# Adelaide of Brunswick/Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One can easily imagine that Adelaide, busy with the task of escaping from a husband whom she suspected of wanting to do her harm had no part in all that had just happened. She had indeed been at Saint Mark's Square with the wife of the shipper the day Frederick had come up to her and she had escaped quickly from that place. But none of the subsequent events had been known by her. All she did from then on was to try to find out what her husband was going to do and to try to oppose him in any way possible.
One day Signora Bianchi brought the following letter from Mersburg:
You have just escaped a great danger, Milady, and I dare to say, without trying to gain any merit in your eyes, that your tranquility is due almost entirely to me. Your husband wanted to have you abducted and making use of the influence he had in the Senate, he was going to take you back to prison in Saxony. You are the most unfortunate of women with such a husband. You cannot imagine the tricks I had to use in order to keep you from falling into his hands; I will explain all that to you at some other time. You may be pleased to know that we are leaving Venice and when you receive these words, we will be on our way. Be certain that I will not leave the prince. Will you now follow the advice which my conduct and my faithfulness to you oblige me to give you? Go back to Saxony. The Marquis of Thuringia, separated from you for too long a time, desires your return with impatience. Your husband and I will be there when you return; but do not fear anything from ​him as long as I will be with him. To serve you in all ways and to preserve you from all dangers will be my only duty and occupation. It is time to break your fetters and to be happy once more; but there are some precautions to take first, and I believe you will approve of what I have in mind. Come then without losing a minute. Your husband believes you are dead, and he is weeping over you; I thought it was a good plan to throw him off the track. If your sudden appearance dries his tears and returns him to his former fury, I will be there to defend you. His injustice will give more strength to the Marquis of Thuringia and we will be able to take you away from that barbarian. Do not fear him any more and appear without fail. Come to Fredericksburg as though you were a foreigner and let me know the moment you appear and leave the rest to me.
"Well, Bathilda," said Adelaide in showing her the letter, "what do you think about what he has written me?"
"Mersburg confirms what I have always thought of him, Milady, that you did not have a better friend in the world. As for the advice he gave you, as long as he guarantees that it is all right, I think you should follow it. In that way you at least will be nearer to the person you love, and it is time to break with the one who has caused you so much unhappiness. Besides, this life of adventure which we are leading has been full of dangers, and our good luck cannot keep on forever."
Another uneasiness worried the princess. She feared meeting her husband on the way if she followed him at once, and if she did not give the count time to prepare things in Fredericksburg they might not work out right.
"Then, Milady," said Bathilda, "let him take a few days lead. But let's not stay in Venice. Let's go to the first agreeable city to spend some time in order to let your husband get well ahead of you."
As soon as possible they left Venice and started on their way through Bavaria. They found that the roads were in awful shape and on several occasions had to cross streams which threatened to sweep their carriage from the road.
On one occasion as they were going along a narrow road which had a cliff on one side and a frightful precipice on the ​other, another carriage appeared. It seemed to be in a hurry and it looked as if the powerful horses which were rushing forward would knock their little carriage off the road. Adelaide was terrified. Her own horses became frightened now and although the other carriage had stopped, it looked as if all the danger would come from her own steeds which had begun to run rapidly along the dangerous road. The slightest pebble might have precipitated them to their destruction. All seemed lost when a man appeared from the other carriage and at a great risk of losing his own life jumped at the bridles of the two horses and succeeded in bringing them to a stop and in calming their excitement. The danger was suddenly over. What was the surprise of Adelaide in recognizing her liberator. It was Dourlach!
"What! Dourlach … Yes, it is he," cried the princess.
"Oh, Milady," said Dourlach recognizing Adelaide, "what is this new piece of good luck that I have. After having saved you from the fury of the margrave, I have the privilege of saving you in another perilous situation."
Adelaide threw herself into the arms of such a dear friend; "It is you, you whom I thought the margrave had punished with the worst kind of death. How delightful it is to find that you are still living. You must have thought that I did not treat you right at Krimpser's."
"No, I knew that you had to act as you did … But let's hurry to leave this dangerous road. The town of Regensburg is very near here and I am going there to visit a sister who will be only too happy to see you. Permit me to take you there and then once in safety, I can tell you of the events which have given me my freedom from the margrave and the means of being of service to you now."
They soon reached a river where a boat offered to the travelers a surer way of reaching Regensburg than that of the horrible roads.
They were soon at the home of Dourlach's sister who had married well in that town. After a very agreeable reception and some hours of refreshments and conversation, Dourlach told Adelaide and Bathilda that having been sent by Krimpser to the margrave, the latter after having wished to kill him and ​after having spread the rumor that he was dead, had suddenly changed his mind and released him on condition that he look for the Baroness of Neuhaus through all of Germany and to bring her to him as soon as he found her. But he, having no desire to carry out such a project, had come to live with his sister. He had written the margrave resigning his positions with him and asked him to try to find somebody else who could perform that task which was so repugnant to him.
"And it was just through a bit of luck," he added, "that I had some business to attend to in a nearby town and it was the short trip which has made it possible for me to meet you again and to renew the hope of persuading you to be mine."
"My dear Baron," said Adelaide, "sit here for a moment beside me and listen carefully."
Bathilda wished to retire, but her mistress kept her there.
"I am placed in a position which obliges me to state some things clearly and to explain to you just why I must act in a certain way. I owe you my life, my dear Dourlach, I know it and without this life what could I offer to a lover who already possesses my heart? Nothing without doubt. And this reasoning which I make to myself, you can make also and I can find nothing to object to. This life which you have saved belongs to you, take it; but if you are generous enough to let me have it, you must realize that it can never be linked to yours in any way except through friendship and gratitude. Some indissoluble oaths on one hand and some bonds on the other, have set up some insurmountable barriers between us."
"Ah, Milady," cried Dourlach with an accent of despair, "you are married and you have a lover; I see it all."
"I have more. I have in this moment a friend, and it is you, Dourlach, you are a friend to whom I would like to sacrifice everything … but I cannot. The oaths I have made represent all the happiness I can ever hope for; the bonds represent the torments of my life, but duty keeps me from breaking them. You may require of me anything which I can accord you without crime, and I assure you that I will try to fulfill my obligations to you."
"Nothing, Milady," cried out Dourlach in anguish, "and I can assure you that I am the most unhappy of men."
​"One is never the most unhappy of men as long as one has a sincere friend and I assure you that I am your friend for life."
Since the unhappy Dourlach seemed too unconsolable, Adelaide finally admitted to him that things were not right in her own life and that she needed his moral support.
"You are unhappy, Milady? With how many torments you tear my heart."
Adelaide at this instant told him who she really was.
"Milady," said the baron throwing himself to his knees before her, "your titles do not increase my love, but they do not take anything away from it, and the one who adored the Baroness of Neuhaus will devote the rest of his life to serving the Princess of Saxony."
"I give to you all the loving qualities which a friend can expect from a friend. Misfortunes have caused me to leave my court for some time. I am now returning and I hope you will come with me and enjoy the rights which friendship gives you to my affection. You know to what point princes need such a consolation, it is so rare on the throne … Swear to me that I will always find it in you."
The unhappy baron threw himself on his knees again and swore to her that as long as she lived, his heart, which she could not accept, would be devoted to her.
After this touching scene, a calm came to both of them, and Dourlach and his sister from that time on spent all their time trying to make their royal visitor happy in their home.
After a little more than a week at Regensburg, the princess said to Dourlach that it was necessary for her to move on. The baron, far from being cured of his deep love for the princess, had learned to love her even more during this period and at the thought of her leaving, he almost fainted. Although he had known that this moment was going to arrive sooner or later, he was totally unprepared to accept it when it came. Adelaide, in her turn, shared the grief of her friend and made him swear again to come to see her at Dresden where she expected to stay for some time.
Our two travelers now left for Nuremberg with the plan of spending several days there. There existed, near Nuremberg a celebrated convent of the order of St. Benoit which had been ​set up by Ste. Scholastique, his sister. This religious house had just been reestablished under the strictest rules and took up again all the severity which the convent had had during the eleventh century.
Adelaide, curious to visit an establishment which might have some connection with her some day, proposed this visit to her faithful companion. Consequently, the day after their arrival in Nuremberg, the two of them obtained horses and rode alone to the convent situated in a deep valley in the midst of rough terrain. They found a small hermitage on the slope of the hill where they were obliged to leave their horses. An old hermit who lived there acted as a guide to take them down the steep path to the convent.
"You come to visit this place at the best time," the hermit said to them. "It is during this week that the holy women are giving themselves up to their most pious worship."
"Milady," said Bathilda remembering the events of their trip, "if this hermit is going to resemble the one we found on leaving Schinders' place … it is going to be hard to get out of here."
Then she turned toward the hermit.
"Holy man," she said to him, "are there any monks down there in the convent?"
"There is only the director," answered the hermit. "He is a very holy man by the name of Urbain and he is sixty years old. I am sure that he will receive you well and that you will like the way he conducts things."
While this conversation was going on, they were descending a little path full of vines, briars and broom which tangled in a disagreeable fashion in their clothes. After walking for two hours, they finally saw the convent. It was entirely surrounded by cypress trees, pines, and larches which almost hid the buildings.
"Here you are at the door of the holy place you wish to visit," said the hermit. "Allow me to withdraw; I cannot go farther. Ring and the doors will open and please address a few prayers to God for me when you are in front of the altars."
Bathilda wanted to offer some money to this good man, but ​he refused saying that he did such jobs through penitence, and he would not benefit from them if he took pay.
During this dialogue, Adelaide rang. A sister opened and threw herself at the feet of the princess saying:
"Whoever you may be, bless me because I am a great sinner."
Adelaide became moved and raised her up. She had such a sensitive nature that any such expression of goodness played on her heart strings.
"My sister," she said, "believe that no matter how great your sins may be, Heaven will pardon them when your repentance is known … May one come into this holy retreat? Can one become warmed at the celestial fire of your souls?" "Please tell me who you are, Milady," answered the sister, "and I will go to announce you to the abbess."
"Will you tell her that I have come here to find out more about this convent and that my name is of little consequence."
"I am going, Milady," said the sister, "and my answer will be quick in coming."
"If that poor woman is a sinner," said Bathilda, "what are
Adelaide uttered a sigh.
"Yes, my friend," she said, "we are far from that perfection."
The sister soon returned to say that the nuns were all at mass and the abbess asked them to attend while they were waiting for her to receive them.
They entered the chapel and there they were impressed by the sight of more than a hundred women on their knees, their arms held towards Heaven, reciting in this attitude sublime words which seemed to open the vault above them and to go right to their destination. With what fervor did Adelaide join them in saying this verse:
"May my enemies blush and be filled with fear; let them retire quickly and may they be covered with confusion."
How beautiful Adelaide was in this situation which was characterized by repentence, vengeance and religion! It was no longer her soul which expressed itself; it was that of the prophet which expressed itself through her. The nuns looked ​at her and saw the vision of beauty on her face and then still another expression came to her face when she recited the following:
"I recognize my fault; I will accuse myself in the presence of all; and the Lord will pardon at that time the enormity of my sin."
She was no longer a woman; she was an angel who merited for several instants the anger of Heaven and the pardon. Tears flooded her beautiful eyes and those who looked at her were edified by the one who had come there for edification.
As soon as the services were over, all of them received the benediction from the holy man who was conducting the ceremony. A few of them got up and threw themselves on their knees in front of the priest in accusing themselves of some lukewarmness in their holy worship.
"May God hear you, my daughters," the holy man said to them. "He is the father of mercy, and his arms are always open to the sinner and he consoles him if he is repentant."
A bell was heard, and all of them arose and going two by two through the cloister, they went to the dining room where the most frugal meal awaited them. The abbess invited the princess and her companion to sit near her, and in a few minutes the light repast was finished, and a great silence came to the room.
On leaving the dining room, the abbess invited the two visitors to go to her room where they found the director, and the conversation began. This interview was short and precise on the part of the abbess. She wanted to know the motive of their visit, and their answers convinced her that it was only pious curiosity. The director who was looking at the princess with curiosity, praised her motives with an absent-minded air. At that time a bell rang which called all the nuns to their cells. Adelaide and Bathilda were taken to two small cells where they found only the absolutely necessary things; there was no luxury of any kind.
On their awakening the director came to seek them in order to show them the whole establishment as they had requested. Going through the bedrooms, they were impressed by the severity of it all. These religious women slept in their coffins and ​had no cover except their clothes. They had no chair or anything on which they could sit. There was no ornament of any kind, not even a crucifix. There was no latch on their door since the supervisors were supposed to go through the whole building, even the bedrooms, during the hours of sleep.
From the bedrooms, the two women were taken to the chapel which they had not been able to see very well when they arrived the evening before. This sanctuary was just large enough to hold the nuns who were there. It had brown wainscoted walls and at the foot of a simple altar there was a tomb of black marble on which one could see a sceptre interlaced with serpents.
"Whose tomb is that?" asked Adelaide with a sort of trembling which she could not prevent.
"A Princess of Saxony who reigned a hundred years ago," answered Father Urbain. "Her crimes finally produced some remorse, and her penitence was the fruit of it. She came here to die after having drawn up the design of her tomb. You see this sceptre, Milady, the serpents which surround it prove that misfortune follows man no matter how high his position may be. You have, without doubt, heard of that princess?"
"Yes, my Father," said Adelaide much upset, "but the misfortunes which she underwent were not of the sceptre but of her conduct."
"That is true," said Urbain, "but that conduct was bad only in that it was not fitting for one who carried the sceptre. There are then special misfortunes attached to a high rank."
"And her conversion?"
"It was perfect. We believe that she is in the bosom of God who always pardons when the repentance is sincere."
"What if misfortunes force us to commit sins, Father, are these sins as serious in the eyes of the Eternal?"
"Man is always guilty of not having used all the force which he received from God to undergo the misfortunes which come to him. Let him learn to undergo these hardships and he will no longer sin. Let him reflect that to escape one misfortune he sins and falls into another even worse. If he thinks in this manner, he will be preserved from sin. Everything comes from human weakness, and this weakness comes from the ​lukewarmness which we have in making ourselves worthy of the graces of the eternal, and especially of asking for these graces."
"Oh, Father," said Adelaide, "anyone who could follow your advice would be sheltered from many misfortunes."
"Let that person come to our retreat," said Urbain, "and he will soon feel that calm and tranquility exist only far from men and the poisonous whirlwind of their passions. It is only in retreat that man can develop his soul and purify himself in order to be worthy of his creator. He does not even know the sweet feeling which comes with solitude; but one must be pure in order to enjoy its charms. The one who lives by himself must have nothing to fear from himself. From that moment he can be happy since he abandons all the false pleasure of this world."
Adelaide, overwhelmed, fell to her knees before the tomb of the Princess of Saxony. She did not say a word, but a sort of delirium almost suspended the circulation of her blood and associated her with the incomprehensible decrees of eternity.
"Do you believe, Father," she finally said, "that I can one day be placed in the tomb of this princess?"
Urbain looked at her attentively.
"Yes, Milady," he answered in a solemn tone, "for you are also the Princess of Saxony and you have the right to share the tomb of the one who has preceded you by a century."
"Let's go to your cell for a few instants, Father. I need to talk to you. Your presence intimidates and enlightens me. You produce on me the effect of the celestial fire which brightened the forehead of Moses and lighted the way for the Israelites in the desert. It is absolutely necessary that I know you better."
Urbain made a sign for the two women to follow him and having taken them to his humble cell, he said:
"Listen to me," he said to them, "since you wish to know who I am and how I know who you are … You remember, Milady," he said addressing Adelaide, "the frightful treatment which the unfortunate Kaunitz received when your husband suspected him so unjustly of being in love with you? Well, Milady, you see in me the father of this sad victim of the jealousy of Frederick or rather that of the cruelty of the ​persecutor of my family, since my wife died poisoned by the same hand which later plunged the dagger into the breast of my son. The despair into which the loss of my dear wife threw me caused me to give up life in society of man. I went into orders and have been a priest ever since. At the same time I was busy educating my son. After a while my duties and the happy results of my labors with my son brought about a lessening of my sufferings. Then suddenly came the death of my son. From that moment I gave myself up to absolute retirement from society. A churchman was needed for this convent. I had some connection with the abbess on my wife's side of the family, and I obtained this place. Since the death of my son, not having anything left except God, I have consecrated my days to serving Him. By means of the instruction which the pious souls which live here are willing to receive from me, I fortify them as well as myself in the principles which the world forgets too often. You can see, Princess, that I should know you, and it is a happiness for me to humiliate myself in front of you. For, you have had no part, Milady, in the murder of my son. I know it. It was by an atrocious wickedness that they sent him to a rendezvous which you could not have accorded since you did not even know him. Alas! all comes from the same source. Both the poison which ended the days of my wife and the dagger which stabbed my son, all I repeat, was directed by the same hand. For a long time I wanted to know who had done all this, a just vengeance made this curiosity legitimate. But now religion forbids this, and I want to die in this place without knowing those who have done me so much harm and without wishing to get my vengeance. If I took this upon myself it would be doubting the justice of Heaven, and it is in it alone which I put all my confidence. But do not believe, Milady, that I implore heaven for this vengeance. I swear by the ashes of these two beings who were so dear to me that I have never asked for anything except the happiness of which they are worthy and of their repentance and their conversion."
"Ah, holy man," said Adelaide, "allow me to weep with you over these victims of a ferocious rage, and I confess that if ​I go back on the throne of Saxony, there will be some pleasure to me in discovering your enemies and in avenging you."
"No, no, Milady," said Urbain, "in desiring to shed their blood, I would be as wicked as they. It is a form of enjoyment to me to be unhappy without their being so. Do not trouble the last enjoyment that I have in my retreat."
"You have as much delicacy as piety, Father, and you merit in Heaven a place which those scoundrels will never have."
"And why not, if they are repentant?"
"Venerable and unfortunate Urbain," continued the princess, "will you clarify a little this terrible adventure? Why, when I escaped from the burning fortress of Torgau, followed by Bathilda, this companion of my fate, why were we stopped by people who said they were of your family and under whose sword we thought we were going to perish?"
"I don't know, Milady. I have no relatives in the world and not even a friend to take up my defense having always hidden my misfortunes with the greatest care."
"The hand which has caused your misfortunes, Father, is the same which persecutes me. We must find out who it is."
"Let's not. Vengeance is not so sweet as pardon."
At this moment, the abbess came in to propose to the strangers to see the gardens and the works of the place. Adelaide in a low voice asked Urbain not to tell who she was. The abbess and the two visitors went out followed by the holy man. They found all the nuns digging in the ground.
"What are they doing?" asked the princess.
"Milady," answered Urbain, "they are preparing the soil which will receive them one day. They are softening it with the tears of their penitence, and at night they clothe themselves in the shroud in which they are to be buried. If this unhappy life is only a point in eternity, can one be more interested in anything than the happy instant which ends it? The one who thinks constantly of death does not die; he is already far from life; already the shadows of the night of time surround him, and there is no grief any more at the idea of death. The one who dreads death does not enjoy life. He turns his eyes back toward the path strewn with briars which he has already passed over and thinks about how much more of the path remains to ​be trod. The end which he has the feebleness to dread is really the dawn of the peaceful days which await him."
"And this garden, Father?"
"It is uncultivated as you see, Milady, it offers to the eyes only what is useful. The earth is a loan which God has given us to provide nourishment. Let's not abuse it in order to produce a surplus. Everything speaks here, Milady, and tells us of the feeling of wisdom and religion. This garden is the image of life; it is sown with thorns, and we find the fruit only by reaching through the thorns."
At that moment somebody came to warn Urbain that a nun was dying. Although he recommended to the abbess not to allow Adelaide to follow him, the latter insisted so much that the abbess let her go.
A cross of ashes traced at the foot of the altar received the body of the one who was giving up her soul. They stretched her out after having covered her with a shroud. Urbain, near her, spoke to her only of the happiness which she was going to receive in leaving a life so filled with thorns. This exhortation was so tender and spiritual that the dying woman cried out trying to rise:
"My Lord, deign to receive me promptly since I will find happiness only in your presence." And she died.
"You see, Milady," said Urbain, "she died happy. You don't have to show the navigator the perils of the ocean on which he has just crossed; it is the port which interests him. Let us cease to blame the happy hermits whose example I like to follow. Eternity frightens only those who do not look toward it during life."
The princess, extremely moved by all she had been seeing, was too young and too much under the influence of the passion which dominated her to profit as much from the wise words of the holy man as she should.
"I will think about all your words of wisdom, Father," she said in taking leave. "I feel that I must meditate a long time in order to be worthy of you."
Adelaide asked Urbain what she could do for the convent and for him when she would be on the throne again.
"Nothing, Milady," answered the director, "our bodies find ​here all that is necessary, and our souls have the peace and the tranquility which are unknown out in the world. If you will come to see us, you will give us great happiness."
"Yes, I will come back," said Adelaide in a great expression of emotion which she could not restrain, "I will come back, you can be sure of that. You have promised to receive me; come pronounce your oath on the tomb of the Princess of Saxony."
Urbain made the desired promise and Adelaide knelt to pray in the midst of her tears. The two travelers made their way back to their horses at the hermitage with the greatest difficulty and fatigue.