The king followed the handsome boy, with an affectionate look, until the door closed behind him. He then turned to Wilhelmine, who met his gaze with a gentle smile. “Wilhelmine, I have entered on a new life to-day. The poor prince royal, who was harassed with debt, has become a rich and mighty king. A young king’s first and most sacred duty is to prove his gratitude to those who were his loving and faithful friends, while he was yet prince royal. And therefore, Wilhelmine, you were my first thought; therefore am I come to you to prove that I have a grateful heart, and can never forget the past. You have undergone hardships, and suffered want for me; the hour of reward has now come. Impart to me all your wishes freely, and without reservation, and I swear to you that they shall be fulfilled. Will you have a name, a proud title? will you have jewelry or treasures? will you have a magnificent landed estate? Speak out, tell me what you desire, for I have come to reward you, and I am king.”
She looked at him proudly, with sparkling eyes. “You have come to reward me,” said she, “and you are king. What care I for your royalty! The king has not the power to grant my wishes!”
“What is it, then, that you wish?” he asked, in embarrassment.
“I wish what the king cannot, what only the man can grant. I wish you to love me as dearly as the prince royal loved me. I crave no riches and no treasures, no titles and no estates. When we swore that we would love and be true to each other until death, you did not dare to think that you would some day reward me for my love. When we exchanged our vows of love and fidelity, written with our blood, this was the marriage contract of our hearts, and this contract consisted of but one paragraph. It only secured to each of us the love and fidelity of the other as a dower. Let me retain this dower, Frederick William; keep your treasures, titles, and estates, for your favorites and flatterers. Such things are good enough for them, but not for me—not for the mother of your children! Leave me in possession of my dower of your love and fidelity!”
Frederick lowered his eyes in confusion, and did not seem to see her stretch out her arms imploringly. He turned away and walked slowly to and fro.
Wilhelmine’s arms sank down, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. “The decisive hour has come,” said she to herself. “It shall find me armed and prepared for the struggle!”
Suddenly the king stopped in front of her, and a ray of determination beamed in his genial, handsome countenance. “Wilhelmine,” said he, “I stand on the threshold of a great and sublime future. I will not act a lie at such a time. Between us there must be perfect and entire truth. Are you ready to hear it?”
“I am ready,” said she, gravely. “Truth and death are preferable to life and falsehood.”
“Come, Wilhelmine,” continued the king, extending his hand. “Let us seat ourselves on the sofa, where we have so often conversed in earnestness and sincerity. Let us converse in the same spirit to-day, and open our hearts to each other in honest sincerity.” He conducted her to the sofa, and seated himself at her side. She laid her head on his shoulder, and subdued sobs escaped her breast.
“Do not speak yet,” she whispered. “Let me rest a moment, and think of the beautiful past, now that your future looks so bright. I have not the courage to look at the future. It seems to me that I am like those unhappy beings, of whom Dante narrates, that they walk onward with their faces turned backward, and that they cannot see what is coming, but only that which has been and which lies behind them. Ah, like them I see only what has been. I see us two, young, happy, and joyous, for the star of our youthful love shone over us. I see you at my side as my teacher, instructing me, and endeavoring to cultivate my mind.—Frederick, do you remember the Italian lessons you gave me? With you I read Dante, you explained to me this awful picture of the reversed faces. Shall I now experience through you the dreadful reality of what you then explained in the poem? Shall I shudder at the aspect of the future, and only live on that which is past and gone? Tell me, Frederick, can it be true, can it be possible? Does love, with all its happiness and bliss, then really lie only behind us, and no longer before us? But no, no, do say so!” she cried, imploringly, as she saw that he was about to speak; “let us be still and dream on for a moment, as we are now on the threshold of a new era, as you say.” She ceased speaking, and buried her head in Frederick William’s bosom. He laid his hand on her neck and pressed her to his heart. A long pause ensued. A last ray of the setting sun shone in through the window, and illumined with its golden light the head of the poor woman who clung trembling to her lover’s bosom.