Читать книгу Frederick the Great and His Family - L. Muhlbach - Страница 7

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Madame von Kleist was alone in her boudoir. She had just completed her toilet, and was viewing herself with considerable pleasure in a large Venetian glass. She had reason to be pleased. The costume of an odalisque became her wonderfully; suited her luxuriant beauty, her large, dreamy blue eyes, her full red lips, her slender, swaying form. At twenty-eight, Louise von Kleist was still a sparkling beauty; the many trials and sorrows she had passed through had not scattered the roses from her cheek, nor banished youth from her heart.

Louise von Kleist resembled greatly the little Louise von Schwerin of earlier days—the little dreamer who found it romantic to love a gardener, and was quite ready to flee with him to a paradise of love. The king’s watchfulness saved her from this romantic folly, and gave her another husband. This unhappy match was now at an end. Louise was again free. She still felt in her heart some of the wild love of romance and adventure of the little Louise; she was the same daring, dreamy, impressible Louise, only now she was less innocent. The little coquette from instinct was changed into a coquette from knowledge.

She stood before the glass and surveyed once more her appearance; then acknowledged with a pleased smile that she was beautiful enough to fascinate all men, to arouse in all hearts a painful longing.

“But I shall love no one but the prince,” she said, “and when my power over him is sufficient to induce him to marry me, I shall reward him by my faith, and entire submission to his wishes. Oh! I shall be a virtuous wife, a true and faithful mother; and my lovely little Camilla shall find in her mother a good and noble example. I shall promise this to my angel with my farewell kiss; and then—to the ball!”

She entered the next chamber, and stood at her child’s bed. What a strange sight! This woman, in a fantastic, luxuriant costume, bending over the cot of the little girl, with such tender, pious looks, with folded hands, and soft, murmuring lips, uttering a prayer or holy wish!

“How beautiful she is!” murmured Louise, not dreaming that her own beauty at this moment beamed with touching splendor—that mother love had changed the alluring coquette into an adorable saint—“how beautiful she is!”

The gay, ringing laughter of her daughter interrupted her; the child opened her large black eyes, and looked amused.

“You naughty child, you were not asleep,” said Louise.

“No, mamma, I was not asleep; I was playing comedy.”

“Ah! and who taught you to play comedy, you silly child?” said Louise, tenderly.

The child looked earnestly before her for a few moments as children are wont to do when a question surprises them.

“I believe, mamma,” she said, slowly—“I believe I learned it from you.”

“From me, Camilla? When have you seen me act?”

“Oh, very often,” she cried, laughing. “Just a few days ago, mamma, don’t you remember when we were laughing and talking so merrily together, Prince Henry was announced, and you sent me into the next room, but the door was open, and I saw very well that you made a sad face, and I heard the prince ask you how you were, and you answered, ‘I am sick, your highness, and how could it be otherwise, as I am always sad or weeping?’ Now, mother, was not that acting?”

Louise did not answer. Breathing heavily, she laid her hand upon her heart, for she felt a strange sorrow and indescribable fear.

Camilla continued, “Oh! and I saw how tenderly the prince looked at you; how he kissed you, and said you were as lovely as an angel. Oh, mamma, I too shall be beautiful, and beloved by a prince!”

“To be beautiful, darling, you must be good and virtuous,” said the fair odalisque, earnestly.

Little Camilla arose in her bed; the white gown fell from her shoulders and exposed her soft childish form, her brown ringlets curled down her neck and lost themselves in her lace-covered dress.

The chandelier that hung from the ceiling lighted her lovely face, and made the gold and silver embroidered robes and jewels of her mother sparkle brilliantly.

At this moment, as with folded arms she glanced up at her mother, she looked like an angel, but she had already dangerous and earthly thoughts in her heart.

“Mamma,” she said, “why should I be virtuous, when you are not?”

Louise trembled, and looked terrified at her daughter. “Who told you I was not virtuous?”

“My poor, dear papa told me when he was here the last time. Oh, he told me a great deal, mamma! He told,” continued the child, with a sly smile, “how you loved a beautiful gardener, and ran off with him, and how he, at the command of the king, married you and saved you from shame; and he said you were not at all grateful, but had often betrayed and deceived him, and, because he was so unhappy with you, he drank so much wine to forget his sorrow. Oh, mamma, you don’t know how poor papa cried as he told me all this, and besought me not to become like you, but to be good, that every one might love and respect me!”

Whilst Camilla spoke, her mother had sunk slowly, as if crushed, to the floor; and, with her face buried in the child’s bed, sobbed aloud.

“Don’t cry, mamma,” said Camilla, pleadingly; “believe me, I will not do as papa says, and I will not be so stupid as to live in a small town, where it is so still and lonesome.”

As her mother still wept, Camilla continued, as if to quiet her:

“I shall be like you, mamma; indeed, I will. Oh, you should but see how I watch you, and notice how you smile at all the gentlemen, what soft eyes you make, and then again, how cold and proud you are, and then look at them so tenderly! Oh, I have noticed all, and I shall do just the same, and I will run away with a gardener, but I will not let papa catch me—no, not I.”

“Hush, child, hush!” cried the mother, rising, pale and trembling, from her knees; “you must become a good and virtuous girl, and never run away with a man. Forget what your bad father has told you; you know he hates me, and has told you all these falsehoods to make you do the same.”

“Mamma, can you swear that it is not true?”

“Yes, my child, I can swear it.”

“You did not run off with a gardener?”

“No, my child. Have I not told you that a virtuous girl never runs away?”

“You did not make papa unhappy, and, being his wife, love other men?”

“No, my daughter.”

“Mamma,” said the child, after a long pause, “can you give me your right hand, and swear you did not?”

Louise hesitated a moment; a cold shiver ran through her, she felt as if she was about to perjure herself; but as she looked into the beautiful face of her child, whose eyes were fixed on her with a strange expression, she overcame her unwillingness.

“Here is my hand—I swear that all your father told you is false!”

Camilla laughed gleefully. “Oh, mamma, I have caught you: you always want me to tell the truth, and never give my right hand when a thing is not true, and now you have done it yourself.”

“What have I done!” said the mother, trembling.

“You gave me your right hand, and swore that all papa told me was false; and I say it is true, and you have sworn falsely.”

“Why do you believe that, Camilla?” she asked.

“I don’t believe it, I know it,” said the child, with a sly smile, “When papa spoke to you, for the last time, and told you good-by forever, he told you the same he had told me. Oh! I was there and heard all; you did not see me slip into the room and hide behind the fire-place. Papa told you that you had been the cause of all his unhappiness and shame; that from the day you had run off with the gardener and he, at the king’s command, went after you, and married you—from that day, he had been a lost man, and when he said that, you cried, but did not tell him, as you told me, that it was not true.”

Louise did not answer. This last taunt had crushed her heart, and silenced her. Still leaning on the bed, she looked at her child with painful tenderness. Camilla’s mocking laughter had pierced her soul as with a dagger.

“Lost,” she murmured, “both of us lost!”

With passionate despair she threw her arms around the child, and pressed her closely; kissed her wildly again and again, and covered her face with burning tears.

“No, Camilla, no! you shall not be lost, you must remain good and pure! Every child has its guardian angel; pray, my child, pray that your angel may watch over you!”

She pressed her again in her arms, then returned to her chamber, sadder and more hopeless than she had ever been before.

But this unusual sadness commenced to annoy her; her heart was not accustomed to feel sorrow, and her remorseful, dreary feeling made her shudder. “If the carriage would but come!” she murmured, and then, as if to excuse her thoughtlessness, she added, “it is now my holy duty to listen to the prince; I must regain the respect of my child. Yes, yes, I must become the wife of Henry I I can accomplish this, for the prince loves me truly.”

And now, she was again the coquette, whose captivating smile harmonized perfectly with her alluring costume—no longer the tender mother, no longer the sinner suffering from repentance and self-reproach.

She stood before the glass, and arranged her disordered dress and smoothed her dishevelled hair.

“I must be bewitching and fascinating,” she murmured, with a smile that showed two rows of pearl-like teeth; “the prince must gain courage from my glance, to offer me his hand. Oh, I know he is quite prepared to do so, if it were only to annoy his brother!” As she saw the carriage drive up, she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, “The battle begins—to victory!”