The carriage came nearer and nearer, and now myriads of lights danced around it. The citizens had returned with their torches, and the carriage of Frederick rolled on as if in a sea of fire. It drew up at the arch of triumph. The king rose and turned his face toward his people, who were shouting their glad welcome. The light from the torches fell upon his countenance, and their red lustre gave his cheek a fresh and youthful appearance.
His subjects saw once more his sparkling, speaking eye, in which shone the same energy, the same imperial power, as in days gone by. They saw the soft, sympathetic smile which played around his eloquent lips--they saw him, their king, their hero, and were glad. They laughed and shouted with rapture. They stretched out their arms as if to clasp in one universal embrace their dear-loved king, who was so great, so beautiful, so far above them in his bright radiance. They threw him fond kisses, and every utterance of his name seemed a prayer to God for his happiness.
But one stood by the carriage who could not speak--whose silent, trembling lips were more eloquent than words. No language could express the delight of D'Argent--no words could paint the emotion which moved his soul and filled his eyes with tears.
The king recognized him, and holding out his hand invited him to take a seat in the carriage. Then giving one more greeting to his people, he said, "Onward--onward to Charlottenburg."
At a quick pace the carriage drove through Berlin. Those who had not had the courage and strength to await the king at the Frankfort gate, were now crowding the streets to welcome him.
Frederick did not raise himself again from the dark corner of the carriage. He left it to the Duke of Brunswick to return the salutations of the people. He remained motionless, and did not even appear to hear the shouts of his subjects. Not once did he raise his hand to greet them--not a word passed his lips.
When they crossed the king's bridge and reached the castle grounds, the people were assembled and closely crowded together. Frederick now raised himself, but he did not see them--he did not regard the brilliantly illuminated houses, or the grounds sparkling in a flood of light. He turned slowly and sadly toward the castle--his eye rested upon that dark, gloomy mass of stone, which arose to the right, and contrasted mysteriously with the brilliant houses around it. It looked like a monstrous coffin surrounded by death-lights. Frederick gazed long and steadily at the castle. He raised his head once more, but not to greet his subjects. He covered his face--he would not be looked at in his grief. D'Argens heard him murmur, "My mother, oh my mother! Oh, my sister!"
The Prussians welcomed joyously the return of their great king, but Frederick thought only at this moment of those who could never return--those whom death had torn from him forever. Onward, onward through the lighted streets! All the inhabitants of Berlin seemed to be abroad. This was a Roman triumph, well calculated to fill the heart of a sovereign with just pride.
The Berliners did not see that Frederick had no glance for them. Gloom and despair veiled his countenance, and no one dreamed that this king, whom they delighted to honor, was at this proud moment a weeping son, a mourning brother.
At last the joyous, careless city lay behind them, and they approached Charlottenburg.
The noise and tumult gradually ceased, and a welcome quiet ensued.
Frederick did not utter one word, and no one dared to break the oppressive silence. This triumphant procession seemed changed to a burial-march. The victor in so many battles seemed now mastered by his memories.
The carriage drew up at Charlottenburg. The wide court was filled with the inhabitants of the little city, who welcomed the king as enthusiastically as the Berliners had done. Frederick saluted them abruptly, and stepped quickly into the hall.
The castle had been changed into a temple of glory and beauty in honor of the king's return. The pillars which supported it were wound around with wreaths of lovely, fragrant blossoms; costly draperies, gay flags, and emblems adorned the walls; the floors were covered with rich Turkish carpets; the gilded candelabras shed their variegated lights in every direction, irradiating the faces of the court cavaliers glittering with stars and orders, and the rich toilets of the ladies. The effect was dazzling.
In the middle of the open space two ladies were standing, one in royal attire, sparkling in diamonds and gold embroideries, the other in mourning, with no ornament but pearls, the emblem of tears. The one with a happy, hopeful face gazed at the king; the other with a sad, weary countenance, in which sickness, sorrow, and disappointment had drawn their heavy lines, turned slowly toward him; her large eyes, red with weeping, were fixed upon him with an angry, reproachful expression.
Frederick drawing near, recognized the queen and the Princess Amelia. At the sight of this dearly-beloved face, the queen, forgetting her usual timidity and assumed coldness, stepped eagerly forward and offered both her hands to her husband. Her whole heart, the long-suppressed fervor of her soul, spoke in her moist and glowing eyes. Her lips, which had so long been silent, so long guarded their sweet secret, expressed, though silently, fond words of love. Elizabeth Christine was no longer young, no longer beautiful; she had passed through many years of suffering and inward struggle, but at this moment she was lovely. The eternal youth of the soul lighted her fair brow--the flash of hope and happiness glimmered in her eyes. But Frederick saw nothing of this. He had no sympathy for this pale and gentle queen, now glowing with vitality. He thought only of the dearly-loved queen and mother who had gone down into the cold, dark grave. Frederick bowed coldly to Elizabeth Christine, and took both her hands in his a short moment.
"Madame," said he, "this is a sad moment. The queen my mother is missing from your side."
Elizabeth Christine started painfully, and the hands which the king had released fell powerless to her side. Frederick's harsh, cruel words had pierced her heart and quenched the tears of joy and hope which stood in her eyes.
Elizabeth was incapable of reply. Princess Amelia came to her relief.
"If my brother, the king, while greeting us after his long absence, is unconscious of our presence and sees only the faces of the dead, he must also be forced to look upon my unhappy brother, Prince Augustus William, who died of a broken heart."
The king's piercing eyes rested a moment with a strangely melancholy expression upon the sorrowful, sickly face of the Princess Amelia.
"Not so, my sister," said he, softly and gently; "I not only see those who have been torn from us by death. I look upon and welcome gladly those who have been spared to me. I am happy to see you here to-day, my sister."
Frederick offered Amelia his hand, and bowing silently to those who were present, he entered his apartment, followed only by the Marquis d'Argens.
Frederick stepped rapidly through the first room, scarcely looking at the new paintings which adorned the walls; he entered his study and threw a long, thoughtful glance around this dear room. Every piece of furniture, every book, recalled charming memories of the past--every thing stood as he had left it seven years ago. He now for the first time realized the joy of being again at home; his country had received him and embraced him with loving arms.
With glowing cheeks he turned toward the marquis, who was leaning against the door behind him.
"Oh, D'Argens! it is sweet to be again in one's own native land--the peace of home is sweet. The old furniture appears to welcome me; that old chair stretches its arms wooingly toward me, as if to lure me to its bosom, and give me soft sleep and sweet dreams in its embrace. Marquis, I feel a longing to gratify my old friend; I yield to its gentle, silent pleadings."
Frederick stepped to the arm-chair and sank into it with an expression of indescribable comfort.
"Ah, now I feel that I am indeed at home."
"Allow me," said D'Argens, "to say, your majesty, what the dear old arm-chair, in spite of its eloquence, cannot express. I, also, am a piece of the old furniture of this dear room, and in the name of all my voiceless companions, I cry 'Welcome to my king!' We welcome you to your country and your home. You return greater even than when you left us.
Your noble brow is adorned with imperishable laurels; your fame resounds throughout the earth, and every nation sings to you a hymn of victory."
"Well, well," said Frederick, smilingly, "do not look too sharply at my claims to such world-wide renown, or my fame will lose a portion of its lustre. You will see that chance has done almost every thing for me--more than my own valor and wisdom, and the bravery of my troops combined. Chance has been my best ally during this entire war.
[Footnote: The king's own words.] Chance enabled me to escape the famine camp of Bunzelwitz--chance gave me the victory over my enemies. Speak no more of my fame, marquis, at least not in this sacred room, where Cicero, Caesar, Lucretius, and Thucydides look down upon us from the walls; where the voiceless books with their gilded letters announce to us that we are surrounded by great spirits. Speak not of fame to me, D'Argens, when from yonder book-shelf I see the name of Athalie. I would rather have written Athalie, than to have all the fame arising from this seven years' war." [Footnote: Ibid.]
"Herein I recognize the peaceful, noble tastes of my king," said D'Argens, deeply moved; "years of hardship and victory have not changed him--the conquering hero is the loving friend and the wise philosopher.
I knew this must be so--I knew the heart of my king; I knew he would regard the day on which he gave peace to his people as far more glorious than any day of bloody battle and triumphant victory. The day of peace to Prussia is the most glorious, the happiest day of her great king's life."
Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with infinite sadness at his friend's agitated countenance.
"Ah, D'Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that on which we take leave of life."
As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair.
"How came this vase here?" he said, in a trembling voice.
"Sire," said the marquis, "the queen-mother, shortly before her death, ordered this vase to be placed in this room; she prized it highly--it was a present from her royal brother, George II. Her majesty wished that, on your return from the war, it might serve as a remembrance of your fond mother At her command, I placed that packet of letters at the foot of the vase, after the queen mother had sealed and addressed it with her dying hand."
Frederick was silent, he bowed his head upon the vase, as if to cool his burning brow upon its cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to conceal from his friend the tears which rolled slowly down his cheeks, and fell upon the packet of letters lying before him.
The king kissed the packet reverentially, and examined with a deep sigh the trembling characters traced by the hand of his beloved mother.
"For my son--the king."
Frederick read the address softly. "Alas! my dear mother, how poor you have made me. I am now no longer a son--only a king!"
He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed his mother's writing to his lips, then laid the letters at the foot of the vase and remained standing thoughtfully before it.
A long pause ensued. Frederick stood with folded arms before the vase, and the marquis leaned against the door behind him. Suddenly the king turned to him.
"I beg a favor of you, marquis. Hasten to Berlin, and tell Benda he must perform the Te Deum of my dear Graun here in the castle chapel to-morrow morning at nine o'clock. I know the singers of the chapel can execute it--they gave it once after the battle of Leignitz. Tell Benda to make no difficulties, for it is my express wish to hear the music to-morrow morning. I trust to you, marquis, to see my wish fulfilled, to make the impossible possible, if you find it necessary. Call me capricious if you will, for desiring to hear this music to-morrow. I have so long been controlled by stern realities, that I will allow myself now to yield to a caprice."
He gave his hand to the marquis, who pressed it to his lips.
"Sire, to-morrow morning at nine o'clock the Te Deum shall be performed in the chapel, should I even be compelled to pass the night in arousing the musicians from their beds."
The marquis kept his word; he surmounted all difficulties, removed all objections. In vain Benda declared the organ in the chapel was out of tune, the performance impossible; the marquis hastened to the organist and obliged him to put it in order that night. In vain the singers protested against singing this difficult music before the king without preparation; D'Argens commanded them in the name of the king to have a rehearsal during the night. Thanks to his nervous energy and zeal, the singers assembled, and Benda stood before his desk to direct this midnight concert.
When the clock struck nine the next morning every difficulty had been set aside, and every preparation completed. The organist was in his place, the organ in order; the musicians tuned their instruments, the singers were prepared, and the chapel-master, Benda, was in their midst, baton in hand.
All eyes were directed toward the door opposite the choir, through which the court must enter; all hearts were beating with joyful expectation--all were anxious to see the king once more in the midst of his friends, in his family circle. Every one sympathized in the queen's happiness at being accompanied once more by her husband; laying aside her loneliness and widowhood, and appearing in public by his side.
All eyes, as we have said, were impatiently directed toward the door, waiting for the appearance of their majesties and the court.