The prince royal saw the astonished and inquiring glances of all directed to his wife, and felt that he must turn their attention in some other direction—that he must make a jest of this accident.
"Elizabeth, you are right!" said he, laughing. "The candles have burnt down; the illumination has begun; the festival is at an end. We have already sacrificed a poem to the gods, we must now do the same with the glasses, out of which we have quaffed a few hours of happiness, of merriment, and of forgetfulness. I sacrifice this glass to the gods; all of you follow my example."
He raised his glass and threw it over his shoulder to the floor, where it broke with a crash. The others followed the example of the prince and his wife with shouts of laughter, and in a few minutes nothing was left of these beautiful glasses but the glittering fragments which covered the floor. But the company, now intoxicated with wine and delight, was not contented with this one offering to the gods, but thirsted for a continuation of their sport; and not satisfied with having broken the glasses, subjected the vases and the bowls of crystal to the same treatment. In the midst of this general confusion the door was suddenly opened, and Fredersdorf appeared at the threshold, holding a letter in his hand.
His uncalled-for appearance in this saloon was something so extraordinary, so unprecedented, that it could be only justified on the ground of some great emergency, something of paramount importance. They all felt this, notwithstanding their excitement and hilarity. A profound silence ensued. Every eye was fixed anxiously upon the prince, who had received the letter from Fredersdorf's hands and broken the seal. The prince turned pale, and the paper trembled in his hands He hastily arose from his seat.
"My friends," said he, solemnly, "the feast is at an end. I must leave for Potsdam immediately. The king is dangerously ill. Farewell!"
And offering his arm to his wife, he hastily left the saloon. The guests, who but now were so merry, silently arose and betook themselves to their chambers, and nothing could be heard save now and then a stolen whisper or a low and anxious inquiry. Soon a deep and ominous silence reigned in the castle of Rheinsberg. All slept, or at least seemed to sleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
LE ROI EST MORT. VIVE LE ROI!
King Frederick William's end was approaching. Past was his power and greatness, past all his dreams of glory. Long did the spirit fight against the body; but now, after months of secret pain and torture, he had to acknowledge himself overpowered by death. The stiff uniform is no longer adapted to his fallen figure. Etiquette and ceremony had been banished by the all-powerful ruler—by death. He is no longer a king, but a dying man—nothing more. A father taking leave of his children, a husband embracing his wife for the last time; pressing his last kisses upon her tearful face, and pleading for forgiveness for his harshness and cruelty. Frederick William has made his peace with God and the world; his proud spirit is broken; his hard heart softened. Long he had striven in the haughtiness of his heart before acknowledging his sins, but the brave and pious Roloff approached his couch, and with accusations and reproaches awakened his slumbering conscience. At first he had but one answer to the priest's accusations, and that was proudly given: "I have ever been true to my wife." Roloff continued to speak of his extortions, oppressions, and inhumanity. Frederick William was at last convinced that he must lay down his crown and approach God with deep repentance, humbly imploring pardon and mercy.