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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Royal Foes, by Eva Madden

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Title: Two Royal Foes

Author: Eva Madden

Illustrator: The Kinneys

Release Date: November 6, 2010 [EBook #34220]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO ROYAL FOES ***




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                            TWO ROYAL FOES

                            By EVA MADDEN


ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE KINNEYS

NEW YORK
THE McCLURE COMPANY
MCMVII

_Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company_

Published, October, 1907




[Illustration: _Bettina_]




CONTENTS


I. THE MIGHTY FOE

II. THE ANGEL OF PRUSSIA

III. AT JENA

IV. AT THE FOREST HOUSE

V. THE JOURNEY

VI. THE DOWNFALL

VII. ON THE ROAD TO MEMEL

VIII. AMONG FRIENDS

IX. THE STORK'S NEST

X. FRESH TROUBLES

XI. THE MOTHER OF HER PEOPLE

XII. OTTO

XIII. THE JOURNAL

XIV. PRINCESS LOUISA

XV. THE MARRIAGE

XVI. WHAT HAPPENED TO HANS

XVII. AT TILSIT

XVIII. THE ESCAPE

XIX. THE FOES MEET

XX. THE ANSWER

XXI. THE HERR LIEUTENANT

XXII. DAYS OF DARKNESS

XXIII. THE ENTRANCE INTO BERLIN

XXIV. "MY QUEEN, MY POOR QUEEN!"

XXV. AFTERWARDS

XXVI. THE CHECK

XXVII. THE PEOPLE'S WAR

XXVIII. THE FOE CONQUERED

XXIX. THURINGIA

XXX. THE FOES AT REST




ILLUSTRATIONS


BETTINA

"MY DOLLIE IS NAMED ANNA"

"SIRE, WITH MAGDEBURG?"

"I HAVE SOME NEWS TO TELL YOU"




TWO ROYAL FOES




CHAPTER I

THE MIGHTY FOE


One afternoon, a hundred and one years ago, old Hans took little Bettina
to visit her godmother, Frau Schmidt, who lived in a red-roofed house
not far from the old church of St. Michael's in Jena.

Bettina loved to go to Frau Schmidt's. First, there was Wilhelm, her
godmother's son, who was so good to her, and cut her toys out of wood,
and told her all kinds of fine stories. And then there were the
soldiers. They were everywhere, standing in groups about the Market,
marching in companies, or clattering on horses through the never quiet
streets.

The way from Bettina's home to Jena led through a deep, still, green
forest, and as she and her grandfather strolled along that October
afternoon the little girl begged him for a story.

"Ja, ja, my Bettina," and the old man gave her a smile, "there is old
Frederick Barbarossa."

Then, with a "Once upon a time," he told her how, in a cave in their own
Thuringian Wood in the Kyffhaeuser Mountain, an old emperor of Germany
had slept for hundreds and hundreds of years, his head on his elbows,
which rested on a great stone table in the middle of the cavern.

"And his beard, child, has grown down to the floor, and it is red as a
flame, and his hair--it is red, too, quite blazing, child, they
say--wraps about him like a veil. And before the cave and around it--you
can see them yourself, little one, if you go there--are ravens, cawing
and cawing and flying ever in circles."

"And when will the old Emperor wake up, dear grandfather?" Bettina had a
sweet, high little voice which quivered with eagerness. The old man
shook his head.

"No man knows, child," he answered, "but I have heard always that one
day the ravens will flap their wings, caw aloud, and fly forever away
from the mountain. And then," his blue eyes flashed, "the old Kaiser
shall awake; he shall grasp his great sword in his hand and holding it
fast shall come forth from his gloomy old cave to the sunlight."

"And then, dear grandfather, what then?"

"There shall great things be done, dear child." Again his eyes flashed.
"Germany shall stretch herself like the old Redbeard. She, too, is
asleep, and she shall take her sword in her hand and come forth, and we
shall be one people, one great, great Fatherland." The old face grew
dreamy, the voice, very slow.

"And will there always be fighting, dear grandfather?"

Hans shook his head.

"Nein, nein, the old Redbeard is to bring war which shall make peace."

Hans was silent for a moment and then, with a laugh, he lifted a very
full, deep voice and sang an old German song of the same Kaiser
Barbarossa, and when Bettina caught the tune, she sang, too, and the old
forest rang with the music all the way to Jena.

When they entered the town the old man took Bettina almost to the
church.

"Now, little one," he said, "run away to Tante Gretchen and tell her to
keep you until I come after supper."

"Auf wiedersehen, dear grandfather," and off trotted the little girl and
into her godmother's house with a "Good-day, dear Tante Gretchen!"

Wilhelm was at home, and he carved Bettina a little doll, and she
enjoyed herself very much indeed, hearing all about the soldiers and all
that they were doing in Jena, but she was only nine years old and tired
with her walk, and so, when long after supper her grandfather opened the
door, she was fast asleep in her chair, her tired little feet dangling.

Frau Schmidt greeted him crossly.

"Don't excuse yourself, Hans," she said. "You forgot the child, I know
it. Perhaps you have been home and had to come back for her? Nein? Well,
what was it then that kept you? You know, Hans, how anxious her mother
will be, with the child out in the night time."

The old man hung his head. Certainly he had forgotten the child. He was
always forgetting everything and everybody, and some day, as the women
of his family were always telling him, he was certain to have a good
lesson, a lesson, perhaps, which might teach him to remember.

"You are right, Gretchen," he said, "but, you see, my dear woman, when
an old soldier of Frederick the Great meets again the Prussians, there
is much news to hear, isn't there?" And he looked with smiling blue eyes
into Frau Schmidt's kind, plump countenance.

"Well, well," she said, her frown vanishing, "but come now, it's a
dreadful night and you must have a glass of beer before you start out
into the darkness. Willy, uncork the bottle there."

Then she went to Bettina.

"Wake up, Liebchen," and she gave her a tiny shake.

"Is it Frederick Barbarossa?" And Bettina came forth from dreamland.

"Nein, nein, child, it's grandfather," and she wrapped the little girl
in her shawl. "But wake up now. It is late, and time to go home to
mother."

Then she turned to Hans, Bettina's little hand held fast in hers.

"Quick, friend, hurry," she said, "and be off now. The night is terrible
and Annchen will be anxious, will she not?" And she nodded to Wilhelm to
hold the light.

Draining his glass, Hans set it down on the table with a sigh of
pleasure.

"Ja, ja," he said, as he drew closer his cloak.

"A moment," and Frau Schmidt stepped to the tall, green porcelain stove
which served, before firetime, as her storehouse.

"Here," she said, and from one of its little recesses she brought forth
a bundle done up with paper and string.

"Some sausages, please, for Anna," and she gave Hans the package, "and
best greetings."

Then, in her quick, kind way, she hurried them to the door, bundling
Bettina more closely as they went.

"Auf wiedersehen, good-night, good-night," and she held open the door.
"The weather truly is dreadful. Here, Willy, here, my son, hold the
candle higher. Ja, ja, that is better. Can you see, Hans? Good-night,
Bettina. Best greetings to your dear mother, and good-night,
good-night."

"Good-night, dear Tante, good-night, Willy," and Bettina stumbled
sleepily off with her grandfather, Willy calling after her not to let
the Erl King get her.

It was, indeed, a dreadful night. The candle which Wilhelm held high,
standing long in the doorway, made but little impression on a fog which,
wrapping the world in mystery, stung Bettina in the face, choked up her
throat and gave her a queer feeling of having lost even the world
itself.

She drew close to her grandfather and nestled against his side, her hand
seeking his in the darkness.

"Ja, ja, little one," he said, "do not fear, child, grandfather knows
every step of the way."

He might know the way, but he certainly did not know the puddles.

Splash!

Bettina's little wooden shoe went deep into the water.

Bump!

One foot was in a hole, a bush held fast her shawl.

It would be all right when they reached the forest and the path went
straight between the fir trees, but here it was awful.

"Ach Himmel," groaned Hans, splashing and stumbling, "but your mother
will scold, little one! But what could your poor grandfather do? I find
it good that a man hear the war news and, talking with the soldiers, I
forgot the hour."

"Never mind, dear grandfather," came the little voice out of the fog.
"Mother will be in bed and we will slip in, oh, so lightly, just like a
kitty, and she won't hear a sound."

Bettina took care of her grandfather like an old woman, her father
always said, and so she tried to speak very bravely.

She might talk bravely; talking is easy enough even for little Bettinas;
but to feel bravely is quite a different thing and, deep down in her
heart, Bettina was frightened to coldness.

Willy had told her the story of the Erl King who gets children who are
out on wild nights. He promises them toys and all sorts of playthings,
and then when they listen he clasps them in his arms until they are
frozen and dead. And this King has two daughters and they call out
through the storm.

Would he get her, this Erl King?

Little Bettina shivered all over.

From over towards Jena she surely heard a tramp, and sometimes she
seemed to see the waving of the Erl King's mantle in the fog.

But her grandfather kept on with his talking.

"Ja, ja," he said, "we'll beat them, we'll beat them. We'll give the
French a lesson this time, our soldiers all promise it. And that
Corsican--we'll teach him, too. Why not? We Prussians are three to the
French one, and soldiers of Frederick the Great to boot. Ja wohl, little
one, we'll have a famous victory!"

But Bettina was not listening.

While her grandfather had gone on with his talk, her little hand had
grown cold in his clasp, her tongue had become dry, and her back felt as
if water were running down it.

It was the Erl King that was coming, Ach Himmel! she knew it.

There were his two eyes, blazing like great stars through the fog.

Nearer they came, and nearer, and she heard the tramp of his steed, and,
oh, if he called her, not even her grandfather could hold her, Willy had
said so.

Brighter grew the eyes, and brighter.

"Grandfather," she tried to call, but her throat would not move. Nearer
the Erl King came, and between the eyes she saw something great, and
tall, and white, and dreadful. Nearer it came. Nearer! Nearer!

"Ach Himmel!" Her grandfather's voice broke the spell. "But who are
coming?"

Then the two great eyes suddenly turned into torches, and one was held
by the Postmaster of Jena, and the other by a French officer, and
between them the lights showed a white horse, and on its back sat a man
whose eyes seemed to pierce right through the fog and the darkness.

Bettina shrank against her grandfather. The one on the horse frightened
her even as much as if he were the Erl King. Never had she seen such
piercing eyes nor felt so terrified. He was small and stout, and he wore
an overcoat of green with white facings. His hat was folded up front and
back, and his mouth was as beautiful as the rest of his face was hard
and terrifying. But even his beautiful lips seemed to say, "Keep out of
my way, or I shall ride over you."

One firm, strong hand held the bridle of his horse, with the other he
pointed, his whip held fast, through the fog towards the dim outline of
the great old mountain of Dornburg.

When he spoke it was in French. Bettina could not understand him, but
Hans, who, like most Germans of that day, spoke both languages, heard
him say:

"Those Prussians have left the heights. They were afraid," then, with a
laugh of scorn, he interrupted himself, "afraid of the night," he
continued, "and have descended to sleep in the valley. They believe that
we shall not take advantage of their slumber." Again he laughed, and so
disagreeably that Bettina shivered; "but they are dreadfully mistaken,
those old wigs!"

Laughter joined with his, and two horses appeared in his rear and the
torches revealed their riders to be French Marshals in uniform.

But the Postmaster was silent, his face darkening.

As for Hans, he muttered under his breath to Bettina:

"Ach Himmel, but hear him. He calls the generals of Frederick the Great,
'old wigs.'"

"Grandfather," Bettina pulled at him to bend down and listen, "is it the
Erl King? Will he get me?"

"The Erl King?" The old man was completely puzzled. "The one on the
white horse, child, you mean? That, my Bettina, is the Emperor!"

The Emperor! Oh, Heavens! Then, indeed, did Bettina wish that she was
home with her mother. Better the Erl King, better the old witch who got
Hans and Gretel, better any number of cruel step-mothers: better all the
witches, giants and ogres than the dreadful monster everyone called "The
Emperor!"

Only that afternoon had her godmother told Willy that he lived but for
blood, and that Death followed every step of that white horse.

"It would be well for the world if God took him," she had added, and now
this dreadful monster was pointing his whip at her, little Bettina
Weyland, and asking the Postmaster who were these people in his path.

When he had an answer he motioned them to pass quickly. Then,
dismounting, he and his generals proceeded up the hill of Jena.

As Hans and Bettina went on their way his voice followed after, and it
was not pleasant things it said, for it stormed at Marshal Lannes
because his artillery had stuck fast in a gorge. And then Hans heard
something about the Prussians and good-morning.

As for Hans he was hot with fury.

"'Old wigs,'" he kept muttering, "'Old wigs,' indeed! Did you hear him,
the villain, Bettina, call our generals 'old wigs'?"

But Bettina had herself, and not the generals of Prussia, to think of.

"Grandfather," she cried, "grandfather, will the Emperor get us?"

Her grandfather laughed almost merrily,

"Nein, nein, little one," he said. "In a day or two the soldiers of
Frederick the Great will set that white horse scampering back to Paris.
Nein, nein, my little Bettina, there is nothing to fear. But come, here
is our path in the forest. We are safe now, and out of the puddles."

Their home lay on the edge of the deep, green wood, a little red-roofed
forest house with a paved courtyard, with a barn for the cows, and a
garden in front. It was a lovely spot, but a very lonely one, but they
must live there because Bettina's father, Kaspar Weyland, was an under
forester. But just then he was in the army and Frau Weyland was alone
with the children.

Her voice reached them almost as soon as they came out of the deep
forest.

"Father, is that you?" she called. "Father!"

"Ja, ja, dear daughter. Open the door and hear the news."

"God be thanked you have come." And she appeared in the doorway, holding
in one hand a light, and drawing a shawl about her bed-gown with the
other.

"Oh, father, father, how could you?"

She was young and looked like a grown-up Bettina with golden hair
showing under the edges of her nightcap. She shut the door hastily as
they entered.

"Annchen, Annchen," the old man made no excuses, "we have just seen the
Emperor in the fields near Jena."

"The Emperor!" Frau Weyland set down her light. Her father nodding, she
cried out, wringing her hands:

"Ach Gott! Ach Gott! Then, father, we shall have a battle."

The old man shrugged his broad shoulders.

"It may be, daughter," he bent down and kissed her, "but who can tell?
The Prussians, to-day, said not."

Then, sitting in a wooden chair by the table, she, standing and
listening, Bettina's hand in hers, he told all he had heard at Jena and
described their adventures, weary little Bettina sleepily listening. And
he told how the Prussian soldiers had gone early to bed because of the
damp and the fog, and of how they had no cloaks, and how, the bread
giving out, they had been on half rations for some days.

"But their spirits are brave, daughter," he added, "and you never heard
such boasting. They are certain of victory; certain, Anna. Prince
Hohenlohe was with them this afternoon, and he laughed like a boy when a
soldier declared that he would catch one Frenchman, another two, a
third, four, and so on. You never heard such boasting."

Frau Weyland shook her head, her nightcap bobbing.

"Boasting, father, never won a prize yet. It is doing that counts, and
the Emperor was out in such weather, studying the field, and the
Prussians sleeping. Ach, I do not find that promising."

Then suddenly she ran to her father, she clung to him like a child, her
blue eyes gazing up into his like Bettina's.

"Ah, father," her lips quivered, "if there should be a battle and my
Kaspar----"

The old man wrapped her in his strong arms. She was his only child and
the best of daughters.

"There will be a battle, dear Anna," he said quite solemnly; "it is war,
now, and there must be. But why should harm come to Kaspar? Look at
me----"

His eyes began to kindle, and his daughter, who knew what was coming,
loosened his arms and rose.

"Why, in the battle of----"

"Ja, ja, father," Frau Weyland interrupted with a half smile. When her
father began on his battles time might go its way unheeded. "I know, you
have told me. But come now, we have forgotten our little Bettina. She
must at once go to bed. It is late enough, goodness knows."

Then she unpinned Bettina's shawl and shook out the damp.

"Good-night, dear father," she kissed the old man tenderly, "sleep well,
and I'll call you in time in the morning. Oh, the sausage is from
Gretchen? Many thanks and good-night. Come, come, Bettina," and she
started towards her own room.

Her father proceeded in the opposite direction. On the threshold of a
second door he paused.

"Annchen," he called, for his daughter had departed.

"Ja, father," she came back to her door holding Bettina by the hand.

"He called our generals 'old wigs,' 'old wigs,' did you understand,
daughter? The generals of the Great Frederick's army, and he, an upstart
villain of a Corsican. Old wigs, indeed! Let him wait, the monster,
we'll show him, we'll show him."

With a last good-night the old soldier of Frederick the Great departed
to snore away under his feather bed quite the same as if nothing had
happened.




CHAPTER II

THE ANGEL OF PRUSSIA


Next morning Frau Weyland called Bettina early.

"Good-morning, dear child," she said, kissing her round little cheek.
"Grandfather must go far into the forest. Would you like to go with him?
You may have a little basket like a wood gatherer and bring mother back
some faggots."

Bettina was glad, indeed, to get up. She had had a dreadful time. All
night long it had seemed to her that the awful Emperor was always trying
to catch her, and then she would wake with a start. Sometimes he had a
long, red beard, sometimes he was draped in grey mist and wore a golden
crown; and always he was riding the white horse.

Her mother looked at her kindly.

"If you are tired, dear," she began, but Bettina was eager to go.

"Nein, nein, dear mother," she cried, "I love to go with grandfather."

So she hurried on her clothes and drank her milk and ate her bread and
said "Auf wiedersehen" to her mother. Then she started off with her
grandfather. Frau Weyland stood in the door and watched them, waving her
hand and smiling.

She was very pretty. When she was sixteen, and only just betrothed to
Kaspar Weyland, people said she was like the "Lorelei," the maiden who
sits on a rock in the Rhine and sings songs to enchant the boatmen, all
the time combing her golden hair and gazing in a jewelled mirror.

And she was so good to old Hans, and never cross with Bettina, and
always the meals were hot and ready, and the house clean and quiet.
About the doorway grew a vine and October had brought the frost and
turned it crimson. It fell all about her like a frame as she stood
there, so gentle and smiling. It was foggy still, but there was a light
in the sky before which the mist must soon vanish. When they reached the
gate Hans turned for a last "Auf wiedersehen" to his Annchen.

"Till we meet again" it means, and little did old

Hans think as he waved his hand to his daughter that never in all the
world was he ever to hear his golden-haired Anna again. How could he?
What could happen? She was never so well in all her life, and he and
Bettina would return to dinner. So gaily he and the little girl entered
the forest and presently, through the fog, they saw a great red ball of
a sun which grew brighter and brighter.

As for Frau Weyland, she returned to her work. There was much to do with
two children to wash and dress, a house to clean, chickens to feed,
cream cheese to make, and dinner to prepare for the family.

The daylight showed Hans to be tall and strong with broad shoulders and
the walk of a soldier. His grey hair was drawn back and tied in a queue,
and on one ruddy cheek was a scar from a sabre cut. Hans was very proud
of this, because he had won it in one of the battles of the Great
Frederick. His eyes were like his daughter's and like Bettina's, very
blue, and very big, and gleaming with gentleness. But in Hans' eyes
there was something different. At once were they merry and full of
dreams as if he could joke and yet be, also, very melancholy.

As for Bettina, she was a little fairy of a girl who tripped along and
seemed barely to touch the ground. Her hair was golden and hung in two
tight little braids to her waist. Her dress was of red and made very
high under her arms and clinging about her little ankles. Her head was
quite bare, and a deep little wicker basket was strapped on her back in
which to bring home some pine cones or scrub oak leaves for the goat.

"I'm a wood gatherer, grandfather," she pretended, and tripped along
behind him.

She loved her grandfather. He told such nice stories and never was cross
like her grandfather Weyland, who always said children should be seen,
not heard, and in an entirely different tone from the pleasant one he
used with grown people.

"I love the forest, grandfather." Bettina's eyes sparkled.

"Ja, ja, little one," said Hans, "it is German to love all Nature, and,
truly, our forest is beautiful."

Bettina nodded and gazed about at the tall giant-like pines and her
little nose drew in the deep fragrance of the firs. She was glad that
she did not live in Jena, but deep in this lovely Thuringian wood, where
the trunks of the trees looked like armies of soldiers. There were
lovely things in the forest.

In its thick, pine-needle carpet grew lovely toadstools, red and yellow
and brown, and sometimes all queerly shaped and striped and just like
umbrellas and parasols. And the moss was thick and grew like a velvet
carpet and raised up the dearest little red cups, and the ferns waved
like feathers, and, in spring, there were the lilies of the valley which
rang tiny white bells for the fairies to come and dance round the gay
little toadstools. And, later, there were the Canterbury bells, so
lovely and purple. And, in and out the trees, ran great, bushy-tailed
red squirrels who peeped at her with eyes bright and sparkling, and
sometimes she saw little companies of deer and tiny fawns with their
mothers, and their eyes were like "Little Brother" in the fairy tale,
for it was in these very forests that some of the witches once lived,
and the fairies in "Grimm," and many of the people of the German
stories.

Bettina knew that the fairies slept on the moss and danced under the
toadstools, only it was strange that she never had seen them, nor had
her mother, nor her father, nor her grandfather, nor Willy.

But they were there. All the stories said so.

"Do you think, grandfather," she asked, "that 'Little Brother' really
was turned into a fawn?"

"Who can tell, Kindlein?" answered old Hans, but his mind was on other
things than Bettina and her fairy tales.

"Hard times! hard times!" he muttered. "Always war somewhere, and what
then for poor people? Work! Work! Work!"

Bettina was too small to understand, but, certainly, affairs were
gloomy.

The King of Prussia had declared war upon the Emperor of the French; the
Duke of Weimar, ruler of the forest they were walking through and friend
of the great poet, Goethe, had joined the king as his ally. And now
soldiers were round about and everywhere.

Soldiers were nothing new to Bettina. She had seen them all her life.
But the Emperor of the French! That was another thing, and an awful one.
She shuddered as her grandfather muttered his name.

He was a dreadful man. Her mother always said so. At the mention of his
name every child in Germany behaved itself. And to think that she,
Bettina Weyland, had seen this monster on the white horse everybody
talked so about.

Remembering the night before, Bettina trembled. Then, too, it seemed to
her that she kept hearing a queer sound of roaring--not loud, but far
away towards Jena, a rumble which frightened her.

But old Hans seemed to hear nothing. His mind, as old minds will, had
travelled into the past and he had forgotten the Thuringian Wood, the
bright-eyed red squirrels, the deer, and even little Bettina chatting so
innocently as she trotted along behind him.

In his day the world had changed greatly, old things were passing away
and no one knew what was coming.

In America, the Colonies under Washington had won their independence and
founded a Republic. In France, there had been a dreadful Revolution, and
Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette had been guillotined. A
Corsican soldier first had become France's first consul, and now he was
the Emperor Bettina so dreaded. The Holy Roman Empire, whose Emperor had
lived in Vienna and ruled Germany, was no more, and France's Emperor,
Napoleon, had brought war all over the world. Europe had been fighting
during Hans' whole lifetime, and all the small countries had belonged
so to first one big one and then another, that it was hard sometimes to
exactly know who was one's ruler.

"And now," said Hans aloud, "the French have come into Thuringia, and
our troubles begin."

How dreadful these troubles were to be the old man had not even an idea.
Little did he think as he walked along with Bettina that before
twenty-four hours should have passed, a nation should fall, his own home
be no more, and Thuringia blood-stained and overrun with soldiers.

What he did know was that the King of Prussia and the Duke of Brunswick
were at Auerstaedt, Prince Hohenlohe at Jena, and Napoleon, with the
French, in the same neighbourhood.

"But there will be no battle; nonsense," the Prussians had all told him
in Jena. "And if there should be, who, tell us, would be victors but the
soldiers of Frederick the Great? Was not his army invincible?"

"What matter?" they had answered when someone had ventured to refer to
Napoleon and his victories. "He must yield to us Prussians. Why not? The
moment that he heard that we were at Jena did he not leave Weimar in
haste and retreat to Gera?"

In security they had gone to rest, and while they slept, Napoleon had
been planning a surprise for them.

While old Hans was thinking, he suddenly found out what the Emperor had
meant by his good-morning.

"Grandfather, oh, grandfather!" in sudden fright called out little
Bettina, "Oh, grandfather, what is it?"

Hans' neck had stretched itself forward, his ears were listening, his
whole body on a strain, for a roar, deep and full and awful, seemed
suddenly to roll through the quiet of the silent, green forest.

"Grandfather!"

The old man turned his face as excited as a boy's.

"Himmel, child, Himmel!" he cried. "The Emperor is saying good-morning.
It is cannon you hear. The battle has begun at Jena!"

"Come, come," he continued, "I will not go any farther. Let the trees
take care of themselves for this morning. Come, come! What has an old
soldier of Frederick the Great to do with fir trees when the cannon are
sounding for battle?" And he started quickly in an opposite direction.
Bettina had to run so to keep up with him that her breath came in little
pants and her heart beat violently. But the roar was so awful she was
glad to be running to get away from it.

If that was the voice of Napoleon saying good-morning, no wonder people
were afraid of him.

"Grandfather," she panted, "dear grandfather, will the Emperor get my
father?"

Hans' glowing face became suddenly sober. He had forgotten his
son-in-law, as he forgot everything. He paused in the narrow forest path
and raised his old blue eyes to Heaven.

"Let us pray to the good God, my Bettina. He alone can save him in the
battle."

For a moment he stood silent, his face gazing upward to the sky which
showed now between the fir trees. When he had ended his prayer he went
on more slowly and as they walked he told Bettina why the French and the
Prussians were fighting. For eight years, he said, the King of Prussia
had kept out of all the fighting in Europe, although both Russia and
Austria had entreated him to help them. But he declared that his country
was too poor, he loved peace, and his people needed quiet.

"And wasn't that right, grandfather?" asked Bettina, who had been told
that fighting was wicked.

"Perhaps, dear child, perhaps," the old soldier answered, "but it's a
good thing to help our neighbours when they need us. But the King of
Prussia is good and saving, too, not at all like the old King who spent
so much, and whose ministers brought Prussia to all this trouble."

Then he explained how Napoleon would not let the King of Prussia alone,
how he had irritated him with taunts, how he had provoked him with
outrages, breaking a solemn promise about the Kingdom of Hanover,
quartering ten thousand soldiers on German soil, forming all the South
German States into a Confederation of the Rhine to depend upon him, and
not upon the Emperor of Austria, or the King of Prussia, and last, and
worst of all, defying the laws of nations, he had marched French
soldiers across neutral Prussia.

"The King of Prussia is a good man, my Bettina, a very good man," old
Hans nodded. "He has saved much money for Prussia, but no man can stand
everything, and so now we have war."

Bettina tried to listen, but all she could think of was the dreadful
Emperor on his white horse. She could see him again in his green
overcoat with its white facings, and feel the gleam of his eyes from
beneath his queer hat, and now he was firing cannon on her father. She
could not keep back her tears at the thought, and they rolled down her
cheeks and splashed to her red dress.

"Will he get us, grandfather, will he get us?" she cried.

"Nein, nein, little one," Hans answered. "That white horse will kick up
its heels and start back to Paris, perhaps this evening."

"God be praised!" said little Bettina in the way all the Germans say
it. Then, suddenly, she pointed before her.

In an opening in the forest where grew beeches, not evergreens, stood a
group of wood gatherers by a rippling stream which babbled through the
rocks, ferns dipping down their fronds from its banks to its water. They
were all women in short coloured skirts and loose jackets, deep wicker
baskets full of faggots strapped on their shoulders, their heads bare
and bowed a little because of the sticks, and their faces all frightened
and wild looking.

"Herr Lange! Herr Lange!" they called when they saw Hans and little
Bettina, "what is it? What is all that roaring?"

"Cannon," said Hans shortly. "The battle, women, has begun at Jena."

Then came a noise of talk and tears and outcrying such as never is heard
out of Germany. Louisa had a husband with the Duke; Emma, a son; Grete,
a lover; Magdalena, a father.

"Ach Gott! Ach Gott! Ach Gott!" sobbed a woman with sad dark eyes and
great shaggy white eyebrows. "The Poles killed my man," she wailed, "the
French, my sons; and now----"

"Her grandsons are with the Duke," explained a pink-cheeked woman the
rest called Minna.

"Come, come, women," Hans glanced kindly from one weeping face to the
other, "who says that your husbands and sons will be killed? They may
come home victorious; why not? The Prussians are three to the French
one. They are the soldiers of Frederick the Great, and is not your own
brave Duke helping them? Come, come, dry your tears. The thing, now, is
to get out of this forest. Who knows when the French will begin running
and the roads be full of soldiers?"

He started forward with Bettina, and the wood-gatherers in single file
left the golden beechwood and, a line of bright colour, moved after him
through the deep, green forest, swallowing their tears and struggling
against their sobbing. On they went, the cannon roaring and thundering,
and, presently, they came out on a highway winding like a white ribbon
through the forest's greenness.

They were but out of the path when a quick, noisy sound of hoofs on the
road made them start and stop suddenly.

"Soldiers!" cried Hans, and the whole party scattered to the edge of the
forest.

They were Prussians, and cavalry, and they acted as escort to a light,
closed travelling carriage.

A dash, a rise of wet dust,--it had rained the day before,--hitting
them in their faces, and the cavalcade passed, the roar of the cannon
following like a pursuer.

"We'll keep to the woods," and Hans changed their direction.

Plunging again into the greenwood, they walked with the firs and pines
for company until the path brought them out on the highway opposite an
inn before which were the same Prussian soldiers, standing about
dismounted from their horses.

The carriage was empty.

Plainly some accident had happened, for a smith was busy at work on its
wheel. Herr Leo, the Head Forester, was asking questions, and Hans,
leading Bettina, pressed forward for the news, the wood gatherers
listening timidly on the edge of the crowd.

The battle had begun before daybreak. The French guns had said an early
good-morning to the Prussians. The King was at Auerstaedt.

"And where is the Emperor?" The forester leaned on his gun, one hand on
his hip.

"At Jena, naturally," said a great, red-faced Prussian, who was standing
with his arm round the neck of his horse.

"The devil take him!" Herr Leo's nostrils swelled with anger.

"Ja wohl," cried the whole party, which is the German way of agreeing.

"I saw the Emperor last night, Herr Forester."

Every eye turned on Hans.

Then he told his story, and the brows of the soldiers grew gloomy.

"He, the Devil, was awake," said one who leaned idly against the
doorpost, "and we were all sleeping." He shrugged his shoulders and
began biting his nails as if in irritation.

"The Prussian generals are old," said the forester. He was a
pompous-looking man, and announced everything with an air of being a
herald.

"He called them 'old wigs.'" Hans' face flushed. "The generals of
Frederick the Great's army 'old wigs'!"

At that the soldiers uttered words which made the women shudder.

The forester asked news of the fight at Saalfield. He had heard that
there had been a skirmish, he said.

"Ach Gott," cried the soldiers, "have you not heard?"

Then the listening ears were shocked with the news of the defeat and
death of Prince Louis Ferdinand, he who was the darling of the army, the
Alcibiades of Prussia, one of the bravest princes who ever took up arms
against an enemy.

One thousand Saxons under this Prince had been surrounded in a narrow
valley by thirty thousand of the enemy. The Saxons had fought bravely,
but in vain. The horse of Prince Louis Ferdinand, leaping a ditch,
became entangled in a high hedge and was spied by a French hussar.

"Surrender, or you are a dead man!" he cried, and, for answer, Prince
Louis Ferdinand cut at him with a sabre.

The Frenchman retorted with a sword thrust and made an end of the most
gallant Prince in Germany.

Bettina, listening, and not always entirely understanding, grew cold
with horror. She could see the flashing of the swords, and, oh, her
father, her dear father was at Jena, and while the talk went on the
cannon roared louder and louder.

"The enemy captured thirty guns," said a red-faced soldier gloomily.

"There were bad omens before the war," announced the forester pompously.
His wife, he told them, had been in Berlin and had seen the statue of
Bellona, goddess of war, fall from the roof of the Arsenal on the very
day when the King reviewed his army.

"And when they had picked her up," continued the forester, "her right
arm was entirely shattered!"

He had another thing to tell.

Old Field Marshal von Muellendorf, being lifted on the left side of his
charger, had straightway fallen down on the right.

At this the red-faced soldier looked impatient.

It was certainly stupid in that big-nosed forester to be telling such
things to the soldiers.

"The Queen has been in camp with us," he announced to change the
subject.

Then Bettina pricked up her ears.

Oh, if only they would tell more of the Queen of Prussia! Who in Europe
did not know of her beauty, her goodness, her love for her people? To
Bettina she was like a fairy princess, for her grandfather had told her,
over and over again, of how he had seen her ride into Berlin in a
splendid gold coach to marry the Crown Prince.

But the soldiers had their thoughts just then on war and they were soon
talking again of the Emperor.

"The Devil," announced the forester, "is the only being who can conquer
the Emperor."

"Or the English," said Hans quietly; "remember Nelson and his victory of
Trafalgar."

At this there was an outcry, the whole group protesting and talking.

"Hold your tongue, old fool!" cried a fat, rude Prussian.

"Ja, ja!" all the others approved him.

"Are not the soldiers of Frederick the Great as brave as the sailors of
Nelson? Did not the Great Frederick himself say that the world was not
so well poised on the shoulders of Atlas as the Prussian monarchy on the
bayonets of the Prussian army?"

"Ja wohl," cried the company.

Then, suddenly, little Bettina's childish voice made the whole party
pause and listen. She spoke as fearlessly as if alone with Hans.

"Grandfather," she said, "grandfather, do the soldiers know of Frederick
Barbarossa? Tell them, dear grandfather," her little face glowed with
excitement, "tell them the ravens will wake him and he will come with
the sword and kill the wicked Emperor," and she gazed from one face to
the other, her eyes bright and eager.

A great laugh answered her, but one soldier, a kind-looking young man
with blue eyes, patted her head and said:

"Brava, little one, brava! If the ravens won't caw enough, we'll wake
the old Redbeard with our cannon. Never fear, we'll wake him."

He smiled at Bettina as if he knew how little girls feel, for perhaps he
had a little sister at home who also loved stories.

Then, before the talk could begin again, out came an officer, and the
soldiers at his command mounted their horses. While the talk had gone
on, the smith had mended the wheel and now stood in his leather apron as
if waiting for something to happen.

The Herr Ober-Forester stepped to one side and, with a wave of his
important hand, motioned the wood gatherers to move farther from the
carriage.

The door of the inn was then thrown open by the Herr Landlord, bowing
almost to the ground as he did it. Four grand ladies and a gentleman
then approached the carriage. Nobody troubled much to look at two of the
ladies, though they were young and very noble in appearance.

The third was so dignified that everybody stood up a little straighter.
Yet her face was as kind-looking as it was handsome. She was not young.
Years had turned her hair quite snow-white, and yet her eyes were as
bright and sparkling as a girl's, and she greeted them pleasantly.

But it was at the fourth lady everyone gazed and gazed almost as if
enchanted. Never in all her life was little Bettina to see anyone half
so lovely. She was exactly like the Princesses in the Fairy Tales, tall
and slender, and the most graceful person in the whole world. Her hair
was quite golden and waved in the loveliest way from a parting in the
middle. Her complexion was pink and white and made you think of
snowdrops. Her features were quite perfect and her smile altogether
enchanting.

And her eyes!

"Never," the people of Berlin had said years before, "never have we seen
such eyes, never."

They were blue, and deep in colour, and they seemed to speak right to
the heart and say things no one can write of. They were wonderful eyes,
the most wonderful then in Europe, and that is all there is about it.

Though she looked worried and anxious, the moment she saw other faces
than those of the soldiers, she smiled first at one, then at the other.

About her lovely throat was a light tissue scarf, and a breeze, seizing
it, blew its end sharply into the very face of the dignified,
bright-eyed old lady.

"Pardon me, oh, pardon me, dear Voss," called out a voice so sweet that
Bettina and the wood gatherers thought they had never heard anything
like it. It thrilled them like gentle music. Then she swept away the
scarf and patted the old lady's shoulder.

Her foot was on the carriage step, when, for the first time, she saw
little Bettina. Her lovely face suddenly lighted with a smile like a
mother's.

"Voss, Voss," she said, "see that dear child. Do look at her."

Then she stepped from the carriage and turned to Bettina.

"God bless you, little one," she began, but a roar of cannon, loud and
thundering, came like a voice warning her to hasten. With a wave of her
hand she entered the carriage. From its window, when all were ready, she
thrust forth her lovely head.

"God bless you all, good people!" called her voice of sweetness. Her
face now looked sad and very anxious. "Pray for me, dear people, pray
for my King and your good Duke who is helping him, pray the dear God
that He will give us the victory."

Then she drew in her head; bang went the door; the officer gave an
order; the postilions sounded; and away dashed the carriage, the
splashing mud and the roar of cannon behind it.

The women crowded around Hans.

His face was radiant.

"Who was it?" he cried. Then he spoke with great triumph. "Who better
than Hans Lange can tell you? I saw her ride into Berlin in a golden
coach to marry her husband. Women," his voice quivered, "the lady with
the golden hair and the blue eyes is the 'Angel of Prussia.' Yesterday,
in Jena, I heard how the Emperor of the French hates her and has vowed,
if he can, to capture her. It is from him, doubtless, that she is
flying."

The old lady, he told the excited wood gatherers, was the Countess Marie
Sophie von Voss, Mistress of Ceremonies in the Prussian Court, and like
a mother to Her Majesty.

"Oh, grandfather, oh, grandfather!" Bettina, in spite of the Emperor, in
spite of her father and the cannon, for the moment was again quite
happy. She had seen the Queen of Prussia, the most beautiful lady in all
Europe, and she had said, "God bless you."

But her grandfather, listening to the cannon, turned to the wood
gatherers who were standing and discussing the Queen.

"Go home, women," he said in a tone of command, "go home at once and see
that your children are in safety. We may win." He threw out his hands.
"We may not." He shrugged his shoulders. "Either way, you are better off
the highroad."

Then he turned to the pink-cheeked young woman.

"Minna," he said, "take Bettina, here, home to Frau Weyland. Ja, ja, go,
child; mother will be anxious. Go, now, and you can tell her how the
Queen spoke to you. And, Minna, tell Frau Weyland to go at once to her
father-in-law's with the children. She can lock the house, tell her, and
leave the dogs unchained. Herr Weyland can go up, or send Fritz, for the
night. I am going, myself, now, to Jena. Tell her, Bettina, to go at
once. No one knows when the soldiers will be everywhere."

"Ja wohl," and Minna took the hand of Bettina.

Her grandfather turned towards the roar of the cannon.

"Auf wiedersehen," he said, and off he marched like a soldier.

As for Bettina, she trotted along with the wood gatherers, her fright
all gone.

Now that she had seen the lovely Queen and knew that the Emperor had
vowed to capture her, she could almost see the old Kaiser Barbarossa
rising from his sleep. His sword was flashing, his eyes were like fire,
and she knew that he would kill the monster, Napoleon, and save the
lovely Louisa.

"Do you think," asked Minna, suddenly, "that the Queen will escape?"

The women looked gloomy and shrugged their shoulders.

"The Emperor does what he wills," said black-eyed Emma.

"Ja wohl," agreed Magdalena. Then she shook her head wisely. "I say
this, women, poor as we are to-day, it is better to be wood gatherers of
Thuringia than the Queen of Prussia."

"Ja wohl," they all said, "much better."




CHAPTER III

AT JENA


When old Hans left Bettina and the women he followed the highway until
he came to a path leading to a red-roofed farm house belonging to his
cousin.

Seeing Herr Schmelze standing in the doorway, the old man went in.

"Good-day," called the cousin. "Himmel, Hans, but the firing is awful!"

Certainly the roar, always steady and loud, seemed to increase to a
noise like thunder. Towards Jena they saw a cloud of blue smoke rising
always thicker and higher. The air, usually so fresh with the breath of
the pines, choked their throats with its taste of powder. The din was
awful, shrieks, shots, and the cannon roar uniting. Before Hans could
even answer, the flying feet of the first fugitives were heard on the
road, men and frightened women, furniture on their backs, children in
their arms, hands holding what they could; on they came as if fiends
were at their heels, a great horror pursuing them.

The cousin's wife, seeing Hans, came out to greet him. Her fingers were
held fast to her ears and she kept crying on God to help them.

"Be quiet, Lotte," commanded her husband, "and bring Hans some
breakfast."

She ran back into the house, and Herr Schmelze led the way to a rustic
table beneath an elm.

"It is cold," said he, shivering at the dampness, "but out here it is
better, is it not? We can see all that is happening."

Frau Schmelze returned with black bread, sausage, hard-boiled eggs, and
beer.

Arranging them on the table, she bowed her head most piously.

"Bless the mealtime," she said, jumping an "Amen" as the cannon
thundered a sudden volley.

"Mealtime," answered the men, German fashion, and fell to eating.

"Eat while you can, friends," and Frau Schmelze smoothed her clean black
apron over her short skirt of blue. "The soldiers will soon get
everything."

Germans seem always able to eat, so, though the cannon roared and the
fugitives passed by dozens in the road, Hans and the cousin partook of
the meal in large mouthfuls, exchanging news as they drank their beer.

"I came from Weimar to-day," said Herr Schmelze, in his slow, deliberate
way. "The Queen of Prussia has been with our Duchess, but this morning
she left."

"I saw her on the road," said Hans, and told of the adventure at the
inn. "And I saw Napoleon," he added, and while he related again the
story, the roaring grew fiercer and fiercer. Suddenly Frau Schmelze ran
from the house.

"Ach Gott! Ach Gott! Ach Gott!" she screamed. "Conrad, Hans, look!
look!"

And she pointed to the highroad.

Flying, galloping, running as if demons were at their heels, they saw
soldiers on foot, soldiers on horseback, hussars, dragoons, heard
pistols exploding, saw swords flashing, heard voices screaming madly. It
was horrible.

A quick shot sounded. A soldier fell like a stone at the gate.

Hans and Conrad reached him as if by magic.

"Dead," said the cousin, as they drew the body to the grass. "And a
Prussian."

There was a stream of blood in the road, men were falling, riding over
each other, dropping to death everywhere. On they came, faster and more
furious.

"Save us! Save us from Napoleon!"

Hans flung open the gate, and in rushed two wild-eyed women caught in
their flight by the hussars, who seeing them out of their way, rushed on
after higher game.

"Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!" The cry rose even above the cannon
roar. Hans and Conrad looked each other in the eyes.

"The Prussians, cousin," began Hans.

"Were first," said Herr Schmelze.

The shoulders of the brave old soldier of Frederick the Great drooped
with shame, the fat old farmer coloured.

It was the first time Hans had seen a Prussian soldier turn his back on
an enemy, and a tear stole down his cheek.

"Come," said Herr Schmelze, "let us go to the height and look down on
the battle. Ulrich," he called to his son, as he passed the house, "stay
here and take care of your mother."

Then he led the way to a spot from where they could see the battle. The
sight was one never to be forgotten, and as the hours passed the hearts
of the two Germans grew sick within them. They saw the Duke of Brunswick
borne from the field of dead and wounded, and then began a panic worse
than all else we can read of in history. Over the field flew the
Prussians, whole companies taking flight as if children. Horses, freed
from their riders, dashed where they would, galloping over the dead,
crushing with their hoofs the dying; swords flashed against sabres; men
fled as if mad; gunners deserted cannon; and still, through all the
havoc and confusion, steadily, unswervingly, the cannon of Napoleon
roared on. Towards late afternoon the Prussians were turning their backs
in all directions, crossing each other's paths, blockading, hampering,
as they struggled to escape to Erfurt, to Kolleda, to Sommerda.

The sun dropped in the west, and, as the afterglow rose like a mist of
gold, the light fell on a field of such horror as blood-stained old
Europe rarely has seen. The cries of the wounded, the dying, the
pursued, and the victorious rent the air, and the Prussians who remained
were in a confusion most awful. Only the soldiers of the Duke of Weimar
fought with steadiness, and, presently, they began to retreat in order
towards Erfurt.

The glorious army of Frederick the Great had disappeared like a bubble.
Napoleon had but touched it with his finger of might and its
many-coloured glory had vanished into nothing.

For hours, old Hans and his cousin watched the fight, and lower and
lower sank the head of the old man. That he, a soldier of Frederick the
Great, should see the downfall of the army!

"Ach Gott! Ach Gott! Ach Gott!" he said to the cousin.

But Herr Schmelze caught his arm, his face suddenly glowing with
excitement.

"Look, cousin, look!" he cried and with a fat hand he pointed towards
the field. "Look, I say, look, Hans! What courage! That Prussian is
only a boy, and there are four, no, five, six, seven Frenchmen in
pursuit. See him run! Bravo! Ach Himmel! Hans, at last, some courage!"

What Hans saw was a Prussian, slender, alert, quite boy-like in figure,
fly before pursuing Frenchmen. To save himself he darted sideways, then
rushed between two wagons close together and deserted by the Prussians.

Sheltered, he fired.

A Frenchman dropped.

He dodged the answer and fired again.

"Vive l'Empereur!" called the hussars, responding, but the boy, turning
suddenly, leaped the wagon to the left; then, as the Frenchmen started
to follow, he turned on his heel, dived behind the rear of his barricade
and, turning, fled, gaining time as he ran.

"Bravo! Bravo!" called the cousin, and Hans brightened at even this
slight show of Prussian courage. With shots pursuing, unharmed, the boy
fled on, the French behind, until dusk wrapped in its dimness both
pursued and pursuers.

Hans and Herr Schmelze strained their eyes to see the end of the unequal
combat, but the battlefield and flying soldiers faded alike in the
gloom.

"I must go home," said Herr Schmelze, suddenly remembering his Lotte,
"and you, Hans?"

"I'm off to Jena."

The cousin eyed him curiously.

"Hans," he said, "is it wise to leave Annchen alone with the children?
The house is lonely and will be in the path of the soldiers, if they
should break through the forest."

The old man's mind was full only of the battle.

"Nein, nein, Conrad," he said. "I sent Anna a message by Minna
Schneiderwint. She was to take the children and go at once to her
husband's father. She is there now, that is certain."

The cousin looked less anxious. He was easy going and usually minded his
own affairs.

"So, so," he said, "then she will certainly be safe. You are sure she
obeyed? Otherwise----"

Hans nodded with conviction.

"Of course she obeyed; why not? I told Minna to command her."

"Very well, then," and Herr Schmelze started home. "Auf wiedersehen,
Hans, and you might bring us the news as you come back from Jena."

"Ja wohl," and the old soldier of Frederick the Great strode away in the
gloaming.

Jena was a scene of horror. Its streets were noisy with the yells of
drunken soldiers; screaming women were rushing in or out of houses; in
the streets lay the dead and dying, and, above the noise, steady, never
stopping, roared on the cannon of Napoleon.

About ten at night a sound of drums silenced the screams. With
triumphant flags and victorious music, in rode Napoleon, erect on his
white horse as ever.

"The scoundrel, the upstart!" said a voice near Hans.

The speaker wore the dress of a professor of the University of Jena, and
he stiffened his head as the conqueror approached. "I will not bow to
him," he muttered, "I will not."

But Napoleon suddenly gazing at him, the professor hesitated, then, a
strange look on his face, bowed as if in spite of himself.

"It is Professor Hegel, the philosopher," said a man near Hans. "He has
been writing here in Jena and did not even hear the cannon. A moment ago
the postmaster told him the news and he is like one broken-hearted."

But Hans had not time for gossip. Jena men whom he knew were on the road
to the field to bring in the wounded and they hailed him.

"Well met, Hans," they cried. "Come! We need men. Come, and help us."

"Ja wohl," and Hans turned and joined them. "I am too old to fight,
alas, comrades," he grieved, "but God be thanked, I can do this for the
army." And he marched off with the group.

Why not?

Annchen and the children were quite safe with Kasper's father. Anna knew
his ways and would not worry. It had been different when he had had
Bettina. Her concern had been for the child and not for an old soldier
such as he was. Why not, then?

And so he followed to the field where the horses still were racing, the
Prussian soldiers fleeing, the thieves prowling to rob the dead and the
dying, and where, above the havoc, still roared without ceasing the
cannon of Napoleon.

Towards Weimar the sky was crimson, tongues of flame darting up and
suddenly lighting the heavens.

There was but one cry: "Vive l'Empereur! Vive Napoleon!" and, as Hans,
with the gentleness of a woman, lifted man after man from the ground, he
knew that the soldiers of Frederick had had their good-morning, and the
country of that famous old soldier lay conquered in the dust.




CHAPTER IV

AT THE FOREST HOUSE


Hans worked hard all night and into the next morning, and then, feeling
the need of food and finding none in overcrowded Jena, with an "Auf
wiedersehen" to his comrades, he departed for the farmhouse.

Frau Schmelze stood in the doorway.

"Morning, Hans!" she called. "Come in, come in, here is coffee!"

Bustling about, she prepared him a meal in the living room.

On the sofa lay a man in Prussian uniform.

"He staggered in last night," she explained. "His hand was cut and
bleeding. I bound it up for him and he fell asleep there, though,
goodness knows, it was dangerous enough with the French tearing by every
moment!" She poured out coffee. "Ach Himmel, Hans!" she cried, "but war
is dreadful! All night the cannon and the screaming."

Then suddenly she turned on him, glancing at his tumbled hair and face
stained and dirty.

"Hans," she said, "have you been all night in Jena?"

The old man nodded.

Frau Schmelze frowned in disapproval.

"Cousin," she said, "are you sure about Annchen? All night there were
soldiers that way. It would be dreadful if she were alone with the
little ones, nicht wahr? We thought you were there."

"Alone?" Hans put down his coffee cup in surprise. "I sent her word to
go to her father-in-law's."

The truth was, he had forgotten everything but the battle.

"Why should she, cousin, have stayed on in the Forest House?"

Frau Schmelze was silent; it was not her business to remind Hans Lange
that he had a daughter exactly like him.

"So," she answered after a moment, "so. Perhaps you know best, but----"

Then she went to the soldier whom the talking had awakened. In her hand
was a cup of the good, steaming hot coffee.

"Ah," said the man, "a thousand thanks!" and he drained the cup,
smacking his thin lips as he finished.

"It makes a man over." And rising stiffly he tottered to the table and
sank in a chair beside Hans. "You have news of the battle, my friend?"

Hans nodded.

"Napoleon is in Jena," he answered shortly.

"And the army?"

Hans snapped his fingers.

"Gone like a bubble," he said. Then he told of the night and the flying
of the soldiers, of the crossing and recrossing of lines, of the racing
of the riderless horses, and the entrance of Napoleon into Jena.

The soldier's head sank low; he left his second cup of coffee untasted.

"No one can stand against the French Emperor," he said.

"Ach, nein," agreed Frau Schmelze.

"Perhaps the English," volunteered Hans, cutting huge mouthfuls of bread
and grey sausage.

The Prussian flushed and his lip curled.

"The good God helping me," he said, "here is one Prussian who will never
give up his fighting until they sign peace, or death steps in."

"Bravo!" cried Herr Schmelze, coming in at the door. "If there were more
who felt that way, Jena this morning would not be Napoleon's. The
Fatherland is full of indifference, nicht wahr?"

"The Germans are asleep," said the soldier, "the whole nation is
dreaming."

Herr Schmelze smiled drily.

"There was something loud enough to wake them, yesterday, nicht wahr?"
And he looked at the other two and laughed sarcastically.

As for Hans, he moved uneasily.

"That a man must grow too old to fight," he said. Then he offered to
show the soldier the way towards Erfurt, where the remainder of the army
was gathering.

Frau Schmelze put down her work and whispered in the ear of her husband.
He nodded.

"Hans," he said, "you had better go to the Forest House. Annchen----"

"Ja wohl, Otto." The old man rose resolutely. "We go that way, you know,
and when I show our friend here the way, I'll go down and take the news
to old Weyland."

Then off he started with the soldier, plunging into talk of the King of
Prussia and Napoleon.

Frau Schmelze shook her head.

"I hope, Otto," she said, "that nothing has happened."

The farmer looked serious.

"I thought, of course, Hans had gone home, or I should have sent
Ulrich."

"Hans?" A look expressed Frau Schmelze's opinion of Frederick the
Great's old soldier, and she returned to her labours.

"A good man is our King, there is no better," the soldier meanwhile was
saying. "He and our good Angel, the Queen, have the love of all their
people. He is upright, and saving, and truly religious, but, ach Himmel,
if he were only not so uncertain! Nobody, not even Stein, steady himself
as a rock, can make him know what he wants to do and at once to do it.
'To-morrow,' he says, 'let us wait.' It is always so, nicht? Now, take
this war. He delayed and delayed, letting Napoleon insult him over and
over. The army grew feeble from want of exercise, and our generals too
old for service. Bluecher is the only one worth counting. Then, too," he
continued, "Frederick William the Second is unlucky. Look at his
wretched boyhood. He was born unlucky. And now he has made a mistake
about this war, nicht wahr? For eight years when our neighbours needed
us he wouldn't fight, and now when we are at it ourselves there is no
one to help us."

"The Russians," put in Hans, "the Czar Alexander is our ally. Did you
not hear how he and our King--I am a Prussian, you know--swore an oath
of friendship at midnight at the tomb of Frederick the Great, the Queen
being witness?"

The soldier nodded.

"Ja, ja," he said, "if Russia will help," he spread out his hand, "that
will be entirely another affair. But who knows? That little Emperor of
the French may twist any number of Czars round his finger, but hark!" He
listened eagerly. "What was that? A child?"

There was a sound as of a baby wailing wretchedly. Hans looked uneasy.
Could it be that his Anna--but, no--he had sent her word, and certainly
she had obeyed him. It was only some peasant with her baby. Presently
they left the wood and before them stood the little grey Forest House
with its red roof and garden.

Hans started and called out an exclamation. Pine needles were scattered
everywhere as if feet, running, had disturbed the forest carpet. The
garden gate stood open. A rosebush, broken, had fallen across the path.
On the path, too, were dark drops which made both men shudder. The
chickens, not yet freed from their night quarters, clucked impatiently,
unmilked cows bellowed in pain, and Schneider and Schnip, the dogs,
howled long and mournfully. And yet, in spite of the noise, the place
seemed wrapped in a quiet most horrible.

"Mein Gott!" The soldier looked at Hans, who, gazing steadily before
him, pushed open the unlatched door of the hall.

A cold little nose touched his hand as he entered. It was "Little
Brother," Bettina's pet fawn, whose eyes seemed to speak most
mournfully.

The hall was that of a Forest House, its walls ornamented with antlers
of deer, guns and sticks on the racks, and, in the corner against one
wall, a highly carved oak press, and, opposite, Frau Weyland's spinning
wheel. But Hans and the soldier took no note of furniture, for a stream,
a dark stream, was flowing from one door to the other, its source being
the living room.

"Gott im Himmel!" cried the soldier. "It is blood!" Then he pushed open
the door, Hans and the little fawn following.

There was the room as Hans knew it, with its sofa, its square table, its
geraniums in the windows, its tall white porcelain stove, and its one
picture of the Herr Jesus blessing the children.

A candle, smoking dismally about the socket, filled the room with a
horrid odour. On the table stood the remains of supper, half eaten. But
the two men looked at none of these things, nor took note of the little
quivering fawn, whose eyes seemed to long to explain the whole story.

It was at the floor both gazed in horror.

"May the good God have pity," said the soldier softly.

Before them lay three bodies, the first in the uniform of a French
soldier, the second, the young Prussian officer Hans had seen flying,
and the third----

Hans fell on his knees and took his daughter's golden head in his arms.

"Annchen!" he cried, "Annchen! Speak to me, my Annchen!"

But Frau Weyland was never again to laugh at his forgetfulness, never
again to smile her "Ja, ja, dear father!" never to tease him about his
battles.

The story was easy to read; the position of the bodies told it. The
Prussian had fled to the Forest House for refuge, the Frenchman had
fired from the doorway, Frau Weyland, hastily rising, had received one
bullet.

As for the Frenchman, a sword thrust had finished him. Doubtless he had
received it in the battle and he had bled while running. At all events,
it was a loss of blood which had killed him.

Old Hans was almost crazy. With his daughter's head on his knees, he
kept begging God to forgive him.

"She was all I had," he told the soldier, "and I thought she was with
her husband's father. Herr Jesus, forgive me, forgive me."

Then, presently, as is the habit of certain people, he found comfort in
blaming someone else. He flew into a wild fury against Napoleon; he
cursed him; he cried out vengeance against him, and he swore that as
long as he had a drop of blood in his veins he would struggle to
overthrow him. The soldier paid no heed. With his unhurt hand he had
been feeling the heart of the young Prussian.

"Get water, old man," he interrupted. "Quick! Quick! The Herr Lieutenant
still lives!"

Hans, laying down the head of his daughter, drew from his pocket a
flask.

"It is brandy," he said. "They gave it to me for the wounded in Jena."

The soldier poured some drops down the officer's throat. He ordered Hans
to fling open doors and windows and they made the poor fellow more
comfortable.

Then they covered the dead with sheets from the sleeping room beds.

"Ach Himmel!" cried Hans suddenly. "The children!"

He ran into the garden. Above the noise of the animals sounded the
distant wail of a babe. Following the sound, Hans came upon Bettina,
little Hans, and baby August.

They had hidden in the forest, Bettina holding the baby wrapped in her
mother's shawl.

"Grandfather, oh, grandfather," and she burst into sobs, "he cries so, I
can't stop him."

"Mother, I want mother!" screamed little Hans, while the baby's wails
were incessant.

Bearing August in his arms, Hans and Bettina at his side, the old man
appeared again in the kitchen of the farmhouse.

"Gott im Himmel!" cried Frau Schmelze, wringing her hands and weeping.
"I knew it! I knew it! You need not tell me. Conrad, husband! Ulrich!
Come! Quick! It is Anna! Our dear, dear Anna!"

As for Hans, he went on like a madman, railing at Napoleon and blaming
the French. Only Bettina could quiet him.

No, he would not stay there with the children. He would return to the
Forest House where he had left the soldier.

So the farmer went with him, and Ulrich fetched Kaspar's father.

Hans insisted that he would nurse the wounded Prussian.

"Let him alone," said the soldier, who announced that he must march on
towards Erfurt. "It will take his mind off his trouble."

"The children will stay here for the present," insisted Frau Schmelze
when Hans reappeared that evening.

He nodded.

"Ja wohl, Lotte," he said, and then he railed so at Napoleon that she
was sure his grief had crazed him.

She kept her thoughts to herself until that night, when she and her
husband lay under their featherbeds. Then she expressed the opinion she
had been suppressing all day.

"It's all very well laying everything on Napoleon," she said. "He is a
monster, an upstart, a villain, but Hans should have gone home to poor
Anna. She should have obeyed and gone to Weyland's, you say? That is
just like you, Otto, taking up for Hans Lange because he is a man, but
Anna, poor woman, was not much given to obeying her father; you know
that, husband, as well as I do, nicht? She was Hans, all over, doing
what she pleased and obeying no one." Then the good woman, who truly had
loved her cousin, wet her pillow with tears.

The farmer grieved, also. Why not? He, too, had liked Anna, and there
were those little children, but he was a man and his thoughts were on
the battle. He had learned at Jena that Napoleon was that evening to
enter Weimar. Who knew what would happen?

The Duke was the ally of the King of Prussia, and Napoleon was not
likely to forget it.

"Our poor country," and he sighed, remembering his meadows and how the
soldiers had tramped over them.

He was sinking to sleep when Ulrich returned from Jena, where he had
gone after supper.

"Father! Mother!" he called. "Wake up! Wake up! There is news of a
battle at Auerstaedt!"

The farmer pulled back the bed curtains and sprang from his bed.

"A battle at Auerstaedt! Impossible!"

But Ulrich nodded, having hurried until he was quite breathless.

"Ja, ja, father," he panted, "the whole Prussian army is annihilated!
They fought at Auerstaedt at exactly the same time the battle took place
at Jena."

"Ach Himmel, Ulrich, I cannot believe it!" cried the farmer, his face
red with excitement.

"Ja wohl, father," Ulrich insisted. "Davoust led the French, the King of
Prussia the Germans. They fought all day and neither the King nor the
Emperor heard the cannons of the other."

"There has never been such a thing in the history of the world, Ulrich.
Two battles at once, here in Thuringia. Impossible!"

But Ulrich knew what he was talking about.

"Ja wohl, father," he said, "I heard it in Jena. All the generals are
dead or wounded. The King is no one knows where. Horses were twice shot
from under him, and they say he fought like a hero. Napoleon's soldiers
are ordered to capture the Queen, and Davoust is pursuing towards
Erfurt. Down in Jena they say Napoleon will march at once on Berlin."

Frau Schmelze's voice came from between the bed curtains.

"War is terrible," she said. "Ach Gott, but it is awful!"

"Ja wohl, mother," agreed Ulrich. "All is lost, everything, and Napoleon
is our master!" Then he told how the sky was red toward Weimar and how
he had heard the Duchess had refused to fly and had taken scores of
people into the castle.

Then he lowered his voice, which trembled.

"Mother," he said, "I have bad news for Hans Lange. Kaspar was among
those who died, to-day, in the hospital in Jena. They brought him in
after Hans had left them."

And so, behind the white horse of the Emperor, Death marched into
Thuringia.

Poor Bettina!

Napoleon had robbed her of her father and mother, and the old Barbarossa
still slept on in his cave, the ravens cawing and circling.




CHAPTER V

THE JOURNEY


The wounded soldier lay unconscious for many days in the Forest House.
Hans nursed him carefully. He took care of Bettina, too, whom he refused
to leave with Frau Schmelze, and Minna Schneiderwint came to milk the
cows and do the cooking. Later they must find a new home, but the Herr
Forester Leo had been glad, for the present, for Hans to keep on with
Kaspar's duties.

Bettina spent much time by the sick officer. At first, she had been
afraid of him lying there in a stupor, but presently she grew used to
the quiet and liked to sit near his bed while her grandfather was in the
forest, singing away to her doll and never minding the sick man. One day
she was putting her dolly to sleep with a pretty song her godmother had
taught her:

    "Joseph, lieber Joseph mein,
    Hilf mir weig'n mein Kindlein.
                              Eia!"

    "Joseph, dear Joseph mine,
    Help me rock my little child,
                              Eia!"

she sang. The Germans say that it is the song the Virgin Mary sang when
she rocked the little Jesus in Bethlehem, and so Bettina loved it.

"My sister sings that," said a voice from the bed, a weak voice like a
child's.

Bettina gave a great start and then smiled when she saw it was the
soldier.

"My dolly is named Anna," she said, and she ran to the bed to show him.

[Illustration: "_My dolly is named Anna_"]

"God be praised," said Hans, when he came in and found them talking.

The soldier would hear the news. Hans told him everything, but not all
at once, for it was not wise for him to have too much excitement.

Jena was lost. So was Auerstaedt. Both great battles had been fought in
one day, neither party hearing the cannon of the other. Retreating, the
armies had crossed each other, and never had Europe seen such turmoil
and confusion. As for the Prussian army, it had vanished. The young
soldier could not believe it. A few weeks before he had marched with
that brilliant army, singing songs, and certain of victory.

"And the Emperor?" his face flushed with hatred.

Then Hans told him how, on the day after Jena, Napoleon had marched into
Weimar.

"Our good Duchess had remained," he said, "all the day of Jena, and the
next morning she opened her doors to Weimar families and any English
strangers. There was nothing to eat, and all Her Highness had was a cake
of chocolate she found hid beneath a cushion. Towards evening of the day
of the battles--I have been told, sir, it was awful!--the French rushed
in, pursuing the Prussians. It was terrible. The soldiers slew each
other in the streets, the pavements ran blood, the French fell on the
wine and beer, and, not knowing what they did, they set fire to the
houses near the castle, and the French officers quartered themselves on
the Duchess. She alone, sir, remained calm. We have heard how she waited
that second evening at the head of the stairs for Napoleon. When he
arrived she advanced to meet him, greeting him with politeness. 'Who are
you?' he cried, like a peasant."

"The upstart!" muttered the young lieutenant.

"'I am the Duchess of Weimar,' our lady told him," continued Hans, his
voice thrilling with pride at Her Highness's bravery. "'I pity you,'
said Napoleon, 'for I must crush your husband. Where is he?' 'At his
post of duty,' our Duchess, sir, told him. She is a brave lady, sir, and
it's a pity, a dreadful pity, that many of our soldiers are not like
her. Pardon me, sir, but the doings of our army have been dreadful."

Then he told all the rest he had been told: how Count Philip de Segur
had come in the dawn to report to Napoleon all the events of the night,
and when he had told him that they had failed in their attempt to
capture the Queen of Prussia, Napoleon had said: "Ah, that would have
been well done, for she has caused the war."

"That is false," cried the lieutenant, his face flushing. "Our Queen was
in Pyrmont for her illness caused by the death of little Prince
Ferdinand, and it was decided upon before her return. How dare
Napoleon----"

"The Emperor of the French dares anything," and Hans shrugged his old
shoulders. He had heard, too, but he had no idea how true it was, that
Napoleon had written the Empress Josephine, who was then in Paris, that
it would have pleased him much had he captured Queen Louisa.

"And why?" asked the soldier, "why should the Emperor hate so gentle a
lady?"

Hans shook his head.

"One is good, the other is bad. From the beginning of things, sir, the
pastors tell us in church, there's been war between good and evil, nicht
wahr?"

The soldier nodded.

"I suppose so," he said.

Then he heard the rest about the Duchess of Weimar.

The Emperor of the French could not praise her enough.

Next morning he had breakfasted with her. "Madame," he asked, "how could
your husband be so mad as to make war upon me?" "My husband," said the
Duchess, "has been in the service of the King of Prussia for more than
thirty years, and, certainly, it was not at the moment when the King had
so formidable an enemy as your Majesty that the Duke could abandon him."


The Emperor was so pleased with her brave answer that his manner changed
at once. His tone became respectful and he made her a bow. "Madame," he
said, "you are the most sensible woman whom I ever have known. You have
saved your husband. I pardon him, but entirely on your account. As for
him, he is a good-for-nothing."

Then he talked much more with the Duchess, and at her request ordered
all the disorder to be stopped in the town, and everywhere that he went
he praised her conduct.

"And we have one comfort," Hans told the soldier. "The Duke, our Duke,
Herr Lieutenant, alone remained firm, the Prince of Orange standing with
him. They, sir, made an orderly retreat to Erfurt, but," he shrugged his
broad shoulders, "their bravery counted as nothing."

Hans was a different man since the death of his daughter. He had but one
thought, and that was hatred of the French and of Napoleon. When he
walked now, his head hung low. He had no longer cheery words for the
people he met with, but a gruff good-day and then no more speaking.

Only to the soldier was he talkative. There was something about the
pleasant-faced lieutenant which brought back the old Hans; each day the
young fellow grew dearer. Still, even he felt that Hans had his
secrets. He came and went in strange ways, and often after nightfall.

One morning, when the frost was white on the grass and the leaves of the
low shrubs were touched with silver, the old man started out as usual.
There were still French at Jena, though Napoleon with the army had
marched away towards Berlin. Bettina was with the soldier, who was up
now, and hoped soon to try and join the army.

He and the little girl were great friends. He had told her how that he
had three sisters, the oldest, very pretty and named Marianne, and the
other two, Ilse and Elsa, were twins, round, jolly and so alike there
was no telling them apart unless they spoke, when you knew Ilse because
of the shape of one tooth. He had three brothers, Wolfgang, Otto, and
little Carl.

"And our home, dear little Bettina, is called the Stork's Nest," he told
her, "because my father is Professor von Stork, and the real stork has
brought my mother so many babies."

Bettina was delighted at this and asked many questions about Marianne,
who was so pretty, and read so many books, and Ilse and Elsa, who were
always in mischief, fooling everybody about which was which and trying
to do everything that their brothers did.

But the one of this family in whom Bettina took the most interest was
little Carl, who had such red cheeks, almost white hair, and blue eyes
like saucers.

The reason of this was a story the soldier told her.

One day, he said, his mother was taking her nap after dinner. Before she
shut her door she told little Carl, who then was six, to go and stay
with his big sister, Marianne. But Marianne was reading a famous book by
the great poet, Goethe, called "The Sorrows of Werther," and she told
Carl to run away and let her alone.

He did run away, and so far that not a soul could find him.

All the home was in the wildest confusion, Madame von Stork wringing her
hands, scolding Marianne, and telling her that it was all her fault,
because she would read books, write letters and poems; Mademoiselle
Pauline, a young French girl who lived with them, searching everywhere
and assuring his mother that Marianne was perfectly useless since she
had been to Frankfort-on-Main, formed a friendship with Bettina Brentano
and taken to adoring Goethe; the boys racing everywhere; and the good,
calm father trying to quiet everybody.

At last Ilse and Elsa had screamed that Carl was coming, and in he
walked with the prettiest story you can think of.

He had run away to the Thiergarten, a great, fine park in Berlin, and
there had found some boys who had asked him to play horse.

One had reins and quickly harnessed Carl for his steed.

Then off he had pranced, up and down the avenues, until, with a snap,
pop had gone the reins.

"A run-away! A run-away!" called the boys, as off had run Carl.

Faster came the drivers and faster ran the horse until, bump, he landed
with his head right into a lady.

"You naughty child--you----" began one voice, an old one, when a
second--it belonged to the lady who had been bumped--interrupted:

"Please, dear friend, be quiet. Let him alone. Boys will be wild," and
she smiled at her companion, a bright-eyed old lady with white hair.

Then she asked Carl his name, told him she had heard of his father, and
then she patted one round cheek, kissed him on the other, and said, "Run
away, little son, and carry a beautiful greeting to your parents."

"And who was she?" cried Bettina, when the lieutenant first told her.

"Guess," said the soldier, smiling mischievously.

Bettina shook her little head.

"The Queen," said the Herr Lieutenant, and then roared when he saw how
surprised Bettina was.

She and her friend, the Countess von Voss, had been walking in the park
like any other ladies, and Carl had run into her.

Bettina wanted to know everything.

Was Carl scolded for running off? Was he proud? And how had his mother
liked it?

His mother certainly had been much pleased at such an honour to Carl,
and, as for the little rascal, he could talk of nothing else, but most
certainly he was scolded.

"But nothing did him the least good until his sister Marianne had told
him that Pauline would write a little letter in French to Bonaparte, and
if he ran away again the Emperor would come and get him."

Bettina shuddered. She could quite believe that Carl never had run away
again.

"He is a great boy now," said the Herr Lieutenant. "This happened two
years ago."

"I have seen the Queen, too," confided Bettina, and she told him all
about the day at the inn, and about Napoleon, and her mother, whom she
missed so. Night after night she wept herself to sleep under her feather
bed, poor little Bettina.

"Oh, dear Herr Lieutenant," she said, "why did not the ravens wake the
Kaiser Barbarossa?"

"Perhaps they will some day," he answered, smiling.

"Do you think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," she asked on the day when Hans
had departed so secretly, "that the wicked Emperor will get the dear,
lovely Queen?"

The soldier shook his head.

"No, no, little Bettina, the good God must save her, for she is so good
and kind to everybody."

Then Bettina came quite close to him, her doll in her arms. Her little
dress was no longer bright red. Frau Schmelze and her grandmother had
made her one of black.

"Herr Lieutenant," she began.

"Ja, little Bettina."

"I saw a raven to-day."

The young officer laughed.

"So," he said, "so?"

"I think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," and Bettina smiled, "I will run out
to the garden, and if I see a raven now, I will give him a message to
Barbarossa. He did not wake for my mother," her lips quivered, "but
then, Herr Lieutenant, there was no time to send him a message. If I see
a raven now, I will call out loud and off he will fly to the cave of
Barbarossa."

"Put some salt on his tail, Bettina," said the Herr Lieutenant, "then he
will sit quite still and listen until he knows the message."

Bettina trotted off and begged salt of Minna Schneiderwint. Then she ran
into the frosty garden to watch for the raven.

At the gate she saw French soldiers. Without a word in they marched and
came forth again with the Herr Lieutenant in the midst of them.

"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu," he cried. "I am a prisoner. Tell your
grandfather and thank him for his goodness."

"Auf wiedersehen," Bettina flew to him, her face all alarm.

But the soldier shook his head.

"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu, I am not likely again to see you or your
grandfather." Then he put his well arm about her and kissed her.

"Come, come," cried the soldiers, and off they marched into the forest
along the path away from Jena.

Bettina ran into the house, her little body shaken with sobs.

Everybody she loved the wicked Emperor took away, her mother, her
father, and now the Herr Lieutenant. Oh, if she only had a wand as in
the fairy tales, she would change him into a great black stone, or some
cruel animal.

In came Minna Schneiderwint, wringing her hands and sobbing, "The dear,
gracious Herr Lieutenant! What will Herr Lange say when he hears of it?
Ach Gott! Ach Gott! What a monster is Napoleon!"

Hans, returning, found Bettina still weeping.

"Liebchen," he said, after he had heard the story, "we, too, are going
on a journey." Then he told her to say nothing to Minna Schneiderwint,
but to help make up a bundle to travel with.

Not a soul, he said, must know a word of their going.

Bettina did as he told her, though the tears came to her eyes when she
heard that she was not to say good-bye to Hans, or the baby, or her
godmother, Frau Schmelze, or Wilhelm.

Her grandfather Weyland she did not mind not seeing, but she would like
to kiss her grandmother.

"Nein, nein," said old Hans, "it is all a great secret."

"And when shall we come back, dear grandfather?" Bettina felt, indeed,
as if Napoleon was her enemy, for now she was to lose everybody but her
grandfather.

"When the Emperor is conquered," said old Hans, and his brow darkened,
"we shall come back to Thuringia."

Then he took off Bettina's dress, and between the lining and the
material of the waist he placed a letter.

"Tell no one," he said, "or I shall punish you."

Then, when Minna Schneiderwint had gone home in the afternoon, he fed
all the animals, locked the door, and wrapped the key in paper.

"Come, Bettina," he said, and off they started, the old man with his
gloomy face, the bundle on his back, a stick in his hand, Bettina in her
black clothes and carrying some sausage and bread for supper.

On the road they came upon four boys at play.

"Walter!" Hans called, "come here."

One left the game and listened.

"Take this package for me to Herr Leo," said Hans, "and can you remember
a message?" he looked at the boy sharply.

"Ja, Herr Lange, naturally," and Walter looked indignant. He was twelve
or thirteen.

"Tell him, and all who ask you, that I have gone on a journey. Bettina,
here, goes with me. We will come back when the Emperor is conquered.
And, see here, Walter----"

"Ja, ja, Herr Lange."

The old man gave him some money.

"Here is your pay. See that you earn it."

The boy nodded.

"And, Walter----"

"Ja wohl, Herr Lange."

"I shall not mind if you finish your game before you go to the Herr
Forester."

The boy laughed.

"Do you mean it?"

Hans nodded.

"Thank you, Herr Lange," and Walter, pocketing the coin, went back to
his game.

"Auf wiedersehen, Herr Lange, auf wiedersehen, Bettina, and pleasant
travel."

"Auf wiedersehen," said Hans.

"Auf wiedersehen," said Bettina.

Then, breaking away, the little girl ran back, her eyes full of tears.

"Walter, dear Walter," she cried, "please, will you not take my love to
my little brothers? And, Walter, please, will you not ask my dear
godmother Schmelze in Jena to take a wreath to my dear mother's grave at
Christmas? Please, Walter, please?"

"Ja wohl, dear Bettina, ja wohl," and the young boy patted her on the
shoulder.

"And greet Willy Schmidt, and Tante Lottchen Schmelze, and, auf
wiedersehen, dear Walter, and thank you."

Then she ran after old Hans, waiting impatiently. They started towards
Erfurt, but, as soon as they could, Hans changed their direction.

"Where are we going, dear grandfather?" asked Bettina, surprised.

The old man hesitated.

"Would you like, Liebchen, to see the Queen again?"

Bettina's eyes glowed.

"Then say nothing to anybody, and try and keep from being tired, and
perhaps we may help save the Queen from Napoleon."

"And the Herr Lieutenant, dear grandfather?"

But Hans shook his head, his face saddening.

"Nein, nein, dear child," he said, "we will not see our soldier," and he
muttered something against Napoleon.

Poor little Bettina!

It would be nice to see the lovely Queen, but she knew the Herr
Lieutenant, and he told her stories. Her lips began to quiver.

The old man, noticing it, held her hand closer in his.

"Nein, nein, do not cry, Liebchen," he said, "we may see the Herr
Lieutenant. Who can tell? Soldiers are everywhere."

Then he taught her a story to tell if any questioned them. She had lost
her parents and her grandfather was taking her to an aunt in Prussia.
Their home had been burned after Jena and they had nothing to live upon.
Of her little brothers, or her grandparents Weyland, she was to say
nothing.

It was well the old man had been in haste to tell her these things, for
even that evening they were stopped by French soldiers, who searched
Hans's pockets and even his clothes, and questioned both him and
Bettina.

"Nonsense," said one man when they discovered nothing, "this is not the
man we want. This one speaks true. Look at his eyes. And who burdens
himself with a child when out on such business?"

The others looked uncertain, one with keen black eyes and firm mouth
biting his nails while he considered.

"The man answers the description." The first man looked dubious.

"Use your sense," said a third man. "The child----"

All eyes turned on Bettina.

"You have lost your father and mother?" She felt the keen black eyes
reading her through and through.

At the sound of these names and at the thought that she would never
again see them, her lips quivered and her eyes filled.

The man stopped quickly.

"Let them pass," he said with a shrug. "Only a fool would choose such a
messenger," and he glanced with contempt at Hans, who certainly had
answered stupidly, quite like a peasant, saying he knew no French, and
begging them to speak in German.

"God be praised, child," he cried, when they were safe through the
lines, "you have saved me. The first danger is passed." And he bent down
and kissed her.

"Shall we save the Queen, grandfather?"

"Who knows?" answered Hans. Then he charged her that she must never
mention that it was to her they were going. He did not tell Bettina that
had the letter in her dress been found they would have shot him without
discussion, and so she gazed at him in wonder when, "God be praised! God
be praised!" he said over and over.

A wagon was waiting at an inn where presently they stopped. It was all
very queer and puzzled Bettina, for the driver said, "The Angel," and
her grandfather said, "God bless her," and without more words he lifted
her in and told her to lie down on the straw and go to sleep.

They drove the whole night and it was morning when her grandfather waked
her and gave her some black bread and sausage. Then they alighted and
trudged all day through the forest paths, keeping off the main roads,
and as they walked Bettina saw the deer in great herds coming to the
open places to feed on the hay which the foresters had tied about the
pine trees for their dinners, and once she saw great, gleaming, yellow
eyes in some bushes.

It was only a huge black cat, but Bettina was sure that it was
Waterlinde, the mother of all the witches in Germany, and who, on
Walpurgis night, leads the dance on the Brocken Mountain.

"Wait, grandfather, wait!" she cried. Then she ran back to the cat.

"Waterlinde! Waterlinde!" she called, "please ride on your broomstick
and get Napoleon!"

The cat raised its tail, which grew monstrous from its anger.

"Hiss!" it said, "Hiss!" Then fled into the bushes.

But Bettina was joyful.

"It will get the Emperor," she said. "It promised. Oh, grandfather, how
happy I am! Waterlinde will get Napoleon!"




CHAPTER VI

THE DOWNFALL



Bettina was tired, indeed, when one day before noon they drew near a
great city on the banks of the Elbe, its splendid cathedral rising
against the sky, the snow falling and melting on its strong walls and
fortifications.

When Hans saw the colour of the flags flying over this city, he cried
out in horror.

"Gott im Himmel!" he exclaimed, "but the French have taken Magdeburg!"

In all Prussia there was no stronger fortress. On it had rested the
whole hope of the country.

For a few moments Hans felt quite stunned. Then, taking Bettina's hand,
he turned into a path leading to a red-roofed farmhouse standing in the
fields some distance from the walls of Magdeburg.

All along the way they had heard of defeats and misfortunes. Like the
houses of cards children build, all the strongholds and forts of Prussia
had fallen at the mere breath of Napoleon.

But Magdeburg!

"Ach Gott," Hans cried, "but I cannot, nien, I cannot believe it."

As for Bettina, she was so tired that her feet moved without her any
longer feeling them.

"Poor child!" cried the farmer's wife, when Hans begged for admission.
"Come in! come in!" And she refused to answer a question of Hans until
she had fed Bettina on warm milk and tucked her to rest under a huge
feather bed. Then, giving Hans a chair, she went for her husband.

He was busy in his barn, hiding all the corn from the French in a hole
he had dug beneath its floor, and covered with fire wood. His wife's
steps startled him, and his keen, money-loving face appeared at the
door.

"It is I, Herman; Magda," she called, and then told him of Hans and
Bettina.

"He seems half crazy to me, Herman, the old man. I've put the child to
bed. She's half dead from walking. He says they've come from Jena, where
the mother and father were killed after the battle. It's an awful story.
He's taking the child to an aunt in East Prussia."

The farmer made no movement to go into the kitchen.

"He can pay for everything, Herman."

His face brightened.

"Ach ja," he said, "but that is different. A moment, dear Magda, and I
shall be with you."

Following her to the kitchen, he seated himself opposite Hans, pulling a
table between them.

"Beer, Magda!" he commanded, and she set bottle and glasses on the
table.

"Ja wohl, friend," he said, "Magdeburg is Napoleon's."

Then he filled the glasses, and, clinking with Hans, proposed the
downfall of the Emperor.

"Three times, a thousand times over," said Hans, and he begged for the
news.

"The King's hope was in Magdeburg. Ja wohl," said the farmer. His voice
was loud and he roared instead of talking. "And why not? What fortress
in Europe is stronger? There were twenty-four thousand soldiers here;
Kleist was in command, and both the King and Queen stopped here in their
flight to implore the garrison to be true to Prussia. And then," his
face darkened, and he paused for a sip of his beer, "the French Marshal
Ney appeared and shot a few projectiles and the Magdeburgers took to
tears and appeared before Kleist, begging him to surrender and spare
them the horrors of a siege."

"The cowards!" Hans struck the table with his fist.

The farmer sipped his beer, quite unexcited.

"Why fight when one must, in the end, be conquered?" He set down his
glass. "They gave up the keys without a breach in the wall, or a single
cannon being taken; twelve thousand troops under arms, six hundred
pieces of cannon, a pontoon complete, immense magazines of all sorts,
and only an equal force without the walls," roared on the farmer.

"Cowards!" And Hans thumped again.

"We are conquered, man," said the farmer, "and the good God knows this
war is expensive."

Then he told Hans that he had heard that the King of Prussia had written
a letter to Napoleon from Sondershausen, where he had fled after the
defeat at Auerstaedt.

"And the answer?" Hans' hand, holding his beer glass, trembled with
eagerness.

The farmer, shrugging his shoulders, thrust out his under lip in a queer
way he had.

"There has been none that I know of," he roared. Then he refilled their
glasses, his eyes gleaming as the beer foamed.

Hans thought that he cared much more for this same beer than for his
country's troubles, since he drank it with such pleasure while roaring
how Napoleon, with a splendid procession, had entered Berlin. He had
heard that the Berliners sat at their windows weeping. Napoleon had
ransacked all the palaces and was stealing and sending to Paris all the
art treasures of the Berliners. Only at Potsdam had he shown reverence.
The Prussians had fled so hastily that they had left the cordon of the
Black Eagle, the scarf and sword of Frederick the Great on the tomb in
the garrison church.

When Napoleon saw them his eyes fired.

"Gentlemen," and he turned to the officers who accompanied him, "this
is one of the greatest commanders of whom history has made mention."
Then he traced an "N" on the tomb in the dust.

"If he were alive now I would not stand here," he said.

And because of his respect for the great Frederick he saved Potsdam from
all annoyance from the war.

What else had happened the farmer did not know, only that the brave
Bluecher, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had been forced to
surrender Luebeck.

As for the King, the farmer had heard that he had gone to Custrin; but
he also had heard that Custrin was among the forts which had
surrendered. At all events, the beer being now at an end, he had no more
time to talk, but arose to return to his barn.

Hans asked him to let Bettina remain until in the afternoon, when he
would return for her. Then off he departed also.

The farmer's wife touched her head.

"Grief has crazed him," she said to herself. "It is cruel to drag that
child about this country."

Bettina ate a nice warm dinner with the farmer and his wife, and then
was put back to bed again.

"A queer little thing," said the wife to her husband. "Poor little
lamb!" The tears filled her eyes. "She thinks old Frederick Barbarossa
will come from his cave to save us!"

The farmer laughed and told his wife what to charge Hans, for he might
not see him again.

It was in the late afternoon when the old man returned.

"We must be off at once," he announced.

The farmer's wife protested.

"The little one," and she set her lips hard, "is too tired."

But Hans was positive.

"We must go, my good woman, and at once," he announced again, and most
positively.

Poor little Bettina did not want to go. The farmer's wife had been as
kind to her as her mother; but her grandfather took no notice.

"Come, Liebling," he said, "say good-bye and thank the good Frau, and
quickly, for we must be starting."

"Auf wiedersehen," said Bettina shyly. She hoped that some time she
might see this good Frau Magda again.

Then Hans paid the bill, and off they went and trudged on their way
until, late that evening, they came to an inn, where Hans announced they
would remain until morning.

Bettina went to bed, but Hans returned to the big room where the men
sat, and presently, just as Bettina was dreaming a fine dream about
Willy Schmidt and her brothers in Thuringia, he returned with great news
and awoke her.

The Emperor, he announced, had offered terms of peace to Prussia. All
the troops, not wounded or prisoners, must be drawn up in northeast
Prussia; the great cities of the kingdom, including Dantzic and Breslau,
must be surrendered; all the Russians marching to the aid of Prussia
must be sent back, and the King of Prussia must join with Napoleon in
war on his friend, Alexander of Russia, should Napoleon command it.

"I am beaten," answered the poor, good King; "my kingdom is taken from
me, but never will I save myself by fighting against a friend. Let the
war go on."

Hans' face glowed as he told Bettina this answer.

The little girl was happy to see her grandfather smiling again, but she
was too sleepy to understand what he was talking about, and so, when his
voice ceased, she went back to her dreams and the old man poured over
maps until midnight.

Next day they marched on, keeping out of the way of the army, eating at
the farmhouses and hiding often in the forests. Soldiers sometimes
stopped them. More than once they searched Hans, but when they
questioned Bettina and saw the tears which always came when she heard of
Jena they let them pass on.

Once Hans persuaded the driver of a carriage to take them a part of
their journey. The carriage belonged to a great person and the man had a
passport, and Hans and Bettina could pass as servants.

"For the sake of the child, ja," said the driver. But it may have been
for the sake of Hans' gold, which he readily gave him. It was queer that
a wild-looking old man, wandering about the country, had gold, but in
war times people do not ask too many questions.

It was when in this carriage that Bettina was sure she saw again the
Herr Lieutenant.

It was at a place where the driver showed his papers.

At the window of a house surrounded by soldiers a man was gazing
gloomily from the window.

Behind him were other faces, and one, Bettina declared, was that of her
dear Herr Lieutenant.

"And he knew me, dear grandfather; I know that he did, only he could not
dream that his Bettina was here in Prussia, could he?"

"Indeed, no," said her grandfather, and then went to sleep. It was not
often that he had such a soft bed as the carriage cushions, and he
meant to make the most of it. And so they came to Custrin.

"Now," said Hans, his face full of joy, "we shall see the King!"

But, alas!

Certainly, the King had been there; the Queen, also.

An old peasant woman outside the walls, whom Hans questioned, knew all
about it.

The King had come first and gone straight to a house in the Market.

"It is a sad event that brings me here," he had said. And then, later,
had come the Queen. "They were here some time," said the old woman. "Her
Majesty, wrapped in a travelling cloak, used to walk on the walls and
try to put some courage into the soldiers. Foolish work," she added;
"you might as well try to fill broken bottles; all she put in their
hearts went out at their heels, and Custrin surrendered without
fighting."

The King and Queen, she said, were at Graudenz, on the Vistula.

"We will follow," announced Hans.

Poor little Bettina! Would the journey never end?

Her grandfather set out at once. Travel now had become very dangerous.
The French were everywhere, and often they must answer questions. They
heard how Napoleon had stolen and sent to Paris the splendid statue of
"Victory," the pride of Berlin; how he had read all the Queen's letters
to the King, which he had found in the palace, and of awful things he
had written of Her Majesty.

"He seems to hate her, poor lady," said Hans; "but why, no one can say."

At Graudenz there were the French also. The King and the Queen and the
court had been there, certainly, but one day in had rushed citizens,
crying "The French! the French!" And pell-mell over the bridge had come
Prussians, pursued by French cavalry.

Bang! Up went the bridge, blown to atoms by the citizens. But the French
were not to be stopped; and on had fled the King, Queen, and the Court
of Prussia.

So Bettina and her grandfather trudged on to Marienwerder.

Never had they seen a place so muddy and dirty. The King and Queen had
stayed there ten days. The landlord showed them the room they had lived
in, and Bettina, listening, heard how they had eaten, dressed, and slept
in one room, and that not a fine one.

"And our poor King," a woman told Hans, "had to take long walks if the
Queen wished to dress, or the servants lay the table."

The Maids of Honour had been forced to sleep in a tiny, dirty closet,
and the five gentlemen of the flying court in one room, with beds for
two and straw on the floor for the others.

"And they changed about," said the landlady. "There was an Englishman,
Mr. Jackson, with them, who was pleasant about everything. But our
Queen! She is an angel!"

"On every hand someone had good to tell of her; how sweet she was, how
patient, how she cheered the whole party and only laughed when she went
up to her knees in mud, and declared that she was not thirsty when they
could get no wine and the water was not fit to be drunk by anybody."

On one of the windows of the inn the landlady showed Hans some words the
Queen had cut there with a diamond.

The old man repeated them to Bettina. The great poet, Goethe, had
composed them:

    "Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
    Who never spent the darksome hours
    Weeping and watching for the morrow,--
    He knows ye not, ye heavenly powers."[1]

[Footnote 1: By many authorities said to have been only written in the
Queen's Journal.]

Bettina looked puzzled.

"And what does it mean, dear grandfather?"

The old man took her on his knee.

He held one little hand in his, and with his other he smoothed her soft
hair.

"It means, dear child," said he very solemnly, "that we never can know
the dear God well until, when all the world is fast asleep, we weep
because of our own troubles. Then it is that it seems that we know best
the dear God who, in the night, seems to comfort us. Do you understand,
my Bettina?"

The little girl nodded.

"I prayed to the good God, dear grandfather, when mother was there," she
shuddered, "and I was with Hans and Baby in the forest. Do you think,
dear grandfather," her lips quivered, "that the poor Queen has such a
trouble? Did that wicked Napoleon kill her dear mother, too?"

Hans' face twitched, and he drew his arm closer about little Bettina.

"The Queen's mother, my child, died when her little girl was six, and
she lived all her child life with her grandmother."

He smoothed Bettina's hair with his hand, but his thoughts were with his
Annchen.

"Grandfather," Bettina patted his cheek with her hand, "grandfather,
tell me, please, what is the trouble of the Queen? Why is she so
unhappy?"

Then the old man explained how a Queen is the mother of all the people
in her country, and of how, when a foe comes and with sword and war
slays these people, it is her trouble and she must weep for her
children.

"Then Queen Louisa, my Bettina, weeps for her poor husband, the King,
who has lost his kingdom, and for her poor children, who are driven from
their home and the palace. And now," he added, "in cold and ice and snow
she has had to fly, as the landlady told you, with not enough to eat and
no fit place to rest in."

Bettina sighed.

"Ach ja, dear grandfather."

Her own feet were very tired and she was certain that she understood
that part of the Queen's trouble.

"Grandfather," she asked, "please, what is a foe?"

"Napoleon, child, Napoleon. He comes to do us harm, to work evil. He is
the foe of the good King and Queen, but especially does he hate our
Queen and seek to do her harm."

Bettina opened her blue eyes.

"Grandfather," she said, "how can he?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders and sat absently stroking her hair.

As for the little girl herself, she was thinking. How anyone could be a
foe of that lovely Queen it was hard to understand. But then, it was so
with all the fairy princesses. There was always an ogre, Bettina
remembered, but it was true, too, that the foes were always conquered by
a knight, or a prince, a dragon, or something.

She remembered the cave of Kyffhaeuser.

"Grandfather," she said, pulling at one of the buttons of his coat, "why
don't the ravens wake Barbarossa? I told one at our Forest House. I
think, dear grandfather, it is time for him to wake up, don't you?" and
she gazed quite anxiously into his face. As for Hans, he laughed for the
first time in days.

"It would surprise the Emperor a little, my Bettina," he said, and then
told her that their journey was ended. "The King, dear child, is at
Koenigsberg, and there we will rest for a long time."

"God be praised," said little Bettina, in the way the Germans do. "I
shall truly be glad, dear grandfather, to sit down and do a little quiet
knitting."




CHAPTER VII

ON THE ROAD TO MEMEL



On a certain day in the January following Jena the snow was falling
fast.

It clung to the tree limbs and turned the feathery firs to fairy trees.
On the low bushes and oaks the ice glittered and gleamed, and a piercing
blast, sweeping through the branches, crackled the crusted limbs and
filled the air with a mysterious sound of coldness. Now and then a
high-runnered sleigh dashed along the highway, its driver muffled to the
eyes in fur, the breath frozen on his beard or moustaches. From the
Baltic Sea the breath of the frozen North swept over the East Prussian
land and, obedient to its command, life seemed to still its slightest
sound and the whole world freeze into silence.

Suddenly the voice of a child broke the quiet.

"Grandfather,"--oh, how tired it sounded,--"truly, dear grandfather, I
can go no farther."

It was little Bettina, wrapped in a woollen shawl and trudging by the
side of old Hans, whose face was almost hidden in a huge cape of fur.

They were still on their journey, though Koenigsberg had been passed two
days before.

"Ja, ja, Liebchen," the old man paused in the road; "it is cold, indeed.
But have courage, little one; we shall soon reach a village, and then
sausages and bread."

"God be thanked," said little Bettina, and on she trudged, her poor
feet so cold she could not feel them moving.

On they went for a time in silence. Then the old man, with a short
laugh, said:

"God be praised we have left the French behind us."

Before Bettina could answer, or Hans himself say more, the Baltic sent a
breath sharp with icy edge. It cut the falling snow, it dashed the
flakes in their faces, it beat against their bodies; and, gathering
strength, it drove them apart, tossing and twisting Bettina.

There was no speaking.

The wind howled in icy salutation; the snow struck their eyes, drove
itself into their mouths, lodged in the necks of their garments,
whitened their hair and froze on their gloves and chilled them to almost
fainting.

Then suddenly the wind gave a shriek like a terrified spirit. The snow
began to whirl, and upward went leaves, sticks, and even lumps of the
earth itself.

Hans caught Bettina in his arms. He drew her to the edge of the road.

"Down! down!" he cried, and pulled her into a gully. Harmless, the
whirlwind passed above their heads, the ridge of earth protecting their
bodies.

"Lie close, lie close, my Bettina," cried Hans, and he drew her within
the folds of his great cape with fur lining.

Winds from the north, east, west, and south fought for mastery, the four
beating and screaming and whirling the innocent snow in their fury,
until, rising, the white confusion became like a veil concealing
everything.

But wheels were approaching. They reached the road above the travellers,
and then, their horses losing power any longer to struggle, suddenly
stopped short in the road. Even their stamping sounded faint and
exhausted, so great was the fury of the awful war of winds which nature
had excited on that narrow neck of land in East Prussia.

Then suddenly came a lull. The winds retreated from their battle ground.

Both Hans and Bettina raised their heads in wonder. In the sudden quiet
they heard a voice, a voice whose sweetness sounded a note quite
familiar and a voice whose owner seemed ill and suffering.

"I am in a great strait," it said; "let us fall now into the hand of the
Lord, for His mercies are great; and let me not fall into the hand of
man."

Even while the voice was speaking the whirling snow fell like a curtain
of white wool to the ground, and Hans and Bettina, rising, saw in the
snow of the road a travelling carriage, on whose cushions, covered with
a feather bed, lay a lady, white and pale, whose golden head, for want
of a pillow, rested on the arm of an attendant. With her were ladies and
a physician.

Hans' face flushed.

"Curtsey," he whispered to Bettina. "Curtsey, child, it is the Queen!"

Bettina forgot her own cold. She was no longer tired, no longer hungry,
in her pity for the poor, ill lady, who, when she saw a child, smiled
her a greeting, quite feebly, but as sweet as the one at Jena.

It was Queen Louisa of Prussia, flying still before her foe, Napoleon.

He had entered her palace; he had ransacked her private desks; he had
read all her letters to her husband; he had published dreadful things
against her in the French paper in Berlin; he had proclaimed her the
cause of the war; declared her to be vain, foolish, and unworthy of the
love of her people; and loudly had he declared that never would he rest
until he had brought the King and Queen of Prussia so low that they must
beg for their bread.

He had driven them from place to place, and now was advancing on
Koenigsberg.

When Hans and Bettina had arrived in that old city the King had gone,
the court was flying, and so, never heeding the snow, on they had gone,
too, fleeing like the rest, before that dreadful Emperor.

And here was the poor Queen, who had been ill to death in Koenigsberg,
journeying in the cold and snow to Memel, with not even a pillow to rest
her head upon!

When the carriage started again Hans and Bettina walked behind it.

"It will shelter us," said the old man, for the wind blew little Bettina
almost off her feet.

Ach, as the Germans say, but it was cold!

The blasts, sweeping from the Baltic to the Kurischehaff and from the
Kurischehaff to the Baltic, still fought for mastery, and the curtain of
the northern night began to fall about them early in the afternoon, and
on they struggled in the gathering darkness.

At last, through the snowy gloom, they saw the lights of a village, and,
nearly frozen, they sought lodgings.

Hans asked a woman whom he saw at a door to shelter them.

She stoutly refused him.

She was tall, dark, with sallow complexion and gleaming dark eyes, whose
lids she had a trick of narrowing. Hans pointed to Bettina shivering and
wet to her skin.

"You cannot refuse us a room," he said.

The woman shrugged her shoulders and hesitated.

Truly, Bettina would have moved any heart.

"Because of the child, poor darling," at last said the woman, "though my
man, if he comes, may not like it." She shrugged expressively.

She rubbed Bettina's hands and feet with snow and made her dip them in
water, and, undressing her, she wrapped her in a warm bed-gown of her
own and covered her with a feather bed.

"Drink this," and she held warm milk to her blue little lips, and when
the child was sinking into a doze, she started towards her kitchen. At
the door she paused.

"I must dry the child's clothes," she said, and coming back gathered up
the damp, draggled garments, Bettina never noticing.

As she was cleaning them in her kitchen she started violently. Bearing
the dress on her arm she went to her room.

"I thought so!" she said, and her eyelids narrowed.

As for Hans, when he had dried himself somewhat and partaken of bread,
cheese, and beer, he was off to the shoemaker's house, where they had
taken the Queen. In its kitchen, with its great stove and its pots of
blooming geraniums, he found some court servants, who, now they were
resting, were glad enough of a gossip.

Especially was the driver of the carriage fond of talk.

"Ja," he said, "our good Queen has been ill to death of a nervous
fever."

Then he told of how she had been with the King; her children, with the
Countess Voss; and first little Princess Alexandrina, and then Prince
Carl had been ill, and the Queen could not reach them.

At Koenigsberg little Carl had been near to death, and the Queen from
nursing him took the fever.

"Ach Himmel," said the driver, gazing from face to face in the hot,
steaming kitchen, "it was terrible, for we thought we should lose her!
Herr Doctor Hufeland arrived from Dantzic. His Excellency found her near
death. Ach, friends, but it was a dreadful night, and all hearts were
anxious, for at sea was a ship, and on board Baron Stein, bearing to
Koenigsberg the state treasure. He had saved the gold and jewels in
Berlin from that thief Napoleon."

Then he told how in the night, while the wind howled and blew, there had
come a crash which had startled old Koenigsberg.

It was a wing of the old castle which had fallen in the storm.

"And it brought bad luck," continued the driver, "for a courier arrived
soon after with despatches. 'Fly!' they said, 'fly! the French approach
Koenigsberg!'"

And then had come the flight, and he told how, the night before, the
Queen had slept in a room whose windows were so broken the snow had
drifted in all night over her bed and nearly frozen her.

There was much to talk about, and all were eager to listen. The warmth
from the stove was comfortable, and the shoemaker brought out some beer.
The driver, who certainly was fond of talking, told of the sufferings of
the Royal children; how the old Countess had not been able always to get
them bread, nor find clothes to keep them clean and in order.

"And they have grown most noisy," he said. "The Queen is an angel. Never
does she complain, but is always sweet and amiable, and the old Countess
is very noble. But our King is gloomy and wrapped in thought and no one
reproves the children."

The shoemaker asked questions about them.

"Prince William is the best," said the man; "he looks like his father,
but in disposition he is like our Queen. The old Countess calls him 'A
dear good child,' and that he is always."

Before he could continue a messenger arrived from Memel with bouillon
from the King for the Queen.

This arrival brought much excitement, and when again they were quiet
they all fell to talking of the French and how the Emperor coveted the
great fine city of Dantzic and of how its people vowed that he never
should enter its gates while they could prevent him.

"Where is he now?" asked Hans, hatred burning in his eyes and his cheeks
flushing.

"They say in Koenigsberg that he is at Helbsberg. Our army is in that
neighbourhood, also. They report that both are approaching Eylau.
Perhaps they may fight there."

The shoemaker's wife came into the roomful of men, interrupting a second
time.

At first she coughed loudly, for they were puffing smoke everywhere.
Then, with a beaming face, she told them how the Queen had just said she
was more comfortable than she had been anywhere on her flight.

"Our Queen is an angel!" Hans raised high his glass. "Hoch!" he cried,
as the Germans say when they drink to anything or anybody.

"Hoch!" answered the others, but low, that they might not disturb the
Queen.

"Long may she live," said the voices.

Then "Three times hoch!" and they clinked their glasses softly and
drained them.

Then, it being late, Hans returned to Bettina.

She was fast asleep, one little hand, thin and pale, lying outside the
feather bed. On a chair by the bedside were her clothes, clean and dry,
and everything quite in order.

Hans, in terror, felt for the letter.

It was safe between the lining and the waist material, and, tired
himself, he was soon fast asleep.

Next day they all started forth, Hans and Bettina walking behind the
carriage, and presently they came to the ferry at Memel.

In those days Memel was a flourishing little city of about six thousand
people, noted for its cleanliness and its English ways of living. It
lies on water, and into its harbour came Dutch ships and English ones,
giving it a look of activity.

As the Queen entered Memel a strange thing happened.

As if Nature, whom she loved with all her heart, wished to welcome her,
the clouds suddenly parted like a curtain and there was the sun, which
no one had seen for days, smiling forth gloriously.

"God be praised!" cried Hans. "It is a good omen."

As he and Bettina started into the city they came upon a lady and some
children. She was stout and comfortable looking and wrapped in fine
furs. The oldest of her children was a girl about fifteen, and the
prettiest girl Bettina had ever seen.

When this lady saw Hans she gave a shriek.

"My goodness!" she cried. "Why, Hans, how came you here?"

As for Hans, he was all excitement.

"Mademoiselle Clara!" he cried. "Ach Gott! that I see you again!"

When the lady, with many exclamations, heard of Hans' journey, she
raised her hands in horror.

"Heavens!" she cried, "but you must come home at once with me. I am
married now, Hans, and these are my children."

Then she turned to the pretty girl.

"Daughter," she said, "this is Hans, Johannes Lange. He was with your
grandfather when he was Colonel. Come, Hans; come, child," she smiled
kindly at Bettina. "My husband is home and will welcome you kindly.
Come, come!"

And off she led them into Memel.




CHAPTER VIII

AMONG FRIENDS


The stout lady, asking Hans question after question, led the way to a
large, roomy house surrounded by a garden, now bare and wintry, the
limbs of fruit trees, birches, and shrubs crackling with ice.

"This is, naturally, not our own house, Johannes," explained the lady,
who had just finished telling him how she and her family had fled from
Berlin upon the approach of Napoleon. "This is my husband's brother's
home," she continued, leading the way to the door. "In the spring we
shall move to Koenigsberg, where my husband will become professor in the
University. Come in, Hans, come in. Ja, ja, you are right. It is a
comfortable house, but the cold here in Memel is awful. Carl," she
turned quickly to the small boy who was teasing his sister, "behave
yourself, or I'll send you to Napoleon!"

It was funny to see him straighten up and become quickly as good as his
sisters.

"Come in, come in," she closed the door quickly. "Husband! Richard!" she
called very loudly.

A door at the end of the hall opened in response, and out came a grave,
learned-looking man, who smiled kindly from face to face.

"Richard! Richard!" the lady's voice screamed with excitement, "who do
you think is here?"

She drew forward Hans and Bettina.

"An old soldier of my dear father's regiment," her voice vibrated with
pride, "and one, dear Richard, who was with the great Frederick, and,
oh, such a favourite with father, was it not so, Hans?"

The old soldier shrugged his shoulders as much as to say, "It is not for
me to agree."

"Ja, ja, Richard, he was, and a favourite of our dear lost little Erna.
It was such a surprise to see him," and she motioned the group to the
warmth of the sitting room. Then, all crowding around the tall, green
stove, Hans told his story.

"Heavens, dear Richard!" the stout lady pulled out an embroidered pocket
handkerchief, "but seeing him brings back the past."

Then she turned to the pretty young girl.

"Mariechen, take the twins upstairs and see that they are quite dry as
to stockings; go, also, dear child," she smiled at Bettina, who, feeling
shy and strange, followed across the hall and upstairs to the room into
which the young lady entered.

"The child is tired," she heard the lady saying, "and Hans must see our
King. He has brought messages. They must stay here. Ja, ja, Hans. The
house is big, and our brother Joachim gives me my will."

Then the door closed and Bettina heard no more.

In the great room where she found herself sat a dark-haired young lady
embroidering.

"Pauline, Pauline!" called the children, "Hans has come, and here is
Bettina."

Then, before the pretty young girl could explain, in came the stout lady
and told the one called Pauline how once this Hans had saved her little
sister's life, and how the family never could forget it, and that
Bettina must be dressed drily in one of the children's bed-gowns and
given warm milk and at once sent to bed and left there.

"I'll tell you the story presently. The child must not hear it again. It
is dreadful."

When Bettina was safely in bed, up came Hans and the gentleman.

"My oldest son, Franz, was at Jena," she heard the latter saying--and
then to her surprise her grandfather called him "Herr Professor."

Bettina, her eyes sparkling, sat up in bed.

"Grandfather, dear grandfather!" she called, and when he came close, she
drew down his head and whispered most eagerly.

"Nein, nein, child," they all heard him reply, and then Bettina insist:

"But, yes, dear grandfather. Please, please ask him, I know it, dear
grandfather, I know it."

"What is it, Hans?" and the Herr Professor came close to Bettina,
smiling in his kind, fatherly way.

"She will have it, sir," answered the old soldier, "that your name must
be 'Von Stork,' and that you are the father of the young Prussian
soldier whom we nursed in the Forest House!"

"I know it, dear grandfather, I know it," burst out Bettina in high
excitement. "The Herr Lieutenant told me of Carl and Ilse and Elsa and
Mademoiselle Pauline and his big sister, Marianne, and of how our Queen
kissed Carl--and----"

Bettina could say no more.

Screaming and crying out, they all crowded round exclaiming that it was
their Franz, their own dear Franz and no other.

And then they would know everything and all he did and said and just
where he was wounded and how they took him prisoner, and Madame von
Stork fell to weeping, and all the others cried, "Ja, ja," and "Nein,
nein," so loud and so much that poor, tired little Bettina was almost
deafened.

And then Hans must go all over the whole story for them again, and it
set Bettina to weeping, and the old man to vowing vengeance against
Napoleon.

Madame von Stork first rejoiced because her boy was alive, and then wept
because he was a prisoner, and she thanked Hans over and over, and told
him that she would care for Bettina so long as they remained in Memel.

And then they all went from the room and Bettina fell sound asleep, and
did not move until the next morning.

But, no, she moved once, for her grandfather, coming into the room,
waked her and asked her if she had taken the letter from her dress
lining.

"Nein, grandfather," she had answered and then had gone off to sleep.

When next morning she opened her blue eyes, her grandfather was packing
his bundle.

Her little heart sank and her eyes filled. Was she to go forth in the
ice and the wet and the snow and that awful wind again?

"Nein, nein, little one," said the old man, patting her cheek very
kindly. "You shall stay here with my good Mademoiselle Clara," for so he
called Madame von Stork, as he had known her when she was as small as
Bettina, and he explained that he was going alone, but would return in a
day or two to Memel.

Then, sitting on her bed, he asked her question after question.

Had she told anyone of the letter, had a person touched her dress?

"Nein, grandfather, nein," she said.

At first she was quite certain.

But, presently, she remembered the woman they had lodged with, and how
she must have cleaned her dress and dried it.

The old man clapped his knee with his hand.

"Ach Himmel, child!" he cried. "It is she who has stolen it."

Then he shouldered his bundle, declaring he must fetch it.

"Auf wiedersehen, my Bettina," he said, and departed from Memel.

It was only a day's journey to the village, but a week passed and no
Hans. Then another.

Madame von Stork shook her head.

"His trouble has crazed him," she said. "We will keep the child, yes?"
and she looked at her husband.

The Professor nodded.

"Our Franz loved her," he answered. "She is not noble, it is true, but
she is sweet and good, and our children love her. The Stork's nest, dear
wife," and he smiled at her lovingly, "is always big enough for one
more, it is not, my dear Clara?"

Madame von Stork nodded.

Pauline was not their child, but a French refugee whose parents were
nobles who had perished in the Revolution. The Stork's nest had received
her; so why not another?

"Let her remain," concluded the Professor, "until the old man returns,
or we can make some provision for her."

So Bettina became one of the "Nest", as the von Storks always called
their home, and with so much love and kindness about her, the little
girl soon forgot much that she had suffered.

"But I should like to see Willy Schmidt and my little brothers," once
she said to Marianne, who was her favourite.

The little round-faced, tow-headed twins flew to her sides, each taking
a hand and pressing it against her chubby cheek.

"When Barbarossa, that you told us of, Bettina, comes out of the cave,
our father will take us all to Thuringia," promised Ilse.

"What nonsense, you geese," and Carl laughed scornfully. "There isn't a
Barbarossa. Otto says so, and he's fifteen and knows everything.
Anyway," he looked very proud of his knowledge, "nobody can conqueror
the Emperor!"

But when he heard that Bettina had really seen the awful Napoleon, he
listened with wideopen blue eyes and was not so important.

Perhaps, after all, Bettina did know something.

"And you saw him," he asked, "saw Napoleon?"

"Ja wohl," answered Bettina, glad to have the young hero listen
respectfully.

"And he didn't run away with you?" Carl looked eager.

Bettina shook her golden head.

"Nein, nein, or I should not be here." The twins roared. As for Carl, he
laughed very rudely and snapped his fingers at Marianne.

"You just hear, Mariechen," he said, "Bettina's seen Napoleon and he
didn't do a thing to her."

At that was the whole Stork's Nest most sorrowful, for now they knew
that Carl would never behave, since Napoleon was the only thing he was
afraid of.

While they were talking, Elsa and Ilse cried out to come quickly and see
who was passing, and they all crowded to the windows, breathing on the
frost that they might see out more clearly.

What they saw was a tall, handsome gentleman with a kind, but very sad
face, a lovely lady leaning on his arm, and two little boys, one tall
and handsome, the other, delicate-faced with soft curly hair, clinging
to the hand of the lady.

It was the King and Queen of Prussia, with the Crown Prince and little
Prince William.

"God be praised," said Madame von Stork. "Our dear, dear Queen has
recovered." She stood behind the group and watched, having entered the
room while they were talking.

As for little Bettina, a great happiness filled her.

Her lovely Queen lived here in Memel and she walked out like other
people.

"Perhaps," she said to Ilse, "one day we shall meet her."

But Ilse did not answer.

"Look, Bettina," she cried, "our King is talking to father."

Sure enough there was the Professor standing with their Majesties, first
looking cheerful, then becoming grave and attentive.

As soon as he entered the house he called to his wife. They talked for a
long time in private, and after that day everybody in the house was
very, very kind to Bettina. Sometimes Madame von Stork's eyes would fill
when they gazed at her, and once, when the little girl told her that she
was making a nice pair of stockings for her grandfather, the lady began
to weep.

Bettina thought her tears were for the Herr Lieutenant, and sat very
quiet. Only she could not help wondering why no one ever said a word
about her grandfather.




CHAPTER IX

THE STORK'S NEST


As Madame von Stork had told Hans, her family had taken refuge in Memel
when the news came that Napoleon, having conquered the King at Jena,
would advance upon Berlin.

Old Major Joachim von Stork had welcomed his brother's family into his
great empty house in Memel, and in the safety of a new nest the Mother
Stork had gathered beneath her wings all her startled, frightened brood,
but two sons who had gone against Napoleon.

Bettina nearly laughed aloud when she saw the old Major. He was stout,
and red-faced, and wore a stock as high as three inches. On each side of
his head were four curls, frizzled and powdered, as they once wore hair
in the army, and his pig-tail boasted a huge cockade.

Bettina heard him talking one day with his housekeeper about his stocks:

"They must be exactly three inches high," he ordered, "exactly, my dear
Frau, and as to my cockade, are you quite certain that it is large
enough?"

And he looked very anxiously at his housekeeper, who held up her hands.

"Gracious, Herr Major," she said, "it is immense."

But the Major, puffing a little, looked offended.

"Immense, my dear woman, what on earth are you talking of? Why Captain
von Schallenfels of my regiment had always seventy or eighty ells of
ribbons on his queue. Fact, I assure you," added the indignant old
gentleman. "It trailed so on the ground that he was forced to tuck it
into his coat pocket when on parade. True, my dear woman, true, I assure
you."

The old Major, however, was kindness itself, though he went his way just
the same as if his house was still empty. And this way was to have his
meals to himself and, at four o'clock each day, to depart to the house
of one Monsieur von Schrotter, and, with six other Memel gentlemen,
drink beer, smoke, and discuss the army, Prussia, or Napoleon, until
bedtime.

His wife, Bettina learned, had died many years before and he had but one
son.

"Our cousin, Rudolph," Carl told her. "He is with my brother Wolf in the
army."

In the evening all the family gathered in the sitting-room and there
Bettina saw everybody.

First, there was the Professor, tall, kind-looking and very fond of his
wife and children. He still wore his hair in a pig-tail and not brushed
forward like the King, and he liked silver buckles on his shoes, and a
stock, but not high like that of his brother.

"And our father knows, oh, everything," the twins told Bettina, "so much
that our Queen used to send for him in Berlin to talk to her. He has
read, oh, all the books in the world."

Madame von Stork was as kind-looking as her husband, but she was stout,
and her skin was pink and white like a girl's, and she wore her hair
very high, and on top of its rolls one of the huge turbans then the
fashion. Sometimes she seemed quite like a large hen, clucking about her
children, her feathers ruffling if a thing went wrong with any one of
them.

Especially was she troubled about her pretty daughter Marianne.

"And no wonder," Bettina heard her telling the Major's housekeeper, Frau
Winkel. "She is a girl, and yet is the one most like her dear father.
She must always be at her books, and I cannot make her care for her
embroidery, her tent stitch, nor the cooking. And what good is a German
girl who cares for none of these things? Who will marry her, my dear
Frau Winkel? She is fourteen, and most girls are married at fifteen or
sixteen. Pauline, now, is entirely different. When there are clothes to
be mended, her fingers assist me. When the children are noisy, she can
quiet even Carl. It is she who makes the puddings, and if she has a
spare moment she is busy over her embroidery; a true house-wife by
nature, and French, too," added Madame von Stork, as if the two things
were impossible. Perhaps it was Pauline's troubles which had subdued
her. Before the flight from Berlin, Marianne had known nothing but joy
and petting, but Pauline had a history as sad as Bettina.

One day, many years before the days of Memel, an old Frenchman had
appeared at the "Stork's Nest" in Berlin.

Though his hair was white, his shoulders bowed with trouble, and his
clothes worn and poor, the Professor recognised him as a once very
elegant-looking servant of a French nobleman whom he had known well in
Paris. He led by the hand a little girl of eight or nine.

"My master and mistress lost their heads in the Revolution," the man
explained, "but I escaped to Berlin with Mademoiselle Pauline."

Then he told of his dangers and all they had endured.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am old, poor, and alone. What shall I do with a
fine young lady?"

Madame von Stork's quick eye had been studying the child. The sadness of
the pale little face, the neatness of the black dress, the daintiness of
the Marie Antoinette kerchief warmed her heart to the homeless little
girl.

She looked at her husband, a question in her kind grey eyes.

He nodded, and so Pauline came to the shelter of the "Nest," which so
kindly welcomed Bettina also.

And now Pauline was like Madame von Stork's own child, and, since she
was noble and hated the French Republic, and loved her poor King, she,
too, had no good for Napoleon and, like the Prussians, hoped to see him
conquered.

"And what I should do without Pauline, Heaven only knows," Madame von
Stork was often saying, "my own Marianne being so useless."

Marianne might be useless, but Bettina thought her almost as pretty as
the Queen, in her short-waisted dress, her puffed sleeves, her long
mitts and her lovely curling hair tied in place with a snood of blue
ribbon.

When they all came to the sitting-room in the evening Bettina would
arrange her stool quite near the "gracious Fraeulein Mariechen," and,
while she knitted away, she used to gaze up shyly at her pretty
neighbour and make up stories about the Prince who would one day come
and marry her.

"Pauline's worth ten of her," Otto was always saying. He was nearly
sixteen and was always wanting someone to do things for him, and,
"Marianne," he said, "is so stupid. Pauline can mend a fellow's things
in a minute."

But Elsa and Ilse, the twins, who were so alike only their mother seemed
always to know which was which, and Carl preferred Marianne.

"She can tell you stories," they told Bettina.

As for Marianne herself, sometimes she was quite unhappy. She wanted to
be useful, but she did so love to read, and then she forgot. And house
work and cooking were not amusing.

Madame von Stork had little good for idleness.

"It is German," she always said, "to work. Even our good Queen is never
idle. I have seen a handkerchief she herself embroidered, Marianne, with
beautiful flower designs and a crown in gold placed in one corner."

Settling herself with a huge bundle of mending, she with her keen eyes
would inspect the family group each evening.

"Come, now, Marianne, no reading," she would say. "You do not know what
to do? Nonsense. There is your tent stitch. Pauline? Yes, yes, you of
course are busy. Ilse, Elsa? Bettina? Knitting, that's good. Carl? You
are a boy? What foolishness. Get your pencils and drawing book. You
don't like that? Very well then. Let Otto bring you the silhouettes that
Mademoiselle von Appen began in Berlin, and you can cut others. But,
Otto, first fix the lamp. There, where the light can fall on your
father's book. There, that is good."

Her eyes travelled from needle to scissors, from pencil to work.

"There, there," she said, her face beaming, "we are a busy German
family. Begin now, dear husband, we are all quite ready to hear your
book."

The father of the family often read aloud to them in the evenings. But
the books he read were not such as children would even look at to-day.

Bettina and Marianne, the twins, Carl and the others all listened, on
those long, cold Memel evenings, to grown-up histories, to romances, or
sometimes to plays or poems, very long and very serious.

Now and then the Professor would talk, not read, and then Bettina loved
it. He told of the new Republic across the sea, America, which had
fought a great war and was now free and independent, and there were
stories of the great men called Washington and Franklin, and of all the
excitement when they had signed a treaty of peace in Paris.

"I was young then," said the Professor, "and in Helsingoer, and there was
much talk of a new life beginning for the world with the Declaration of
Independence,--you must read it, Otto,--and the ships and the harbour
were gaily decorated and cannon were fired and we all drank to the
health of this new Republic at a fine party given to celebrate the birth
of Liberty. And they raised the American flag and lit bonfires, and
heavens, children, but there was hurrahing!"

And he told of a great Englishman, named Nelson, who had conquered
Napoleon at Trafalgar, and of the Revolution in France, and all that in
his day had happened. But often he read, and sometimes Bettina's little
head fell to nodding. One night she was almost asleep when the
Professor's voice stopped suddenly.

"Richard," interrupted his wife, and her tone was furious, "see our
Marianne."

Bettina dropped her knitting and stared. So did the twins, and Carl
stopped cutting. What had Marianne done? Her cheeks were quite crimson
and one hand held something under the table cover.

"My Heavens, Richard, think of it! Let me see it, Marianne. Obey me."

Never had Madame von Stork spoken so severely. The twins nearly fell
from their chairs. Carl opened his mouth, and his eyes stared at
Marianne. Pauline never looked up once from her embroidery. Bettina's
knitting needles shook in her hands.

"She's been reading under the table cover," announced Otto with the
superior air boys wore in those days with their sisters. "It's the
'Sorrow of Werther.' I see the cover."

Such a thing had never happened in the "Stork's Nest."

The father's face grew stern, and anger made even his neck red to the
roots of his queue.

"Marianne," he began, when the maid opening the door announced:

"His Excellency, Herr Doctor Hufeland, and the gracious Herr Brandt."

A great cry of "Ludwig!" "Cousin Ludwig!" welcomed the entrance of a
tall, handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, with a serious face and
English features. He was dressed in one of the long-tailed coats then
the fashion, coming down to the top of his high, spurred boots. His hair
was brushed forward, and within the high collars of his coat appeared a
soft lawn stock. The other gentleman Bettina at once recognised as the
physician who had been with the Queen on the road from Memel.

"We call him 'Cousin Ludwig,'" whispered Elsa. "He was betrothed to our
Aunt Erna who died."

"He won't speak French," whispered Isle; "he says Germans should not
imitate the French people as upper-class people do, but should speak
their own language."

Bettina was glad of this, for often she had to sit for hours without
understanding a word, unless the twins explained things.

There was much to talk about.

Madame von Stork bustled from the room to give orders for refreshments,
and while she was gone, Herr Brandt, who had settled himself near
Pauline, explained that he had come over from Koenigsberg.

"I was with Baron von Stein," he added. "We escaped from Berlin with the
royal treasure and arrived in Koenigsberg at Christmas time. Since then I
have been at Dantzic."

Bettina opened her little ears. Dantzic was a great, free city of
Germany, around which was the army of Napoleon. Its people were holding
out bravely and it was hoped that Napoleon would withdraw.

"But the city is bound to fall," said Ludwig. "All who can are
escaping."

That dreadful Emperor! Bettina seemed to see him on his white horse
before the gate of the brave old city.

When Madame von Stork returned, the maid followed her with cake and
wine.

"God be thanked, gentlemen," she said, "our brother Joachim has a full
cellar and as yet we have something to offer our visitors."

Pauline and Marianne served the guests, one, dark and handsome in a red
dress trimmed with bands of fur, her arms and neck like ivory, her dark
hair arranged in curls tied back with ribbon, the other, golden-haired
and pink-cheeked, in a gown of blue, her curls tied back also with
ribbon, the ends of her narrow sash floating about as she moved in her
quick, merry way. As they ate and drank, Dr. Hufeland told his old
friends all the sad things which had happened to the Queen because of
Napoleon. He described her flight from Jena, relating how she rode
through the lovely Harz Mountains to Brunswick and from there went to
Magdeberg.

"And all the time, dear Madame," the doctor turned to Madame von Stork,
"our poor lady had no idea of how the battle had gone, nor did she hear
a word of the fate of the King. The Countess von Voss tells me that for
courage she has never seen her equal. The Queen held fast her hand and
all through that dreadful flight, with the fear of Napoleon behind her,
she repeated over and over texts which had words to sustain her."

"What were they, dear Doctor?"

"From the eighth chapter of Romans, dear Madame," said the Doctor,
consulting a little note book.

"Marianne," commanded her father, "fetch the Bible. Let us hear what
words gave comfort to our Queen."

Marianne tripped across the room and returned in a moment with a Bible
which she laid before her father.

All listening, he found the place and read aloud:

"The Spirit helpeth our infirmities, for we know not what we should pray
for.

"We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or
distress, or persecution, or famine, or peril, or sword?

"Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate
us from the love of God, which is in Jesus Christ our Lord."

"Our good Angel," murmured Madame von Stork, wiping her eyes.

"Ach, ja," said the Doctor, "she had much to endure, poor lady."

Then he related how, tired to death herself, she had tried to encourage
the soldiers at Magdeburg, and of how in dread and trembling she had
driven across the flat country towards Berlin, and at last had entered
the old city of Brandenburg.

"It was by the old stone, Roland," continued the Doctor, "that a courier
stopped her with the news. 'Majesty,' he said, 'all is lost!
Everything!' Then the Queen, seizing the papers from his hands, read the
awful news, her figure trembling like a leaf! 'The battle was lost at
Jena. The King has been defeated at Auerstaedt. Napoleon is making on
Berlin. Your Majesty must fly with the Royal children.'"

Bettina's tears fell as the Doctor's voice faltered. The Mother of the
Nest wiped her eyes on her embroidered handkerchief and the gentlemen
and Otto blew their noses. Marianne sobbed.

"And our Queen," went on the Doctor, "turned like a child to the old
Countess. She has been to her like a mother, you know. 'Voss, dear
Voss,' she said, 'my poor, poor husband.' Then she forced back her
tears. 'Dear Voss,' and she clung to her hand. 'I must go at once to my
children.'"

Then the Doctor told of how her carriage had dashed into Berlin to find
the city a scene of wild confusion. The people, deceived by early news
of a victory, were now driven into panic by the disaster at Jena. When
the Queen entered they were pouring through the city gates in flight.

"Napoleon is coming! Napoleon! Napoleon!" was the cry which everywhere
met her ear.

"It was terrible," put in the Professor. "I had to pay a fortune for the
travelling carriages which brought us to Memel."

"But the Queen," the Doctor continued, "found only disappointment at the
palace. Springing to the ground, she cried: 'My children!' to the
attendant."

"But they were gone," interrupted Otto, "they left before we did. Their
tutor took them to Swert-on-Oder."

The Doctor nodded, while the Professor frowned at Otto for his rudeness.

"Her Majesty," resumed the Doctor, "sent at once for me. When I saw her
I started in amazement. Her dress was travel-stained and crumpled, her
hair in wild disorder, her face wet with tears. Never had I before seen
her any way than very neat and smiling. She held out her hands. Oh, dear
Madame, it brought tears to my eyes. 'I must fly to my children,' she
cried, 'and you must go with me.' Then, just as fast as we could, we
proceeded to Swert, leaving things just as they were in the palace."

"A great pity, too," put in Herr Brandt, whose ways were most orderly.
"For Napoleon, as we all know, found the Queen's letters to her husband,
read what he pleased, and published all that might injure her."

"The monster!" cried Madame von Stork, motioning Marianne to fill the
Doctor's glass and pass the cake to Herr Brandt.

"Thank you, many thanks," and the visitor smiled at Marianne and went on
with his talk.

"The meeting, dear friends, between our dear Queen and her children was
most heartrending. The poor little things had been torn from their play
in the palace, hurried into the travelling carriage and borne away with
very little idea of what had happened. When they heard that their
mother, whom they adore, had arrived, they rushed with cries of joy to
meet her. Even the baby Alexandrina, holding the hand of little Prince
William. But when they saw their mother, her face all wet with tears,
her dress so tumbled and with such a wild look in her eyes, the poor
little things started back in fright. The baby set up a wail, and even
the Crown Prince looked frightened."

"Poor things," murmured Madame von Stork, her handkerchief again to her
eyes.

"'My poor children! my poor children!' cried the Queen. Truly," and the
Doctor gazed from the faces of Elsa, Ilse, and Bettina to the grown
ones, "it was a pitiful thing to see the frightened little faces. Our
Queen, ashamed that she had frightened them, put her own feelings
entirely aside and thought only of them! 'Come with me, my darlings,'
she said, and taking the baby she led the way to her room. When she had
removed her wraps, she gathered them all around her. 'Fritz, Willy,' she
said to the two older boys, 'stand before me. Charlotte, Carl, sit one
on each side. I will hold the baby. Listen now, and I will tell you why
your mother comes to you thus in tears. My dear, dear children,' I have
written down every one of her words in my diary," explained the Doctor,
reading from his little book, "'We have suffered a great and terrible
defeat. Your poor, unhappy father and all the soldiers of Frederick the
Great, your famous uncle, have been defeated in two terrible battles,
one fought at Jena, the other at the same moment at Auerstaedt.'"

Then the Doctor told how she related the news of that dreadful October,
and told of her journey and the flight to Berlin. And she spoke so
simply that even little Carl had an idea of all the trouble.

"My darlings," and she gathered Carl and Charlotte in her arms, "you see
me in tears. I weep for the destruction of our army, for the death of
relatives and of many faithful friends."

The older boys wiped their eyes, and Carl began to sob, for his lively
Cousin Louis Ferdinand, who always brought him toys and had a joke
ready, was dead, too, his mother had told him.

"Fritz, Willy," the Queen turned to them, speaking only to them, "my
dear, dear sons, you see an edifice which two great men built up in a
century, destroyed in a day; there is now no Prussian army, no Prussian
empire, no national pride: all has vanished like the smoke which hid our
misery on the fields of Jena and Auerstaedt. Oh, my sons, my dear little
children, you are already of an age when you can understand these
unhappy things. In a future age when your mother is no more, recall this
unhappy hour. Weep again in your memories my tears, remember how I in
this dreadful moment wept for the downfall of my Fatherland."

Then she described to them the glorious death of their cousin, Prince
Louis Ferdinand, and again addressed the little princes especially.

"But do not be content, little sons, with tears. Bring out, develop your
own powers, grow great in them, Fritz, Willy. Perhaps the guardian angel
of Prussia gazes on you now. Free, then, your people from this humiliation
which overpowers it. Seek to shake off France as your grandfather, the
Great Elector, did Sweden. Do not forget, my sons, these times. Be men
and heroes worthy of the names of Princes and grandsons of Frederick the
Great, and for Prussia's sake be willing to confront death as Louis
Ferdinand encountered it."

The fire which thrilled her voice caught the souls of the two boys and
their eyes glowed with excitement.

"We promise, dear mother," said the Crown Prince, and both boys kissed
her. "We promise," said little William.

Then the Queen being so tired sent the children from her, and attendants
appeared from Berlin, couriers arrived with despatches, and Count
Hardenburg, the Prime Minister, waited on Queen Louise with news of the
King.

His Majesty, he assured her, was safe and sent word that the Queen and
the children must go at once to Stettin.

On the twentieth they arrived in that strong town, and the Queen said
good-bye to her children.

"Go, darlings," she told them, "with our Voss to Dantzic. Mother will
join father at Custrin."

Then she held them a moment one by one in her arms and begged them to be
good and to pray always for their country.

"Auf wiedersehen, darlings, as soon as possible you will see both your
dear father and your mother."

Then they had separated, the Countess Voss and the children going
towards the Baltic, the Queen joining her husband in the strong old
fortified town where he was then in hiding.

But something very annoying happened to the Queen at Stettin.

There she had been promised fresh horses. She waited and waited and none
were brought forth. At last it was discovered that all the horses had
been turned into the field after her arrival, and that she must go on to
the King with her tired one.

"It was the work of that villain, Napoleon. All believe that
everywhere," put in Ludwig.

When Dr. Hufeland had finished his story, Ludwig Brandt told of the
entrance of Napoleon into Berlin; how he came in a splendid procession
with flags flying and trumpets sounding.

"But the Berliners, watching him from the windows, wept," he added, his
face glowing.

Then he related how Napoleon had said all manner of things against the
Queen, and of how surprised he was when he first beheld her portrait at
Potsdam. "I had no idea that she looked like that," he said, and began
to ask questions about her and listened attentively to all the praise
which on every side was given her.

But, however much he was interested, it did not prevent his accusing her
of having caused the war, before an assembly of Berliners he called to
discuss matters. Only one of these Prussians had courage to defend the
Queen. He was an old clergyman named Erman.

Up he stood and looked Napoleon straight in the eye.

"Sire," he said, "that is not true."

Not a soul believed that he would escape with his life, but he did.

"Perhaps," said the Professor, "Napoleon respected one brave man among
such a group of cowards."

Before the Doctor could reply, a thundering knock at the door made all
stop and look at each other in consternation.




CHAPTER X

FRESH TROUBLES


It was the Major, who never could wait a minute.

His face was red and the powder from his curls had been shaken off in
his hurry. He greeted no one.

"Richard, Richard," he cried, "there is news of a battle at Eylau!"

The gentlemen sprang from their chairs, Madame von Stork turned pale.
Her Wolfgang was with the army.

"Yes, yes," cried the Major, speaking French very rapidly, "there has
been a battle, a dreadful one, something terrible. There is no news yet
that is certain. Some say, victory, others, defeat, but the whole town
is in wild excitement. I have heard that the suffering of the soldiers
was awful."

"Naturally," said Herr Brandt in German--not a word of French would he
speak, "with all this ice, snow, and freezing."

"I have but one boy," said the Major, "and he is with the army. Here,
Clarchen, some wine. Ah, many thanks, Mademoiselle Pauline." In spite of
his worry he made a gallant bow, the cockade on his queue bobbing.

"My Rudolph," he said, "is a soldier, and perhaps at Eylau. But he can
be nothing better than his father was, now can he?" He settled his
double chin over his high stock and gazed from his blue eyes at the
gentlemen.

The Professor motioned them all to seats.

"Clarchen," he said to his wife, "it is bedtime for the children." His
voice was trembling.

The children all bowed and curtsied, and, kissing their mother's hand
and wishing pleasant dreams for everybody, departed; Marianne, Pauline,
and Otto, also.

The gentlemen, for Madame von Stork in a moment followed to give orders
to her servant, sat with filled glasses and discussed Napoleon and their
country.

Presently the Professor left the room to order another bottle of wine
and some sandwiches.

"That older girl, Mademoiselle Pauline, is an excellent maiden,"
remarked Dr. Hufeland, in tones of admiration. Herr Brandt nodded, his
face growing serious.

"Did you notice how calm she kept amid all the excitement?"

"Yes, yes," said the Major, "she is excellent, always ready to arrange
my stock or tie the ribbon on my queue. Very different from my niece,
Marianne," he added, "very different, I assure you."

Herr Brandt raised his eyebrows.

"Richard has spoiled that girl," he remarked; "see here." He picked up
"The Sorrows of Werther," which lay under Marianne's chair.

Then he read aloud high-flown passages marked by Marianne's pencil.

"How her parents expect any sensible German man to marry her I cannot
form an idea. A German man desires a wife who can cook, sew, and keep
his house in order."

The Doctor raised his hand, for the Professor was entering with the
bottle.

Almost immediately his wife followed.

Her eyes at once fell on "The Sorrows of Werther," and her face
darkened.

"See, Richard, see," she cried, "we quite forgot to scold Marianne."

"Come, come, Clarchen," the Professor's voice was kind and soothing,
"let the girl be. We have far more serious things now to worry over."

Then he lifted the book from the table.

"Ah, Goethe," he cried, and, in a moment, the battle of Eylau and all
else was forgotten, while his eager eye conned the familiar pages.
Madame von Stork turned to the others, who burst into laughter as they
watched her husband.

"Just see him!" cried the poor lady, her turban bobbing as she shook her
head with violence.

Startled, the Professor looked up from his book, his mild, learned face
full of wonder.

"What is it?" he asked, "is it supper time?"

"Nein, nein, Richard," and Herr Brandt slapped his shoulder with
sarcastic affection. "It is nothing, you know, only the cannon of
Napoleon."

He, himself, had not the least good for Goethe, who had remained quietly
at his dinner in his garden in Weimar when the cannon were thundering at
Jena, and who sang no songs of patriotism, had nothing to cry out
against Napoleon.

"But, Richard," his wife laid her hands on his arm, "you must pay heed
to Marianne." The gentlemen nodded. "She is more trouble to me than all
my other children. Even the twins and Carl are more useful. Reading,
talking, dreaming, that is Marianne. She is good for nothing else. It is
Bettina Brentano who has ruined her. I have never approved of that
friendship. But, O Heavens, why worry over anything when my Franz is a
prisoner, and my Wolfgang, I know not where!" and she burst into tearful
sobbing. Herr Brandt and Dr. Hufeland arose in haste, and, kissing her
hand and saying good-night to the Professor and Major, they fled.

There was little sleep for anyone that night, for dreadful pictures of
Wolfgang, or Rudolph, frozen, or dead in the snow, arose before every
eye, and drove away all slumbers.

On the morning, when the courier brought the truth to Memel, Marianne
was writing a letter to her friend Brentano.

She had met this famous friend of Goethe when she was a year younger,
and on a visit to her aunt in Frankfort-on-Main.

Never had Marianne seen anyone who had seemed to her so clever.

Both of them adored the poet Goethe, it being the fashion in those days
for young girls to worship some poet.

Bettina Brentano knew Goethe's mother, a fine old lady whom everyone
called "Frau Rat," and often she and Marianne went to see her.

When Marianne returned to Berlin she was changed entirely.

From a merry, jolly, little girl she had become a mournful maiden who
convulsed her family with the most melancholy speeches. She spoke of the
gloom of living, of the joy of dying while one was still beautiful, and
if anyone talked of Goethe, or even so much as mentioned his name,
Marianne clasped her hands and rolled her eyes and behaved, her brother
said, "like an idiot."

The Professor only laughed.

"She has the Goethe fever, Clarchen," he told his wife. "It has spread
at times all over Germany."

But on the day when Carl had been lost and the Queen had kissed him, the
fault of the whole affair was to be laid on the shoulders of Marianne.

Then the Professor had at last listened to his wife and heard how
Marianne would do nothing but read books, keep a foolish, sentimental
journal, and write letters to Bettina Brentano.

"And, dear husband," his wife had added, "our Marianne talks of love and
hopeless sorrow, our Marianne, who used to be so merry. Her thoughts are
never with the coffee-cake, never with her sewing. And tell me, please,
how is a girl to get a husband with this nonsense? Her wedding chest,
which every German girl, as you know, must have ready, has not a thing
to boast of, and Pauline's is entirely ready. She will not stitch, knit,
or embroider, only read, read, read."

"It is the Goethe fever, I tell you, dear wife," said the Professor. "It
will vanish."

"But, Richard," pleaded the Mother Stork, "consider the candles."

"Candles?"

Ah, that was a different matter.

"Yes, yes, dear husband, the candles. Do not think for an instant that I
permit all this nonsense to go on in the daytime. If I see Marianne with
a book, I take it away and provide needlework. And what does she do but
burn candles!"

"Ah," said the Professor, "that will never do. I will see to the
matter."

Now, at that moment Marianne was safe, she thought, in her room, her
pretty hair floating over her blue dressing jacket, her paper on her
desk, her pen in her hand.

"Ah, my chosen friend, my Bettina," she wrote in the high-flown style of
that day, "who but thou understands thy Marianne? On every side I meet
with derisive laughter when I would speak of him whose name I am not
worthy to mention, our Master, thine and mine, our Goethe! Oh, to be
again with thee, to sit with thee beneath the free, open Heaven, gazing
upward at the celestial orbs whose silver beams thrill into thought,
mysterious wonder of that law-ruled world of Nature which none but poets
truly know. Oh, Bettina, how worthless is life when spent amid the
trivialities of nothingness. Oh, to wander with thee, my heart's true
friend, chosen of my spirit, to wander on the wings of thy imagination
into the realms of infinite calm, and there to prepare our souls to be a
sacrifice to him who----"

A knock at the door had interrupted this flight of sentimental fancy.

In had come her father.

With a laugh he had shut the writing-desk.

"Liebchen," he said, "it is time for bed. Do your writing by daylight."

Then he kissed her cheeks and patted her hair, and told her he could
have no such wasting of candles.

"To bed in five minutes," he had commanded, and that ended the burning
of candles. But nothing yet had cured her of her thoughtlessness, and it
was still Pauline who did everything to assist the mother.

On the day that the news came of Eylau, Madame von Stork and Pauline
were busy making coffee-cake, Bettina, Ilse, and Elsa helping stem
currants and stone raisins.

In her room Marianne was telling Bettina Brentano all about their life
in Memel. She was not sure that she could send a letter, but it was
amusing at all events to write it. It was stupid to make coffee-cake.

"It is pleasant, dear Bettina," she wrote, "that our dear Queen and King
are in Memel. Often, now, father is sent for to talk with the Queen, and
one day mother took me to pay our respects to the Countess von Voss, who
is a friend of my dear grandmother. She is a very lively and beautiful
old lady, Mistress of the Court, and like a mother to our Queen. She is
very clever, and the gentlemen greatly admire her. She is so stately,
and will not forgive a lack of ceremony. I was in the greatest terror,
as you may imagine. We were shown into her room where she was engaged at
her toilette, some gentlemen, among them a Mr. Jackson, an Englishman,
laughing and talking as her maid did her hair.

"I made my curtsey and saluted her hand.

"'And this is your daughter,' she said very kindly to mother. 'Dear
Clara, the child has a look of poor Erna.'

"That was my aunt, my Bettina, who died when she was a girl, and who was
engaged to Ludwig Brandt.

"Then the Countess asked us to be seated, and when at last her hair
received its crown of a turban, she gave us some fine tea from England,
which Mr. Jackson had given here.

"It was most kind in her, but I prefer our coffee.

"She told us story after story about our Queen, for it is of her that
she best likes to talk; and, also, she spoke of dear little Prince
William, and of how he had entered the army.

"It happened on New Year's Day, because the coming of the French made
the King fear that he could not present him with the honour on his
birthday.

"When the Royal children appeared before our King, he greeted them for
the New Year, and then turned to little Prince William, and, oh, he is
the dearest little fellow, my Bettina! so sensible-looking and so, in
face, like our King. 'To-day,' said our King, 'something very important
is to happen. William,' and he turned directly to him, 'I have nominated
you to a commission in the army. We can no longer stay here in
Koenigsberg, because of the approach of the enemy, and we must go to
Memel at once. I might not be able to give you the appointment on your
birthday, as I had intended to do, so I give it to you now.' Then,
indeed, as you may imagine, little William was happy.

"The Countess told us how they arrayed him in a blue coat, with a red
collar and narrow, dark trowsers and high boots to his knees. Exactly
like the Guard, you remember.

"Then, suddenly, everybody began to cry 'Ah Heaven!' and lift up hands
in horror. It is a rule that the Guard must wear queues, and Prince
William's hair was too short for a pig-tail. 'And there they were,' said
the Countess, 'acting as foolishly as they are doing about this war,
when I simply sent out for a false queue and tied it on the child's
hair, and ended the trouble.' Then they gave him a little cane, and
behold, a fine soldier!

"He is my favourite, and sometimes I think that the Countess likes him
better than the Crown Prince, who certainly knows that he is clever, but
he is very handsome. Then the Countess told us of how dreadful it was at
Koenigsberg, where our dear Queen was so ill, and how, when they told her
that the French were at hand, she begged to be allowed to travel. She
had a great horror of that monster, Napoleon, who has vowed to capture
her, and so she told them it was better to fall into the hands of the
good God, than into the hands of man.

"Mother asked the Countess why Napoleon so hated the Queen. Before she
could answer her parrot suddenly called out in the funniest way:
'Napoleon is a monster! Our Queen is an angel! Down with the French!'
You can guess how startled we were, but...."

Before Marianne could end her sentence she heard Otto calling:
"Marianne! Marianne!"

She flew downstairs and into the great kitchen.

There were Pauline, her mother, the children, and her father all
listening to her uncle.

"The courier has come!" cried Otto. "Uncle will tell us the news!"

Both Russians and French claimed the victory, but such sufferings had
never been known in the world's history.

Amid the ice and snow, all had waited for days, the Russians occupying a
church and graveyard, the camp fires lighting snowy fields and trees
and bushes which crackled.

"The courier, dear Richard," the old major addressed his brother, "says
thousands are sleeping a sleep from which even the love of their
families never can wake them."

He blew his nose with great violence.

"The snow is red with the blood of thousands," he continued, "the
Russians, God be thanked, kept their ground. They are not conquerors, it
is true, but they have checked Napoleon!"

The Major's face flushed crimson.

"God be praised!" cried all the company, and the kitchen rang with
rejoicings.

But they had not heard all the good news.

"It is said," concluded the Major, "that the Emperor of the French will
now propose peace."

"And Wolfgang? Rudolph?"

The Major shook his head, his cockade bobbing.

"No news yet, dear sister, we can trust only in God, but I have no
reason to believe they were at Eylau."

Bettina had listened eagerly.

She was very much afraid of the Major. He was so red-faced and
important looking, and had not much good for people below him, and so
she waited until at last he left the room. Then she crept quietly to
Marianne.

"Please, dear gracious Fraeulein," she whispered, "was my grandfather in
the battle?"

Marianne was opening her lips to speak, when Otto interrupted:

"Nein, Bettina, nein. Your grandfather...."

"Otto!"

Pauline quickly stopped him, her hand across his mouth.

"No, little Bettina," she said very kindly, "your grandfather was not
with the army."

"Will he come, gracious Fraeulein, come soon?" Bettina's eyes looked up
eagerly.

"Perhaps, child, perhaps." Pauline turned away and picked up some cups
from a table.

"Run away, children," she said, "and play until dinner."

Bettina went slowly. It was very strange that her grandfather never came
back to fetch her. They were kind to her and she loved them, but she
wanted her grandfather. Would she never see Thuringia again, nor Willy,
nor her godmother, nor her brothers? The tears filled her eyes and the
sobs came.

Poor little Bettina!

She lived in sad, cruel times, and she was to be a woman before she ever
again met even one of them, or walked in the forest paths of Thuringia,
or saw the spire of St. Michael's rising high above the red roofs of
Jena.




CHAPTER XI

THE MOTHER OF HER PEOPLE


One morning, soon after the news of Eylau, the Major told the children
that an English ship had arrived in the harbour.

"Mother, mother," they cried, "may we go and see it?"

Poor Madame von Stork, who was almost ill from worry over Franz and
Wolfgang, rejoiced at the thought of a morning free from noise and
questions.

"Yes, yes," she agreed very quickly. "Put on your wraps and furs, and
Pauline and Marianne shall take you."

In a few moments the whole party set forth, Pauline and Marianne in dark
red dresses, fur hoods, and great baggy white muffs, the children
wrapped to the tips of their noses, Otto and Carl in huge cloaks and fur
caps.

Reaching the bridge, whom should they come upon but the Queen and her
party, who, also, were there to see the great ship. The Crown Prince was
there, handsome, clever-looking, clinging to the arm of his mother, to
whom he seemed entirely devoted, little William with such a clear good
look in his face that it was impossible not to love him, and beautiful
little Princess Charlotte keeping shyly at the side of the Countess
Voss, who was guarding with watchful eyes the merry Maids of Honour.

When the Princes saw Otto and Carl, their faces lighted, and they
whispered to their mother, who at once begged the Countess to have them
sent for.

"My little boys, the Crown Prince and Prince William, would like to know
you," she said, and then she sent the four to the side of the bridge
that they might talk without grown people listening.

Princess Charlotte at once flew to her mother's side, the joy in her
face proving that she had not the cold nature that seemed to show in her
face.

Then the Queen, with one of her bright smiles, asked Pauline and
Marianne if they could not come and assist in making lint for the
soldiers. The ladies of the court, she said, worked busily in her rooms.
Then she turned away, and, with Charlotte, joined the boys, whose
laughter soon rang as if they were enjoying themselves. At once the
Maids of Honour began to amuse themselves with Marianne, and, some of
the gentlemen soon joining them, they turned the talk to Goethe, and
then laughed behind their hands when Marianne rolled her eyes and
clasped her hands and spoke of Frau Rat, and vowed she would never marry
because there was but one man in Germany, and that one, Goethe!

The Countess von Voss did not like this conduct.

"I beseech you, dear ladies," she said with great dignity to the Maids,
"let Mademoiselle von Stork alone. Young girls are better unnoticed."
But the Maids of Honour tossed their heads and would not stop their
nonsense.

"Do you not pity us, Mr. Jackson," they cried to a handsome young
Englishman, "that we have but one man in Germany?"

But Mr. Jackson, being very devoted to the old Countess, only remarked:

"Oh, greatly, ladies," and began conversing about the ship with his
favourite, and the Maids of Honour were left to Marianne.

Meanwhile Bettina and the twins had been amusing themselves.

Bettina was so happy that her eyes did nothing but gaze at the face of
her dear, beautiful Queen.

Never was anyone so lovely, so patient. With a kind word for all she put
aside her troubles and showed the boys how the ship was manned, told
them what this meant and that, and now and then patted Charlotte's hand,
that she might not feel neglected. Never for a moment did she seem to
think of herself or her own pleasure. She smiled at the twins, asked
their names, and then tried to tell them apart, and laughed quite like a
girl when she called "Ilse," "Elsa."

Suddenly she gazed at Bettina as if puzzled.

"Dear Voss," she touched the arm of the Countess, "do we not know this
child? Where have we seen her?"

The Countess called Marianne.

"It's a sad story," said the girl, glancing at Bettina, whose eyes were
fixed on the Queen.

Then the Countess commanded Bettina to run away with the twins and watch
the sailors, and taking Marianne to the Queen, told her to relate the
child's history.

More than once, as Marianne told the story, the Queen's eyes filled with
tears.

"Poor child," she said, "poor little Bettina!"

When she had heard it all, she had Marianne bring Bettina back again.

"Dear child," she said, "surely I have seen you before. Is it not true?"

And she smiled at the little girl most enchantingly.

Now, nobody had ever told Bettina that a little girl must be afraid of a
Queen, so she smiled back at her with the eager, bright look which made
her so pretty.

"Ja, ja, dear Queen," she said, for no one had told her to say
"Majesty," and then she told of the inn on the road from Jena.

A look of pain banished the brightness from Queen Louisa's face. Very
gravely she asked Bettina question after question, and she heard of the
cruel journey, and of how Bettina's grandfather had left her.

"Yes, yes," she nodded to the Countess, "I remember the old man. It was
of him that we spoke to the Professor, your father," and she glanced at
Marianne with a look of warning.

"But, dear Queen," said little Bettina, nodding her head in her bright,
fairy way, "my dear grandfather will come back soon, and we will go to
Thuringia when the Kaiser Barbarossa comes from the cave and with his
great sword kills the Emperor!"

The Queen did not laugh.

"God grant it, dear child. God grant it," she said. "Let us pray that
the ravens will wake him, the old Red-Beard."

When Bettina had danced away to the twins, she turned with a saddened
face to the old Countess.

"Dear Voss," she said, and her voice was low and troubled, "these poor,
poor children whom this cruel war has orphaned! Each day I hear a fresh
story of their suffering. Alas, that I, the Queen, can do nothing for
want of money. But something must be done, and I, the Queen, must do it.
Such a lovely child, so trusting and, alas, so desolate."

Then, her whole mood changed, she walked back to her house in Memel, her
heart heavy with the troubles of the Fatherland.

That very day Ludwig Brandt appeared. Why he travelled to and fro over
the country no one knew, unless it was the Professor. It was something
to do with the war, of that all were certain.

He reported that fifty thousand French and Russians lay dead in the snow
of Eylau, and that Napoleon was to send General Bertrand to Memel to
propose peace to King Frederick William.

In a day or two this general came--"A most disagreeable-faced
Frenchman," the old Countess called him, "and with dreadful
manners,"--and the story of his visit was soon known about Memel.

He had submitted an offer of peace from Napoleon, who agreed to restore
his kingdom to the King of Prussia if he would break off his friendship
with the Czar of Russia.

To the Queen he brought most agreeable and flattering messages from
Napoleon. He sent her word that he had been deceived in her character.
He wished now to be friends.

The Queen was polite, but that was all. She had no belief in the
promises of the French Emperor. Napoleon had made a cruel war on a poor,
helpless woman, driving her across the country, reading her letters,
publishing wicked things against her, having horrid pictures drawn of
her for his newspapers, and declaring her to have caused the war and all
the misery to Prussia.

It was impossible to believe that he had truly repented because he had
halfway lost a battle.

As for the good King, he refused to break his word to his friend to save
his kingdom, merely because Napoleon commanded him.

"Let the war go on," he said, and suffering Prussia, its houses burned
to the ground, without food, with the cruel French everywhere, cried:

"Hoch to our King! He is a good man, and true, and we will shed our last
drop of blood in his service!"

And so General Bertrand left Memel, and the war went on.

But everywhere there was much suffering. Even the King and the Queen had
little to eat and no money to buy anything, for the French had burned
the farmhouses, the farmers were in the army, and this poor land must
feed not only its own people, but all the enemy. Sometimes seven
villages could be seen burning at once, and behind Napoleon's white
horse stalked two dreadful figures. One, called Death, commanded
executions in every town and slew thousands on the battlefield, and
refused to spare hungry little children. Gaze where the poor Prussians
would, the shadow of his great scythe was over them. The other, Famine,
breathed on the poor down-trodden fields, and nothing flourished; with
her fierce hands she gathered up all the wine in the cellars, the
potatoes saved for winter, the meat, the fruit, all there was to eat
everywhere.

The poor Prussians between them were desolate.

In those cruel days there came to the King's house in Memel two simple
people of a sect of which there are some now in America, the Mennonites.
Their name was Nicholls, and they asked to see the King and the Queen.

When they came before their Majesties, Abraham, the husband, holding in
his hand a bag, addressed the unhappy, worried-looked King:

"Majesty," he said, "I bring you from my people, who send me as their
deputy, two thousand gold Fredericks. We have collected them among
ourselves, and offer them as a token of love and respect to our
sovereign."

Then he laid the heavy bag in the hand of the King.

"We, thy faithful subjects," he continued, "of the sect of the
Mennonites, having heard of the great misfortunes which it has pleased
God to permit, have gladly contributed this little sum which we beg our
beloved King and ruler to accept, and we desire to assure him that the
prayers of his faithful Mennonites shall not fail for him and his."

The wife then placed a basket in the hands of Queen Louisa.

"I have heard," said this kind woman, "that our good Queen likes good
fresh butter very much, and that the little Princes and Princesses eat
bread and butter very heartily, so I have made some myself, which is
very fresh and good, and that is very rare just now, so I thought it
might be acceptable. My gracious Queen will not despise this humble
gift. This I see already in thy true and friendly features. Oh, how glad
I am to have seen thee once so near and, face to face, have spoken with
thee!"

Queen Louisa took the basket, with tears in her lovely eyes.

"Dear Frau Nicholls," she cried, her face all warm with gratitude, "I
thank you many, many times, and over and over."

Then she took off the handsome shawl she wore and threw it about the
shoulders of the Mennonite woman.

"Dear Frau Nicholls," she said, "keep this in remembrance of me."

For answer the good woman burst out into speeches of pity for the
misfortunes of the poor King.

But his Majesty, interrupting her with a kind smile, lifted his hand to
check her.

"No, no, Frau Nicholls," he said, "I am not a poor King. I am a rich
King, blessed with such subjects."

Then he and the Queen sent many messages to the poor Mennonites, and,
when the two had gone, promised each other that when good times again
would come they would not fail to reward them, and the King did not
forget it.

To Memel, too, came Prince William, the King's brother, and his wife the
Princess Marianne. They had fled from Dantzic, and their only little
daughter, the tiny Princess Amelia, had died of cold on the way.

Sometimes the children of the "Stork's Nest" saw this poor lady walking
with the Queen, and they all gazed at her with great interest because
her name was the same as Marianne's.

Ludwig Brandt remained, too, in Memel, and was much with the Englishmen
and went almost every day to the reception room of the old Countess von
Voss, where the talk was the hottest against Napoleon.

"The Prussians," he told the Professor, "may be conquered, but never
will they forgive Napoleon's treatment of the Queen. There he went too
far."

He further told the Professor, but this was a secret, that the students
of Koenigsberg were forming plans by which they hoped to defeat Napoleon.
He was concerned in this affair and hoped to do more that way than by
joining the army.

And so the days passed at Memel. Often the children saw the Queen
walking, or taking the air in one of the high-runner sleighs. Carl and
Otto and the Princes were often together, and Marianne and Pauline
assisted with the lint. There was no stiffness as about a court. They
all had become friends in the time of trouble.

Then, presently, the Professor went to Koenigsberg to fulfil his duties
as Professor.

"But remain here with Joachim, dear wife," he said. "Who knows that the
French will not advance upon Koenigsberg? You know now that Wolf and
Rudolph are safe, so you can rest here and not worry."

The Queen also went to Koenigsberg to visit her sister, Frederika, who
had married the Prince of Solms and lived in that city.

But the Professor was right.

After a brave siege the fine city of Dantzic fell. Again Napoleon was
conqueror, and back in haste came the Professor and back came the poor
Queen, flying again to Memel, whose cold winds so disagreed with her.
With them came news so dreadful that Marianne felt that never in her
life could she be happy again. Napoleon had won the bloody victory of
Friedland. Not a French cannon had missed its aim. Like ninepins, the
enemy had fallen. Fleeing, the Russians, weighed down by their arms and
heavy uniforms, had rushed into the nearby river and the waves had been
as cruel to them as Napoleon's guns.

With the dead was Wolfgang, curly-haired, merry Wolf, the one ever ready
with a laugh, ever making jokes, playing tunes on his fiddle, waiting on
his mother, teasing the twins, laughing at Marianne, Wolf who had been
the favourite of all the family.

"Ach Gott, ach Gott, ach Gott!" wept poor Madame von Stork, and she beat
the wings of her love and refused to be comforted.

When the Queen heard that the Professor had lost a fine young son and
that his wife was so overcome with her sorrow, she went like a friend to
see her and to comfort her.

Madame von Stork felt the honour of the visit, but not even a visit from
a Queen could make her cease weeping.

With gentle words her Majesty tried to comfort her. She told her of the
bravery of Countess Dohna von Finkenstein, whom she had seen in
Koenigsberg. Four sons had she sent to battle, and when they returned
wounded, she had sent them forth again.

"We must trust in God, dear Madame von Stork," the Queen's eyes glowed.
"I know that He will not desert us, no, not even after this dreadful
battle of Friedland. Dear Madame, think what it means to me. Napoleon is
in Koenigsberg now, and I can return no more, and we must perhaps quit
our kingdom and fly for safety to Riga in Russia. But in spite of this,
as I have written my dear father, I beg you in the name of God, to
believe that we are in the hands of God. It is my firm belief that He
will send us nothing beyond what we are able to bear. All power, dear
Madame, comes from on high. My faith shall not waver, though after this
dreadful misfortune I can no longer hope. To live or die in the path of
duty--to live on bread and salt if it must be so--would never bring
supreme unhappiness to me. Let us trust then, dear Madame, in the God
who sends us good and permits the evil that in all things we may be
drawn nearer to Him and His love."

Though the Queen's sweet voice trembled, though her eyes said, "I sorrow
with you," Madame von Stork would not be comforted.

"Majesty," she said, thinking only of her own grief, "have you lost a
son?"

The Queen's eyes filled, her lips trembled like a child's.

"I have lost one son," she said, "and a dear little daughter."

Then Madame von Stork remembered, and forgot her grief for the first
time.

The Queen's face changed. She looked as if the whole sorrow of Prussia
had crushed her.

"But, dear Madame," she said, her figure drooping, "I am the Queen, and
I have lost your son and every Prussian woman's son, also. Am I not the
Mother of my People? You have lost one son. I, the Queen, have lost
thousands. Each mother's grief is mine and, oh, my God, how am I to bear
it? Was not your Wolfgang mine, also?"

She touched her heart beating quickly beneath her dress.

"Dear Madame, pity your Queen and believe her. Here is a wound which
nothing can heal. It has ached day and night since the battle of Jena. I
am Rachel, indeed, weeping for my children."

When the Professor met his wife an hour later, a new look shone in her
eyes.

"I was forgetting you, dear Richard," she said, "Wolfgang is gone, Franz
is gone, but I have you and the children."

Then she laid her hand on his arm.

"Our Queen has been here, dear husband, and she is an angel."




CHAPTER XII

OTTO


In the winter Marianne had gone often to court. There was much need of
lint and the ladies were always occupying themselves with making it.

The old Countess, who had known Marianne's grandmother well in her
youth, made a pet of the pretty girl, and the ladies and gentlemen found
her bright talk very amusing as they worked away in the rooms of the
Mistress of Court Ceremonies, or in those of the Queen.

But Wolfgang's death changed everything.

"I shall never be gay again," wept poor Marianne.

At first she was for staying in her room and writing out her sorrow, but
one day the Queen, whom she adored, had a talk with her.

What she said no one knew, but from that day Marianne began to think of
others. And certainly there was need of patience in the "Stork's Nest."
So much trouble made them all nervous, and the children, not having
Madame von Stork's eye upon them, grew cross and very restless.

And the affairs of Prussia were in as bad a way as possible. After the
disaster at Friedland on the 14th of June, Marshal Soult entered
Koenigsberg, the King and the Czar fled to Tilsit, and the country waited
to see now what would happen. Talk of peace began to be heard in all
quarters.

"But let us not despair," said Ludwig Brandt to the Professor. "Prussia
is conquered, but all through our land a spirit is rising against
Napoleon. Stein and our best generals, our orators, our poets declare
that the tyrant must be overcome and their burning words are stirring
the people. Bluecher, for instance, Richard, has declared that when a
whole people are resolved to emancipate themselves from foreign
domination they will never fail to succeed. I foresee that fortune will
not always favour the Emperor," he said, "the time may come when Europe
in a body, humiliated by his exactions, exhausted by his depredations,
will rise up in arms against him. Then," Ludwig's face changed, "there
is the enthusiasm in our Universities."

The Professor nodded.

Before, however, he could answer, in came poor Madame von Stork, her
face full of fresh trouble.

"Richard," she said, "Ludwig, have either of you seen Otto?"

Both shook their heads and went on with their talk.

"Bettina!" called the lady.

In tripped the little girl, her face eager and interested.

"Dear child," asked Madame von Stork, "have you seen Otto?"

Bettina thought that he had gone to Frau Argelander's to see the Crown
Prince, who had a room there.

"No, no," said Pauline, who came in at the moment, "Carl went alone. The
Royal children wished to roast potatoes and Otto said that was too
childish."

Dusk came, and no Otto.

"Carl, Carl," his mother cried when at last he returned with the
servant, "where is your brother Otto?"

Carl's face flushed.

"He told me not to tell until bedtime."

"You must," cried his mother.

Carl brought a dirty little note from his pocket and handed it to his
father.

When the Professor read it he grew white to the lips.

"The foolish, foolish boy," he said, "why could he not have asked me?"

The frightened family cried out for news of what had happened.

When Madame von Stork heard it she was distracted.

Otto had run away. He was sixteen now, and he had gone to fight against
Napoleon. So he wrote his father.

"I did not tell you or mother," he said, "because you would have
prevented me. But my country needs me. Ask Cousin Ludwig."

The Professor tried to comfort his wife. He told her that peace must be
made in a month, that Otto could do nothing, but still she wept on.

By morning she was so ill that the Professor brought a doctor.

"Nervous fever," he said, "brought on by this climate and worry."

"I will nurse mother," cried Marianne, her heart all full of a new
desire to be helpful.

"Nonsense," said her father. "Pauline is much more reliable. No, no,
Mariechen, I couldn't trust you," and he left the room.

"It is my mother. I love her. It is my right!" burst our Marianne, her
cheeks crimson.

But Madame von Stork decided it.

"I should go crazy with you, Marianne," she said. "You would be reading
when I needed my medicine. I am sorry, dear child," she smiled to soften
the lesson, "but I am nervous, very nervous, and I must have a
thoughtful person. Pauline, you know, remembers."

Marianne rushed to her room. In a flood of bitter tears she flung
herself on her couch. There in rows on their shelves stood her books.
How she hated them!

Seizing one, she flew to the kitchen, her cheeks blazing. In a rage she
opened the door of the stove. She thrust in "The Sorrows of Werther."
With a blaze it ascended on the air of Memel in smoke, the maid staring
in wonder. Marianne tore back to her room. She flung herself face
downward on her couch.

"It is _my_ mother, not Pauline's," she sobbed, and she wept for an
hour.

Worn out at last, she rose to bathe her face in cold water.

On her chest of drawers stood a little picture that a lady of the court
had given to her.

Marianne started. A flush dyed her face as she gazed into the blue eyes
of the Queen. She who loved books above all things, put them aside
without a word if the King, if the Royal children, if the ladies wanted
her. She was never well, but was always helping others, always
forgetting what she wanted, what pleased her, that she might do her
duty.

"Dear Marianne," again the girl heard her voice as it had soothed her
after the death of her brother Wolfgang, "there is no trouble in which
the dear God will not help us."

All the demons of self and anger and dislike of Pauline ceased to
struggle in Marianne, as she remembered. She would be good, she had
promised Queen Louisa. She hesitated a moment, then she bowed her head
and whispered a little prayer that the dear God would help her and make
her good like the Queen who so loved Him.

Then she went below, all worn out with her battle, but quiet and humble
and wishing to help her mother.

And certainly there was need of her.

Carl and Ilse and Elsa were quarrelling violently, Bettina with
frightened face struggling to quiet them. She had on her little apron
and had brought dishes to try and set the table for supper. Marianne's
face flushed. Pauline was above, nursing her mother, Bettina below,
trying to quiet the children and get supper for the Professor, and she,
the daughter of the "Stork's Nest," had been in her room in a temper.
She took the dishes from Bettina and she separated Carl and the twins.
For an hour she sat with them telling them stories. Then her eye fell on
a volume of Goethe lying on a table where her father had left it.

A half hour later the Professor opened the door. His face darkened.

"Marianne," he said, "I expected better things of you."

With a start the girl laid down her book. Carl and Ilse were squabbling
over the last piece of cake on the table, Elsa was looking at a valuable
book with sticky fingers, the clock had stopped for want of winding, and
Bettina had vanished into the garden.

Marianne flushed hotly.

"I am trying, father," she said, "very----"

Without a word he left the room, his face stern with displeasure.

Putting the book aside, Marianne wound the clock, she sent the children
to bed, and sought Bettina in the garden.

"I will do better," she promised herself, and next day she remembered
much better.

But it was hard to keep the children quiet in the evening. She told all
the stories she could think of, and they only clamoured for more.

One evening a bright thought struck her.

She ran to her room and came back with a fat, red book whose brass clasp
she unlocked with a tiny key.

"Now, Ilse and Elsa," she said, "get your tent-stitch. Bettina, I would
not knit. Work on that strip for a bed-spread. Carlchen, draw some
pictures and I will read you a lovely book about our Queen."

Then she told them that their Aunt Erna, who had died when she was
sixteen, had written it and it would give them a story of how happy the
Queen was before Napoleon came into Prussia.

Then she arranged the candles, and all settled to listen.

The Professor, passing through the room, this time smiled on Marianne.

"Where are the children, Richard? What are they doing?" cried nervous
Madame von Stork as he opened the door of her room.

When he told her, the worry faded from her poor ill face.

"God be praised, dear husband," she said, "that our Marianne is
improving. It was hard to refuse her the nursing, but I hoped the
lesson might rouse her, and I was right."

Then, smiling at her husband, she sank back on her pillow and soon was
enjoying her first restful sleep.




CHAPTER XIII

THE JOURNAL


Marianne had first heard of her Aunt Erna's journal in Berlin.

It had been on the night when Ludwig Brandt had come in with the news
that the French had made the French Consul, Napoleon, Emperor.

When he had told his news the children with glowing faces informed him
that their Carl had been kissed that very day by the Queen.

Ludwig, who was always serious, called the little fellow to his knee.
Marianne never forgot how solemn it all was.

"Listen, my little Carl," he said, and waited until the laughter had all
died from the chubby dimpled face, "a great and noble woman has kissed
you. All your life think of it as a kiss of baptism. The call of war
will come to you as to all Germans. Let the kiss of the Queen make of
you a brave, a true, a patriotic soldier!"

How Ludwig's voice had rung through the room and how Pauline had gazed
in admiration! And then Ludwig had taken little Carl on his knee and
told him a nice little story of Queen Louisa, of when she had gone with
her husband on his Huldigung, the journey German sovereigns take to
receive the oaths of allegiance in their provinces and cities.

In the village of Stargard, in Pomerania, Ludwig related, the good
people who had arranged the welcome had dressed little girls in white
that they might strew flowers before the new young Queen, and the quick
eye of the Queen noticed that, as there were nineteen, one must walk
alone.

She turned to the grown people.

"Where is the twentieth?" she demanded, and her face grew crimson with
anger when she heard their answer.

"Majesty," they said, "the child was so ugly that we sent her home."

"Poor child!" cried the Queen, "poor child! Send for her, and at once!"
she commanded.

And when the poor little thing appeared, her plain, pale face all wet
with tears, Queen Louisa held out her arms as she would to one of her
own Royal children.

"Come, Liebchen," she said, "come at once to me. Tell me your trouble,
every bit of it."

And then she petted her and praised her and drove away all the little
thing's shame and tearfulness and told her stories of the Crown Prince,
and the little girl forgot all about her ugliness and the people's
cruelty. But to the grown people Queen Louisa was very stern, as she
could be when it was necessary.

"Was my coming," and she looked at them until they blushed, "to be made
a cause of sad memories to a dear little girl only because of her
ugliness?"

"Our Queen is an angel," said Madame von Stork as Ludwig ended.

Then Marianne told stories, also, of things she had heard of the Queen
at Frau Rat Goethe's.

"Bettina Brentano," she began, "is a friend of the mother of our
Goethe!"

"My goodness, Marianne!" cried Franz, who was home in those days, "don't
pronounce that name as if it were sacred!"

But Marianne paid no heed to him.

"Frau Rat," she continued, with a toss of her head, "loves our Queen
with all her heart. She has known her since she was as old as Carl.
Once, when she and her sister, the Princess Frederika, were little
girls, they came to Frankfort to the coronation of the Emperor Leopold."

Then, while Carl crowded to her knee and even her father stopped his
reading to listen, Marianne told how, one day, the two princesses came
to visit Frau Rat with their Swiss governess, Fraeulein de Gelieu, and of
how in Frau Rat's garden was a pump which at once attracted the
princesses.

Little Louisa, who loved the old lady, and was not a bit afraid of her
in spite of the great turban she wore, whispered in her ear how much she
would enjoy pumping like a common child.

The mother of Goethe nodded. She had no taste for prim etiquette and saw
no real reason why the little princesses should not enjoy themselves.

"Come, dear Fraeulein de Gelieu," said she to the governess. "Come into
my saal. I will show you my beautiful snuffbox with the picture of my
famous son upon it."

Then, leading the lady, she softly locked the door and Louisa and
Frederika, running to the pump, clung to the handle, and pumped and
pumped until the water ran in streams and splashed their stockings and
elastic strap slippers, and made them for once enjoy themselves quite as
if they had not been princesses.

When time for good-byes came the two happy little girls threw loving
arms around the neck of this kind Frau Rat and grateful little lips
whispered thanks for her kindness, telling her that never, never, never
would they forget their joy in being permitted to play like other
children. "Never, dear Frau Rat, never!" they cried.

Nor did Louisa, at any rate.

"Frau Rat," concluded Marianne, "showed me one day the most beautiful
gold ornaments she had only a few months before received as a present
from our Queen, who really loves her."

A second time Louisa visited Frankfort-on-Main. It was two years later
when, Leopold being dead, Francis, the last Emperor of the Holy Roman
Empire, came to receive the crown which, in 1806, just before the battle
of Jena, he resigned forever.

At that time the Princess and her brother Carl came to supper with Frau
Rat Goethe.

There was omelette, very light and delicious, and famous bacon salad, a
dish much loved in that day throughout Germany.

"Oh, how fine!" cried Carl and the princess, and when they stopped
eating there was not even so much as a half leaf left on either plate!

All her life Frau Rat loved to tell about this, and Marianne related how
she joked when she told the story.

"And, mother," said Marianne, "Frau Rat told me that our Queen, though
she was then a princess, made her own satin shoes for the coronation."

Madam von Stork beamed approval.

She opened her lips to impress the importance of sewing upon Marianne,
but the young girl was too quick for her.

"Frau Rat, father, says that our Queen reads both Goethe and Schiller
always."

Before Madame von Stork could answer, the maid appeared with wine and
cake, and, when all were settled, Marianne had told more stories about
Goethe's mother and what a fine old lady she was, but so amusing in her
great turban, with its red, white and blue feathers, or great decoration
of sunflowers, with her hair all arranged and plaited with ribbons, her
face rouged, her embroidered kid gloves, her rings, and her famous
speech:

"I am the mother of Goethe!"

When Marianne told all this she altered her voice and put on what her
brothers called her "Goethe manner," and, turning to Herr Brandt, she
exclaimed:

"Oh, Uncle Ludwig, the Frau Rat showed me her son's playthings and the
dresses he wore as a child. Oh, think of my touching, my handling what
his noble hands have rested upon! Oh, how it thrilled, how it
over-powered me!"

The boys burst into a roar, but her father with a glance quieted them.

"And what is Frau Rat like, Marianne?" he asked.

Delighted to talk on her favorite topic, Marianne told how, when the
Frau Rat announced, "I am the mother of Goethe," her voice rang out like
a trumpet.

Ludwig pushed back his glass.

"The trumpet we should hear," he said, "is the voice of her son singing
songs of patriotism. Never mind, Mariechen," for Marianne was beginning
to cry out, "your idol is not entirely perfect. Now, when at last we
have a literature in Germany, why will not our poets rouse our people?
The imitation of France is on us like a curse. All must be French. We
must speak French, we must read French, we must despise all things
German. I tell you, Richard, it is now the calm before the storm. Over
Prussia is gathering a cloud and the day will come when the sun shall
shine no more for us."

He arose and paced up and down the floor.

"Oh, Ludwig," cried Madame von Stork, "come, come, sit down and enjoy
your doughnuts."

But Ludwig Brandt was not to be soothed with cake.

"Good-night, Clara," he said suddenly, and bending, kissed Madame von
Stork's hand.

With an "Auf wiedersehen," he departed.

"My goodness," cried Madame von Stork, "but Ludwig is uncomfortable.
Here we were enjoying a quiet, happy evening, and in he comes and upsets
everything. See, Marianne, see, there he has spilt wine on the
tablecloth. It is the English in him which makes him so solemn. Perhaps
if dear Erna had lived she might have made him gayer. And speaking of
Erna, Marianne, you are old enough to read your dear aunt's journal. It
is really a history of our dear Queen the child kept to please Ludwig.
To-morrow, when you visit your grandmother, you must ask her to lend it
to you."

It was this same journal which Marianne brought forth in the sitting
room.

Before she could begin reading Elsa and Ilse crowded to her side.

"Sister," they said, "tell Bettina what happened when you took us to
grandmother's and she gave you the book, won't you?"

Marianne laughed.

"We had cherry compote for supper," she said, "and we all had some, and
Otto whispered to Wolf that he could keep more stones in his mouth than
Wolf could, and all the others heard and in whispers they all dared each
other, and they kept on eating and eating until their cheeks were quite
puffy."

Bettina laughed gaily.

"And there was company," put in Elsa.

"And grandmother asked Otto a question," said Ilse.

"And then----" Carl shouted.

"Otto couldn't keep his in----"

"And Wolf laughed----"

"And, oh, Bettina, it was awful! Stones shot everywhere out of
everybody's mouth and oh, grandmother!" She held up her hands.

Bettina thought this very funny and they all laughed and would have made
a great noise had not Marianne put the tiny key in the brass lock of the
red book.

"Come, now, be quiet," she said, "and I will begin the journal of our
Aunt Erna."




CHAPTER XIV

PRINCESS LOUISA


"First," said Marianne with an air of great importance, "I will tell you
about the family of our Queen."

All the children looked up with eagerness.

"Her name," continued Marianne, "is Louisa Augusta Wilhelmina Amelia.
Her father is the Duke Carl of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. Her mother, who
died when she was six years old, was a Princess of Hesse-Darmstadt."

Here Marianne paused.

"It is important, children, that you should know these things of our
Queen," she informed them, looking very wise and grown up. "Her name,
the mother's, I mean, was Frederika Caroline Louisa. Now our Queen--I
learned this to tell you--was born in the old castle of Hanover, March
10, 1776. Her father was the governor there for his brother-in-law, who
is king of--where, Ilse?"

Both twins shook their heads.

"Carl?"

"Go on, Mariechen," said he, "don't be a teacher."

But Marianne had her plans.

"Bettina?"

"Oh, England," said the little girl, who had learned this from something
she had heard Mr. Jackson say.

"Go on, Mariechen," urged Carl.

Marianne nodded.

"When our Queen was six," she said, "her father married her aunt, but
she died, too, and our Queen lived with her grandmother, who took her
to Holland, and Strasburg, and everywhere she travelled. One day she
took her to the Rhine and she met the Crown Prince, who now is our King.
Now, listen to what our dear Aunt Erna has written."

Marianne opened the red book.

On the first page was her aunt's name.

"Erna Hedwig Anna Marie von Bergman, her journal."

On the next was the date, "Dec. 22, 1793."

"To-day," read Marianne, "we went to see the entrance of our Crown
Princess into Berlin. While we walked to Unter den Linden, where my
Ludwig--I am betrothed now to Ludwig--had obtained for us very fine
seats, he entertained us with stories of this lovely princess, who came
to-day to our prince. He said everybody loved her, and he told me so
much of her beauty that I was all eagerness to see her enter.

"Ludwig said that even when she was a child she gained love everywhere.
Once, at Darmstadt, the great poet, Schiller, was reading aloud from his
'Don Carlos,' and he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked up, and saw
the loveliest little girl, who seemed to understand every word of his
poetry. It was the little Princess Louisa, and Schiller smiled on her.
To be smiled upon by a genius seems to me to be better than to be Crown
Princess."

Marianne's face glowed as she read this.

"She would have understood me, my Aunt Erma," she thought.

"Go on, please, go on," said Carl.

"I said this to Ludwig," read Marianne, "but he told me that to be a
good house-wife was better than either."

"Exactly like him," she muttered, and then went straight on with the
journal.

"Our Princess, who came to-day, met our Prince at Frankfort-on-Main. Our
King invited her with her grandmother and sister, Frederika, and the
very instant that our Crown Prince saw Princess Louisa he said: 'She or
never another.' A great love was at once in his heart.

"Every day they were together. Every evening in the theatre, and now,
to-morrow, they marry. Our Prince Louis marries Princess Louisa's
sister, Frederika. I find that lovely.

"They were betrothed at Darmstadt. Our King, who is such a jolly, joking
man, gave them their rings. 'God bless you, children,' he said, and all
the people said: 'Amen.'

"We thought there would be no marriage for a long time, for the King
would not have it because of the war with France. But something changed
his mind, and so to-day Berlin was decorated for the entry of the
Princess.

"It was so fine I can hardly write about it. The whole of
Berlin was decorated with flags. There were flags of Prussia, of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and of the Holy Roman Empire. They were
everywhere, on the Rathaus, across buildings, in windows. There were
evergreens, too, and in all my life I have never seen such a Christmas
Markt. The open place was all full of booths with fir trees in the
centre. We started early enough for me to buy a few things for our
Christmas tree.

"It was hard to choose. I wanted laces and I wanted Swiss carvings, and
I wanted French bonbons, but at last at one booth I bought honey cakes,
at another, the dearest gingerbread images of the Prince and Princess,
at another, a chocolate group of the four royalties, and some lace and
toys for the tree.

"The streets were so full we could hardly push our way through the
throng of hunters in green, Berliners and peasants all in their Sunday
costumes and gold ornaments.

"People were in all the windows, hanging over balconies and pushing and
pressing in the streets. We reached our places just as the 'Berliner
Citizens' Brigade' formed in lines up Leipzigerstrasse to the corner of
Wilhelmstrasse.

"We were quite near the big arch where the Princesses were to be
welcomed.

"It was splendid. There were three divisions in the arch, all decorated
with flowers and statues and pictures and words of welcome.

"One figure was Hymen, who is the god of marriage, and there were two
bridal wreaths, because of the double wedding.

"'Look, Erma,' said mother, and there, among the little French boys in
green suits sitting on the arch, was Francois de Ballore, and among the
lovely little German girls in white with pink sashes and wreaths of
roses, I saw Hedwig Rueckert, Elise Stege, and Annchen Romeike.

"'One of them,' explained Ludwig, 'is to recite a poem of welcome.'

"It was dreadfully tiresome standing in that great crowd, but at last
came the procession.

"There was a sound of horns, and six splendid horses walking with the
greatest stateliness entered Unter den Linden. On them were the Royal
Post Secretaries. Then came postilions in splendid uniforms, and after
them the carriers in blue. The postilions, there were forty of them,
Ludwig said, were all blowing horns, and I felt sorry, indeed, for the
carriers. I liked the next thing very much. It was the Hunters' Guild,
and they wore green costumes with peach-blossom facings. But the next
after the hunters was splendid. It was dozens of young Berliners dressed
as knights of the Middle Ages.

"The people cried out: 'Enchanting!' 'Wonderful!' and I said to Ludwig
that I wished men dressed that way now and not in ugly every-day knee
breeches and ruffled coats.

"But Ludwig only told me that armour would be inconvenient, and made
fun. But I think so, just the same. What is there romantic about a
queue, or slipper buckles, and knee breeches? Nothing at all.

"It was fun to see how important the Brewers and Distillers looked in
blue. The merchants and their sons wore red, and after them came
Frederick the Great's fine Royal Guard, and they all arranged themselves
in two lines for the carriages to enter.

"The Berliners refused to have Royal Chamberlains about the carriages.

"'We want to see the Princesses, not Chamberlains,' they said.

"Ludwig named the people to me.

"The handsome, white-haired lady with bright, sparkling eyes, was the
Countess von Voss, the Mistress of Court Ceremonies, who had gone to
Potsdam to meet the Princess. There was the Duke, and the grandmother,
and the brother of the Princesses, and the Maids of Honour, the two
Ladies Vieregg, and Master of Court Ceremonies von Schulden.

"We could hardly see them for the crowd, and there was a woman near me
who talked so much I could hardly hear Ludwig. She said that her husband
was a member of the Guild of Butchers and he had marched to Potsdam,
which was splendidly decorated, in a brown suit with gold shoulder-bands
and a gold-figured vest and splendid red galoon hat with lace trimming.
They gave the first welcome to the Princesses and, goodness knows, the
butcher's wife was proud of it.

"But at last she was still, for in a splendid gold coach drawn by eight
horses came the two brides.

"They are so beautiful I cannot describe them.

"They are both slender and very graceful, and they both have blue eyes
and golden hair, but if you once see Princess Louisa, you can never look
again at Princess Frederika.

"The people were enchanted.

"'Never have we seen such eyes, never,' was all we heard, for the
Princess turned as she stepped on the platform and smiled right at us.

"They were blue and true, and oh, they are so different from other
people's that I do not know how to tell it. They seem to say: 'I love
you, I love you.'

"The sweetest thing happened.

"The prettiest little baby girl in white and pink, with a wreath of
roses on her curls, came out on the platform to welcome the Princess.
She was like a round-cheeked cherub, and she carried a bouquet of roses
almost as big as herself. It was a poem she said of great big grown-up
words, and her mouth was so tiny that it made everybody smile just to
see her.

"'When thou appearest,' she began, and kept ducking her little head and
then smiling at the Princess and looking out of the corners of her eyes.

"I have never seen anything half so pretty.

"And when she was through, what did she do but just stand and look at
the Princess and smile, as much as to say: 'And how, dear Princess, do
you like it?'

"And then what did our new Princess do but spring forward, catch the
little round-cheeked thing in her arms and hug and kiss her as if not a
soul was looking.

"'You darling!' she said.

"The people were just wild.

"'She will not only be our Queen,' said the woman who talked so much,
'she will be a mother to her people.'

"But the Mistress of Court Ceremonies was shocked.

"We could hear what she said, quite distinctly.

"'My heavens!' she cried, and her voice was so full of horror that even
Ludwig laughed, 'what has Your Highness done? That is against all
etiquette.'

"Then our Princess turned just like a girl.

"'What!' she cried, and I never heard a voice so sweet and like a silver
bell, 'may I not do such things any more?'

"'She is adorable," said Monsieur de Paillot, who was standing quite
near mother.

"'She is an angel,' said the woman who talked so much."

"Why, Mariechen," interrupted Elsa, "that's what everybody now calls
her."

Marianne nodded.

"Go on," commanded Carl, whose blue eyes were quite eager with
listening.

"After that," went on the journal, "the Princesses went to the palace,
where the Princes were waiting. We had to wait for the crowd to thin,
and Monsieur de Paillot and Ludwig fell to talking. He is a French
refugee, I think. Berlin is full of them.

"'Monsieur,' he said to Ludwig, 'this parade to-day recalls another that
I saw when a Princess came, also, to my kingdom.'

"We all listened politely.

"'She came, my friends,' he said, 'from Vienna, that Princess. Her
bridegroom was the Dauphin of France. She, also, was beautiful.'

"He looked so solemn he took all the pleasure from our procession.

"A queer wrinkle came in his forehead and he looked almost like a
revolutionist.

"'Many things have come to pass,' he said, 'since I first saw that Queen
of France.'

"It was Marie Antoinette, I knew it, then. Poor lady, the wicked French
have beheaded her.

"Monsieur de Paillot looked at me sternly.

"'These are troubled times,' he said. 'Old things are passing, new
things are being born. Ours is a day of revolutions, of changes. There
has been a struggle for liberty in America. I had the honour, as you
know, of fighting with the noble Lafayette in the Colonies. I have seen
Washington. I have talked with Thomas Jefferson, with the learned
Franklin. You, here in Prussia, still have serfs, no constitution, and
no patriotism. In America, the women went in homespun, the men starved
at Valley Forge, and all for the rights of man. But here, pardon me,
Madame, but is it not true that you borrow your language, your customs,
everything from France? I fear that lovely young Princess may suffer.'

"Mother was furious. So was I. But Ludwig nodded.

"'You are right, Monsieur, quite right,' he said, and I think that
horrid in him, even if he will be my husband.

"'Monsieur,' I said, 'was the Queen of France as beautiful as our
Princess?'

"Then he made me a grand bow that made me think he was not quite so
horrid.

"'Mademoiselle,' he said, 'I have never seen so lovely a woman as this
Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, never.'"

When Marianne read this the children stopped her.

"Was that our Queen?" asked Carl.

"Of course," said Ilsa, "first she was Crown Princess, then our Queen."

At that moment the maid brought in the supper.

"To-morrow night," said Marianne, "I will read you the next things that
happened. Come, now, Bettina, you may pass the bread, and Ilse, you and
Elsa sit here one on each side of me, and Carl, you may be father."

"It is nice, Mariechen," said Ilse, "to have you take care of us."

"Yes," said Elsa.

"I love you, Mariechen," and Carl hugged her until she was nearly
strangled.

Marianne, her eyes dancing, was glad that she was trying to be better.
It made her happier, she found, than even "The Sorrows of Werther."





CHAPTER XV

THE MARRIAGE


"Now," said Marianne, next evening, "I will read again in the journal.
Are you ready, children?"

And she glanced around the little group.

There were the twins with their tent stitch, Carl with his pencil and
drawing book, Bettina with her knitting.

Marianne smiled and settled herself most importantly.

"Carl," she said, "bring another candle. Elsa, will you please draw
closer the window curtain, and Bettina, child, sit nearer the light.
Now, ready?"

"Our Princess," began the journal, "was married last night, Christmas
Eve, in this year of 1793. When mother lit our tree and my sister
Clarechen's children, Franz and Wolfgang, were clapping their little
hands in joy, Ludwig lifted his hand.

"'Our Crown Prince has a wife now,' he said, and glanced at the clock.

"Baron von Sternberg, an old friend of my father's, came to-day to see
mother and told us all that happened last night, for he was at the
wedding.

"He said that our new Crown Princess was most beautiful in white with a
crown of sparkling diamonds that the Queen herself had placed on her
lovely golden head. Before she was married, the widow of the Great
Frederick gave her a blessing, the blessing of an old woman, she said.
Then came the wedding in the Ritter Saal. The altar was beneath a
baldachin of purple velvet embroidered in crowns of gold, and hundreds
of candles made a splendid light. Oh, how I should love to have seen all
the velvets and jewels and the fine ladies with powdered hair and the
men with their clothes of fine velvet!

"I long for the Court, and because of my father's fine position, I could
go there, but my mother will not have it.

"No, she says, it is wicked there. Our King is too gay, and she told me
a sad story of the Countess von Voss, the lady I saw in the procession,
and who, it seems, is mother's old friend from girlhood. This lady went
to Court very young and the King's brother fell in love with her, and it
was all so unfortunate, for he must marry a Princess, and the Countess,
her cousin.

"But the wedding.

"Ober-Consistorial Rath Sack performed the ceremony, for he had both
baptised and confirmed our Crown Prince. The Berliners wished a fine
illumination, but the Crown Prince would not have it.

"'Nay, nay, good Berliners,' he said, 'give the money to the widows and
orphans of the soldiers killed in the war with France.'

"Ludwig says that he is much worried over the debts of his father, the
King, who is jolly and beloved of the people, but who spends everything
he can lay his hands on.

"After the wedding came the polonaise. It is an old custom and takes
place at the marriage of every Prussian Crown Prince.

"The pages first bring in torches and present them to eighteen
ministers of state. Then trumpets sound, the royal family rise from the
semi-circle in which they sit under a baldachin, the Lord Chamberlain
gives a signal, and the dance begins, all in the light of the torches
the performers bear with them.

"The Baron said that it was most enchanting. The King danced with our
new Crown Princess, the Crown Prince with the Queen and the widow of
Frederick the Great. Round they marched to the pretty polonaise step at
the corner of the room, dividing and changing partners, the torches
blazing, and oh, the lords and ladies so fine and grand!

"To-day is Christmas, and I was in the old Cathedral, and who should
come in but the Crown Prince and Princess? They seem so in love with
each other that it is beautiful to see. And they are most religious.

"As we were coming home from church we met Monsieur de Paillot. He told
us something which filled me with the greatest joy.

"Our King was not quite pleased with the wedding.

"'There were too many embroidered coats,' he said, 'at the second we
will have a few commoners.'

"And so the Berliners can go to the wedding of Prince Ludwig and
Princess Frederika, and my Ludwig will take me. Oh, what happiness, for
I shall see our Crown Princess in her robes and her diamonds.

"The dress I wore to the wedding was most beautiful. A young French girl
designed it with the taste and skill of her nation. It was made for a
great ball at which I am to be introduced to society, but mother bade me
wear it to Court.

"It was of white tissue, and above the hem of my flowing skirt was
embroidered a border of fleur-de-lys in purple and gold. My kerchief was
fine as a web and edged with rare lace, and for the first time my hair
was raised high and powdered. Mother finished my joy by clasping about
my throat a necklace of purple stones.

"'Your dear father gave them to me when I was a bride,' she said with a
sigh, for it is but two years since we lost him.

"'Lovely!' cried my sister Clarechen when she saw me, but Ludwig
frowned.

"'Why French flowers?' he asked, his eyes on the fleur-de-lys. Ludwig
sees all things. 'Why not something German and blue?' he asked with
great discontent.

"Ludwig is very strange in some ways. For one thing, he will not speak
French, like all well-bred people.

"'I am a German,' he will say, 'why not speak my own language?'

"And he calls mother 'Frau,' and not 'Madame,' and me 'Fraeulein,' and
all my notes to him must be written in German, and German is so hard,
not beautiful, like French, and he scolds me when I make more than a
dozen mistakes in my articles: _die, der, das_.

"But my dress, my lovely, lovely dress!

"It might have been blue, or red, or any colour, for all that it
mattered. The crowd was so great no one looked at poor little Erna von
Bergman, and next day she spent hours darning a great rent in her skirt.

"But I have seen our Crown Princess, and she smiled right at me, so what
else matters? No one could behead her as the French did Marie
Antoinette; no, not even for liberty.

"She was in white and wore a crown of sparkling diamonds. The Crown
Prince looked at her as if he adored her. He is very earnest and grave,
she, very bright and gay. There is great love between them, I can see
that, because of my own love for my Ludwig.

"I saw our King at the wedding, and he was most amusing. Of late years
he has grown very stout, and because of his increased size he found it
difficult indeed to pass through the room with his arm laden with the
widow of Frederick the Great, our Queen Dowager.

"The crowd could not help punching him with their elbows.

"Think of it! Even Ludwig nudged our King!

"But he was not the least angry.

"He winked, actually winked, and then called out in his merry, jolly
way:

"'Don't be shy, my children. The wedding father can have no more room
to-day than the guests.'

"The Berliners were delighted.

"Our King is a great favourite because of his jokes and his calling the
people 'Children.'

"But Ludwig does not admire him. He says one should weep to think of
such a man wearing the crown of the Great Elector, or Frederick the
Great, that he is like Charles II of England. He believes much in
spirits and has mediums and such people always about him. But he is very
benevolent and gives to the poor.

"Oh, it was fine at the wedding! I saw all the great people of the
Court, and how I longed to be one of them and live in such splendour!
But with torn dress and tired feet I came home to our humble dwelling.
At least, it isn't so humble--mother would frown at such a word--but one
says that when one goes to Court, where all is the grandest....

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have decided to always put down what I hear of our Crown Princess,
how the King loves her, and how our Crown Prince forgets his sad nature
when he is with one so happy and gay, and all that the Berliners talk
about."

Here Marianne paused and turned over some pages.

"I will skip," she announced, "because all on these pages is about other
things. To-day I have read it all and have marked only that which will
interest you."

"There are many things we hear of our Crown Princess," she then read.
"She and the Crown Prince play many pranks upon the Countess von Voss,
who loves etiquette and ceremony above all things. But that is on the
surface; in her heart she adores the Crown Prince and the Princess
Louisa, who is now like her daughter. As for them, they are full of
mischief.

"All Berlin just now is talking of how our Crown Prince and Princess say
'thou' and not 'you' to each other, according to our sweet German custom
of making a difference between friends and strangers.

"The Court, when this report spread, cried out in horror. It was not
according to French etiquette.

"The King commanded his son before him.

"'What is this I hear?' he demanded, 'that you call the Crown Princess
"thou"?'

"'You hear it upon good grounds,' answered our Crown Prince, with his
slow, good-humoured smile, 'when a man says "_du_" (_thou_) the person
to whom he speaks knows whom is being spoken to, but when I say "_sie_"
(in German written "_Sie_" for "_you_,"--"_sie_" for "_they_") who can
know whether I say it with a capital letter, or not?'

"From the beginning our Crown Prince had objected to the formal
etiquette which Frederick the Great imposed upon our Prussian Court. He
longs always to have his home life free from formality.

"'I desire with all my heart,' said he, 'to live as a plain person and
not as a royal one.'

"One evening the Crown Princess returned from a feast, and ridding
herself of her finery, ran like a girl to her husband.

"Clasping her hands, he gazed in her wonderful eyes.

"'Thank God,' he said, 'thou art again my wife.'

"The Crown Princess' silvery laugh rang through the room.

"'What?' she cried, 'am I not that always?'

"The Crown Prince shook his head with an air of sad discontent.

"'No,' he said, 'thou must so often be Crown Princess.'

"The Countess von Voss thought it her duty to bring this lively pair to
order.

"'You do not please me,' she said one day to the Crown Prince. 'French
etiquette rules all Europe, and I, as Court Mistress of Ceremonies, must
lecture your Royal Highness for seeking the Crown Princess without
announcement.'

"The Prince made a face and looked as if he were going to be
stubborn.--I heard all this from Baron von Sternberg.--Then suddenly
inspired by a secret thought, he laughed.

"'Good!' he cried like a penitent boy, 'dear Voss, I will reform. So
have the kindness to announce me to my wife and ask if I may have the
honour of speaking with her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess, and
express my hope that she will graciously grant it.'

"The good Countess beamed her approval.

"Now, indeed, was the wayward young man behaving as he should.

"With dignified steps she sought the apartment of the Princess, and was
beginning the announcement when a laugh interrupted her.

"The Crown Prince, laughing as hard as he could, sat on the couch with
his arm around his wife.

"Jumping up, he seated the Countess between them. Then he took her hand
and spoke quite decidedly.

"'See, dear Voss,' said he, 'I hurried in another way to show you that
my wife and I see each other unannounced and quite as often as we will.
That, in my opinion, is the only Christian fashion for married people,
Royal or commoners. You are our charming Court Mistress,' the Crown
Princess gave her one of her enchanting smiles, 'but Louisa and I have
made up a name for you. You are now to be Dame Etiquette.' And all
Berlin now calls her that.

"Dame Etiquette arranged a drive for the Crown Prince, the Princess, and
herself, only last week, the Baron says. She insisted on a grand
carriage, with bodyguard in costume. Above all the Royal pair hated
this, but Dame Etiquette firmly commanded the equipage and arrayed in
state she seats herself, at the Royal command, to await the others.

"The Crown Prince, coming out, gave a low order to the coachman, and off
drove Dame Etiquette alone in the splendid state carriage, and behind
her the naughty laughing Prince and Princess in a plain two-horse affair
like commoners. All eyes were fixed on her, and Louisa and Fritz had as
good a time as if they were not Royal.

"It seems strange to me how we long to be grand like princes and all
they want is to be like us.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yesterday was our Crown Princess' birthday. All Berlin has made much of
it, but in the palace it was grandly celebrated with a fine masquerade
ball.

"All Berlin talks of what happened in the palace. When Princess Louisa
came to the King for her birthday kiss he embraced her like a real
father and said: 'You are the Princess of Princesses, my Louisa.'

"Then a company of Court ladies and gentlemen appeared before her, all
arrayed as citizens of Oranienburg. One made a fine speech and presented
her with a key.

"'Of our castle,' they said. 'You are to be its mistress.'

"Then, amid the excitement, the King explained that he gave her the gift
of this castle for a summer residence.

"Ludwig told me that the wife of the Great Elector, another Louisa,
lived there, and so it is very fitting that our Crown Princess have it
because of her name.

"The King gave our Crown Princess another gift.

"At the ball he said quite suddenly to her:

"'Princess of Princesses, if you had a handful of gold, what wish would
you grant yourself?'

"'I should make happy the poor of Berlin,' answered the birthday child.

"'How large, then, must the handful be, Princess of Princesses?' asked
the King with a smile.

"'As big as the heart of the best king in the world,' answered our Crown
Princess, her eyes dancing.

"And now we hear that because of this clever answer Berlin is to have a
fine new charity.

"Ludwig says it would be much better if our King paid his debts, but I
like our King, and so do the people."

Marianne skipped a little.

"Our Crown Prince has gone to Poland. We hear much of a brave man called
Kosciusko, but Prussia rejoices that at last we have defeated him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"To-day seventy-two guns sounding from the palace informed us that our
dear Crown Princess has a son. We are glad, indeed, for she lost her
first little daughter, who never lived a day.

       *       *       *       *       *

"For godparents our new Prince has the Queen, the widow of Frederick the
Great, the Prince and Princess Henry, Prince and Princess Ferdinand, and
the Crown Princess' father. His name is Frederick William, for the King,
who held him during the ceremony, when the same clergyman who baptised
his father gave him his name.

"Our Crown Princess is more beloved than ever and now all Berlin
rejoices over her son.

"As for me, Ludwig will have it that we marry in a year. I will then be
sixteen and two years older than mother was when she was a bride. There
is much to do. I must fill my wedding chest with linen and all things
for my house."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Our Crown Prince has bought a country home at Paretz. He and our Crown
Princess long for a simple life. We hear much talk of what happens
there, how they ramble in the woods, seek wild flowers, have supper
under the trees and spend their days very happily.

"Our Crown Princess calls herself 'Gnaedige Frau von Paretz (the Gracious
Lady of Paretz), and takes part in all the village festivities. One
evening all the villagers came in costume and announced that they would
have a dance on the green. Our Crown Princess led the whole Court to
take part. The village fiddler played, the peasants danced, and all was
as merry as possible.

"But suddenly the Crown Princess had an idea.

"She ordered the castle thrown open, the Court musicians summoned, and
all went in to dance on the fine polished floors.

"When Monsieur de Paillot heard this he shook his head.

"'Marie Antoinette played at being dairymaid, n'est-ce-pas?' and he
looked as if we intended to turn revolutionists and cut off the head of
our dear Crown Princess just for pleasure.

"Old General Roeckeritz, the friend of the Crown Prince, is much at
Paretz, and Berlin tells a story of him also.

"He had a way of leaving the table the moment the meal was at an end.

"No one could imagine what he did with himself, and it worried the
Gnaedige Frau von Paretz to have him leave her.

"'Let him alone,' said her husband, 'he is old and wants his comfort.'

"But our Crown Princess was not satisfied.

"Next day at the end of dinner she appeared with a tray on which were
cigars and a lighted taper. The whole company gazed at her in surprise,
the general, as usual, trying to escape.

"With a smile the Crown Princess detained him, presenting her tray.

"'No, no, dear Roeckeritz,' she said, 'do not go away. To-day you must
have your dessert with us.'

"The old general was enchanted. Now he need not sit alone to enjoy his
cigar."

Marianne, pausing, began to turn over pages.

"There is so much, children, I can't read it all. Besides, it is sad.
The Princess Frederika loses her husband, the widow of Frederick the
Great dies, and so does the King. Then the Queen has a second little
son. His name is Frederick William Louis, but you know who he is, our
Prince William. He was the tiniest little babe, it says here. But you
must hear how good our Queen is. 'I am Queen,' she wrote to her
grandmother, 'and what rejoices me most is that I need no longer
economise in my charities.'

"The citizens of Berlin at once, when she became Queen, waited upon
her," read Marianne. "The Queen made them welcome and said: 'It gives me
great pleasure to know you. The good will of my Prussian subjects and of
you will never be forgotten. It shall be my aim to hold that love, for
the love of his subjects is the best crown of a King. With joy I embrace
this opportunity to know my citizens better.'

"To Roeckeritz the King said:

"'My blessed uncle, Frederick the Great, has said that a treasure is the
basis and prop of the Prussian states. We have now nothing but debts. I
shall be as economical as possible.'

"Then did he propose to continue, as King, to live upon the income he
had made suffice as Crown Prince?

"'The debts of my father,' said he very earnestly, 'must be paid by
industry, discipline and economy.'

"Ludwig," wrote Erna, "is much pleased with all this, but he hopes the
King will not forget that France is not yet at the end of her troubles.
There is talk of a young man named Napoleon Bonaparte, who is the hope
now of France. They say he will right everything.

"There are many stories told about our new King and his hatred of
ceremony. I will write them to amuse myself. My wedding will not be
quite so soon. I am not well and it is best for me now not to work. I do
not know what is my trouble, but I cough and do not sleep well at nights
and all are very, very kind to me.

"Now for the stories of the King.

"Immediately after the death of the late King, the Chamberlain threw
open both folding doors for the entrance of Frederick William. One had
been enough for him when he was Crown Prince.

"'Am I,' he asked in his whimsical way, 'in a moment grown so much that
one door will not do for me?'

"When the chef added two more dishes to the bill of fare, with a smile
he remarked to his wife: 'It is easy to see that they believe that since
yesterday I have received a larger stomach.'

"According to a custom established by Frederick the Great, two
Lieutenant-Generals always stood at the Royal table, and, with the Court
Marshal, waited until the King first should drink.

"When Frederick William saw them standing like posts at his board he
waved his hand toward chairs, inviting them to be seated.

"'We cannot be seated, your Majesty,' they answered with great dignity.

"'Why not?'

"'Your Majesty must first drink.'

"'And what must I drink?' inquired William, smiling and gazing at the
glasses.

"'It is not stated, your Majesty.'

"The King seized a glass of water and drank it standing.

"'Now sit,' cried he in relief, as if he thought it all foolishness.

"Soon after the Crown Princess became Queen she went with her husband on
a journey through his realm. It was the first time that a King of
Prussia had taken his Queen with him so far from Berlin, and Ludwig says
the people were delighted.

"Baron von Sternberg comes in now and then to see mother, and he is
always full of court gossip. At Stargard, in Pomerania, he says, the
King reviewed the troops and then the Queen started towards Custrin. At
one of the villages the people surrounded the royal carriage and begged
our Queen to alight and have some refreshment they had prepared.

"At once she left the carriage and went right into their houses, seeing
their children and talking with the villagers.

"They were delighted, the Baron said.

"At Dantzic there were great ceremonies, and the amber workers gave the
Queen a most lovely necklace. We hear that she wore it all the time she
was in that city. As the Queen loves the country, she made many
excursions. One was to Karlsberg, and now they will always call the spot
where she stood 'Louisa's Grove.'

"It would take too long to tell everything, how the Queen stayed a week
in the old palace at Koenigsberg, and the people, to please her Majesty,
who always loves to do good, gave a great dinner to the poor, and
everywhere she stepped flowers were strewn before her. So in love with
our Queen were the people of Koenigsberg, that a large body of citizens
insisted on going with her to Warsaw. As they were going down a steep
hill, because of the carelessness of the coachman, our Queen's carriage
was overturned. The Countess von Voss, declaring him to be drunk,
reproved him very sharply. But our Queen can never stand seeing people
unhappy. She touched the Countess on the arm. 'Thank God, we are not
hurt,' she said, 'let it pass over quietly, for the accident has
frightened our people much more than it has us; let us not add to their
troubles.'

"But how delighted Berlin is over the Queen's reception in Warsaw I
cannot write. Ludwig has explained to me that the Poles do not love
Prussia, who has conquered them, but they forgot all their hatred and
received our King and Queen with cheers, flags, and much waving of
handkerchiefs. And fifty Polish girls in white, with wreaths on their
heads and baskets in their hands, walked before their Majesties,
strewing flowers. And at a village sixteen Polish girls greeted her with
a song. Everywhere there were processions. For myself, I should tire of
so many, but the Baron says that our dear Queen loves gaiety and she
loves her people and smiles are always on her face and kind greetings on
her lips.

"As she talks she waves a little fan, fast if she is merry, slow if she
is thoughtful or sad. Ludwig brought me one of the fans now the fashion
in Berlin. They are small and all young ladies have them. There is a
picture of the King and Queen on them, and 'Long live Frederick William
and Louisa,' as an inscription.

"Mine is blue and the pictures have gold frames about them."

"But I must not forget the Queen's journey. At Breslau there was a great
procession of market gardeners and butchers, and there came a young girl
with a poem in her hand to welcome our Queen. But, alas, she could not
speak for bashfulness. And what did our good Queen do but smile on her
and hold out her Royal hand to encourage her?"

"And such presents as our Queen received!"

"There is now a new Princess. Her name is Charlotte, and the people of
Breslau gave her all her clothes, most beautifully embroidered."

"As the Queen's carriage passed through the country it had to have fresh
horses, and the villagers dressed up their manes with ribbons, put red
nets over their ears and adorned their heads with flowers and gold and
silver paper, this being the custom among the peasants, and it amused
the Queen greatly."

"In June our Queen came home, and now we often see her in the
Thiergarten, arm in arm with the King, walking quite simply like
every-day people."

"Mother went last week to pay a visit to the Countess von Voss, and she
told her something I shall write here.

"The first Queen of Prussia lived in the palace at Charlottenburg, and
her portrait hangs there with many others. One is that of the wife of
our Great Elector. Her name was Louisa, like our Queen, who feels a
great love for her.

"'Her face,' she told the Countess, 'seems to greet me with a heavenly
smile.' The Countess wrote it in the journal she keeps and writes in
each morning. 'I look upon it until I feel that there must be a living
bond of sympathy between us.'

"This Louisa, history tells us, had much trouble, and once with her
children was forced to flee before an enemy. All that our Queen
discussed with the Countess.

"'But oh!' she exclaimed--I can shut my eyes and picture her as she said
it--'what must have been her happiness in finding that she could help
and comfort her husband in the hours of his heavy trial!'

"But our Queen is not to flee before an enemy, for our King alone in
Europe keeps the peace."

"But she did, Mariechen," interrupted Ilse.

"I met her in the snow," said Bettina, her blue eyes filling.

Marianne nodded.

"Our Aunt Erna could not know that," she said, and continued the
reading.

"Our Queen has three children now, and all Berlin says what a good
mother she is, very often in her nursery. Every morning she and the King
go in and kiss each child, and as they grow old enough our King sends a
basket of fruit to each one every morning. And now they begin to give
parties for the Crown Prince."

"Yes, indeed," interrupted Marianne, "when we lived in Berlin the Royal
children had many entertainments. Once the little daughter of the
famous Madame de Stael was there. She is a writer, children, and she has
written a fine book about us Germans. Her little girl is not so good as
her books," laughed Marianne, "but very spoilt and very rude, and what
do you think she did at the Royal party?"

The children shook their heads.

"She boxed the Crown Prince's ears."

"Oh!" Carl's eyes grew round in horror.

"Ja," said Marianne, "she did, and the Crown Prince ran to the Queen and
buried his face in her dress, but nothing anyone could say would make
little Mademoiselle de Stael apologise. But she was never asked again to
even one of the masquerades, balls or plays. At Christmas they had
always a tree and our dear Queen decorated and dressed it herself, and
there were dances and jugglers, and once at Paretz they had a lottery
for all the children. I was there with our father and when a child did
not draw a prize, our Queen, with one of her lovely smiles, gave a
present herself."

Then she returned to the journal.

"At Paretz, our Queen's country home, all ceremony is laid aside. The
King will be called 'Schulze' (magistrate) and they join in all the
sports and dances of the people who live there.

"But our Queen loves to be grand, also, and there was once in Berlin a
fine masquerade in her honour, a play where girls represented cocoons,
and at her approach untwisted themselves from their wrappings and danced
out butterflies. And once there was a fine play representing the
marriage of Queen Mary of England and Philip of Spain. Our Queen was
Mary and many people think it a bad omen, for this Queen was so unhappy
and lost Calais to the English. The Duke of Sussex was Philip. But there
are people who do not love our Queen. Colonel York is one. He came
yesterday to pay his respects to mother and he said horrid things, that
our Queen's hands are too big and her feet not well made. Ludwig says
this is because she has influence over the King and because she will
have a well-behaved Court. Colonel York says she does not treat the
military with proper respect.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is again May, and our Queen has gone on another journey. To-day we
visited Peacock Island, where she lives so happily in the chateau built
like a ruined Roman villa. I saw the very rooms of our Queen, and the
menagerie, and heard from Ludwig and the Baron, who was with us, how
happy our King is when he can throw off affairs of state and come 'home'
to Peacock Island."

"Yes," interrupted Marianne, "we used to hear a great deal about Peacock
Island when we lived in Berlin before this awful war. Once Bishop Eylert
was sitting beneath the trees with our King and Queen and her Majesty
inquired of a servant where the children were.

"'Playing in a meadow, Majesty,' said the attendant.

"Our Queen jumped up in the way she does and cried out that she would go
to them and surprise them.

"Our King agreed, and they all three got into a boat and the King rowed
them up the Havel, which, you know, makes the Island.

"Suddenly the boat appeared before the children. 'Where did you come
from, papa?' cried our Crown Prince in surprise.

"'Through the reeds and rushes,' answered our King.

"'Amongst reeds is good whistle cutting,' said our Crown Prince quick as
a flash.

"And then our King asked him what that proverb means, and he answered
that it means that a wise man knows how to take advantage of
circumstances. Then our King wanted to know if he were in the rushes,
what whistle he would cut, and the Crown Prince said he wished they
could all have tea together there on the meadow."

"And did they?" inquired Carl, who was very fond of picnics.

"Ja," answered Marianne, "and it was lovely, with our Queen helping them
and laughing, and their father teasing and telling stories."

"I know a story, too," said Carl. "Mr. Jackson told me."

"Tell it," begged the twins. "Go on, Carlchen."

"Two Englishmen went to Peacock Island," said

Carl, puffing out his words in his eager importance. "They had no right
to go and they went. An officer ran them away. But they met a lady and a
gentleman. It was our King and Queen. They made them stay and they
showed them everything, and the Englishmen did not know that it was our
King and Queen. My story is best, ja, Mariechen; isn't it, Bettina?"

Marianne nodded.

"But now, let us read," she said.

"Peacock Island has also a palm house, and there are many peacocks and
doves and pigeons, of which our Queen is so fond.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Our Queen is so good to all children.

"'The children's world is my world,' she says, and she is always being
kind to some child, and when she and the King drive out she will salute
the people with smiles long after he is tired and stops it.

"Often I think of what our poets have said of her. She is one of four
sisters. One is our Princess Louisa; another, Theresa, is the Princess
of Thurn and Taxis; and the third, Charlotte, is the Duchess of
Sachsen-Hildburghausen. Our great poet, Jean Paul Richter, called them
'the four noble and beautiful sisters on the throne.' And famous Wieland
said of our Louisa, 'Were I the King of Fate, she should be Queen of
Europe.' And Goethe," Marianne rolled her voice and the twins giggled,
"who was with the Duke of Weimar in camp and saw our Queen and her
sister, Frederika, when, as princesses, they came to visit their
betrothed with their grandmother, from his tent, wrote in his journal
that they were visions of loveliness which should never fade from his
memory. And she has set the Berlin young girls a fine example in dress.
Ludwig is delighted. She wears very simple muslins, and, indeed, why
should she waste her time over silks and brocades when white so suits
her?"

Marianne here stopped in her reading.

"Go on, Mariechen," said Carl, the other three looking up in surprise.

"That is all, children. Our dear Aunt Erna died the month before she was
to marry Cousin Ludwig. But there are stories I can tell you, which have
happened since our dear Aunt Erna died.

"Once on a journey she arrived at the place where they were to eat, a
long time before her husband. They entreated her to eat, as the meal was
ready, but, 'No, I will not eat until my husband comes,' she said. 'It
is the duty of every wife to wait for her husband.'

"And once, children, our dear Queen, when she was gay and happy, and not
sad as now, came to Memel on a visit, and the Czar was here and they had
oh! such feasts. Uncle Joachim has told me about it, and when the next
baby came she was called Alexandrina, because of her mother and father's
great friendship for Alexander. Uncle told me another story. Once the
treasurer told our Queen that she gave too much money to the poor, and
said that he must speak to the King.

"'Do so,' said our Queen; 'he will not be angry.' And she was right, for
when she opened her writing case she found her purse full of gold, and
the King laughed and told her that a fairy had placed it there.

"And once, when the Countess von Voss was angry with a poor woman for
making a mistake and sitting in the Royal pew, our dear Queen sent for
her and told her how sorry she was. Oh, children, I could talk all night
of her, she is so good and so kind to everybody. Once she made a grand
lord wait until she could talk with a poor shoemaker who had come first,
because, she said, the shoemaker's time was valuable and the lord's was
not.

"Once our King came to breakfast with our Queen and saw a new cap lying
on the table.

"'What does that cost?' he asked the Queen.

"'It is not good for men to ask the cost of ladies' things,' answered
the Queen, with a laugh.

"'But I should like to know,' insisted the King.

"'Only four thalers.'

"'Only! For that thing?'

"Then the King ran to the window and called in an old invalid soldier
who was taking his air.

"'The lady who sits on that sofa has much gold,' he said, and pointed to
our Queen. 'What do you think, old comrade, she gave for that thing on
the table?'

"'Perhaps, sire, a groschen.'

"'You hear that?' asked our King. 'She has paid four thalers. Now, go
ask her to give you twice as much!'

"With a smile the Queen paid the money, and then said: 'Now, see that
gentleman who stands by the window? He has four times as much gold as I
have. All that I have he gives me, and it is much. Go to him, then, and
ask for double eight thalers.' So, you see, children," laughed Marianne,
"our King got the worst of it.

"I could tell you many other stories, but it is bedtime. I have let you
sit up late, very late, and I can only tell one more, and then to bed.
Franz, Wolfgang, and I were once in the Christmas Markt. We were
choosing our gifts, when the crowd moved back for a gentleman with a
lady on his arm. It was our King and Queen, and they came straight to
one booth where a poor woman was buying her gifts. At once she tried to
get out of the way. But our Queen stopped her with a smile. 'Remain, my
good woman,' she cried; 'what shall this merchant say if we drive away
his customers?' Then she asked the poor woman all about her family, and
when she heard that she had a boy just the age of the Crown Prince she
bought a lovely toy for her boy to send to the poor one. Now, wasn't
that good in her? And is it not fine that she is here in Memel and we
can know her? As for Napoleon, he is wicked to cause her such trouble."

"I hate him," said little Carl, his cheeks puffing and his face becoming
quite red.

"Yes, yes," cried the twins; "we hate him."

But Bettina looked eagerly at Marianne.

"Gracious, Fraeulein," she said, "when will Frederick Barbarossa awake? I
am always telling the ravens."

Before Marianne could reply Carl jumped from his seat, the twins started
up in fright.

A sharp knock had sounded on the window.

"What is it, sister?" And the twins ran to Marianne.

At that moment the Professor came in at the door.

"Nonsense," he said; "who could be at our window?"

But the children insisted.

"We heard it, father," they said.

The Professor, crossing the room, opened the sash, the children
following.

On the window lay a piece of folded paper.

His face full of amazement, the Professor brought it to the candles.

The writing was in German, and the letters like those of a person who
wrote very seldom.

     "Your son, the Herr Lieutenant, has escaped and is in hiding.
     Put money and food on the window to-night and it will be
     fetched to him. It is not safe to say more.

     "ONE YOU KNOW."

"One you know," repeated the Professor. Then his eyes scanned the
writing and he shook his head.

"Grandfather writes that way," said Bettina, her eyes all afire.

Before anyone could stop her Elsa cried out in surprise:

"Why, Bettina," she said, "your grandfather can't write. A soldier
brought news to the King that he is dead."




CHAPTER XVI

WHAT HAPPENED TO HANS


When Hans left Memel he went at once to the house where he had stayed
the night with Bettina. The woman who had cleaned the dress was standing
in the doorway.

"It's a cold day," she said in French to a man who had paused with a
bundle to ask her a question.

Hans started.

"Ach Himmel," he said, for the look of her face, the way she pronounced
her words told the old man that she was no Prussian.

He turned in at the next house and begged a lodging.

The woman took him very willingly.

"Money is scarce," she said, "and my man will be glad to have me help a
little."

She was a large, honest-faced woman, not clever looking, but one Hans
felt safe to talk with.

Ja, ja, her neighbour was French. She and her husband had come there a
month after Jena. He pretended to be a peddler who was prevented from
travel by the war.

"We do not believe a word of it," said the woman, lowering her voice.
"Too many strangers come there who do not speak honest German. My man,"
she shrugged her shoulders, "has his own opinion of what they are here
for."

Hans looked at her inquiringly and waited.

"It's Napoleon," said the woman, and she brought Hans his black bread
and cheese.

The old man reflected as he drank.

He remembered that a little fellow who looked foreign had sent him to
the house that day when they had entered the village with the Queen's
party. He knew that all along his way the French had been warned against
a messenger bearing a secret letter about the Secretary Lombard, who
was suspected of treachery and dealings with the French. There were
other matters in the letter, matters the King should have knowledge of,
but how to get possession of it again the old man had no idea.

"I shall watch here, however," he concluded. "I may find out things just
as useful as the letter."

For three days nothing happened.

On the night of the fourth he could not sleep because of the rattling of
his window.

Rising to stop it with paper he was astonished to see a long ray of
light across the snow in the garden.

"Himmel," said Hans, "it comes from next door. It must be after
midnight. She has visitors."

He threw on his clothes and crept to the garden.

Ja, he was right. The light came from the kitchen of the next house.

"I shall wait," said Hans, "and see what happens."

It was bitterly cold. The wind cut like a knife, the trees and bushes
cracked their icy dress; but Hans had a fur cap, and he drew it well
over his ears.

He had been in the cold for a half hour when a sound made him start.

It was the creaking of the kitchen door of the next house. The light
vanished, and with careful steps a dark figure moved across the snow.

Hans nodded.

"You go, I follow," he thought.

He was a spy himself. The man in the snow, he knew, was another.

The man left the garden. Hans left his.

On he went through the snow, Hans always a good pace behind him,
stopping if he stopped, running if he ran, and, two men moving as one,
they came to the open country.

Pausing, the man gave a low call.

It was answered with cautious care.

Then a sleigh with high runners and a driver in a fur cap glided from
the distant darkness. A figure, not the driver, leaned from the fur
rugs.

"You have it?" was asked in French.

"Yes," said the man; "the woman told the truth. It is the one we are in
search of."

The man in the sleigh uttered a sound as of congratulation.

"Lombard, you mean?"

"Yes, yes. The woman has had it three days. Here."

Something white was held in the air--his letter. Hans recognised it.

The man moved to spring into the sleigh, but a quick hand caught him, a
foot tripped him up, and snow flew everywhere as two bodies rolled in
the whiteness.

It was all over in a second.

Paper flew on the wind, torn fiercely in pieces, and then Hans found
himself bound fast with handkerchiefs and woollen scarfs, flat in the
bottom of the sleigh, four feet upon him.

What matter?

He had seized the letter in the scuffle and only the swift wind of the
Baltic knew where were the pieces.

The Prussian King would never know if Lombard were guilty, but the
French would not possess a drawing of certain frontier fortresses.

The Frenchmen were furious. They vowed Hans should be shot that night
like a dog.

The driver brought them a piece or two of the letter, but one was half
blank and the other was the address to His Majesty.

"Dantzic!" ordered the man, when the driver declared further search was
useless.

Then off they dashed.

After some talk in low tones they changed their direction, but to what
place they decided to go Hans could not discover.

One of the men addressed him in French.

"For safety's sake," he muttered to his neighbour.

Hans feigned ignorance.

"I do not understand, monsieur," he said stupidly, in German.

With relief the two raised their voices and talked steadily as they flew
over the snow.

Dantzic must fall. It grew daily weaker.

"The Emperor," said one, "will wipe Prussia out of existence."

Then he told how it was believed that Napoleon meant to make a new
kingdom.

"His brother, Jerome, has nothing yet," he said, and he laughed at the
Prussians and called them pigs and cowards, and made jokes about the
generals, and said things that Napoleon had invented about the Queen.

It was hard for Hans to lie still and say nothing, but the first thing
in life is to know when to hold one's tongue, and Hans knew it was
useful to listen.

Early in the morning they came to a town, through whose gate they
entered. The sleigh drew up before a great building. A French soldier
came quickly to greet the travellers, one of whom sprang out and entered
the house with him.

"Coffee," ordered the other. "We are freezing."

In a few moments several soldiers appeared. They ordered Hans from the
sleigh; handcuffs were locked on his wrists, and he was marched away,
the second traveller and driver following.

Hans asked the soldier near him in what town he was.

The man laughed mockingly.

"Where you are," said he in bad German, "is none of your business, old
man. What you are, you and I know."

He thrust out his under lip and shrugged his shoulders.

"Old man, what you are I can tell you--a spy of the King of Prussia and
a prisoner of the Emperor Napoleon!"

Then he held up his hands to imitate a gun, and half closing his eye
pretended to take aim at the prisoner.

"To-morrow? Next day? Who knows?" and he led Hans to a cold bare room,
when, locking the door, he left him.

"What matter?" muttered Hans. "I am old, and the French will never read
the letter."

Very likely he would be shot, and soon. In Magdeburg they had shot down
Prussians by dozens. The day he had stopped at the farmhouse he had
heard how they had chained a father and son together, marched them
through the town and shot them.

"It is war," said Hans; "I took my chances. The good Mademoiselle Clara
will take good care of my Bettina."

The next day came, and the next; a week passed and nothing happened.

The truth was, the victory at Eylau was uncertain. Napoleon was checked
and all things were waiting. There was hope of peace, and an order came
to march all prisoners to another city.

It was the good God, Hans believed, who directed his eye to a field as
he was marched to his new prison, a castle the French then were using.
The field itself was white and crusted with snow, but Hans' eye noted a
large spot where the whiteness had been melted and then had frozen, as
if water had flowed upon it. It was near spring now and there were
thaws, then more snow, and then fresh melting and freezing.

The spot Hans noticed had nothing to do with this. It was as if a large
stream of water had a habit of pouring out there. Yes, he was right, for
he saw that the snow was broken and frozen towards a ditch on the
boundary of the field.

"It must be a sewer," said Hans, and thought no more about it.

Life in the castle was easy and pleasant. The place was so strong there
was no danger of escape, so the commander, being easy-going, permitted
the prisoners much liberty, allowing them to walk about for air in the
paved courtyard.

Hans enjoyed this, being used to the air and freedom of his Thuringian
forest.

His room in the castle had a window, and that also made him happy. One
day, gazing out, he discovered that the field he had noticed lay quite
near the wall of his prison.

"Ach Himmel!" cried Hans, with a start. "It is the sewer pipe of this
castle!"

A thought struck him. He was old, yes, and he had said he did not mind
dying; but his heart beat wildly at the thought of escaping from certain
death by shooting. Day after day he thought on the sewer. Where was the
exit, he wondered, from the castle! He would find it, yes, if it were
possible.

To get air he went to the courtyard. New prisoners had arrived in the
night. They, too, were walking.

"Ach Himmel! God be praised!" cried Hans, for he came face to face with
the Herr Lieutenant.

But what a change!

He was thin, gaunt, and pale, and his face and figure looked wretched
and hopeless.

"Hans Lange!" he cried, and then there was much to talk of.

To his ear Hans confided the idea of the sewer, and hope at once began
to change the expression of the prisoner.

After the great victory of Friedland there was a truce to discuss peace,
so Hans still remained a prisoner; and one day he was ordered to work in
the garden of the castle.

"Food is scarce, prisoners are many and idle. We may have some
vegetables; why not?" asked the commandant.

"The good God again," thought Hans, for he had his own idea about that
sewer. The garden must be drained. The pipe, certainly, must do the
labour, and, the good God helping him, he might again see his Bettina.

And one day in the garden he came upon the iron lid of a manhole,
overgrown with grass and very rusty.

"The sewer!" thought Hans, with joy. "It is big enough for a man to slip
through."

He bent over. He pulled on the bars. Then he glanced up to see if he
were observed. The eye of a sentinel seemed on him, so, seizing a weed,
he pulled hard, tugged, and then rising with the thing in his hand,
flung it aside. Satisfied, the sentinel showed no more curiosity.

Again and again he tried to loosen the lid, but no effort could move it;
but though he went about his work, he returned now and then to his
prize, and suddenly, while he was in a different part of the garden, an
idea struck him. The bar on which the lid was swung was eaten with rust.
Could he break it, the lid could be lifted at will.

He returned and examined closely. Yes, he was right; the rust was of
ages. Lifting his spade, he pressed with all his might. God be praised!
It was easier than he had thought. More pressure and it broke like wood.
The other side was more difficult and it occupied days, but at last it
was free.

"Now the Herr Lieutenant!" thought Hans in glee.

"The thing for me," cried Franz, his face alight with new hope, "is to
feign illness, entreat for some labour and beg to be allowed to help in
the garden."

Hans did not believe this would be possible.

"You, an officer!" he said, and shook his old head.

"I can try," said Franz, and presented himself before the proper person.

"Inaction is killing me," he announced. And, indeed, he looked most
dreadful, pale, bloodless, and a ghost of the brave young officer of
Jena.

The French were always good-natured with the German prisoners until the
time came to shoot them, and that, after all, was Napoleon's affair, not
theirs, and so the Herr Lieutenant was permitted to dig.

"A strange occupation for an officer," and the commandant shrugged his
shoulders. But the Germans, at best, he thought, were only pigs, so if
this one wanted to root, let him. The walls of the castle were high.
Escape was impossible.

"Now," said Hans, "now, may the good God help us with the rest!"

"Amen," said the Herr Lieutenant.

And it seemed that He did, for on the second day of Franz's digging a
quick, pelting June rain hid them entirely from the view of the castle.

The rain came down in sheets; all were safe in the castle, not a soul
could see them. The rain changed suddenly into hail. All the better, and
the good God be thanked!

"Now," cried Hans; "now or never!"

He jerked the lid off the hole.

Down went the Herr Lieutenant, his feet landing in the sewer, his head
still in view.

"Good," he said, "good! There is space enough below."

Then down he went, and Hans saw him no more.

The old man had kept for himself the hard task. He must cover the drain
after him with the lid. Down he went, holding the cover in his hand
above him, for the drain was too narrow for him to lift his arm once in.

"Ach Himmel," he thought, "the rain is ceasing."

Then he lowered the lid, balanced on his palm, and as he struggled into
the sewer proper it fell into its place with a crash.

"Ach Himmel," said the old soldier, for he was sure the noise would tell
the story. But he pushed forward eagerly.

Only the thought of liberty could make such an awful journey possible.

The Herr Lieutenant, being ahead, kept out the air from one end, and
water came pouring in at the other. But fortunately the way was short,
and the Herr Lieutenant was soon in the field, and the water coming
suddenly with a rush bore Hans like a straw, landing him almost drowned
in the ditch near the Herr Lieutenant.

For a few moments he could not breathe, but the voice of the Herr
Lieutenant recalled him.

"Come," said the young man, "come!"

"Ja, ja," and off they started.

For an hour they crawled in the ditch, which seemed to be interminable.
Once or twice they heard guns, but who shot them they had no idea, and
then presently the ditch ended.

"Come; we are safe now," said the Herr Lieutenant, and he raised himself
up from the bushes, Hans following his example.

"Gott im Himmel!" he cried.

On the road before them came soldiers in French uniform.

"Back!" cried the old man, "back; lie flat, or they will see you!"




CHAPTER XVII

AT TILSIT


It was while the children were in charge of Marianne that something very
important happened at the town of Tilsit, on the river Niemen.

On that twenty-fifth day of June, in the dreadful year of 1807, all the
people of the place were gathered on the river banks in high
excitement. Actually their faces looked joyful, a thing which had not
happened since Napoleon had entered Prussia.

"Now we shall have peace. Congratulations!" they exclaimed one to the
other, gazing at a raft gay with flags, anchored midway between the
shores of the river.

"They have bought every bright rag in Tilsit," said a fat, jolly-faced
merchant, nodding in congratulation.

"Ach ja," returned a friend, "God be praised! It is many a day since
there has been selling in Prussia."

Then, "Look! look! Napoleon! Napoleon!" as a man, heavy now to fatness,
stepped into a boat most gorgeously decorated.

"The monster! the upstart!" muttered the people. But that was of no
concern to the conqueror, whose eyes wandered restlessly from shore to
shore and whose mouth pressed its lips to cruel firmness. Behind him
followed marshals and generals, gay in scarlet, gold, and white, and
blue.

A boat decorated with the colours of France awaited their coming.

"The Czar!" cried the people, as a second cavalcade approached. "Our
ally, Alexander!"

There was no handsomer man in Europe. Tall, majestic in appearance, in
every way a contrast to Napoleon, the ruler of Russia approached a
second boat, opposite Napoleon's, and brilliant with yellow and black.
The monarch was followed by his brother, Grand Duke Constantine, by his
generals and many Russian lords.

At a signal and amid the cries of the people, off pushed the boats.

The first to arrive was Napoleon, who sprang to the raft, and with his
own hands opened the door of the pavilion and turned to welcome his
guest.

Cannon announced the arrival of the Czar, and the two monarchs stood
hand in hand in full view of the allied and French armies, lined up on
both banks, and of the people of Tilsit, who stared at each other in
surprise.

"Where is our King?" they asked. "Is he to have no voice in the making
of peace?" And their eyes searched everywhere.

Alone, on his horse, his face troubled and anxious, they saw the one
they sought. There was no boat to bear him to the raft. Prussia's
colours appeared nowhere. The two emperors were to settle the affairs of
Europe. The King of Prussia was conquered and not wanted. Joy faded from
the East Prussian faces.

"Our King is a good man," they said. "We do not find it good that he is
so neglected."

The King himself looked neither to the left nor the right. He rode
forward, his splendid figure outlined now against the sky, now hid by
the soldiers. At a certain point he turned. Back he rode, and then
turned again.

"Our poor King!" said the people, and while cannon roared and soldiers
cheered, their hearts began to beat fiercely against both Alexander and
Bonaparte.

For an hour the two emperors conferred, the generals waiting in their
boats, Frederick William pacing back and forth on his horse.

Then presently it began to rain, at first lightly, and then suddenly in
torrents, as if Heaven itself was weeping over blood-stained Europe.

The King of Prussia rode to and fro, not minding the downfall, but
thinking only of the cruelty of the man who had shut him out of the
conference.

Everything was against him; he had lost his kingdom, his friend the Czar
was deserting him, and yet, as his wife the Queen wrote her father, he
was "the best man in the world," a King who lived only to help his
subjects; a King who loved right and hated wrong, who believed in good
and tried to do it.

But, like the Queen, he trusted in God, and even as he rode up and down,
shut out in the rain from the conference, he knew that Napoleon and
wrong could not always have their day, that right and justice always
conquer. But Frederick William, good as he was, had a foe worse even
than Napoleon. At no time in his life could he decide a thing quickly,
or at just the right moment. He must think things over, he must look at
both sides, and while he wavered in came the enemy and took the prize.

When an hour had passed there came a change. Napoleon summoned all the
generals and counsellors, who, drenched and dripping, entered the door
of the pavilion.

For two hours more they talked, the King still riding in the rain.

Surely, he thought, the peace which they were making must be favourable
to poor Prussia. His friend, the Czar, must see to it. He himself had
stood by Alexander; now let Alexander be true to him.

Had they not sworn an eternal friendship; was not his little daughter
named Alexandrina, and was not the Czar also the friend of the Queen and
the old Countess, to whom he had promised many things?

When Alexander of Russia entered the pavilion in the Niemen he had at
heart the welfare of Prussia only. In one hour Napoleon did much. Always
he studied citadels, or men, and discovered what we call the weak point.
On it he turned his battery.

"We all know," he said to Alexander, "that no monarch in Europe has such
thoughts as your Majesty for the welfare of mankind."

Alexander's face softened. He was truly a philanthropist.

After a few moments' talk along this line Napoleon mentioned the word
"England."

The Czar's eyes flashed.

Napoleon abused that country with vigour.

Alexander drew nearer.

"I dislike the English as much as you do," he said, "and am ready to
second you in all your enterprises against them."

"In that case," said Napoleon, taking note of Alexander's fine head and
the weak lines in his handsome face, and remembering how, when he had
been First Consul, the Emperor of Russia had been his most ardent
admirer, "everything will be easily arranged, and peace already is made.
You and I," he added, with an emphasis very flattering, "understand each
other. It will be better if we do without our ministers, who often
deceive us, or misunderstand us. We shall do more in an hour than our
negotiators would in several days."

Then he talked as if the Czar and he were Atlases of the world and that
all the earth rested upon their shoulders.

Alexander, listening, began to think that after all his allies had been
no good. Prussia had dragged him to defeat; England had done nothing to
help either of them. Surely a monarch must consider his own welfare.

When at last the conference ended and the two mighty emperors came forth
into the sight of the people of Tilsit and their waiting soldiers, their
faces were glowing. Waving their hands again and again, each was rowed
to his own bank of the Niemen. They had formed a friendship--Russia and
France, Alexander and Napoleon--and the whole world was to profit.

When Napoleon stepped on shore the people of Tilsit were deafened by the
cheers of his soldiers.

As for Alexander, he gazed up into the gloomy face of the King of
Prussia and a cloud passed over the sun of his joy.

"The Emperor desires to meet your Majesty to-morrow," said he, and his
eyes fell. "We can go together," he added, and then hastily deserting
the subject, he proposed that they arrange about lodgings, as for the
time they must remain in Tilsit.

"Very well," said Frederick William, and his heart sank.

Next day the King of Prussia was admitted to a second and very different
conference, and his noble dignity under his misfortune so struck
Napoleon that he spoke of it.

"I have nothing to reproach myself with," said the King very simply.

Napoleon's eyes fell, but only for a moment.

He answered with a shrug.

"Nor have I."

The King was silent.

"I warned you," Napoleon looked entirely innocent, "against England. It
is she who has caused your troubles. But France," his tones became most
grandiloquent, "can afford to be generous. In a few days all will be
arranged."

Never was any man treated more cruelly than poor, good, unhappy King
Frederick William. Yet there has never been a King who behaved better in
time of trouble. In peace he had been irresolute and sluggish. In
trouble his figure stands out against a background of woe in outlines of
dignity and nobility.

Napoleon made him feel absolutely alone, taking away his friend as he
had taken away his kingdom. Though he asked him to dinner, when the last
morsel was eaten, the last wine drunk, he bore off the Czar to his
private apartment, excusing both to Frederick William. When they were
abroad the French soldiers called "Vive Napoleon!" "Vive Alexandre!" but
never a cry from the Imperial Guard for the King of Prussia.

"It is better for me to be friendly with Napoleon," said the Czar in
excuse. The King was silent.

As for Napoleon, he utterly refused to have the King near him, unless
absolutely necessary.

"I can't stand his gloomy face," he told Alexander.

The Czar and Napoleon embraced in public. The French and Russian
soldiers became like brothers, leaving the Prussians to humiliation and
solitude. The King, who had always suffered from shyness, felt more and
more uncomfortable, being made always an unwelcome third. He had no
opinion of himself, the Queen was not there to cheer him, and each day
he grew more gloomy and sad.

One day the people of Tilsit saw the three monarchs riding together, the
Czar and Napoleon entirely ignoring the King, who let his horse drop
behind and rode alone.

"Has not our good King been true to the Czar?" they cried, and in their
hearts the fire against Napoleon and Alexander burned fiercer. "In
January," they said to each other, "we could have made peace if our King
had promised to desert Russia. And now the Czar deserts our King."

But in spite of his friendship with Napoleon, the Czar truly loved his
friend and wished to help him. His brother Constantine forced him to
many things, threatening him with the fate of his father, who had been
assassinated, if he did not save Russia at the cost of Prussia.

In the midst of all the great worry an idea entered his head and at once
pleased him.

Of all living women he most admired Queen Louisa, not only for her
wonderful beauty and lovely ways, but for her goodness and her love for
her husband and her people.

"Send to Memel for the Queen," he proposed to Frederick William, for he
knew things which were to come to pass that the King did not. "Napoleon
now is very anxious to see her. Who can tell what good she may do for
Prussia? One so beautiful, so spiritual, so unhappy, may soften his
heart and awaken his noblest feelings."

For a moment or two Frederick William did not answer. Above all things
on earth he loved Queen Louisa. Napoleon had mistreated her. She was
very delicate, like a flower, "the beautiful rose of the King," a poet
called her, and was it right that he ask her to beg favours of her foe?
Of the man who hated her?

"Do, Majesty, do." General Kalreuth pressed near and gazed pleadingly at
the King.

"Perhaps," suggested the Czar, "the Queen may bend the iron will of
Napoleon, may she not?" And he looked flatteringly at her husband.

Frederick William sought pen and ink and wrote Queen Louisa a hasty
letter.

"I will go to Memel, also," proposed General Kalreuth, as the King
delivered the letter to a messenger.

Frederick William nodded.

"Act as escort to the Queen," he commanded, having not a doubt of his
wife's answer.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE ESCAPE


The Herr Lieutenant obeyed Hans quickly.

In breathless silence they lay hid in the bushes.

For some time they could hear the soldiers, and then all was silent.

"God be praised!" whispered Hans, "now let us seek the road." And out
they cautiously scrambled.

All night they walked steadily, meeting no one, but now and then
catching sight of some village burning against the sky. Where they were
they had no idea, but somewhere, they knew, in East Prussia. Everywhere
was desolation. Houses had been burned, fences had fallen, and once they
came upon the blackened remains of a village. For two days and nights
they kept in the fields and woods, Hans going but once to a house to beg
for food and some coffee.

On the third evening they came upon a farm at some distance from the
road.

"We might venture there," said Hans, "for it is out of the line of
soldiers. I am sure that, Herr Lieutenant, all is deserted."

But when he reached the window of the house he returned in a scamper,
motioning the Herr Lieutenant away with his hand.

"There are French officers eating there," he announced. "Forward,
march," he added, and on they trudged.

The Herr Lieutenant grew whiter and whiter.

"I can go no farther," he gasped, and sank on the grass at the side of
the road.

His old wound had broken out afresh, and for a moment or two he looked
as if he were dying.

What to do Hans had no idea. While he was perplexing, his brain he heard
the sound of a slow, discouraged step, and presently an old peasant,
with long, unkempt gray hair and a tired, hopeless face, approached from
the wood.

When Hans told him their trouble he hesitated. Kindness and bitterness
seemed to struggle hard in his wrinkled face.

"The French have left me almost nothing," he said. Then he hesitated. He
looked at Hans, then at the suffering man on the grass.

"My house is near here," he said at last, reluctantly. Then he called,
"Heinrich! Heinrich!"

A stupid-looking boy of thirteen or fourteen was quickly at his side.

"Help," he commanded, and the three bore Franz to a small peasant house
behind the wood.

Hans promised to find money at once.

"You say we are near Tilsit?" he asked.

The peasant nodded.

"Can your boy carry a letter to Memel?"

The man hesitated.

"There are the French," he said, and went on to explain that if his boy
were seen going into Memel houses he would perhaps be shot as a spy,
their home burned, and then where were they?

"But at night," urged Hans, "let him lay a note on the window of the
house I mean and they will put out money and provisions."

After much talk the old man agreed, and Hans, with great difficulty, for
he had little education, wrote the letter that the Professor had found
on his window.

For days Franz was unconscious, but when he came to himself again Hans,
with a smile, handed him a letter from his father.

"And we have money now," said the old man with a laugh, "and all the
good food you'll be wanting."

He did not tell the Herr Lieutenant, however, that since they had found
refuge with the peasant the French army had advanced and they were
surrounded by the enemy. Instead, he announced that he had heard from
the peasant that there was talk of peace.

Now, all might have gone well had Hans been content to be quiet. But he
was a restless old fellow and he could not bear sitting still doing
nothing.

"I will go out," he announced next day, "and discover the whereabouts of
the enemy."

In an hour he returned his face full of excitement, his legs shaking.

"The soldiers saw me," he cried. "They are coming this way. Ach Himmel,
if I had been quiet!"

Then he ran for the peasant and told him that they must hide the Herr
Lieutenant.

The peasant, whose face grew dark with dread, nodded, shrugging his
shoulders.

"There is a loft," he said, "but hurry."

In his small barn was this loft, and opening from it and well concealed
by wood, a tiny closet.

There was just room for Franz, who almost fainted from excitement as
they hurriedly moved him.

"And you?" he gasped, looking at Hans.

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

"What comes, comes," he said. "Auf wiedersehen, and we will bring you
supper, Herr Lieutenant."

For hours Franz lay in the stuffy darkness. He heard the arrival of the
soldiers, loud voices, the sound of many feet and then it seemed to him
that for an hour he would die of a sudden hotness. There was a smell of
burning, too, which lasted long after it was cool again.

What had happened? His heart stood still. Would they burn the barn? The
smell of charred wood seemed stronger.

By and by hunger told him that it was supper time, but all continued
silent. He fell at last into a sleep which lasted until what he thought
must be morning. The closet was quite dark, the only air coming in from
the loft, and he felt suffocated. He must have light and air. Where was
Hans? What had happened? At last he felt that he could stand the
suspense no longer.

Putting out one foot he kicked open the door, which, kept in place by a
log, went down with a crash like thunder. Franz was in terror, but,
nothing happening, he dragged himself forward to the loft. Then he could
rise, and standing erect he waited until the dizziness in his head had
settled.

Then seeking the ladder he stepped below. Instead of the neat barn of
the day before, he saw disorder everywhere. Hay was tossed here, horses
had trampled there, and not a sound of a chicken was heard. The day
before he had seen at least a dozen.

He dragged himself to the door.

There was now no peasant's house. Only a scene of blackened ruins met
his eye.

The barn, too, was scorched; but perhaps the wind had blown in an
opposite direction, for it had not burned.

Franz trembled like a poplar leaf when he thought of what might have
been his fate.

"Thank God, thank God!" he murmured, and then, before he could reach out
his hand for support, he fell on the floor in a dead faint, and there he
lay while they were making peace at Tilsit.




CHAPTER XIX

THE FOES MEET


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
Piktupoehnen, 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 Piktupoehnen, 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 crepe," 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 crepe 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.




CHAPTER XX

THE ANSWER


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?"

[Illustration: "_Sire, 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 Piktupoehnen.

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."

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.




CHAPTER XXI

THE HERR LIEUTENANT


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 Koenigsberg, 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 Koenigsberg, 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."

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 Koenigsberg, 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 Koenigsberg."

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."

[Illustration: "_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 Koenigsberg, 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.




CHAPTER XXII

DAYS OF DARKNESS


All the Storks, grown and children, liked their new Nest in Koenigsberg.

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 Duerer 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 Koenigsberg.

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 Koenigsberg.

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 Koenigsberg.

"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 Koenigsberg."

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 Koenigsberg 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 fete, 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 Koenigsberg 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 Koenigsberg 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 Koenigsberg 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?"




CHAPTER XXIII

THE ENTRANCE INTO BERLIN


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 Fraeulein," she said to Marianne, "how happy I am." Then she
laughed her gay little gurgle. "I think, Gracious Fraeulein, 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.

But, in spite of all this, Prussia had no money.

"But our King does all he can," said Ludwig to Madame von Bergman one
evening when he and Pauline came to supper.

"Yes," put in Franz, who was then in Berlin, "he has ordered the Royal
table to be laid with four dishes only at dinner, and at supper with
two."

"And I heard," said Pauline, looking up from her embroidery, "that when
a servant asked how much champagne to order, the King said none should
be purchased until all his subjects could drink beer again."

Madame von Bergman shook her head sadly.

"No hope of that. Look at this coffee," and she poured out a cupful from
the pot on the tray the maid had brought in for the visitors.

"Oak bark, carrots, and beans burned together, that is our coffee,
thanks to Napoleon."

While they were talking, in came a visitor.

"Napoleon has shot Andreas Hofer," he announced, "at Mantua!"

The two men started from their seats.

"Impossible!" they cried out, but alas, next day they learned the truth
of it. This brave innkeeper of Innsbruck, who had fought so bravely to
free his people, had been betrayed by a friend to Napoleon and shot in
Mantua, over the mountains.

The Queen wept tears of sorrow when she heard of this sad tragedy.

"What a man," she had written, "is this Andreas Hofer, the leader of the
Tyrolese. A peasant has become a captain, and what a captain! His
weapon, prayer, and his ally, God. Oh, that the time of the Maid of
Orleans might return that the enemy might be driven from the land!"

It was about this time that Napoleon permitted Minister Hardenburg to
return to his duties. At once affairs began to prosper.

"And the Queen," Marianne wrote to her mother, "is to take a journey.
She is to go with the King and her children to all the places where she
had lived as Crown Princess, to Paretz, to Oranienburg, and Peacock
Island."

At Paretz the Queen walked up and down the avenues with her husband.
Suddenly she turned to him very solemnly and said:

"Fritz, you have made me very happy, you and our children."

But Napoleon had no mind to add to her happiness.

"Pay your war debt!" he kept crying.

"We have no money," said the poor Prussians.

"Then I rule you until you do," was Napoleon's unchanging answer.

"And the wretch," said Madame von Stork, "has ordered our King to assist
a huge Russian force through Prussia."

"And I heard," said Pauline, "that when the King heard the news he bowed
his head and said that of all men he was most unlucky."

"But our Queen," put in Marianne, who was working at tent stitch, "is to
have a great pleasure."

The two ladies gazed at her in curiosity.

"She is going to visit her father," answered Marianne. "The Countess
told me. She has not been home for many years, and when she told the
King of her great longing, he consented. She is to leave to-morrow."

Bettina, who was on her way to the "Stork's Nest," saw her depart.
Catching sight of the girl, the Queen smiled a farewell. For some reason
it made Bettina solemn.

"It was as if she were saying good-bye forever," she told Marianne
later. Marianne laughed merrily.

"She will be back in a few days. What nonsense!"




CHAPTER XXIV

"MY QUEEN, MY POOR QUEEN!"


On the night of July 18 a travelling carriage dashed towards
Fuerstenburg, the first town within the Duke of Mecklenburg's dominions,
the driver urging its horses to their utmost.

Within sat the King, pale and thin from a severe attack of malaria. With
him were the Crown Prince and Prince William, the faces of the boys wet
with tears, their eyes struggling with weariness.

On dashed the horses.

"Faster! Faster!" now and then ordered the King, clenching his hands.

Presently a rosy light heralded the day, the clarion of the cocks
announced the morning, the stars faded from the brightening sky, and the
carriage dashed through Fuerstenburg.

Two hours more. The King looked at his watch and cried:

"Faster! Faster!"

The people of the town, startled by the wheels, wondered who was passing
in such haste. Later came a second carriage, a girl's white, tearful
face gazing from one window, a round, rosy-cheeked boy against her
shoulder.

It was the King, the Crown Prince and Prince William, and Princess
Charlotte and Prince Carl hastening to Queen Louisa.

After she had reached Mecklenburg the King had joined her.

Never had he seen her look happier.

Like a girl, she told him of how she had been met at Fuerstenburg by her
sister, Frederika, her father and her brothers. Her grandmother, being
old, welcomed her at the door of the Duke's palace, and for the first
time in many years she found herself alone with her own people.

When the King came they were given a public reception.

"But only one, let it be, dear father," begged Queen Louisa. "I feel
that this happiness cannot last. Something oppresses me, so please let
us make the most of seeing each other in quiet."

When she dressed herself for this one reception, her ladies noticed that
she had only pearls for jewels.

"I have sold the rest," she said with a smile, "but, never mind, pearls
are suitable for me, for they signify tears, and I have shed many.
Moreover," and she took out a miniature worn about her neck, "I have my
best treasure."

It was a picture of the King, and the Queen gazed at it lovingly.

"After all these years, my good Fritz loves me quite the same," she
said, and looked as happy as a girl.

"Come, Fritz," she cried to her husband, and led him about, showing him
this and that and telling stories of her childhood. Never had she seemed
so happy.

One morning they were to go to see a chapel the King had expressed an
interest in.

"I will stay with George," said the Queen, who complained of not feeling
well, and so they left her with her brother.

When her father returned he found on his writing desk a note written in
French, by his daughter, the Queen.

     "My dear father," he read, "I am very happy to-day as your
     daughter and as the wife of the best of husbands.

     "LOUISA.

     "New Strelitz, July 28, 1810."

At once he showed it, to the King, and the two men were silent with
happiness. But little did they think that never again was the woman who
so loved them to touch paper or pen.

She had not been well, but nothing had been thought of it. And now, in
the early summer morning, the King was hastening to her.

"Faster!" he called. "Faster!"

She had told him good-bye with a smile and the hope of soon seeing him,
and he had returned to Berlin.

There had come despatch after despatch.

"The Queen is ill. She grows worse. Come! Come!"

But this poor, always unfortunate King was himself severely ill with a
sudden attack of malaria. For days he could not leave his bed, and it
was not until the twenty-eighth that he set off for New Strelitz. And
then the Queen was so ill there was no delaying.

It was between four and five in the morning when the carriage reached
the castle.

The Queen, who lay awake in her room, heard them come. At midnight she
had grown worse, at two she had called out to her sister, who at once
went to her bed.

"Dear Frederika," she asked in a voice like a whisper, "what will my
husband and children do if I die?"

But now the King had come.

In the hall he met the physicians. They explained that an abscess had
formed and burst in one lung. The heart was involved and the Queen was
sinking.

"Majesty," they said, "there is no hope."

The Queen's old grandmother, her withered cheeks wet with tears, took
the King's hand in both of hers.

"While there is life there is hope," she said, her old voice struggling
to comfort him.

Unlucky Frederick William shook his head.

"If she were not mine," he said, "she might recover."

The old Duke joined him. In the night they had called him from his
sleep.

The Princess Frederika was at the door.

"Is my daughter in danger?" he asked.

She pressed his hand.

"Lord," said the poor old father, "Thy ways are not our ways."

With trembling hands he now led the King to the room.

Propped up on pillows, the bed curtains looped back to give her air, lay
poor Queen Louisa.

On one side was the old Countess von Voss, Frau von Berg held one hand,
and Princess Frederika the other.

The poor "Rose of the King," whose stem had been so roughly handled, had
drooped forever.

When the physicians had entreated her to move that she might be more
comfortable, it was impossible for her strength to accomplish it.

"I am a Queen," she said sadly, "and I have no power to move my arm."

But when she saw the King, joy made her like the old Louisa.

The King embraced her as if he would never again see her.

"Am I then so ill?" she asked.

The King went from the room.

The poor Queen gazed from one face to the other, and the strength again
left her.

"The King seems as if he wished to take leave of me," she gasped. "Tell
him not to do so, or I shall die directly."

At once he returned and sat on her bed and the minutes wore away, the
arms of the old Countess supporting her dear Queen Louisa.

"Where are my children, Fritz?"

The Crown Prince and William came, hand in hand, to her bed.

"My Fritz! My William!" she said, and gave them each a smile. Then she
struggled to ask about Charlotte, who had sent her a letter about her
birthday full of tears that her mother was absent.

The effort brought on such pain that they sent the boys away.

They went from the castle and out into the garden where the air was
fresh and cool and the dew lay on the roses.

In the room the doctors were begging the Queen to stretch her arms that
she might lie higher.

"I cannot," said the poor Queen. "Only death will help me."

Holding her hand, the King sat on the bed, the old Countess knelt, and
Frau von Berg supported her head.

All through her illness she had repeated over and over the texts which
she loved and found comfort in, but now her lips could only flutter as
the breath came slower and slower.

The poor King, with bowed head, was thinking of Jena and all his Queen
had suffered.

Suddenly the Queen drew her head against the breast of Frau von Berg.
Her blue eyes opened and gazed towards heaven.

"I am dying," she said quite distinctly, "Lord Jesus, make it short."

In a few minutes the Queen of Prussia had passed beyond the power of
Napoleon to harm.

"The ways of the Lord," wrote the old Countess, "are implacable and
holy, but they are dreadful to travel. The King, the children, the city
have lost all in the world. I speak not for myself, but my sorrow is
great. My Queen! Oh, my poor Queen!"




CHAPTER XXV

AFTERWARDS


When his first grief was stilled, the King went to Fritz and Willy in
the garden. Plucking a branch on which grew three roses, he returned
with the little princes to the Queen. The three kissed her, and the King
laid the roses in her hand as the second carriage dashed up to the
palace.

Charlotte and Carl had come too late. Their mother had been dead a half
hour. The old Countess was all they had now, and she hushed her sobs to
comfort the King and her Queen's poor children, but, poor old lady, her
heart was broken at eighty and she lived only a few years more.

The doctors who examined the body of Queen Louisa after death declared
that a polypus, formed by grief and worry, had grown on her heart and
killed her, but the people of Prussia would have none of this.

"A polypus, nein," they said. "It is Napoleon who has done this. We will
rise. We will drive the tyrant from our land, for he has killed the best
friend of Prussia."

"The ravens, Bettina," said the Herr Lieutenant, "will fly now from
Kyffhaeuser. Wait, old Barbarossa will wake now and save us."

But the peasants had another hero.

"Shill is not dead!" they cried. "The brave Shill is not dead. He, too,
loved our Queen. He is in hiding and will lead us against Napoleon."

"It is as if we had lost a member of our own family," wept Madame von
Stork, as she tried to comfort poor Marianne.

When they brought the Queen's body to Berlin and it lay in state,
Bettina went, with the girls of the "Luisenstift" to look for the last
time on the face of the Queen who had cared for her. The Berliners who
gazed also, thought their own thoughts, made up their minds, and went
home to await the funeral, which took place on the thirtieth, the Royal
children with their father following the coffin, a nurse bearing in her
arms the new baby, little Albrecht.

"After Jena," said the Berliners, "we thought we had lost all, but then
we had our Queen."

Not even the Queen's death, however, moved Napoleon, who, having Prussia
under his thumb, meant to keep her there. Realising this, many patriotic
Germans, refusing to accept French rule, departed to St. Petersburg.
Among them was Baron von Stein, for the Czar, who was beginning to tire
of his friend Napoleon, invited him to be his counsellor. After his
departure Professor von Stork received a letter from Otto.

"Napoleon rules Prussia," he wrote. "If I return home I must fight as he
orders, for we fear a war with Russia. In St. Petersburg Baron von Stein
is forming a German legion of deserters from Prussia. I shall join it.
Never will I fight under the banners of France. Arndt is in St.
Petersburg, also, and will be Stein's secretary. Between them and with
Hardenburg as Minister, Prussia may yet be saved. Until then, Auf
wiedersehen."

On the very day that this letter arrived, Berlin was startled by the
news that Napoleon with his soldiers was to march against Alexander.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE CHECK


East Prussia again was frozen. The snow lay deep on the ground and the
ice rattled on the tree limbs as it had done in that year when Bettina
and Hans met the Queen on her flight to Memel. Never, the East Prussians
declared, had they known a winter so terrible. In the towns the women,
in their wadded cloaks, went still and sad, and the men, in the
high-runner sleighs with the breath frozen on their beards, talked in
mournful sentences, for they knew that the frozen Vistula held fast
beneath its icy crust a secret which, when spring should reveal it,
would turn them sick with horror and make fiercer than ever their hatred
of Napoleon.

Not that they did not hate him enough already. The Tugendbund had
carried the news of the poor Queen's suffering into every hamlet of
Prussia. Napoleon had killed her, the people cried out, and in secret
they were making ready to fight him. Never, they believed, had a country
been more cruelly treated. Villages had been destroyed, towns burned,
innocent men shot or mistreated. In the free city of Hamburg hundreds of
sick had been driven by Davoust from the hospitals, orphans expelled
from their asylums. Twenty thousand Hamburgers, ordered from the city,
shivering in the icy coldness, watched the French burn their country
houses, the flames blazing up against a winter sky and lighting a
blackened and desolate country. Near Dresden women were ordered out from
their homes and children, and with wheelbarrows, were compelled to bring
in the dead and the dying, while Napoleon enjoyed himself in the
theatre.

The check, however, had come in that icy winter of 1812-13.

Along the road from Russia, limping on frozen feet bound with straw, or
marking with blood the snow, came French and Prussian soldiers, dropping
here, dying there, sinking on land or into the Vistula. Five hundred
thousand French and the Germans forced to assist Napoleon in this war
against Russia, had marched with flying banners against Moscow. Instead
of Russians, flames met them, and now twenty thousand, for the others
had perished in the snow, or were frozen in the Vistula, were limping
back to Prussia. The horses had fallen like leaves before the icy blasts
of the Baltic, and their bodies marked the line of Napoleon's retreat
from Moscow. On they struggled, swords gone, their feet like clods,
their glory vanished. Half starved, there was nothing for them to eat,
for in Napoleon's own war against Prussia they had burned her
farmhouses, destroyed her crops and killed her farmers. They had sown
destruction and now were reaping famine.

"But God be praised," cried Otto von Stork, sitting at the campfire of
the German legion, "Napoleon is beaten."

"Ja wohl," cried his companions, flushed with their pursuit of the
flying. Then Otto lifted his voice and started a hymn Arndt had written
for German soldiers:

    "What is the German's Fatherland?
    Oh name at length this mighty land,
    As wide as sounds the German tongue,
    And German hymns to God are sung,
                  That is the land;
    That, German, name thy Fatherland!
    To us this glorious land is given;
    Oh Lord of Hosts look down from Heaven,
    And grant us Germans loyalty
        To love our country faithfully;
              To love our land,
        Our undivided Fatherland!"

And, as they sang, Otto remembered Friedland and his brother, Wolfgang.
He remembered Queen Louisa and how she had often smiled at him in Memel,
he remembered his beloved hero, Shill, and brave Andreas Hofer. Suddenly
he interrupted his song with a laugh.

"Bettina was right," he thought. "Poor little maiden! Old Barbarossa has
waked up and his sword is the spirit of the German people."

And when war was over, one day he appeared in Koenigsberg, a great,
handsome soldier.

"Ach Himmel!" said his mother, "but I am glad to see my boy again." But
Otto had talk only for the future of Germany.

His father nodded when he declared that good fortune would come again to
Prussia. And then he told how, all over Prussia, and in the smaller
states, the people were refusing to speak French, wear French clothes,
or be anything but good Germans.

"God be praised!" he ended piously.

"Where is Bettina, mother?" asked Otto quite suddenly.

When he heard of the "Luisenstift" his face fell, for he had intended
teasing her about Frederick Barbarossa.

"And Hans?"

"Not a word has ever been heard of him," answered his father sadly.

"Shot, perhaps," said Otto. "Poor old man!" and he offered his arm to
his mother. Nothing pleased her more than to walk out with her fine
soldier boy. She forgot all the trouble he had caused her and remembered
only that he had returned a hero.

Carl followed him everywhere, and informed the family that he, too,
would be a soldier.

"No, no!" cried his mother, shrinking.

But the professor reproved her.

"All my sons," he said most solemnly, "I give freely to the Fatherland."

But Madame von Stork, remembering her Wolfgang, set hard her lips.

"If there comes a war against Napoleon, I shall go as a nurse. I am old
enough now, am I not, dear father?" and Marianne slipped her arm around
his neck.

The professor nodded.

"I agree willingly, dear daughter," and he pressed her hand.

Goethe was no longer Marianne's hero.

"He sat in his garden in quiet," she said, "when the cannon roared at
Jena, and never in all our trouble has he raised his voice for Germany.
He is the greatest poet, yes, but not a hero. He saw Napoleon, he
admired him, and says he has sympathy with him because of his great
dream of uniting Europe. I cannot forgive it."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE PEOPLE'S WAR


Bettina's head was shaven like a boy's, and she held out to Marianne her
golden hair, long, heavy and in thick waves.

As for Marianne, herself, she was laying on a table in the room in which
the two stood, all her books, her beloved Goethe, Schiller, all of them,
her laces and the jewels which had been given her since her childhood.

"How nice it is, dear Bettina," she said, "to have you again with us,
now that after all these dreadful years, we are again in Berlin."

Bettina's face glowed.

"Yes, dear Mademoiselle----"

Marianne lifted her hand.

"No French, Bettina, German."

"Ja, ja, dear Fraeulein Marianne, please excuse me. I was so happy when I
heard that the Herr Professor was to come to the new University here in
Berlin and that the Gracious Frau Mother would need me again."

Marianne smiled, and then, lifting her hand to stop conversation, for
she heard someone, she called out:

"Ilse, Elsa, here, come, bring your offerings here!"

In came the twins, tall like Bettina, and quite young ladies, but as
much alike as ever.

In their hands were trinkets, books, needlework and laces.

"Here," they said, and placed them on the table. Then catching sight of
Bettina, they cried: "Your hair, oh, Bettina! Your lovely, lovely hair!"

"It was all I had," said Bettina blushing. "They tell me it will sell
and for much money."

Carl came out next, a tall young fellow now with a faint moustache to
foretell his manhood.

"This is all I have, dear sister," and he added to the pile a little
purse, some books, and a pair of pistols, once his grandfather's.

Madame von Stork followed, her hair gray now, her face lined with
sorrow. In her arms was a pile of fine embroideries, linen and
lace-trimmed table covers. In one hand was a box of jewels, in the other
the amethyst necklace her sister Erna had worn to the marriage of
Princess Frederika.

Behind her came the Herr Professor, Franz and Otto, bearing books, old
weapons and each a purse of gold.

"Now, the maids," cried Marianne. "Here, Gretchen, oh, that is fine!"
for the rosy-cheeked girl laid on the pile her peasant necklace of old
coins.

Elise, the other, gave the gold pins with which she fastened her
headdress.

"And the Gracious Frau," they said, glancing at Madame von Stork, "can
give half our wages."

While they talked, in came Ludwig and Pauline. With them was a tiny
child, bearing in her dimpled, chubby hands an earthen pot or bank in
which people save money. Ludwig led her to the table.

"For the dear Fatherland," she lisped, and she laid her little offering
with the rest.

Ludwig and Pauline added theirs, the one, gold, the other, linen, silver
and ornaments.

For a moment there was silence, then the Herr Professor stepped to the
table. His eye glanced from Bettina's shaven head to the bank of the
tiny Ernchen. Then he held his hands above the gifts.

"Dear Father in Heaven," he said, "bless the offerings of great and
small, rich and poor, to the use of the dear Fatherland, and let truth
and rightousness prosper."

"Amen," said all the "Stork's Nest."

Then he drew forward Carl, Otto and Franz.

"Our sons, also," he said, and looked at his wife.

"Ja, ja, Richard," she said, the tears falling. "I, too, am willing
now."

Marianne held out her hand to Bettina and drew her to the table.

"We go as nurses, father. You have promised."

It was the "People's War," the great German rising against Napoleon. All
over the land, men, women, and children were giving their all. Russia
and Austria joined with them and the great battle was fought at Leipsic
in Saxony. The Crown Prince fought with his father, and when the victors
marched into the city Carl, Franz and Otto were with them.

The battle itself lasted three days. On the last of these the Emperor
Francis, the Czar, and Frederick William were standing on a hill
watching the battle.

Up dashed an officer. Springing from his horse, he approached the three
rulers.

"We have conquered!" he cried. "The enemy flies!"

The three monarchs alighted with solemn joy from their horses, knelt on
the field and thanked God for the victory.

The entrance into Leipsic was magnificent. The allied armies formed in a
great square about the market place, their sovereigns in the centre. The
Prussians in their blue coats, red and white striped waistcoats, white
trousers, high boots and bearskin caps, held their eagle aloft before
the old Rathaus. The Russians, in blue coats and red collars, their
trousers strapped over their boots, bore their flags of white and
yellow, while the Austrians, in white and red, completed the huge square
of soldiers.

Bells were rung, flags were waved, and, when the war was declared ended,
Napoleon was banished to the Island of Elba in the Mediterranean Sea.

"Now we are rid of the monster," said Madame von Stork. "We can all be
happy. Thank the good God, I again have my children."

But the world was not yet through with the foe of Queen Louisa.

"Napoleon has escaped! Marshall Ney has joined him! Our foe is loose
again!" was the cry which, not many months later, rang through Europe.

It was all to be done over again. But this time England joined Prussia.
Off marched Franz, Otto and Carl, and Marianne and Bettina again became
nurses.

"Ach Himmel!" wept Madame von Stork, "will the world never be rid of
this monster?"

Ludwig nodded.

"This is the last," he said. "We now have England to help us."




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FOE CONQUERED


On the eleventh day of June, in the year 1815, Prince William received
his first communion, all the Royal family being present. The next day,
he and his father, the King, departed to join the army.

At Merseburg they were stopped by a courier. A great battle had been
fought near Brussels, the English under the Duke of Wellington, the
Prussians under General Bluecher, the brave commander who had wept when
he had given up the keys of Luebeck.

"Napoleon is conquered!" announced the courier as he handed the
despatches to the King.

The English call the battle "Waterloo," the Prussians, "La Belle
Alliance."

Old Bluecher had proved his words by fighting. The English had fought
steadily, Bluecher having promised to come if he heard the firing. The
French, who had defeated him a few days before, were in a position to
render this well-nigh impossible. But when the cannon sounded, the brave
old Prussian thought only of his promise.

"Forward, children, forward!" he cried to his soldiers.

"We cannot, Father Bluecher," they answered. "It is impossible."

"Forward, children, forward!" the old man repeated. "We must. I have
promised my brother, Wellington. I have promised, do you hear? It shall
not be said that I broke my word. Forward, children, forward!"

And so they came to Waterloo and the Allies conquered Napoleon.

"The most splendid battle has been fought. The most glorious victory
won," wrote old Bluecher. "I think the Napoleon story is ended."

In triumph, the Allies entered Paris, and Napoleon, throwing himself on
the protection of the English, was banished to the Island of St. Helena.

"Alas," wrote a great Frenchman, "had Napoleon made a friend of Queen
Louisa at Tilsit this might never have happened, for then would
Frederick William have refused to join the Allies."

Napoleon had valued Magdeburg above a hundred Queens, but one Queen had
conquered him, and Europe was free from the man who had warred with it
for twenty years.

"But," the Queen of Prussia once wrote, "we may learn much from
Napoleon; what he has done will not be lost upon us. It would be
blasphemous to say that God has been with him, but he seems to be an
instrument in the hands of the Almighty to do away with old things that
have lost their vitality, to cut off, as it were, the dead wood which is
still externally one with the tree to which it owes its existence. That
which is dead is utterly useless--that which is dying does but draw the
sap from the trunk and give nothing in return."

"I did, indeed, enjoy the sight of Napoleon," the mother of Goethe told
Marianne's Bettina Brentano. "He it is who has enwrapped the whole world
in an enchanted dream, and for this mankind should be grateful, for if
they did not dream they would have got nothing by it, and have slept
like clods as they hitherto have done."

After Napoleon had stirred up Europe with his wars, things changed, and
the ways of the world became what we call "Modern Times," and for this
even the poor Prussians thanked him, for many things improved and
liberty came more and more to the people. They spoke their own language,
they drew closer together, and, in their war against a foe, they learned
to love their Fatherland.





CHAPTER XXIX

THURINGIA


While Franz, Otto and Carl were fighting, Marianne and Bettina were
nursing the wounded soldiers.

One day Bettina was called to assist with a wounded Thuringian.

When she saw his face she cried out:

"Willy! Willy Schmidt from Jena!"

The soldier's face lit up with welcome.

"Ach Himmel!" he cried, "if it isn't Bettina Weyland!"

But the doctor ordered no talking, and so the two could only smile at
each other. But when Waterloo was many days old, and the soldier almost
well again, there was much to talk about.

Certainly Willy had a strange tale to tell. It was about Bettina's
grandfather.

"Ach Himmel, child!" he said to Bettina, "he is alive and with mother
and father." And he told how, after the "Peace of Tilsit," the old man
had wandered back to Thuringia.

"But don't think he forgot you, Bettina," said Willy very hastily. Then
he touched his head. "Poor old man," he added, "he has forgotten
everything," and he told poor, wild-eyed Bettina that old Hans was like
a child, always talking about Frederick the Great and his battles, and
remembering not a word about Jena.

"But the queer thing," said Willy, "is that he starts at any very loud
noise and he had the mark of a wound on the back of his head. What it
means we have no idea, as he remembers nothing."

Bettina's tears fell fast.

"Grandfather," she said over and over, "my poor, dear, old grandfather!

"I will go home to Jena and see him," she cried. "I will tell Fraeulein
Marianne."

"And I will take you," announced Willy, "just as soon as I am well
enough to travel." And he gazed at Bettina as if he thought her very
pretty.

"And little Hans and the baby?" asked Bettina. Willy laughed as loud as
his weakness would permit him.

"Hans, ach Himmel! That's a joke, little Hans! There's no telling how
many Frenchmen he finished in one battle. The baby is eight now," he
added.

"Hans a soldier, the baby, a big boy!" How the years had flown! Jena,
yesterday; Waterloo, to-day.

"Yes," said the girl, "I will go back to Thuringia."

Then a smile lit her pretty face.

"Do you remember, Willy, how grandfather left word we would come back
when Napoleon was conquered?"

"It is nine years," said Willy, "but you can come now, for Napoleon is
conquered."

Bettina nodded, her face still wet with tears, while her mouth was
smiling.

"They will all be glad to see you," continued Willy. "Mother and father,
and the Schmelzes, and your grandfather Weyland. He is just the same,
quite as if nothing had happened."

And so Bettina went back, and old Hans called her "Annchen," thinking
her always his daughter, and when she married Willy and had children of
her own, he used to sing for them the old song of Frederick Barbarossa,
and tell them how he had seen the beautiful Princess Louisa come into
Berlin in a gold coach to be married.

Marianne went back to the "Stork's Nest," and presently home came her
brothers. Madame von Stork's face lost its troubled look, and only the
memory of Wolfgang came to make their happy home troubled.

"Marianne is the best daughter a mother ever had," she often told her
husband, "and I owe it to our good Queen, for books and Goethe nearly
ruined her."

"Not Goethe," the professor always said, but his wife insisted.

Certainly a great honour was to come to Marianne.

On March 10, 1816, on the anniversary of the birthday of the Queen,
Marianne was summoned to Court, and conducted to a great room where were
gathered all the Royal family and many grand people, but the old
Countess, however, was there no more. She had been a mother to her dear
Queen's children until she, too, had gone her way to a less troubled
country than Prussia. After a long list of names, "Marianne Hedwig Erna
Wilhelmina Ernestine von Stork" was called.

In her trembling hand the King placed a golden cross with the letter "L"
in black enamel on a ground of blue encircled with stars. On the back
were the dates, 1813-14. A white ribbon held it, and there was a pin to
fasten it above her heart. It was the medal of the "Order of Louisa,"
instituted by the King in memory of the Queen, and given to those women
of Prussia who had so nobly soothed the wounded and the sick in the war
against Napoleon. Marianne was the happiest person in Germany.

As for her mother, she was never weary of showing the medal and telling
her friends, "My Marianne received it."

Marianne's friend, Bettina Brentano, wrote a book called "Correspondence
of a Child," into which she put all her wild fancies about Goethe, and
to-day German girls are fond of reading it. She married a German author,
and her granddaughter is a living writer.

But the story is not quite ended.

In the year 1872 crowds were again gathered on the streets of Berlin.

Standing on Unter den Linden was an old man with his grandchildren. His
hair was snow white and his face wrinkled.

"Ja, Gretchen," he said to a little girl, whose hand was in his, "in a
little time we shall see our new Emperor. This is a great day, Liebchen,
for Germany at last is free and united."

"I know, dear grandfather," said one of the others, a clever looking boy
they called Richard, "I have learned all about it in the Gymnasium, of
Napoleon and Jena, and Queen Louisa and Napoleon, and of the Crown
Prince who was Frederick William IV, and all Bismarck's and von Moltke's
dreams of uniting our Germany."

The old man smiled.

"The Queen kissed me once," he said, "Queen Louisa, I mean, the mother
of our new Emperor." Then he laughed.

"It's a great day for your old grandfather, children," he said. "Why,
the Emperor and I, he was little Prince William then, used to fight
battles against rats and mice in the old castle at Koenigsburg. It's a
great day. God be praised that I live to see it," said Carl von Stork to
his grandchildren. "Alas," he added, "that none of the 'Stork's Nest'
are left to rejoice with me!"

"Simple, honourable, sensible" little William had accomplished the great
things his mother had hoped one of her children would do for mankind.
Before he had gone to fight the French Emperor, Napoleon III, at the
battle of Sedan, he had prayed at his mother's tomb that he might do
great things for Prussia. After the Germans entered Paris all the states
had elected him Emperor and Germany at last was one Fatherland.

And now he was returning to Berlin with Bismarck and von Moltke, his
councillor and general.

Suddenly Carl smiled.

"Ah," he said as the Royal guests passed in their carriages, "there is
the Dowager Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. See, Richard, the
pretty old lady with the white hair. She was the Royal baby when we were
at Memel. She was named Alexandrina for the Czar, and how the old
Countess loved her! They called her 'The Little Autocrat.' I remember
Princess Louisa, who was named for the Queen and who was the baby at
Koenigsburg, died during the war. There is 'The Red Hussar,' grandson of
Queen Louisa. Ach Himmel! What a hero!"

When the people of Berlin saw the kind, good face of "little William,"
their new Kaiser, cries rent the air. "Long live the Emperor! Hoch der
Kaiser! Hoch!" There were cheers for his wife, also, the granddaughter
of the Duchess of Weimar, who so bravely answered Napoleon.

As for old Frederick Barbarossa, there is a poet who tells us that, when
he heard all the noise the Germans were making, he sent a sleepy little
page from Kryffhaeuser to see what the ravens were up to.

"They have flown away, Kaiser," announced the frightened little page as
he ran back to the table.

With a great yawn the old Kaiser rose from his chair and stretched
himself. His sword in one hand, his sceptre in the other, a glittering
crown on his flaming hair, he came blinking into the sunlight.

"Ach Himmel!" he cried, for before him were all the lords of Germany, no
longer fighting and quarrelling with each other, but smiling and singing
the lively tunes of "Germany over all," "United Germany shall it be,"
and "The Watch on the Rhine."

The old Redbeard beamed with delight.

"One Germany!" he cried, "then God be thanked and praised! One Germany!"

He turned to little William, standing between Bismarck and von Moltke,
the statesman and general who had made him "Kaiser."

In his hand he laid the scepter, on his head he placed the crown.

"These," he said, "I lay in thy hand."

Then he breathed a long sigh of happiness.

"God be praised," he said again. "I can now go to sleep and be happy,"
and he went back into his cave to his ivory chair and his head sank to
his hands as he settled his elbows on the marble table and the old
Redbeard went again to his dreams.

They say he still sleeps in Thuringia, but calmly and happily, because
there is one Germany, one Kaiser, and the ravens no longer trouble him.




CHAPTER XXX

THE FOES AT REST


To-day, the two Royal Foes sleep in the two famous mausoleums of the
Continent, Queen Louisa at Charlottenburg, Napoleon in Paris. Beneath
the dome of "Les Invalides" is the sarcophagus of Bonaparte. On the
mosaic pavement the names of his battles are inscribed within a wreath
of laurel. Sixty flags that he captured adorn the tomb decorated with
reliefs and lighted by a glow which falls, most golden, about the coffin
of the conqueror.

With him sleep his faithful Duroc and the Bertrand who brought his
message to Queen Louisa and so offended the old Countess with his bad
manners.

The words above the entrance are Napoleon's own:

"I desire that my ashes repose on the banks of the Seine in the midst of
the French people I loved so well."

On each side is a figure of Atlas, one bearing a globe, the other, a
sceptre and crown.

All is of earthly glory and victory.

Queen Louisa sleeps in a spot where she once loved to walk with her
husband and children. A quiet avenue of pine trees leads to a grove of
black firs, cypresses and Babylonian willows, bordered with white roses,
lilies, Hortensia, the favourite flowers of the Queen, and at the end
stands the mausoleum which Frederick William erected to her memory.

A flight of steps leads through the iron door to the interior, where, in
a violet light, sleeps the Queen, the King, and the Emperor William and
the granddaughter of the Duchess of Weimar.

The sculptor, Rauch, to whom the Queen once was very kind, carved a
statue of her so beautiful that it is almost impossible to gaze on its
loveliness without weeping.

At her feet is buried the heart of the Crown Prince, King Frederick
William IV of Prussia, in a case of silver.

As long as her husband lived he brought wreaths to the tomb. Before
Charlotte went to be Empress of Russia, she wept there. The first
Kaiser, to the end of his long life, prayed there, and little
Alexandrina, who died only a year or two ago, and saw her parent's
prayer answered, never forgot the wreath for her mother's birthday.

Above the entrance appear two Greek letters.

"I am Alpha and Omega," they say, "the beginning and the ending, saith
the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty."

The golden light which falls on Napoleon tells of the glory of the world
and things of victory.

Queen Louisa's kingdom was not, as she said, of this world; but still
she lives, the "Queen of Every Heart" in the German Empire, "Her name,"
writes a German author, "a watchword with the patriot."

Napoleon was the Emperor of the French, the conqueror of Europe; Queen
Louisa, the heroine of the German Struggle for Liberty.


THE END





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