who trembled before him, and yet not one of them loved him.
All eyes were fixed upon the rising sun, upon Frederick, so unlike his father, and so little the son of his father's heart. As the king thought of this, deep grief and a foreboding melancholy overcame him. In the anguish of his heart he turned to God and prayed. He silenced the voice of self-accusation and remorse, now whispering in his breast, by prayer.
The king prayed. Exhausted with rage, he fancied that he had given himself up to pious contrition and world-despising godliness.
As the tones of the music were again heard, he experienced a pious exasperation over this unholy levity, a peaceful self-content; he belonged not to the ungodly, who gave themselves up to worldliness and vanity, but alone and deserted he prayed to his Father in heaven. How small, how pitiful, how contemptible did the gay dancers appear to him! How pleased he was with himself, his holy walk and conversation! At this moment the anxious face of his valet appeared at the door.
"Your majesty commanded me to tell you so soon as the coffins which came yesterday were unpacked and placed in the white saloon: this is done, and the coffins can be seen."
"Ah! My coffin is ready!" said the king, involuntarily shuddering. "My coffin, and that of the queen! And Sophia gives a ball, and perhaps dances, in place of bowing her soul in contrition before God. I will awaken her from these soul-destroying vanities; the arrival of the coffins now was an especial providence of God. The queen shall see them!"
He called his two valets, commanded one to lead him to the ball-room, the other to illuminate the white saloon in which the coffins were placed.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WHITE SALOON.
The queen had no suspicion of all that had happened in the chambers of the king; she had not observed the absence of the Tobacco Club, and after having made the grand tour of the saloons, she seated herself at the card-table.
Her majesty had no idea that her husband was free from pain, and had left his arm-chair; she was, therefore, gay and careless, filled with a sense of freedom and power. The cruel eye of Frederick William was not bent upon her to look her down, and cast a veil of humility over the sparkling diamonds which adorned her brow; no, she was to-night entirely herself—every inch a queen! proud and happy, smiling and majestic. Rejoicing in her own greatness and glory, she was still amiable and obliging to this great crowd of devoted, submissive, flattering, smiling men, who surrounded her; never had she been so gracious, never so queenly. As we have said, she had seated herself at the card-table, and the margrafin Maria Dorothea and the English and French ambassadors were her partners; behind her chair stood her two maids of honor, to whom she now and then addressed a word, or sent them to look after the young princesses, who were dancing in the adjoining room, and giving themselves up merrily to the pleasures of the evening. Suddenly the music ceased, and a strange, unaccustomed silence reigned throughout the rooms.
The queen was arranging the cards, and turned smilingly to one of her maids of honor, commanding her as soon as the dance was ended to lead the princesses to her side; she then gave her attention to the game, when suddenly the Princess Amelia, pale and terrified, rushed hastily to her mother, and whispered a few words in her ear.
Sophia Dorothea uttered a low cry of terror, and exclaimed: "The king! my God, the king! he seems very angry!" said the princess; "do not let him see your diamonds." The partners of the queen sat in respectful silence, waiting for her to play; she dashed her cards upon the table, removed her necklace and bracelets hastily, and thrust the glittering heap into her dress pocket.[2]
[2] See Thiebault.
"Remove my long ear-rings," she whispered to Amelia, and while the princess obeyed the command, the queen took her cards from the table. The glory was departed; the diamonds were hiding timidly in her pocket, and the fire of her eye was quenched.
The king was there; Sophia Dorothea was no longer a royal queen, but a trembling, dependent woman, cowering before the rage of her husband. The partners of the queen sat quietly with downcast eyes, and did not appear to see the rash change in the toilet of her majesty, still seemingly waiting for the play of the queen. Sophia played a queen, Lord Hastings played the king.
"Lost!" said her majesty, "so must the queen ever lose when the king comes; but it is always a comfort," she said, with a bitter smile, "to be overcome only by a king." She played on quietly, though she knew that the king was already in the door of the room and watching her closely.
As the king stepped forward and called her name, she rose and advanced toward him with an expression of joyful surprise.
"Ah, my husband, what a great pleasure you have prepared for us!" she said smiling; "it is most amiable of your majesty to glorify this feast with your presence."
"I come, however," said the king, in a rude, harsh voice, and thrusting the queen's arm in his own, "to cast gloom upon this fete; it is good and necessary in the midst of tumultuous earthly pleasures to be reminded of the fleeting vanity of all sublunary things; and to still the voluptuous music with prayer, I am come to administer this medicine to your vain and sin-sick soul. Come with me, you there!" said the king, turning his head backward to the courtiers, who were gathered in silent and frightened groups. "You there, follow us!" He dragged the queen forward; silently the procession of richly-adorned guests followed the royal pair, no one knew where.
The queen had in vain implored the king to make known his purpose. This long procession, adorned with flowers, diamonds, uniforms, and orders, had a gay and festal appearance; you might well suppose them wedding guests on their way to church. The principal actors on this occasion, however, did not promise to be a happy pair.
The king looked steadily, with a frowning brow and tightly-compressed lips, right before him; the queen, wan and trembling, turned her eyes anxiously from side to side, seeking everywhere some new danger, some new terror prepared for her. The procession stepped silently and earnestly through the dressing-rooms, odorous with flowers; through the illuminated antechamber; further on through the corridors and up the wide stair steps; onward still through long passages till they reached the great doors of the White Saloon, which Frederick had built and adorned.
"We have arrived," said the king, opening the door, and leading in the queen. Suddenly Sophia Dorothea uttered a cry of horror, and fell backwards; behind her stood the curious, astonished, and shocked courtiers, pressing themselves hastily through the door of the saloon.
"Two coffins!" murmured the queen, with horror; her timid glance rested first upon the solemn coffins, then wandered anxiously to the lofty, imposing marble statues of the prince electors, who, in solemn rest, in this chamber of the dead, seemed to hold a watch over the coffins of the living.
"Yes, two coffins," said the king—"our coffins, Sophia; and I resolved in this hour to show them to you and the assembled court, that this solemn warning might arouse you all from your unholy and sinful lusts. Death must strike at your heart to awaken it from voluptuous sleep and cause you to look within. In these coffins we will soon rest, and all earthly vanity and glory will be at an end. No one will fear my glance or my crutch; no one will compliment the beautiful toilet of the queen, or admire her diamonds; dust will return to dust, and the king and the queen be nothing more than food for worms!"
"Not so," said Sophia, whose noble and proud heart felt humbled by this pious grovelling of her husband; "not so, we will be more than dust and food for worms. The dust of common mortals will be scattered in every direction by the hand of Time, and over their graves will History walk with destroying feet; but she will remain with us and will gather our dust, and build therewith a monument to our memory; when our bodies of flesh and blood are placed