"Dreadful!" exclaimed Madame von Borg, indignantly. "A Prussian minister does not shrink from advising the king, although we are at peace, to sacrifice the best province that has remained, and which even the defeats of Jena and Friedland, and the intriguing days of Tilsit did not endanger!"
"And if we do not consent to such a sacrifice (and we shall not), what next?" exclaimed the queen, despairingly. "Napoleon will send his army and expel or imprison us, as he treated the unfortunate royal family of Spain. Oh, Caroline, I shall be uneasy night and day. Dreadful apprehensions are constantly meeting me. I think of Spain, and fears oppress me lest my husband have the same fate as King Charles. Believe me, his life, his liberty is threatened, and he is every day in danger of being suddenly seized and taken away as a hostage, until we have fulfilled the behests of the tyrant, and given him all that still belongs to us—our honor, our crown, and, perhaps, our lives. We are surrounded by French spies: every word, every look, is watched; only a pretext is sought to ruin us, and it will be found, as it was in Spain. Oh, he will take my husband from me! he will drag him as a prisoner from one place to another as he did the King of Spain; he will sow the seeds of discord in our family as he did in that unhappy country. He, the tyrant Napoleon, brought about a quarrel between the Infante and his father; he compelled, with his iron hand, the unfortunate King Charles to write that his son's guilt had raised a barrier between father and son. But whose hand was it that constructed it? Can there be any doubt? It was his alone! Oh, will there be a time, and shall I live to see it, when the hand of God will at length write the 'Mene, mene, tekel,' on his wall?"
"Your majesty will live to see that time," exclaimed Madame von Berg. "You will witness the judgment of Heaven and of the nations overthrowing the tyrant."
The queen shook her head. "No," she whispered, "I shall not live to see it. I think this will be the last time that I celebrate my birthday here."[51]
"Oh, Louisa," cried Madame von Berg, bursting into tears, "do not titter such cruel, heart-rending words. You will live, you must live, for the consolation and joy of us all. It would be an injustice, and we should despair of divine equity, if our queen depart without having seen again the days of deliverance and happiness."
"My dear, Providence permits such acts of injustice," said Louisa, with a mournful smile. "Was it just that noble Palm should be shot, that Schill had to fall, and to be stigmatized as a deserter for his heroic actions? Was it just that Andrew Hofer had to expiate his glorious struggle for freedom by his death? The Emperor of Austria was in the same position as we were. He had to sacrifice Andrew Hofer as we Ferdinand von Schill. The cruel hand of the tyrant rested on him as it did on us. And now they have shot the brave, heroic leader of the Tyrolese at Mantua! My soul mourns for him, for I hoped in him. It is but recently that I understood Schiller's words, 'On the mountains there is freedom!' They resounded in my heart like a prophecy, when in my thought I looked over to the mountaineers who had risen at Hofer's call. My heart fought at his side! And what a man this dear, honest, simple Andrew Hofer was! A peasant who had become a general, and what a general! His weapon—prayer! His ally—God! He fought with folded hands, with bended knees, and struck down the enemy as with a cherub's sword. And the brave Tyrolese were fighting with him—children in the simplicity of their hearts, they fought like Titans, by hurling down rocks from the summits of their fastnesses. And yet it was all in vain! They were sacrificed, and their leader was shot by the man who to-morrow marries the daughter of their emperor. And you doubt that Providence permits acts of injustice? Oh, I do not doubt that God is just, but we mortals are often unable to comprehend his justice, because our life is too short to witness the result of that of which we have seen only the inception; but He knows the end from the beginning. And an end will come for Napoleon with all his glory. But shall I or any of us ever live to witness it?"
"All of us will," said Madame von Berg; "our belief in the final retribution of Divine justice will give us our strength, I hope, for many years."
"I shall not live to see that blessed time," said the queen, solemnly. "This man, who is to be married to a German princess to-morrow, has wounded my heart so that it will at last destroy me. I do not speak figuratively, but mean what I say. There is something in my heart that leaves me no rest night and day. Its palpitations strike like a death-watch. There is something gnawing there incessantly; at times I feel that it has nearly pierced my life, that death is surely near. And I am dying of the wretchedness and disgrace which he who is enthroned in France has brought upon Prussia! I am dying, and he will win further triumphs; the whole of Europe will lie prostrate at his feet, and his songs of victory will be my dirge, leaving me no rest even in my grave. But hush, hush! Let us say no more. I have allowed you to look into the depths of my soul. You, my friend, are the only one to whom I sometimes raise the veil covering my bleeding heart. But tell no one what you have seen; keep my secret a little while longer, my dear Caroline.—And how is your friend, excellent Baron von Stein? You told me yesterday you had received letters from him. What does he write? Where does he live?"
"He lives in Brünn; his wife and children have joined him, and his life therefore is outwardly at least less sad than formerly. He is in constant communication with the prominent statesmen of Germany; all patriots hope in him, and receive advice and consolation from him. He is preparing quietly and secretly the great work of deliverance, which, when completed, will delight the eyes of my queen and receive her blessing. His eyes are constantly turned toward Prussia, and it is his profoundest sorrow that he is not permitted in these times to devote his services to the king."
"Yes," said the queen, sighing, "it is the terrible misfortune of the king that, in times so calamitous as these, he is deprived of the assistance of the patriotic men who alone would be able to save him and the state. The tyrannous decrees of Napoleon have taken his noblest and best servants from him. Stein is in exile. Hardenberg has to keep aloof from us because the emperor so ordered it. We might have ministers competent to hold the helm of the ship of state and take her successfully into port, but we are not allowed to employ them. Our interests are consequently intrusted to weak and ill-disposed ministers, who will ruin them, and we shall perish, unless assistance come soon—very soon! Stein and Hardenberg are exiled, and we have only Minister Altenstein, who is bold enough to propose the voluntary cession of Silesia to the king! Oh, my beloved, unfortunate Prussia, where is there a prospect of safety for thee?—Ah, the worm is again at my heart—oh, it oppresses me so that I can scarcely breathe! Tell me, Caroline, what else has Baron von Stein written to you?"