Frederick the Great and His Family [24]
before her, offered both his hands, and greeted her with the tenderest words of love.
Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her heart's pleadings.
"Ah, my prince," she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like the wail of a lost soul--"ah, my prince, take care! we women are very credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth."
"I advise you to do so," said the prince, happy and unconcerned. "Yes, Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my jesting words have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we will dispense with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a lover--a lover who is unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that is my weakness; I do not deny it, I am jealous--jealous of all those who keep you from me, who prevent my receiving your letters."
"My letters!" said Louise, astonished; "why should I have written letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for ladies to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks since I received a letter from your highness."
"Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise: you were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known that my thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news and comfort from you."
"Non, vraiment, I did not know it," said Louise, laughingly.
"You did not know it?" asked Henry, wonderingly. "Well, what did you suppose?"
"I thought," she said, carelessly--"I thought that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival."
"And then?"
"Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long sermon to my foolish eyes--they were misty with tears. Listen, I said to them: 'You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you should always look bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. Really, the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return with ardor.' This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when they grew dim with tears."
"And was your sermon effective?" said the prince, with pale, trembling lips. "Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find another lover?"
"Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves, and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought."
"What happiness," asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--"what happiness did your eyes find?"
Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. "The happiness," she said, and against her will her voice trembled and faltered--"the happiness that a true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received joyously into my heart as a gift from God."
The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.
"I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do you wish to say?"
"They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have promised to become the wife of the man I love," said Louise, with forced gayety.
The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the one who had wounded him so painfully.
"If this is true," he said, in a deep, hollow voice--"if this is true, I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless coquette."
"Ah, my prince, you insult me," cried Louise.
Louise had a stern part to play, and she dared not listen to her heart's pleadings.
"Ah, my prince," she said, with a laugh that sounded to herself like the wail of a lost soul--"ah, my prince, take care! we women are very credulous, and I might take your jesting words for truth."
"I advise you to do so," said the prince, happy and unconcerned. "Yes, Louise, I advise you to do so, for you know well that my jesting words have an earnest meaning. And now that we are alone, we will dispense with ceremony. You must justify yourself before a lover--a lover who is unfortunately very jealous. Yes, yes, Louise, that is my weakness; I do not deny it, I am jealous--jealous of all those who keep you from me, who prevent my receiving your letters."
"My letters!" said Louise, astonished; "why should I have written letters to your highness? I do not believe it is the custom for ladies to write to gentlemen voluntarily. It has been two weeks since I received a letter from your highness."
"Because it was impossible for my messenger to deliver them, Louise: you were so unapproachable, at least for me. But you must have known that my thoughts were always with you, that my heart pined for news and comfort from you."
"Non, vraiment, I did not know it," said Louise, laughingly.
"You did not know it?" asked Henry, wonderingly. "Well, what did you suppose?"
"I thought," she said, carelessly--"I thought that Prince Henry had overcome or forgotten his little folly of the carnival."
"And then?"
"Then I determined to follow his example. Then I preached a long sermon to my foolish eyes--they were misty with tears. Listen, I said to them: 'You foolish things you have no reason to weep; you should always look bright and dazzling, even if you never see Prince Henry again. Really, the absence of the prince has been most fortunate for you. You might have whispered all kinds of foolish things to my weak heart. The prince is young, handsome, and amiable, and it amuses him to win the love of fair ladies. Had you seen him more frequently, it is possible he might have succeeded with poor Louise, and the little flirtation we carried on together would have resulted in earnest love on my part. That would have been a great misfortune. Laugh and look joyous, beautiful eyes, you have saved me from an unrequited love. You should not weep, but rejoice. Look around and find another suitor, who would, perhaps, love me so fondly that he could not forget me in a few days; whose love I might return with ardor.' This, my prince, is the sermon I preached to my eyes when they grew dim with tears."
"And was your sermon effective?" said the prince, with pale, trembling lips. "Did your eyes, those obedient slaves, look around and find another lover?"
"Ah! your highness, how can you doubt it? My eyes are indeed my slaves, and must obey. Yes, they looked and found the happiness they sought."
"What happiness," asked Henry, apparently quite tranquil, but he pressed his hand nervously on the chair that stood by him--"what happiness did your eyes find?"
Louise looked at him and sighed deeply. "The happiness," she said, and against her will her voice trembled and faltered--"the happiness that a true, earnest love alone can give--which I have received joyously into my heart as a gift from God."
The prince laughed aloud, but his face had a wild, despairing expression, and his hands clasped the chair more firmly.
"I do not understand your holy, pious words. What do they mean? What do you wish to say?"
"They mean that I now love so truly and so earnestly that I have promised to become the wife of the man I love," said Louise, with forced gayety.
The prince uttered a wild cry, and raised his hands as if to curse the one who had wounded him so painfully.
"If this is true," he said, in a deep, hollow voice--"if this is true, I despise, I hate you, and they are right who call you a heartless coquette."
"Ah, my prince, you insult me," cried Louise.