The capital of Prussia had to
celebrate the disgrace of the country by a festive illumination. But the
public officials could not compel the people to give their hearts to
such outward rejoicings, or even to manifest their approval by their
presence. At the cathedral, the organist with his choristers sang the
ordered _Te Deum_ to the accompaniment of kettle-drums, but the church
was empty. Only the French officers and a few hired renegades witnessed
the solemnity.
At night, all Berlin was in a blaze of colored flame, but the streets
were deserted. No glad populace were thronging them--no cheering or
merry laughter was to be heard; only here and there, troops of French
soldiers were loitering and singing loudly; or a crowd of idlers, such
as are to be found wherever their curiosity can be gratified, and who,
devoid of honor and character, are the same in all cities. The better
classes remained at home, and disdained to cast even a fugitive glance
on the dazzling scene. Nowhere had more lights been kindled than were
ordered by the French authorities. At one house, however, on Behren
Street, a more brilliant illumination was to be seen; variegated lamps
were there artistically grouped around two busts that stood in strange
harmony, side by side, and excited the astonishment of all passers-by.
They were the busts of Frederick the Great and Napoleon, on whose
foreheads beamed the same radiant light.
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