Frederick did not know with what deadly wounds these words had pierced the princess; she had the strength to veil her passion and her shame with smiles, and in her modest maidenly pride she buried both in her heart. Since that interview years had gone by, and every year the love of the princess royal for her husband became more ardent; his eyes were the sun which warmed and strengthened this flower of love, and her tears were the dew which nourished and gave it vitality.
Elizabeth hoped still to ravish the heart of her husband; she yet believed that her resigned, modest, but proud and great love, might conquer his coldness; and yet, in spite of this hope, in spite of this future trust, Elizabeth trembled and feared more than formerly. She knew that the hour of decision was drawing nigh; she felt with the instinct of true love that a new storm was rising on the ever-clouded horizon of her marriage, and that the lightning might soon destroy her.
Frederick had been forced by the power of the king, his father, to marry her; how would it be when this power should cease, when her husband should be king? by no one held back; by no one controlled; free himself, and free to give laws to the world; to acknowledge no man as his judge; to be restrained by nothing but his conscience. Might not even his conscience counsel him to dissolve this unnatural marriage, which had within itself no spark of God's truth, no ray of God's blessing? might not her husband cast her off and take this English princess for his wife? had she not been the choice of his heart? had not King George, although too late, declared his willingness for the betrothal? had they not loved each other with the enthusiasm of youth, although they had never met? did not Sophia Amelia's portrait hang in the library of the crown prince? did not the English princess wear his picture constantly near her heart? had she not sworn never to be the wife of another man?
As Elizabeth thought of these things she trembled, and it seemed to her that her whole life would go out in one great cry of anguish and horror.
"No," she said, "I cannot live without him! I will never consent! he can kill me, but he cannot force me to break the solemn oath I have sworn on God's holy altar. He shall not cast me out into the wild wilderness, as Abram did Hagar, and choose another wife!"
He could not force her to leave him, but he could beseech her, and Elizabeth knew full well there was nothing in the world she could refuse to her husband, which he would condescend so far as to entreat; for one loving, grateful word from his lips, she would give him her heart's blood, drop by drop; for one tender embrace, one passionate kiss, she would lay down her life joyfully. But she would not believe in this separation; she would yet escape this unblessed fate—would find a way to his love, his sympathy, at least to his pity.
It was a struggle for life, for happiness, for her future, yes, even for honor; for a divorced wife, even a princess, bears ever a stain upon her fair name, and walks lonely, unpitied, ever despised through the world.
For these reasons the poor princess of late redoubled her efforts to please her husband; she entered more frequently into the gayeties of the court circle, and sometimes even took part in the frivolous and rather free jests of her husband's evening parties; sometimes she was rewarded by a smile and a glance of applause from Frederick. This was for Elizabeth the noblest jewel in her martyr crown of love, more costly, more precious than all her pearls and diamonds.
To-day one of these joyous and unrestrained circles was to meet. The prince loved these fetes; he was more charming, witty, talented, and unrestrained, than any of his guests. Princess Elizabeth resolved to be no quiet silent member of this circle to-day; she would force her husband to look upon her and admire her; she would be more beautiful than all the other ladies of the court; more lovely than the gay and talented coquette, Madame Brandt; more entrancing than the genial 'Tourbillon,' Madame Morien; yes, even the youthful Schwerin, with her glancing eye and glowing cheek, should not excel her.
She was also young and charming, might be admired, loved—yes, adored, not only as a princess, not only as the wife of the handsome and genial prince royal, but for her own lovely self. She had dismissed her maid, her toilet was completed, and she waited for the prince royal to lead her into the saloon. The princess stepped to the glass and examined herself, not admiringly, but curiously, searchingly. This figure in the mirror should be to her as that of a stranger to be remarked upon, and criticised coldly, even harshly; she must know if this woman might ever hope to enchain the handsome prince royal. "Yes," whispered she to herself, "this form is slender and not without grace; this white satin robe falls in full voluptuous folds from the slender waist over the well-made form; it contrasts well with these shoulders, of which my maids have often said 'they were white as alabaster;' with this throat, of which Madame Morien says 'it is white and graceful as the swan's.' This foot, which peeps out from the silken hem of my robe, is small and slender; this hand is fair and small and well formed. I was constrained yesterday to promise the painter Pesne to allow him to paint it for his goddess Aurora; and this face! is it ugly to look upon? No, this face is not ugly; here is a high, clear forehead; the eyebrows well formed and well placed, the eyes are large and bright, the nose is small but nobly formed, the mouth good, the lips soft and red: yes, this face is handsome. O my God! why can I not please my husband?—why will he never look upon me with admiration?"