“No,” answered Cagliostro, mournfully, “we are poorer than ever. This money makes us slaves, makes us dependent tools. Did you not hear him say, ‘You are admitted into the Temple, but the avenging sword of the order everywhere hangs over you.’”
CHAPTER XIII. A PENSIONED GENERAL.
“Wife,” cried the General von Werrig, limping around the room, leaning upon his crutch, “here is the answer from our most gracious lord and king. The courier arrived to-day from the war department, and sent it to me by an express.”
“What is the king’s answer?” asked the general’s wife, a pale, gaunt woman, with a pock-marked face, harsh, severe features, dull gray eyes, which never beamed with emotion, and thin, bloodless lips, upon which a smile never played. “What is the king’s answer?” she repeated, in a rough voice, as her husband, puffing and blowing from the effort of walking, sank down upon a chair, and dried his fat, ruby face with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
“I have not read it,” panted the old man. “I thought I would leave the honor to you, as you, my very learned wife, wrote the letter to his majesty.”
His wife was not in the least astonished at this thoughtful conduct of her husband. She impetuously seized the sealed document, and, retiring to the window-niche, slowly unfolded it, whilst the old general fixed his little gray eyes upon her emotionless face. His own was bloated and red, expressing the greatest anxiety and expectation. Perfect stillness reigned for some minutes, only the regular strokes of the pendulum were heard from the clock on the wall; and, as the hands pointed to the expiration of the hour, a cuckoo sprang out of the tree painted over the dial, and eleven times her hoarse, croaking voice was heard.
“It gets every day more out of tune,” growled the general, as he looked up to the old, yellow dial, and ran his eye over the cords which supported the weights. Then glancing around the room, he saw everywhere age, decay, and indigence. There was an old divan, with a patched, faded covering of silk, and a grandfather’s arm-chair near it, the cushion of which the general knew, by the long years of experience, to be hard as a stone. A round table stood near the divan, covered with a shabby woollen cover, to hide the much-thumbed, dull polish. A few cane-chairs against the wall, an old black-oak wardrobe near the door, and the sewing-table of Madame von Werrig in the window-niche, completed the furniture of the room. At the window hung faded woollen curtains, and on the green painted walls some pictures and portraits, conspicuous among them a beautiful portrait of the king, painted on copper, which represented Frederick in his youthful beauty. It was a morose, sullen-looking room, arranged most certainly by its feminine occupant, and harmonized exactly with her fretful face and angular figure, void of charms. At last the general broke the silence with submissive voice: “I pray you, Clotilda, tell me what the king wrote.”
She folded the paper, joy beaming in her eyes. “Granted! every thing granted!”
The general jumped up to embrace his wife with youthful activity, in spite of the gout. “You are a capital wife,” he cried, at the same time giving her a loud, smacking kiss upon her cold, gray cheek. “It was the brightest, cleverest act of my life marrying you, Clotilda.”