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The Prussian Terror

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Title: The Prussian Terror

Author: Alexandre Dumas

Translator: R. S. Garnett


        
Release date: May 2, 2011 [eBook #36016]
                Most recently updated: April 3, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36016

Credits: Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe (From images generously made available by the Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRUSSIAN TERROR ***

THE PRUSSIAN TERROR

BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS


A FIRST TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH

BY

R.S. GARNETT


WITH AN INTRODUCTION


LONDON: STANLEY PAUL & CO

PHILADELPHIA: DAVID MCKAY COMPANY

1916


[Illustration: ALEXANDRE DUMAS.]




"L'ennemi, c'est le Prussien"

GAMBETTA.




CONTENTS

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I. BERLIN
        II. THE HOUSE OF HOHENZOLLERN
        III. COUNT VON BISMARCK
        IV. IN WHICH BISMARCK EMERGES FROM AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION
        V. A SPORTSMAN AND A SPANIEL
        VI. BENEDICT TURPIN
        VII. KAULBACH'S STUDIO
        VIII. THE CHALLENGE
        IX. THE TWO DUELS
        X. WHAT WAS WRITTEN IN A KING'S HAND
        XI. BARON FREDERIC VON BÜLOW
        XII. HELEN
        XIII. COUNT KARL VON FREYBERG
        XIV. THE GRANDMOTHER
        XV. FRANKFORT-ON-MAIN
        XVI. THE DEPARTURE
        XVII. AUSTRIANS AND PRUSSIANS
        XVIII. THE DECLARATION OF WAR
        XIX. THE BATTLE OF LANGENSALZA
        XX. IN WHICH BENEDICT'S PREDICTION CONTINUES TO BE FULFILLED
        XXI. WHAT PASSED AT FRANKFURT BETWEEN THE BATTLES OF LANGENSALZA
               AND SADOWA
        XXII. THE FREE MEAL
        XXIII. THE BATTLE OF ASCHAFFENBURG
        XXIV. THE EXECUTOR
        XXV. FRISK
        XXVI. THE WOUNDED MAN
        XXVII. THE PRUSSIANS AT FRANKFORT
        XXVIII. GENERAL MANTEUFFEL'S THREATS
        XXIX. GENERAL STURM
        XXX. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM
        XXXI. THE BURGOMASTER
        XXXII. QUEEN AUGUSTA
        XXXIII. THE TWO PROCESSIONS
        XXXIV. THE TRANSFUSION OF BLOOD
        XXXV. THE MARRIAGE _IN EXTREMIS_
        XXXVI. "WAIT AND SEE"
               CONCLUSION
               EPILOGUE




INTRODUCTION


"The enemy passed beneath our window and then out of view. A moment
afterwards we heard the sound as it were of a hurricane; the house
trembled to the gallop of horses. At the end of the street the enemy had
been charged by our cavalry; and, not knowing our small numbers, they
were returning at full speed hotly pursued by our men. Pell-mell they
all passed by--a whirlwind of smoke and noise. Our soldiers fired and
slashed away, the enemy on their side fired as they fled. Two or three
bullets struck the house, one of them shattering a bar of the
window-shutter through which I was looking on. The spectacle was at once
magnificent and terrible. Pursued too closely the enemy had decided to
face about, and there, twenty paces from us, was going on a combat life
for life. I saw five or six of the enemy fall, and two or three of our
men. Then, defeated after a ten minutes' struggle, the enemy trusted
themselves again to the swiftness of their horses, and cleared off at
full gallop. The pursuit recommenced, the whirlwind resumed its course,
leaving, before it disappeared, three or four men strewn on the
pavement. Suddenly we heard the drum beating to the charge. It was our
hundred infantry soldiers who were coming up in their turn. They marched
with fixed bayonets and disappeared at the bend of the road. Five
minutes later we heard a sharp platoon firing. Then we saw our hussars
reappearing, driven by five or six hundred cavalry; they reappeared the
pursued, as they had started the pursuers. Amid this second tempest of
men it was impossible to see or distinguish anything; only, when it was
past, three or four dead bodies more lay stretched on the ground."

The boy who saw these scenes, to record them in his Memoirs many years
later, was living with his mother at Villers-Cotterets, on the Soissons
road in the Aisne, where fierce fighting between our little army and our
allies the French on the one hand, and the Germans on the other, is
taking place as these lines are being written. The time was 1814.
Napoleon had retreated from Moscow and had lost the battle of Leipzig,
and the Russians, Prussians, and Austrians in alliance were gradually
closing in on France. All confidence in Napoleon's star had disappeared.
Every hour was bringing the roar of cannon nearer to Paris: in a few
days the Allies were to enter it and Napoleon to sign the decree of
abdication and leave for Elba.

The name of the boy was Alexandre Dumas. His mother had filled her
cellar with furniture, bedding, and household goods, and had then had a
new plank floor made for the room above, so that treasure seekers might
look in vain, and had buried her little store of money in a box in the
middle of the garden. She was as much in terror of Napoleon as she was
of the Prussian and Russian troops. If her own countrymen, the French,
were beaten, she and her son might be killed, but if Napoleon was
victorious he would want her son as a soldier. Now Alexandre was twelve
and conscription began at sixteen.

The boy's father, General Alexandre Dumas, was dead, and as on account
of his republican principles the First Consul had disgraced, exiled, and
ruined him, so by the Emperor the widow and her son were disowned,
forgotten and left to starve. In spite of this Madame Dumas's neighbours
called her a Bonapartist, her husband having fought under Bonaparte, and
the term Bonapartist was one which was presently to amount to an
accusation as Louis XVIII neared the throne.

The enemy seen by the boy fighting in the street were
Prussians--Prussians long expected by his mother, who had made three
successive enormous dishes of haricot mutton for their pacification.
Although young Alexandre had partaken of the mutton and thought very
little of the threatened danger before it occurred, he never forgot the
sudden Prussian inroad and the dead men left outside this door. And he
often said that the Valley of the Aisne might see the Prussians again.

In 1848, when a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, Dumas lost many
votes by making a speech in the course of which, when passing the state
of Europe in review, he said. "Geographically, Prussia has the shape of
a serpent, and like a serpent it seems always to sleep and prepare to
swallow everything around it--Denmark, Holland, and Belgium; and when it
has engulfed them all you will see that Austria will pass in its turn
and perhaps, alas! France also."

In June 1866 Prussia's rapid campaign against Austria startled Europe.
Every thoughtful man was calculating the consequences of the
preponderance of Prussia in Germany, and Dumas was one of those
Frenchmen who were seized with sad presentiments of the future for their
own country. Particularly does he appear to have been struck with the
barbarous conduct of the Prussians in the free city of Frankfort[1]
which the newspapers were daily reporting. Unable to remain at home
while such events were occurring, he travelled to Frankfort and observed
them for himself. Then he went to Gotha, Hanover, and Berlin; he visited
the battlefields of Langensalza and Sadowa and returned to Paris with
his notebooks crammed with precious details, his pockets bulging with
unpublished documents.

Then M. Hollander, the owner of the political journal "The Situation,"
came running to the author of "The Three Musketeers," "Queen Margot,"
and of so many other famous historical romances to ask for one to be
called "The Prussian Terror." Dumas, who like M. Hollander was anxious
to do all he could to arouse France, fast crumbling under the Second
Empire, to a sense of her danger from Prussia, gladly complied. Such is
the genesis of this book in which on every page the author seems to
say--"Awake! the danger is at hand."

To render it more easily intelligible to readers of the present day who
appear to us to know very little of the Austro-Prussian War of 1866, let
us glance at the important events which the newspaper proprietor and the
historical romancer had in mind.

The death of the King of Denmark occurred in 1863[2] and North Germany
buzzed like a swarm of angry bees over the Duchies of Schleswig,
Holstein, and Luxemburg. By the treaty of London (1852), which fixed the
succession to the Danish Crown, Austria and Prussia, although
signatories to it, denied the right of the new king to those duchies and
claimed them as part of Germany. In February 1864 Austrian and Prussian
troops crossed the Danish border. The Danes fought well, but were forced
to submit and eventually the duchies were made over to their enemies.

Then Prussia, which had long looked with jealousy on the power of
Austria and considered a war with her inevitable sooner or later,
opposed her desire to form the duchies into a separate state under the
Duke of Augustenburg. Austria referred the matter to the Frankfort Diet,
which decided in favour of the duke, but Bismarck, as Prussia's Prime
Minister, to secure the complete control of North Germany, required
that, not only the duchies but the whole of Hanover, Hesse Cassel, Hesse
Nassau, and the city of Frankfort should be absorbed in Prussia. Both
Prussia and Austria prepared for war, Prussia entering into an alliance
with Victor Emanuel. On June 7th Prussian troops entered Holstein.

On June 14th, in regard to the decisive question whether the federal
army should be mobilized, Hanover voted in the Diet with Austria, and by
so doing irrevocably declared on which side she would range herself in
the approaching struggle. Prussia at once issued an ultimatum to
Hanover, requesting her to maintain neutrality and to accept her scheme
for the reformation of the Confederation. Hanover immediately rejected
these demands and Prussian troops at once crossed the frontier. The
resulting battles are known as those of Langensalza and Aschaffenburg.
The Austrians were disastrously defeated in the terrific battle of
Sadowa or Königsrätz, and Bismarck was thus nearer to the formation of
German Unity under Prussia.

After Sadowa, the first act of the Prussians was to enter the "free"
city of Frankfort, which did not attempt any defence, relying as it did
on its treaties, and terrorise its inhabitants. It was these "acts of
terror," then, of which M. Hollander and Dumas were particularly
thinking, hoping that the recital of them in a popular romance would do
something to awaken France.

It has been repeatedly stated that before the Franco-German War of 1870
the German soldiers were guiltless of acts of atrocity. This story
proves the contrary, and it is not a little curious that no work in the
English language, save books of reference, covering the ground traversed
by "The Prussian Terror," appears to be now accessible. For this reason
alone Dumas's book, which, though in story form, is an authoritative
contribution to history, deserves attention at the present time. Apart
from this, it is so spirited and interesting that it is quite surprising
that at so late a date--forty-seven years after its original issue--I
should be the first to offer a version[3] to the British public.

Dumas was still living in Paris when, in the summer of 1869, war was
declared with Germany. His health was now bad, and his son, the author
of "La Dame aux Camélias," did not wish him to remain during the siege.
In the autumn he took his father with him to Puys near Dieppe, where he
had a villa. There Dumas died on December 5th, 1870.

He did not know it--news being kept from him--but during his last days
his worst prognostications had been verified. A detachment of the
Prussian army was actually taking possession of Dieppe as he breathed
his last. While the soldiers marched along the streets, their bands
playing German airs and the inhabitants hid in their houses behind
shuttered windows, the news flew round the town that the country had
lost Alexandre Dumas, the most typically French writer who has ever
existed. The coffin was borne to the grave at Neuville, where the
German soldiers were in occupation, before a Prussian patrol. In 1872
the body was exhumed, and buried in the family tomb at Villers-Cotterets.
Hard by, where as a boy of twelve Dumas heard the Prussian cannon, three
nations are now fighting.

R.S. GARNETT.


[1] Dumas knew Frankfort well, having lived there for some time in 1838
with Gérard de Nerval, the author of "Les Filles de Feu."

[2] These facts are taken from the "Encyclopædia Britannica."

[3] It should be stated that M. Hollander, who wished the brilliant name
of Dumas to shine on as many issues of his newspaper as possible,
stipulated for not less than sixty _feuilletons_. Dumas complied, but
was forced to include some hunting stories which he puts into the mouth
of his hero, Benedict Turpin. These stories will not be found in the
present volume.




THE PRUSSIAN TERROR




CHAPTER I

BERLIN


The architect of Berlin appears to have carefully designed his plan
according to line and rule in order to produce a capital of dullness as
far removed from the picturesque as his ingenuity could accomplish. Seen
from the cathedral, which is the loftiest point attainable, the place
suggests an enormous chess-board on which the Royal Palace, the Museum,
Cathedral, and other important buildings fairly represent kings, queens,
and castles. And, much as Paris is intersected by the Seine, so is
Berlin divided by the Spree, except that instead of surrounding one
island, as does the former river, two artificial canals branch out right
and left like the handles of a vase, and form two islands of unequal
size in the centre of the town. Berlin being the capital of Privilege,
one of these islands is distinguished by possessing the Royal Palace,
the Cathedral, the Museum, the Bourse, most other public buildings, and
a score of houses which in Turin, the Berlin of Italy, would certainly
be called palaces; the other contains nothing remarkable, corresponding
to the Parisian Rue Saint-Jacques and the quarter Saint-André-des-Arts.

The aristocratic, the smart Berlin lies to the right and left of the
Friedrich Strasse, which extends from the Place de La Belle Alliance by
which one enters Berlin to that of Oranienburg by which one leaves it,
and which is crossed nearly in the middle by the Unter den Linden. This
famous promenade traverses the fashionable quarter and extends from the
Royal Palace to the Place d'Armes. It owes its name to two rows of
magnificent lime trees which form a charming promenade on each side of
the broad carriage-way. Both sides abound in cafés and restaurants,
whose crowds of customers, overflowing in summer on to the public road,
cause a considerable amount of lively motion. This, however, never rises
into noisy horse-play or clamour, for the Prussian prefers to amuse
himself _sub rosa_, and keeps his gaiety within doors.

But on June 7th, 1866, as beautiful a day as Prussia can produce, Unter
den Linden, at about six in the evening, presented a scene of most
unusual commotion. The excitement was caused in the first place by the
increasingly hostile attitude assumed by Prussia towards Austria, in
refusing to allow the States of Holstein to proceed to the election of
the Duke of Augustenburg, also by the general arming on all sides, by
reports concerning the immediate calling up of the Landwehr and the
dissolution of the Chamber, and finally by rumours of telegrams from
France containing threats against Prussia, said to have been made by
Louis Napoleon himself.

It is necessary to travel in Prussia before one can in the least
comprehend the sort of hatred therein cherished against the French. It
is a species of monomania which distorts even the very clearest vision.
No minister can be popular, no orator will gain a hearing unless the one
lets it be supposed his policy is for war, and the other can produce
some brilliant epigram or clever _sous-entendu_ levelled against France.
Nor will the title of poet be allowed, unless the claimant can qualify
by being the author of some popular rhyme, entitled "The Rhine,"
"Leipzig," or "Waterloo."

Whence comes this hatred for France--a deep, inveterate, indestructible
hatred which seems to pervade the very earth and air? It is impossible
to say. Can it date from the time when a legion from Gaul, the advanced
guard of the Roman army, first entered Germany? Abandoning this idea we
come down to the battle of Rosbach as a possible cause, in which case
the German national character must be an uncommonly bad one, seeing they
beat us there. Still later, it might possibly be explained by the
military inferiority shown by the pupils of Frederic the Great ever
since the Duke of Brunswick's famous manifesto threatening that not one
stone of Paris should be left on another! One battle, that of Valmy,
expelled the Prussians from France in 1792; and another, that of Jena,
opened the gates of Berlin to us in 1806. Still, to these dates, our
enemies--no, our rivals--can oppose the names of Leipzig and of
Waterloo. Of Leipzig, however, they cannot claim more than a quarter,
seeing their army was combined with those of Russia, Austria, and
Sweden, to say nothing of that of Saxony, which also deserves to be
remembered. Nor is more than one-half of Waterloo to their credit, for
Napoleon, who till then had the advantage, was already exhausted by a
six hours' struggle with the English when they arrived.

Consequently, remembering this heritage of hate, which, indeed, they
have always shown quite openly--one could not be surprised at the
popular emotion caused by a rumour, non-official but widely spread, that
France would throw down the gauntlet and join in the impending conflict.
Many, however, doubted the news, as not a word of it had appeared in the
"Staat's Anzeiger" that morning. Berlin, like Paris, has its faithful
adherents to the Government and the "Moniteur," who believe that the
latter cannot lie, and that a paternal Government would never, never
keep back news interesting to its affectionate subjects. These were
joined by the readers of the "Tages Telegraphe" ("Daily Telegraphic
News"), certain that their special organ would have known whatever was
to be known, and also by those of the ministerial and aristocratic
"Kreuz Zeitung," who equally declined to believe anything not contained
in its usually well-informed columns. And besides these one heard the
names of a dozen other daily or weekly issues bandied from side to side
in the excited crowd, until suddenly a harsh cry of "French news! French
news! Telegraphic News" "One kreutzer," succeeded in dominating the din.

The effect produced on the crowd may be imagined. Despite the proverbial
Prussian economy, every hand sought its pocket and drawing forth a
kreutzer, proceeded to exchange it for the square bit of paper
containing the long-desired news. And indeed the importance of the
contents made amends for the delay in obtaining it. The dispatch ran as
follows:

"June 6th, 1866. His Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III, having gone to
Auxerre, in order to be present at the provincial assembly, was met at
the gates of the town by the mayor, who presented an address, offering
the respectful homage of himself and the inhabitants. His Majesty
replied in the following terms, which do not require to be explained to
our countrymen. Their meaning must be sufficiently clear to all.

"I see with much pleasure that Auxerre still remembers the First Empire.
Let me assure you that I, on my side, have inherited the feelings of
affection entertained by the Chief of our family for the patriotic and
energetic communities which supported him alike through good and evil.
And I myself owe a debt of gratitude to the department of the Yonne as
being one of the first to declare for me in 1848. It knew, as indeed the
greater part of the nation knew, that its interests and mine were
identical and that we both equally detested those treaties of 1815,
which are used to-day as a means of controlling our external policy."

Here the dispatch broke off, the sender evidently not considering the
remainder of the emperor's discourse worth transcribing. Certainly his
meaning was sufficiently clear without it. Nevertheless some minutes
elapsed before the sense of the communication was understood by the
readers, and evoked the display of hatred which naturally followed.

When at last they began to comprehend and to see the hand of the nephew
of Napoleon the Great overshadowing their beloved Rhine, there arose
from one end of Unter den Linden to the other such a tempest of threats,
howls, and hurrahs, that, to borrow Schiller's lively expression, one
would have thought the encircling hoops of the heavenly concave must all
be burst asunder. Threatening toasts were called, curses shouted, and
fists shaken against offending France. A Göttingen student springing on
a table began to recite with due emphasis Rückert's ferocious poem
entitled "The Return," in which a Prussian soldier, having returned home
in consequence of peace being declared, bitterly regrets the various
outrages he is in consequence debarred from committing. Needless to say,
this recital was enthusiastically applauded. Shouts of "Bravo!" and
"Hurrah!" mixed with cries of "Long live King William!" "Hurrah for
Prussia!" "Down with France!" formed an accompaniment which would
doubtless have been continued to the next piece, the reciter proposing
to give a lyric by Theodor Körner. The announcement was received with
loud applause.

It was, however, by no means the only safety valve at which the passion
of the surging crowd, now at white heat, sought and found a vent. A
little lower down, at the corner of the Friedrich Strasse, a well-known
singer happened to be returning from rehearsal, and as he chanced on one
occasion to have made a hit by singing "The German Rhine" some one who
remembered this raised a cry of "The German Rhine! the German Rhine!
Heinrich! sing 'The German Rhine!'" The crowd instantly recognized and
surrounded the artist, who, owning a fine voice, and being familiar with
the piece demanded, did not wait to be asked twice, but gratified his
audience by singing his very best, thereby far surpassing the Return in
the tremendous reception he obtained.

But all at once a loud and furious hiss which might have issued from the
throttle of a steam engine was heard above all the wild applause, and
produced the effect of a blow in the face bestowed on the singer. A bomb
suddenly exploding in the crowd could hardly have been more effective;
the hiss was answered by a dull roar something like that which precedes
a hurricane and every eye was turned towards the quarter whence it
proceeded.

Standing by a solitary table was a handsome young man, apparently about
five-and-twenty, fair-haired, fair-skinned, rather slightly built, and
in face, moustache and costume somewhat resembling the portrait of
Vandyke. He had just opened a bottle of champagne and held a foaming
glass aloft. Undisturbed by angry looks and threatening gestures he drew
himself up, placed one foot on his chair, and raising his glass above
his head cried loudly, "Vive la France!" then swallowed the contents at
one draught.




CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE OF HOHENZOLLERN


The immense crowd surrounding the young Frenchman remained for a moment
dumb with stupefaction. Many, not understanding French, failed to
comprehend his meaning, and others who did understand, appreciating his
courage in thug braving a furious crowd, surveyed him with more
astonishment than anger. Others again, who realized that a dire insult
had been offered them, would nevertheless with typical German
deliberation have allowed him time to escape had he wished. But the
young man's demeanour showed that, whatever the consequences of his
bravado, he intended to face them. Presently a threatening murmur of
"Franzose, Franzose," arose from the crowd.

"Yes," said he, in as good German as might be heard anywhere between
Thionville and Memel. "Yes, I am French. My name is Benedict Turpin. I
have studied at Heidelberg and might pass for a German since I can speak
your language as well as most of those here, and better than some. Also
I can use a rapier, pistol, sword, sabre, single-stick, boxing gloves,
or any other weapon you like to choose. Any one wishing for satisfaction
may find me at the Black Eagle."

The young man had hardly finished his audacious defiance when four men
of the lower class advanced upon him. The crowd kept silence, and the
contemptuous words, "What! four to one? Leipzig again! Come on! I am
ready!" were distinctly heard. Then, not waiting to be attacked, the
young Frenchman sprang at the nearest and broke the bottle of champagne
over his head, blinding him with foam. The second he tripped up,
throwing him a good ten paces off, and disposed of the third with a
vigorous blow in the ribs which hurled him against a chair. Then,
seizing the fourth by the collar and grasping his waist he actually held
him aloft in the air for a moment, then flinging him on the ground he
placed a foot on his chest.

"Is not Leipzig avenged?" said he.

Then at last the tempest burst. A rush was made for the Frenchman, but
he, still keeping a foot on his fallen enemy, seized a chair and whirled
it round him so vigorously that for a moment the crowd was held at bay
and only ventured on threats. But the circle drew closer, some one
grasped the chair and succeeded in stopping it. A few moments more and
the audacious Frenchman would probably have been torn to pieces had not
two or three Prussian officers intervened. They forced their way through
the crowd and formed a guard around the young man, one of them addressed
the crowd thus:

"Come, come, my friends, don't murder a brave young man because he does
not forget he is a Frenchman and has cried 'Vive la France!' He will now
cry 'Vive Guillaume IV!' and we will let him off." Then, whispering to
Benedict, "Cry 'Vive Guillaume IV!' or I can't answer for your life."

"Yes!" bawled the crowd, "let him cry 'Vive Guillaume IV!--Vive la
Prusse!' and we will let him go."

"Very well," said Benedict, "but I prefer to do so freely, and without
compulsion. Leave me alone and let me speak from a table."

"Stand aside and let him pass," said the officers, releasing Benedict
and leaving him free. "He wishes to address you."

"Let him speak! let him speak!" cried the crowd.

"Gentlemen!" said Benedict, mounting the table nearest to the open
windows of the café, "oblige me by listening. I cannot cry 'Vive la
Prusse,' because at this very moment my country may be at war with
yours, in which case a Frenchman would disgrace himself if he cried
anything except 'Vive la France.' Nor can I very well cry 'Vive le roi
Guillaume,' because, not being my king, it does not matter to me whether
he lives or dies. But I will recite some charming verses in answer to
your 'German Rhine!'"

The audience heard him impatiently, not knowing what he meant to recite.
They had another disappointment in discovering that the lines in
question were not German but French. However, they listened with all the
more attention. In enumerating his accomplishments Benedict had omitted
those of amateur actor and elocutionist. The lines were those written by
de Musset in response to the "German Rhine," and they lost nothing in
his impassioned delivery. Those among his hearers able to follow the
reciter soon perceived that they had been tricked into listening to
truths they had no desire to hear. Once this was understood, the storm,
momentarily lulled, burst forth with redoubled violence.

Knowing that there would be no further chance of protection, Benedict
was carefully considering the distance between his table and the nearest
window, when suddenly the attention of the crowd was diverted by the
report of several pistol-shots rapidly fired in the immediate vicinity.
Turning towards the sound they perceived a well-dressed young civilian,
struggling desperately with a much older man in colonel's uniform. The
young man fired again, with the only result of further exasperating his
adversary, who seized him with a grasp of iron, and, disdaining to call
for help, shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Then, throwing him down,
he knelt upon the would-be murderer's chest, tore the now useless
revolver from his hand, and placed the barrel against his forehead.
"Yes, fire, fire!" gasped the young man. But the colonel, in whom the
bystanders now recognized the powerful minister, Count von Bismarck,
changed his mind. He pocketed the revolver, and beckoning to two
officers, "Gentlemen," said he, "this young man is probably mad, or at
any rate he is a clumsy fool. He attacked me without the slightest
provocation and has fired five times without hitting me. You had better
consign him to the nearest prison whilst I acquaint the king with what
has happened. I think I need hardly mention my name--Count von
Bismarck."

Then, wrapping his handkerchief round his hand which had been slightly
scratched in the conflict, the count retraced his steps towards the
royal palace hardly a hundred yards distant, while the two officers
handed the assassin over to the police. One of them accompanied him to
the prison, where he was at once incarcerated. The crowd having now time
to remember Benedict Turpin found that he had vanished. However, this
did not trouble them much, for the excitement of the more recent event
had changed the course of their ideas. Let us profit by the interval and
glance at the characters who are destined to appear in our recital. But,
first let us examine the stage on which they will play their several
parts.

Least German of all Germanic states, Prussia is inhabited by a mixture
of races. Besides Germans proper, numbers of Slavonians are found there.
There are also descendants of the Wends, Letts, Lithuanians, Poles, and
other early tribes, and a mixture of Frankish refugees. The prosperity,
though not perhaps the grandeur of the House of Hohenzollern, began with
Duke Frederic, the greatest usurer of his day. It is as impossible to
calculate the enormous sums wrung from the Jews as to narrate the means
by which they were extorted. At first a vassal of the Emperor
Wenceslaus, when that monarch's impending fall became evident Frederic
deserted his camp for that of his rival Otho, and when Otho's crown
began to totter, he passed over to Sigismund, brother of Wenceslaus.

In 1400 A.D., the same year in which Charles VI ennobled the goldsmith
Raoul, as a reward for financial help, Sigismund, equally embarrassed,
borrowed 100,000 florins from Frederic, giving him the Margravate of
Brandenburg as security. Fifteen years later, Sigismund having had to
provide for the extravagance of the Council of Constance, found himself
in debt to Frederic for 400,000 florins. Utterly unable to pay, he sold,
or granted in compensation, both the Marches of Brandenburg and the
dignity of Elector. In 1701 the electorate rose into a kingdom and the
Duke Frederic III became the King Frederic I of Prussia.

The Hohenzollerns display the faults and the characteristics of their
race. Their exchequer is admirably managed, but the moral balance-sheet
of their administration can rarely be compared with the financial one.
They have advanced on the lines of Duke Frederic, with more or less
hypocrisy, but with ever-increasing rapacity. Thus in 1525, Albert of
Hohenzollern, Grand Master of the Teutonic knights, then lords of
Prussia, forsook his faith and became a Lutheran, receiving in return
the rank of Hereditary Duke of Prussia, under the over-lordship of
Poland. And in 1613, the Elector John Sigismund, wishing to obtain the
duchy of Cleves, followed Albert's example and became a Calvinist.

The policy of the Great Elector has been summed up by Leibnitz in a
single phrase: "I side with him who pays best." To him is due the
formation of the European permanent standing army, and it was his second
wife, the famous Dorothea, who started shops and taverns in Berlin for
the disposal of her beer and dairy produce. The military genius of the
Great Frederic is beyond dispute, but it was he who, in order to curry
favour with the Russian Court, offered to "supply" the Grand Dukes with
German princesses "at the lowest reasonable rate!" One lady thus
"supplied" a princess of Anhalt, is known as "Catherine the Great." We
may remark incidentally that he also is chiefly responsible for the
partition of Poland, a crime which has weighted the Prussian crown with
the malediction of nations, and which he celebrated by this scandalously
impious summons to his brother Henry, "Come, let us receive the
Eucharist of the body of Poland!" To Frederic also, we owe the
economical maxim, "He dines best who eats at another's table!"

Frederic died childless, a fact for which, oddly enough, historians have
seen fit to blame him. His nephew and successor, William II, invaded
France in 1792. His entry, preceded by the famous manifesto of the Duke
of Brunswick, was ostentatious to a degree, but his departure,
accompanied by Danton and Dumouriez, was accomplished without sound of
trumpet or drum.

He was succeeded by the "Man of Jena," Frederic William III. Among the
numerous stupid, and servile letters received by the Emperor Napoleon in
the days of his prosperity, must be counted those of William III.

Frederic William IV--we are rapidly approaching our own times--came to
the throne in June 1840. According to the Hohenzollern custom his first
ministry was a liberal one and on his accession he remarked to Alexander
von Humboldt:

"As a noble I am the first gentleman in the kingdom; as a king I am only
the first citizen."

Charles X had said much the same on succeeding to the crown of France,
or, rather, M. de Martignac had said it for him.

The first proof the king gave of his liberalism was an attempt to drill
properly the intellectual forces of the kingdom, which duty he entrusted
to the Minister Eichhorn. The name--it means "squirrel"--was quite
prophetic. At the end of ten years the project had not advanced a step,
although the minister himself had done wonders of perpetual revolution.
On the other hand reaction had progressed. The press was persecuted,
promotion and rewards were obtained only by hypocrites and informers.
High office could only be acquired by becoming a servile instrument of
the pietistic party, which was headed by the king.

Frederic William and King Louis of Bavaria were the two most literary of
contemporary sovereigns. But Louis encouraged Art under whatever form it
appeared, whereas Frederic William wished it to be drilled into a sort
of auxiliary to despotism. Feeling himself constrained, like our great
satirist Boileau, to give an example of good manners to both court and
city, he began a correspondence with Louis, in the course of which he
sent the latter a quatrain commenting on the scandal caused by his
intimacy with Lola Montes. The King of Bavaria replied in another which
made the round of all the courts of Europe.

     "Contempteur de l'amour, dont adore l'ivresse,
      Frère, tu dis que, roi sans pudeur, sans vertu,
      Je garde à tort Lola, ma fille enchanteresse.
      Je te l'enverrai bien.--Oui; mais qu'en ferais-tu?"

And, by general consent of the wits, the laugh remained on the side of
the versatile King Louis.

After six years of domiciliary visits, suppressions, and summary
expulsions of offending journalists, the Prussian Diet at length
assembled at Berlin. In his opening speech the king addressed the
deputies thus:

"Recollect, gentlemen, that you are here to represent the interests of
the people, but _not_ their _sentiments_."

A little later in the year, Frederic William inaugurated his Divine
Right by observing as he tore up the Constitution:

"I shall not allow a scrap of paper to stand between my people and their
God!" meaning, though he did not dare to say it, "between my people and
me."

Then the revolution of 1848 burst forth, and did not spare Berlin, which
was soon in full revolt. The king lost his head completely. In leaving
the town he had to drive past the dead bodies of rioters killed in the
struggle. There was a shout of "Hats off!" and the king was obliged to
remain uncovered while the people sang the famous hymn composed by the
Great Electress.

     "Jesus, my Redeemer lives."

Every one knows how Absolutism succeeded in dominating the National
Assembly, and how presently reaction brought the following leaders into
power:

Manteuffel, whose policy led to the unfortunate Austrian triumph at
Olmutz.

Westphalen, who revived provincial councils, and brought the king to the
famous Warsaw interview.

Statel, a converted Jew and Protestant Jesuit, a Grand Inquisitor who
had missed his vocation.

And, lastly, the two Gerlachs, intriguers of the first water, whose
history belongs to that of the two spies, Ladunberg and Techen.

Although the Constitution, establishing two Chambers, was sworn to by
William IV, February 6th, 1850, it was not until his successor, William
Louis, was on the throne that both Upper and Lower Chambers began to
legislate.

A league was now formed by the bureaucracy, the orthodox clergy, the
provincial squirearchy, and some of the proletariat. This was the origin
of the famous association inappropriately designated the _Patriotic_
Association, which had for its aim the annihilation of the Constitution.

There now appeared as First President of the Association at Königsberg,
the Count von Bismarck, who has played so great a part in Prussian
history. We cannot do less for him than we have done for the
Hohenzollerns, that is to say, we must devote an entire chapter to him
and to the Prussia of to-day. For is not the Count von Bismarck a much
greater monarch than the King of Prussia himself?




CHAPTER III

COUNT VON BISMARCK


Many have sought, and some profess to have found, the reasons for the
remarkable royal favour enjoyed by Count Bismarck, but the chief, and to
our thinking the only one, is the extraordinary genius which even his
enemies dare not dispute, notwithstanding the fact that genius is
usually anything but a passport to the favour of kings.

We will relate one or two little anecdotes concerning the Prime
Minister, beginning with one which does not refer to him personally, but
may serve as a sort of preface to another. Every one knows the absurd
point to which military etiquette is carried in Prussia.

A Pomeranian general--Pomerania may be called the Prussian
Bœotia--being in garrison at Darmstadt and being bored even to the
fullest possibility of Darmstadt boredom, was standing at his window,
wishing for a conflagration, a revolution, an earthquake--anything--when
he beheld an officer in the distance--an officer minus his sword! An
awful breach of discipline! "Ah!" thought the delighted general, "here
is a lieutenant to make a scapegoat of. Ten minutes' lecture and a
fortnight's arrest! What luck!"

The unsuspecting officer drew nearer, and when within hail: "Lieutenant
Rupert," shouted the general. The officer looked up, saw the general,
and immediately remembering his missing sword, understood his terrible
position. The general had seen him; he could not go back, and he felt he
must brave the storm. The general beamed and rubbed his hands cheerfully
at the prospect of some amusement at last. The lieutenant plucked up
courage, entered the house, and arriving at the ante-room, beheld a
regulation sword hanging on the wall. "What a mercy!" he murmured,
unhooking the sword and quickly buckling it on. Then looking as innocent
as possible, he entered the room, and standing at attention by the door,

"The general did me the honour to call," he said.

"Yes," said the general with severity, "I have to enquire--" he stopped
suddenly, observing that the culprit's sword was at his side. His
expression changed, and he said smiling:

"Yes, I wanted to ask, I wanted to ask--What on earth was it? Ah, yes. I
wanted to ask after your family, Lieutenant Rupert. I particularly
wished to enquire after your father."

"If my father could hear of your kind feeling towards him, general, he
would be greatly gratified. Unhappily, he died twenty years ago."

The general looked considerably taken aback.

The young officer continued: "Have you any further commands, sir?"

"Why, no," said the general. "Only this. Never be seen without your
sword. Had you been without it to-day, I should have given you a
fortnight's arrest."

"I will take the greatest care, sir! You see?" answered the lieutenant,
boldly indicating the sword which hung at his side.

"Yes, yes, I see. It is all right. You can go now."

The young man lost no time in profiting by the permission; he saluted,
left the room, and carefully hung up the sword as he went through the
ante-room. As he left the house the general, being again at the window,
again saw that he had no sword. He summoned his wife:

"Look here," he said, "do you see that officer?"

"Certainly I do," she replied.

"Has he a sword or not?"

"He has not."

"Well then, you are mistaken; he looks as if he hadn't one, but he has."

The lady made no remark, being accustomed to accept whatever her husband
said. The young officer escaped with the fright, and took good care not
to forget his sword a second time.

Well, a similar misfortune--more, a real humiliation of this kind very
nearly happened to the King of Prussia, when he was only the Prince
Royal. Von Bismarck was then merely an attaché at the Frankfort Legation
without any handle to his name. When the prince stopped at Frankfort on
his way to a review at Mayence von Bismarck had the honour of being told
off to accompany him.

It was a hot day in August and the railway carriages were stifling.
Etiquette notwithstanding, everyone from the prince downward,
unbuttoned his coat. On arriving at Mayence, where the troops were drawn
up at the station to receive him, the prince refastened his coat but
left one button undone. He was just leaving the carriage, when, luckily,
von Bismarck noticed the oversight.

"Good heavens, prince!" he exclaimed, "what are you about?"

And, for once forgetting etiquette, which forbids the royal person to be
contaminated by profane fingers, he sprang forward and fastened the
offending button. Hence, according to some, came the royal favour, for
the king, greatly embarrassed by the events of '58, reflected that the
man who had saved his credit at Mayence might also save his crown at
Berlin.

The count now became the leader of the "Junker" faction, voiced by the
"Kreuz Zeitung." He was, in fact, the fittest man for the position,
possessing oratorical eloquence, great mental and physical activity, and
a complete conviction that any sort of means is justified by the end.
And, the end accomplished, he flung from the height of his tribune this
epigram in the face of an astonished Chamber: "Might is Right!" in three
words summing up both his political creed and the direct consequences
which followed.

The life-giving principles of humanity should be exemplified by three
nations:

     Commercial activity by England.
     Moral expansion by Germany.
     Intellectual brilliance by France.

If we ask why Germany does not occupy the great position assigned to her
we find the answer in this: France has attained freedom of thought, but
Germany is allowed only the freedom of a dreamer. The sole atmosphere in
which she can breathe freely is that of the fortress or the prison. And
if we wonder why the rest of Germany is ruled by the rod of Prussia the
explanation may be found in this: German _manners_ do not exist, but
there is a national _genius_; a genius which desired no revolution, but
peace and liberty, and, above all--intellectual independence. This
desire was Prussia's greatest difficulty; she fought it, she weakened
it, and she hopes to conquer it entirely. She boasts of her compulsory
education; her children are indeed taught all they can be taught, but
once out of school they are never permitted to think for themselves.

The Junker faction is composed chiefly of younger sons who have to seek
either an official career or a military one. Failing this, they must
depend on the head of the family for a decent maintenance. With very few
exceptions there is no "old nobility" in Prussia, the aristocracy is not
distinguished by either wealth or intellect. A few names here and there
recall ancient Germanic history; others belong to Prussian military
annals. But the rest of the nobility can claim no distinction, and have
only owned their estates for a century or two.

Consequently, nearly all the liberal and progressive members of the
Chamber depend, either by position or office, on the Government, and not
one of them was strong enough to fight against a despotism which seizes
a child at the moment of his birth, guides him through adolescence, and
escorts him for the rest of his life. Therefore Count von Bismarck could
insult both Chamber and deputies with impunity, knowing that their
complaints would rouse no answering echo in the country, while at Court
they were considered as being next door to the servants. On one occasion
the President Grabow, being present at a state concert, was going to
occupy a chair in one of the less crowded rooms, when a footman stopped
him with "These chairs are meant for Excellencies, sir."

"Indeed, my friend," answered the President, "I am evidently out of
place here."

From the advent of Hohenzollern supremacy may be dated the decay of
moral independence, both in Prussia and the other Germanic states. Not
only have the Hohenzollerns failed to exercise any civilizing influence
by encouraging literature and purifying the language, but they have
changed Minerva into Pallas, and the beneficent deity of knowledge and
wisdom has become the Medusa-brandishing goddess of war.




CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH BISMARCK EMERGES FROM AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION


Now for three months past Bismarck had been in an impossible position,
and no one could predict how he would emerge from it. Notwithstanding
the important events which were being enacted from China to Mexico, it
was upon him that the eyes of Europe were fixed.

Old ministers, experienced in all the wiles of diplomacy, followed him
with their eyes, spyglass in hand, never doubting that the epoch-making
minister had an accomplice on the throne in a policy of which they
vainly sought for precedents in the world's history. If, however, there
should prove to be no accomplice, they pronounced that he must be a fool
without an equal.

Young diplomats, modestly aware that they did not quite rank with the
Talleyrands, the Metternichs, or Nesselrodes, studied him more
seriously, believing they desired the infancy of a new policy destined
to carry their epoch to its zenith, whispering the question which
Germany has asked for three hundred years: "_Ist es der Mann?_" (Can it
be the Man?) To make this question comprehensible we must tell our
readers that Germany awaits a liberator as the Jews awaited a Messiah.
Whenever her chains gall her, she exclaims: "_Wo bleibt der Mann?_"
(Where, then, is the Man?)

Now, some pretend that to-day in Germany a fourth party, which up to the
present has been crouching in the gloom, is preparing to emerge--a
horrible figure, if the poets of Germany are to be believed. Listen to
Heine on the subject:

"There is thunder truly in Germany, yea, even in Germany: it comes
slowly; it rolls up gradually from afar; but I doubt not it will come.

"And when you hear a crash, such a crash as the world has not heard in
all history, you will know that the German thunder has done its work. At
this uproar eagles will fall dead from the upper air; and lions in the
pathless deserts of Africa will crouch terrified in their lairs. In
Germany will be enacted a drama compared with which the French
Revolution will seem but an _innocent idyll_."

Had Heinrich Heine been the only prophet I should not repeat his
auguries, for Heine was a dreamer. But here is what Ludwig B---- says:

"In truth, Germany has accomplished nothing for three centuries, and has
patiently endured all the suffering inflicted upon her. But, even so,
her labours, sufferings, and joys have not subdued her virgin heart, nor
her chaste spirit. She contains the reserve forces of liberty and will
ensure its triumph.

"Her day will come; and to bring it about but little is necessary a
flash of good-humour, a smile, a summer shower, a thaw, a fool the more,
or a fool the less, a nothing; the bell of a mule is enough to bring
down an avalanche. Then France, which is not easily astonished, France
which accomplished in three days the work of three hundred years, and
has ceased to wonder at her own work, will survey the German nation with
astonishment which will not be merely surprise but admiration."

But whether it was the Man or was not the Man that the gallery watched
as he weighed Europe in the scales, putting everything into one, nothing
into the other, whether he belonged to the old or to the new diplomacy
mattered little. The only question was--will von Bismarck demand a
dissolution of the Chamber, or will the Chamber impeach the count?

The conquest of Schleswig-Holstein had carried him to the height of
fortune, but the new complications arising _à propos_ of the election of
the Duke of Augustenburg, made everything seem doubtful even to the
genius of von Bismarck. During a long interview with the king which took
place the very day on which this story begins, he fancied that his
influence was shaken, and he attributed the king's coldness to the
persistent ill will of the queen.

It is true that until now the count had worked only for his own personal
advancement, and, having kept entire silence as to his projects, was
reserving an explanation for a favourable moment, when by the grandeur
and clearness of his views he hoped to recover the goodwill of his
sovereign, by an audacious _coup d'état_ to build up a more solid and
unassailable position than ever.

He had, then, just left the king, intending to unmask his new plan as
soon as possible, counting on the telegraphic despatches to create an
effect favourable to himself, which, by making war inevitable, would
ensure his own safety.

He left the palace accordingly, immersed in these thoughts, and so
preoccupied that not only did he scarcely observe the excitement in the
crowded streets, but he did not notice a young man leaning against one
of the columns of the theatre, who left his place as he passed, and
followed him like his shadow in and out of the groups blocking the
street. Twice or thrice, however, as if warned of this close pursuit by
some magnetic current, the count turned his head, but seeing only a
well-dressed young man apparently belonging to his own class in life, he
paid no attention to him.

It was not until he had passed the Friedrich Strasse and was crossing
the road that he really noticed that the young man seemed determined to
follow him. He then decided as soon as he had reached the other side to
stop and ask what his pursuer meant by shadowing him.

But the shadower did not give him an opportunity. The count had hardly
proceeded three or four steps on his way when he heard a report, and
felt the wind of a ball which just missed his coat collar. He stopped
and turned sharply round, seeing in a flash the eddying smoke, the aimed
revolver, the assassin with his finger on the trigger preparing to fire
again.

But, as we have said, the count was naturally brave: it did not occur to
him either to fly or to call for help. He threw himself upon his enemy,
who, without an instant's delay, fired the second and third shots, which
whistled harmlessly by. Whether the assassin's hand trembled under
stress of emotion, or whether, as some say, Providence (which
nevertheless permitted the assassinations of Henri IV and Gustavus
Adolphus) forbade the accomplishment of such a crime, the two balls
passed right and left of von Bismarck.

Then the murderer lost courage and turned to fly. But the count seized
him by the collar with one hand and with the other clutched the barrel
of the revolver. Once again a shot was fired; the count was slightly
wounded, but kept his hold and grasped his adversary closely, throwing
him on the ground, and finally handed him over to the Prussian officers.

Seizing the favourable occasion with the promptitude of genius, he
again took his way to the palace, bent on making this event the turning
point of the situation.

This time he passed through a double avenue of spectators, whereas
previously in the public commotion no one had noticed him. It was now
otherwise--the murderer's attempt, of which he had been the object and
from which he had emerged with so much courage, attracted every one's
attention, if not their sympathy, and whether loved or not loved, all
made room and saluted him. Sympathy might be wanting, but the count
could at all events read admiration upon every face.

Von Bismarck was at this time about fifty or fifty-two; tall, with a
well-proportioned figure, slightly puffy, and almost bald except at the
temples, with a thick moustache. One of his cheeks was furrowed by a
scar, the legacy of a duel fought at the University of Göttingen.

The palace guard had already heard the news and turned out to receive
the count, who, as colonel in the Army, was entitled to this mark of
respect. He graciously responded, and went up the staircase leading to
the king's audience chamber.

As prime minister, the count had the right of entry at any time. He was
about to turn the door handle when the usher in waiting stopped him,
saying:

"His Excellency will pardon me, but the king can see no one."

"Not even me?" asked the count.

"Not even your Excellency," replied the usher with a low bow.

The count stepped backward with a movement of the lips that might have
passed for a smile, but was certainly not one. Then he began to study,
but without seeing it, a large naval picture which decorated the
ante-room, standing out by reason of its immense gilt frame from the
official green paper which adorns all the royal apartments.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, the door opened, the count hearing
the _frou frou_ of a satin dress, turned and bowed low before a woman of
forty to forty-five years of age, who had evidently possessed great
beauty and was indeed still beautiful. Perhaps, if the "Almanach de
Gotha" were consulted, it would be found that the lady was rather older
than this, but as the proverb says: "A woman is as old as she looks,"
and I see no reason why queens should be excepted.

The lady was Queen Marie Louise Augusta Catherine, daughter of Charles
Frederic, Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and known throughout Europe as the
Queen Augusta. She was of medium height--is best described by the
essentially French word _attrayant_. She wore on her left arm the
feminine Order of Queen Louise of Prussia. She passed the minister
slowly and somewhat haughtily, saluting him indeed, but without her
usual kindness. By the doors through which she passed the count
understood she had been with the king, and was now returning to her own
apartments.

The queen had left the door belonging to the king's apartment open
behind her, and the usher now intimated that the minister might enter.
He waited, however, until the door had closed upon the queen.

"Yes," he said, "it is true that I was not born a baron, but let us see
what the future will do for me."

And then he passed forward. The various lackeys or chamberlains whom he
met hastened to open the doors leading to the audience-room. Reaching it
the chamberlain announced in a loud voice: "His Excellency Count von
Bismarck."

The king started and turned round. He was standing before the
chimney-piece, and heard the name of von Bismarck with some surprise, it
being barely a quarter of an hour since the minister had left him. The
count wondered if the king had already heard what had happened to him in
the interval.

He bowed low before His Majesty.

"Sire," he said, "an event of great importance has recalled me to Your
Majesty, but I see with regret that the moment is unfavourable--"

"Why?" enquired the king.

"Because I have just had the honour of meeting the queen in the
ante-room, and not having the happiness of being in Her Majesty's good
graces--"

"Well, count, I admit that she does not see eye to eye with you."

"She is wrong, sire, for my devotion belongs equally to my king and to
my queen, and the one cannot become Emperor of Germany without the other
becoming Empress."

"A dream, my dear count, in which Queen Augusta unfortunately believes,
but which is not the dream of a reasonable being."

"Sire, the unity of Germany is as much decreed in the design of
Providence as the unity of Italy."

"Excellent," said the king, laughing; "can there be a united Italy while
the Italians possess neither Rome nor Venice?"

"Italy is in formation, sire. She began her march in '59 and will not
stop on the way. If she looks like stopping, she is only taking breath.
Indeed, have we not promised her Venice?"

"Yes, but it is not we who will give it her."

"Who then?"

"France? who has already given her Lombardy, and has let her take the
duchies and Naples. France!" said the king. "France let her take all
that with quite the best will in the world."

"Is Your Majesty aware of the contents of the telegraphic despatches
which arrived when I was here and which were delivered as I left?"

"Yes, I know. The Emperor Napoleon's speech at Auxerre," answered the
king with some embarrassment. "You refer to that, do you not?"

"Well, sire, the emperor's speech means war--war not only against
Austria but against Germany. It means Venice for Italy and the Rhine
provinces for France."

"You really think so?"

"I mean that if we give France time to arm, the question without
becoming desperate becomes grave, but that if we fall promptly and
vigorously upon Austria, we shall be on the Moldau with three hundred
thousand men before France can reach the Rhine with fifty thousand."

"Count, you do not give the Austrians their proper value; the swagger of
our young men has gone to your head."

"Sire, if I appear to adopt the opinions of the heir-apparent and of
Prince Frederic Charles, I can only say that the prince having been born
on June 29th, 1801, is scarcely a young man; but the fact is, that in
these matters I rely on my own opinion only, and I say deliberately in a
war against Prussia, Austria will certainly be beaten."

"Really?" said the king doubtfully. "Yet I have heard you speak in high
terms of both their generals and their soldiers."

"Certainly."

"Well then, it does not seem to me so remarkably easy to conquer good
soldiers commanded by good generals."

"They have good, soldiers, sire, they have good generals, but we shall
beat them because our own organization and arrangement are superior to
theirs. When I persuaded Your Majesty to undertake the war on Schleswig
which Your Majesty did not desire to do--"

"If I had not desired to make war on Schleswig it would never have been
made!"

"That is very true, sire, but Your Majesty hesitated; I had the courage
to insist, and Your Majesty approved of my reasons."

"Yes, and what is the result of the war on Schleswig? War throughout
Germany!"

"True, sire, in the first place I like a situation that calls for
resolute action; and as I consider war in Germany inevitable, I
congratulate you."

"Will you explain whence comes your confidence?"

"Your Majesty forgets that I made the campaign with the Prussian army. I
did not do it for the mere pleasure of hearing cannon, of counting the
dead, and of sleeping on the battlefield, where I assure you one sleeps
very badly, or for the purpose of giving you what was nevertheless well
worth having, two posts on the Baltic, of which Prussia stood in great
need. No, I made the campaign with the object of trying the Austrians,
and I repeat that they are behind us in everything--discipline,
armaments, use of arms: they have bad rifles, bad artillery, and worse
powder. In a war against us Austria will be beaten from the very
commencement, for we have everything which she has not, and Austria once
vanquished, the supremacy in Germany must inevitably fall from her hands
into those of Prussia."

"And how is Prussia with a population of eighteen millions to maintain
her superiority over sixty? Only look at her pitiful appearance on the
map."

"That is exactly the point. I have looked at her for three years, and
now is the time to mould her anew. Prussia is a great serpent whose head
is at Thionville, while her tail is at Memel, and which has a lump in
her stomach because she has swallowed half Saxony. She is a kingdom cut
in two by another--Hanover--in such a fashion that you cannot get home
without going abroad. You must understand, sire, Hanover is bound to
become part of Prussia."

"But what will England say to this?"

"England is no longer in the age of Pitt and Cobourg. England is the
very humble servant of the Manchester School, of Gladstone, Cobden, and
their scholars; England will do no more for Hanover than she did for
Denmark. Must we not take Saxony also?"

"France will never allow us to meddle with Saxony, if only in memory of
the king who was faithful to her in 1813."

"Not if we took too big a mouthful; but if we only nibble she will shut
both eyes, or at least one of them. And is not Hesse also very
necessary?"

"The Confederation will not abandon all Hesse."

"But if it will let us take half, that is all we want. Now let us
consider Frankfort-on-the-Main."

"Frankfort-on-the-Main! The free town! The seat of the Diet!"

"The moment Prussia can reckon thirty millions of men instead of
eighteen the Diet is dead. Prussia will then be the Diet. Only, instead
of crying a decree she will say 'decree.'"

"We shall have the whole of the Confederation against us. It will side
with Austria."

"So much the better!"

"And why?"

"Austria once beaten, the Confederation is beaten along with her."

"We shall have a million men against us."

"Let us count them."

"There are four hundred and fifty thousand in Austria--"

"Agreed."

"And four hundred and fifty thousand in Venetia."

"The emperor is too obstinate to recall troops from Venice before two or
three battles if he is successful, before ten if he is beaten."

"Bavaria has one hundred and sixty thousand."

"I will answer for Bavaria--her king is too fond of music to love the
sound of cannon."

"Hanover, twenty-five thousand men."

"Only a mouthful to swallow on our first march."

"Saxony, fifteen thousand."

"Another mouthful."

"And a hundred and fifty thousand belonging to the Confederation."

"The Confederation will have no time to arm them; only we must not lose
a moment, sire; therefore I now say 'War, Victory, the supremacy of
Prussia--myself--or-'"

"Or?"

"Or my resignation, which I lay very humbly at Your Majesty's feet."

"What is that on your hand, count?"

"Nothing, sire."

"It looks like blood."

"Perhaps it is."

"Is it true, then, that some one attempted your life by firing at you
with a revolver?"

"Five times, sire."

"Five? Good gracious!"

"He thought it none too many for me."

"And you are unwounded?"

"Only a scratch on the little finger."

"And who was your assassin?"

"I do not know who he is."

"Did he refuse to give his name?"

"No, I forgot to ask him; besides, that is the Attorney-General's
affair, not mine. I do not interfere with other people's concerns. Now,
my own business is my King's business, and that is here."

"I am listening," said the king.

"To-morrow the chamber is dissolved; the following day we mobilize; in
eight days hostilities are declared, or else--"

"Or else what?"

"Or else, as I have the honour to repeat to Your Majesty, my
resignation."

Then, without waiting for the king's answer the Count von Bismarck bowed
low, and according to etiquette retired backwards from the king's
presence. The king said nothing to detain his minister, but before
closing the door, that gentleman heard the bell rung loudly enough to
rouse the whole palace.




CHAPTER V

A SPORTSMAN AND A SPANIEL


On the day following the events just narrated, a young man about
twenty-five years of age arrived in Brunswick by the eleven o'clock
train from Berlin. Leaving his luggage, which was labelled "Hanover," in
the station, he took a small knapsack on which were strapped a
sketch-book and camp-stool, buckled on a cartridge belt, flung a baldric
supporting a double-barrelled gun over his shoulder, and completed his
toilet with a large grey felt hat. Altogether he appeared a sort of
cross between sportsman and tourist. Accompanied by a beautiful
jet-black spaniel he left the station and hailed an open carriage,
whereupon the dog instantly justified his name of "Frisk" by springing
joyously in, and installing himself on the front seat, while his master
reclined on the back after the manner of one accustomed to do things
comfortably. Courteously addressing the driver in excellent German:

"Coachman," said he, "kindly take me to the best hotel the town affords,
or at any rate, to the one which provides the best lunch!"

The coachman nodded as if to say he required no further instructions,
and the carriage rattled and bumped over the cobble stones to the Hôtel
d'Angleterre. The dog, who had hardly been able to retain his position,
instantly sprang out, and showing his relief by active gambols,
besought his master to follow. The latter alighted, but left his
knapsack and gun in the carriage. Turning to the driver:

"You may wait," he said, "and keep an eye on my things."

Hackney coachmen, all the world over, have a keen eye for good
customers. This honest fellow was no exception.

"Excellency may be quite satisfied," he answered with a wink. "I will
keep careful guard over them."

The traveller entered the inn, and passing straight through it arrived
at a pleasant court shaded by lime-trees. Here he selected a small table
with chairs for two, one of which was promptly occupied by Frisk; his
master took possession of the other and the two proceeded to lunch. This
occupied an hour, and no lady could have received more attention than
the young man bestowed on Frisk. The dog ate whatever his master ate,
only politely protesting when a hare, accompanied by currant jelly,
appeared on the scene, that as a sporting dog he ought not to touch
game, and personally had a serious objection to sweets. Meanwhile, the
driver remaining on his box refreshed himself with bread, cheese, and a
half bottle of wine. Consequently, when master and dog re-occupied the
carriage the trio presented an appearance of general satisfaction.

"Where to, Excellency?" enquired the driver, wiping his mouth on his
sleeve, with the air of a man ready to drive to the world's end if you
wished.

"I don't quite know," was the answer, "it depends a little on you."

"How so?"

"Well, if I find you a good fellow, I might wish to keep you on for some
time."

"Oh, a year if you like!

"No, that is too long."

"Well, a month then."

"Neither a year nor a month, but a day or two."

"Oh, that's not enough. I really thought you meant to take me on lease."

"To begin with, what will you charge for going to Hanover?"

"It is six leagues, you know."

"Four and a half, you mean."

"But it is up and down hill the whole way."

"Nonsense! it is as flat as a billiard-table."

"One can't get round you," said the grinning driver.

"In one way you can."

"And which is that?"

"Simply by being honest."

"Ah, indeed! That is a new idea."

"It is one which has not before occurred to you, I think."

"Well, name your own price, then."

"Four florins."

"But you are not counting the drive from the station and the time for
lunch."

"You are right, I will allow for that."

"And the _pourboire_."

"That is as I may choose."

"Agreed. I don't know why, but I trust you."

"Only, if I keep you more than a week it will then be three and a half
florins per day, and no _pourboire_."

"I couldn't agree to that."

"Why not?"

"Because I see no reason for depriving you of the pleasure of doing the
handsome thing when I have the misfortune of leaving you."

"The dickens! One would take you for a wit!"

"I've wit enough to look like a fool when I want to."

"Well done! Where do you come from?"

"From Sachsenhausen."

"And where may that be?"

"It is a suburb of Frankfort."

"Ah! yes, it is a Saxon colony from the days of Charlemagne."

"That is so. So you know that, do you?"

"I also know that you are a fine race, something like the Auvergnats of
France. We will settle up when we part."

"That's suits me down to the ground."

"What's your name?

"Lenhart."

"Very well, Lenhart, let us get on then."

The carriage started, scattering the usual crowd of idle spectators. A
few minutes brought it to the end of the street leading to the open
country. The day was magnificent. The trees had just burst into leaf,
and earth had assumed a mantle of green, the soft spring breeze seemed
laden with the perfume of flowers. Overhead the birds were already
seeking food for their little ones, and awakening Nature appeared to
listen to their songs. From time to time a lark arose from among the
corn, and ascending high in the air seemed as if floating above the
summit of a pyramid of song.

Beholding this magnificent country the traveller exclaimed: "But there
must be splendid shooting here, is there not?"

"Yes, but it is strictly preserved," replied the coachman.

"So much the better," said our friend, "there will be all the more
game."

In fact, before they had gone quite a mile from the town, Frisk, who
had given various signs of impatience, sprang out of the carriage,
rushed into a field of clover, and pointed.

"Shall I go on or wait," enquired the driver, seeing the young man
loading his gun.

"Go on a yard, or two," was the answer. "There, that will do; now, draw
up as near to the field as you can."

The carriage, with the sportsman standing up in it, gun in hand, halted
within thirty yards of the dog. The driver looked on with all the
interest of his class, an interest which is always on the side of the
sportsman and hostile to the landlord and the gamekeeper. "That is a
clever dog," he remarked. "What is he pointing at?"

"It is a hare."

"How do you know?"

"Had it been a bird he would have wagged his tail. See."

A big leveret showed itself among the clover and fell a victim to the
gun. It was promptly brought in by Frisk. Further on a covey of
partridges was seen, but the dog was called off, and the young brood
left in peace. They were already approaching Hanover when a startled
hare was seen some sixty yards from the carriage.

"Ah!" said Lenhart, "this one wisely keeps his distance."

"It does not follow," replied the sportsman.

"You don't expect to hit at that distance, do you?"

"Have you still to learn, my friend, you who profess to be able to
shoot, that to a good shot and a good gun distance is of small
importance? Now, watch!"

Then, having altered the charges in his gun the young man enquired:

"Do you know all about the manners and customs of hares, Lenhart?"

"Why, yes, I think I know all any one can know who can't speak their
language."

"Well, I can tell you this. A startled hare, if not pursued, will run
about fifty paces and will then sit down to have a look round and
perform his toilet. Look!"

And in fact, the hare, which had run towards the carriage, instead of
away from it, suddenly stopped, sat down, and began to wash its face
with its forepaws. This predicted toilet cost the poor animal its life.
A prompt shot and the hare bounded upwards and fell back dead.

"Beg pardon, Excellency," said Lenhart, "but if we are going to war as
it is said we are, on which side will you be?"

"As I am neither Austrian nor Prussian, but happen to be a Frenchman,
you will probably find me fighting for France."

"So long as you do not fight for these Prussian beggars I am quite
satisfied. If you will fight against them, however--_donnerwetter_--but
I have something to say."

"Well? at is it?"

"I offer you the free use of my carriage to fight from."

"Thanks! my friend, 'tis an offer not to be despised. I always thought
that if I had to fight, I should like to make the campaign in a
carriage."

"Well, then, here is the very thing you want. I can't tell you how old
my horse is, he wasn't young when I bought him ten years ago, but I know
if I took him to a Thirty Years' War he would see me through it. As for
the carriage, you can see it is as good as new. Those shafts were put on
only three years ago, and last year it had new wheels and a new axle,
and it is only six months since I provided it with a new body."

"You remind me of an anecdote we have in France," replied the other. "It
is that of Simple Simon's knife, which had first a new blade and then a
new handle, but was still the same knife."

"Ah, sir," said Lenhart, with the air of a philosopher, "every country
has its Simple Simon's knife."

"And also its simpletons, my good friend."

"Well, if you put new barrels on your gun you might give me the old
ones. Here comes your dog with the hare," lifting it by the ears. "You
can join the other, you fool," he said. "See what comes of too much
vanity! Ah, sir! don't fight against the Prussians if you don't want to,
but, good heaven, don't fight for them!"

"Oh, as to that you may be quite easy. If I do fight, it will be against
them, and perhaps I shall not wait for war to be declared."

"Bravo! Down with the Prussians!" cried Lenhart, touching up his horse
with a sharp cut. The animal, as if to justify his praises, and excited
by his master's voice and cracking whip, broke into a gallop, bolted
through the suburban streets and only stopped at the Hôtel Royal.




CHAPTER VI

BENEDICT TURPIN


Lenhart, in his double capacity of hackney coachman and purveyor of
travellers and tourists for the Hôtel Royal, Hanover, was well known to
Mr. Stephen, landlord thereof, who gave him a cordial reception. Anxious
to magnify the importance of his present consignment, Lenhart hastened
to inform him that the new arrival was a mortal enemy of the Prussians,
that he never missed a shot, and that if war were declared, he would
place himself and his deadly weapon at the disposal of the King of
Hanover. To all of which Stephen lent an attentive ear.

"But where does your traveller come from," he at length enquired.

"He says he's a Frenchman, but I don't believe it. I've never once heard
him boast about anything, besides, his German is too good. But there, he
is calling you."

Stephen quickly answered the summons. The stranger was talking to an
English officer of the Royal Household and his English appeared no less
fluent than his German. Turning to Stephen he said in the latter
language.

"I have asked a question of Colonel Anderson, who has kindly given me
one-half of the answer, and tells me to apply to you for the rest. I
asked for the title of the principal newspaper here, and the name of
its editor. Colonel Anderson says the 'Hanoverian Gazette,' but does not
know the editor's name."

"Wait a moment, Excellency. Yes, yes, let me see. He is Herr Bodemeyer,
a tall, thin man with a beard, is he not?"

"Never mind his appearance. I want his name and address. I wish to send
him my card."

"I only know the office address, Park Strasse. Do you dine at the _table
d'hôte_? If so, Herr Bodemeyer is one of our regular guests. It is at
five o'clock, he will be here in half-an-hour."

"All the more reason why he should have my card first," and producing a
visiting-card bearing the legend "Benedict Turpin, Artist," he addressed
it to Herr Bodemeyer, and handed it and a florin to the hotel messenger,
who undertook to deliver it within ten minutes.

Stephen then ventured to suggest that if there were private matters to
discuss a private room might be desirable.

"A good idea," said Benedict, and going to Colonel Anderson, "Sir," said
he, "although we have never been formally introduced, I nevertheless
hope you will waive etiquette and do me the honour of dining with me and
Herr Bodemeyer, who I think will not refuse to join us. Our host
promises an excellent dinner and good wine. It is six months since I
left France, consequently six months since I had a chance of
conversation. In England they talk, in Germany they dream, it is in
France only that they converse. Let us have a nice little dinner at
which we can do all three. Here is my card, that of an insignificant
artist, devoid of armorial bearings or coronets, but with the simple
Cross of the Légion d'Honneur. I would add, colonel," he continued
seriously, "that in a day or two I may find myself obliged to ask a
favour of you, and I should like to prove myself not unworthy of the
consideration I hope you will show me."

The colonel accepted the card and bowed politely.

"Sir," said he with courteous English formality, "the hope you give me
of being able to render you some service would certainly induce me to
accept your hospitality. I have no reason whatever against dining with
Herr Bodemeyer, and I have a thousand for wishing to dine with you, not
the least being, if I may say so, that I find your person and manners
exceedingly attractive."

Benedict bowed in his turn.

"Since you have done me the honour to accept," he said, "and I feel
pretty sure of Herr Bodemeyer, it becomes my first duty to see that the
dinner is a decent one. If you will excuse me I should like to interview
the chef on the subject," and he departed kitchenwards while the colonel
sought the hotel reading-room.

Left in possession of a fair income at an age when the usual idea is
only how best to squander it, Benedict Turpin had shown practical sense
as well as genius. A believer in the excellent proverb which says that a
man doubles his opportunities in life when he learns a new language, he
had quadrupled his by spending a year in England, another in Germany, a
third in Spain, and a fourth in Italy. At eighteen he was a first-rate
linguist, and he spent the next two years in completing his education by
classical and scientific studies, not neglecting the use of weapons and
the general practice of games, calculated to further his physical
development. By the time he was twenty he had attained an all-round
proficiency very unusual in youths of his age and promised much in the
time to come.

He took part in the Chinese expedition, and being possessed of
sufficient means to indulge his taste for travelling, spent several
years in world-wide wandering, hunting wild beasts, traversing deserts,
picking up tapestries, jewels, curiosities, etc., wherewith on his
return he furnished one of the most artistic studios in Paris. At the
time our story opens he had, in the course of a round of visits to
celebrated German painters, arrived in Berlin, where he upheld the
honour of France, with the insolent good luck which seemed never to
desert him. When the attention of the mob was momentarily diverted by
the attack on the Prime Minister, Benedict succeeded in escaping
unnoticed, and took refuge at the French Embassy, where he was well
known. Early in the following morning he left by train and finally
arrived at Hanover without let or hindrance. He had just given his last
instructions to the cook when he was warned that Herr Bodemeyer was
already approaching the hotel.

Benedict hurried to the entrance, where he saw close at hand a gentleman
drawing near, who held a visiting card in his hand, and seemed pondering
much as to what the owner could possibly want with him.

It is said that the denizens of that ancient Gaul which gave Cæsar so
much trouble have so marked a personality that, wherever one is seen,
the passers-by immediately remark: "Look, that's a Frenchman!"

Herr Bodemeyer, at any rate, seemed to recognize Benedict's nationality
at once. He advanced smiling, with extended hand. Benedict promptly
descended the steps to meet him and the two exchanged the customary
civilities. Hearing that the artist had come from Berlin, and being
professionally eager for news, the editor at once demanded an account of
the uproar of the previous evening, and of the attempted assassination
of Count Bismarck.

As to the latter, Benedict could give little information. He had heard
the shots, seen two men struggling, and one handed over to some
officers, and then had hastily sprung into the café, left it by a door
in another street, and found shelter at the Embassy. There he heard
further that the young man was the stepson of a proscribed refugee of
the '48, named Blind, and that he had made terrible accusations against
the count, which, coming as they did from the relative of a banished
rebel, were held to count for very little.

"Well, we know a little more than that," said Herr Bodemeyer, "we hear
that the young man attempted to cut his throat with a penknife, but that
the wounds were only slight and the doctor says are not dangerous. But
the "Kreuz Zeitung" will be here directly and we shall know a little
more."

Even as he spoke newsboys hurried down the street shouting "Kreuz
Zeitung--Zeitung!" There was a rush for the paper. Hanover was nearly as
excited as Berlin had been the night before. Did the poor little kingdom
already feel itself in the crushing embrace of the Prussian
boa-constrictor?

Benedict beckoned to one of the newsboys and bought a paper. Turning to
the Hanoverian editor,

"I hope you will dine with me and Colonel Anderson," he said. "We have a
private room, and can talk politics as much as we like. Besides, I have
something to ask of you which I could hardly ask at a public table."

Just then Colonel Anderson approached. He and Bodemeyer knew each other
by sight already. Benedict now formally introduced them. The colonel had
already glanced at his newspaper.

"Do you know," said he, "that although the doctor pronounced the wound
of no consequence, young Blind nevertheless died early this morning? A
Hanoverian officer come from Berlin says that about four o'clock a man
wrapped in a large cloak and wearing a large shady hat which concealed
his face, arrived at the prison provided with a permission to see the
prisoner, and was taken to his cell. Blind had been put into a strait
waistcoat and no one knows what passed between them, but when his cell
was inspected at eight o'clock he was dead. The doctor says he must have
been dead nearly four hours, so that he must have died about the time
this mysterious visitor left him."

"Is this official news?" enquired Bodemeyer. "As editor of a Government
paper I am bound to accept only official information. Let us see what
the 'Kreuz Zeitung' has to say."

They withdrew to the room assigned to them, and the Hanoverian editor
proceeded to examine the Berlin newspaper. The first paragraph of
consequence stated:

"We are assured that the king's warrant decreeing the dissolution of the
Lower Chamber will be officially published to-morrow."

"Come," said the colonel, "that is of some importance."

"Wait a moment; there is something more."

"It is also announced that a decree ordering the mobilization of the
Landwehr will be officially published the day after to-morrow."

"That is enough," observed the colonel, "we know now that the minister
wins all along the line and that war will be declared in less than a
fortnight. Let us have the general news. We know all we want to know of
the political. Only, first, on which side will Hanover be?"

"There is no doubt about that," replied Bodemeyer. "Hanover is bound to
adhere to the Confederation."

"And on which side is the Confederation," asked Benedict.

"On the side of Austria," answered the journalist promptly. "But listen,
here is a fresh account of the scene in Unter den Linden."

"Oh! let us have that by all means," cried Benedict. "I was there, and I
want to know if the account is correct.

"What! were you there?"

"Very much there," and he added laughing, "I might even say with Æneas,
'_Et quorum pars magna fui._' I was in the thick of it."

Herr Bodemeyer continued:

"We are now able to give fuller details concerning the demonstration in
Unter den Linden which occurred yesterday after the report of the
Emperor Louis Napoleon's speech had been received. It appears that just
as our most distinguished vocalist finished singing 'The German Rhine,'
which was received with tremendous enthusiasm, a loud hiss was heard. It
was soon seen that the author of this insult was a foreigner, a French
painter, evidently intoxicated, and who would probably have atoned for
his folly with his life, had not some Prussian officers generously
protected him from the infuriated populace. The young fool further
defied the crowd by giving his name and address, but when enquiries were
made at the Black Eagle this morning he had disappeared. We commend his
prudence and wish him a pleasant journey."

"Is that paragraph signed," asked Benedict.

"No. Is it inaccurate?" returned the reader.

"May I be permitted to remark that the one thing I have everywhere
observed in my wanderings over three of the four quarters of the
world--I beg your pardon, there are five, if we count Oceania--is the
extremely small regard for truth shown by the purveyors of this sort of
news. Whether in the north or the south, St. Petersburg or Calcutta,
Paris or Constantinople, they are all alike. Each journal is bound to
give so many beats of its drum every day. Good or bad, false or true, it
has to give them, and those who feel injured must obtain redress--if
they can."

"Which means, I suppose," observed Colonel Anderson, "that this account
is incorrect."

"Not only incorrect, but incomplete. The 'young fool' it speaks of, not
only hissed, but cried, 'Vive la France!' Further, he drank to the
health of France, and also disposed satisfactorily of the four first who
attacked, him. It is true that these three Prussian officers intervened.
They wished him to cry 'Vive Guillaume I' and 'Vive la Prusse.' He
mounted a table, and instead, gave them a recital of Alfred de Musset's
'Answer to the German Rhine' from end to end. It is also true that just
then the reports of Blind's revolver attracted general attention, and,
not proposing to fight all Berlin, he profited by the incident to
escape, taking refuge in the French Embassy. He had challenged one, two,
or four adversaries, but not the entire populace. He also left a message
at the Black Eagle to be given to any enquirers to the effect that he
could not remain in Berlin, but would wait in some neighbouring country
in order to oblige any one demanding satisfaction. And, leaving Berlin
by an early train he arrived at Hanover an hour ago and at once sent his
card to Herr Bodemeyer, hoping that that gentleman will kindly announce
in his Gazette both the town and the hotel where this 'young fool' may
be found by any one unable to find him at the Black Eagle."

"Good heavens," exclaimed the editor, "then it was you who caused this
mighty uproar at Berlin."

"Even I; small things make much noise, as you see." Turning to the
Englishman, Benedict continued, "And now you also see why I warned
Colonel Anderson that I had a favour to ask him. I want him to be my
second in case, as is quite possible, some wrathful individual should
arrive demanding why, being in a foreign country, I have dared to uphold
the honour of my own."

His hearers, with one accord, immediately offered their hands. Benedict
continued:

"And now, to show I am not absolutely unknown, here is a letter from the
Head of our 'Department of Fine Arts' to Herr Kaulbach, Painter to the
King of Hanover. He lives here, does he not?"

"Yes, the king had a charming house built on purpose for him."

At this moment the door communicating with the next room was thrown
open, the rotund figure of the landlord appeared in the opening and a
solemn and impressive voice announced:

"Their Excellencies are served."

Whether the chef had perceived that Benedict really understood what he
was talking about, or else had had orders from his master to do what he
was told, he had, at any rate, carried out his instructions to the very
last letter, the result being neither French, English, nor German, but
cosmopolitan, a banquet for a conference if not a congress. Nor was
brilliant conversation lacking. Bodemeyer, like all German journalists,
was a well-read man, but had never been outside Hanover. Anderson, on
the contrary, had read little, but had travelled everywhere and seen
much. He and Benedict had explored the same countries and encountered
the same people. Both had been at the siege of Pekin; Anderson had
followed Benedict in India, and preceded him in Russia. Both related
their experiences, the one with English reserve and humour, the other
with French vivacity and wit. The Englishman, a true modern
Phœnician, saw everything from the industrial and commercial point of
view, the Frenchman from that of intellectual progress. Their different
ideas, brought forward with warmth and also with the courtesy of
well-bred and distinguished men, crossed each other like foils in the
hands of experienced fencers, emitting sparks, brilliant if transitory.
Bodemeyer, unused to this style of discussion, endeavoured to give it a
philosophical turn, in which he was met by Benedict, but which Anderson
found difficult to follow. The journalist seemed unintelligible, but
Benedict's theories he understood as he had never understood before.

The clock striking eight abruptly terminated the conversation. The
editor sprang up.

"My paper!" he cried, "my 'Gazette'! It is not ready by half!" Never
before had he succumbed to such an intellectual temptation. "Frenchmen
are the very devil," he muttered, trying in vain to find a hat which
would fit him. They _are_ the champagne of the earth, they are clear,
strong, and sparkling. In vain did Benedict entreat him for five minutes
in which to write his announcement. "You must let me have it before
eleven o'clock," cried Bodemeyer, as, having discovered his own hat and
cane he fled as if the enemy were behind him.

Next morning the following announcement might have been read in the
"Hanoverian Gazette".

     "On June 7th, 1866, in Unter den Linden at Berlin I had occasion to
     both give and receive several blows in an encounter with various
     excellent citizens who wished to tear me to pieces because I had
     publicly emptied my glass to the glory of France. I have not the
     honour of knowing who gave these blows, but, wishing to be known by
     those who received mine, I hereby announce that during the next
     eight days I may be found at the Hôtel Royal, Hanover, by any one
     wishing to criticize either my words or actions on the said
     occasion, and I particularly hope that the author of a certain
     article referring to me in yesterday's issue of the 'Kreuz
     Zeitung,' will accept this invitation. Being ignorant of his name,
     I have no other means of addressing him.

     "I wish to thank the three Prussian officers who interfered to
     protect me from the amiable people of Berlin. But, should any of
     them consider himself offended by me, my gratitude will not extend
     to refusing him satisfaction.

     "I said then and I repeat now, that I am familiar with the use of
     all weapons."

                          "BENEDICT TURPIN.
            "_At the Hôtel Royal, Hanover_."






CHAPTER VII

KAULBACH'S STUDIO


Benedict lost no time in leaving his note at the "Gazette" office, and
his letter of introduction at Kaulbach's studio, where he left also his
card on which was written, "I hope to have the honour of calling on you
to-morrow." He therefore ordered Lenhart to be ready a little before
eleven, in order to pay his two visits, one of thanks to Herr Bodemeyer,
and one to Kaulbach. As the latter lived at the extreme end of the town
where the king had had a charming little house erected for him, he
called at Herr Bodemeyer's office first. The last copies of the
"Gazette" were just being struck off, and Benedict was able to convince
himself that his letter was actually in print. As the "Gazette" had
numerous subscribers in Berlin and would be on sale there at six that
evening, there was no doubt but that his communication would be widely
read. The dissolution of the Chamber was confirmed and it was certain
that mobilization would be announced on the morrow. Benedict continued
on his way to the studio.

Seen by daylight the house appeared to be a pretty villa in Italian
style, standing in a garden enclosed with iron railings. The gate stood
invitingly open. Benedict entered, rang, and was answered by a servant
in livery, whose manner showed that the visit was expected. He at once
led the way to the studio.

"The master is just finishing dinner," he said, "but he will be with you
in a moment."

"Tell the master," replied Benedict, "that I am too delighted at being
able to see the beautiful things here to wish to hurry him."

And, indeed, the studio, full of original pictures, sketches, and copies
of some of the works of the greatest painters known, could not fail to
be intensely interesting to an artist such as Benedict, who now suddenly
found himself in the sanctuary of one of the greatest of German
painters. Kaulbach is an artist who has adhered to his Christian faith,
and everywhere one saw proofs of this. But among highly finished
sketches for some of his world-famous pictures, such as "The Dispersion
of Mankind," "The Taking of Jerusalem," etc., Benedict's attention was
drawn to a modern portrait group of five persons. It represented an
officer, evidently of high rank, holding a boy of about ten by the hand.
His charger stood ready on the terrace below, and a lady in the prime of
life sat near him with two little girls, one leaning against her knee,
while the other sat at her feet and played with a small dog and some
roses. The picture, apparently, was a work of love, for the artist had
taken immense pains with it; too much so, in fact, for the elaborately
finished details threw the faces into the background, and the general
effect was too flat.

Absorbed in the study of this group, Benedict did not observe that
Kaulbach had entered the room and was standing beside him, looking on
with a smile. Presently he said:

"You are right, that picture is too flat, and I had it brought back, not
to finish it still more, but to tone it down and soften some parts. Such
as it is your public would never like it. Delacroix has spoilt you for
'clean' pictures."

Benedict laughed.

"Do you mean to imply that he painted dirty ones?" he enquired.

"Heaven forbid! His works are excellent, but your nation did not
appreciate them."

"We do him justice now, however."

"Yes, now that he is dead," said Kaulbach smiling. "Is it not always
so?"

"Not in your case. Admired in France, adored in Germany, happily you are
yet with us."

Kaulbach at this time was about fifty-two, slightly grey, sallow in
complexion, having brilliant dark eyes and a highly nervous
constitution. Tall and slight, he was at the zenith of his artistic
powers and hardly past that of his physical ones. The two men studied
each other critically, until at last Turpin began to laugh.

"Do you know what I am thinking?" asked the German. "I am wondering how
you have managed to wander from Pekin to St. Petersburg, from Astrakhan
to Algiers, and yet found time to produce the remarkable pictures you
have painted. I know these only by report unfortunately, but I have
heard a good deal. You are a pupil of Scheffer's?"

"Yes, I have also studied under Cabat."

"Great masters, both of them. And you are the hero of that unlucky
business at Berlin. I have just read your letter in the 'Gazette.'"

"But why 'unlucky'?"

"Well, you will have two or three duels on your hands."

"So much the worse for my adversaries."

"Allow me to remark that you are not lacking in self-confidence."

"No, because I have the certainty of success. Look!" and Benedict held
out his hand. "Observe that the line of life is double. There is not
the slightest break anywhere--nothing to indicate accident, sickness, or
even the slightest scratch. I might live to a hundred--but I won't say
as much of those who quarrel with me."

Aulbach smiled.

"At the end of your letter of introduction," he said, "there was a
postscript, which informed me that you were more deeply interested in
studying occult science than in pursuing your own art."

"I don't know that I study either very much. I am rather a slave to
temperament. If a thing amuses me, well, yes, I study it. If I think I
have found a truth, I try to follow it out to the very end. And I do
believe that chiromancy can give us a glance into the future, and that
the hand is a page on which the lines of our fate have been traced by
Destiny. If for five minutes only I could study the hand of either the
King of Prussia or of Count Bismarck, I could give you some idea of what
will happen."

"Meanwhile," said Kaulbach, "your science says you will escape scot-free
from any duels arising out of this Berlin scrimmage?"

"Certainly I shall. But we were talking about your work, which is
infinitely more interesting. I believe I know all your pictures, or
nearly so."

"I would wager you don't know the best of them."

"Yes, I do. You mean 'Charlemagne visited in his Tomb by the Emperor
Otho'? It is the masterpiece of modern German painting."

Kaulbach was evidently delighted.

"You have seen that!" he exclaimed, and he held out his hand to
Benedict. "I don't think as much of it as you seem to do, but it is the
best thing I have done. Oh! pardon me, but I see two visitors who come
for a sitting. But wait, they are kind friends of mine, and may not
object to your presence. I will tell them who you are, and then if they
do not mind your being here you can please yourself as to whether you go
or stay." So saying he hastily quitted the studio.

A carriage was at the garden gate, quite plain in appearance, with no
arms emblazoned on the panels, yet Benedict's practised eye saw at once
that the horses had cost at least £200 each. Two gentlemen were leaving
it, the elder of the two, who seemed about forty-five, wore the
epaulettes of a general with an undress uniform of dark green, the
collar and facings being of black velvet. Kaulbach said a few words,
upon which he took off an order he was wearing and also two crosses,
retaining those of the Guelphic Order and of Ernest Augustus. Then, that
he might cross the little garden and ascend the steps he took the arm of
the younger man, who seemed to be his son, and who, tall and very
slight, appeared to be about one-and-twenty, and wore a Hussar uniform
of blue and silver.

Kaulbach opened the studio door and stood respectfully aside. Benedict,
as he bowed, instantly recognized the central figure of Kaulbach's
portrait group. He glanced quickly at the picture on which the missing
decoration was depicted in all its glory. It was the Star of the Order
of the Garter, worn by few except sovereign princes. He knew at once
that the visitors must be the blind King of Hanover, one of the most
cultivated and artistic sovereigns of Germany, and his son, the Crown
Prince.

"Milords," said Kaulbach, "I have the honour to present a brother artist
to you. He is young, but is already famous, and he brings a special
introduction from the Minister of Fine Arts at Paris. May I add that
his own personality is a better recommendation even than those."

The general bent his head graciously, the youth touched his cap. The
elder man then addressed Benedict in English, regretting that his French
was only indifferent. Benedict replied in the same language, saying that
he was too great an admirer of Shakespeare, Scott, and Byron not to have
made an effort to read these authors in their own tongue. The king,
satisfied that he was unrecognized, discussed various subjects, and,
knowing that Benedict had travelled much, asked many questions which
were in themselves a compliment, for only men of superior intelligence
could have asked and answered them. Kaulbach, meanwhile, rapidly worked
at his picture softening down the too hard accessories. The young prince
listened eagerly, and when Benedict offered to show him sketches made in
India, he appealed anxiously to his father as to when and where he could
see them.

"Better ask both these gentlemen to lunch in your own rooms," said the
King, "and if they do you the honour to accept--"

"Oh! can you come to-morrow?" enquired the prince, delighted.

Benedict looked at Kaulbach in embarrassment.

"I fear I may have work of another kind to-morrow," he replied.

"Yes," said Kaulbach, "I fear my friend here is a trifle hot-headed. He
only arrived yesterday and he has already written a letter for the
'Gazette,' which is now well on its way to Berlin."

"What! the letter I thought so amusing that I read it aloud to my
father! Is that yours, monsieur? But, indeed, you will have duels
without end."

"I count on two," said Benedict. "It is a lucky number."

"But suppose you are killed or wounded?"

"If I am killed, I will, with your permission, bequeath you my album. If
I am badly hurt, I will ask Herr Kaulbach to show it you instead. If I
am only scratched, I will bring it myself. But you need not be anxious
on my account; I can assure you nothing unpleasant will happen to me."

"But how can you know that?"

"You know my friend's name, I think," said Kaulbach. "He is Benedict
Turpin. Well, he descends in the direct line from the famous enchanter
Turpin, the uncle of Charlemagne, and he has inherited the gifts of his
ancestor!"

"Good heavens," said the prince, "are you spirit, magician, or what?"

"None of them. I simply amuse myself by reading the past, the present,
and as much of the future as one's hand can reveal."

"Before you came," said Kaulbach, "he was deeply regretting not being
able to see the hand of the King of Prussia. He would have told us what
will happen in the war. My lord," he continued, emphasizing the title,
"could we not find somewhere a royal hand for him to see?"

"Very easily," said the king, smiling, "only it should be that of a real
king or a real emperor. Such as the Emperor of China, who is obeyed by
millions of subjects, or Alexander, who reigns over the ninth part of
the whole world. Do you not think so, M. Turpin?"

"I think, sir," replied Benedict, as he bent low before the king, "that
it is not always great kingdoms which make great kings. Thessaly
produced Achilles, and Macedonia gave birth to Alexander," and again
bowing, even more deeply, he left the studio.




CHAPTER VIII

THE CHALLENGE


Benedict's prediction was duly fulfilled. He had hardly opened his eyes
the next morning when Lenhart, who had assumed the duties of valet,
appeared, bearing a magnificent silver salver which he had borrowed from
the landlord. On it were displayed two cards.

The cards bore the respective names of "Major Frederic von Bülow" and
"Georges Kleist, Editor of the 'Kreuz Zeitung.'" Two different classes
of Prussian society were therefore represented desiring satisfaction.

Benedict enquired where these gentlemen were to be found, and hearing
that they were both at his own hotel, sent a hasty message to Colonel
Anderson, begging him to come at once. When he appeared Benedict gave
him the cards, requesting him to deal with the owners in due order of
precedence, beginning with Major von Bülow, and to agree to whatever
terms were proposed whether as to weapons, time, or place. The colonel
would have protested, but Benedict declared he would have it his own way
or not at all, and Anderson had no choice but to agree.

He returned at the end of half-an-hour. Von Bülow had chosen swords.
But, having been sent officially to Frankfort, and having come out of
his way in order to accept M. Turpin's challenge, he would be greatly
obliged if the meeting might take place as soon as possible.

"The sooner the better," said Benedict. "It is the very least I can do
to oblige a man who comes out of his way in order to oblige me."

"All he wants, seemingly, is to be able to continue his journey this
evening," observed Anderson.

"Ah!" said Benedict. "But I cannot answer for his ability to do that,
however early we meet!"

"That would be a pity," said the colonel. "Major von Bülow is very much
a gentleman. It seems that three Prussian officers interfered to protect
you from the mob on condition that you cried 'Vive King William!' 'Vive
la Prusse!'"

"Pardon me, there were no conditions."

"Not on your side, but they undertook it for you."

"I did not prevent them from crying it as much as they liked."

"Doubtless, only, instead of doing it yourself--"

"I recited one of Alfred de Musset's finest poems; what more could they
want?"

"They consider that you treated them with disrespect."

"Perhaps I did. Well, what next?"

"When they read your letter they decided that one of them must accept
the challenge and the other two act as seconds. They drew lots, and the
lot fell on von Bülow. That very moment he received orders to go on this
mission to Frankfort. The others wished that one of them should take his
place in the duel. But he refused, saying that if he were killed or
badly wounded, one of them could take on the dispatches which would not
be much delayed. So I then arranged the meeting for one o'clock."

"Very well. What about the other man?"

"Herr Georges Kleist is not remarkable in any way: he is a typical
German journalist. He chooses pistols and wants to fire at close
quarters on account of his defective eyesight. I believe it is quite
good enough, but, however, he does wear glasses, so you are to be at
forty-five paces--"

"Good gracious! Do you call that close quarters?"

"Have a little patience! You may each advance fifteen paces nearer,
which reduces the ultimate distance to fifteen. But we had a discussion.
His seconds say that he is the aggrieved party and has the right to fire
first. I say, nothing of the kind; you ought to fire together, at a
given signal. You must decide; it is a serious matter, and I decline the
responsibility."

"It is soon decided; he must fire first. I hope you fixed an early time
for him also? We could then kill two birds with one stone."

"That is just what I have done. At one o'clock you meet von Bülow with
swords, and at a quarter-past, Herr Kleist, with pistols."

"Well then, my dear colonel, I will go and order breakfast, and will you
be so good as to tell Herr Kleist that he can have first shot? And," he
added, "let it be understood that I don't provide any arms myself; I
will use the swords and pistols they bring with them."

It was then eleven o'clock. Benedict promptly ordered breakfast. Colonel
Anderson returned in ten minutes and announced that all was settled.
Whereupon they applied themselves to their repast until the clock struck
twelve.

"Colonel," said Benedict, "do not let us be late."

"We have no great distance to go. It is a pretty place, as you will see.
Are you influenced by surroundings?"

"I would rather fight on grass than on cultivated ground."

"We are going to Eilenriede; it is a sort of Hanoverian Bois de
Boulogne. In the middle of the wood there is a little open glade with a
spring in it, which might have been made for this sort of encounter. I
have been there once or twice on my own account and three or four times
on other people's. By the way, have you secured another second?"

"There are five on the other side, one of them will oblige me."

"But suppose they refused?"

"Not likely! But, even if they did, you alone would be sufficient. And,
as they seem anxious to finish the affair one way or another, there will
be no difficulties."

Lenhart had already announced the carriage. The colonel explained the
way to him. In half-an-hour they arrived at the little glade, with ten
minutes to spare.

"A lovely spot," said Benedict. "As the others are not yet here, I will
sketch it."

And, producing a sketch-book from his pocket, he dashed off a very
accurate view of the place with remarkable rapidity and skill.

Presently a carriage appeared in the distance. As they drew near
Benedict rose and took off his hat. The three officers, the editor, and
a surgeon they had brought, occupied it. In the officers, Benedict at
once recognized his three protectors at Berlin.

His adversaries left their carriage at a little distance and courteously
returned his salute. Colonel Anderson went to meet them and explained
that his principal, being a stranger, had no second but himself, and
asked if one of his opponents would supply the deficiency. They
consulted a moment, then one of the officers crossed over and bowed to
Benedict.

"I am much obliged by your courtesy, sir," said Benedict.

"We will agree to anything, sir--rather than lose time," replied the
officer.

Benedict bit his lip.

"Will you at once select the weapons," he said to Colonel Anderson in
English, "we must not keep these gentlemen waiting."

Von Bülow had already divested himself of helmet, coat, waistcoat, and
cravat. Benedict studied him carefully as he did so. He appeared to be
about thirty-three and to have lived in his uniform until he felt
uncomfortable out of it. He was dark, with glossy black hair cut quite
short, a straight nose, black moustache and very decided chin. Both
courage and loyalty could be read in the frank and open glance of his
dark eyes.

Von Bülow, having provided the swords, Benedict was offered his choice
of them. He simply took the first that came, and immediately passed his
left hand along the edge and felt the point. The edge was keen as a
razor. The point sharp as a needle. The major's second observed his
action, and, beckoning Colonel Anderson aside.

"Will you," he said, "kindly explain to your principal that in German
duels we use only the edge of the sword? To thrust with the point is
inadmissible."

"The devil!" said Benedict when this information was repeated to him,
"it is well you told me. In France, where duels, especially military
ones, are usually serious, we use every stroke we can, and our
sword-play is actually called 'counterpoint.'"

"But indeed," exclaimed von Bülow, "I beg, sir, that you will use your
sword in whatever way you find best."

Benedict bowed in acknowledgment. Having fought several duels at
Heidelberg he was well acquainted with German methods of fencing and
placed himself with apparent indifference. As the affronted person has
the right of attack, and a challenge may be considered an affront, he
waited, standing simply on guard.




CHAPTER IX

THE TWO DUELS


"Engage, gentlemen!" cried the colonel.

Von Bülow's sword swept through the air with a flash like lightning.
But, rapid though it was, it descended in empty space. Warned by the
instinct of a true fencer, the blades had barely crossed when Benedict
sprang swiftly aside and remained standing unguarded, his point lowered,
and his mocking smile disclosing a fine set of teeth. His adversary
paused, perplexed, then swung round so as to face him, but did not
immediately advance. However, feeling that this duel must be no child's
play, he stepped forward and instantly the point of Benedict's sword
rose menacingly against him. Involuntarily he retreated a step. Benedict
now fixed his eyes upon him, circling round him, now bending to the
right, now again to the left, but always keeping his weapon low and
ready to strike.

The major began to feel a kind of hypnotic influence overpowering him.
Determined to fight against it, he boldly stepped forward, holding his
sword aloft. Instantly he felt the touch of cold steel. Benedict thrust,
his rapier pierced von Bülow's shirt and reappeared on the other side.
Had not the major remained standing motionless opposite him, an onlooker
would have supposed he had been run through the body.

The seconds hastened up, but:

"It is nothing, I assure you," said the major.

Then, perceiving that Benedict had only intended to pierce his shirt and
not himself, he added:

"Come, sir, let us continue this game in earnest."

"Ah!" said Benedict, "but you see, had I played in earnest, you would
now be a dead man!"

"On guard, sir," cried von Bülow, furious, "and remember this is a duel
to the death."

Benedict stepped back and saluting with his sword:

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "you see how unfortunate I am. Although
fully intending not to use my point I have nevertheless made two holes
in my opponent's shirt. My hand might again refuse to obey my will, and,
as I do not visit a country merely to rebel against its
customs--particularly when they happen to be philanthropic--so--"

He went up to a rock which rose out of the little valley and, placing
the point of his rapier in a crevice, broke off a good inch of the
blade.

His adversary wished to do likewise, but,

"It is quite unnecessary, sir," said Benedict, "you are not likely to
use your point."

Being now reduced to ordinary sword-play, Benedict crossed swords with
his opponent, which necessitated their keeping close together. But he
continually retreated half a pace and advanced again, thanks to which
incessant movement the major merely made cuts in the air. Becoming
impatient, he endeavoured to reach Benedict, missed again, and
involuntarily lowered his weapon. Benedict parried a back stroke and
touched von Bülow's breast with the broken point. Said he:

"You see I was right in breaking the point of my sword. Otherwise, this
time something besides your shirt would have been pierced."

The major remained silent, but quickly recovering himself again stood on
guard. He now saw that his adversary was a most skilful swordsman, who
united French celerity with determined coolness and who was fully
conscious of his strength.

Benedict, seeing that an end must be made, now stood still, calm but
menacing, with frowning brows and eyes fixed on his enemy, not
attempting to strike but retaining a posture of defence. It seemed as if
he awaited the attack, but suddenly with the unexpected celerity which
characterized all his movements, he sprang forward with a bound like
that of a jaguar, aimed a blow at his adversary's head, and as the
latter raised his arm in defence, drew a line with his blade right
across his chest. Then, springing lightly back in the same instant he
again lowered his sword as before.

Von Bülow's shirt, slashed as though cut by a razor, was instantly
tinged with blood. The seconds moved forward.

"Do not stir, I beg," cried the major, "it is nothing but a scratch. I
must confess the gentleman's hand is a light one."

And he again stood on guard.

Courageous though he was, he felt he was losing confidence, and,
dumbfounded by his enemy's agility, a sense of great danger oppressed
him. Evidently Benedict was keeping just out of reach, and was merely
waiting until he should expose himself by an unwary advance. He
understood that hitherto his opponent had simply played with him, but
that now the duel was approaching an end and that his smallest mistake
would be severely punished. His sword, never able to encounter
Benedict's, seemed to become lifeless, and ceased to respond to his
will.

His previous experience in fencing seemed useless here, and this
flashing blade which he could never touch, but which rose constantly
before him, alert, intelligent, as if endued with life, confused his
senses. He dared not risk a movement before this enemy always just
beyond his reach, so imperturbable and yet so alert, and who evidently
intended, like the artist he was, either to finish with one brilliant
stroke or else--which did not seem likely--to expire in a dignified pose
like the "Dying Gladiator."

But, exasperated by his opponent's perfect bodily grace, by his elegant
and masterly swordsmanship, and still more by the mocking smile which
hovered on his lips, von Bülow felt the blood rise to his temples, and
could not resist muttering between his teeth:

"This fellow is the very devil!"

And, springing forward, no longer fearing the broken point, he raised
his sword and aimed a blow with all his might at his adversary, a blow
which, had it reached its object, would have split his head as though it
had been an apple. Again, the stroke only encountered empty air, for
once more Benedict had effaced himself by a light, graceful spring, very
familiar to Parisian fencing masters.

The major's raised sword had broken his guard. A flash, as of lightning,
and his arm, streaming with blood, fell against his side. His sword
dropped, but remained upright supported by the sword knot.

The seconds hurried to his side. Very pale, but with smiling lips, von
Bülow bowed to Benedict and said:

"I thank you, sir. When you might have run me through the body you only
wounded my shirt; when you might have cut me in two you let me off with
the sort of cut one gets in shaving, and now, when you might have either
cleft my head or maimed my arm, I escape with a ruined sleeve. I now
ask you to extend your courtesy even further, and to complete the
record like the gentleman you are by explaining why you have spared me
thus?"

"Sir," said Benedict with a smile, "in the house of Herr Fellner, the
Burgomaster of Frankfort, I was introduced to his god-daughter, a
charming lady, who adores her husband. Her name was the Baroness von
Bülow. When I saw your card it occurred to me that you might be related,
and though, beautiful as she is, mourning could only add to her charm,
it would grieve me to have been the cause of compelling her to wear it."

The major looked Benedict in the face and, stern soldier though he might
be, there were tears in his eyes.

"Madame von Bülow is my wife," he said. "Believe me, sir, wherever she
may meet you she will greet you thus: 'My husband foolishly quarrelled
with you, sir; may you ever be blessed because for my sake you spared
him!' and she will give you her hand with as much gratitude as I now
offer you mine."

And he added smiling:

"Forgive me for only offering my left hand. It is entirely your own
fault that I cannot give you the right."

And now, although the wound was not dangerous, von Bülow did not refuse
to have it dressed. The surgeon promptly ripped up his sleeve,
disclosing a wound, not very deep, but terrible to look at, which
extended down the arm from the shoulder to the elbow. And one shuddered
to think what such a wound would have been, had the swordsman struck
with all his force instead of simply drawing his blade along the arm.

The surgeon dipped a cloth in the ice-cold spring which rose at the foot
of the rock and wrapped it round the arm. He then drew the sides of the
wound together and strapped them with plaster. He assured the major that
he would be quite able to continue his journey to Frankfort in the
evening.

Benedict offered his carriage to the major, who, however, declined,
being curious to see what would happen to his successor. He excused
himself on the score that courtesy required him to wait for Herr Georges
Kleist.

Although Herr Kleist, having had time to see what sort of adversary he
had to deal with, would willingly have been some leagues away, he put a
brave face on the matter, and although he grew perceptibly pale during
the first duel, and still paler when the wound was dressed, he was,
nevertheless, the first to say.

"Excuse my interrupting you, gentlemen, but it is my turn now."

"I am quite at your service, sir," said Benedict.

"You are not properly dressed for a duel with pistols," interposed
Colonel Anderson, glancing at Benedict's costume.

"Really," said Benedict, "I never thought about what clothes I was to
fight in. I only wanted to do it with comfort to myself. That's all!"

"You can at least put on your tunic and button it!"

"Bah! It is much too hot."

"Perhaps we ought to have taken the pistols first. All this sword-play
may have unsteadied your hand."

"My hand is my servant, dear colonel; it knows it has to obey me and you
will see it does so."

"Do you wish to see the pistols you are to use?"

"You have seen them, have you not? Are they double barrelled or single?"

"Single barrelled duelling pistols. They were hired this morning from a
gunsmith in the Grande Place."

"Then call my other second and see them properly loaded. Mind the shot
is inside the barrels, and not dropped outside."

"I will load them myself."

"Colonel," asked the Prussian officers, "do you wish to see the pistols
loaded?"

"Yes. I wish to do so. But how are we to arrange? Herr Kleist will only
have one second."

"These two gentlemen may answer for Herr Kleist," said the major, "and I
will go over to M. Turpin." And his wound being now bandaged, he went
and sat down on the rock which gave its name to the glade.

Meanwhile the pistols were loaded, Colonel Anderson fulfilling his
promise by putting in the balls himself. Benedict came up to him.

"Tell me," the Englishman asked gravely, "do you mean to kill him?"

"What do you expect? One can't exactly play with pistols as one can with
swords or rapiers."

"Surely there is some way of disabling people with whom you have no
serious quarrel without killing them outright?"

"I really cannot undertake to miss him just to oblige you! Think! He
would naturally go and publish everywhere that I did not know how to
shoot!"

"All right! I see I need not have spoken. I bet you have an idea of some
sort."

"Frankly, I have. But then he must do his part."

"What must he do?"

"Just keep perfectly still, it ought not to be so very difficult. See,
they are ready."

The seconds had just measured the forty-five paces. Colonel Anderson now
measured off fifteen from each end, and to mark the exact limit which
neither combatant was to pass, he laid two scabbards across and planted
a sword upright in the ground at each end to decide the starting-point.

"To your places, gentlemen," cried the seconds.

Herr Kleist having selected his pistol, the colonel brought the other to
Benedict, who was talking to the major, and who took the pistol without
as much as looking at it, and still chatting with von Bülow, walked
quietly to his place.

The duellists now stood at the extreme distance.

"Gentlemen!" said Colonel Anderson, "you are now forty-five paces apart.
Each of you may either advance fifteen paces before firing, or may fire
from where he now stands. Herr Georges Kleist has the first shot and may
fire as soon as he pleases. Having fired, he may hold his pistol so as
to protect any part of himself he wishes.

"Now, gentlemen!"

The two adversaries advanced towards each other. Having arrived at the
mark, Benedict waited, standing, facing his opponent with folded arms. A
light breeze ruffled his hair and blew his shirt open at the chest. He
had walked at his ordinary pace.

Herr Kleist, dressed entirely in black, bare-headed, and with closely
buttoned coat, had advanced slowly, by force of will overcoming physical
disinclination. He halted at the limit.

"You are ready, sir?" he asked.

"Quite ready, sir."

"Will you not turn sideways?"

"I am not accustomed to do so."

Then, turning himself, Herr Kleist slowly raised his pistol, took aim,
and fired.

Benedict heard the ball whiz close by his ear and felt the wind ruffle
his hair; it had passed within an inch of his head.

His adversary instantly raised his pistol, holding it so as to protect
his face, but was unable entirely to control a nervous movement of his
hand.

"Sir," said Benedict, "you courteously asked just now if I would not
stand sideways, which is unusual between combatants. Permit me in my
turn to offer a piece of advice, or rather, make a request."

"What is it, sir?" asked the journalist, still protecting himself with
his pistol.

"This; keep your hand steady, your pistol is moving. I wish to put my
ball in the wood of your pistol, which will be very difficult unless you
keep it quite still. Against my own will I might hit you, either in the
cheek or the back of the head, whereas--if you keep your hand just as it
is--"

He raised his pistol and fired instantly.

"There! it is done now!"

It was done so rapidly that no one could have supposed he had taken any
aim at all. But, even as the report was heard, Herr Kleist's pistol was
blown to pieces and he himself staggered and fell on one knee.

"Ah!" said Anderson, "you have killed him."

"I think not," replied Benedict. "I aimed between the two screws which
hold the hammer. It is the shock of the concussion which has brought him
down."

The surgeon and the two seconds hastened to the wounded man, who now
held only the butt end of his pistol. There was a terrible bruise on his
cheek, reaching from the eye to the jaw. Otherwise he was untouched,
only the shock had knocked him down.

The barrel of the pistol was picked up on one side and the lock on the
other. The ball had lodged exactly between the two screws. Had it
continued its course unobstructed it would have broken the upper jaw and
penetrated the brain.

The dressing was simple--the bruise was a very bad one, but the skin was
only broken in two places, and the surgeon considered a cold-water
bandage to be all that was required.

Benedict embraced the major, bowed to the journalist, shook hands with
the seconds, put on his coat, and got into the carriage, looking less
dishevelled than if he had come from a picnic.

"Well, my dear sponsor," he said to Colonel Anderson.

"Well, my dear godson," responded the latter, "I know at least ten men
besides myself who would willingly have given a thousand pounds to see
what I have seen to-day."

"Sir," said Lenhart, "if you would promise neither to hunt nor to fight
unless I am there to see, I, my horse, and my carriage should be at your
service for the rest of my life."

And indeed, Benedict returned as he had foretold, having fought his
duels, vanquished his adversaries, and come off without a single
scratch!




CHAPTER X

"WHAT WAS WRITTEN IN A KING'S HAND"


When Benedict returned to his hotel he was met by Kaulbach's servant,
sent by his master to learn what had happened. In the good town of
Hanover it had speedily become known that in answer to Benedict's letter
in the "Gazette" two challenges had been received that very morning, and
that he, his challengers, and seconds, had all gone to Eilenriede, the
usual place for settling affairs of this description. Benedict desired
him to assure his master that all was well, adding that he would have
come in person to acknowledge his courtesy, had he not feared to rouse
the curiosity of the whole town.

Colonel Anderson had made an excuse for leaving Benedict as soon as they
returned. Being an officer of the Royal Ordnance he had probably some
report to make to the king.

The news of the result of this double combat spread as rapidly as had
that of the challenges. Such an event as two duels successfully fought
without a scratch being received was quite unheard of, and was
considered so extraordinary that the young men of the town, who also had
no love for the Prussians, sent a deputation to congratulate Benedict on
his success. He received the deputies and replied in such excellent
German that they retired marvelling more than ever.

The doors had scarcely closed on them when Stephen appeared, and
announced that all his guests were so interested in the events of the
day that they begged Benedict would honour them by dining at the _table
d'hôte_, in order that they might all have the pleasure of personally
congratulating him.

Benedict replied that he did not in the least understand so much
admiration for his perfectly natural conduct, but that he was quite
willing to do anything which might be agreeable to his fellow guests.

Stephen had time to let the news circulate in the town that the young
Frenchman of whom every one was talking, would, for once only, consent
to dine at the _table d'hôte_. Instead of twenty-five only, he had
covers laid for two hundred guests. Every place was occupied.

The police feared disorder of some kind, and came to investigate. They
were assured that it was only a family affair, a demonstration such as
had been made three days before under the windows of Count von
Bismarck--only it was the other way about! Now the Hanoverian police was
an excellent body, which highly approved of family fêtes and patriotic
demonstrations. Therefore, instead of objecting to this one they
encouraged it with all their power, thanks to which all passed off in
perfect order.

At midnight, Benedict was at length allowed to retire, but his admirers
organized a serenade beneath his windows which lasted till two o'clock
in the morning.

At nine Kaulbach entered his room. The Crown Prince invited Benedict to
breakfast at the Palace of Herrenhausen, and requested him to bring his
sketches. Kaulbach was commissioned to bring him back. The breakfast was
at eleven, but the prince would be obliged if Benedict would come at ten
in order to have some time for conversation both before and after.

Benedict lost no time in dressing, and although Kaulbach, intimate at
the palace, assured him he could go in ordinary costume, he preferred to
wear the naval uniform in which he had made the Chinese campaign. On his
breast was the Cross of the Légion d'Honneur, of which the simple red
ribbon means much more when worn by some than do the various grand
crosses worn by others. He added a sabre, the gift of Said Pasha, took
his sketches, and got into the carriage with Kaulbach.

Lenhart had a whole day's holiday.

Twenty-five minutes brought them to Herrenhausen, which is about a
league from Hanover, and, the carriage being open, Benedict could see
the young prince watching for him eagerly at a window. He was
accompanied only by his aide-de-camp, an officer of Engineers, and
consequently well able to draw. Also, which is more unusual, he did not
disdain the picturesque.

The prince enquired courteously after Benedict's health, without making
the smallest allusion to the duels of the day before. It was evident
nevertheless that he knew all about them. Had there been any doubts on
the subject they would have been dispelled by the appearance of Colonel
Anderson as another invited guest.

But the prince's chief interest centred in the portfolio which Benedict
carried under his arm.

Anticipating his wishes, Benedict observed;

"Your Highness wished to see some of my sketches. I have brought some
representing hunting incidents, thinking that they might interest you
most."

"Oh! let me see, let me see!" exclaimed the prince, extending his hand,
and placing the portfolio on the piano, he began eagerly to examine the
contents. After having turned over several, "Ah," said he, "but they are
beautiful. Will you not tell me something of the adventures which I am
sure they illustrate? They must be so interesting."

Benedict endeavoured to gratify the prince, and the time both before and
after the breakfast passed rapidly in listening to accounts of elephant
hunting, of encounters with pirates in the Straits of Malacca, of
adventures in the Caucasus, and he had just finished an especially
thrilling anecdote relating to the poisonous snakes of India when the
king was seen approaching from the gallery. He held the arm of his
aide-de-camp with whom he was conversing and walked firmly as if able to
see. He entered the dining-room without being announced. The four guests
rose immediately, but:

"Do not let me disturb you, gentlemen," said the king. "I merely came to
visit the prince, to ask if he has all he wants, and if not, to convey
his wishes to the persons concerned."

"No! thanks to Your Majesty's kindness, nothing is wanting here except
yourself. Your knowledge of men has not deceived you, and Monsieur
Benedict is the most delightful companion I ever met."

"The prince is imaginative, sire," said Benedict laughing. "He
attributes to some very simple anecdotes and hasty sketches an
excellence which they do not possess."

But the king replied as if answering his own thought, the thought which
had led him to visit the young man.

"Yesterday," he said, addressing Benedict and turning towards him, as he
always did in conversation, "you said something about a science which
interested me in former days, namely, chiromancy. My thoughts carry me
on towards the mysterious unexplored regions of the human mind, of
nature, of creation. I should like to know they are based upon logic, on
physiology, for instance."

"I know, sire," replied Benedict, smiling, "that is why I ventured
yesterday to mention the occult sciences to Your Majesty."

"You know. But how?" demanded the king.

"I should be a poor student, sire, if I had limited my enquiries to the
hands only, and had not united the study of Lavater and Gall to that of
Arpentigny. I saw at once in the form of your hands and head those
precious aptitudes which are shown in phrenology by the well-developed
organs of the poetic faculty and of the love of harmony, which betoken
the student of natural science. The protection accorded by Your Majesty
to the poor herbalist, Lampe, arose not from benevolence only, but from
the conviction that certain men are empowered to receive a revelation,
and that it is not always the highly placed ones of earth to whom truth
is thus manifested."

"It is true," said the king. "Other men may see the stars shining in the
midnight silence, but it seems to me that I actually hear that 'music of
the spheres' spoken of by Pythagoras. And I am proud to think that while
I stand on the summit of earthly society, there are, immediately above
me, intermediate angelic influences which carry on a boundless electric
chain, linking us not merely with our own little planetary system, but
with others--with the whole universe."

"I do not venture," the king continued with a smile, "to discourse
openly on these beliefs. I should get the reputation of 'a king of
dreams,' about the worst a king can have. But to you, who are a dreamer
like myself, I do say--yes, I believe in these celestial influences, and
I believe that each mortal has, in that precious casket which he calls
his skull, the signs of his destiny. He may strive to alter or delay its
course, but it will bear him on irresistibly to fortune, success, or
misery, as the case may be.

"And I speak with conviction because I have had proofs. In early youth I
once met a gipsy woman in the course of a solitary walk. She examined my
hand and told me certain things which came to pass. I wish to believe
you, but I must have proofs. Can you read the past in my hand even as
the gipsy read the future. Can you, do you, sincerely believe you have
this power?"

"I do, sire. And I think actual science will tell you what has before
been perhaps merely guessed at by intuition or tradition."

"Well then," said the king, extending his hand, "now tell me what you
read."

"Sire," replied Benedict, "I do not know how far I dare--"

"Dare what?" enquired the king.

"What if I read only a threatening future?"

"We live in days when no predictions, however terrible, can exceed the
reality of the convulsions which are taking place around us. What can
you predict for me that can be so terrible? Is it the loss of my
kingdom? I lost more than a kingdom when I lost the vision of sun and
sky, of earth and sea. Take my hand, and tell me what is written."

"Everything?"

"Everything. As for misfortunes, is it not better to know of them than
to encounter them unforeseen?"

Benedict bowed so deeply over King George's hand that he almost touched
it with his lips.

"A truly royal hand," he said, after having glanced over it, "a
beneficent hand; an artistic hand."

"I did not ask for compliments, sir," said the king, smiling.

"See, my dear master," said Benedict, addressing Kaulbach, "how well the
Mount of Apollo, there, under the ring-finger, is developed! Apollo
bestows love of the arts; he is the giver of intelligence, of all that
is brilliant and creates brilliance. It is he who gives the hope of an
immortal name, calm of the soul, the sympathy that creates love. Look at
the Mount of Mars, represented by the part opposite the thumb. This is
what gives courage, both civil and military, calm, coolness in danger,
resignation, pride, devotion, resolution, and the strength of
resistance. Unfortunately, Saturn is against us. Saturn threatens. You
know, sire, Saturn is Fate. Now, I ought to tell you, the lines of
Saturn are not only unfavourable; they are calamitous."

And here Benedict raised his head and looking at the king with the
utmost respect and sympathy:

"I might continue more intimately yet, sire," he said, "and reveal your
whole character in its most secret recesses. I might sketch your
inclinations one by one to you to their lightest shades; but I should
prefer to pass at once to graver facts. At twelve years old, Your
Majesty had a serious illness."

"It is true," said the king.

"At nineteen, a line extends both towards the brain and towards the
Mount of the Sun--a nervous seizure on one side; on the other, something
resembling death, but which is not death--an eclipse! And worse than
that, an eclipse is momentary one night!"

"The gipsy told me literally the same as you--something that resembles
death, but is not death! The fact is that at the age of nineteen I
passed through great trouble."

"Stay! Here, sire, on Jupiter there is a marvellous gleam; one of the
highest seats of human fortune--about the age of thirty-nine."

"Again the words of the gipsy. At thirty-nine I became king."

"I was ignorant of the precise dates," said Benedict, "but it might be
supposed that I knew them. Let me look for a fact that I could not have
known. Ah, I see it. Yes, it is certainly here. An agony of terror, an
accident due to water. What is it? A boat in danger? A tempest watched
from the shore? The imminent wreck of a vessel containing some one
beloved? There is fearful terror, but terror only; for there is a rescue
traced close to the line of fate. Your Majesty undoubtedly experienced
terrible anxiety for the life of some one greatly beloved.'

"Do you hear this, Ernest?" said the king addressing his son.

"Oh, my father!" said the young prince, throwing his arms around his
father's neck. Then, to Benedict: "Yes, indeed, my poor father was in
terrible fear. I was bathing in the sea at Nordeney. I can swim fairly
well; but without perceiving it I let myself be carried away on a
current; and, upon my word, I was on the point of sinking when I grasped
the arm of an honest fisherman who had come to my assistance. One second
more, and all would have been over with me."

"And I was there," said the king. "I could hear his cries, I stretched
my arms towards him--it was all I could do. Gloucester offered his
kingdom for a horse: and I would gladly have given mine for a ray of
light. Do not let us think of it. All the misfortunes of the future
together are not more terrible than the shadow of that misfortune which
did not happen."

"And so, sire?" said Benedict.

"And so I am convinced," said the king. "I have no need of further
proofs. Let us pass on to the future."

Benedict looked with great attention at the king's hand. He hesitated a
moment and asked for a magnifying glass, to see more distinctly. It was
brought.

"Sire," he said, "you are about to be drawn into a great war. One of
your nearest neighbours will not only betray, but will despoil you; and
notwithstanding--look, monseigneur!" he said to the prince, "the line of
the Sun shows victory: but an empty victory, useless, without fruit."

"And then?" asked the king.

"Oh, sire, what do I read in this hand!"

"Good tidings, or bad?"

"You told me to keep nothing from you, sire."

"And I repeat it. Tell me then; this victory--"

"This victory, as I have told Your Majesty, leads to nothing. Here is
the Line of the Sun broken off above the Line of the Head by a line
starting from Mars which also cuts the Mount of Jupiter."

"And that foretells?"

"A defeat. But however--No," said Benedict, seeking to read the most
mysterious secrets from the royal hand; "moreover, it is not the last
word of your destiny. Here is the Line of the Sun after its breakage
starting afresh, reaching the ring-finger and stopping at its base. And
there see further, above this line traversing Jupiter, a straight line
like a furrow crowned with a star, as a sceptre is crowned with a
diamond."

"And that prophesies?"

"Restoration."

"Then according to you, I shall lose the throne and reconquer it?"

Benedict turned towards the prince.

"Your hand, if you please, monseigneur."

The prince gave him his hand.

"After the age of forty, monseigneur, the Line of Life sends a branch
towards the Line of the Sun. At that period you will ascend the throne.
This is all that I can tell you. Now, if you ascend the throne, prince,
it can only mean that your father has either recovered or has never lost
it."

The king remained silent for a moment, resting his head on his left
hand. He seemed gazing fixedly before him as if absorbed in some great
idea. The most profound silence reigned in the apartment.

"I cannot tell you," he said at length, "how much this unknown science
interests me. Does Providence permit each of us to recognize his destiny
in advance, just as the wrestler of ancient Greece might calculate the
strength of his adversary in the circus, and consider how best to avoid
his grip and obtain the victory?"

He remained silent for a few moments, then continued:

"After all, it would seem only just, only reasonable, that Providence
which announces a storm by gathering clouds and muttering thunder,
should allow to man and especially to man placed on the highest point of
earthly grandeur, some indication of the approach of the storms of life.
Yes, this science should be true, if only for the reason that it is
necessary, and has hitherto been a missing link--unknown as it was--in
the harmony of creation and in the logic of the Divine Mercy."

At this moment an usher appeared and informed the king that the Minister
of Foreign Affairs desired an audience on account of important business.

The king turned to Benedict:

"Sir," said he, "though your predictions are gloomy, you will always be
welcome in the home of him to whom you have made them. You have foretold
a victory; well, I to-day commission you to depict it. And if you remain
with us, it only rests with you to share it. Ernest, give your Guelphic
Cross to M. Benedict Turpin. I will tell my Minister of Foreign Affairs
to have the patent ready for signature to-morrow."

The king embraced his son, gave his hand to Kaulbach, graciously saluted
Anderson and Benedict, and taking the arm of his aide-de-camp left the
apartment as he had entered it.

The young prince detached the cross and ribbon of the Guelphic Order
which decorated his uniform, and fastened them on Benedict's coat with
signs of the most livery pleasure. The latter thanked him and expressed
his gratitude with evidently heartfelt warmth. Said the prince:

"Only promise me one thing, M. Benedict. If your predictions should be
verified, and you should have nothing better to do, we will go on our
travels together, and you will show me how to kill lions and elephants
in these wonderful forests I have heard of to-day."




CHAPTER XI

BARON FREDERIC VON BÜLOW


And now we will leave our friend Benedict Turpin in order to follow one
of his adversaries who is destined to become an important character in
our story. We mean Baron Frederic von Bülow, whom we left with Georges
Kleist in the glade of Eilenriede.

Although his wound appeared at first sight the more serious of the two,
it was not in reality so. Moreover, he was the most eager to leave the
field. Entrusted as he was with a mission to Frankfort, he had turned
aside from his road to call Benedict to account, and from the first
moment that he was able to bear the fatigue of the journey he did not
lose a moment in pursuing it.

Although untouched by the ball, the impact of the broken pistol with the
right side of Kleist's face had had deplorable results. The blow was so
violent that it had left a bruise of the exact shape of the muzzle of
the pistol. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheek immoderately swollen.
In short, Herr Kleist would be obliged for at least a fortnight to forgo
the pleasures of society.

When the Baron Frederic von Bülow and Herr Kleist arrived at the Royal
Hotel they found their misadventure and Benedict's triumph were already
public property. The fact of their being Prussians was no
recommendation, and they were received with an amount of derision which
induced Herr Kleist, suffering though he was, to take the train
immediately. As for the major, having already accomplished a third of
his journey, he had only to continue on a branch line running direct
from Hanover to Frankfort.

We have already given some account of the appearance and physique of the
Baron Frederic von Bülow; we will now complete our description, first
relating the romantic manner in which he entered the military career and
the happy chance by which his undoubted merits found their due reward.

Frederic von Bülow came of a family belonging to Breslau. He had been a
student at Jena. One fine day he resolved to make a tour which is
frequently undertaken by German students along the banks of the Rhine.
He set out alone; not that he was in the least misanthropical; but he
was a poet. He loved to travel according to the inclination of the
moment, to stop when it suited him, proceed when he pleased, and have no
companion drawing him to the left when he wanted to follow a charming
woman to the right.

He had reached the most picturesque part of the Rhine; the Seven
Mountains. On the opposite bank, on the summit of a lofty hill there
stood a fine Gothic castle, lately restored. It belonged to the brother
of the King of Prussia, who was then only the Prince Royal. Not only had
he rebuilt the castle on its ancient foundations, but he had furnished
it throughout with appointments of the sixteenth century, collected in
the neighbourhood from the peasantry and convents, and new pieces made
by clever workmen from ancient models. Hangings, tapestries, mirrors,
all were of the same period, and formed a charming miniature museum of
arms, pictures, and valuable curiosities. When the prince was not in
residence he allowed the castle to be shown to visitors of distinction.

How difficult it is to define the phrase "visitors of distinction."
Frederic, whose family was of ancient nobility, considered that he had a
right, though travelling on foot, to see the castle. Knapsack on
shoulder, staff in hand, he climbed the steep path and knocked at the
door of the keep. The sound of a horn was heard, and the door opened. A
porter appeared and an officer in the costume of the sixteenth century,
who asked what could be done for him. Frederic von Bülow explained his
wish as an archæologist to see the Prince Regent's castle. The officer
replied, regretting he was not able to gratify him; the prince's
intendant had arrived the evening before, preceding his master only by
twenty-four hours. Visitors could no longer be admitted. But the
traveller was invited according to custom to inscribe his name, titles,
and qualifications in the visitors' book. He took a pen and wrote
Frederic von Bülow, student of the University of Jena. Then he took up
his iron-shod stick, saluted the officer, and began to descend the path.

But he had not taken a hundred steps when he heard himself called. The
officer beckoned and a page ran after him, saying the intendant begged
him to return and would take upon himself to grant the desired
permission to see the castle.

In the ante-room Frederic met, as if by chance, a man of about
fifty-eight or sixty. It was the prince's intendant. He entered into
conversation with the young man, appeared pleased with him, and offered
to be his guide throughout the castle, an offer that Frederic took good
care to accept. The intendant was very well informed; Frederic was a
young man of ability, and three or four hours had passed without either
being aware how the time was going, when a servant announced, dinner.
Frederic gracefully expressed his concern at leaving his cicerone so
soon; and his regret was evidently shared by his guide.

"See here," he said. "You are travelling as a student; I am here _en
garçon_. Suppose you dine with me. You will not dine so well as you
might with the king, but at any rate it will be better than hotel fare."

Frederic protested as far as he thought good breeding demanded, but as
he was really longing to accept the invitation he ended by acceding with
visible pleasure, and they consequently dined together. Frederic was a
delightful companion, being both poet and philosopher, qualities one
finds only united in Germany. He quite made a conquest of his host, who
after dinner proposed a game of chess. Midnight struck, and each thought
the evening barely begun. It was not possible to return to the village
at such an hour. Frederic, after some modest reluctance, remained at the
castle and slept in the Landgrave Philip's bed; and it was only the next
day after lunch that he obtained his host's permission to resume his
journey.

"I am not without some slight influence at court," said the intendant on
taking leave of him, "and if I can ever be of any service to you, pray
make use of me."

Frederic promised that he would.

"And whatever may happen," added his host, "I shall remember your name.
You may forget me, but I shall not forget you."

Frederic finished his travels on the Rhine, returned to the University
of Jena, concluded his studies there, entered the diplomatic service and
was greatly astonished at being one day summoned to the cabinet of the
grand duke.

"Sir," said the great man, "I have selected you to convey my
congratulations to William the First, King of Prussia, on his recent
accession to the throne."

"But, Highness!" cried Frederic in astonishment, "who am I to be
honoured with such a commission?"

"Really! are you not Baron Frederic von Bülow?"

"Highness! Baron? I? But since when have I become a baron?"

"Since I made you one. You will start at nine o'clock to-morrow; your
letters of credit will be ready at eight."

Frederic could only bow and utter his thanks; he bowed deeply,
gratefully thanked the grand duke and left the room.

The next morning at ten o'clock he was in the train and by the evening
he was in Berlin. His arrival was immediately announced to the new king.
The new king replied that he would receive him the following day at the
castle Of Potsdam.

On the morrow Frederic, in his court suit, started for Potsdam and
arrived at the castle. But to his great astonishment he learnt that the
king had just gone away and had left only his intendant to represent
him.

Frederic's first idea was to return to Berlin; but he remembered that it
was this official who had entertained him so kindly and courteously two
years before at the castle of Rheinstein. He did not want to appear
ungrateful or offended, so had his name sent in accordingly. But while
crossing the ante-room he observed a full-length portrait of the king.
He stopped for an instant stupefied. His Majesty resembled his intendant
as one drop of water resembles another. The truth now dawned on
Frederic. It was the king's brother himself who, to-day reigning as King
William I, had received him at the castle of Rheinstein, who had acted
as his guide, had kept him to dinner, who had won three games of chess
out of five, and had made him sleep in the Landgrave Philip's bed--who
had offered his influence at court, and who on taking leave of him had
promised not to forget him.

He understood now why he had been chosen by the Grand Duke of Weimar to
carry his congratulations to the king; why the Grand Duke of Weimar had
made him a baron, why the king had appointed a meeting at Potsdam, and
why finally His Majesty had returned to Berlin, leaving his intendant
only to represent him.

His Majesty wanted to enjoy another day like that they had passed
together at Rheinstein. Frederic was a good courtier, and was ready to
contribute all in his power to this caprice. He entered as if he had no
suspicion, greeted his host like an old acquaintance, only showing the
respect due to an older man, thus recalling the scene which had left
such a pleasing influence on his mind.

The intendant made excuses for His Majesty, and invited Frederic to pass
the day at the castle of Potsdam, an invitation which was accepted like
the one at Rheinstein. He again offered his services as cicerone, took
him into the mausoleum, and showed him the tomb and the sword of the
Great Frederic.

A court carriage was ready waiting for them, and they went to see the
castle of Sans-Souci, which is only two miles from Potsdam. It was here,
it will be remembered, in the park of this château that the famous mill
was situated which its owner refused to sell to Frederic II, and which
caused the king to exclaim when the miller gained his lawsuit, "So there
are still judges at Berlin!" In the sequel the descendants of the
stubborn miller were softened and sold their mill to William I, who,
wishing to preserve it as a monument of the occurrence, refused to allow
it to be demolished.

But time, which cares nothing for the commands of kings, had in store
for William and his guest an example of its disregard. An hour before
the arrival of Frederic and the so-called agent, the four sails of the
windmill had fallen, bringing down in their fall the balustrade which
surrounded it. So that to day one must conclude that there are no longer
judges in Berlin, as there is no longer a mill at Sans-Souci.

On their return to Potsdam, Frederic and his companion found a table
ready laid for two. They dined alone together, played five games of
chess out of which the agent won three, and it was only at midnight that
they separated, when on the agent wishing Frederic a good night, the
latter replied with a deep bow: "Sire, may God grant Your Majesty a good
night."

The next day the fiction was abandoned. The king breakfasted with
Frederic, gave him the Order of the Red Eagle, and with much pressing
induced him to hand in his resignation and join the army. A week later
he received his commission as lieutenant of the line, and came to pay
his respects in his new character to the king, who undertook that the
king would ever remember him whom the prince had promised not to forget.

Two years later, Frederic received a proof that the king indeed had not
forgotten. His regiment was stationed in garrison at Frankfort, where at
the house of Herr Fellner, the burgomaster, he made the acquaintance of
a family of French descent exiled by the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes, which had since its expatriation become Catholic. The family
consisted of the mother, aged about thirty-eight, the grandmother, who
was sixty-eight, and two girls of twenty and eighteen. Their family name
was Chandroz.

The elder daughter, Emma, had black hair, black eyes, a pale clear skin,
and well-marked eyebrows; her marvellously beautiful teeth showed like
pearls against her vividly red lips. She had, in fact, that stately dark
beauty which suggests the Roman matron, Lucretia and Cornelia in one.

Helen was worthy of her name. Her hair was of that exquisite blonde tint
which can only be compared to the colour of ripe corn. Her complexion
faintly tinted with rose had the freshness and delicacy of the camellia.
And the effect was almost astonishing when under these fair locks, and
upon that countenance of almost transparent pallor, she raised large
dark eyes, eloquent of passion, overarched with dark eyebrows and
fringed with lashes which gave to their sparkling orbs deep reflections
like those of the black diamonds of Tripoli. And as one had only to look
at Emma to see foreshadowed in her the calm and wisdom of those matrons
among whom the Catholic religion finds its saints, so one could divine
in Helen all that tempestuous future which the united passions of two
races hold in store for the hybrids of their sex.

Whether it were that this strange manifestation of divine caprice
dismayed him, or whether he felt himself drawn by irresistible sympathy
to the elder of the two sisters--it was to her that the Baron von Bülow
paid his homage. He was young, handsome, and rich. It was known that the
King of Prussia held him in warm regard. He stated that if he were
granted Emma's hand, his royal protector at the same time would make him
a captain. The two young people were in love, and the family had no
serious opposition to raise to their union. They said: "Obtain your
promotion as captain, and we will see." He asked three days' leave,
started for Berlin, and came back on the third day with his captain's
commission.

All was arranged. But during his absence Emma's mother was slightly
indisposed. Her illness increased, developed into disease of the lungs,
and at the end of six months Emma was doubly orphaned.

It was a further reason for giving the family a protector. The
grandmother, sixty-nine years of age, might die at any moment. They
waited till the strict season of mourning dictated both by their hearts
and by custom had elapsed, and at the end of six months they were
married.

Three days after the birth of his first child, a boy, the Baron Frederic
von Bülow received his commission as major. On this occasion the
protection of the king was so obvious and so kindly intentioned that the
baron resolved to make a second journey to Berlin, not on this occasion
to ask for favours, but to return thanks for them. This journey was all
the more opportune because a word dropped by His Majesty's secretary had
warned him that there were great events on the horizon in which he might
take part, and that he would do wisely to come to Berlin on any suitable
pretext and see the king in person.

And in fact we have already said that Count von Bismarck had worked hard
to bring great events to pass. The king had three times received Baron
Frederic in private, and had freely discussed with him the probability
of a terrible war. To crown all, he attached him to the staff, so that
he might become aide-de-camp to any general whom he sent to any special
place, or even at need to his son or his cousin.

This was how Baron Frederic chanced to find himself at Berlin on June
7th, that is, on the day of the attempted assassination of Bismarck. As
we have seen, he, with two other officers rescued Benedict from the
hands of the mob; but, having promised the crowd that the Frenchman
should shout "Long live Prussia! Long live King William I!" he was
confounded when, instead of adopting this prudent course, Benedict
declaimed Alfred de Musset's verses on the Rhine, almost as well known
in Prussia as the song to which they were an answer. He and his comrades
took this affront, which the public had witnessed, as a deliberate
insult. All three presented themselves at the Black Eagle, which
Benedict as we know had given as his address, intending to demand
immediate satisfaction.

But, as they met each other and learnt that their errands were all the
same, they recognized that three men, who do not wish to gain their end
by intimidation, cannot all demand satisfaction from a single opponent.
For this reason they cast lots as to who should have the honour of
fighting with Benedict, and the lot as we have seen fell upon Frederic.




CHAPTER XII

HELEN


There stands in Frankfort-on-Main, at the corner of the Ross-market,
opposite the Protestant Church of St. Catherine, a mansion, which, by
its architecture, belongs to the transition period between Louis XIV and
Louis XV. It is known as Passevent House. The ground-floor was occupied
by a bookseller, and all the rest by the Chandroz family, already known
to the reader by name.

A sort of uneasiness, not quite amounting to actual trouble, seemed to
prevail in the house. The morning before a letter had been received by
Baroness von Bülow, announcing her husband's return in the evening, and
close upon that came a telegram, saying that he would not arrive before
the following morning, and that she must not be anxious if there were a
further delay. The fact was, that two hours after writing his letter,
the baron saw Benedict's announcement in the "Gazette." Fearing that he
might be delayed by a wound, he wished to spare his wife any possible
anxiety, her infant being only just over a week old.

Although the train was not due until four in the morning, Hans, the
confidential servant of the family, had already departed at three,
taking the carriage to meet his master at the station and at least ten
times during the interval Emma rang up her maid, wondering why the time
passed so slowly.

At length the sound of a carriage was heard, followed by the creaking of
the great gate, the carriage passed under the arch, the tread of spurred
boots echoed on the staircase, Emma's door opened, and Emma's arms
enfolded her husband.

It did not escape her notice that Frederic winced when she threw her
arms round him. She asked the cause. Frederic replied with a
cock-and-bull story of a cab accident in which he had slightly sprained
his arm.

The sound of the carriage and the general movement in the house informed
Helen of the baron's arrival. Hastily wrapping herself in a
dressing-gown with her beautiful hair falling loosely over it, she
hurried to greet her brother-in-law whom she loved tenderly. In order
not to disturb the Countess de Chandroz, their grandmother, orders had
been given to keep her wing of the house as quiet as possible.

Madame von Bülow, with the usual penetration of wives, soon guessed that
Frederic's arm was more hurt than he chose to acknowledge. She insisted
that the family doctor, Herr Bodemacker, should be sent for, and
Frederic, who knew by the pain he suffered, that the bandage must have
been displaced during his journey, made no objection. He only begged her
to keep quiet while he went to his own room for the bath he had ordered,
saying that it would be much better for the doctor to follow him there
and decide which of his two hundred and eighty-two bones required
attention.

The question of importance was to keep the baroness in ignorance as to
the serious nature of the wound. With the help of Hans and the
connivance of the doctor this would be easy. The bath was a marvellous
help, and Emma allowed him to go to his room without suspecting the real
cause of his requiring it.

When the doctor arrived, Frederic astonished Hans by explaining that the
evening before he had received a sword wound which had laid open his
arm, that the bandage must have slipped in the train, and that it, his
coat, and his shirt were all soaked in blood.

The doctor slit the sleeve the whole way up, and then cut it clear at
the top. Frederic then was told to plunge his arm into the warm water of
the bath which enabled the doctor to remove the coat sleeve. He then
loosened the shirt sleeve by sponging it with the warm water, and
finally, cutting it away at the shoulder, was able to expose the wound.

The arm, compressed by the sleeves, was frightfully red and swollen, the
plaster had given way, the wound was gaping widely through its whole
length, and in the lower part the arm appeared cut to the bone. It was
fortunate that there had been plenty of warm water at hand. The doctor
brought the two sides of the cut together again, fixed them carefully,
bandaged the whole arm and put it in splints as if it had been broken.
But it was absolutely necessary that the baron should remain quite quiet
for two or three days. The doctor undertook to find the general in
command and to explain privately that Baron von Bülow was charged with a
mission to him but could not possibly leave the house.

Hans quickly removed the water and stained bandages. Frederic went down,
kissed his wife, and satisfied her by saying the doctor had merely
ordered him to rest for a few days. The word dislocation spread through
the house and accounted for the baron's indisposition. Returning to his
own apartment he found the Prussian general awaiting him. He explained
matters in two words; moreover, before long the story would be in all
the papers. The important question was, to keep the baroness in
ignorance. She would be uneasy about a dislocation, but in despair over
a wound.

Frederic handed over his despatches to the general. They merely warned
him to be ready for action at a moment's notice. It was evident that
Count Bismarck, from whom the order came, wished to have a garrison at
hand during the Diet, to overawe the assembly, if possible. Afterwards
he would withdraw it or leave it, according to circumstances. This
question would be put to the Diet. "In case of war between Austria and
Prussia, on which side will you be?"

Frederic was extremely anxious to see his young sister Helen, having
important communications to make. After he and Benedict had vowed
eternal friendship on the field of battle, and Benedict had spoken of
having met the baroness at the burgomaster's house, he had conceived an
idea which he could not drive away, namely, to marry Benedict to his
sister-in-law. From what he had seen and heard of the young man, he felt
convinced that these two impetuous, imaginative, and artistic
characters, always ready to pursue an idea suggested by a ray of
sunlight or a scented breeze, were, out of the whole creation, the best
suited to each other. Consequently he wished to ascertain if Helen had
been attracted by his friend. Were this the case, he would find some
pretext for bringing Benedict to Frankfort, and, little as Helen cared
for admiration, he thought the acquaintance would soon assume the
character he wished.

Moreover, he wished to warn Helen to keep newspapers away from her
sister and grandmother, and on this account it was absolutely necessary
to take her into his confidence. She anticipated his wishes, for
scarcely had the general left him, when some one knocked softly at his
door, such a knock as might have proceeded from a cat or a bird. He
knew Helen's gentle manner of announcing herself.

"Come in, little sister, come in!" he cried, and Helen entered on
tip-toe.

The baron was lying on his bed in his dressing-gown, lying on his left
side, his wounded arm extended along his body.

"Ah! you good-for-nothing," said she, folding her arms and gazing at
him, "so you have been and gone and done it, have you?"

"How? done what?" enquired Frederic, laughing.

"Well, now I have got you alone, we can talk."

"Exactly, dear Helen, now we are alone as you say. You are the
strong-minded person of this house, although no one else knows it, not
even yourself. So I want to discuss important matters with you--and they
are not a few."

"So do I, and I shall begin by taking the bull by the horns. Your arm is
not dislocated nor even sprained. You have fought a duel, like the
hothead you are, and your arm is wounded by either a sabre or
sword-cut."

"Well, my little sister, that is exactly what I wanted to tell you. I
did fight a duel--for political reasons. And I did get a sabre cut in my
arm, but it was a friendly sabre, very neatly and prettily applied. It
is not dangerous, no artery or nerve severed. But the story will be in
all the papers; it has made noise enough already. Now we must prevent
both grandmamma and Emma from seeing the newspapers."

"The only paper taken here is the 'Kreuz Zeitung.'"

"Which is precisely the one that will say the most."

"What are you smiling at?"

"I can't help thinking of the face of the man who will have to supply
the details!"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I was only talking to myself, and when I say things to myself
they are not worth repeating aloud. The question is--to keep an eye on
the 'Kreuz Zeitung.'"

"Certainly I will keep an eye on it."

"Then I need not trouble any more about it?"

"When I tell you that I will see to it myself!"

"Very well! We will talk about something else."

"About anything you like."

"Do you recollect meeting a young Frenchman at Herr Fellner's, an
artist, a painter?"

"Monsieur Benedict Turpin? I should think so! A charming man who makes
the most rapid sketches, and though they are flattering, they are still
likenesses."

"Oh! come, come! You are quite enthusiastic."

"I can show you one he did of me. He has given me a pair of wings, and I
really look like an angel!"

"Then he is clever?"

"Enormously clever."

"And witty."

"He can certainly give you as good as you gave. You should have seen how
he routed some of our bankers when they tried to chaff him. He spoke
better German than they did."

"Is he rich as well?"

"So they say."

"It also seems as if there were remarkable affinities between his
character and that of a little girl I know."

"But who? I don't understand."

"Nevertheless, it is some one you know. He appears to be capricious,
imaginative, vivacious; he adores travelling, is an excellent rider,
and a good sportsman, either on foot or horseback, all which coincides
admirably with the tastes of a certain 'Diana Vernon.'"

"I thought that was what you always called me."

"So it is. Do you recognize my portrait?"

"Not at all, not in the least. I am gentle, calm, collected. I like
travelling, yes. But where have I been? To Paris, Berlin, Vienna,
London, and that is all, I love horses, but what do I ever ride except
my poor little Gretchen?"

"She has nearly killed you twice over!"

"Poor thing! it was my own fault. As for shooting, I have never held a
gun, and as for coursing, I have never started a hare."

"True, but why not? Only because the grandmother objected. If you could
have had your own way--"

"Oh, yes! It would be glorious to rush against the wind, to feel it
blowing through one's hair. There is great pleasure in rapid motion, a
feeling of life which one finds in nothing else."

"So you would like to be able to do these things which you don't do."

"Yes, indeed."

"With Monsieur Benedict?"

"Why Monsieur Benedict more than any one else?"

"Because he is more charming than most."

"I do not think so."

"Really?"

"No."

"Then; supposing you were allowed to choose a husband out of all my
friends, you would not choose M. Benedict?"

"I should never dream of doing so."

"Now, little sister, you know I am an obstinate man, who likes to
understand, things. How is it that a man, young, handsome, rich,
talented, courageous, and imaginative, fails to interest you,
particularly when he has both the good qualities and the defects of your
own character?"

"What am I to say? I do not know, I cannot analyse my feelings. Some
people are sympathetic to me, some indifferent, some downright
disagreeable!"

"Well, you don't class Monsieur Benedict among the disagreeable, I
hope."

"No, but among the indifferents."

"And why among the indifferents?"

"Monsieur Benedict is of medium height, I like tall men: he is fair, I
like dark men. He is volatile, I like serious people. He is bold, always
rushing off to the ends of the world; he would be the husband of other
men's wives, and not even the lover of his own."

"Let us resume. What sort of man, then, must he be that would please
you?"

"Somebody just the opposite of M. Benedict."

"He must be tall."

"Yes."

"Dark?"

"Either dark or dark chestnut."

"Grave."

"Grave, or at least, serious. Also brave, steady, loyal, and--"

"Just so. Do you know that you have described, word for word, my friend,
Karl von Freyberg?"

Helen blushed crimson, and moved quickly, as if to leave the room, but
Frederic, disregarding his wound, caught her hand and made her sit down
again. The light from between the curtains irradiated her face like the
sunlight falling on a flower. He looked at her intently.

"Well, yes," she said, "but no one knows but you."

"Not Karl himself?"

"He may have some idea."

"Well, little sister," said Frederic, "I see no great harm in all this.
Come and kiss me, and we will talk again another time."

"But how comes it," exclaimed Helen, with vexation, "that you know all
you want to know, although I have told you nothing at all?"

"Because one can see through a crystal which is pure. Dear little Helen,
Karl von Freyberg is my best friend, he has all I could wish in a
brother-in-law, or that you could desire in a husband. If he loves you
as much as you seem to love him, there should be no great difficulty
about your becoming his wife."

"Ah! dear Frederic," said Helen, shaking her pretty head, "but I once
heard a Frenchwoman say that the marriages which present no difficulties
are just those which never come off!"

And she retired to her own room, wondering no doubt as to what
difficulties Destiny could interpose to the completion of her own
marriage.




CHAPTER XIII

COUNT KARL VON FREYBERG


In the days of Charles V the Austrian Empire dominated for a period both
Europe and America, both the East and the West Indies. From the summit
of the Dalmatian mountains Austria beheld the rising of the sun, from
the chain of the Andes she could watch his setting. When the last ray of
sunset sank in the west, the first light of dawn was reappearing in the
east. Her empire was greater than that of Alexander, of Augustus, of
Charlemagne.

But this empire has been torn by the devouring hands of Time. And the
champion by whom the armour of this colossus, piece by piece, has been
rent away, is France.

France took--for herself--Flanders, the Duchy of Bar, Burgundy, Alsace,
and Lorraine. For the grandson of Louis XIV she took Spain, the two
Indies, and the islands. For the son of Philip V she took Naples and
Sicily. She also took the Netherlands and made two separate kingdoms of
them, Belgium and Holland, and, finally, she tore away Lombardy and
Venetia, and gave them to Italy. And to-day the boundaries of this
empire, upon which, three hundred years ago, the sun never set, are, in
the west, Tyrol; in the east, Moldavia; to the north, Prussia; to the
south, Turkey.

Every one knows that, strictly speaking, there is no Austria, properly
so called, only a dukedom of Austria, with nine to ten millions of
inhabitants, of which Vienna is the capital. And it was a duke of
Austria who imprisoned Richard Cœur-de-Lion on his return from
Palestine, and only released him on payment of a ransom of two hundred
and fifty thousand gold crowns.

The map-space now occupied by Austria, outside the actual dukedom, its
kernel, consists of Bohemia, Hungary, Illyria, the Tyrol, Moravia,
Silesia, the Sclavonian district of Croatia, the Vaivody of Servia, the
Banat, Transylvania, Galicia, Dalmatia, and Styria.

We do not count four to five millions of Roumanians scattered throughout
Hungary, and on the banks of the Danube. Every one of the above
districts has its own character, its own customs, language, costume,
frontier. Especially the dwellers in Styria, composed of Norica and the
ancient Pannonia, have retained their own language, costume, and
primitive customs. Before it became included in Austria, Styria had its
own separate history and nobility, dating from the time when it was
known as the march of Styria, about 1030. And from that epoch Karl von
Freyberg dated his ancestry, remaining a great noble at a time when
great nobles are becoming rare.

He was a handsome young man of about twenty-seven, tall, straight,
slight, flexible as a cane, and equally tough. His fine black hair was
cut close, and he had beneath black eyebrows and eyelashes, those dark
grey eyes which Homer attributes to Minerva and which shine like
emeralds. His complexion was sunburnt, for he had hunted since
childhood. He had small hands and feet, unwearied limbs, and prodigious
strength. In his own mountains he had hunted bear, wild goat, and
chamois. But he had never attacked the first of these animals with any
weapon except lance or dagger.

He was now a captain in the Lichtenstein Hussars, and, even in barracks,
was always followed by two Tyrolean chasseurs dressed in the national
costume. While the one carried out an order the other remained at hand,
so that there might be always some one to whom his master might say "Go
and do this." Although they understood German he always spoke to them in
their own tongue. They were serfs, understanding nothing about
enfranchisement, who considered that he had absolute power of life and
death over them, and although he had several times tried to explain
matters, telling them they were free to go where they chose, they had
simply refused either to believe or to listen.

Three years before, during a chamois hunt, one of his keepers lost his
footing. He fell down a precipice, and was dashed to pieces. Karl
ordered his steward to pay the widow an annuity. She thanked him, but
was quite unable to understand that he owed her anything merely because
her husband had been killed in his service.

When there was a hunt--and he who writes this had twice the honour to be
of the party--whether in his own country or not, Karl always wore his
national costume and very picturesque it was.

The count's two attendants never left him. They were loaders. When Karl
had fired, he dropped his gun on the ground and another ready loaded was
instantly slipped into his hand.

Whilst waiting for the beaters to be placed, which generally took half
an hour, the two chasseurs drew from their game-bags small Tyrolean
flutes made of reeds, on which they played, sometimes together,
sometimes alone, but always joining again after a certain number of
bars, Styrian airs, melancholy, but sweet and plaintive. This lasted
some minutes, then, as if drawn by the music, the count in his turn
produced a similar flute and put it to his lips. He now took up the
melody, the others only played accompaniments, which I think must have
been improvised--so original were they. It seemed as if the
accompaniments pursued the air, overtook it, and then turned around it
like creepers or tendrils. Then the air reappeared, charming, but always
sad, and reaching notes so high that one would have thought only silver
or glass could produce them. Then a gun was heard, that of the chief
beater, announcing that all was ready. The three flutes vanished inside
the game-bags, the musicians took their guns and again became hunters,
ear and eye strained to the utmost.

Count Karl knocked at eleven o'clock at Baron von Bülow's door, having
heard both of his return and his accident. Frederic received him with an
unusually smiling countenance, but only offered his left hand.

"Ah! then, it is true, is it? I have just read the 'Kreuz Zeitung.'"

"What have you read, my dear Karl?"

"I read that you fought with a Frenchman and were wounded."

"Hush--not so loud. I am not wounded for the family, only dislocated."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, my dear fellow, that my wife won't think she need inspect a
sprained arm, but she would positively insist on examining a wounded
one. Now she would die of fright over this wound, while I believe you
would rather like to have it. Have you seen many wounds a foot long? I
can show you one if you like."

"How so? A skilled fencer like you, who uses his sabre as if he had
invented it!"

"None the less, I found my master."

"A Frenchman?"

"A Frenchman."

"Well, instead of hunting wild boar in the Taunus to-morrow, as I
intended, I should like to go and hunt your Frenchman, and bring back
one of his paws to replace your wounded one."

"Don't do anything of the kind, my dear friend, you might easily only
bring back a nice little cut like this of mine. Besides, the Frenchman
is now my friend, and I want him to be yours also."

"Never! A rascal who has cut your arm open--how far? A foot, did you
say?"

"He might have killed me. He did not. He might have cut me in two, and
he only gave me this wound. We embraced on the battlefield. Did you see
the other details?"

"What other details?"

"Those concerning his other duel, with Herr George Kleist."

"Superficially. I don't know him, I only cared about you. I did see that
your Frenchman had damaged the jaw of some man who writes articles in
the 'Kreuz Zeitung.' He seems to have quarrelled with two professions,
since he chooses to encounter an officer and a journalist on the same
day."

"He did not choose us, we were foolish enough to choose him. We pursued
him to Hanover, where he was very comfortable. Probably he was annoyed
by being disturbed. So he sent me home with my arm in a sling, and
dismissed Herr Kleist with a black eye."

"Is the fellow a Hercules?"

"Not at all, it is curious. He is a head shorter than you, but formed
like Alfred de Musset's Hassan, whose mother made him small in order to
turn him out perfect."

"And so you embraced on the battlefield?"

"Better still. I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"He is a Frenchman as you know."

"Of good family?"

"Dear friend, they are all of good family since the Revolution. But he
is clever--very."

"As a fencing master?"

"Not at all, as an artist. Kaulbach says he is the hope of the present
school. He is young."

"Young?"

"Yes, twenty-five or six at most, and handsome."

"Handsome as well?"

"Charming. An income of twelve thousand francs."

"A trifle."

"Not everybody has two hundred thousand, like you, my dear friend.
Twelve thousand francs and a fine talent might mean fifty or sixty
thousand."

"But why in the world do you consider all this?"

"I should like him to marry Helen."

The count nearly sprang out of his chair.

"What! Let him marry Helen! your sister-in-law! A Frenchman!"

"Well, is she not herself partly of French origin?"

"I am sure Mademoiselle Helen loves you too much to be willing to marry
a man who has wounded you like this. I hope she refused?"

"She did."

The count breathed again.

"But what the deuce put such an idea into your head as to marry him to
your sister?"

"She is only my sister-in-law."

"That does not matter. What an idea to think of marrying one's
sister-in-law to the first person picked up on the high road!"

"I assure you this young man is not just--"

"Never mind! She refused, did she not? That is the chief thing."

"I hope to make her think better of it."

"You must be quite mad."

"But tell me, why should she refuse? Explain if you can! Unless, indeed,
she cares for some one else."

The count blushed up to his eyes.

"Do you think that quite impossible?" he stammered.

"No, but then if she should love someone else, she must say so."

"Listen, Frederic, I cannot positively say that she loves some one else,
but I can declare that some one else loves her."

"That is half the battle. Is it some one as good as my Frenchman?"

"Ah! Frederic, you are so prejudiced in favour of your Frenchman. I dare
not say yes."

"Then tell me at once. You see what might have happened had my Frenchman
been here, and I had made any promise to him."

"Well, at any rate, you won't turn me out for saying it. The some one is
myself."

"Always modest, loyal, and true, dear Karl but--"

"But? I will have no 'buts.'"

"It is not a very terrible 'but,' as you will see. You are a great
noble, Karl, compared to my little sister Helen."

"I am the last of my race, there is no one to make objections."

"And you are very rich for a dowry of two hundred thousand francs."

"I can dispose of my own fortune as I choose."

"These are observations I felt bound to make to you."

"Do you consider them really serious?"

"I acknowledge objections to them would be much more so."

"Is it of no consequence to ascertain whether Helen loves me or not?"

"That can be decided at once."

"How?"

"I will send for her, the shortest explanations are always the best."

The count became as pale as he had been red the moment before. In a
trembling voice he exclaimed:

"Not now, for Heaven's sake! not now!"

"But, my dear Karl!"

"Frederic!"

"Do you believe I am your friend?"

"Good heavens! yes."

"Well, do you suppose I would subject you to an interview which could
only make you unhappy?

"You mean--"

"I mean that I believe--"

"Believe what?"

"I believe that she loves you as much as you love her."

"My friend, you will kill me with joy."

"Well, since you are so afraid of an interview with Helen, go and do
your hunting in the Taunus, kill your wild boar and come back again, the
thing will be done."

"Done, how?"

"I will undertake it."

"No, Frederic, I will not go."

"What, you will not go? Only think of your men waiting there with their
flutes."

"They may wait."

At this moment the door opened, and Helen appeared on the threshold.

"Helen!" exclaimed Karl.

"You will be careful--you must not be too long with my brother," she
said, remaining at the door.

"He is waiting for you," observed Frederic.

"For me?"

"Yes, come here."

"But I don't understand in the least."

"Never mind! Come here."

Karl offered his hand to Helen.

"Oh, mademoiselle," he said, "do what your brother asks, I entreat you."

"Well," she said, "what shall I do?"

"You can lend your hand to Karl; he will return it."

Karl seized her hand and pressed it to his heart. Helen uttered a cry.
Timid as a child, Karl released the hand.

"You did not hurt me," said Helen.

Karl promptly repossessed himself of the released hand.

"Brother," said Frederic, "did you not say you had a secret you wished
to confide to Helen?"

"Oh yes, yes," cried Karl.

"All right, I am not listening."

Karl bent towards Helen's ear, and the sweet words "I love you" fell
from his lips with a whisper as of a moth's wings, which flitting by
your ear on a spring evening breathes the eternal secret of Nature.

"Oh! Frederic, Frederic!" cried Helen, hiding her forehead on his couch,
"I was not mistaken!"

Then raising her head and languidly opening her beautiful eyes.

"And I," she said, "I love you."




CHAPTER XIV

THE GRANDMOTHER


For a few moments Frederic left the lovers to themselves and their
happiness. Then, as both raised their eyes to his, as if enquiring what
next should be done:

"The little sister," said he, "must go and tell all this to her big
sister, the big sister will relate it to the grandmother, and the
grandmother, who believes in me, will come and talk it over and we will
arrange things together."

"And when must I go and tell all this to the big sister?" enquired
Helen.

"At once, if you will."

"I will go now! You will wait for me, Karl?"

Karl's smile and gesture answered her. Helen glided out of his embrace
and vanished like a bird.

"Now for our own affairs!" said Frederic.

"How! what affairs?"

"I have something to tell you."

"Anything important?"

"Very serious."

"Anything about our marriage? You alarm me!"

"Suppose this morning when you doubted the possibility of Helen's love I
had answered, 'Do not be afraid, Helen loves and will marry you, but
there is an obstacle, and the marriage cannot possibly take place in
less than a year?'"

"What would you have? I should have been in despair at the delay, but
transported by the news."

"Well, my friend, I tell you now what I should have told you this
morning. Helen loves you. She did not ask me to tell you this; she has
told it herself, but at this moment there is an insurmountable
obstacle."

"At least you will explain what the obstacle is?"

"I am going to tell you what is yet a secret, Karl. In a week, or at
most, a fortnight, Prussia will declare war against Austria."

"Ah! I feared it. Bismarck is Germany's evil genius."

"Well, now you will understand. As friends we can serve on opposite
sides, that happens every day. But--as brothers-in-law--we could not.
You can hardly become my brother-in-law at the very moment of
unsheathing your sword against me."

"You are quite sure of your information?"

"Most certainly I am. Bismarck now occupies such a position in regard to
the Chambers, and has forced the king into such a position with regard
to the other German princes, that, either he must embroil Germany from
Berlin to Pest and even to Innspruck, or he will be tried for high
treason, and end his days in a fortress! Now, Bismarck is a power--a
power of darkness if you will--he will not be tried for high treason,
and he will embroil Germany--for this reason: Prussia has nothing to
gain by upsetting him, whereas by upsetting Germany she can annex two or
three little kingdoms or duchies, which will round off her borders very
comfortably."

"But the Confederation will be against him."

"Little will he care for that, so long as he himself remains
indispensable. And, listen to what I tell you; the more enemies Prussia
has, the more she will beat them. Our army is organized as no other
European army is organized--at the present moment."

"You say our army, then you have become a _Prussian_. I thought you were
a _German_."

"I am a Silesian, Prussian since the days of Frederic II. All I have I
owe to King William, and I would willingly die for him, while regretting
it should be in a bad cause."

"What do you advise in my case?"

"You are a Styrian, therefore an Austrian. Fight for your emperor like a
lion, and if by ill luck we meet in a cavalry charge you turn your horse
to the right, I also turn mine; we salute and pass on. Don't yourself
get lulled, that is all, and we will sign the marriage contract the day
peace is declared."

"Unhappily, I see no other way out of it, unless by good luck we could
both remain at Frankfort, a free and neutral town. I have no wish to
fight with Germans. It will be an iniquitous war. If it had been Turks,
French, or Russians, it would be all right, but between children of the
same country, speaking the same language! My patriotism ends there, I
confess."

"That last hope must be given up. I myself brought orders to the Prussian
general here to be ready to leave, Austria will certainly withdraw her
troops also. Frankfort may have a Bavarian garrison or be left with one
of her own, but most certainly we, to the last man, shall have to rejoin
the army."

"Poor dear Helen! What are we to say when she comes back?"

"We will say the marriage is decided on, that the betrothal will take
place; but the marriage must be delayed for a year. If, in spite of my
prophecy, war should not be declared, you can marry at once. If this
war does take place, it is not a war which will last. It will be a
tempest, a hurricane, passing over and destroying everything, then it
will be peace. If I fix a date, it is because I am sure not to have to
ask for further delay. Helen is eighteen, she will then be nineteen, you
are now twenty-six, you will then be twenty-seven. This delay is not
caused by circumstances of our making. Circumstances impose it on us. We
must give way to them."

"You will promise not to let anything change your opinion of me, and
that from to-day, June 12th, you count yourself my brother-in-law--on
parole?"

"The honour is too dear for me ever to think of repudiating it. From
to-day, June 12th, I am your brother-in-law--on parole."

"Madame von Beling!"

This exclamation was drawn from Karl by the unexpected appearance of an
elderly lady dressed entirely in black. She had splendid hair, white as
snow, and must in youth have been very beautiful. Her whole appearance
betokened distinction and benevolence.

"How is this, my dear Frederic?" said she, entering the room. "You have
been here since five o'clock this morning and I only hear of your
arrival from your wife at two in the afternoon; also, that you are in
pain."

"Dear grandmamma," answered Frederic, "but do I not also know that you
do not awake before eleven, and only rise at noon?"

"True, but they tell me you have a sprained arm. I have three excellent
remedies for sprains, one, which is perfect, came from my old friend
Goethe, one from another old friend, Madame Schröder, and the third from
Baron von Humboldt. You see the origin of all three is unimpeachable."

Turning to Karl, who, bowing, brought forward an armchair for her, she
said:

"You, Herr von Freyberg, have evidently no sprains, for you are in
hunting costume. Ah! you do not know how your Styrian dress recalls a
happy memory of my youth. The first time I saw my husband, Herr von
Beling it is now something like fifty-two years ago, for it was in
1814--at a carnival masked ball, he wore a similar costume to the one
you are now wearing. He was about your age. In the middle of the ball--I
remember as if it were yesterday--we heard of the landing of that
accursed Napoleon. The dancers vowed that if he again ascended the
throne they would go to fight him. The ladies each chose a cavalier, who
should be entitled to wear her colours in the coming campaign. I did
like the rest, and I chose Herr von Beling, although in my heart of
hearts--for I have remained French in heart--I could not be very angry
with the man who had made France so great.

"This fanciful nomination of Herr von Beling as a champion wearing my
colours opened my parents' house to him. He could not, he said, be my
knight without their permission. They gave their permission. Napoleon
again became emperor. Herr von Beling rejoined his regiment, but he
first asked my hand from my mother. My mother consulted me, I loved him.
It was agreed that we should marry when the war was over. The campaign
was not long, and when Herr von Beling returned we were married; I, at
the bottom of my heart feeling a little vexed that he had contributed
the three hundred millionth part towards the dethronement of my hero.
But I never confessed this small infidelity of enthusiasm, and our life
was no less happy on that account."

"Dear grandmamma," enquired Frederic, "did Herr von Beling--he must
have been very handsome in Styrian garb, I have seen his portrait--did
Herr von Beling kneel before you when he asked the favour of being your
knight?"

"Certainly, and very gracefully he did it too," returned the old lady.

"Did he do it better than my friend Karl?"

"Better than your friend Karl? But is your friend Karl likely to kneel
before me by any chance?"

"Just look at him."

Madame von Beling turned round and saw indeed Karl kneeling on the
ground before her.

"Good gracious!" said she laughing, "have I suddenly grown fifty years
younger?"

"My dear grandmother," said Frederic, while Karl took possession of the
old lady's hand. "No, you have still your threescore and ten years,
which become you so well that I will not let you off a single one of
them; but here is Karl, who also is going to the war, and who asks to be
called the knight of your granddaughter Helen."

"Really! and is my little granddaughter Helen actually old enough to
have a knight of her very own?"

"She is eighteen, grandmother."

"Eighteen! My age when I married Herr von Beling! It is the age when
leaves forsake the tree and are borne away by the wind. If Helen's hour
has struck," she continued with a mournful smile, "she must go like the
rest."

"Never, never, dear grandmother," cried the young girl who had entered
unperceived, "never so far but that I can every day kiss the dear hand
which gives life to all of us."

And she knelt down beside Karl and took the other hand.

"Ah!" said Madame von Beling, nodding her head, "so that is why I was
invited to come upstairs. I was to be caught in a trap. Well, what am I
to do now? How defend myself? To surrender at once is stupid; it is like
a scene from Molière."

"Very well, grandmamma, don't surrender, or at least not without
conditions."

"And what are they to be?"

"That these young people can be betrothed as soon as they like, but that
the marriage, like your own, can only be celebrated when the war is
over."

"What war?" asked Helen, in anxiety.

"We will tell you about it later. Meanwhile, if Karl is your knight, he
must wear your colours. What are they?"

"I have only one," replied Helen. "It is green."

"Then he is wearing them now," said Frederic indicating his friend's
coat with green facings, and the hat with its wide band of green velvet.

"And in honour of my lady love," said Karl, rising, "a hundred men shall
also wear them, with me, and like me."

Everything was now settled, and the whole party, Frederic leading the
way, Madame von Beling on Karl's arm, went downstairs to convey the good
news to the dear invalid.

That same evening it was known that the Diet was convoked at Frankfort
for June 15th.




CHAPTER XV

FRANKFORT-ON-MAIN


It is time to give some information concerning the town in which the
chief events of our history will take place.

Frankfort ranks as one of the most important towns in Germany, not
merely on account of the number of its inhabitants, nor because of its
commercial standing, but by reason of the political position which it
occupies as being the seat of the Imperial Diet.

One continually hears phrases repeated until they become familiar
without the person precisely understanding the exact meaning. Let us in
a few words explain what the functions of the Imperial Diet really are.

It is the duty of the Diet to watch over the affairs of Germany in
general and to smooth down disagreements between the confederate States.
The president is always a representative of Austria. The decisions of
the assembly are called _Recesses_. The Diet, which has existed since
very remote ages, had at first no fixed seat, but was held sometimes at
Nuremberg, sometimes at Ratisbon, or at Augsbourg. Finally, June 9th,
1815, the Congress of Vienna established Frankfort as the permanent seat
of the Diet of the Germanic Confederation.

Thanks to the new constitution Frankfort has a quarter vote at the
Diet, the other three-quarters belonging to the three free towns of
Hamburg, Bremen, and Lubeck. In return for this honour, Frankfort was to
raise seven hundred and fifty men for the Germanic Confederation and
fire a salute on the anniversary of the battle of Leipzig. The execution
of this latter obligation was at first a trifle difficult, for the
reason that since 1803 Frankfort had ceased to possess ramparts, and
since 1813 had owned no cannon. But in the first moments of enthusiasm a
subscription was opened which allowed the purchase of two four-pounders,
so that since 1814, on the proper day, Frankfort has duly paid the debt
of fire and smoke owed to the Holy Alliance.

As to the ramparts, they exist no longer. Instead of old walls and muddy
ditches, Frankfort has seen the gradual formation of a charming English
garden, a gracious and perfumed enclosure, which enables one to make the
circuit of the town, while walking on the smoothest of paths and under
magnificent trees. So that, with its houses painted white, green, and
pink, Frankfort looks like a bouquet of camellias set in a border of
heather. The tomb of the mayor to whom this improvement is due stands in
the midst of a delightful labyrinth of walks, much frequented by the
burghers and their families about four or five o'clock in the afternoon.

The Teuton name Frankfort means a _free ford_, and the town owes its
origin to an imperial castle built by Charlemagne at a point where the
Namur is fordable. The first historical notice of it is the date of the
Council held there in 794, in which was discussed the question of image
worship. As to Charlemagne's palace, no trace of it can be found, but
antiquaries say that it stood where now is the Church of St. Leonard.

It must have been about 796 that Charlemagne founded the colony of
Sachsenhausen peopled by the Saxons whom he had conquered and baptized.
In 822 Louis le Debonnaire built the Sala on the site of the present
Saalhof, and in 838 Frankfort had already a court of justice and w

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