"Because your excellency, after reading it, would doubtless, in your joy at having received this singular and important information, pay him a larger sum than he himself had asked."
"In that case I prefer to read the letter first," said Hardenberg, smiling, "for I must not allow your brother's generosity to surpass mine."
"Well, then, your excellency, here is the letter," said the soldier, handing a small, folded paper to the chancellor of state.
Hardenberg took it, and, as if to prevent the soldier from seeing the expression of his face while he was reading it, he stepped into the window-niche and turned his back to him. The soldier, however, fixed his lurking glances on the chancellor. He saw that a sudden shock made the whole frame of the chancellor tremble, and a triumphant smile overspread the countenance of the secret observer.
After a few minutes Hardenberg turned round again, and, carefully folding up the paper, concealed it in his bosom. "My friend," he said, "your brother was right. Twenty louis d'ors would be too low a price for this letter. We must pay more for it." He stepped to his desk, and, opening one of the drawers, took a roll from it and counted down a number of gold-pieces on the table. "Here are thirty louis d'ors," said Hardenberg, "and one for your trouble. See whether I have counted correctly. Tell your brother to continue serving me faithfully, and furnishing me with reliable reports. He may always count on my gratitude!"
Scarcely had the soldier left the room, when Hardenberg drew the paper from his bosom and glanced over it again. "At length!" he exclaimed, joyously. "The decisive moment is at hand! Now I hope to attain my object!" He rang the bell violently. "Have my carriage brought to the front door in half an hour," he said to Conrad, as soon as he entered the room. "But my own horses are tired. Send for four post-horses. A courier is immediately to set out for Potsdam, and see to it that relay horses be in readiness for me at Steglitz and Zehlendorf!"
CHAPTER XX.
THE ATTACK.
It was six o'clock in the afternoon. The gloomy January day had already yielded to a dark, cold night, enshrouding the city and vicinity of Potsdam. The king was, as usual, to go to Sans-Souci toward nightfall. There, far from the turmoil of the world, he liked to spend his mornings and evenings, retiring from intrusive eyes into the quiet of his simple domestic life. Like his august grand- uncle, Frederick II., the king laid down his crown and the splendor of his position at the gates of the small palace of Sans-Souci, and, at this country-seat, consecrated by so many historical recollections, he was not a king, but a man, a father, and a friend. At Sans-Souci his children gathered around him every evening, and, by their mirth and tender love, endeavored to dispel the clouds from the careworn brow of their father; at Sans-Souci, Frederick William received the small circle of his intimate friends—there old General von Kockeritz, Field-Marshal Kalkreuth, Count Dohna, Chancellor von Hardenberg, and the few who had remained faithful to him, were allowed to approach without ceremonial or etiquette. Foreign guests and court visitors, however, were never received at the country palace; he saw them only in the city of Potsdam, where he transacted government affairs. Thither the king repaired punctually at ten o'clock every morning, where took place the meetings of the cabinet, the consultations with the high functionaries, the audiences given to the foreign ambassadors, and the official levees, and there the king took his dinner in the midst of his family and the officers of his court. But as soon as the clock struck seven he entered his carriage without any attendants, and drove out to Sans-Souci. This had been his invariable habit for many years; and when the inhabitants of the street leading to his country-seat heard the roll of a carriage at that hour, they said as positively as though they heard the clock striking, "It is just seven, for the king is driving to Sans-Souci."
The coachman, as was his habit, as soon as the clock struck six, would harness two horses to the plain carriage which the king always used, and generally drove up to the small side-gate a few minutes to seven o'clock. Without giving any orders, or uttering a word, the king would enter, and noisily closing the door, give thereby the signal to start. The chime of the neighboring church had just commenced playing the first part of the old hymn of "Ueb immer Treu mid Redlichkeit," [Footnote: "Practise always truth and honesty.">[ thus indicating that it was half-past six when the carriage appeared at the side-gate. The wind was howling across the palace square and through the colonnade in front of the neighboring park, hurling the snow into the face of the driver, and lifting up the cape of his cloak around his head, as if to protect him from the cold and stormy night. Thomas, the king's coachman, had just removed with some difficulty the large cape from his face, and rubbed the snow from his eyes, when he heard the side-gate open. A dark figure emerged from it and entered the carriage, and noisily closed the door. Thomas had received his accustomed signal, and, although wondering that the king had come fifteen minutes earlier than usual, he took the reins, whipped the horses, and the carriage rolled away along the route to Sans-Souci. The snow-storm drowned the roll of the wheels, and rendered the vehicle almost invisible; besides, there was no one to take particular notice of it, for only here and there some closely-muffled person was to be seen on the street, too busy with himself—too much engaged in holding fast his fluttering cloak and protecting himself from the driving snow.