Frederick the Great and His Court. L. Muhlbach

the best part of our being is destroyed! I should never have become what I am, if I had not been ruthlessly torn from my first dream of love. We will not kill Laura von Pannewitz's body, but her soul will suffer!"

      "And as it is not our province to look after souls, that need give us no care; a political necessity demands that Prince Augustus William shall marry the Princess of Brunswick. It demands, moreover, that the prince royal shall not be divorced from his wife, but that the niece of the empress shall be Queen of Prussia. In both of these affairs we need your assistance. You must closely watch the Prince Augustus William and his lady love, and, at the proper time, bring the affair to light. By your eloquence you must convince Madame Morien that it is her duty to exert her influence with the prince royal to prevent his separation from his wife. This is your task, and a noble task it is. Its objects are—to protect the peace of married life; to recall two noble hearts to the duties which they owe to the world; and lastly, to create a new bond of union between two mighty German powers. The wife of the Emperor Charles VI., the noble empress, will not be ungrateful to her ally, Madame Brandt. On the day on which Prince William espouses the Princess Louisa Amelia of Brunswick, Madame Brandt will receive a present of twenty thousand dollars from the empress."

      The countenance of Madame Brandt was radiant with pleasure and delight.

      "The prince shall and will marry the Princess Louisa Amelia—my word for it. I am then to be the demon who, with his poisonous breath, destroys this romantic, this beautiful love; the evil genius who drives fair Laura to despair. But why should I pity her? She suffers the fate of all women—my fate. Who pitied, who saved me? No one listened to my cry of anguish, and no one shall heed the wailing cry of the fair Laura von Pannewitz. Count, she is condemned! But, hark! Do you not hear faint tones of distant music? The prince royal has arisen, and is playing the flute at his open window. We must now separate; the garden will soon be full of people, and we are no longer safe from intrusion. A boat-ride on the lake is in contemplation for the early morning hours, and then Chazot will read Voltaire's last drama to the assembled court."

CHAPTER IX.

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FREDERICK, THE PRINCE ROYAL.

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      Madame Brandt was not mistaken; the prince royal was awake, and was bringing a tribute to beautiful, sunny Nature in return for the sweetly-scented air that came through his window. There he stood, with the flute at his lips, and looked out at God's lovely, laughing world with a sparkling eye and joyful countenance. A cheerful quiet, a holy peace radiated from his beautiful face; his whole being seemed bathed in perfect harmony and contentment, and the soft, melting tones of his flute but echoed his thoughts. Suddenly he ceased playing, and slightly bowed his head to catch the sweet, dying notes that were still trembling in the air.

      "That was good," said he, smiling, "and I believe I can note it down without exciting the anger of Quantz." He took his flute again, and softly repeated the air he had just finished. "I will write it immediately, and play it this evening before my critical musicians."

      While speaking, Frederick left his bedroom, and passed into his library. On entering this room, a beautiful smile flitted over his face, and he bowed his head as if saluting some one. It would be impossible to imagine a more charming and tasteful room. It had been arranged according to the directions of the prince royal, and was in a great degree a true portrait of himself, a temple which he had erected to art, science, and friendship.

      This room was in the new tower, and its circular form gave it a peculiar appearance. It was most appropriately compared to a temple. High glass cases around the walls contained the works of Voltaire, Racine, Moliere, and Corneille; those of Homer, Caesar, Cicero, and Ovid; also the Italian poets Dante, Petrarch, and Machiavel. All that had a good name in the literary world found its way into the library of the royal prince—all, excepting the works of German authors.

      Between the book-cases, the shelves of which were ornamented here and there with busts of celebrated writers, were alcoves, in which stood small satin damask sofas, over which hung, in heavily-gilt frames, the portraits of Frederick's friends and contemporaries.

      The largest and most beautiful was one of Voltaire. He had received the honored place; and when Frederick raised his eyes from his work, while sitting at his escritoire, they rested upon the smiling face of the talented French writer, whom the prince royal had selected as his favorite, and with whom he had for many years corresponded.

      The prince went with hasty steps to his table, and, without noticing the sealed letters that were lying there, he took a piece of lined paper, and began to write, humming softly the melody he had just composed. He occasionally threw down his pen, and took the flute that was lying at his side, to try, before noting them, different accords and passages.

      "It is finished at last," said the prince, laying aside his pen. "My adagio is finished, and I think Quanta will have no excuse for grumbling to-day; he must be contented with his pupil. This adagio is good; I feel it; I know it; and if the Bendas assume their usual artist airs, I will tell them—; no, I will tell them nothing," said the prince, smiling. "It is useless to show those gentlemen that I care for their approval, or court their applause. Ours is a pitiful race, and I see the time approaching when I shall despise and mistrust the whole world; and still my heart is soft, and gives a warm approval to all that is great and beautiful, and it would make me very happy to love and trust my fellow-men; but they do not desire it—they would not appreciate it. Am I not surrounded by spies, who watch all my movements, listen to every word I utter, and then pour their poison into the ear of the king? But enough of this," said the prince, after a pause. "This May air makes me dreamy. Away with these cobwebs! I have not time to sigh or dream."

      He arose, and walked hastily up and down his room, then approached the escritoire, and took the letters. As his eye fell on the first, he smiled proudly.

      "From Voltaire," he murmured softly, breaking the seal, and hastily opening the enclosure, which contained two letters and several loose scraps of printed matter. The prince uttered a cry of joyful astonishment, and scarcely noticing the two letters, he gazed with a half-tender, half-curious expression on the printed papers he held in his hand.

      "At last! at last!" exclaimed the prince, "my wish will be accomplished. The first step toward fame is taken. I shall no longer be unknown, or only known as the son of a king, the inheritor of a throne. I shall have a name. I shall acquire renown, for I will be a poet, an author, and shall claim a place in the republic of genius. I shall not need a crown to preserve my name in history. The first step is taken. My 'Anti-Machiavel' is in press. I will tread under foot this monster of knavish and diabolic statecraft, and all Europe shall see that a German prince is the first to break a lance against this Machiavel, who is making the people the slaves of princes. By his vile principles, he is moulding princes into such monsters that all mankind must curse them."

      And again looking at the paper, the prince read a few lines, his voice trembling with displeasure:

      "If it is a crime to destroy the innocence of a private individual who exercises a limited influence, is it not far worse to undermine the moral character of princes who should exhibit to their subjects an example of goodness, greatness, kindness, and love? The plagues sent by Heaven are but passing, and destroy only in certain localities; and although most disastrous, their effects pass away in time. But the vices of kings create incurable misery; yes, misery enduring for generations. How deplorable is the condition of nations who have every evil to fear from their ruler, their property exposed to the covetousness of a prince, their freedom to his humor, and their lives to his cruelty!"

      Frederick ceased, and turned over a few pages of his "Anti-Machiavel," and then continued to read:

      "Machiavel speaks in his 'Principe' of miniature sovereigns, who, having but small states,