THE QUEEN'S MAID OF HONOR.
After her interview with Count Manteuffel, the queen Sophia Dorothea left the garden, and retired to her chamber. She dismissed her maids of honor for a few hours, requesting them to admit no one to her presence. She wished to consider and develop her plans in undisturbed quiet. She felt that Austria was again prepared to throw obstacles in the way of her favorite project—an English marriage for one of her children. She wished to sharpen her weapons, and marshal her forces for the approaching combat.
For a few hours, therefore, the maids of honor were free to follow their own inclinations, to amuse themselves as they thought fit.
Laura von Pannewitz had declined accompanying the other ladies in their drive. Her heart required solitude and rest. For her it was a rare and great pleasure to listen in undisturbed quiet to the sweet voices which whispered in her heart, and suffused her whole being with delight.
It was so sweet to dream of him—to recall his words, his smiles, his sighs; all those little shades and signs which seemed so unimportant to the careless, but which convey so much to the loving observer!
He had written to her yesterday, and she—she had had the cruel courage to return his letter unopened. But she had first pressed it to her lips and to her heart with streaming eyes, and had then fallen on her knees to pray to God, and to implore him to give her strength and courage to overcome her heart, to renounce his love.
Since then an entire day had passed, and she had not seen him, had heard nothing of him. Oh, he must be sad and very angry with her; he wished never to see her again. And because he was angry, and wished to hold himself aloof from her, he, the loving and attentive son, had even neglected to pay the accustomed morning visit to his royal mother, which he had never before omitted.
Her heart beating hurriedly, and weeping with anguish, Laura had been standing before her window curtain awaiting him, and had prayed to God that she might see him, or at least hear his voice in the distance. But the prince did not arrive, and now the time had passed at which he was accustomed to come. The queen had already retired to her study, and would admit no one.
Laura could, therefore, no longer hope to see the prince Augustus William on this day. As she thought of this, she felt as if a sword had pierced her bosom, and despair took possession of her heart. She threw herself on her knees, wrung her hands, and prayed to God, not for strength and courage to renounce him as before, but for a little sunshine on her sad and sorrowful love. Terrified at her own prayer, she had then arisen from her knees, and had hurried to the room of Madame von Brandt, to take refuge from her own thoughts and sorrows in the bosom of a friend.
But her friend was not there, and she was told that Madame von Brandt had gone down into the garden. Laura took her hat and shawl, and sought her. As she walked down the shady avenue, her glowing cheeks and burning eyes were cooled by the gentle breeze wafted over from the river Spree, and she felt soothed; something like peace stole into her heart. Laura had forgotten that she had come to the garden to seek her friend; she felt only that the calm and peace of nature had quieted her heart; that solitude whispered to her soul in a voice of consolation and of hope. Hurriedly she passed on to the denser and more solitary part of the garden, where she could give herself up to dreams of him whose image still filled her heart, although she had vainly endeavored to banish it.