"Well," said the king, laughing, "if being a ruffian makes one a philosopher, Jean Jacques Rousseau deserves to be called the greatest philosopher in the world. Truly, Fortune is playing curious pranks with me to-day, and seems determined to lower my royal pride. Two refusals at one time; two philosophers who decline my invitation. No, not two philosophers--D'Alembert is a philosopher, but Rousseau is in truth a fool."
He tore this letter, and threw the pieces in the fire. He then seized another letter, but laid it down again before opening it. He had heard the great clock in the hall strike eight. That was the sign that the business of the day, which he shared with his attendants, should begin, and that the king had no more time to devote to his private correspondence. The last stroke of the clock had scarcely sounded, as a light knock was heard at the door, which was instantly opened by the command of the king.
Baron von Kircheisen, the prefect of Berlin, entered the room. He came to make his weekly report to the king. His respectful greeting was returned merely by a dark side-glance, and the king listened to his report with evident displeasure.
"And that is your entire report?" asked his majesty, when the prefect had finished. "You are the head of police for the city of Berlin, and you have nothing more to tell me than any policemen might know. You inform me of the number of arrivals and departures, of the births and deaths, and of the thefts which have been committed, and that is the extent of your report."
"But I cannot inform your majesty of things that have not occurred,"
returned Baron von Kircheisen.
"So nothing else has occurred in Berlin. Berlin is then a most quiet, innocent city, where at the worst a few greatly-to-be-pitied individuals occasionally disturb the repose of the righteous by mistaking the property of others for their own. You know nothing. You do not know that Berlin is the most vicious and immoral of cities. You can tell me nothing of the crimes which are certainly not of a kind to be punished by the law, but which are creeping from house to house, poisoning the happiness of entire families, and spreading shame and misery on every hand. You know nothing of the many broken marriage-vows, of the dissension in families, of the frivolity of the young people who have given themselves up to gambling and dissipation of all kinds. Much misery might be avoided if you knew more of these matters, and were ready with a warning at the right moment."
"Sire, will you permit me to say that is not the task of the ordinary police; for such matters a secret police is required."
"Well, why do you not have a secret police? Why do you not follow the example of the new minister of police at Paris, De Sartines? That man knows every thing that happens in Paris. He knows the history of every house, every family, and every individual. He occasionally warns the men when their wives are on the point of flying from them. He whispers to the wives the names of those who turn their husbands from them. He shows the parents the faro-bank at which their sons are losing their property, and sometimes extends a hand to save them from destruction. That is a good police, and it must be acknowledged that yours does not resemble it."
"If your majesty desires it, I can establish such a police in Berlin as De Sartines has in Paris. But your majesty must do two things: First, you must give me a million of thalers annually."
"Ah! a million! Your secret police is rather expensive. Continue. What do you desire besides the million?"
"Secondly, the permission to destroy the peace of families, the happiness of your subjects--to make the son a spy upon his father--the mother an informer against her daughter--the students and servants the betrayers of their teachers and employers. If your majesty will permit me to undermine the confidence of man to his fellow-man--of the brother to his sister--of the parents to their children--of the husbands to their wives by buying their secrets from them--if I may reward such treachery, then, your majesty, we can have such a police as De Sartines has in Paris. But I do not think that it will promote propriety or prevent crime."
The king had listened to him with increasing interest, his brow growing clearer and clearer as the bold speaker continued. When he finished, the king ceased his walk, and stood motionless before him, looking fully into his excited countenance.
"It is, then, your positive conviction that a secret police brings with it those evils you have depicted?"
"Yes, your majesty, it is my positive conviction."
"He may be right," said the king, thoughtfully. "Nothing demoralizes men so much as spies and denunciations, and a good government should punish and not reward the miserable spies who betray their fellow-creatures for gold with the wicked intention of bringing them into misfortune. A good government should not follow the Jesuits' rule--'That the end consecrates the means.'"
"Will your majesty, then, graciously allow me to dispense with a secret police?"
"Well, yes. We will remain as we are, and De Sartines may keep his secret police. It would not suit us, and Berlin shall not be still further demoralized by spies and betrayers. Therefore, no more of the secret police. When crime shows itself by day we will punish it. We will leave it to Providence to bring it to light. Continue to report to me, therefore, who has died and who has been born; who have arrived and who have departed; who has stolen and who has done a good business. I am well pleased with you--you have spoken freely and bravely, and said openly what you thought. That pleases me; I am pleased when my agents have the courage to speak the truth, and dare occasionally to oppose me.
I hope you will retain this virtue."
He bowed pleasantly to the prefect, and offered him his hand. He then dismissed him, and ordered the ministers to enter with their reports and proposals. After these came the council, and only after the king had worked with them uninterruptedly for three hours, did he think of taking some repose from all this work, which had occupied him from six o'clock in the morning until nearly twelve. He was on the point of entering his library as loud voices in the anteroom arrested his attention.
"But I tell you that the king gives no audiences to-day," he heard one of the servants say.
"The king has said that every man who wishes to speak to him shall be admitted!" exclaimed another voice. "I must speak to the king, and he must hear me."
"If you must speak to him, you must arrange it by writing. The king grants an audience to all who demand it, but he fixes the hour himself."
"Misery and despair cannot await a fixed hour!" cried the other. "If the king will not listen to unhappiness when it calls to him for redress, but waits until it pleases him to hear, he is not a good king."
"The man is right," said the king, "I will listen to him immediately."
He hastily advanced to the door and opened it. Without stood an old man, poorly dressed, with a pale, thin face, from whose features despair and sorrow spoke plainly enough to be understood by all. When his great, sunken eyes fell upon the king, he cried, joyfully, "God be thanked, there is the king!" The king motioned to him to approach, and the old man sprang forward with a cry of delight.
"Come into the room," said the king; "and now tell me what you wish from me?"
"Justice, your majesty, nothing but justice. I have been through the war, and I am without bread. I have nothing to live upon, and I have twice petitioned your majesty for a situation which is now vacant."
"And I refused it to you, because I had promised it to another."
"They told me that your majesty would refuse me this situation." cried the man, despairingly. "But I cannot believe it, for your majesty owes it to me, and you are usually a just king. Hasten, your majesty, to perform your duty, and justify yourself from a suspicion which is unworthy of your kingly fame."
The king measured him with a flashing glance, which the pale, despairing suppliant bore with bold composure.
"By what authority," asked the king, in a thundering voice, as he approached the man, with his arm raised threateningly--"by what authority do you dare speak to me in such a tone? and on what do you ground your shameless demands?"
"On this, your majesty, that I must starve if you refuse my request.
That is the most sacred of all claims, and to whom on earth dare I turn with it if not to my king?"
There lay in these words a sorrow so heart-breaking, a plaint so despairing in the voice, that the king was involuntarily much moved. He let fall his uplifted arm, and the expression of his countenance became gentle and tender.
"I see that you are very unhappy and despairing," he said, kindly; "you were right to come to me. You shall have the place for which you asked.
I will arrange it. Come here to-morrow to the Councillor Muller. I will give you some money, that you may not starve until then."
He silenced the delighted man's expressions of gratitude, and ringing his bell he summoned Deesen, who kept his purse, in order to give the man a gold piece. But Deesen did not appear, and the second chamberlain announced in an embarrassed manner that lie was not in the palace. The king commanded him to give the man the promised gold piece and then to return to him.
"Where is Deesen?" asked the king, as the chamberlain returned.
"Sire, I do not know," he stammered, his eyes sinking beneath the piercing glance of the king.
"You do know!" said the king, gravely. "Deesen has positive orders from me to remain in the anteroom, because I might need him. If he dares to disobey my orders, he must have a powerful reason, and you know it. Out with it! I will know it."
"If your majesty commands, I must speak," said the chamberlain, sighing.
"Your majesty will not permit us to be married, but we were made with hearts, and we sometimes fall in love."
"Deesen is in love, then?" said the king.
"Yes, your majesty, he loves a beautiful girl in Potsdam, whose name is Maria Siegert. And although he cannot marry her, she has consented to be his beloved. And as to-day was the great report day, Deesen thought that your majesty would not need him, and that he had time to go to Potsdam to visit his sweetheart. He seems to have been delayed. That is the reason, your majesty, that Deesen is not in the anteroom."
"Very well," said the king; "as soon as Deesen returns he must come to my library. I forbid you, however, to repeat one word of this conversation."
"Ah, your majesty, I am well pleased that I need not do it, for Deesen is very passionate, and if he learns that I have betrayed his secret he is capable of giving me a box on the ear."
"Which would, perhaps, be very wholesome for you," said the king, as he turned toward his library.
A quarter of an hour later, Deesen entered the library with a heated, anxious face.
The king, who was reading his beloved Lucretius while he paced the floor, turned his great, piercing eyes with a questioning expression on the anxious face of his attendant. "I called for you, and you did not come," said the king.
"I beg your majesty to pardon me," stammered Deesen.
"Where were you?"