The count, having taken a last look at the arrangements and seen that they were perfect, now retired to his rooms, and there, with the aid of his twelve valets, he commenced his toilet. The countess had already been in the hands of her Parisian coiffeur for some hours.
The count wore a suit of blue velvet. The price of embroidery in silver and pearls on his coat would have furnished hundreds of wretched, starving families with bread. His diamond shoe-buckles would almost have sufficed to pay the army, which had gone unpaid for months. When his toilet was finished, he entered his study to devote a few moments, at least, to his public duties, and to read those letters which to-day’s post had brought him from all parts of the world, and which his secretary was accustomed to place in his study at this hour. He took a letter, broke the seal hastily, and skimming over it quickly, threw it aside and opened another, to read anew the complaints, the prayers, the flatteries, the assurances of love, of his correspondents. But none of them were calculated to compel the minister’s attention. He had long ago hardened his heart against prayers and complaints; as for flattery, he well knew that he had to pay for it with pensions, with position, with titles, with orders, etc., etc. But it seemed as if the letters were not all of the usual sort, for the expression of indifference which had rested upon his countenance while reading the others, had vanished and given place to one of a very different character. This letter was from Flemming, the Saxon ambassador in Berlin, and contained strange, wild rumors. The King of Prussia, it seemed, had left Berlin the day before, with all the princes and his staff officers, and no one knew exactly where he was going! Rumor said, though, that he and his army were marching toward Saxony! After reading this, Count Bruhl broke out into a loud laugh.
“Well,” said he, “it must be granted that this little poet-king, Frederick, has the art of telling the most delightful fairy-tales to his subjects, and of investing every action of his with the greatest importance. Ah, Margrave of Brandenburg! we will soon be in a condition to take your usurped crown from your head. Parade as much as you like—make the world believe in you and your absurd manoeuvres—the day will soon come when she will but see in you a poor knight with naught but his title of marquis.” With a triumphant smile he threw down the letter and grasped the next. “Another from Flemming?” said he. “Why, truly, the good count is becoming fond of writing. Ah,” said he, after reading it carelessly, “more warnings! He declares that the King of Prussia intends attacking Saxony—that he is now already at our borders. He then adds, that the king is aware of the contract which we and our friends have signed, swearing to attack Prussia simultaneously. Well, my good Flemming, there is not much wisdom needed to tell me that if the king knows of our contract, he will be all the more on his guard, and will make preparations to defend himself; for he would not be so foolhardy as to attempt to attack our three united armies. No, no. Our regiments can remain quietly in Poland, the seventeen thousand men here will answer all purposes.”
“There is but one more of these begging letters,” said he, opening it, but throwing it aside without reading it. Out of it fell a folded piece of paper. “Why,” said the count, taking it up, “there are verses. Has Flemming’s fear of the Prussian king made a poet of him?” He opened it and read aloud:
“‘A piece of poetry which a friend, Baron Pollnitz, gave me yesterday. The author is the King of Prussia.’”
“Well,” said the count, laughing, “a piece of poetry about me—the king does me great honor. Let us see; perhaps these verses can be read at the table to-day, and cause some amusement. ‘Ode to Count Bruhl,’ with this inscription: ‘il ne faut pas s’inquieter de l’avsnir.’ That is a wise philosophical sentence, which nevertheless did not spring from the brain of his Prussian majesty. And now for the verses.” And straightening the paper before him, he commenced.
“Esclave malheureux de la haute fortune,
D’un roi trop indolent souverain absolu,
Surcharge de travaux dont le soin L’importune.
Bruhl, quitte des grandeurs L’embarras superflu.
Au sein de ton opulence
Je vois le Dieu des ennuis,
Et dans ta magnificence
Le repos fait tes units.
“Descend de ce palais dont le superbe faite
Domine sur la Saxe, s’elevent aux cieux.
D’ou ton esprit craintif conjure la tempete
Que souleve ala cour un peuple d’envieux:
Vois cette grandeur fragile
Et cesse enfin d’admirer
L’eclat pompeux d’une ville
Ou tout feint de t’adorer.”
The count’s voice had at first been loud, pathetic, and slightly ironical, but it became gradually lower, and sank at last almost to a whisper. A deep, angry red suffused his face, as he read on. Again his voice became louder as he read the last two verses:
“Connaissez la Fortune inconstante et legere;
La perfide se plait aux plus cruels revers,
On la voit, abuber le sage, le vulgaire,
Jouer insolemment tout ce faible univers;
Aujourd’hui c’est sur ma tete
Qu’elle repand des faveurs,
Des demain elle s’apprete
A les emporter ailleurs.”
“Fixe-t-elle sur moi sa bizarre inconstance,
Mon concur lui saura gre’ du bien qu’elle me fait
Veut’elle en d’autres lieux marquer sa bienvellance,
Je lui remets ses dons sans chagrin, sans regret.
Plein d’une vertu plus forte
J’epouse la pauvrete’
Si pour dot elle m’apporte
L’honneur et la probite’”
[Footnote: ODE TO COUNT BRUHL. Inscription.—“It is not necessary to make ourselves uneasy about the future.”