 24 Napoleon, in triumph, entered Frankfort-on-Main, and three days later he arrived at his palace at Saint Cloud and immediately was off again, marching armies into Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Austria.
"Peace is made," wrote Queen Louisa to her father, "but at a dreadful price. Our boundary will only go as far as the Elbe. Yet is the King greater than his adversary. After Eylau he could have made a more advantageous peace, but then he must have followed wicked principles, and now he has acted through necessity and not forsworn himself. That must bring a blessing on Prussia. After Eylau he would not desert a faithful ally. Once more, I repeat, it is my firm belief that this conduct of the King will bring good fortune to Prussia."
Napoleon had insisted upon the dismissal of Hardenburg as Prime Minister, and in September the King called Stein to his assistance. From the Queen this great man received a letter.
"I conjure you," she wrote, for he had made some objections to remaining in office with a certain fellow minister, "have but patience in the first few months. For Heaven's sake, do not let the good cause be lost for want of three months' patience. I conjure, for the sake of the King, of the country, of my children, for my own sake, patience!"Louisa."
"I conjure you," she wrote, for he had made some objections to remaining in office with a certain fellow minister, "have but patience in the first few months. For Heaven's sake, do not let the good cause be lost for want of three months' patience. I conjure, for the sake of the King, of the country, of my children, for my own sake, patience!
"Louisa."
As for Baron von Stein, he had at heart only the good of Prussia, and waited.
The war was ended. Prussia was in the dust; its King and Queen exiled from the capital. Crops were ruined, villages were burned, and this poor, unhappy country must pay its war debt.
"Now, God be everlastingly praised," wrote the poor Queen, "that my daughter, who would now be almost fifteen years old, came dead into the world."
"I must play my life days in this unlucky time," she said. "Perhaps God gave me my living children that one of them might bring good to mankind."
And there was one who did the great things the Queen dreamed of.
It was not the handsome Crown Prince, though he was a clever monarch; it was not Princess Charlotte, though she became Empress of Russia; it was not Alexandrina, who, a lovely old lady, died only a year or two ago as Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg; nor jolly Carl, nor Louisa, nor Albert, who came later.
It was simple, honourable, sensible little William. Every pain his mother felt sank deeply into his heart, and at last the day came when he led the Prussian army to the great battle of Sedan, where he conquered the nephew of Napoleon and created the German Empire.
But no one dreamed of this that dreary summer in Memel, and though the Queen did her best to be cheerful, all who loved her saw that the canker-worm of sorrow was drawing nearer and nearer the heart of the beautiful "Rose of the King," the flower whose stem had been so roughly handled by its enemy.
When Franz again opened his eyes it was to see a little figure sitting near by with her knitting.
"Am I crazy?" He gazed about the room in which he found himself lying.
He saw a huge porcelain stove of green and white and blue and yellow, with a pelican on top for an ornament. A chest of drawers boasted a vase of roses, and there were pretty white curtains to the window.
"Bettina," he said, "Bettina!"
She ran to him, her blue eyes eager.
"Ach ja," said Franz, "but it is the same Bettina."
Yes, it was the old Bettina with the bright, eager eyes, the golden hair, but it was Bettina grown older.
"God be praised," she said, her eyes dancing; "I will call your Frau Mother."
He was home, but how had he come there?
There was Madame von Stork, the tears flowing; there was his father; Pauline, too; how handsome she was! And Marianne; but how serious she had grown! And the twins.
"Come here, Ilse. The other hand, Elchen! And Carlchen, how big you are!"
The children, hanging their heads, were pushed to the bed by Marianne.
Franz's eyes sought other figures.
"Wolfgang?" he said. "And Otto; where is Otto?"
It was days before he heard all the news, and it was days before he learned all that had happened.
Wolfgang was dead.
The Herr Lieutenant turned his face away.
Otto had run off, and no one knew where he was.
The rascal! That was exactly like Otto.
As for the Herr Lieutenant himself, the peasant boy had come for the Professor. The French soldiers had fired the house and the peasants had fled at once to Memel.
It was all very simple. Peace was made now, and his father had brought him in a carriage. He for days had remained unconscious. They were all soon to move to Königsberg, and Franz was to go also, and Otto must come home now, for the war was over.
Then Marianne, who came in often and sat with her tent stitch, told him how the poor Queen had been deceived by Napoleon, how she had believed in his promise and had not been well from the shock of disappointment since she had returned from Tilsit.
And when Marianne was gone, in came his mother and she wept over Wolfgang and Otto and told him how Ludwig Brandt, who was soon to be betrothed to Pauline, was always at Königsberg, for there were great plans among the students in which Ludwig was helping, plans for rousing the nation against Napoleon.
Then she told of Marianne, and of how she was now a great comfort.
"And it is all because of our good Queen," she assured him, and related how Marianne now adored her instead of Goethe, and of how she had gone all winter to make lint and to read aloud to her Majesty.
"And she has now a longing to be useful," said Madame von Stork, her face brightening. "At first it was to be useful in some high-flown way," she added.
At that Franz laughed merrily.
"That is like Marianne," he said, "exactly, dear mother."
"She wanted to nurse the soldiers," continued Madame von Stork, "but our good Queen assured her that she was far too young and that home is the true place for a German maiden. She told her how she herself had never interfered in politics, but had been content to be a good wife and mother.
"And so," concluded Madame von Stork, "each day she becomes more of a comfort. God be praised," she added, "that we came to Memel. Our Queen is an example to all German women."
"She is an angel," said Franz, who like all the soldiers adored Queen Louisa.
The very first day Franz asked about Hans.
"We had thought him dead," explained his father. "The King had news of his disappearance and believed him to have been shot as a spy. But when you were brought home the peasant told me the soldiers had marched him away with them and I could do nothing."
"He will probably soon arrive in Memel," said Franz, "now peace is made."
"The soldiers about Tilsit knew nothing of him. Why they took him prisoner I have no idea, but can only wonder," added his father.
But the days passed, and no Hans came, and the weeks went by and turned into months.
Bettina, though, was sure that he would come to her.
"He promised," she said, "that when peace was made we should go back to our dear Thuringia."
She had wept bitterly when Elsa had come out with the news of his death, but only for a moment.
"That is my grandfather's writing," she had said, "and so he must be living."
And now she still believed in his coming.
Nothing, however, could make Marianne happy, for the Queen's health seemed to fail entirely.
As the summer advanced to autumn, and autumn marched into winter the winds of Memel grew fiercer and fiercer. With their coming the Queen lost her colour, her cheerfulness was forced, and she drooped like a flower.
One thing alone comforted both her and the King, a letter from the people of Westphalia, who must now belong to Napoleon.
Frederick William had bade them farewell, telling them that he felt like a father separating from his children, that it was only necessity which made him yield them to their new ruler.
The Westphalians answered him like children.
"When we read thy farewell," they wrote, "our hearts were breaking; we could not believe that we should cease to be thy faithful subjects, we who have always loved thee so much. As true as we live, it is not thy fault that after the battle of Jena thy scattered armies were not led to our country to join with our militia in a fresh combat. We would have staked our lives and have saved the country, for our warriors have marrow in their bones and their souls are not yet infested with the canker.
"Our wives nourish their children with their own milk, our daughters are no puppets of fashion, we desire to keep free from the pestilential spirit of the age. Yet we cannot change the decrees of Providence. Farewell, then, thou good old King. God grant that the remainder of thy country may furnish thee with wise ministers and truer generals than those which have brought affliction on thee. It is not for us to struggle against our fate, we must with manly fortitude submit to what we cannot alter. May God be with us and give us a new ruler who will likewise be the father of the country, may he respect our language, our manners, our religion, and our municipalities as thou hast done, our dear, good King. God grant thee peace, health, and happiness."
Such a letter was a great comfort to the Queen, and though her heart was very heavy, she occupied herself first in the sale of her jewels, then she and the King sent all their golden dishes to the mint to be turned into money. She bought only simple dresses and tried to set all the people of the Court an example of patience and cheerfulness. She talked much with good Bishop Eylert and Bishop Borowsky.
One Sunday the Bishop found her alone in her sitting-room reading her Bible.
When he entered she greeted him with a smile and they sat and talked over the 120th Psalm.
In a firm, clear voice the Queen repeated aloud all its verses.
"In thy light," she said, "shall we see light." And then she told the Bishop how, though her foe had conquered her and taken away her kingdom, she firmly believed that God would send His light and show to all the reasons of the wars of Napoleon.
"I think," she said, "it is wise to study a portion of Scripture each day, really study it." The King, coming in, agreed.
Then the Bishop suggested that each should choose a book.
"I," said the Queen, "choose Psalms."
"And I," said the King, "select the book of Daniel, because it teaches that kingdoms do not rise and fall by chance. God's ways may often seem to us dark and mysterious, but we may feel assured that they are always holy, wise, and salutary. By His wisdom and mercy this world is so ordered that evil works out its own destruction, and good,—that is, all that agrees with the will of God,—must avail at last."
When Marianne heard of this study of the Queen, she, too, selected a book, and decided upon Psalms because the Queen had selected it for her study.
Now and then, however, pleasant things happened.
The house where the King and Queen lived was so small that there was no room for the children. Therefore Prince Frederick and Prince William lived in the house of a wealthy merchant named Argelander.
"To-day," said the Queen one morning, "is Frau Argelander's birthday. We hear that for fear of disturbing the Princes she has gone to the country to have her feast with her friends. Come, then, let us decorate her house and send a message for her to come and enjoy it."
Everyone was delighted to see the Queen again lively. Marianne ran to the Stork's Nest and sent all the children for evergreens, the ladies hurried to the shops and purchased little gifts, and the great work began.
A servant flew about Memel with invitations, and by late afternoon all was ready and a messenger departed to fetch Frau Argelander.
"My goodness, oh, Heaven!" cried the ladies when he returned with the message that Frau Argelander begged to be excused, as she was enjoying her feast with her friends, and did not need in the least her house, which the Princes were free to use as they would.
Nobody knew what to do, but the Queen arranged a plan.
"You go, Fritz," she said to the Crown Prince, "take the carriage and fetch Frau Argelander."
And this time the lady appeared with many apologies to find lights streaming from her windows, decorations everywhere, garlands wreathing the doors, and presents spread on a table. Beneath the chandelier in the Saal stood the Queen, lovely in white, a Prince on each side, Charlotte and Carl and Alexandrina grouped about all holding bouquets in their hands to present to the lady who had been so kind to them in their trouble.
"Dear Frau Argelander, dear Birthday Child!" cried the Queen, and slipped on the lady's plump arm a bracelet containing the hair of the two Princes.
Then did the Queen begin the festivities, part of the fun being the reading of a poem on each present, written at the command of the Queen by a Memel poet.
Marianne was standing near the table on which were the presents when Franz, who was well, now turned towards her smiling.
"Mariechen," he said in German, for after a talk or two with Ludwig Brandt he no longer spoke the fashionable French, but always his own language, "do you remember what Schlegel wrote about our Queen?"
Marianne shook her head.
"I have never heard it."
Franz, in low tones, repeated the words:
"She would be a Queen if she lived in a cottage,The Queen of every heart."
"She would be a Queen if she lived in a cottage,The Queen of every heart."
Marianne's eyes danced.
"Oh, Franz," she cried, "oh, brother, how, how lovely!"
"And it is true," said Franz, gazing about the room, his eye resting on the handsome old Countess, looking bored because of her love of her own Saal in the evening, yet brightening if the Queen so much as looked at her, at the Princes and Princesses hanging on their mother's words, at the young poet, happy ever in the honour done his verses, at Frau Argelander, at the people of Memel.
"Ja, ja," he said, "the Angel of Prussia, the Queen of Every Heart!"
But there was one person who was determined not to let the Queen of Prussia be happy.
"Pay your war debt. Pay me what you owe," Napoleon kept crying.
The King of Prussia, who had no money, begged for time, and he would pay everything.
"Pay me, and at once," insisted Napoleon.
What was the King to do? He had no money.
Then his brother, Prince William, had an idea.
"There is no gold," he said, "how can we pay? I will go to Paris and entreat Napoleon to have mercy."
He said this in public, but his real plan, told only to his wife, was to offer himself as a hostage until Prussia could pay her debt.
"I will join you," said the Princess Marianne. "Our little Amelia died in our flight from Dantzic and I can be as happy with you in a prison as in a palace."
So the Prince departed, and the King and Queen waited.
The great scientist, Alexander von Humboldt, prepared Napoleon for his coming and he was received with both politeness and kindness.
At once, with glowing face, he offered himself as a hostage for his country.
Napoleon embraced him.
"That is very noble," he said, "but impossible." For he wanted money, not Princes.
When the news of this act spread through Germany it fired the people like a draught of strong wine.
"We will rise!" they cried. "Our Prince has set us an example! We will throw off the yoke of the oppressor!"
And so, in the darkest hour of the Fatherland, patriotism began to blaze brightly.
The French having evacuated Königsberg, the Queen longed to leave Memel, whose winds had never agreed with her.
"Do, Majesty," urged Baron Stein, advising the King, "it is more dignified that you hold Court in a large city like Königsberg."
While all this was being discussed, to the surprise of the von Storks, the Queen sent one day for Bettina.
"What can she want?" and Madame von Stork made Bettina ready, brushing her hair, putting on a blue dress Pauline had made her, and seeing that the elastics of her slippers were in exact order.
Bettina went alone, the Queen requiring it, and with eyes eager, her bright smile on her lips, the little girl appeared before her.
"Dear child," said the Queen, "I have sent for you because I have some news to tell you."
Then she explained that she feared Bettina's grandfather might not return to Memel, that Professor von Stork had many to care for, and that she, the Queen, meant in the future to provide for Bettina.
"My dear people of Berlin," she told her, "have founded a home for orphans in my honour. The Luisenstift, they will call it. Now, dear Bettina, I am to name and support four of these children and I have selected you as one of them."
Poor Bettina! Her little heart sank. Must she leave the Stork's Nest, must she go among strangers?
The Queen understood.
"You cannot, dear child," she said like a mother, "always live with the good Professor. Go happily, dear child, to this Home. It will help the good Professor to have you cared for. You may visit them in your holidays, and, if you are a good girl and study well, one day you may come and live at Court and be a maid to Princess Charlotte, or my little Alexandrina. Would you not like that?" And the Queen smiled enchantingly.
Bettina's eyes glowed.
To be always near her Majesty! What happiness!
"But go now," said the Queen, "and tell the Herr Professor that I will talk this over with him before he moves his family to Königsberg, and after Christmas I shall send you to Berlin, to the Luisenstift. Until then, be happy!"
"My grandfather will come," thought Bettina; "the Queen is good, but we will go to Thuringia and I shall see Hans and the baby, my godmother and Willy."
And she believed this so firmly that she hardly worried over the Orphan Asylum.
But the Professor was relieved. Money was scarce. He had many children, and he thanked the Queen over and over for her goodness.
All the Storks, grown and children, liked their new Nest in Königsberg.
It was a city, and there was more to amuse one than in Memel. But life still had its troubles both for them, for the Queen, and for Prussia.
One day Marianne was standing with the children on the bridge of Kantstrasse. They were looking down at the Fish Market and laughing at the fish women from the Baltic as they sold their fish. There were Dutch vessels in the Pregel, and queer sailors, and Marianne told the twins to look at the queer signs hanging on the houses on the bank. "When the Poles were here," she explained, "each man painted the sign of his trade and swung it from his house. See, that was a shoemaker, there was a tailor."
While they talked, people were passing along Kantstrasse by the dozens, professors going to and fro, town people, soldiers, sailors or fishers from the Baltic.
Presently along came Franz.
When he saw the little group he smiled and joined them.
While they watched the scene he told them a dreadful story of Napoleon, of something which had helped bring on the war.
"It roused all Prussia," he said.
It was the story of the bookseller, Palm of Nuremberg.
In that quaint old town where they make the toys of the world, where the famous Albrecht Dürer once lived and drew and painted, had lived a certain honest young man named Palm, and his young wife, Anna. He was a bookseller, and respected by everybody.
One day he received a package of books by mail which he was to sell in his shop. The name of the book was "Germany in Her Deepest Degradation," but it was anonymous.
Herr Bookseller Palm placed the books in his shop as requested.
A little later he was arrested by order of Napoleon and threatened with death unless he revealed the name of the author.
Palm had one answer. The books had been sent him without a name, and that was all he knew.
There was much more, but Franz first told how Palm, who had hidden, was arrested by a trick. A man pretended to be in great trouble from which only Palm could save him. The kind bookseller came forward to see the messenger, was seized, dragged off, and shot without proper trial, though the women of the town appeared before the judges clamouring for mercy, and his poor young wife implored his life from Napoleon's officers. Only a good Roman Catholic priest supported him to the end, although Palm was a Lutheran. "Shot down like a dog!" cried Franz hotly.
Marianne's tears fell when she heard of the suffering of the wife, of Palm's goodness, his belief in God, and his bravery in refusing to give the name of the author.
"How I hate Napoleon!" cried Marianne. "Oh, if I were a man and able to fight him!"
Those were stormy days in Königsberg.
The Stork's Nest was thronged with students and professors, all full of talk and bitter against Napoleon.
Ludwig stayed there always now, and he was prime mover in a great plan among the students, and so when Pauline was betrothed to him many professors and students came with congratulations.
"I shall never marry," said Marianne, quite positively.
Everybody laughed, but she was herself very serious.
"My heart is with my country," she said.
In the evenings all the family gathered again about the big table, but instead of reading they listened now to talking.
"Stein will save our land," said Ludwig one evening. "God be praised! The King no longer opposes him, but is guided by his counsel."
"But will Napoleon permit him to remain?" The Professor looked anxious.
Ludwig shrugged his shoulders.
"At all events," he said, "our King's conduct is noble. He had given up everything, plate, wealth, all he has, to help with this debt to Napoleon. The future is God's, not ours."
As for the Queen, all Prussia sang praise of her nobility in going to Tilsit.
Marianne had been once to Memel on a visit to her uncle Joachim, who was happy now with Rudolph at home again, and had been to Court and had seen Queen Louisa before she herself moved to Königsberg.
She had been reading a wonderful book called "Leonard and Gertrude."
"I wish," she told Marianne, "that I could get into a carriage and start off to Switzerland and find the author."
His name was Pestalozzi, and he was full of new ideas of how to educate children.
But what pleased Marianne was the news that the Queen was soon to come to Königsberg.
"But our dear Queen is not well," said the old Countess to Marianne. "Since her visit to that monster she lies awake at night and weeps and often suffers a pain in her heart, though in public she smiles and is always an angel."
"Down with Napoleon!" called out the parrot. "Upstart! Villain! Monster! Down with the Emperor!"
The old Countess gave him a cracker.
"Pretty Polly," she said. "But now be quiet."
"Upstart! Villain!" repeated Polly.
Then the Countess complained to Marianne of all the noise of the Royal children and of the conduct of the Maids of Honour.
"One night when our dear Queen was ill the noise was dreadful. It woke her from a doze and I went out to see who was making it. And what did I find?"
The old lady shook with offended dignity.
"Why, the Maids of Honour, my child, flirting and laughing with the generals! I spoke to the King, but, my dear Marianne, what good can it do? Etiquette has gone entirely out of fashion! The Maids of Honour will have their ways, will laugh, talk, and behave in a way most unseemly. But never mind, we shall soon come to Königsberg."
It was deep winter when the royal family arrived. The people of Memel were sad, indeed, to see them depart, and the King wrote them a letter.
"I thank my brave citizens of Memel for their true and steadfast attachment to my person, my wife, and my whole house. Memel is the only town in my dominions which has escaped the worse calamities of the war, but it has proved itself capable of enduring them and ready, if called on, to resist the enemy. I shall never forget that Divine Providence preserved to us an asylum in this town and that its people evinced the warmest and most constant attachment to us."
The people of Königsberg on their part were delighted. Immediately they elected the Crown Prince rector of their famous University.
"On the sixth of March," they said, "we will confer this honour on him, give a grand fête, and have a torch-light procession."
The Crown Prince, who was thirteen now, thought this very fine, and for a few days walked about with dignity, but then he grew tired of such stiffness and joined Prince William and his friend Rudolph von Auerswald, Carl von Stork, and little Prince Carl, in their battles against the mice and rats in the old castle.
On February the first all the bells of this old city of the King rang out most joyfully.
"We have a new little sister," the Royal children told Rudolph and Carl.
"Her name," said the King, "shall be Louisa, for her mother."
"It is because I love thee so dearly," he said to the Queen, "that I have named our youngest little daughter, Louisa."
Tears started to the Queen's eyes.
"May she, dear Fritz, indeed grow up to be thy Louisa."
"I am weary," the King said, "of lords and ladies. It is the people of Prussia who have been my friends and helped me. Therefore, it is they who shall be sponsors at the baptism of my daughter."
So there came men to represent every class of the Prussian people, and they sat down to as fine a feast as the King's pocketbook would permit him to give them.
The Queen, who was not well, lay on a sofa and received all the godfathers of the tiny Louisa, and the baptism took place there, and not in the church, because of the cold weather.
The Countess von Voss brought the baby to the Princess William and gave it its name of Louisa Augusta Wilhelmina Amelia for its mother.
The court ladies all wore round skirts and tunics, and the Queen gave the old Countess a handsome set of ornaments, but they all wept bitterly for the little girl whose blue eyes had opened on so cold and cruel a world as Napoleon and winter had made East Prussia.
When all sat at the banquet one of the godfathers arose and addressed the tiny Louisa, whose blue eyes stared at him in wonder.
"Louisa Wilhelmina," he said, "god-child of the people, thou art a gentle mediator between the King and us. Mayst thou live to stand a full-grown blooming virgin amongst thy brothers and sisters; may then thy royal house be flourishing in renewed glory. Meanwhile, dark hours will pass like storm-birds over thy head—thou wilt hear the rushing of their wings, but it will not frighten thee. Thou, sweet one, wilt smile, feeling nothing but thy childish happiness and the charm of life. Loving arms will hold thee safely, high above the precipice on the edge of which we stand. May the future smile on us through thee. In thee we see thy father's love to us, and by thy bright eyes may the people speak comfort to the King, saying, 'We are thine, thou art our lord and master: be strong and true to thyself. Trust not in thy councillors and thy servants, for they are not all full of courage, nor all of one mind. What they have done and what they have left undone has brought us near to ruin. Trust thine own judgment, thine own heart, and we will trust in thee. We are all thine, master, be strong and true to thyself.'"
But the people of Königsberg had other things to think of than tiny Louisa.
All the patriots of Germany came to and fro, among them Schleiermacher, who had refused to remain in Halle when Napoleon took the city from Frederick William. He believed that Austria and England would join in throwing off Napoleon.
"Now," he said, "while Napoleon is in Spain, let us do what we can."
For, all over Germany, the French army were still masters, driving people from their homes, burning villages, doing all that Napoleon permitted.
"Now," cried Schleiermacher.
"Now," cried Ludwig Brandt.
"Now," cried all the students of the University.
So in that summer in Königsberg was founded a secret society called the "Tugendbund," or "League of Virtue," whose purpose was to spread patriotism throughout Germany. Members sprang up everywhere, agents went to and fro, and the watchword was "Secresy."
Nevertheless, Napoleon heard of it.
"Dismiss Stein," he ordered the King, "he is the founder. He shall not remain as Prussian Minister."
Then he put a price on this great man's head, and he was forced to flee for his life to Prague in Bohemia. He had done his best for his country and, therefore, Napoleon wished to be rid of him. But it was untrue that he founded the "Tugendbund."
"I am heartily tired of life," he wrote, "and wish it would soon come to an end. To enjoy rest and independence it would be best to settle in America, in Kentucky, or Tennessee; there one would find a splendid climate and soil, glorious views, and rest and security for a century—not to mention a multitude of Germans—the capital of Kentucky is called Frankfort."
But the Prussians refused to be conquered.
"We will outwit Napoleon, who has declared that the Prussian army can consist only of forty-two thousand soldiers," they cried, and they drilled soldiers, sending set after set home, always keeping the army at forty-two thousand, but training every man and boy of Prussia.
Otto von Stork refused to return home, but while he drilled away with the rest he sent letters telling of the dreadful times of the Berliners, how they had no food, how even the once rich lived like beggars, how there was no wax for candles, and how Napoleon had robbed the city of all he could lay his hands upon.
So another unhappy year for Prussia passed away and brought in 1809.
The Queen's pink cheeks had faded to white, her eyes showed that their blue had been washed with tears, and about her mouth were lines of sorrow.
"If posterity," she wrote, "will not place my name amongst those of illustrious women, yet those who are acquainted with the troubles of these times will know what I have gone through and will say, 'She suffered much and endured with patience,' and I only wish they may be able to add: 'She gave being to children worthy of better times and who by their continual struggles have succeeded in attaining them.'"
Sometimes she talked this way to the Crown Prince and little William, and their eyes would glow and they would promise that they would do great things for Prussia.
When she went through Königsberg streets, in the warm days when the flowers were in bloom, it was the joy of all the little children to offer her nosegays. Never did she decline one, and she always had a smile for everybody.
One day came news of Otto which startled his father and sent his mother weeping to bed. Major Shill, a brave Prussian soldier, refused to stop fighting against Napoleon, and became a great hero of Prussia, though on the 30th of December, 1808, while the King and Queen were in St. Petersburg on a visit to the Czar Alexander, the Emperor had withdrawn his soldiers from Prussia, and the Brandenburg Hussars and a cavalry regiment under this Major Shill entered Berlin.
When Napoleon began again to fight the Austrians Major Shill departed from Berlin against the French without a declaration of war, angering the King, but attracting a thousand to his banner.
Among them was Otto von Stork.
"Do not grieve, my dear parents," he wrote; "never shall I lay down my arms until Napoleon is defeated."
But what were a thousand men?
The end came quickly.
Ludwig brought the news to the Professor.
"Shill is killed," he said; "shot while fighting in the streets of Stralsund. Twelve of his officers have been taken and shot by the French, the others sent to the galleys."
"Otto! Otto!" cried poor Madame von Stork; "Richard, Ludwig, where is my Otto?"
The years marched on to another Christmas.
Much had happened.
Napoleon was still triumphant, for, conquering the Austrians, he had entered Vienna as victor.
"All is lost," Queen Louisa wrote, "if not forever, at least for the present."
As for Otto von Stork, he was not killed, but continued fighting where he could find soldiers.
"All Europe must rise," he wrote his father; "the brave Andreas Hofer is rousing the Tyrolese, and, oh, dear father, have you heard of the brave deed of Haydn in Vienna?"
"Haydn?" interrupted Marianne, and then with a smile she began singing "With Verdure Clad," from the musician's "Creation." Of course they all had heard of Haydn. Certainly the old man was a hero.
When he heard the cannon and knew that Napoleon was entering his Vienna, he went to a window and opened the sash.
"Sing!" he cried to the people in the streets, "sing, good people."
And then the old white-haired musician lifted his voice and sang his own hymn.
"God save our Emperor Franz!" rang through the streets, all the people joining. And when Napoleon entered they were singing at the tops of their voices. But the excitement was too much for Haydn. He died two days later.
Then Otto was off to fight in the Tyrol.
"He will break my heart," wept his mother, but the Herr Lieutenant's eyes flashed.
"If my arm——" he began, but his mother cried out so that he never finished his sentence.
Napoleon, in these days of gloom, divorced his wife, married the Archduchess Marie Louise of Austria, and a son was born to them, the little King of Rome, they called him.
The Czar had been again with Napoleon and there had been a famous meeting at Erfurt, and they had divided the world between them, and then Alexander had paid his friends a visit at Memel and had been shocked at the appearance of the Queen.
"Come," he said, "to St. Petersburg and see the wonders of my capital. It will do the Queen good."
And so they went on a splendid journey and met all the Royal family of Russia and received honour and rich presents.
But Queen Louisa cared no more for such things as fine clothes, crowns, banquets and jewels.
To her friend, Frau von Berg, she wrote:
"I am come back from St. Petersburg as I went. Nothing dazzles me now. Yes, I feel it more and more, my kingdom is not of this world. I have danced, dear friend," she said, "I have been agreeable to the whole world, but God Almighty have mercy upon me." So much did she feel the sorrows of her poor kingdom.
But now the French had left Berlin entirely, and, at Christmas time, the year 1809, three years after Jena, the King and Queen were returning to their capital.
Marianne and her grandmother were standing on Unter den Linden, Ludwig and Pauline, who was now his wife, not far off. Again there were flags and garlands, and again the people everywhere.
"The Berliners have sent our Queen a new carriage lined with her favourite violet," and Marianne smiled in gladness.
"Ach, ja," said her grandmother, who now spoke German. "We can do such things now, but formerly that monster Napoleon would not even permit us to celebrate her birthday."
And she told Marianne of the actor, Iffland, who had had courage on March tenth, her Majesty's birthday, to wear a bouquet of flowers in his theatre.
Marianne listened with great interest. She was altogether a changed girl, and tried always to think of other people.
"Thanks to our good Queen," her mother always was saying, "God be praised that Marianne tries now to imitate her, for she is the model for all German maidens."
At exactly the same hour that, fifteen years before, as a bride, Louisa of Mecklenburg had entered Berlin, the Queen appeared in her violet-lined carriage.
The Berliners cheered, but at the same moment their eyes filled.
It was their Queen and as beautiful as ever, some declared even lovelier, but she seemed like a rose whose stem is no longer erect. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes were washed with weeping, and about her mouth, trying so hard to smile as of old, they saw lines of sorrow.
"How we hate him! How we hate Napoleon!" and the people clenched their fists when they saw her.
With her were her niece, Frederika, the Princess Charlotte, now tall and beautiful, the old Countess, and jolly Carl.
The young princes were on horseback, the King was with his generals.
"Long life to our good King! Long live Frederick William!" shouted the Berliners, but when they saw the Queen and remembered how she had gone for their sake to Napoleon, her name rang from one side of Berlin to the other.
At the palace an old man lifted her from her carriage, folded her in his arms and led her away from the people.
"Her father, the old Duke!" cried the Berliners, and they were not ashamed to weep openly.
In a few moments Queen Louisa appeared on a balcony.
The people went frantic with joy, and her cheeks grew pink, and she tried to smile, and then, the tears flowing from her eyes, prevented her.
"It is heartrending," said a stranger to Madame von Bergman, who, herself, was making use of an embroidered handkerchief. "When, Madame, I see that poor lady, our Queen, and think of all that she has suffered, and of our kingdom divided in two, and still ruled by Napoleon, I cannot restrain my speech."
"Never mind, Herr Arndt," said Madame von Bergman, "we all feel as you do."
The stranger started in alarm.
"You recognise me? I thought," he said, "that sorrow had so changed me that no one could know my features."
"You are safe with me," said the good lady, who knew there was a price on the head of this patriotic poet. "I am the mother-in-law of Herr Professor Richard von Stork of the Tugendbund." She lowered her voice as she said this last word.
Arndt grasped her hand and then, walking away with her, told how he had been driven from land to land and torn from his son for the sake of the little one's safety.
"When I thrust the child from me," he said, "I could almost have cursed the French and the Corsican who rules them."
For a moment he was silent.
Then he gazed about gay Unter den Linden.
"But, Madame," his face looked like that of a prophet, "I see to-day in this splendour, in these loud and continued cheers for the King, a hope that all hearts may be united in one common German spirit. I see more eyes wet with sorrow than bright with joy, and who knows what will come of it for our dear Fatherland?"
Marianne's eyes sparkled.
Her one longing was to serve her country. But what could a girl do?
Her face fell.
At the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden she came face to face with Bettina marching homeward with the girls of the "Luisenstift."
"Come home with us, pray, my child," said old Madame von Bergman very kindly.
Permission was given and Bettina joined them. She was now a big girl, and thirteen.
"Gracious Fräulein," she said to Marianne, "how happy I am." Then she laughed her gay little gurgle. "I think, Gracious Fräulein, Frederick Barbarossa is waking. He is stretching himself, I think. He will rise soon and drive away Napoleon." Arndt looked at her in surprise and then nodded.
In the evening there was a grand illumination.
The Berliners had pressed the King to appear in the theatre.
"Yes, yes," he said, "but first we will go to church and thank Almighty God for his mercy."
To celebrate his return he freed many prisoners, gave money to the poor, and remembered to thank all who had been loyal.
On their part, the Berliners had the sculptor, Schadow, make a statue of the Queen and place it on an island in the Tiergarten.
The King also founded an Order of Merit, and with grand ceremony bestowed it upon many, among them the actor, Iffland, and the old clergyman who had answered Napoleon.