It was on Sylvester night of the year 1736, that a man closely wrapped in his mantle, his hat drawn over his brows, was leaning against the wall of the castle at Dresden, looking upward at the illuminated windows of a mansion opposite. Music sounded within, and the burst of trumpet and the clash of kettledrum accompanied, ever and anon, the announcement of some popular toast. A moment of silence at length intervened, as if one of the guests were speaking aloud; till, suddenly, in a jovial shout, the name “Natalie” was uttered, and every voice and instrument joined in tumultuous applause.
The listener in the street turned to depart, but the next instant felt himself seized by the hand, and looking up, saw the royal page M. Scherbitz.
“Bon soir—mon ami!” cried the page, pressing cordially the hand he had taken. “I am right glad to have met you; I have sought you the whole evening, but never dreamed of finding you here. What are you doing?”
“Philosophizing!” answered the other, with something between a laugh and a sigh.
“Bon!” cried the page—“and just here, opposite the lord premier’s mansion, is the best occasion, I grant, but not exactly the best place for it. Besides it is terribly cold! You will have the goodness, mon ami, to come with me to Seconda’s cellar? We shall not fail there of some capital hot punch, and excellent company.” And taking his friend’s arm, he walked with him to a then celebrated Italian house of refreshment, on the corner of Castle Street and the old market.
Signor Seconda received his guests with many compliments, and officiously begged to know with what he should have the happiness and honor to serve milord, the page, and milord, the court organist. The page ordered hot punch, and passed, with his friend, into an inner apartment, which, to the surprize of both, they found quite empty.
“They will be here presently,” observed von Scherbitz. “Meantime, we will take our ease, and thaw ourselves a little. Parbleu! there is no place on earth so delicious; and I thank fortune, so far as I am concerned, that I can spend the night here! Eh bien! make yourself at home, friend.”
The other threw off his hat and cloak, and stood revealed a handsome man, of about five and twenty, of a figure tall, symmetrical, and bold in carriage, and a countenance whose paleness rendered more striking the effect of his regular, noble, and somewhat haughty features. About his finely chiselled mouth lurked something satirical whenever he spoke; there was a fierce brightness in his large dark eyes, which sometimes, however, gave place to a wild and melancholy expression, particularly when he fixed them on the ground, suffering the long lashes to shade them.
“You are very dull to-night, mon ami!” said the page, while he pressed his friend to a seat next him. “Has any thing happened? Non? Well then, banish your ill humor, and be merry; for life, you know, is short at best.”
“Never fear,” replied his friend. “My resolution is taken, to live while I live, in this world. Yet have patience with me, that I cannot go all lengths with you at all times. You know I am but a two years’ disciple.”