CHAPTER XIX. - THE QUEEN AT THE PEASANT'S COTTAGE.

It was a stormy night. The wind was howling through the pines, and driving the snow in dense clouds from the highway leading through, the forest. There was no sound, save that of the winter's gale, and the trees groaning beneath its power. A solitary light, twinkling as a star through the dark woods, was shedding its beams on this desolate scene. It proceeded from a small house near the main road, where the forest-keeper had peacefully lived with his wife for more than twenty years. On the hearth in the cottage a merry fire was burning, and Katharine, the forest-keeper's wife, was industriously occupied with it, while the young servant-girl, seated on a low cane chair near the hearth, her hands clasped on her lap, had fallen asleep.

"Martha," exclaimed the old woman, in an angry voice, "—are you asleep again?"

The girl opened her eyes lazily and yawned. "Why should I not sleep?" she asked. "It is time to do so, and every Christian has long since gone to bed. Let me also go to my bedchamber and sleep!"

"No, you must stay here," said Katharine, quickly; "I do not want to be alone in such a night. The wind is roaring in the chimney so fearfully that we might almost fancy Old Nick or the French were coming down to carry us away, or, at any rate, our last piece of bread and meat!"

"Meat!" ejaculated the servant-girl, laughing scornfully. "Old Nick, or even the French, would be unable to find any meat in your house. Would that I could only get the wages you owe me for the last six months, I should leave forthwith this miserable place, where one has so little to eat, and where it is so dreadfully tiresome!"

"You have not suffered hunger as yet, Martha," said the old woman, deprecatingly. "It is true, we have no meat left; the last ham we had has been consumed, and our last chickens had to be taken to town to be sold there—"

"And your husband has taken away your only cow," cried Martha, half angrily, half sadly; "he is going to sell the good animal that always gave us such excellent milk and butter. I tell you it is a shame that he should do so, and I shall never go back to the stable where my dear cow's lowing will no more greet me!"

"You will, nevertheless, have to go back, Martha, for the two goats are still there; you must give them fodder, so that they may give us milk. They are all we have left! Do you think it did not grieve me to part with our fine cow which I had raised myself? I wept for her all last night, and would have given away my hand rather than sell her. But no one would have paid any thing for my old hand. We had to have money to pay your wages, so as not to be obliged to listen longer to your continued importunities. That was the reason why my good old man took the cow to town. It cut him to the quick to hear you dunning us all the time for a few dollars."

The servant-girl cast down her eyes and blushed. "I did not mean any harm, Mde. Katharine," she said, in confusion. "It was mere talk; I always hoped master would take a lesson from me and dun the count in the same manner for his own wages. But the great lords are living sumptuously, and do not care whether their servants are starving to death or not!"

"Our count, Martha, does not live sumptuously," said Katharine, heaving a sigh. "The French destroyed his palace, and—but hush! Did you not hear something outside? I thought I heard some one call."

The two women were silent and listened; but nothing was to be heard. The storm was howling, and rattling the windows. At times an iron hand seemed to pass across the panes—it was the snow which the wind lashed against the house as if intending to awaken the inmates from their slumbers.

"A terrible night!" murmured Katharine, shuddering. "I hope that my dear old man won't return in such a storm, but stop with one of his friends at the neighboring village. Heaven preserve any human being out in such a night as this on the highway, and from—"

A loud knock at the window-panes interrupted her, and a voice outside shouted imperiously, "Open the door!"

The two women uttered a shrill scream, and Martha clung anxiously and with both her hands to Katharine's arm.

"I beseech you, Mde. Katharine," she whispered with quivering lips, "don't open. It is assuredly Old Nick or the French that want to come in!"

"Fiddlesticks! The devil does not wait for the door to open, but comes down the flue," said Katharine; "and as to the French, the Parlez-vous, why, they cannot speak German. Just listen how they are commanding and begging outside. 'Open the door!' Well, yes, yes! I am coming. No one shall say that old Katharine suffered people to freeze to death in the forest while she had fire on her hearth." Disengaging herself from Martha's grasp, she hastened to the door, and opening it quickly, said, "Whoever you may be, you are welcome!"

The storm rushed in with a terrible noise, driving the snow into the house, and blowing up the fire on the hearth into a still brighter blaze.

There appeared on the threshold a tall lady, wrapped in a dark velvet cloak, trimmed with fur; her head covered with a silken cape, to which a white lace veil was fastened. Behind her were another richly-dressed lady, and two men in blue coats, splendidly embroidered with silver.

"You permit us, then, my dear woman, to enter your house and stop here overnight?" asked the veiled lady, in a gentle, sonorous voice.

Old Katharine stood staring at her. She felt as frightened as if a sorceress had entered her house. "First let me see your face," she said, growing bold notwithstanding her inward terror; "I must see who you are."

An indignant murmur arose among the attendants of the lady, but she ordered them to be quiet with a wave of her hand. She then turned once more to Katharine. "Well, my good woman, look at me," she said, drawing back her veil.

A pale, wondrously beautiful face was visible, and eyes more lustrous than the old woman had ever seen before, looked at her gently and kindly.

"Do you know me now?" asked the lady, with a smile full of touching melancholy.

"No," said Katharine, "I do not know you, but you are as beautiful as the angels that sometimes appear to me in my dreams, or as the fairies of whom my mother used to tell me when I was a little child. Come in, you as well as the others. There is room at the hearth for all who are cold."

The strange lady smiled and advanced into the cottage; before doing so, however, she turned around. "M. von Schladen," she said, in French, "pray, give orders to all not to betray my incognito. I am here the Countess von Hohenzieritz; please inform the servants of it."

The gentleman, who had just appeared on the threshold, bowed and stepped back. She and her companion approached the fire; the two servants, in their gorgeous liveries, stood in silence at the open door. The lady took off her fur gloves with a hasty motion, and held her small white hands toward the fire. A ring with large diamonds was sparkling on her forefinger. Old Katharine had never before seen any thing like it—she stood staring at the lady, and dreaming again of the fairy-stories of her childhood, while Martha sat on her cane chair as if petrified, and afraid lest the slightest noise should dispel the enchanting apparition.

"Oh, how pleasant this is!" said the lady, drawing a deep breath; "my hands were quite chilled. Countess Truchsess, come here and follow my example!"

The young lady, who was standing near in a silent and respectful attitude, approached the fire, and eagerly stretched her small hands toward it.

"How comfortable, is it not?" asked the lady who had styled herself Countess von Hohenzieritz. "Oh, after suffering from the cold a whole day, we learn to appreciate the boon of the fire which otherwise we fear as a dangerous element." And thoughtfully looking into the warm glow, she muttered to herself, "We are now wandering about in the cold, and are chilled; will no hospitable fire warm our hearts again?" She bent forward without uttering a complaint, or heaving a sigh.

Katharine could not avert her eyes; she gazed at the lady's sparkling jewels, and then looked at her face. Suddenly she noticed two diamond drops roll slowly over her transparent cheeks; but they were no diamonds like those flashing on her hands—they were tears. She shook them off with an impetuous motion, and turned to old Katharine, who, clasping her hands, asked herself wonderingly whether angels could weep.

"My good woman," said the countess, "will you permit us to stay here until daybreak? We have lost our way in the snow-storm. We thought to reach Königsberg before nightfall, but, I suppose, the city is yet quite distant?"

"Ten hours, at least," said Katharine, timidly. "You have lost your way, indeed—probably at the cross-roads, two miles from here. Instead of following the main one, you took the side-road. Well, such things may happen to the most skilful driver, in a snow-storm, when he cannot see his hand before him."

"I believe that such things may happen, and do not blame any one for what has occurred," said the countess, gently. "Tell me now, have you room and beds for all of us?"

"The two ladies may sleep in my bed, provided they occupy it together. But I have no others," said Katharine.

"I need no bed," exclaimed the younger lady, quickly; "I shall content myself with sitting at the fireside."

"And I," said M. von Schiaden, who had just entered, "I beg leave to be allowed to pass the night in the travelling-coach."

"You will catch cold in the carriage, sir," said Katharine, "and there is danger, moreover, that, falling asleep, you might never wake again. But in the hay-loft it is warm and soft; you and the other gentleman may sleep there, if you please."

The Countess Hohenzieritz smiled. "Well," she said, "a high-chamberlain in a hay-loft! That is a melancholy adventure, I should think?"

"No, gracious countess, it sounds quite ludicrous," said the high-chamberlain, "and if only your—if only the gracious countess had a good bed, I should have no reason whatever for being melancholy. There are thousands nowadays sleeping on the hard ground, without a bunch of hay for a pillow!"

"Our dead of Jena and Auerstadt, for instance," said the countess, sighing. "But they are well: the dead sleep gently! At times I feel like envying them, for their rest is more peaceful than that of the living. Let us not murmur, but rejoice at having found shelter for the night! We shall remain, then, in this room, and the high-chamberlain will sleep in the hay-loft. But where shall we place our servants, and what is to become of our horses?"

"How many horses have you?" asked Katharine.

"Six horses and an outrider," said M. von Schiaden.

"What!" exclaimed Katharine, in dismay. "Six horses! How extravagant in times so wretched as these, when the king himself would be glad to have two horses to his carriage, and—"

"Silence!" interrupted the high-chamberlain in great excitement.

"You are right, my dear woman," said the countess, smiling. "The king will certainly be glad to have two horses left, especially if they always draw him in the right way. But it was no wanton arrogance on our part to take so many horses; we did so only on account of the bad roads, and in order to travel as rapidly as possible."

"Well, the horses can stand in the cow-stable and the wood-shed," said Katharine. "Go, Martha, light the lanterns, and show the coachman to the stable, and the gentleman to the hay-loft. I will make the bed for the ladies." And, drawing back the blue-striped linen curtains covering the large old family-bed, she muttered to herself: "It is very lucky that my old man has not come home; otherwise I should really be at a loss where to place my high-born guests."

Half an hour afterward tranquillity again reigned in the cottage. The horses, the servants, and the high-chamberlain, had been conducted to their quarters in the cow-stable, wood-shed, and hay-loft. Katharine and Martha had withdrawn to the servant-girl's small chamber, and on the lower floor, which served, at the same time, as a kitchen, hall, and sitting-room, a couch had been prepared for the two ladies. But the young Countess von Truchsess could not be prevailed upon to occupy one-half. She placed the cane chair against the high bedstead, and, sitting on it as on a tabouret at the foot of a throne, she supported her head on the cushions of the bed, over which the crimson satin blanket, lined with fur, that the ladies had wrapped around their feet in the carriage, had been spread. The Countess von Hohenzieritz was reposing on this, her noble form still wrapped in the fur robe, falling down to her feet in ample folds; her head was leaning back on the cushions, and the crimson of the blanket contrasted strikingly with her white cheeks and light-brown hair. She had clasped her small, slender hands on her lap; her large eyes looked upward in devotion, and her lips uttered fervent words, which no one heard and understood but He to whom they were addressed.

The fire on the hearth, to which large logs of wood had been added, continued blazing merrily; at times, when the wind came down the chimney violently, the flames rose high, and the beautiful figure in the miserable room was illuminated by the red light as by a halo. Her countenance was as pale and peaceful as that of the blessed dead, and yet an ardent vitality was beaming in her unclosed eyes. On the wretched bed in the peasant's cottage she was dreaming of her former happiness—of the magnificent days which she had seen, and which, she believed, would never return. But she did not bewail her departed glory, and her menaced welfare caused her no regret.

"Preserve to me, merciful God! the love of my husband," she whispered; "let my children grow great in name and in soul. Oh, if I could purchase happiness for them by sacrificing my life, I would gladly let my heart's blood ebb away drop by drop—if by my death I could restore to my husband his former power, how cheerfully I would die! O my God, save and protect Prussia: but if such should not be Thy will, teach us how to fall and die with her in an honorable manner! Preserve us from disgrace and despondency; teach us how to bear great disasters with dignified resignation, and grant that we may never be so faint-hearted as to sink beneath petty calamities!"

She paused, and looked upward with radiant eyes; just then the storm outside was howling with awful violence, and made the cottage tremble. "Such a storm without, and peace within! Let it always be so, my God," she whispered, gently pressing her hand against her breast. "O peace, sweet peace, when will it descend to us from heaven!" Gradually the words died away on her lips; her eyelids drooped. Heaven sent to her the brother of peace—sleep—that it might comfort her weary eyes and invigorate her after the troubles and exertions of the previous day. The storm continued all night long, but the beautiful sleeper heard it only as a lullaby hushing her to sweet repose.

At daybreak there was a stir in the cottage. Katharine came to rekindle the extinct fire, and the two ladies rose, chilled and shuddering, to prepare for their journey. The travelling-coach, drawn by the six horses, rolled up to the door, and High-chamberlain von Schladen rapped timidly and begged leave to enter. The countess bade him come in, and replied with a sweet smile to his inquiries as to her night's rest. "I have slept," she said, "and feel sufficiently invigorated now to continue the journey."

"In four hours we shall be in Königsberg," said M. von Schladen. "It is a clear morning; the storm is over, and the sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds."

"'The sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds,'" repeated the countess, musingly. "Those are cheering words; could they but be fulfilled for all of us! Let us hasten to reach Königsberg; for there at least will be one sunbeam for me—I shall see my children again, and my husband also will join us on returning from the Russian camp."

M. von Schladen advanced a few steps, and said in a low and hurried voice: "The king is already in Königsberg. I have seen a peasant, the owner of this cottage, who has come from Königsberg. He walked all night, and left the city just at the moment when the king with his suite returned."

"And did the man bring other news?" asked the lady, hastily.

"A rumor was in circulation in Königsberg that the French were advancing from Posen, and, the Russian columns being also on the move, it was generally believed that a battle would soon take place."

The lady walked rapidly to the door. "Let us set out as soon as possible," she said; suddenly, however, she turned pale and leaned against the wall to prevent herself from falling.

"Oh," she murmured faintly, "what weak, pitiful beings we are, after all! The soul is strong enough to bear the heaviest burden, but the body is so weak that a twelve hours' fast is sufficient to overpower it!"

Just then Katharine entered the room; on seeing the lady looking so faint, she hastened to her, and asked sympathizingly for the cause of her pallor and exhaustion.

"I will tell you, my dear woman," whispered the lady, with a sad smile, "I am hungry!"

"Oh," sighed M. von Schladen, "and we have no refreshments with us!"

"But I have some for the beautiful lady," said Katharine, proudly. "I was right in thinking that high-born people must eat sometimes, and are not refreshed merely by their magnificent dresses and the splendor surrounding them, but are obliged to put something into their mouths, like us common people. Look, there is Martha with the breakfast!" And, in truth, Martha was just entering the door, holding in her hand a pitcher filled with fresh, smoking milk.

Katharine took an earthen cup from the shelf near the hearth, and filled it to the brim. "Now drink," she said, handing the cup to the countess; "it will strengthen you; it is splendid goat's milk, so fine and warm that city folks never get any thing like it; no fire warmed this milk, but God, who gave life and warmth to my dear goat. Drink, then, in His name!"

"No refreshment has ever been presented to me in so cordial a manner," said the countess, nodding kindly to the old peasant-woman. "I shall carefully remember your heart-felt words, and drink the milk in the name of the good Lord, but only provided you, Countess Truchsess, and you, too, M. von Schiaden, can likewise have a cup of this splendid milk."

"We shall have some," said the Countess von Truchsess; "please your—, the gracious countess will please drink her milk." The countess placed the cup on the window-sill without having touched it with her lips. "You see I am waiting," she said—"make haste!" She herself then hastened to the cupboard near the hearth, and took from it two small earthen jars, which she handed to Katharine to fill with milk.

"And have you not something to eat with the milk, my dear woman?" asked M. von Schladen, in a low voice.

"I have but a loaf of stale brown bread," said Katharine, "but I am afraid it will be too hard for the fine teeth of the countess."

"Give it to me at all events," said the countess, "my teeth will be able to manage it."

Old Katharine took a large loaf of bread from the cupboard, cut off a thick slice, and presented it on the bright pewter plate, the principal ornament of her house. The countess broke off a piece, and, leaning against the window, commenced eating her frugal breakfast.

The Countess von Truchsess and the high-chamberlain had retired to the hearth to partake of the strange and unwonted food. Katharine and Martha stood at the door, staring admiringly at the lady who was leaning against the window, and just lifting the stale brown bread to her mouth. She did not notice that the two were looking at her; she was gazing thoughtfully at the large bedstead in which she had passed the night in tears and prayers. Her glance then turned to the piece of bread which she held in her hand, and from which she had vainly tried to eat. The bread and the bed reminded her of an hour long past, when she was a happy queen—an hour when her mental eye descried the future, and the words of a beautiful and melancholy song aroused in her anxious forebodings, and seemed to her a prophecy of her own destiny. As she thought of those golden days, her eyes filled with tears, which rolled over her cheeks and trickled down on the bread in her hand. "Oh," she murmured, "now I shall be able to eat it; I am softening it with my tears!" And to conceal them she averted her head, and looked out at the forest, whose lofty pines were adorned with snow-wreaths. Her tears gradually ceased—she drew the large diamond ring from her finger, and, using the pointed stone as a pen, wrote rapidly on the window-pane.

Old Katharine and Martha stared at her in dismay; the characters appearing on the glass filled them with astonishment and superstitious awe, and they thought the handsome lady who knew how to write with a precious stone might after all be a fairy, who, persecuted by some evil sorcerer, had fled thither into the dark forest, and was writing some exorcising words on the window-pane, lest her enemy should pursue and have power over her.

The lady replaced the ring on her finger, and turned to the young countess and the high-chamberlain. "Now, I am ready," she said, "let us set out." She walked to the door, and shaking hands with old Katharine, thanked her for the hospitable reception she had met with in her cottage, and then stepped out of the low door for the carriage, at which the high-chamberlain was awaiting her.

"I beg leave, gracious countess, to take upon myself the functions of our outrider. The road is broken and full of holes, and as I have a keen eye, I shall see them in time, and call the attention of the coachman to them."

The countess thanked him with a kind glance. "I accept your offer," she said—"may a time come when I shall be able to thank my faithful friends for the attachment and devotion they manifest toward me during affliction, and which are engraven in diamond letters on my heart! But let us thank the good woman who received us so hospitably last night. I request you to give this to her in my name." She handed her purse filled with gold-pieces to the high-chamberlain, and entered the carriage. M. von Schladen stood still until the carriage rolled away. Before mounting he hastened into the house.

Old Katharine and Martha stood in the room, and were looking in silent astonishment at the neat characters on the pane, the meaning of which they were unable to decipher. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Katharine, when the high-chamberlain entered the room, "tell us the meaning of this—what did the lady write here?"

M. von Schladen stepped to the window. When he had read the lines, his eyes filled with tears, and profound emotion was depicted in his features. "Enviable inmates of this humble cottage," he said, "from this hour it has become a precious monument, and, when better times arrive, the Germans will make a pilgrimage to this spot to gaze with devout eyes at this historical relic of the days of adversity. Preserve the window carefully, for I tell you it is worth more than gold and diamonds."

"Is it really, then, an exorcism which the beautiful fairy has written there?" asked Katharine, anxiously.

"Yes, those are magic words," replied M. von Schladen, "and they read as follows:
'Who never ate his bread with tears—
Who never in the sorrowing hours
Of night lay sunk in gloomy fears—
He knows ye not, O heavenly powers!'"[29]

"Ah, she ate her bread with tears to-day. I saw it," murmured Katharine. "But who is she, and what is her name? Tell us, so that we may pray for her, sir."

"Her name is Louisa," said M. von Schladen, in a tremulous voice. "At present she is a poor, afflicted woman, who is fleeing from town to town from her enemy, and eating her bread with tears, and weeping at night. But she is still the Queen of Prussia, and will remain so if there be justice in heaven!"

"The Queen of Prussia!" cried Katharine, holding up her hands in dismay. "She was here and wrote that?"

"Yes, she wrote that, and sends this to you as a reward for your trouble," said M. von Schladen, emptying the contents of the purse on the table. The purse itself he placed in his bosom. Without waiting for the thanks of the surprised woman, he departed, vaulted into the saddle, and followed the queen at a full gallop.