The prince, during this time, had walked rapidly on with his wife; no word was exchanged between them. Only once, when he felt her arm trembling, he turned and said harshly:
"Why do you tremble?"
"It is cold!" said she, monotonously.
"And yet," said he, laughing derisively, "it is such lovely, invigorating weather."
They went onward silently; they entered the castle and ascended the steps to the apartment of the princess. Now they were in her cabinet--in this quiet, confidential family room, where Prince Henry had passed so many happy hours with his beloved Wilhelmina. Now he stood before her, with a cold, contemptuous glance, panting for breath, too agitated to speak.
The princess was pale as death; unspeakable anguish was written in her face. She dared not interrupt this fearful silence, and appeared to be only occupied in arranging her toilet; she took off her hat and velvet mantle.
"Madame," said the prince at last, gasping at every word, "I am here to make a request of you!"
Wilhelmina bowed coldly and ceremoniously. "You have only to command, my husband!"
"Well, then," said he, no longer able to maintain his artificial composure. "I command you to show me the letter you have hidden in your bosom."
"What letter, prince?" stammered she, stepping back alarmed.
"The letter which Count Kalkreuth gave you in the garden. Do not utter a falsehood; do not dare to deny it. I am not in a mood to be restrained by any earthly consideration."
As he stood thus, opposed to her, with flashing eyes, with trembling lips, and his arm raised threateningly, Wilhelmina felt that it would be dangerous, indeed impossible to make any opposition. She knew that the decisive moment had arrived, the veil must be lifted, and that deception was no longer possible.
"The letter! give me the letter!" cried the prince, with a menacing voice.
Wilhelmina gazed at him steadily, with eyes full of scorn and hatred.
"Here it is," taking the letter calmly from her bosom, and handing it to the prince.
He snatched it like a tiger about to tear his prey to pieces; but when he had opened it and held it before him, the paper trembled so in his hands, he was scarcely able to read it. Once he murmured: "Ah! he dares to say thou to you; he calls you his 'adored Wilhelmina!'" He read on, groaning, sometimes crying out aloud, then muttering wild imprecations.
The princess stood in front of him, pale as death, trembling in every limb; her teeth were chattering, and she was forced to lean against her chair to keep from falling.
When the prince had finished reading the letter, he crushed it and thrust it in his bosom, then fixed his eyes upon his wife with an expression of such intense, unspeakable misery, that the princess felt her heart moved to its profoundest depths.
"Oh, my husband," she said, "curse me!--murder me!--but do not look upon me thus." She then sank as if pressed down by an invisible power, to her knees, and raised her hands to him imploringly.
The prince laughed coarsely, and stepped back. "Rise, madame," said he, "we are not acting a comedy--it is only your husband who is speaking with you. Rise, madame, and give me the key to your secretary. You will understand that after having read this letter I desire to see the others. As your husband, I have at least the right to know how much confidence you have placed in your lover, and how far you return his passion."
"You despise me," cried Wilhelmina, bursting into tears.
"I think I am justified in doing so," said he, coldly. "Stand up, and give me the key."
She rose and staggered to the table. "Here is the key."
The prince opened the secretary. "Where are the letters, madame?"
"In the upper drawer to the left."
"Ah," said lie with a rude laugh, "not even in a secret compartment have you guarded these precious letters. You were so sure of my blind confidence in you that you did not even conceal your jewels."
Princess Wilhelmina did not answer, but as the prince read one after the other of the letters, she sank again upon her knees. "My God, my God!"
murmured she, "have pity upon me! Send Thy lightning and crush me. Oh, my God! why will not the earth cover me and hide me from his glance!"
Rivers of tears burst from her eyes, and raising her arms to heaven, she uttered prayers of anguish and repentance.
The prince read on, on, in these unholy letters. Once he exclaimed aloud, and rushed with the letter to the princess.
"Is this true?" said he--"is this which you have written, true?"
"What? Is what true?" said Wilhelmina, rising slowly from her knees.
"He thanks you in this letter for having written to him that you have never loved any man but himself--him--Kalkreuth alone! Did you write the truth?"
"I wrote it, and it is the truth," said the princess, who had now fully recovered her energy and her composure. "Yes, sir, I have loved no one but Kalkreuth alone. I could not force my heart to love you--you who in the beginning disdained me, then one day in an idle mood were pleased to love me, to offer me your favor. I was no slave to be set aside when you were in the humor, and to count myself blessed amongst women when you should find me worthy of your high regard. I was a--free born woman, and as I could not give my hand to him I loved, I gave my heart--that heart which you rejected. You have the right to kill me, but not to despise me--to dishonor me."
"Do I dishonor you when I speak the truth?" cried the prince.
"You do not speak the truth. I have sinned heavily against you. I suffered your love--I could not return it. I had not the courage when I saw you, who had so long disdained me, lying at my feet, declaring your passion and imploring my love in return, to confess to you that I could never love you--that my heart was no longer free. This is my crime--this alone. I could not force my heart to love you, but I could be faithful to my duty, and I have been so. It is not necessary for me to blush and cast my eyes down before my husband. My love is pure--my virtue untarnished. I have broken no faith with you."
"Miserable play on words!" said the prince. "You have been a hypocrite--your crime is twofold: you have sinned against me--you have sinned against your love. You have been a base coward who had not the courage to do justice to the feelings of your own heart. What mean you by saying you have broken no faith with me? You have acted a daily lie.
Oh, madame, how have I loved you! Both body and soul were lost in that wild love. When you stood with your lover and listened well pleased to those glowing confessions of his sinful love, you excused yourself and thought, forsooth, you were breaking no faith. You have defrauded me of the woman I loved and the friend whom I trusted. May God curse you, even as I do! May Heaven chastise you, even as I shall!"
He raised both his hands over her as if he would call down Heaven's curse upon her guilty head, then turned and left the room.
CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING AT SANS-SOUCI. It was five o'clock in the morning. Deep silence reigned, the darkness of night still encompassed the world, the weary might still sleep and rest, life had recommenced nowhere, nowhere except at Sans-Souci, nowhere except in the apartment of the king; while his people slept, the king watched, he watched to work and think for his people. Without the wind howled and blew the snow against his window, and made even the fire in his room flicker; but the king heeded it not. He had completed his toilet and drunk his chocolate; now he was working. It did not disturb him that his room was cold, that the candle on his table gave but a poor light, and even seemed to increase the appearance of discomfort in his apartment; it gave sufficient light to enable him to read the letters which lay upon his table, and which had arrived the previous day. His ministers might sleep--the king waked and worked. He read every letter and petition, and wrote a few words of answer on the margin of each. After reading all business communications, the king took his own letters, those that were addressed to him personally, and came from his absent friends. His countenance, which before was grave and determined, assumed a soft and gentle expression, and a smile played upon his lips. The receipts for to-day were small. There were but few letters, and the large proportion of them came from relations of the king, or from distant acquaintances.
"No letter from D'Argens," said the king, smiling. "My ecclesiastic letter has accomplished the desired end, and the good marquis will arrive here to-day to rail at, and then forgive me. Ah, here is a letter from D'Alembert. Well, this is doubtless an agreeable letter, for it will inform me that D'Alembert accepts my proposal, and has decided to become the president of my Academy of Science."
He hastily broke the seal, and while he read a dark cloud overshadowed his brow. "He declines my offer," he said, discontentedly. "His pride consists in a disregard for princes; he wishes posterity to admire him for his unselfishness. Oh, he does not yet know posterity. She will either be utterly silent on this subject or, should it be spoken of, it will be considered an act of folly which D'Alembert committed. He is a proud and haughty man, as they all are." He again took the letter and read it once more, but more slowly and more carefully than before; gradually the clouds disappeared from his brow, and his eyes beamed with pleasure.
"No," he said; "I have misjudged D'Alembert. My displeasure at a disappointed hope blinded me; D'Alembert is not a small, vain man, but a free and great spirit. He now refuses my presidency, with a salary of six thousand thalers, as he last year refused the position of tutor to the heir of the throne of Russia, with a salary of a hundred thousand francs. He prefers to be poor and needy, and to live up five flights of stairs, and be his own master, than to live in a palace as the servant of a prince. I cannot be angry with him, for he has thought and acted as a wise man; and were I not Frederick, I would gladly be D'Alembert. I will not love him less because he has refused my offer. Ah, it is a real pleasure to know that there are still men who are independent enough to exercise their will and judgment in opposition to the king. Princes would be more noble, if those with whom they associated were not so miserable and shallow-hearted. D'Alembert shall be a lesson and a consolation to me; there are still men who are not deceivers and flatterers, fools and betrayers, but really men."
He carefully refolded the letter, and, before placing it in his portfolio, nodded to it as pleasantly as if it had been D'Alembert himself. He then took another letter.
"I do not recognize this writing," he said, as he examined the address.
"It is from Switzerland, and is directed to me personally. From whom is it?"
He opened the letter, and glanced first at the signature.
"Ah," he said, "from Jean Jacques Rousseau! I promised him an asylum.
The free Switzers persecuted the unhappy philosopher, and my good Lord Marshal prayed my assistance for him. Lord Marshal is now in Scotland, and it will not benefit him to have his friend here. Well, perhaps it may lead to his return, if he hopes to find Rousseau here. I must see what the philosopher says."
The letter contained only a few lines, which the king read with utter astonishment. "Vraiment!" he exclaimed; "philosophers all belong to the devil. This Jean Jacques does not content himself with declining my offer, but he does it in an unheard-of manner. This is a work of art; I must read it again."
The king read aloud in a most pathetic voice: "Votre majeste m'offre un asyle, et m'y prome la liberte; mais vous avez une epee, et vous etes roi. Vous m'offrez une pension, a moi, qui n'a rien fait pour vous. Mais en avez-vous donne a tous les braves gens qui ont perdu bras et jambes en vos services?"