“I must now send a courier at once to my court,” said the duke, “and I will not fail to state that your majesty advises us to unite with Austria.”
“You will do well; that is,” said the king, with a meaning smile—“that is, if you think your court is in need of such advice, and has not already acted without it. When do you leave, duke?”
“To-morrow morning, sire.”
“Farewell, duke, and do not forget that in my heart I am the friend of France, though we meet as enemies on the battle-field.”
The duke bowed reverentially, and, sighing deeply, left the royal library, “the republic of letters,” to hasten to Berlin.
The king looked after him thoughtfully.
“The die is cast,” said he, softly. “There will be war. Our days of peace and quietude are over, and the days of danger are approaching!”
CHAPTER VII. THE TRAITOR.
The sun had just risen, and was shedding its golden rays over the garden of Sans-Souci, decking the awaking flowers with glittering dew-drops. All was quiet—Nature alone was up and doing; no one was to be seen, no sound was to be heard, but the rustling of trees and the chirping of birds. All was still and peaceful; it seemed as if the sound of human misery and passion could not reach this spot. There was something so holy in this garden, that you could but believe it to be a part of paradise in which the serpent had not yet exercised his arts of seduction. But no, this is but a beautiful dream. Man is here, but he is sleeping; he is still resting from the toils and sorrows of the past day. Man is here—he is coming to destroy the peacefulness of Nature with his sorrows and complaints.