“High Destiny’s unhappy slave,
Absolute lord of too indolent a king,
Oppressed with work whose care importunes him—
Bruhl, leave the useless perplexities of grandeur.
In the bosom of thine opulence
I see the God of the wearied ones,
And in thy magnificence
Repose makes thy nights.”
“Descend from this palace, whose haughty dome
Towering o’er Saxony, rises to the skies;
In which thy fearful mind confines the tempest.
Which agitates at the court, a nation of enviers.
Look at this fragile grandeur,
And cease at last to admire
The pompous shining of a city
Where all feign to adore thee.”
“Know that Fortune is light and inconstant;
A deceiver who delights
in cruel reverses;
She is seen to abuse the wise man, the vulgar
Insolently playing with all this weak universe.
To-day it is on my head
That she lets her favors fall,
By to-morrow she will be prepared
To carry them elsewhere.”
“Does she fix on me her wayward fickleness,
My heart will be grateful for the good she does me;
Does she wish to show elsewhere her benevolence,
I give her back her gifts without pain—without regret.
Filled with strongest virtue,
I will espouse Poverty,
If for dower she brings me
Honor and probity.”]
The paper fell from the count’s hand and he looked at it thoughtfully. An expression of deep emotion rested upon his countenance, which, in spite of his fifty years, could still be called handsome—as he repeated in a low, trembling voice:
“J’epouse la pauvrete, Si pour dot elle m’apporte L’honneur et la probite.”
The sun coming through the window rested upon his tall form, causing the many jewels upon his garments to sparkle like stars on the blue background, enveloping him in a sort of glory. He had repeated for the third time, “J’epouse la pauvrete,” when the door leading to his wife’s apartments was opened, and the countess entered in the full splendor of her queenly toilet, sparkling with jewels. The count was startled by her entrance, but he now broke out into a loud, mocking laugh.
“Truly, countess,” said he, “you could not have found a better moment to interrupt me. For the last half hour my thoughts have been given up to sentiment. Wonderful dreams have been chasing each other through my brain. But you have again shown yourself my good angel, Antonia, by dissipating these painful thoughts.” He pressed a fervent kiss upon her hand, then looking at her with a beaming countenance, he said:
“How beautiful you are, Antonia; you must have found that mysterious river which, if bathed in, insures perpetual youth and beauty.”
“Ah!” said the countess, smiling, “all know that no one can flatter so exquisitely as Count Bruhl.”
“But I am not always paid with the same coin, Antonia,” said the count, earnestly. “Look at this poem, that the King of Prussia has written of me. Truly, there is no flattery in it.”
While reading, the countess’s countenance was perfectly clear; not the slightest cloud was to be seen upon her brow.
“Do you not think it a good poem?” said she, indifferently.