CHAPTER II.

The tempter.

As Mademoiselle von Marwitz left the room, Pollnitz took a sealed note from his pocket and handed it hastily to the princess.  She concealed it in the pocket of her dress, and continued to gaze indifferently upon a painting of Watteau, which hung upon the wall.

“Not one word!  Still!  Not one word!” whispered Pollnitz.  “You are resolved to drive my young friend to despair.  You will not grant him one gracious word?”

The princess turned away her blushing face, drew a note from her bosom, and, without a glance or word in reply, she handed it to the master of ceremonies, ashamed and confused, as a young girl always is, when she enters upon her first love romance, or commits her first imprudence.

Pollnitz kissed her hand with a lover’s rapture.  “He will be the most blessed of mortals,” said he, “and yet this is so small a favor!  It lies in the power of your royal highness to grant him heavenly felicity.  You can fulfil one wish which his trembling lips have never dared to speak; which only God and the eyes of one faithful friend have seen written in his heart.”

“What is this wish?” said the princess, in so low and trembling a whisper, that Pollnitz rather guessed than heard her words.

“I believe that he would pay with his life for the happiness of sitting one hour at your feet and gazing upon you.”

“Well, you have prepared for him this opportunity; you have so adroitly arranged your plans, that I cannot avoid meeting him.”

“Ah, princess, how despondent would he be, if he could hear these cold and cruel words!  I must comfort him by this appearance of favor if I cannot obtain for him a real happiness.  Your royal highness is very cold, very stern toward my poor friend.  My God! he asks only of your grace, that which the humblest of your brother’s subjects dare demand of him—­an audience—­that is all.”

Amelia fixed her burning eyes upon Pollnitz.  “Apage, Satanas!” she whispered, with a weary smile.

“You do me too much honor,” said Pollnitz.  “Unhappily I am not the devil, who is, without doubt, next to God, the most powerful ruler of this earth.  I am convinced that three-fourths of our race belong to him.  I am, alas! but a poor, weak mortal, and my words have not the power to move the heart of your highness to pity.”

“My God!  Pollnitz, why all this eloquence and intercession?” cried Amelia.  “Do I not allow him to write to me all that he thinks and feels?  Am I not traitress enough to read all his letters, and pardon him for his love?  What more can he dare hope for?  Is it not enough that he loves a princess, and tells her so?  Not enough—­”

She ceased suddenly; her eyes, which shrank from meeting the bold, reproachful, and ironical glance of the baron, had wandered restlessly about the room and fell now upon the picture of Watteau; upon the loving, happy pair, who were tenderly embracing under the oaks in the centre of that enchanting landscape.  This group, upon which the eye of the princess accidentally rested, was an eloquent and decisive answer to her question—­an answer made to the eyes, if not the ears of Amelia—­and her heart trembled.