"We will now speak of the first," said the king, quietly. "France, then, thinks to transplant this war with England to German ground?"
"Everywhere, sire, that the English colors predominate. England alone will be accountable for this war."
"It is true England has been hard upon you, but still it seems to me you have revenged yourselves sufficiently. When England made herself supreme ruler of the Ohio, France, by the conquest of the Isle of Minorca, obtained dominion over the Mediterranean Sea, thereby wounding England so deeply, that in her despair she turned her weapons against herself.
Admiral Byng, having been overcome by your admiral Marquis de la Gallissionaire, paid for it with his life. I think France should be satisfied with this expiation."
"France will wash off her insults in English blood, and Minorca is no compensation for Canada and Ohio. England owes us satisfaction, and we will obtain it in Hanover."
"In Hanover?" repeated the king, angrily.
"Hanover will be ours, sire, though we had no such ally as Germany; but it will be ours the sooner if we have that help which you can give us.
Standing between two fires, England will have to succumb, there will be no escape for her. That is another advantage, sire, that France expects from the treaty with Prussia. But I will now speak of the advantages which your majesty may expect from this alliance. You are aware that Prussia is surrounded by threatening enemies; that Austria and Russia are approaching her borders with evil intentions, and that a day may soon come when Maria Theresa may wish to reconquer this Silesia which, in her heart, she still calls her own. When this time comes, your majesty will not be alone; your ally, France, will be at your side; she will repay with faithful, active assistance the services which your majesty rendered her in Hanover. She will not only render her all the assistance in her power, but she will also allow her to partake of the advantages of this victory. Hanover is a rich land, not rich only in products, but in many other treasures. The Electors of Hanover have in their residences not only their chests filled with gold and precious jewels, but also the most magnificent paintings. It is but natural that we should pay ourselves in Hanover for the expenses of this war of which England is the cause. You, then, will share with us these treasures. And still this is not all. France is grateful; she offers you, therefore, one of her colonies, the Isle of Tobago, as a pledge of friendship and love."
"Where is this isle?" said the king, quietly.
"In the West Indies, sire."
"And where is Hanover?"
The duke looked at the king in amazement, and remained silent.
The king repeated his question.
"Well," said the duke, hesitatingly, "Hanover is in Germany."
"And for this German land which, with my aid, France is to conquer, I am to receive as a reward the little Isle of Tobago in the West Indies!
Have you finished, dyke, or have you other propositions to make?"
"Sire, I have finished, and await your answer."
"And this answer, duke, shall be clearer and franker than your questions. I will begin by answering the latter part of your speech.
Small and insignificant as the King of Prussia may appear in your eyes, I would have you know he is no robber, no highwayman; he leaves these brilliant amusements without envy to France. And now, my dear duke, I must inform you, that since this morning it has been placed out of my power to accept this alliance; for this morning a treaty was signed, by which I became the ally of England!"
"It is impossible, sire," cried the duke; "this cannot be!"
"Not possible, sir!" said the king, "and still it is true. I have formed a treaty with England--this matter is settled! I have been an ally of Louis XV.; I have nothing to complain of in him. I love him; well, am I now his enemy? I hope that there may be a time when I may again approach the King of France. Pray tell him how anxiously I look forward to this time. Tell him I am much attached to him."
"Ah, sire," said the duke, sighing, "it is a great misfortune. I dare not go to my monarch with this sad, unexpected news; my monarch who loves you so tenderly, whose most earnest wish it is for France to be allied to Prussia."
"Ah, duke," said Frederick, laughing, "France wishes for ships as allies. I have none to offer--England has. With her help I shall keep the Russians from Prussia, and with the aid she will keep the French from Hanover."
"We are to be enemies, then?" said the duke, sadly.
"It is a necessary evil, for which there is no remedy. But Louis XV. can form other alliances," said Frederick, ironically. "It may be for his interest to unite with the house of Austria!"
The duke was much embarrassed.
"Your majesty is not in earnest," said he, anxiously.
"Why not, duke?" said Frederick; "an alliance between France and Austria--it sounds very natural. If I were in your place, I would propose this to my court."
He now rose, which was a sign to the duke that the audience was at an end.
"I must now send a courier at once to my court," said the duke, "and I will not fail to state that your majesty advises us to unite with Austria."
"You will do well; that is," said the king, with a meaning smile--"that is, if you think your court is in need of such advice, and has not already acted without it. When do you leave, duke?"
"To-morrow morning, sire."
"Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my heart I am the friend of France, though we meet as enemies on the battle-field."
The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing deeply, left the royal library, "the republic of letters," to hasten to Berlin.
The king looked after him thoughtfully.
"The die is cast," said he, softly. "There will be war. Our days of peace and quietude are over, and the days of danger are approaching!"
CHAPTER VII. THE TRAITOR.
The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the garden of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering dew-drops.
All was quiet--Nature alone was up and doing; no one was to be seen, no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and the chirping of birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if the sound of human misery and passion could not reach this spot. There was something so holy in this garden, that you could but believe it to be a part of paradise in which the serpent had not yet exercised his arts of seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he is sleeping; he is still resting from the toils and sorrows of the past day. Man is here--he is coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature with his sorrows and complaints.
The little gate at the farthest end of that shady walk is opened, and a man enters. The dream is at an end, and Sans-Souci is now but a beautiful garden, not a paradise, for it has been desecrated by the foot of man. He hastens up the path leading to the palace; he hurries forward, panting and gasping. His face is colorless, his long hair is fluttering in the morning wind, his eyes are fixed and glaring; his clothes are covered with dust, and his head is bare.
There is something terrifying in the sudden appearance of this man.
Nature seems to smile no more since he came; the trees have stopped their whispering, the birds cannot continue their melodious songs since they have seen his wild, anxious look. The peacefulness of Nature is broken. For man--that is to say, misery, misfortune; for man--that is to say, sin, guilt, and meanness--is there, pouring destroying drops of poison in the golden chalice of creation.
Breathlessly he hurries on, looking neither to right nor left. He has now reached the terrace, and now he stops for a moment to recover breath. He sees not the glorious panorama lying at his feet; he is blind to all but himself. He is alone in the world--alone with his misery, his pain. Now he hastens on to the back of the palace. The sentinels walking before the back and the front of the castle know him, know where he is going, and they barely glance at him as he knocks long and loudly at that little side window.
It is opened, and a young girl appears, who, when perceiving this pale, anxious countenance, which is striving in vain to smile at her, cries out loudly, and folds her hands as if in prayer.
"Hush!" said he, roughly; "hush! let me in."
"Some misfortune has happened!" said she, terrified.
"Yes, Rosa, a great misfortune, but let me in, if you do not wish to ruin me."
The young girl disappears, and the man hastens to the side door of the castle. It is opened, and he slips in.
Perfect peace reigns once more in the garden of Sans-Souci. Nature is now smiling, for she is alone with her innocence. Man is not there! But now, in the castle, in the dwelling of the castle warder, and in the room of his lovely daughter Rosa, all is alive. There is whispering, and weeping, and sighing, and praying; there is Rosa, fearful and trembling, her face covered with tears, and opposite her, her pale, woe-begone lover.
"I have been walking all night," said he, with a faint and hollow voice.
"I did not know that Berlin was so far from Potsdam, and had I known it, I would not have dared to take a wagon or a horse; I had to slip away very quietly. While by Count Puebla's order my room was guarded, and I thought to be in it, I descended into the garden by the grape-vine, which reached up to my window. The gardener had no suspicion of how I came there, when I required him to unlock the door, but laughed cunningly, thinking I was bound to some rendezvous. And so I wandered on in fear and pain, in despair and anger, and it seemed to me as if the road would never come to an end. At times I stopped, thinking I heard behind me wild cries and curses, the stamping of horses, and the rolling of wheels; but it was imagination. Ah! it was a frightful road; but it is past. But now I will be strong, for this concerns my name, my life, my honor. Why do you laugh, Rosa?" said he, angrily; "do you dare to laugh, because I speak of my name--my honor?"
"I did not laugh," said Rosa, looking with terror at the disturbed countenance of her lover.