LXV. THE COUNTESS WIELOPOLSKA…

LXV. THE COUNTESS WIELOPOLSKA

"You really think that he will come, Matuschka?" asked the Countess Wielopolska of her waiting-woman, who, standing behind the chair, was fastening a string of pearls in her lady's dusky hair.

"I know he will come, your ladyship," replied Matuschka.

"And you have seen the emperor and spoken to him!" exclaimed the countess, pressing her delicate white hands upon her heart, as though she strove to imprison its wild emotions.

"Indeed I have, my lady."

"Oh, tell me of it again, Matuschka; tell me, that I may not fancy it a dream!" cried the countess, eagerly.

"Well, then, my lady, I took your note to the palace, where the emperor has given positive orders that every one who wishes it shall be admitted to his presence. The guard before the door let me pass into the antechamber. One of the lords in waiting told me that the emperor would be there before a quarter of an hour. I had not waited so long when the door opened and a handsome young man in a plain white uniform walked in. I should never have taken him for the emperor, except that the lord stood up so straight when he saw him. Then I knelt down and gave the letter. The emperor took it and said: 'Tell your lady that I am not prepared to receive ladies in my palace; but since she wishes to see me, I will go to her. If she will be at home this evening, I will find time to call upon her myself.'"

"Ah!" cried the countess, "he will soon be here. I shall see him--speak to him--pour out the longings of my bursting heart! Oh, Matuschka, as the moment approaches, I feel as if I could fly away and plunge into the wild waters of the Vistula that bear my husband's corpse, or sink lifeless upon the battle-field that is reddened with the blood of my brothers."

"Do not think of these dreadful things, dear lady," said Matuschka, trying to keep back her tears; "it is twilight, and the emperor will soon be here. Look cheerful--for you are as beautiful as an angel when you smile, and the emperor will be much more apt to be moved by your smiles than by your tears."

"You are right, Matuschka," cried the countess, rising hastily from her seat. "I will not weep, for I must try to find favor in the emperor's eyes."

She crossed the room and stood before a Psyche, where for some time she scrutinized her own features; not with the self-complacency of a vain woman, but with the critical acuteness of an artist who contemplates a fine picture. Gradually her eyes grew soft and her mouth rippled with a smile. Like a mourning Juno she stood in the long black velvet dress that sharply defined the outlines of her faultless bust and fell in graceful folds around her stately figure. Her bodice was clasped by an agrafe of richest pearls; and the white throat and the jewel lay together, pearl beside pearl, each rivalling the snowy lustre of the other. Had it not been for those starry eyes that looked out so full of mournful splendor, her face might have seemed too statuesque in its beauty; but from their dark depths all the enthusiasm of a nature that had concentrated its every emotion into one master-passion, lit up her face with flashes that came and went like summer lightning.

"Yes, I am beautiful," whispered she, while a sad smile played around her exquisite month. "My beauty is the last weapon left me wherewith to battle for Poland. I must take advantage of it. Life and honor, wealth and blood, every thing for my country!"

She turned to her waiting-woman as a queen would have done who was dismissing her subjects.

"Go, Matuschka," said she, "and take some rest. You have been laboring for me all day, and I cannot bear to think that the only friend left me in this world should be overtasked for me. Sometimes you look at me as my mother once did; and then I dream that I feel her hand laid lovingly upon my head, and hear her dear voice exhorting me to pray that God would bless me with strength to do my duty to my bleeding country." Matuschka fell upon her knees and kissed the hem of her mistress's robe.

"Do not give way," sobbed she, "do not grieve now."

The countess did not hear. She had thrown back her head and was gazing absently above. "Oh, yes, I am mindful of my duty," murmured she. "I have not forgotten the vow I made to my mother and sealed upon her dying lips with my last kiss! I have been a faithful daughter of my fatherland. I have given every thing--there remains nothing but myself, and oh, how gladly would I give my life for Poland! But God has forsaken us; His eyes are turned away!"

"Accuse not the Lord, dear lady," prayed Matuschka. "Put your trust in Him, and take courage."

"It is true. I have no right to accuse my Maker," sighed the countess. "When the last drop of Polish blood is spent and the last Polish heart is crushed beneath the tramp of the enemy's hosts, then it will be time to cry to Heaven! Rise, Matuschka, and weep no more. All is not yet lost. Let us hope, and labor that hope may become reality, and Poland may be free!"

She reached her hand to Matuschka and passed into an adjoining room. It was the state apartment of the inn, and was always reserved for distinguished guests. It had been richly furnished, but the teeth of time had nibbled many a rent in the old-fashioned furniture, the faded curtains, and the well-worn carpet. Matuschka, however, had given an air of some elegance to the place. On the carved oak table in the centre stood a vase of flowers; and, that her dear mistress might have something to remind her of home, Matuschka had procured a piano, to which the countess, when weary of her thoughts, might confide the hopes and fears that were surging in her storm-tossed heart.

The piano was open, and a sheet of music lay on the desk. As the countess perceived it, she walked rapidly toward the instrument and sat down before it.

"I will sing," said she. "The emperor loves music, above all things the music of Gluck."

She turned over the leaves, and then said, softly:

"`Orpheus and Eurydice!' La, Bernasconi told me that this was his favorite opera. Oh, that I knew which aria he loved the best?"

She struck a few chords, and in a low voice began to sing. Gradually her beautiful features lost their sadness, she seemed to forget herself and her sorrows, and to yield up her soul to the influence of Gluck's heavenly music. And now, with all the power, the melody, the pathos of her matchless voice, she sang, "Che faro senza Eurydice!"

The more she sang, the brighter grew her lovely face. Forgetful of all things around, she gave herself wholly up to the inspiration of the hour, and from its fountains of harmony she drew sweetest draughts of consolation and of hope.

The door had opened, and she had not beard it. On the threshold stood the emperor, followed by Matuschka, while the countess, all unmindful, filled the air with strains so divine, that they might have been the marriage-hymns of Love wedded to Song.

The emperor had stopped for a moment to listen. His face, which at first had worn an expression of smiling flippancy, now changed its aspect. He recognized the music, and felt his heart heat wildly. With a commanding gesture, he motioned Matuschka to withdraw, and noiselessly closed the door.

CHAPTER LXYI.

THE EMPEROR AND THE COUNTESS.

The countess continued to sing, although Joseph had advanced as far as the centre of the room. The thickness of the carpet made his footfall inaudible. He stood with his right hand resting upon the oak table, while he leaned forward to listen, and one by one the dead memories of his youthful love came thronging around his heart, and filling it with an ecstasy that was half joy and half sorrow.

More and more impassioned grew the music, while the air was tremulous with melody. It softened and softened, until it melted away in sobs. The hands of the enchantress fell from the keys; she bowed her head, and leaning against the music, burst into tears. The emperor, too, felt the tear-drops gather in his eyes; he dashed them away, and went rapidly up to the piano.

"Countess," said he, in his soft, mellow tones, "I felt it no indiscretion to listen unseen to your heavenly music, but no one save God has a right to witness your grief."

She started, and rising quickly, the emperor saw the face of the lady who had thrown him the wreath.

"It is she!" cried he, "the beautiful Confederate! I thank you from my heart for the favor you have done me, for I have sought you for some days in vain."

"Your majesty sought me?" said she, smiling. "Then I am sure that you are ready to sympathize with misfortune."

"Do you need sympathy?" asked he, eagerly.

"Sire, I am a daughter of Poland," replied she.

"And the Wielopolskas are among the noblest and richest of Poland's noble families."

"Noble! Rich! Our castles have been burned by the Russians, our fields have been laid waste, our vassals have been massacred, and of our kinsmen, some have died under the knout, while others drag out a life of martyrdom in Siberia."

"One of the Counts Wielopolska was a favorite of the king, was he not?" asked Joseph, much moved.

"He was my husband," replied she, bitterly. "Heedless of his countrymen's warnings, he believed in the patriotism of Stanislaus. When he saw his error, he felt that he merited death, and expiated his fault by self-destruction. His grave is in the Vistula."

"Unhappy wife!" exclaimed the emperor. "And had you no other kinsman?"

"I had a father and three brothers."

"You had them?"

"Yes, sire, but I have them no longer. My brothers died on the field of battle; my father, oh, my father!--God grant that he be no more among the living, FOR HE IS IN SIBERIA!"

The emperor raised his hands in horror; then extending them to the countess, he took hers, and said in a voice of deepest sympathy "I thank you for coming to me. Tell me your plans for the future, that I may learn how best I may serve you."

"Sire, I have none," sighed she. "Life is so mournful, that I long to close my eyes forever upon its tragedies, but--"

"But what?"

"I should then be robbed of the sight of him who has promised succor to my fatherland," cried she, passionately, while she sank upon her knees and clasped her hands convulsively together.

Joseph bent over, and would have raised her from the floor. "It ill becomes such beauty to kneel before me," said he, softly.

"Let me kneel, let me kneel!" exclaimed she, while her beautiful eyes suffused with tears. "Here, at your feet, let me implore your protection for Poland! Have mercy, sire, upon the Confederates, whose only crime is their resistance to foreign oppression. Reach out your imperial band to THEM, and bid them be free, for they must either be slaves, or die by their own hands. Emperor of Austria, save the children of Sobieski from barbarous Russia!"

"Do not fear," replied Joseph, kindly. "I promised the Confederates that Austria would recognize their envoy, and I will redeem my word. Rise, countess, I implore you, rise, and may the day not be distant when I shall extend my hand to Poland as I now do to you. You have a pledge of my sincerity, in the fact that we have both a common enemy, and it will not be my fault if I do not oppose her, sword in hand. Still, although men call me emperor, I am the puppet of another will. The crown of Austria is on my mother's head; its shadow, alone, is upon mine. I speak frankly to you; but our acquaintance is peculiar, and, by its nature, has broken down the ordinary barriers of conventional life. Your songs and your tears have spoken directly to my heart recalling the oniy happy days that I have ever known on earth. But I am growing sentimental. You will pardon me, I know, for you are a woman, and have known what it is to love."

She slowly shook her head. "No, sire," replied she, "I have never known what it was to love."

The emperor looked directly in her eyes. SHE! Beautiful and majestic as Hera,--SHE, not know what it was to love! "And your husband--" asked he.

"I was married to him as Poland was given to Stanislaus. I never saw him until he became my husband."

"And your heart refused allegiance?"

"Sire, I have never yet seen the man who was destined to reign over my heart."

"Ah, you are proud! I envy him who is destined to conquer that enchanting domain."

She looked for one moment at the emperor, and then said, blushing: "Sire, my heart will succumb to him who rescues Poland. With rapture it will acknowledge him as lord and sovereign of my being."

The emperor made no reply. He gazed with a significant smile at the lovely enthusiast, until she blushed again, and her eyes sought the ground.

"Ah, countess," said Joseph, after a pause, "if all the women of Poland were of your mind, a multitudinous army would soon flock to her standard."

"Every Polish woman is of one mind with me. We are all the daughters of one mother, and our love for her is stronger than death."

The emperor shook his lead. "Were this true," replied he, "Poland would never have fallen as she has done. But far be it from me to heap reproaches upon the unfortunate. I will do what it lies in my power to do for the Poles, provided they are willing to second my efforts for themselves. If they would have peace, however, with other nations, they must show strength and unity of purpose among themselves. Until they can stand before the world in the serried ranks of a national unanimity, they must expect to be assailed by their rapacious neighbors. But let us forget politics for a moment. I long to speak to you of yourself. What are your plans? How can I serve you?"

"Sire, I have no plans. I ask nothing of the world but a place of refuge, where I can sorrow unseen."

"You are too young, and, pardon me, if I add, too beautiful, to fly from the world. Come to Vienna, and learn from me how easy it is to live without happiness."

"Your majesty will allow me to go to Vienna?" cried the countess, joyfully. "Ever since I have felt that I could do nothing for Poland, I have longed to live in Vienna, that I might breathe the same atmosphere with your majesty and the Empress Maria Theresa. You are the only sovereigns in Europe who have shown any compassion for the misfortunes of my country, and before your generous sympathy my heart bows down in gratitude and admiration."

"Say you so, proud heart, that has never bowed before?" exclaimed the emperor, smiling, and taking the countess's white hand in his. "Come, then, to Vienna, not to do homage, but to receive it, for nothing becomes your beauty more than pride. Come to Vienna., and I will see that new friends and new ties awaken your heart to love and happiness."

"I have one relative in Vienna, sire, the Countess von Salmour."

"Ah! one of the empress's ladies of honor. Then you will not need my protection there, for the countess is in high favor with the empress; and I may say, that she has more influence at court than I have."

"Sire," said the countess, raising her large eyes with an appealing look, "I shall go to Vienna, if I go under your majesty's protection and with your sanction."

"You shall have both," replied Joseph, warmly. "I will write to my mother to-day, and you shall present my letter. When will you leave? I dare not ask you to tarry here, for this is no place for lovely and unprotected women. Moreover, the King of Prussia has no sympathy with Poland, and he will like you the less for the touching appeal you made in her behalf when you sang at the concert. Greet the empress for me, and let me hope that you will stir her heart as you have stirred mine. And now farewell. My time has expired: the King of Prussia expects me to supper. I must part from you, but I leave comforted, since I am enabled to say in parting, 'Au revoir.'"

He bowed, and turned to quit the room. But at the door he spoke again.

"If I ever win the right to claim any thing of you, will you sing for me the aria that I found you singing to-night?"

"Oh! your majesty," said the countess, coming eagerly forward. "you have already earned the right to claim whatsoever you desire of me. I can never speak my gratitude for your condescension; perhaps music will speak for me. How gladly, then, will I sing when you command me!"

"I shall claim the promise in Vienna," said he, as he left the room.

The countess remained standing just where he had met her, breathlessly listening to his voice, which for a while she heard in the anteroom, and then to the last echoes of his retreating steps.

Suddenly the door was opened, and Matuschka, with joyful mien, came forward with a purse in her hand.

"Oh, my lady," exclaimed she, "the emperor has given me this purse to defray our expenses to Vienna!"

The countess started, and her pale face suffused with crimson shame.

"Alms!" said she, bitterly. "He treats me like a beggar!"

"No, lady," said Matuschka abashed; "the emperor told me that he had begged you to go to Vienna for business of state, and that he had a right to provide the expenses of our journey there. He said--"

The countess waved her hand impatiently. "Go back to the emperor," said she haughtily. "Tell him that you dare not offer this purse to your lady, for you know that she would rather die than receive alms, even from an emperor."

Matuschka cast down her eyes, and turned away. But she hesitated, and looked timidly at her mistress, whose great, glowing eyes were fixed upon her in unmistakable displeasure.

"My lady," said she, with embarrassment, "I will do your bidding, but you who have been so rich and great, know nothing of the troubles of poverty. Your money is exhausted. I would rather melt my own heart's blood into gold than tell you so; but indeed, dear lady, if you refuse the emperor's gift you wilt be without a kreutzer in your purse."

The countess raised her hands to her hair and unfastened the pearl wreath with which Matuschka had decorated it in anticipation of the emperor's visit.

"There--take this and sell it. You will readily find a jeweller who understands its value, and if he pays us but the half, it will be twice the sum which you hold in the emperor's purse."

"My lady, would you sell your family jewels? Have you forgotten that your family are pledged not to sell their heirlooms?"

"God will forgive me if I break my vow. It is more honorable to part with my ancestral jewels than to receive alms. I have no heirs, and no one will be wronged by the act. I have but my mother--Poland. For her I am ready to sacrifice the little I possess, and when nothing else remains, I shall yield my life. Go, Matuschka, go!"

Matuschka took the wreath and wept. "I go, lady," sobbed she. "This will last you for half a year, and then the armlets, then the diadem of brilliants, the bracelets, and the necklace, must all go. God grant you may live so long on these family treasures, that old Matuschka may be spared the humiliation of selling the rest! I have lived too long, since I must chaffer with a base-born tradesman for the jewels that were the royal gift of John Sobieski to my lady's noble ancestors."

She raised the countess's robe to her lips, and left the room. Her mistress looked after her, but her thoughts were wandering elsewhere. Slowly sinking on her knees, she began to pray, and the burden of her prayer was this:

"Oh, my God, grant that I may win his love!"

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LXVII. MARIA THERESA

The pearls were sold, the countess had arrived in Vienna; and she was in the presence of the empress, whom, although they had never met before, she had so long regarded with affectionate admiration.

"I rejoice to see you," said Maria Theresa, graciously extending her hand. "It gives me pleasure to receive a relative of the Countess von Salmour. But you have another claim upon my sympathy, for you are a Polish woman, and I can never forget that, but for John Sobieski, Vienna would have been a prey to the infidel."

"Upon your majesty's generous remembrance of Sobieski's alliance rests the last hope of Poland!" exclaimed the countess, kneeling and kissing the hand of the empress. "God has inclined to her redemption the heart of the noblest woman in Europe, and through her magnanimity will the wicked Empress of Russia receive her check. Oh, your majesty, that woman, in the height of her arrogance, believes to-day that you are only too willing to further her rapacity and participate in her crimes!"

"Never shall it be said that she and I have one thought or one object in common!" cried Maria Theresa, her face glowing with indignation. "Let her cease her oppression of Poland, or the Austrian eagle will seize the Russian vulture!"

The face of the countess grew radiant with joy. Raising her beautiful arms to heaven, she cried out exultingly: "King of kings, Thou hast heard! Maria Theresa comes to our help! Oh, your majesty, how many thousand hearts, from this day, will bow down in homage before your throne! Hereafter, not God, but Maria Theresa, will be our refuge!"

"Do not blaspheme," cried the empress, crossing herself. "I am but the servant of the Lord, and I do His divine will on earth. God is our refuge and our strength, and He will nerve my arm to overcome evil and work out good. I will countenance and uphold the Confederates, because it is my honest conviction that their cause is just, and that they are the only party in Poland who act in honor and good faith." [Foonote: The empress's own words. See Ferrand, i., p. 72.]

"Hitherto, they would have died to vindicate that honor and that faith; now they will live to defend it from their oppressors. Oh, your majesty, pardon me, if, in my rapture at your goodness, I forget what is due to your exalted station. My heart will burst if I may not give utterance to my joy. I am a lonely creature, with no tie but that which binds me to my unhappy mother, Polonia!"

"So young, and without home or kindred!" said the empress, kindly. "I have already heard of your misfortunes, poor child, from my son the emperor."

At the name of the emperor, the countess's pale face was tinged with a faint rosy color. The empress did not remark it, for she was already thinking what a pity it was that such a surpassingly beautiful woman should be a widow; that such an enchanting creature should be unloved and unwedded.

"You are too handsome," said she, "to remain single. Woman was made for love and marriage. Happy is she who can devote her whole heart to the sweet responsibilities of domestic life, and who is not called upon to assume the duties that weigh down the head of royalty."

While the empress spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the portrait of the Emperor Francis, which still hung between the windows in the place of the mirror, which had been removed from its frame. The Countess Wielopolska had been admitted to the gay sitting-room.

"Earthly grandeur," continued she, "is beset with pains and cares; but the happy wife, whose subjects are her own dear children, is one degree removed from the bliss of angels. You must marry, my dear, and I will find for you a brilliant parti."

"I am poor, your majesty, and am too proud to enter a rich man's palace without a dowry. "

"You shall have your dowry. I shall instruct my ambassador at St. Petersburg to demand the return of your estates. It will be one good deed by which that woman [Footnote: The words by which Maria Theresa always designated Catharine.] may expiate some of her many crimes. Your estates once restored, you will be an equal match for any nobleman in Europe. "

"If I should receive my estates through your majesty's intercession," replied the countess, "my home would be an asylum for all the unfortunate Poles. I should think it treason to dream of personal happiness, while Poland lies shackled and bleeding."

"But Poland shall be free!" cried the empress, with enthusiasm. "With the cooperation of France, the voice of Austria will be so loud that Russia will hear, and withdraw her unjust claims. We will strike off the fetters of Poland, while we forge a gentle chain for the Countess Wielopolska: a chain that falls so lightly upon woman, that its burden is sweeter than freedom."

"Your majesty must forgive me," reiterated the countess; "I have sworn on my mother's grave, that as long as I can be useful, I will live for Poland. Should she regain her freedom, I will retire to a convent, where every breath I draw shall be a thanksgiving to God. Should she be doomed to slavery, she will need her sons and daughters no more, and then I will die. Your majesty sees that I am already betrothed. I shall soon be the bride of Heaven, or the bride of Death."

"The bride of Heaven!" repeated the empress, her eyes swimming with tears. "Then be it so; it is not I who would entice Mary from her Master's feet. The world is full of Marthas, troubled about many things. Go, choose the better part, sweet enthusiast, and I will see that you have cause for thanksgiving. "

She reached her hand to the countess, who kissed it and withdrew. As she opened the door, she felt the bolt turn from the outside.

"His highness Prince Kaunitz," cried a page; and as the countess was making one last inclination of the head, the tall, slender form of Kaunitz filled the space behind her.

"Have I permission to enter, your majesty?" said the minister.

"You are always welcome, prince," replied the empress.

Kaunitz bowed slightly, and as he raised his cold eye to the face of the countess, a faint smile flitted over his features, but it was followed by a sneer. Without acknowledging her presence by the smallest courtesy, he advanced to the empress, and the door closed upon Poland forever.

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LXVIII. MARIE ANTOINETTE AND COURT ETIQUETTE

"Letters from France, your majesty," said Kaunitz, and the face of the empress grew bright as she recognized the handwriting of her daughter.

"The dauphiness is well?" said she. "Next to her dear self, I love to see her writing. Ah, I have grown very lonely since my little Antoinette has left me! One by one my children go; one dear face alone remains," continued she, pointing to the portrait of the emperor. Then looking at the letters in the hands of the prince, she said:

"Have you good news?"

"Yes, your majesty. The dauphiness is adored by the French people. They repeat her bon mots, write odes and madrigals to her beauty, and hang up her portrait in their houses. When she drives out in her caleche they impede its progress with their welcomes; and when she appears at the theatre, the prima donnas are forgotten. Half a year ago, when she made her entry into Paris and more than a hundred thousand people went out to meet her, the Duke de Brissac said, 'Madame, you have one hundred thousand lovers, and yet the dauphin will never be jealous of them.' [Footnote: "Memoirs of Madame de Campan," vol. i., p. 60.] The dear old Duke! He little knew what literal truth he spoke of the dauphin on that occasion."

"What do you mean?" asked the empress, hastily. "I know by the expression of your face that you have something unpleasant to tell."

"I mean to say the dauphin is not jealous, because he is the only man in France who is not in love with the dauphiness."

The empress turned scarlet. "This is a serious charge which you presume to make against the dauphin," said she, frowning.

"It is unhappily true," replied Kaunitz, coolly,

"The dauphiness makes no mention of such a state of things in her letter. It does not breathe a word of complaint."

"Perhaps the dauphiness, in the innocence of her heart, has no idea of the grounds which she has for complaint."

The empress looked displeased. "Do you know that your language is offensive?" said she. "You assert that the dauphin is insensible to the charms of his beautiful young wife."

"Your majesty well knows that I never assert a falsehood. The dauphin is not in love with his wife, and I do not believe that she has an advocate at the court of Louis XV. Since the shameless partisans of Du Barry have triumphed over the noble Duke of Choiseul, the dauphiness is without a friend. The Duke d'Arguillon is anti-Austrian, and your majesty knows what an enemy to Austria was the father of the dauphin."

"Why do you seek to torture me, Kaunitz?" said the empress, impatiently. "You are not telling me all this for nothing. Say at once what you have to say."

"Your majesty has not yet read the letter which I had the honor of handing to you just now, I believe," said Kaunitz.

Maria Theresa took up the letter from the gueridon on which she had laid it, and began to look it over.

"It is true," sighed she. "The dauphiness complains of solitude. 'Since the Duke de Choiseul has left,' writes she, 'I am alone, and without a friend.' You are right. The dauphiness is in danger. She writes that her enemies are intriguing to part her from the dauphin. They attempted in Fontainebleau to assign her a suite of apartments remote from those of her husband."

"Yes, the anti-Austrian party, seeing that he is indifferent to her, are doing their best to convert this indifference into dislike. But the dauphiness saw through the affair, and complained to the king."

"That was right and bold!" cried the empress, joyfully.

"Yes, it was bold, for it gained another enemy for the dauphiness. She should have spoken to the king through the Duke d'Arguillon, instead of which she applied to his majesty herself. The duke will never forgive her; and when the Duchess de Noailles reproved the dauphiness, she replied that she would never take counsel of etiquette where her family affairs were concerned. The consequence is that the duchess also has gone over to the enemy."

"To the enemy?" exclaimed the empress, anxiously. "Has she, then, other enemies?"

"Madame de Marsan, the governess of the sisters of the dauphin, will never forgive her for having interfered in the education of the young princesses."

"But surely the daughters of the king will be kind to my poor Marie Antoinette!" exclaimed the empress, ready to burst into tears. "They promised to love her; and it is but natural and womanly that they should shun the party which upholds the profligate woman who rules the King of France!"

Prince Kaunitz slightly elevated his shoulders. "Madame Adelaide, the eldest, until the marriage of the dauphin, held the first place at court. Now, the daupbiness has precedence of her, and the court card-parties are held in her apartments. Madaine Adelaide, therefore, has refused to be present, and retires to her own rooms, where she holds rival card-parties which are attended by the anti-Austrians, who are opposed to Du Barry. This is the second party who intrigue against the dauphiness.--Madame Sophie perchance remembers her in her prayers; but she is too pious to be of use to anybody. Madame Victoire, who really loves the dauphiness, is so sickly, that she scarcely ever leaves her room. For a while she held little reunions there, which, being very pleasant, were for a while attended by the dauphiness; but Madame de Noailles objected, and court etiquette required that they should be discontinued."

The empress had risen and was acing the floor in great agitation. "So young, so lovely, and slighted by her husband!" murmured she, bitterly, while large tear-drops stood in her eyes. "The daughter of the Caesars in strife with a king's base-born mistress and a vile faction who hate her without cause! And I--her mother --an empress, am powerless to help her!"

"No, your majesty," said Kaunitz, "not altogether powerless. You cannot help her with armies, but you can do so with good advice, and no one can advise her as effectually as her mother."

"Advise her? What advice can I give?" cried the empress, angrily. "Shall I counsel her to attend the petits soupers of the king, and truckle to his mistress? Never! never! My daughter may be unhappy, but she shall not be dishonored!"

"I should not presume to make any such proposition to the dauphiness," said Kaunitz, quietly. "One cannot condescend to Du Barry as we did to La Pompadour. The latter was at least a woman of mind, the former is nothing more than a vulgar beauty. But there is another lady whose influence at court is without limit--one whom Du Barry contemns, but whom the dauphiness would do well to conciliate."

"Of what lady do you speak, Kaunitz?"

"I speak of Madame Etiquette, your majesty. She is a stiff and tiresome old dame, I grant you, but in France she presides over every thing. Without her the royal family can neither sleep nor wake; they can neither take a meal if they be in health, nor a purge if they be indisposed, without her everlasting surveillance. She directs their dress, amusements, associates, and behavior; she presides over their pleasures, their weariness, their social hours, and their hours of solitude. This may be uncomfortable, but royalty cannot escape it, and it must he endured."

"It is the business of Madame de Noailles to attend to the requisitions of court etiquette," said the empress, impatiently. "And of the dauphiness to attend to her representations," added Kaunitz.

"She will certainly have enough discretion to conform herself to such obligations!"

"Your majesty, a girl of fifteen who has a hundred thousand lovers is not apt to be troubled with discretion. The dauphiness is bored to death by Madame de Noailles's eternal sermons, and therein she may be right. But she turns the mistress of ceremonies into ridicule, and therein she is wrong. In an outburst of her vexation the dauphiness one day called her 'old Madame Etiquette,' and, as the bon mots of a future queen are apt to be repeated, Madame de Noailles goes by no other name at court. Again--not long ago the dauphiness gave a party of pleasure at Versailles. The company were mounted on donkeys."

"On donkeys!" cried the empress with horror.

"On donkeys," repeated Kaunitz, with composure. "The donkey on which the dauphiness rode was unworthy of the honor conferred upon it. It threw its royal rider."

"And Antoinette fell off?"

"She fell, your majesty--and fell without exercising any particular discretion in the matter. The Count d'Artois came forward to her assistance, but she waved him off, saying with comic earnestness, 'Do not touch me for your life! Send a courier for Madame Etiquette and wait until she has prescribed the important ceremonies with which a dauphiness is to be remounted upon the back of her donkey.' Every one laughed of course, and the next day when the thing was repeated, everybody in Paris was heartily amused--except Madame de Noailles. She did not laugh."

Neither could the empress vouchsafe a smile, although the affair was ludicrous enough. She was still walking to and fro, her face scarlet with mortification. She stopped directly in front of her unsympathizing minister, and said: "You are right. I must warn Antoinette that she is going too far. Oh, my heart bleeds when I think of my dear, inexperienced child cast friendless upon the reef, of that dangerous and corrupt court of France! My God! my God! why did I not heed the warning I received? Why did I consent to let her go?"

"Because your majesty was too wise to be guided by lunatics and impostors, and because you recognized, not only the imperative necessity which placed Marie Antoinette upon the throne of France, but also the value and the blessing of a close alliance with the French."

"God grant it may prove a blessing!" sighed the empress. "I will write to-day, and implore her to call to aid all her discretion--for Heaven knows it is needed at the court of France!"

"It is not an easy thing to call up discretion whenever discretion is needed," said Kaunitz, thoughtfully. "Has not your majesty, with that goodness which does so much honor to your heart, gone so far as to promise help to the quarrelsome Poles?"

"Yes," said the empress, warmly, "and I intend to keep my promise."

"Promises, your majesty, are sometimes made which it is impossible to keep."

"But I make no such promises, and therefore honor requires that I fulfil my imperial pledge. Yes, we have promised help and comfort to the patriotic Confederates, the defenders of liberty and of the true faith, and God forbid that we should ever deceive those who trust to us for protection!"

Kaunitz bowed. "Then your majesty will have the goodness to apprise the emperor that the army must be put upon a war footing; our magazines must be replenished, and Austria must prepare herself to suffer all the horrors of a long war."

"A war? With whom?" exclaimed the astounded empress.

"With Russia, Prussia, Sweden, perchance with all Europe. Does your majesty suppose that the great powers will suffer the establishment of a republic here, under the protection of Austria?--a republic upon the body politic of a continent of monarchies, which, like a scirrhous sore, will spread disease that must end in death to all?"

"Of what republic do you speak?"

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LXIX. THE TRIUMPH OF DIPLOMACY

"I speak of Poland," said Kaunitz, with his accustomed indifference. "I speak of those insolent Confederates, who, emboldened by the condescension of your majesty and the emperor, are ready to dare every thing for the propagation of their pernicious political doctrines. They have been pleased to declare Stanislaus deposed, and the throne of Poland vacant. This declaration has been committed to writing, and with the signatures of the leading Confederates attached to it, has been actually placed in the king's hands, in his own palace at Warsaw. Not content with this, they have distributed thousands of these documents throughout Poland, so that the question to-day, in that miserable hornets' nest, is not whether the right of the Confederates are to be guaranteed to them, but whether the kingdom of Poland shall remain a monarchy or be converted into a republic."

"If this be true, then Poland is lost, and there is no hope for the Confederates," replied the empress. "I promised them protection against foreign aggression, but with their internal quarrels I will not interfere."

"It would be a dangerous precedent if Austria should justify those who lay sacrilegious hands upon the crown of their lawful sovereign; and, for my part, my principles forbid me to uphold a band of rebels, who are engaged in an insolent conspiracy to dethrone their king."

"You are right, prince; it will never do for us to uphold them. As I have openly declared my sympathy with the Confederates, so I must openly express to them my entire disapprobation of their republican proclivities."

"If your majesty does that, a war with France will be the consequence of your frankness. France has promised succor to the Confederates, and has already sent Dumouriez with troops, arms, and gold. France is longing to have a voice in the differences between Russia and Turkey, and she only awaits cooperation from Austria to declare openly against Russia. She will declare against ourselves, if, after your majesty's promises, we suddenly change front and take part against the seditious Poles."

"What can we do, then, to avert war?" cried the empress, anxiously. "Ah, prince, you see that the days of my youth and my valor are past! I shudder when I look back upon the blood that has been shed under my reign, and nothing but the direst necessity will ever compel me to be the cause of spilling another drop of Austrian blood. [Footnote: The empress's own words. F. V. Raumor, "Contributions to Modern History." vol. iv., p. 419.] How, then, shall we shape our course so as to avoid war?"

"Our policy," said Kaunitz, "is to do nothing. We must look on and be watchful, while we carefully keep our own counsel. We propitiate France by allowing her to believe in the continuance of our sympathy with the Poles, while we pacify Russia and Prussia by remaining actually neutral."

"But while we temporize and equivocate," cried the empress, with fervor, "Russia will annihilate the Poles, who, if they have gone too far in their thirst for freedom, have valiantly contended for their just rights, and are now about to lose them through the evils of disunion. It grieves me to think that we are about to abandon an unhappy nation to the oppression of that woman, who stops at nothing to compass her wicked designs. She who did not shrink from the murder of her own husband, do you imagine that she will stop short of the annexation of Poland to Russia?"

"We will not suffer her to annex Poland," said Kaunitz, slowly nodding his head. "As long as we are at peace with Russia, she will do nothing to provoke our enmity; for France is at our side, and even Prussia would remonstrate, if Catharine should be so bold as to appropriate Poland to herself alone."

"You are mistaken. The King of Prussia, who is so covetous of that which belongs to others, will gladly share the booty with Russia,."

"Austria could never suffer the copartnership. If such an emergency should arise, we would have to make up our minds to declare war against them both, or--"

"Or?" asked the empress, holding her breath, as he paused.

"Or," said Kaunitz, fixing his cold blue eye directly upon her face, "or we would have to share with them."

"Share what?"

"The apple of discord. Anarchy is a three-headed monster; if it is to be destroyed, every head must fall. It is now devouring Poland; and I think that the three great powers are strong enough to slay the monster once for all."

"This is all very plausible," said Maria Theresa, shaking her head, "but it is not just. You will never convince me that good can be born of evil. What you propose is neither more nor less than to smite the suppliant that lies helpless at your feet. I will have nothing in common with the Messalina who desecrates her sovereignty by the commission of every unwomanly crime; and as for Frederick of Prussia, I mistrust him. He has been my enemy for too many years for me ever to believe that he can be sincerely my friend."

"France was our enemy for three hundred years, and yet we are allied by more than ordinary ties."

"Our alliance will soon come to naught if we walk in the path to which you would lead us, prince. France will not be dear to the misery of Poland. She will hear the death-cry, and come to the rescue."

"No, your majesty, France will wait to see what we propose to do until it is too late, and she will perceive that a resort to arms will in no wise affect a fait accompli. I, therefore, repeat that the only way to prevent the Polish conflagration from spreading to other nations is for us to preserve a strict neutrality, taking part with neither disputant."

"War must be averted," exclaimed Maria Theresa, warmly. "My first duty is to Austria, and Austria must have peace. To preserve this blessing to my subjects, I will do any thing that is consistent with my honor and the dictates of my conscience."

"Ah, your majesty, diplomacy has no conscience; it can have but one rule--that of expediency."

"You concede, then, that the policy you advocate is not a conscientious one?"

"Yes, your majesty; but it is one which it is imperative for us to follow. Necessity alone decides a national course of action. A good statesman cannot be a cosmopolitan. He looks out for himself, and leaves others to do the same. If Poland succumbs, it will be because she has not the strength to live. Therefore, if her hour be come, let her die. We dare not go to her relief, for, before the weal of other nations, we must have peace and prosperity for Austria."

"But suppose that France should insist that we define our position?"

"Then we can do so--in words. It is so easy to hide one's thoughts, while we assure our allies of our 'distinguished consideration!'"

The empress heaved a deep sigh.

"I see," said she, "that clouds are gathering over the political horizon, and that you are resolved to shield your own house, while the tempest devastates the home of your neighbor. Be it so. I must have peace; for I have no right to sacrifice my people before the altars of strange gods. This is my first great obligation, and all other claims must give way to it.--

"THEY MUST GIVE WAY," continued the empress, slowly communing with herself, "but oh! it seems cruel. I scarcely dare ask myself what is to be the fate of Poland? Heaven direct us, for all human wisdom has come to naught!"

Then, turning toward Kaunitz, she held out her hand.

"Go, prince," said she, "and be assured that what we have spoken to each other to-day shall remain sacred between us."

The prince bowed, and left he room.

The empress was alone. She went to and fro, while her disturbed countenance betrayed the violent struggle that was raging in her noble, honest heart.

"I know what they want," murmured she. "Joseph thirsts for glory and conquest, and Kautnitz upholds him. They want their share of the booty. And they will overrule my sympathy, and prove to me that I am bound to inaction. Poland will be dismembered, and I shall bear my portion of the crime. I shudder at the deed, and yet I cannot raise my hand without shedding my people's blood. I must take counsel of Heaven!"

She rang, and commanded the presence of her confessor.

"Perhaps he will throw some light upon this darkness, and the just God will do the rest!"

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LXX. GOSSIP

The Countess Wielopolska was alone in her room. She walked to and fro; sometimes stopping before a large pier-glass to survey her own person, sometimes hastening to the window, at the sound of a carriage passing by; then retiring disappointed as the vehicle went on.

"He comes late," thought she. "Perhaps he has forgotten that he promised to come. Gracious Heaven! what, if he should be proof against the blandishments of woman! I fear me he is too cold--and Poland will be lost. And yet his eye, when it rests upon me, speaks the language of love, and his hand trembles when it touches mine. Ah! And I--when he is by, I sometimes forget the great cause for which I live, and--no, no, no!" exclaimed she aloud, "it must not, shalt not be! My heart must know but one love--the love of country. Away with such silly, girlish dreaming! I am ashamed--"

Here the countess paused, to listen again, for this time a carriage stopped before the door, and the little French clock struck the hour.

"He comes," whispered she, scarcely breathing, and she turned her bright smiling face toward the door. It opened, and admitted a young woman whose marvellous beauty was enhanced by all the auxiliaries of a superb toilet and a profusion of magnificent jewels.

"Countess Zamoiska," exclaimed the disappointed hostess, coming forward, and striving to keep up the smile.

"And why such a cold reception, my dear Anna," asked the visitor, with a warm embrace. "Am I not always the same Luschinka, to whom you vowed eternal friendship when we were school-girls together?"

"We vowed eternal friendship," sighed the Countess Wielopolska, "but since we were happy school-girls, six years have gone by, and fearful tragedies have arisen to darken our lives and embitter our young hearts."

"Pshaw!" said the lady, casting admiring glances at herself in the mirror. "I do not know why these years should be so sad to you. They have certainly improved your beauty, for I declare to you, Anna, that you were scarcely as pretty when you left school as you are today. Am I altered for the worse? My heart, as you see, has not changed, for as soon as I heard you were in Vienna, I flew to embrace you. What a pity, your family would mix themselves up in those hateful politics! You might have been the leader of fashion in Warsaw. And your stupid husband, too, to think of his killing himself on the very day of a masked ball, and spoiling the royal quadrille!"

"The royal quadrille," echoed the countess, in an absent tone; "yes, the king, General Repnin, he who put to death so many Polish nobles, and the brutal Branicki, whose pastime it is to set fire to Polish villages, they were to have been the other dancers."

"Yes and they completed their quadrille, in spite of Count Wielopolska. Bibeskoi offered himself as a substitute, and sat up the whole night to learn the figures. Bibeskoi is a delightful partner."

"A Russian," exclaimed the countess.

"What signifies a man's nation when he dances well?" laughed the lady. "Tris done, ma chere, are you still mad on the subject of politics? And do you still sympathize with the poor crazy Confederates?"

"You know, Luschinka, that Count Pac was my father's dearest friend."

"I know it, poor man; he is at the top and bottom of all the trouble. I beseech you, chere Anna, let us put aside politics; I cannot see what pleasure a woman can find in such tiresome things. Mon Dieu, there are so many other things more pleasing as well as more important! For instance: how do people pass their time in Vienna? Have you many lovers? Do you go to many balls?"

"Do you think me so base that I could dance while Poland is in chains?" said the countess, frowning.

The Countess Zamoiska laughed aloud. "Voyons--are you going to play Jeanne d'Arc to bring female heroism into fashion? Oh, Anna! We have never had more delightful balls in Warsaw than have been given since so many Russian regiments have been stationed there."

"You have danced with those who have murdered your brothers and relatives?--danced while the people of Poland are trodden under foot!"

"Ah, bah! Ne parlez pas du people!" cried the Countess Zamoiska, with a gesture of disgust. "A set of beastly peasants, no better than their own cattle, or a band of genteel robbers, who have made it unsafe to live anywhere on Polish soil, even in Warsaw."

"You are right," sighed the Countess Wielopolska, "let us drop politics and speak of other things."

"A la bonne heure. Let us have a little chronique scandaleuse. Ah, ma chere, I am at home there, for we lead an enchanting life in Warsaw. The king is a handsome man, and, in spite of the Empress Catharine, his heart is still susceptible of the tender passion. You remember his liaison with the Countess Kanizka, your sister-in-law?"

"A base, dishonored woman, who stooped to be the mistress of the man who has betrayed her country!"

"A king, nevertheless, and a very handsome man; and she was inconsolable when he ceased to love her."

"Ah! she was abandoned, then, was she?" cried the Countess Wielopolska.

"Oh no, dear Anna! Your sister-in-law was not guilty of the belise of playing Queen Dido. As she felt quite sure that the king would leave her soon or late, she anticipated the day, and left him. Was it not excellent? She went off with Prince Repnin."

"Prince Repnin!" exclaimed the countess with horror. "The Russian ambassador!"

"The same. You should have seen the despair of the king. But he was amiable even in his grief. He tried all sorts of lover's stratagems to win back the countess; he prowled around her house at night singing like a Troubadour; be wrote her bushels of letters to implore an interview. All in vain. The liaison with Repnin was made public, and that, of course, ended the affair. The king was inconsolable. [Footnote: Wraxall, "Memoirs of the Court of Vienna," vol. ii., p. 96.] He gave ball after ball, never missed an evening at the theatre, gambled all night, gave sleighing parties, and so on, but it was easy to see that his heart was broken; and had not Tissona, the pretty cantatrice, succeeded in comforting him, I really do believe that our handsome king would have killed himself for despair."

"Ah, he is consoled, is he?" said the countess with curling lips. "He jests and dances, serenades and gambles, while the gory knout reeks with the noblest blood in Poland, and her noblest sons are staggering along the frozen wastes of Siberia! Oh Stanislaus! Stanislaus! A day of reckoning will come for him who wears the splendor of royalty, yet casts away its obligations!"

"Vraiment, dear Anna, to hear your rhapsodies, one would almost believe you to be one of the Confederates who lately attempted the life of the king," cried the Countess Zamoiska, laughing.

"Who attempted the king's life?" said the countess, turning pale.

"Why three robbers: Lukawski, Strawinski, and Kosinski."

"I never heard of it," replied the countess, much agitated. "Tell me what you know of it, if you can, Luschinka."

"It is an abominable thing, and long too," said Luschinka, with a shrug. "The conspirators were disguised as peasants, and actually had the assurance to come to Warsaw. There were thirty of them, but the three I tell you of were the leaders. The king was on his way to his uncle's palace, which is in the suburbs of Warsaw. They had the insolence to fall upon him in the streets, and his attendants got frightened and ran off. Then the conspirators tore the king from his coach and carried him off, swearing that if he uttered one cry they would murder him. Wasn't it awful? Do you think that the dear king didn't have the courage to keep as quiet as a mouse while they took him off with them to the forest of Bielani? Here they robbed him of all he had, leaving him nothing but the ribbon that belonged to the order of the White Eagle. Then they dispersed to give the news of his capture to their accomplices, and Kosinski was left to dispatch him. Did you ever!"

"Further, further!" said the countess, scarcely able to speak, as her old school-mate paused in her narrative.

Luschinka laughed. "Doesn't it sound just like a fairy tale, Anna? But it is as true as I live, and happened on the third of November of this blessed year 1771. So Kosinski and six others dragged and dragged the king until he lost his shoes, and was all torn and scratched, and even wounded. Whenever the others wanted to stop and kill the king, Kosinski objected that the place was not lonely enough. All at once they came upon the Russian patrol. Then the five other murderers ran off, leaving the king and Kosinski alone."

"And Kosinski?" asked the countess, with anxiety.

"Kusinski went on with his sword drawn over the king's head, although he begged him for rest. But the king saw that Kosinski looked undecided and uneasy, so as they came near to the Convent of Bielani, he said to Kosinski, 'I see that you don't know which way to act, so you had better let me go into the convent to hide, while you make your escape by some other way.' But Kosinski said no, he had sworn to kill him. So they went on farther, until they came to Mariemont, a castle belonging to the Elector of Saxony. Here the king begged for rest, and they sat down and began to talk. Then Kosinkski told the king he was not killing him of his own will, but because he had been ordered to do so by others, to punish the king for all his sins, poor fellow! against Poland. The king then said it was not his fault, but all the fault of Russia, and at last he softened the murderer's heart. Kosinski threw himself at the king's feet and begged pardon, and promised to save him. So Stanislaus promised to forgive him, and it was all arranged between them. They went on to a mill near Mariemont, and begged the miller to let in two travellers who had lost their way. At first the miller took them to be robbers, but after a great deal of begging, he let them in. Then the king tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, and wrote a note to General Cocceji. The miller's daughter took it to Warsaw, not without much begging on the king's part; and you can conceive the joy of the people when they heard that the king was safe, for everybody seeing his cloak in the streets, and his hat and plume on the road, naturally supposed that he had been murdered. Well, General Cocceji, followed by the whole court, hurried to the mill; and when they arrived, there was Kosinski standing before the door with a drawn sword in his hand. He let in the general, and there on the floor, in the miller's shirt, lay the king fast asleep. So Cocceji went down on his knees and kissed his hand, and called him his lord and king, and the people of the mill, who had never dreamed who it was, all dropped on their knees and begged for mercy. So the king then forgave everybody, and went back to Warsaw with Cocceji. This, my dear, is a true history of the attempt that was made by the Confederates on the life of the handsomest man in Poland!" [Footnote: Wraxall, "Memoirs," vol. ii., p. 76.]

"A strange and sad history," said the Countess Anna. "However guilty the king may be, it would be disgraceful if he were murdered by his own subjects."

"Oh, my love, these Confederates refuse to acknowledge him for their king! Did you not know that they had been so ridiculous as to depose him?"

"What have the Confederates to do with a band of robbers who plundered the king and would have murdered him?" asked Anna indignantly." Are they to be made answerable for the crimes of a horde of banditti?"

"Ma chere, the banditti were the tools of the Confederates. They have been taken, and every thing has been discovered. Pulawski, their great hero, hired the assassins and bound them by an oath. Letters found upon Lukawski, who boasts of his share in the villany, shows that Pulawski was the head conspirator, and that the plot had been approved by Zaremba and Pac!"

"Then all is lost!" murmured Anna. "If the Confederates have sullied the honor of Poland by consenting to crime as a means to work out her independence, Poland will never regain her freedom. Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!"

She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

"Vraiment, Anna," said the Countess Zamoiska pettishly, "I cannot understand you. Instead of rejoicing over the king's escape, here you begin to cry over the sins of his murderers. All Poland is exasperated against them, and nothing can save them. [Footnote: Lukawski and Strawinski were executed. They died cursing Kosinski as a traitor. Wraxall, vol. ii., p. 83.] So, dear Anna, dry your eyes, or they will be as red as a cardinal's hat. Goodness me, if I hadn't wonderful strength of mind, I might have cried myself into a fright long ago; for you have no idea of the sufferings I have lived through. You talk of Poland, and never ask a word about myself. It shows how little interest you feel in me, that you still call me by the name of my first husband."

"Are you married a second time?" asked Anna, raising her head.

"Ah, ma chere, my name has not been Zamoiska for four years. Dear me! The king knows what misery it is to be tied to a person that loves you no longer; and luckily for us, he has the power of divorce. He does it for the asking, and every divorce is a signal for a succession of brilliant balls; for you understand that people don't part to go on and pout. They marry at once, and, of course everybody gives balls, routs, and dinners, in honor of the weddings."

"Have you married again in this way?" asked the countess, gravely.

"Oh yes," replied the unconscious Luschinka; "I have been twice married and twice divorced; but it was not my fault. I loved my first husband with a depth of passion which he could not appreciate, and I was in an agony of despair when six months after our marriage he told me that he loved me no longer, and was dying for the Countess Luwiendo. She was my bosom friend, so you can imagine my grief; mais j'ai su faire bonne mine a mauvais jeux. I invited the countess to my villa, and there, under the shade of the old trees in the park, we walked arm in arm, and arranged with my husband all the conditions of the separation. Every one praised my generous conduct; the men in particular were in raptures, and Prince Lubomirski, on the strength of it, fell so desperately in love with me, that he divorced his wife and offered me his hand."

"You did not accept it!" exclaimed Countess Anna.

"What a question!" said the ex-countess, pouting. "The prince was young, rich, charming and a great favorite with the king. We loved each other, and, of course, were married. But, indeed, my dear, love does seem to have such butterfly wings that you scarcely catch it before it is gone! My second husband broke my heart exactly as my first had done; he asked me to leave him, and of course I had to go. Men are abominable beings, Anna: scarcely were we divorced before he married a third wife." [Footnote: Wraxall, ii., p. 110.]

"Poland is lost--lost!" murmured the Countess Anna. "She is falling under the weight of her children's crimes. Lost! O Poland, my unhappy country!"

"Au contraire, ma chere, Warsaw was never gayer than it is at present. Did I not tell you that every divorce was followed by a marriage, and that the king was delighted with the masquerades and balls, and all that sort of thing? Why, nothing is heard in Warsaw at night but laughter, music, and the chink of glasses."

"And nevertheless you could tear yourself away" said the Countess ironically.

"I had to go," sighed the princess. "I am on my way to Italy. You see, ma chere, it would have been inconvenient and might have made me ridiculous to go out in society, meeting my husbands with their two wives, and I--abandoned by both these faithless men. I should have been obliged to marry a third time, but my heart revolted against it." "Then you travel alone to Italy?"

"By no means, mon amour, I am travelling with the most bewitching creature!--my lover. Oh, Anna, he is the handsomest man I ever laid my eyes upon; the most delightful! and he paints so divinely that the Empress Catharine has appointed him her court painter. I love him beyond all expression; I adore him! You need not smile, Anna, que voulez-vous? Le coeur toujours vierge pour un second amour."

"If you love him so dearly, why, then, does your heart revolt against a marriage with him?" asked the Countess Anna.

"I told you he was a painter, and not a nobleman," answered the ex-princess, impatiently. "One loves an artist, but cannot marry him. Do you suppose I would be so ridiculous as to give up my title to be the respectable wife of a painter? The Princess Lubomirski a Madame Wand, simple Wand! Oh, no! I shall travel with him, but I will not marry him."

"Then go!" exclaimed the Countess Anna, rising, and casting looks of scorn upon the princess. "Degenerate daughter of a degenerate fatherland, go, and drag your shame with you to Italy! Go, and enjoy your sinful lusts, while Poland breathes her last, and vultures prey upon her dishonored corpse. But take with you the contempt of every Polish heart, that beats with love for the land that gave you birth!"

She turned, and without a word of farewell, proudly left the room. The princess raised her brow and opened her pretty mouth in bewilderment; then rising, and going up to the mirror, she smoothed her hair and began to laugh.

"What a pathetic fool!" said she. "Anybody might know that her mother had been an actress. To think of the daughter of an artiste getting up a scene because a princess will not stoop to marry a painter! Queulle betise!"

With these words she went back to her carriage and drove off.

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LXXI. AN EXPLANATION

The Countess Anna, meanwhile, had retired to her room. Exhausted by her own emotions, she sank into a chair, and clasping her hands convulsively, she stared, with distended eyes, upon the blank wall opposite.

She was perfectly unconscious that, after a time, the door had opened and Matuschka stood before her. It was not until the old woman had taken her hand and raised it to her lips, that she started from her mournful reverie.

"What now, Matuschka?" said she, awakening from her dream.

"My lady, I come to know what we are to do. The pearl necklace and wreath are sold, and they have maintained the Countess Wielopolska as beseems her rank; but we live upon our capital, and it lessens every day. Oh, my lady, why will you conceal your poverty, when the emperor--"

"Peace!" interrupted the countess. "When we speak of our poverty don't name the emperor. If there is no more money in our purse, take the diadem of brilliants, sell the diamonds and replace them with false stones. They will bring a thousand ducats, and that sum will last us for a whole year."

"And then?" sobbed Matuschka.

"And then," echoed the countess, thoughtfully, "then we will either be happy or ready for death. Go, Matuschka, let no one know that I am selling my diamonds; but replace them by to-morrow morning; for I must wear them at the emperor's reception."

"Your whole set, pearls and diamonds, are now false," said the persevering servant. "What will the emperor say when he hears of it?"

"He must never know of it. Now go, and return quickly."

Matuschka, looking almost angrily at her lady, left the room. In the anteroom stood a man wrapped in a cloak. She went quickly up to him with the open etui.

"The diamond coronet," whispered she. "I am to sell the jewels and have their places filled with false ones. It is to be done before to-morrow."

"How much does she expect for it?" asked the visitor in a low voice

"A thousand ducats, sire."

"I will send the sum to-night. Hide the coronet until to-morrow and then return it to her. Where is she?"

"In her cabinet, your majesty."

"Let no one enter until I return."

He then threw down his cloak, and without knocking opened the door. The countess was still lost in thought. She still gazed at the blank wall, still heard the flippant voice which had poured out its profanity as though life had been a jest and immorality a dream.

The emperor stopped to contemplate her for a moment, and his large, loving eyes rested fondly on her noble form.

"Countess Anna," said he, softly.

"The emperor!" exclaimed she, rising and coming joyfully forward, while a deep blush overspread her face.

"What! Will you not respect my incognito? Will you not receive me as Count Falkenstein?"

"Is not the name of the emperor the first that is pronounced by the priest when he prays before the altar for his fellow-creatures?" replied she, with an enchanting smile. "Think of my heart as a priest, and let that name be ever the first I speak in my prayers to Heaven."

"By heaven, if priests resembled you, I should not hate them as I do. Come, my lovely priestess, then call me emperor if you will, but receive me as Count Falkenstein."

"Welcome, count," replied she, cheerfully.

"God be praised, then, my royalty has disappeared for a while," said Joseph.

"And yet, my lord and emperor, it is the privilege of royalty to heal all wounds, to wipe away all tears, and to comfort all sorrow. What a magnificent prerogative it is to hold in one's own hand the happiness of thousands?"

"What is happiness, sweet moralist?" cried Joseph. "Mankind are forever in search of it, yet no man has ever found it." "What is happiness!" exclaimed she, with enthusiasm. "It is to have the power of ruling destiny--it is to stand upon the Himalaya of your might; when, stretching forth your imperial hand, you can say to the oppressed among nations, 'Come unto me, ye who strive against tyranny, and I will give you freedom!'"

"In other words," replied the emperor, with an arch smile, "it is to march to Poland and give battle to the Empress of Russia."

"It is, it is!" cried she, with the fervor of a Miriam. "It is to be the Messiah of crucified Freedom, to redeem your fellows from bondage, and to earn the blessings of a people to whom your name, for all time, will stand as the type of all that is great in a sovereign and good in a man! Oh, Emperor of Austria, be the generous redeemer of my country!"

And scarcely knowing what she said, she took his hand and pressed it to her heart.

Joseph withdrew it gently, saying, "Peace, lovely enthusiast, peace! Give politics to the winds! She is an abominable old hag, and the very rustling of her sibylline leaves as she turns them over in the cabinet of the empress makes me shudder with disgust. Let us drive her hence, then. I came hither to taste a few drops of happiness at YOUR side, sweet Anna."

The countess sighed wearily as the emperor drew her to his side; and her pale, inspired face was turned upon him with a look of unutterable anguish.

The emperor saw it, and leaned his head back upon the cushion of the sofa. After a pause he said: "How sweet it is to be here!"

"And yet you came late," whispered she, reproachfully.

"Because I travelled by a circuitous route; got into one hackney-coach and out of another; drove hither, thither, and everywhere, to baffle my mother's spies. Do you suppose that any one of her bigoted followers would believe in a chaste friendship like ours? Do you suppose they would understand the blameless longings I have to see your lovely face, and to listen to the melody of your matchless voice? Tell me, Countess Anna, how have I deserved the rich boon of your friendship?"

"Nay, Count Falkenstein," replied she, with a bewitching smile, "tell me how I have earned yours? Moreover, who tells you that I am disinterested in my sentiments? The day may come when you will understand how entirely I rely upon you for assistance."

"But you have not given your friendship exclusively for the sake of the day that may come? Have you?" said the emperor, with a piercing glance at her beautiful pale face.

The countess cast down her eyes and blushed. "Do you mistrust me?" asked she in a low, trembling voice.

"Give me a proof of your confidence in me," said Joseph, rising and taking both her hands in his. "You call me friend--give me, then, the right of a friend. Let me in some degree replace to you the fortune of which the Russian empress has robbed you."

"You are mistaken, sire," said the countess, proudly; "the Russian did not rob me of every thing. She took my lands, but I have invested funds in foreign securities which yield me an ample income. I have also my family jewels, and as long as you see me wearing them you may feel sure that I have other means of support."

The emperor shook his head. "You are not wearing your family jewels, Anna," said he.

"How, sire!" exclaimed she, blushing.

He leaned over, and in a low voice said, "Your jewels are false, your pearls are imitation, and there is not a single diamond in that coronet you intend to wear at my mother's reception to-morrow."

The cheeks of the countess grew scarlet with confusion, and her head dropped with shame. The emperor laid his hand upon her arm. "Now, Anna," said he, tenderly, "now that I know all, grant me the happiness of relieving you from your temporary embarrassments. Gracious Heaven! You who are not ashamed to confide your distress to pawnbrokers and jewellers, you refuse to trust ME!"

"I would rather be under obligations to a stranger than to a friend," returned the countess in a voice scarcely audible.

"But, Anna," cried the emperor, with a sudden burst of feeling, "you would rattler be obliged to the man whom you loved than to a stranger. Oh, if you but loved me, there would be no question of 'mine or thine' between us! It is said--I have betrayed myself, and I need stifle my passion no longer; for I love you, beautiful Anna, I love you from my soul, and, at your feet, I implore you to give me that which is above all wealth or titles. Give me your love, be mine. Answer me, answer me. Do you love me?"

"I do," whispered she, without raising her head.

The emperor threw his arm around her waist. "Then," said he, "from this hour you give me the right to provide for you. Do you not?"

"No, sire, I can provide for myself."

"Then," cried Joseph, angrily, "you do not love me?"

"Yes, sire, I love you. You predicted that my heart would find its master. It has bowed before you and owns your sway. In the name of that love I crave help for Poland. She cries to Heaven for vengeance, and Heaven has not heard the cry. She is threatened by Russia and Prussia, and if noble Austria abandon her, she is lost! Oh, generous Austria, rescue my native land from her foes!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the emperor, sarcastically, "you call me Austria, and your love is bestowed upon my station and my armies! It is not I whom you love, but that Emperor of Austria in whose hand lies the power that may rescue Poland. "

"I love YOU; but my love is grafted upon the hope I so long have cherished that in you I recognize the savior of my country."

"Indeed!" cried the emperor, with a sneer.

The countess did not hear him. She continued: "Until I loved you, every throb of my heart belonged to Poland. She, alone, was the object of my love and of my prayers. But since then, sire, the holy fire that burned upon the altar is quenched. I am faithless to my vestal vow, and I feel within my soul the tempest of an earthly passion. I have broken the oath that I made to my dying mother, for there is one more dear to me than Poland now, and for him are the prayers, the hopes, the longings, and the dreams that all belonged to Poland! Oh, my lord and my lover, reconcile me to my conscience! Let me believe that my loves are one; and on the day when your victorious eagles shall have driven away the vultures that prey upon my fatherland, I will throw myself at your feet, and live for your love alone."

"Ah, indeed," said the emperor, with a sardonic laugh: "you will go to such extremity in your patriotism! You will sell yourself, that Poland may be redeemed through your dishonor. I congratulate you upon your dexterous statesmanship. You sought me, I perceive, that by the magic of your intoxicating beauty, you might lure me to sacrifice the lives of my people in behalf of yours. Your love is a stratagem of diplomacy, nothing more."

"Oh, sire," cried she, in tones of anguish, "you despise then?"

"Not at all; I admire your policy, but unhappily it is only partially successful. You had calculated that I would not be proof against your beauty, your talents, your fascinations. You are right; I am taken in the snare, for I love you madly."

"And do I not return your love from my heart?" asked she.

"Stay," cried Joseph, "hear me out. One-half your policy, I say, was successful; the other has been at fault. As your lover I will do any thing that man can do to make you happy; but my head belongs to my fatherland, and you cannot rule it, through my heart."

"Sire, I seek nothing that is inconsistent with Austria's welfare. I ask help for Poland."

"Which help might involve Austria in a ruinous war with two powerful nations, and leave her so exhausted that she would have to stand by and witness the partition of Poland without daring to claim a share for herself."

"The partition of Poland!" exclaimed the countess, with a cry of horror. "Avenging God, wilt Thou suffer such culmination of human wickedness! And you, sire, could you share in such a crime? But, no! no! no!--see how misfortune has maddened me, when I doubt the honor of the noble Emperor of Austria! Never would the lofty and generous Joseph stoop to such infamy as this!"

"If Poland must succumb, I will act as becomes my station and responsibilities as the sovereign of a great empire, and I will do that which the wisdom and prudence of my mother shall dictate to her son. But Anna, dear Anna," continued he, passionately, "why should the sweet confession of our love be lost in the turbid roar of these political waters? Tell me that you love me as a woman ought to love, having no God, no faith, no country, but her lover; losing her identity and living for his happiness alone!"

"I love you, I love you," murmured she, with indescribable tenderness; and clasping her hands, she fell upon her knees and raised her eyes to him with a look that made him long to fold her to his heart, and yield up his empire, had she requested it, at his hands.

"Help for Poland," prayed she again, "help for Poland, and I am yours forever!"

Joseph grew angry with himself and with her. "Love does not chaffer," said he, rudely. "When a woman loves, she must recognize her master and bow before his will--otherwise there is no love. For the last time I ask, do you love me?"

"More than life or honor."

"Then be a woman, and yield yourself to me. Away with nationality--it is an abstraction. What are Poland and the world to you? Here, upon my heart, are your country and your altars. Come, without condition and without reserve. I cannot promise to free Poland, but, by the bright heaven above us, I swear to make you happy!"

She shook her head mournfully, and rose from her knees.

"Make me happy?" echoed she. "For me there can be no happiness while Poland sorrows."

"Say that again," thundered the emperor, "and we part forever!"

"I say it again!" said she, with proud tranquillity, but pale as death.

"And yet, if I am not ready to sacrifice my own people for yours, you will not believe in my love! You are unwilling to give up an idle dream of Polish freedom; and you ask of me, a man and an emperor, that I shall bring to you the offering of my own honor and of my people's happiness!"

She said nothing.

"It is enough!" cried Joseph, his eyes flashing with anger. "Pride against pride! We part. For the first thing I require of a woman who loves me, is submission. It grieves me bitterly to find you so unwomanly. I would have prized your love above every earthly blessing, had you given it freely. Conditionally I will not accept it; above all, when its conditions relate to the government of my empire. No woman shall ever have a voice in my affairs of state. If, for that reason, she reject me, I must submit; although, as at this moment, my heart bleeds at her rejection."

"And mine? MY HEART?" exclaimed the countess, raising her tearful eyes to his.

"Pride will cure you," replied he, with a bitter smile. "Go back to your fatherland that you love so well and I shall imitate you, and turn to mine for comfort. There is many a mourning heart in Austria less haughty than yours, to which, perchance, I may be able to bring joy or consolation. God grant me some compensation in life for the supreme misery of this hour! Farewell, Countess Wielopolska. To-night I leave Vienna."

He crossed the room, while she looked after him as though her lips were parting to utter a cry.

At the door he turned once more to say farewell. Still she spoke not a word, but looked as though, like Niobe, she were stiffening into marble.

The emperor opened the door, and passed into the anteroom.

As he disappeared, she uttered a low cry, and clasped both her hands over her heart.

"My God! my God! I love him," sobbed she, and reeling backward, she fell fainting to the floor.

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LXXII. FAMINE IN BOHEMIA

The cry of distress from Bohemia reached Vienna, and came to the knowledge of the emperor. Joseph hastened to bring succor and comfort to his unhappy subjects.

The need great. Two successive years of short harvest had spread want and tribulation throughout all Germany, especially in Bohemia and Moravia, where a terrible inundation, added to the failure of the crops, had destroyed the fruits and vegetables of every field and every little garden.

The country was one vast desert. From every cottage went forth the wail of hunger. The stalls were empty of cattle, the barns of corn. The ploughs lay empty on the ground, for there was neither grain to sow nor oxen to drive. There were neither men nor women to till the soil, for there was no money to pay nor food to sustain them. Each man was alone in his want, and each sufferer in the egotism of a misery that stifled all humanity, complained that no one fed him, when all were fainting for lack of food.

"Bread! bread!" The dreadful cry arose from hundreds of emaciated beings, old and young, who, in the crowded cities, lay dying in the streets, their wasted hands raised in vain supplication to the passers-by.

"Bread! bread!" moaned the peasant in his hut, and the villager at the way-side; as with glaring eyes they stared at the traveller, who, more fortunate than they, was leaving Bohemia for happier climes, and, surely, in gratitude for his own rescue, would throw a crust to the starving wretches whom he left behind.

There they lay, watching for the elegant carriages, the horsemen, the wagons, that were accustomed to pass there on their road to Prague. But now the high-road was empty, for the famine had extended to Prague, and no one cared to go thither.

And yet on either side of the road were hundreds of beings who long ago had left their miserable huts, and now lay in heaps upon the ground, the heavens their only shelter, the wide world their home. These were the inhabitants of the mountains, who had come down to the neighboring villages for help, but had been rudely driven away by those whose sufferings had maddened them, and turned their hearts to stone.

They had lain there for a day, and yet not one trace of a traveller had they seen. The mid-day sun had blistered their foreheads, but they had not felt it, for the fiery pangs of hunger were keener than the sun; and now the evening air that fanned their burning brows, brought no relief, for fiercer and more cruel grew the gnawings of the fiend within.

"There is no help on earth," cried an old woman, the grandmother of a whole generation of stalwart mountaineers who lay stricken around her. There were her son and his wife, once such a stately pair, now reduced to two pale spectres; there were troops of grandchildren, once round-cheeked as the carved angels on the altar of the village chapel, now hollow-eyed and skinny, with their blanched faces upturned imploringly to the parents who were scarcely conscious of their presence there. Hunger had extinguished youth, strength, beauty, and had almost uprooted love. Not only had it destroyed their bodies, but it had even corrupted their souls.

"There is no help on earth," cried the old woman again, with such energy of despair that her voice found its way to the dull ear of every sufferer around. And now from every hollow voice came back the mournful chorus, "There is no help on earth!"

"There is no help in heaven!" shrieked an old man, who with his family was lying in a hollow, whence their moans were heard as though coming from the grave. "There is no God in heaven, else He would hear our cries? There is no God!"

"There is no God!" echoed the maddened wretches, and many a wasted arm was raised in defiance to heaven.

"Peace, peace, my friends!" cried the grandmother, "let us not sin because we starve. We can but die, and the Lord will receive us!" And as she spoke, she raised her trembling body and stretched forth her poor, withered arms, as though she would have calmed the tempest she had raised.

"Peace, Father Martin!" cried she, in a voice of authority. "There is a God above, but He has turned away His face because of our sins. Let us pray to see the light of His countenance. Come, friends, let its gather up all our strength and pray."

She arose and knelt, while, inspired by her example, the multitude knelt also. Old and young, men and women, all with one supreme effort lifted up their hands to heaven.

But the prayer was over, the petitioners fell prostrate to the earth, and still no sign of help from above!

"You see, Mother Elizabeth," groaned Father Martin, "your prayers are all in vain. Heaven is empty, and we must die."

"We must die, we must die!" howled the famishing multitude, and, exhausted by the might of their own despair, they fell to rise no more. A long, tearful silence ensued. Here and there a faint moan struggled for utterance, and a defiant arm was raised as though to threaten Omnipotence; then the poor, puny creatures, whom hunger had bereft of reason, shivered, dropped their hands, and again lay still.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the faint sound of carriage-wheels. Nearer and more near it came, until the horses' heads were to be seen through the clouds of dust that enveloped the vehicle. The poor peasants heard, but scarcely heeded it. They stared in mute despair, or murmured, "It is too late!"

Still the carriage rolled on, the dust grew thicker, and now it hid from the travellers' view the miserable wretches that lay dying around them. But. Heaven be praised, they stop!

There were two carriages, followed by outriders. The first carriage contained three persons, all clad in dark, plain civilian's clothes; but it was easy to recognize, in the youngest of the three, the most important personage of all. It was he who had given the order to halt, and now without waiting for assistance, he leaped from the carriage and walked at once to the foremost group of sufferers. He bent down to, the old woman, who, turning her fever-stricken face to him, moaned feebly.

"What is the matter?" said the traveller, in a gentle and sympathizing tone. "How can I help you?"

The old mother made a violent effort and spoke. "Hunger!" said she. "I burn--burn--hunger!"

"Hunger! hunger!" echoed the people around, shaking off their lethargy, and awakening once more to hope.

"Oh, my God, this woman will die before we can succor her!" exclaimed the young man, sorrowfully. "Hasten; Lacy, and bring me some wine."

"We have none," replied Lacy. "Your majesty gave away your last bottle in the village behind."

"But she will die!" exclaimed the emperor, as bending over the poor old woman, he took her skinny hand in his.

"We must die," murmured she, while her parched tongue protruded from her mouth.

"Sire, you are in danger," whispered Lacy,

"Rise, your majesty," interrupted Rosenberg, "these unhappy people have the typhus that accompanies starvation, and it is contagious."

"Contagious for those who hunger, but not for us," replied Joseph. "Oh, my friends," continued he, "see here are three generations all dying for want of food. Gracious Heaven! They have lost all resemblance to humanity. Hunger has likened them to animals. Oh, it is dreadful to think that a crust of bread or a sip of wine might awaken these suffering creatures to reason; but flour and grain can be of no avail here!"

"They may avail elsewhere, sire," said Rosenberg, "and if we can do nothing for these, let us go on and help others."

"It is fearful," said the emperor, "but I will not leave until I have made an effort to save them."

He signed to one of his outriders, and taking out a leaf of his pocket-book, wrote something upon it. "Gallop for your life to Prague," said he, "and give this paper to the lord steward of the palace. He must at once send a wagon hither, laden with food and wine, and that he may be able to do it without delay, tell him to take the stores from the palace and all the viands that are preparing in the kitchen for my reception. This paper will be your warrant. As soon as you shall have delivered your message, fill a portmanteau with old Hungarian wine and gallop back to me. Be here within two hours, if you kill two of my best horses to compass the distance."

The outrider took the paper and, setting spurs to his horse, galloped off to Prague.

"And now, my friends," continued the emperor, "although we have no wine, we have bread and meat. Not much, it is true, but I think it will save these people from death."

The emperor hastened in the direction of his carriage. "Quick, Gunther, hand me the camp-chest."

"But your majesty has not eaten a morsel to-day," urged Rosenberg, following him. "I cannot consent to see the food prepared for you, bestowed upon any one. You will lose your health if you fast for such a length of time. You owe it to your mother, the empress, and to your subjects, not to deprive yourself of food."

"Do you think I could eat in the presence of such hunger?" cried the emperor, impatiently. "Come, Gunther, come all of you, and help me. Here is a large fowl. Cut it into little morsels, and--oh, what a discovery!--a jar of beef jelly. While you carve the fowl, I will distribute the jelly. Come, Lacy and Rosenberg, take each a portion of this chicken, and cut it up."

"Good Heaven, Lacy, come to my relief!" cried Rosenberg. "The emperor is about to give away his last morsel. We both have had breakfast, but he has not tasted food for a day."

"He is right, our noble emperor," replied Lacy, "in the presence of such suffering he is right to forget himself; if he could not do so, he would not be worthy to be a sovereign."

The emperor heard none of this; he was already with the sufferers, distributing his food. With earnest look, and firm and rapid hand, he put a teaspoonful of jelly between the parched, half-opened lips of the grandmother, while Gunther, imitating him, did the same for her son.

For a moment the emperor looked to see the effect of his remedy. He saw an expression of joy flit over the features of the poor old woman, and then her lips moved, and she swallowed the jelly.

"See, see!" cried the emperor, overjoyed, "she takes it. Oh, Gunther, this will save them until help comes from Prague! But there are so many of them! Do you think we have a hundred teaspoonfuls of jelly in the jar?"

And he looked anxiously at Gunther.

"It is a large jar, your majesty," said Gunther, "and I think it will hold out."

"Be sparing of it at any rate, and do not heap up your spoons. And now, not another word! We must go to work."

He stooped down and spoke no more, but his face was lit up by the fire of the Christian charity that was consuming his noble heart. He looked as must have looked his ancestor Rudolph of Hapsburg, who, once meeting a footsore priest bearing the viaticum to a dying parishioner, gave up his horse to the servant of God, and continued his way on foot.

While the emperor flew from group to group, resuscitating his expiring subjects, Lacy and Rosenberg were carefully cutting up the fowl that had been roasted for his dinner. A deep silence reigned around, all nature seemed to be at peace, and over the reclining sufferers the evening sun threw long rays of rosy light, that illumined their pallid faces with the hue of hope and returning life.

Gradually there was motion in the scene. Here and there a head arose from the ground, then a body, and presently a gleam of intelligence shot athwart those glaring, bloodshot eyes. The emperor watched them with a happy smile. His errand of mercy was at an end. The jar was empty, but every one had received a share, and all were reviving.

"Now give them a morsel of chicken," said Joseph. "A small piece will suffice, for after their long fast they can only eat sparingly of food; and they will have had enough until help come to us from Prague."

"Then," said Rosenberg, affectionately, "I hope that your majesty, too, will take something. There will certainly be enough left for you to eat your dinner without remorse."

"Never mind me, Rosenberg," laughed the emperor. "I shall not die of starvation, I promise you. When the creature cries out for nourishment, I shall give it; but I think that my Maker will not love me the less for having, voluntarily, felt the pangs of hunger for once in my life. I can never forget this day in Bohemia; it has confirmed my resolution to reign for the good of my people alone, and as God hears me, they shall be happy when I govern them.--But your chicken is ready. To satisfy you, I will go and beg my supper in yonder village, and, as there are enough of you to attend to these poor sufferers, I will take Lacy to keep me company. Come, Lacy."

He took the arm of the field-marshal, and both presently disappeared behind the trees.

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LXXIII. THE BLACK BROTH

In a quarter of an hour they had reached the village. The same absence of all life struck painfully upon the emperor's heart as they walked along the deserted streets and heard nothing save the echo of their own footsteps. Not the lowing of a cow nor the bleating of a sheep, not one familiar rural sound broke the mournful stillness that brooded over the air. Occasionally a ghastly figure in tattered garments, from whose vacant eyes the light of reason seemed to have fled, was seen crouching at the door of a hut, wherein his wife and children were starving. This was the only token of life that greeted the eyes of the grave and silent pair.

"Lacy," at last sighed the emperor, "how fearful is this deadly silence! One might fancy that he walked in Pompeii; and Pompeii, alas, is not more lonely. To think that I, an emperor, must look on and give no help!"

"Oh, yes, sire, you can give help," said Lacy, encouragingly. "There must be some means by which this fearful famine can be arrested."

"I have ordered corn from Hungary, where the harvest has been abundant. To encourage the importation of grain in Bohemia, I have promised, besides good prices, a premium of one hundred guilders for each well-laden, four-horse wagon of grain that arrives before the expiration of three weeks."

"But the people will be exhausted before three weeks."

"I have also ordered the commissary store-houses to be opened in Prague, and the grain to be distributed."

"This will last but for a few days." returned Lacy, shaking his head.

"Then what can I do?" exclaimed the emperor, sorrowfully.

"The famine is so great that it can scarcely have arisen from natural causes. Where scarcity is, there will always be found the extortioner, who profits by it. Those who have grain are withholding it for higher prices."

"Woe to them, if I light upon their stores!" exclaimed Joseph, indignantly. "Woe to those who traffic in the fruits of the earth, which God has bestowed for the use of all men!"

"Your majesty will not find them. They will be carefully hidden away from your sight."

"I will seek until I find," replied the emperor. "But look there, Lacy, what a stately dwelling rears its proud head beyond that grove of trees! Is it the setting sun that gilds the windows just now?"

"No, your majesty, the light is from within. I suppose it is the castle of the nobleman, who owns the village."

They walked a few paces farther, when the emperor spoke again. "See, Lacy, here is a hut, from whose chimney I see smoke. Perhaps I shall find something to eat within."

He opened the door of the cottage, and there on the floor, in a heap, lay a woman with four children. Their hollow eyes were fixed without the slightest interest upon the strangers, for they were in the last stage of hunger-typhus, and saw nothing.

Lacy hurried the emperor away, saying, "Nothing can help these except death. I know this terrible fever. I saw it in Moravia in '62."

They stepped from the cottage to the kitchen. A fire was burning in the chimney, and before it stood a man who was stirring the contents of a pot.

"God be praised!" exclaimed the emperor, "here is food."

The man turned and showed a sunken, famished countenance.

"Do you want supper?" said he roughly. "I have a mess in my pot that an emperor might covet."

"He does covet it, my friend," said the emperor, laughing. "What have you there?"

The man threw sinister glances at the well-dressed strangers, who jarred the funeral air of his cottage with untimely mirth.

"Did you come here to mock me?" said he. "Fine folks, like you, are after no good in a poor man's cottage. If you come here to pasture upon our misery, go into the house, and there you will see a sight that will rejoice the rich man's heart."

"No, my friend," replied the emperor, soothingly, "we come to ask for a share of your supper."

The man broke out into a sardonic laugh. "My supper!" cried he. "Come, then, and see it. It is earth and water!"

"Earth and water!" cried the horror-stricken Joseph.

The peasant nodded. "Yes," said he, "the earth gives growth to the corn, and as I have got no corn, I am trying to see what it will do for me! I have already tasted grass. It is so green and fresh, and seems so sweet to our cattle, that we tried to eat the SWEET GREEN GRASS." And he smiled, but it was the smile of a demon.

"Oh, my God!" cried the emperor.

"But it seems," continued the man, as though speaking to himself, "that God loves cattle better than he does men; for the grass which strengthens them, made us so sick, so sick, that it would have been a mercy if we had all died. It seems that we cannot die, however, so now I am going to eat the glorious earth. Hurrah! My supper is ready."

He swung the kettle upon the table and poured the black mass into a platter.

"Now," said he, with a fiendish grin, "now will the great folks like to sup with me?"

"Yes," said the emperor, gravely, "I will taste of your supper."

He stepped to the table, and took the spoon which the bewildered peasant held out to him. Pale with excitement, the emperor put the spoon to his mouth, and tasted. Then he reached it to Lacy.

"Taste it, Lacy" said he. "Oh, to think that these are men who suffer the pangs of starvation!" And completely overcome by his sorrowing sympathy, the emperor's eyes overflowed with tears.

The peasant saw them and said, "Yes, my lord, we are men, but God has forsaken us. He has been more merciful to the cattle, for they have all died."

"But how came this fearful famine among you?" asked Lacy. "Did you not plant corn?"

"How could we plant corn when we had none? For two years our crops have failed, and hunger has eaten our vitals until there is not a man in the village who has the strength to raise a fagot."

"But I saw a castle as we came thither," said Lacy.

"Yes, you saw the castle of the Baron von Weifach. The whole country belongs to him; but we are free peasants. As long as we made any thing, we paid him our tithes. But we have nothing now."

And with a groan he sank down upon the wooden settle that stood behind him.

"The baron does nothing for you, then?"

"Why should he?" said the man, with a bitter laugh. "We pay no more tithes, and we are of no use to him. He prays every day for the famine to last, and God hears his prayers, for God forsakes the poor and loves the rich."

"But how does he profit by the famine?" asked Lacy.

"We have been profitable laborers to him, my lord. For several years past, his corn-fields have been weighed down with golden tassels that made the heart leap with joy at sight of their beauty. He had so much that his barns would not hold it, and he had to put up other great barns, thatched with straw, to shelter it. This year, it is true, he has reaped nothing, but what of that? His barns are still full to overflowing."

"But how comes there such famine, when his barns are full of corn?" asked the emperor, who was listening with intense interest.

"That is a question which does little honor to your head, sir," said the peasant, with a grating laugh. "The famine in Bohemia is terrible precisely because the extortioners hold back their grain and will not sell it."

"But there is a law against the hoarding of grain."

"Yes, there are laws made so that the poor may be punished by them and the rich protected," said the peasant, with a sinister look. "Oh, yes, there are laws! The rich have only to say that they have no corn, and there the law ends."

"And you think that the Baron von Weifach has grain?"

The peasant nodded. "I know it," said he, "and when the time comes, he will put it in the market."

"What time?"

"When the need of the people will be so great that they will part with their last acre of land or last handful of gold for a few bushels of grain. Several years ago, when corn was cheap, he sent his corn abroad to a country where the harvest had been short; but he will not do so this year, for the rich men have speculated so well that corn is dearer here than it is over the frontiers. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, "Life and Reign of Joseph II.," vol. i., p. 138. Carl Ramshorn, "Life and Times of Joseph II.," p. 99.] But I have enough of your questions. Let me alone, and go about your business."

"Can you buy food with money?" asked the emperor, kindly.

"Yes, indeed, sir," said the peasant, while a ray of hope entered the dark prison of his desponding heart. "If I had money, the housekeeper of the baron would sell me bread, wheat, meat--oh, she would sell me any thing if I had money to pay for it."

"Take this, then," said the emperor, laying several gold pieces on the table. "I hope to bring you more permanent relief, later."

The peasant, with a cry, threw himself upon the gold. He paid no attention whatever to the donor. Shouting for joy at the same time that he was shedding tears in profusion, he darted, with his prize, to his starving wife and children, to bid them live until he brought them food.

Without, stood the emperor and Lacy. "O God!" murmured he to himself, "and I have thought myself a most unhappy man! What is the grief of the heart to such bodily torture as this! Come, Lacy, come. The day of reckoning is here, and, by the eternal God, I will punish the guilty!"

"What means your majesty?" asked Lacy, as the emperor, instead of returning to the village, strode forward toward the path that led to the castle.

"I mean to go at once to yonder castle," cried lie, with a threatening gesture, "and my hand shall fall heavily upon the extortioner who withholds his grain from the people."

"But your majesty," urged Lacy, "the word of one discontented peasant is not enough to convict a man. You must have proofs before you condemn him."

"True, Lacy, you are right. I must seek for proofs."

"How, your majesty?"

"By going to the castle. My plan is already laid. As they seem to be feasting to-day, I am likely to find a goodly assemblage of rich men together. I must get an invitation to the feast, and once there, if the charge be just, I promise to furnish the proofs."

"Your majesty's undertaking is not a safe one. I must, therefore, accompany you," said Lacy.

"No, Lacy, I intend that you shall meet me there. Return to the place where we left Rosenberg and the others, take one of the carriages, and drive with him to the castle. When you arrive there, ask for me, and say that you are now ready to proceed on our journey. Gunther can remain with the mountaineers, and if our provisions arrive from Prague, he can dispatch a courier to let us know it."

"Shall we ask for your majesty at the castle, sire?"

"Not by my own name. Ask for Baron von Josephi, for by that title I shall introduce myself. Now farewell, and au revoir."

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LXXIV. THE EXTORTIONERS OF QUALITY

The drawing-room of the Freiherr von Weifach was splendidly illuminated. Hundreds of wax lights were multiplied to infinity in the spacious mirrors that lined the walls, and separated one from another the richly-framed portraits of the freiherr's noble ancestors. In the banquet-hall, the dinner-table was resplendent with silver and gold--with porcelain and crystal. Flowers sent out their perfume from costliest vases of Dresden china, and rich old wines sparkled in goblets of glittering glass. Around the table sat a company of richly-dressed ladies and gentlemen of rank. They had been four hours at dinner, and the sense of enjoyment, springing from the satisfaction of appetite, was visible, not only on the flushed faces of the men, but betrayed itself upon the rosy-tinted faces of the elegant women who were their companions.

The dessert was on the table. The guests were indulging themselves in some of those post-prandial effusions which are apt to blossom from heads overheated by wine, and are generally richer in words than in wisdom. The host, with flattering preliminaries, had proposed the health of the ladies, and every goblet sparkled to the brim. Just at that moment a servant entered the room and whispered a few words in his ear. He turned, smiling to his guests and, apologizing for the interruption, said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I leave it to you to decide the question just proposed to me. A gentleman has at this moment arrived at the castle, requesting permission to remain until some repairs can be made to his carriage, which has met with an accident in the neighboring village. Shall we invite him to join us while he awaits the return of his vehicle?"

"Let us not be rash in our hospitality," replied the freiherrin, from the opposite side of the table. "In the name of the noble ladies assembled here, I crave to know whether the stranger who comes so sans fagon to our castle, is worthy of the honor proposed by my husband. In other words, is he a personage of rank?"

"He presents himself as the Baron von Josephi," said the freiherr.

"One of the oldest families in Hungary!" exclaimed one of the guests.

"Then he can be admitted," responded the hostess. "At least, if it be agreeable to the ladies?"

Unanimous consent was given, and the freiherr arose from his seat to convey the invitation to the stranger.

"The Baron von Josephi!" said he, reentering with the gentleman, and leading him at once to the freiherrin. She received him with smiling courtesy, while the rest of the company directed their glances toward him, anxious to see how he would acquit himself in his rather embarrassing position. He was perfectly self-possessed, and in every gesture showed himself to be a man of the world.

With quiet grace he took his seat at the side of the hostess, and, as he looked around with his large blue eyes, he seemed rather to be criticising than criticised. With a sharp, searching expression, his glances went from one of the company to another, until they in their turn felt not only embarrassed, but harassed and uneasy.

"I do not know why," whispered one of them to the lady who sat next to him, "but this newcomer's face seems very familiar to me. I must have met him somewhere before this."

"You certainly might remember him," replied the lady, "if it were only for his beautiful eyes. I never saw such eyes in my life. His manners, too, are distinguished. I judge that he must have lived at court."

"In other words, you prefer a man who fawns at court to one who reigns like a prince over his own estates," said the first speaker, warmly. "I, for my part--"

"Hush! Let us hear what he is saying," interrupted the lady.

"I am under many obligations for your hospitality," said the Baron von Josephi to the hostess. "For three days that I have travelled in Bohemia, I have met with nothing but poverty and starvation. Thanks to my entrance into your splendid home, I see that plenty still reigns in the castle, although it may have departed from the cottage."

"Yes, thank Heaven, we know how to take care of our own interests here," said the freiherr, laughing.

"And yet you see how things are exaggerated," replied the Baron von Josephi, laughing. "Such dreadful tidings of the famine in Bohemia reached Vienna that the emperor is actually on his way to investigate the matter. I met him not far from Budweis, and he seemed very sad I thought."

"By the saints, he has reason to feel sad," exclaimed one of the guests. "He will find nothing here for his howling subjects. He would have been wiser had he stayed in Vienna!"

"Yes, poor, sentimental little emperor!" cried another with a laugh. "He will find that the stamp of his imperial foot will conjure no corn out of the earth, wherewith to feed his starving boors."

"I do not see why he should meddle with the boors at all," added a third. "Hungry serfs are easy to govern; they have no time to cry for rights when they are crying for bread."

"If the gentlemen are going to talk of politics," said the hostess, rising from her seat, "it is time for ladies to retire. Come, ladies, our cavaliers will join us when coffee is served."

The gentlemen rose, and not until the last lady had passed from the room did they resume their seats.

"And now, gentlemen," said Baron von Josephi, "as our political gossip can no longer annoy the ladies, allow me to say that my presence here is not accidental, as I had led you to suppose."

"And to what are we indebted for the honor?" asked the host.

"I will explain," said the baron, inclining his head. "You have received me with the hospitality of the olden time, without inquiring my rank, lineage, or dwelling-place. Permit me to introduce myself. I have estates in Moravia, and they are contiguous to those of Count Hoditz."

"Then," replied Freiherr von Weifach, "I sympathize with you, for nowhere in Austria has the famine been more severe."

"Severe, indeed! The poor are dying like flies, for they cannot learn to live upon grass."

"Neither will they learn to live upon it in Bohemia," said the freiherr, laughing. "The people are so unreasonable! The noblest race-horse lives upon hay and grass; why should it not be good enough for a peasant of low degree?"

"Mere prejudice on the part of the peasant!" returned the baron. "I have always suspected him of affectation. I have no patience with grumblers."

"You are right, baron," said his neighbor, nodding and smiling. "The people are idle and wasteful; and if we were to listen to their complaints, we would soon be as poor as they."

"And what if a few thousand perish here and there?" interposed another. "They never would be missed, for they multiply like potatoes."

"You say, baron," resumed the host, "that you paid no attention to the complaints of your peasantry?"

"I did like Ulysses, gentlemen; I stopped my ears with wax, that my heart might not grow weak."

"A melodious siren song, to be sure," laughed the company; "a dirge of bread! bread! bread!"

"Ah, you know the song, I perceive," said the Baron von Josephi, joining in the laugh.

"Yes; and we do as you have done, baron. We stop our ears."

"The consequence is," continued Josephi, "that my granaries are full to overflowing. I was on my way to Prague to dispose of it, but the want which I have seen on your estates, freiherr, has touched my heart. Nowhere have I beheld any thing to equal it. Hundreds of starving peasants are on the high-road, not a mile off."

"Did you honor us with your presence to tell me this?" asked the host, with lowering brow. "If so, you might have spared your trouble, for I know it."

"Oh no; I came to you with the best intentions. I have no pity for the peasant, but some for yourself. The health of his workmen is the nobleman's wealth. Now my own people are almost all dead, and as I grieve to see your lands wasted, I offer you my corn."

"Which means that you wish me to buy it," said the freiherr, with a significant smile.

"Yes; and you can have it at once. I know that I might do better by waiting, but I have a tender heart, and am willing to part with it now. I make you the offer."

"How much a strich?" [Footnote: A strich, in Prague, was something more than two bushels.] asked the freiherr.

"Twenty florins. You will find it cheap."

"Very cheap, forsooth!" cried the host, with a loud laugh, in which his guests all joined. "You wish me to buy your corn for my peasants? Why, it will be worth its weight in gold, and they have none wherewith to pay me."

"You are a humane landlord and a nobleman; and I take it for granted that you will make it a gift to your peasantry."

"Why did you not do as much yourself?" asked the freiherr, scornfully. "Have you not just now said that your people were dying, while your granaries are full? No, no; I want no corn; but when corn has truly risen to twenty florins, then I shall open my granaries, and my crops shall be for sale."

And the freiherr filled his glass and drank a bumper.

"You should not speak so loud," said Josephi "for you know that the emperor has issued an edict, exacting that all those who have grain shall meet him in Prague, that the government may buy their grain at a reasonable price."

"What fool would heed such an edict?" cried the freiherr. "The emperor is not master of our granaries. In the rural districts the nobleman is emperor, and God forbid that it should ever be otherwise!"

"But the emperor has appointed commissioners, who go from place to place, and inspect the crops."

"Yes they came hither, and they came to all of us--did they not, my lords?"

"Yes, yes!" cried a chorus of merry noblemen.

"But they found nothing--nothing but a few hundred florins that glided, unaccountably, into their hands, and caused them to abscond in a hurry. This people-loving emperor deserves the eternal gratitude of his commissioners, for although they found no corn for him, they found an abundance of gold for themselves."

Josephi colored violently, and his whole frame trembled. His hand clutched the wine-glass which he held, and he seemed to breathe with difficulty.

No one observed it. The company were excited by wine, and their senses were dim and clouded. But for this sumptuous dinner, at which he had indulged himself too far, the freiherr would never have betrayed the secret of his overflowing barns.

Josephi, meanwhile, controlled his indignation, and spoke again. "So, freiherr, you all reject my proposal."

"I do. God be praised, I have enough and to spare!"

"Then, gentlemen." continued the baron, "I offer it to any one of you. You are all from this unhappy district, and some one of you must be in need of grain."

"We are the freiherr's neighbors, and have borrowed his wisdom," said one of the company, "and I can answer for all present that they are well provided."

"There are seven of you present, and none needing grain!" exclaimed Von Josephi.

"Yes. Seven noblemen, all abounding in grain."

"Seven extortioners!" cried Josephi, rising from his seat, and looking as if he would have stricken them to the earth with the lightning of his flashing eyes.

"What means this insolence?" asked the host.

"It means that I have found here seven men of noble birth, who have disgraced their caste by fattening upon the misery of their fellows. But by the eternal God! the extortioner shall be branded throughout the world. And be he gentle or base-born, he shall feel the weight of my just indignation."

While the emperor spoke, the company had been awaking from the stupor caused by the wine they had been drinking. Gradually their heads were raised to listen, and their eyes shot fire, until, at last, they sprang from their seats, crying out:

"Who dares speak thus to us? By what right do you come to insult us?"

"By what right?" thundered the emperor. "The emperor has given me the right--the little chicken-hearted emperor, whose commissioners you have bribed, and whose subjects you have oppressed, until nothing remains for him but to come among you and drag your infamy to daylight with his own hands."

"The emperor! it is the emperor!" groaned the terror-stricken extortioners, while Joseph looked contemptuously upon their pale and conscience-stricken faces.

Suddenly the host burst into a maudlin laugh.

"Do you not see," said he, "that our facetious guest is making game of us to revenge himself for our refusal to buy his corn?"

"True, true," cried the lords together. "It's a jest--a trick to--"

"Peace!" cried the emperor. "The hour for jesting has passed by, and the hour of retribution is here. I came to Bohemia to feed my starving subjects, and I will feed them! But I shall also punish those who, having bread, have withheld it from the poor. You shall not bribe ME with your parchments of nobility or with your pride of family. The pillory is for the criminal, and his rank shall not save him."

"Mercy, gracious sovereign, mercy!" cried the freiherr, whose glowing cheeks were now as pale as death. "Your majesty will not condemn us for the idle words we have spoken from excesss of wine?"

"What mercy had you upon the wailing wretches, of whose misery you have made such sport to-day?"

"Your majesty," said one of the noblemen, sullenly, "there is no law to prevent a man from holding his own, and the Bohemian nobleman has his own code of justice, and is amenable to no other."

"The Bohemian nobleman shall enjoy it no longer!" exclaimed the outraged emperor. "Before their earthly judges men shall be equal, as they are before the throne of God."

At that moment the door opened, and the emperor's suite came in. "Lacy, Lacy!" cried Joseph, "you were right. The famine is not the result of a short harvest. It is due to these monsters of wickedness, whom you see before you in the enjoyment of every luxury that sensuality can crave."

"Mercy, sire, mercy!" cried a chorus of imploring voices, and looking behind him, the emperor saw the ladies, who all sank upon their knees at his feet.

While Joseph had been speaking with Lacy, the lord of the castle had hastened to communicate their disgrace, and to bring the wives of the criminals to their assistance.

The emperor frowned. "Ladies," said he, "we are on the subject of politics, the same subject which banished you hence not long ago. Rise, therefore, and retire--this is no place for you."

"No, sire," cried the Freiherrin von Weifach, "I will not rise until I obtain pardon for my husband. I do not know of what he has been guilty, but I know that our noble emperor cannot condemn the man under whose roof he has come as an invited guest. I know that the emperor is too generous to punish him, who, confiding in him as a man, little suspected that he who came under a borrowed name was the sovereign lord of all Austria."

"Ah, madame, you reproach me with an hour spent at your table, and you expect me to overlook crime in consideration of the common courtesy extended to me as a man of your own rank. I was so fortunate as to overhear the little discussion that preceded my entrance here. Rise, madame, I am not fond of Spanish customs, nor do I like to see women on their knees."

"Mercy for my husband!" reiterated the freiherrin. "Forgive him for thinking more of his own family than of others. What he did was for love of his wife and children."

"Ah!" exclaimed the emperor, "you call that love of his family! You would elevate his cruel avarice into a domestic virtue. I congratulate you upon your high standard of ethics! But rise, I command you. Meanwhile, you are right on one point at least. I have eaten of your salt, and I am too true a nobleman to betray you to the emperor. I will merely tell him that the corn is found, and that his poor people may rejoice. Open your granaries, therefore, my lords. Let each of you this night send a courier to your tenants, proffering grain to all, free of charge stipulating only that, as a return for the gift, the peasantry shall bestow a portion of their corn upon their mother earth. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, vol. i., p. 141.] You will see how magical is the effect of generosity. Your stores will scatter blessings over this unhappy land, and the poor will bless you as their benefactors. Yes, gentlemen, from this day forward you will be the friends of the needy; for, God be praised, you have corn, and, for the sake of your corn, I forgive you. But see that the future makes full atonement for the past."

No one answered a word. With sullen mien and downcast eyes they stood, while the emperor surveyed them with surprise.

"What!" said he, after a long and painful pause, "not a word of thanks! Joy has made you dumb, I perceive. And no wonder; for to feel (for the first time) the pleasures of benevolence may well make you speechless with happiness. As for you, madame," continued the emperor, addressing his hostess, "I will not deprive you of a share in your husband's generosity. You will be so kind as to call up your servants and bid them load a wagon with the remains of our excellent dinner, not forgetting the wines; and you will then send it, with your greetings, to your tenants in yonder village. Your servants can go from house to house until the store is exhausted."

"I will do what your majesty commands," said the freiherrin, pale with rage.

"I do not doubt it," replied the emperor, laughing. "And as I will be glad to hear how your bounty is received in the village, two of my own attendants will accompany yours. Farewell, my lords, I must leave you, for I have a large company on the high-road whom I have invited to supper. The freiherrin will oblige me by receiving them to-night as her guests. In this stately castle there are, doubtless, several rooms that can be thrown open to these weary, suffering mountaineers. Have I your permission to send them hither?"

"I will obey your majesty's commands," sobbed the lady, no longer able to control her tears.

The emperor bowed, and turning to his attendants, said, "Come, my friends, our messengers have probably arrived before this, and our guests await us."

He advanced to the door, but suddenly stopped and addressed the company. "My lords," said he, "for once your wisdom has been at fault. It is well that the sentimental little emperor did not remain, as you advised, in Vienna; for the stamp of his imperial foot has struck abundance out of the earth, and it will save the lives of his starving boors."

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LXXV. DIPLOMATIC ESOTERICS

Prince Kaunitz was in his cabinet. Baron Binder was reading aloud the secret dispatches which had just come in from the Austrian ambassador at Berlin, the young Baron van Swieten. Meanwhile, Kaunitz was busy with a brush of peacock's feathers, dusting the expensive trifles that covered his escritoire, or polishing its ebony surface with a fine silk handkerchief which he kept for the purpose. This furbishing of trinkets and furniture was a private pastime with the all-powerful minister; and many a personage of rank was made to wait in the anteroom, while he finished his dusting or rearranged his bijouterie, until it was grouped to his satisfaction.

The dispatches which were being read were of the highest importance; for they related to a confidential conversation with the King of Prussia on the subject of the political apple, at which all were striving for the largest bite. The King of Prussia, wrote the ambassador, had spoken jestingly of the partition of Poland. He had bespoken for himself the district of Netz and Polish Prussia, premising that Dantzic, Thorn, and Cracow were to be left to Poland.

"Very well arranged," said Kaunitz, with his accustomed sang froid, while he brightened the jewels of a Sevres inkstand which had been presented to him by Madame de Pompadour. "Vraiment the naivete of this Frederick is prodigious. He appropriates the richest and most cultivated districts of Poland to himself; and then inserts, as an unimportant clause, the stipulation that Cracow, with its adjacent territory, the rich salt mines of Wieliczka, shall not belong to Austria."

"Van Swieten would not agree to the arrangement," said Binder, "and he furthermore declared to the king that such a distribution would be prejudicial to Austria. He proposed, however, that Austria might be indemnified by the possession of Bosnia and Servia, which the Porte should be made to yield."

"What a preposterous fool!" exclaimed Kaunitz. "Who gave him the right to make such a proposition--"

"Why, your highness, I suppose he thought--"

"He has no right to think," interrupted Kaunitz. "I ask of no employe of mine to think. My envoys have nothing to do but to work out MY thoughts, and that without any intervention of their own fancies. It is very presuming in my little diplomatic agents to think what I have not thought, and of their own accord to make propositions to foreign courts. Write and tell him so, Binder, and add, that neither our permanent peaceful relations with Turkey, nor the sentiments of consideration which are entertained by the empress for the Porte, will allow of any attempt to lessen his territory." [Footnote: Wilhelm von Dohm, "Memoirs of My Time," vol. i., 489.]

"Then you are really in earnest, and intend to be a firm ally of the Porte?" inquired Binder with astonishment.

"In earnest!" repeated Kaunitz, with a shrug. "You statesman in swaddling-clothes! You do not know the first principles of your profession; and yet you have lived with me for thirty years! In diplomacy there is no such thing as stability of policy. Policy shapes itself according to circumstances, and changes as they change. The man who attempted to follow fixed principles in international policy, would soon find himself and his government on the verge of a precipice."

"And yet there is no statesman in Europe who adheres so closely to his principles as yourself," exclaimed Binder, with the enthusiasm of true friendship.

Kaunitz majestically inclined his head. "My principles are these: To make Austria rich, great, powerful. Austria shall be quoeungue modo, the first power in Europe; and in after-years the world shall say that the genius of Kaunitz placed her on the mountain-peaks of her greatness. For this end, it is indispensable that I remain at the head of European affairs. Not only Austria, but all Europe, looks to me to guide her through the storm that is threatening the general peace. I dare not leave the helm of state to take one hour's rest; for what would become of the great continental ship if, seeking my own comfort, I were to retire and yield her fortunes to some unsteady hand? There is no one to replace me! No one! It is only once in a century that Heaven vouchsafes a great statesman to the world. This makes me fear for Austria when I shall have gone from earth and there is no one to succeed me." [Footnote: The prince's own words. See Swinburne, vol. i., p. 230.]

"May you live many years to rule in Austria!" cried Binder, warmly; "you are indispensable to her welfare."

"I know it," said Kaunitz, gravely. "But there are aspirants for political fame in Austria, who would like to lay their awkward hands upon the web that I weave? No one knows how far the youthful impetuosity and boundless vanity of such ambition may go. It might lead its possessor to entertain the insane idea that he could govern Austria without my guidance."

"You speak of the Emperor Joseph?"

"Yes, I do. He is ambitious, overbearing, and vain. He mistakes his stupid longings to do good for capacity. He lusts for fame through war and conquest, and would change every thing in his mother's empire, for the mere satisfaction of knowing that the change was his own work. Oh, what would become of Austria if I were not by, to keep him within bounds? It will task all my genius to steer between the Scylla of a bigoted, peace-loving empress, and the Charybdis of this reckless emperor; to reconcile their antagonisms, and overrule their prejudices. Maria Theresa is for peace and a treaty with the Porte, who has lately been a good-natured, harmless neighbor--Joseph thirsts for war that he may enlarge his dominions and parade himself before the world as a military genius. If his mother were to die to-morrow, he would plunge headlong into a war with Russia or Turkey, whichever one he might happen to fancy. I am obliged to hold this prospect forever before his eyes to keep him quiet. I must also pay my tribute to the whims of the reigning empress; and if we declare war to pacify Joseph, we must also make it appear to Maria Theresa that war is inevitable."

"By Heaven, that is a delicate web, indeed!" cried Binder, laughing.

"Yes, and let no presuming hand ever touch a thread of it!" replied Kaunitz. "I say as much as I have said to you, Binder, because the greatest minds must sometimes find a vent for their conceptions, and I trust nobody on earth except you. Now you know what I mean by 'permanent treaties with the Porte,' and I hope you will not ask any more silly questions. You ignoramus! that have lived so long with Kaunitz and have not yet learned to know him!"

"Your highness is beyond the comprehension of ordinary men," said Binder, with a good-humored smile.

"I believe so," replied Kaunitz, with truthful simplicity; while he carefully placed his paper, pens, lines, and penknife in the drawer wherein they belonged.

The door opened, and a servant announced his excellency Osman Pacha, ambassador of the Ottoman Porte.

"Very well," replied Kaunitz with a nod, "I will see him presently."

"You see," said he to Binder, as the door closed upon the servant, "we are about to begin in earnest with the Porte. I shall receive him in the drawing-room. Meanwhile, remain here, for I shall need you again."

He smiled kindly upon his friend, and left the room. Binder looked after him with tenderest admiration. "He is a very great man," said he to himself, "and he is right. But for him, Austria would fall to the rank of a second power. What if he does know it and boast of it? He is a truthful and candid man. Voild tout."

And he sat down to write to Van Swieten in Berlin to beware of saying any thing prejudicial to the interests of the Porte.

He had just concluded his letter when Kaunitz returned. His countenance was beaming with satisfaction and his lips were half parting with a smile. "Binder," said he, laying a roll of papers on the escritoire, "here are sugar-plums for the emperor. Can you guess what I have in these papers?"

"Not a declaration of war from Russia!" exclaimed Binder.

"Hm; something very like it, I assure you. Listen! It is the secret treaty that our minister at Constantinople, Herr von Thugut, has just concluded with the Porte. The Sultan has already signed it, and to-day I shall present it for signature to the empress. She will do it readily; for although she may not absolutely dote on the infidel, she hates Russia; and the unbelieving Turk is dearer to her than her Christian cousin, the Empress Catharine."

"Then, after all, we are the firm allies of Turkey?" said Binder.

The prince gave a shrug, and trifled with the papers he had brought with him. "We have bound ourselves," said he, reading here and there among the leaves, "to bring about a peace between Russia and Turkey, by which the former shall restore to the latter all the provinces which she has conquered from the Porte; or, if not all, those which are indispensable to preserve the honor of Turkey intact. We have furthermore bound ourselves to secure the independence of the Republic of Poland."

"But, prince, that contradicts all your previous understandings with Prussia and Russia; it contradicts your plans for the partition of Poland. It will certainly lead to war, for our highness has forgotten that Prussia and Russia have already agreed, for the soi disant pacification of Poland, to appropriate the greater part of her provinces to themselves."

"I beg you to believe, my verdant friend, that I never forget any thing," said Kaunitz, somewhat haughtily. "I am perfectly au fait to the Russo-Prussian treaty; but I have not been invited to the banquet, and I do not intend to go uninvited. When they speak, we will consider their offers. If they say nothing, we go to war. If they speak, we will allow ourselves to be persuaded to share the booty which we cannot restore to its owners. In that way, we are in a manner forced into this coalition, and the opprobrium of the act falls upon those who devised it, while Maria Theresa's scruples will be more easily overcome."

"Prince," said Binder, with a sigh, "I give it up. I never will make a statesman. I listen to your words as to a Delphic oracle, and do not pretend to understand their ambiguous meaning. I understand, however, do I not, that we are the allies of the Sultan? Now we thereby do him a great favor--what does he give in return?"

"Not much, but still something," said Kaunitz, with composure, while his fingers again turned over the leaves. "The Porte, who, like yourself, apprehends war with Russia, understands that if Austria is to befriend him, she must put her army upon a war footing. If Austria is to do this for the sake of Turkey, Turkey of course must furnish the means. The Porte then, in the course of the next eight months, will pay us the sum of twenty thousand purses, each containing five hundred silver piasters. Four thousand purses will be paid down as soon as the treaty is signed." [Footnote: Dohm, "Memoirs of My Time," vol. i., p. 471.]

"Ten millions of piasters!" exclaimed Binder, with uplifted hands. "By Heaven, prince, you are a second Moses. You know how to strike a rock so that a silver fountain shall gush from its barrenness."

"I shall make good use of it, too. Our coffers need replenishing, and the emperor will rejoice to see them filled with the gold of the infidel. It will enable him to raise and equip a gallant army, and that will give him such unbounded delight that we are sure of his signature. Besides this, the Porte presents us with a goodly portion of Wallachia; he fixes the boundaries of Transylvania to our complete satisfaction, and allows us free trade with the Ottoman empire, both by land and by water."

"But all these concessions will cost us a war with Russia. The rapacious Czarina will be furious when she hears of them."

"She will not hear of them," said Kaunitz, quietly. "I have made it a stringent condition with Osman Pacha that the treaty with Turkey shall be a profound secret. The Sultan and his vizier have pledged their word, and the Mussulman may always be trusted. We will only make the treaty public in case of a war with Russia."

"Whence it follows that as Russia is much more likely to court our friendship than our enmity, the treaty with the Porte is all moonshine."

"With the exception of the ten millions of piasters, which are terrene and tangible. It remains now to see whether Turkey will keep silence or Russia will speak! In either case, the peace of all Europe now lies in Austria's hands. We will preserve or destroy it as is most advantageous to our own interests."

At that moment the door leading to the anteroom was opened, and a page announced Prince Gallitzin, ambassador of her majesty the Empress of Russia.

This announcement following the subjects which had been under discussion, was so significant, that Kaunitz could not conceal his sense of its supreme importance. He was slightly disturbed; but recovering himself almost instantaneously, he said:

"In five minutes I will receive his highness in this room. Now begone, and open the door punctually."

"What can the Russian minister want to-day?" said Binder.

"He has come to speak at last," replied Kaunitz, taking breath.

"Not of the partition of Poland, but of your Turkish treaty. You will see that he if he gain any thing by talking, the Porte will not keep silence."

"Three minutes gone," said Kaunitz, taking out his watch.

"Not another word, Binder. Step behind that screen and listen to our discussion. It will save me the trouble of repeating it to you."

While Binder was concealing himself, Kaunitz was composing his visage before a looking-glass. It soon reached its accustomed serenity, and not a lock of the peruke was out of place.

In five minutes the page reopened the door and announced the entrance of the Russian ambassador.

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LXXVI. RUSSIA SPEAKS

Prince Kaunitz stood in the centre of the room when the Russian minister made his appearance. He raised his cold blue eyes with perfect indifference to the smiling face of the Russian, who bowed low, while his host vouchsafed him a slight inclination of the head. Prince Gallitzin seemed to be as unconscious of this haughty reception as of the fact that Kaunitz had not moved forward a singe step to greet him. He traversed with unruffled courtesy the distance that separated him from Austria, and offered his hand with the grace of a finished courtier.

Kaunitz raised his languidly, and allowed it to rest for a moment in the palm of his cordial visitor.

"See, what a propitious incident," said Prince Gallitzin; "Austria and Russia have given each other the hand. "

"Pardon me, your highness," replied Kaunitz gravely, "Russia has offered her hand, and Austria takes it."

"But without returning my cordial pressure," said the Russian.

Prince Kaunitz appeared not to hear this affectionate reproach. He pointed to the arm-chairs on either side of the escritoire, saying, "Let us be seated."

Prince Gallitzin waited until Kaunitz had taken his seat, which he did in a most deliberate manner, then he took the chair opposite. "Your highness has been so good as to look over the new proposals for peace which Russia has offered to Turkey?" asked Prince Gallitzin.

"I have read them," replied Raunitz, curtly.

"Your highness will then have remarked that, accommodating herself to the wishes of Austria, Russia has retained only such of her conditions as were necessary to the preservation of her dignity before the world. But my imperial mistress has instructed me to say explicitly that her moderation toward Turkey is exclusively the fruit of her consideration for Austria. But for this consideration, Turkey would have felt the full weight of the empress's vengeance; and it might have come to pass that this Porte, who already totters with his own weakness, would have been precipitated by Russia far into the depths of the Black Sea."

"In that case Russia would have learned that Austra is a diver that knows how to fish for pearls. We would have rescued the Porte from the Black Sea, and if he had not been strong enough to sustain himself, we would have exacted a tonic at your hands in the form of more advantageous conditions of peace."

"Then our conditions are not satisfactory?"

"They are of such a nature that Austria cannot entertain them for a moment. Turkey can never consent to the independence of the Crimea and Wallachia, nor will Austria counsel her to such an indiscreet concession. This would be so contrary to the interests of Austria that we would oppose it, even should Turkey be forced by untoward circumstances to yield the point."

"Ah!" cried Gallitzin, laughing, "Austria would find herself in the singular position of a nation warring with another to force that nation to take care of its own interests. Will your highness then tell me, what are the conditions which Austria is willing to accept for Turkey?"

"They are these: that the right of the Sultan to appoint the Khan of the Crimea and the Hospodar of Wallachia remain untouched. If Russia will recognize the sovereignty of the Porte in that quarter, then Austria will induce him to withdraw his pretensions in Tartary."

"And to leave to Russia the territory she has conquered there?" asked Gallitzin with his ineffable smile. "The czarina has no desire to enlarge her vast empire. Russia does not war in the Crimea for herself, but for a noble race of men who feel rich and powerful enough to elect their own rulers. Her struggle in Tartary is simply that of civilization and freedom against barbarism and tyranny."

"How beautiful all this sounds in the mouth of a Russian!" said Kaunitz, smiling. "You will acknowledge that Russia is not always consistent; for instance--in Poland, where she does not perceive the right of a noble race of men to elect their own rulers, but forces upon them a king whom they all despise. I must now declare to you that my sovereign will enter into negotiations with Turkey on one condition only: that the territorial rights of Poland be left untouched, not only by Russia, but by any other European power!" [Footnote: V. Dohm. "Memoirs" vol. i., p. 492.]

Prince Gallitzin stared at Kaunitz as he heard these astounding words; but the Austrian met his gaze with perfect unconcern.

"Your highness defends the integrity of Polish territory," said Gallitzin, after a short pause, "and yet you have been the first to invade it. Is not the Zips a portion of the kingdom of Poland?"

"No, your highness, no. The Zips was originally a Hungarian dependency, and was mortgaged to Poland. We intend to resume our property and pay the mortgage in the usual way. This is not at all to the point. We speak of the fate of Poland. As for Austria, she aims at nothing but her rights; and as soon as the Empress of Russia withdraws her troops from Polish ground, we will withdraw ours, as well as all pretensions whatever to the smallest portion of Polish territory."

"And doubtless your highness intends to restore every thing for which the Poles are now contending. Her ancient constitution, for instance; that constitution which has been thrown upon the political system of Europe like the apple of Eris, threatening discord and conflict without end."

"No," said Kaunitz, quickly, "their constitution must be modified as the interests of their neighbors may require. We must unite on some modifications that are suitable to us, and if Poland refuse to accept there, she must be forced to do it."

"Ah!" cried Gallitzin, much relieved, "if your highness is of this mind we will soon understand one another; and I may, therefore, be permitted to speak with perfect frankness on the part of Russia."

"At last!" exclaimed Kaunitz, taking a long breath. "Russia will speak at last! So far she has only acted; and I confess that her actions have been inexplicable."

"Russia keeps pace with Austria," said Gallitzin. "The court of Vienna says that the integrity of Poland must be respected; nevertheless she is the first to lay her hand upon it."

"Some things we dare not do because they seem too difficult, others only seem to be difficult because we dare not do them. We have taken our slice of Poland because it belonged to us, and the difficulty of the step has not deterred us."

"Ah, your highness, as regards your right to the Zips, there is not a kingdom in Europe that has not some old forgotten right to her neighbor's territory! Russia and--Prussia, too, have similar claims on Poland, so that if it be agreeable to the empress-queen and to--your highness we will meet together to have an understanding on the subject. Some little time may be required to define our several claims, but this once settled, there will be no further difficulty in the way."

"I see," said Kaunitz, with a satisfied air, "that we already understand one another. As Russia has spoken and has made proposals, Austria is ready to respond. But before we attend to our own affairs, let us give peace to Turkey. The court of Vienna will negotiate between you. Let me advise you to be exorbitant in your demands; go somewhat beyond your real intentions, so that Austria may be obliged to decline your proposals."

"And in this way your highness proposes to bring about a peace with Turkey?" asked Prince Gallitzin, astounded.

"Certainly I do. Austria declines the proposals; Russia moderates her demands, that is, she concedes what she never intended to exact, and presents this as her ultimatum. Austria, satisfied with the concessions now offered to her ally, is of opinion that he should accept them; and if he prove unreasonable, must force him to do it."

"Your highness is indeed a great statesman!" exclaimed Gallitzin, with enthusiasm.

"When a Russian ambassador says so it must be true," replied Kaunitz, bowing. "As to Poland, the great question there is to preserve the balance of power. I beg, therefore, that Russia and Prussia will make known at once the extent of their claims there, that Austria may shape hers accordingly. I shall enter at once into correspondence with the King of Prussia, to ascertain his views as to the future boundaries of Poland. Two things are indispensable to insure the success of this affair."

"What are they?"

"First: perfect frankness between the three powers who are to act as one; and celerity of action, lest Poland should be quieted before we come in with our remedy."

"I agree with you. And second?"

"Second: profound secrecy. If France or England were to scent the affair, there would be troublesome intervention, and we might all be disappointed. Europe must not learn the partition of Poland until it is a fait accompli."

"I promise discretion both for Russia and Prussia," said Gallitzin, eagerly. "Europe shall not hear of it until our troops are on the spot to defend us from outside interference. All that is necessary now is to find three equal portions, so that each claimant shall be satisfied."

"Oh," said Kaunitz carelessly, as he played with the lace that edged is cuffs, "if three equal parts are not to be found on Polish ground, we can trespass upon the property of another neighbor who has too much land; and if he resists, we can very soon bring him to reason."

Prince Gallitzin looked with visible astonishment at the cold and calm face of the Austrian. "Another neighbor?" echoed he, with embarrassment. "But we have no neighbor unless it be the Porte himself."

"Precisely the neighbor to whom I have reference," said Kaunitz, nodding his head. "He is almost as troublesome as Poland, and will be the better for a little blood-letting. I authorize your highness to lay these propositions before your court; and I await the answer."

"Oh!" cried Gallitzin, laughing while he arose from his chair, "you will always find Russia ready for a surgical operation upon the body of her hereditary enemy. The law, both of nature and of necessity, impels her to prey upon Turkey, and the will of Peter the Great can never be carried out until the foot of Russia rests upon the Sultans throne at Stamboul."

"Well," said Kaunitz, when Prince Gallitzin had taken his leave, "did you understand our conference, Binder?"

"Understand!" exclaimed Binder, coming from behind the screen. "No, indeed! I must have been drunk or dreaming. I surely did not hear your highness, who, not an hour since, concluded a treaty with Turkey by which the independence of Poland was to be guaranteed--I surely did not hear you agree to a partition between Russia, Prussia, and Austria!"

"Yes, you did. We are driven to accept our share of Poland merely by way of decreasing that of our neighbors."

"Then I DID understand as regards Poland. But I must have been dreaming when I thought you had told me that we had concluded a treaty with the Porte by which he pays us ten millions of piasters for our good offices with Russia."

"Not at all. I certainly told you so."

"Then, dear prince, I have lost my senses," cried Binder, "for indeed I dreamed that you had proposed to Russia, in case there was not land enough to satisfy you all in Poland, to take some from the Sultan. "

"You have heard aright. You are very tiresome with your questions and your stupid, wonder-stricken face. I suppose if a piece of Poland were thrown at your feet, you would pick it up and hand it over to Stanislaus; and if the Porte stood before you with a million of piasters, you would say, 'Not for the world!' It is easy to see what would become of Austria in your dainty hands! An enviable position she would hold, if conscience were to guide her policy!"

"No danger while YOU hold the reins, for there will never be a trace of conscience in your policy," muttered Binder, gathering up his papers and passing into the adjoining room.

Prince Kaunitz shrugged his shoulders and rang his bell.

"My new state-coach," said he to Hippolyte, who, instead of flying off as usual to obey, remained standing at the door.

"Why do you stand there?" asked the Prince.

"Pardon me, your highness, the state-coach is not ready," stammered the valet.

"Not yet ready?" repeated the prince, accenting each word. "Did I not order it to be here at two o'clock?"

"Yes, your highness, but the upholsterer could not understand the drawings which were given him. He began to work by them, but was obliged to undo his work, and this caused the delay."

"The man has the assurance to say that he could not work after the drawings made by my own hand?" asked Kaunitz, with a firey glance of anger in his eyes. "Because he is an ass does the churl dare to criticise my drawings? Let him bring the body of the coach to the palace, and I will show him that he is a bungler and knows nothing of his trade."

And the prince, in his rage, stalked to the door. Suddenly he stopped. "What is the state of the thermometer to-day?" said he.

The valet flew to the window and examined the little thermometer that hung outside.

"Sixty degrees, your highness."

"Sixty degrees!" sighed the prince. "Then I dare not go to the coach-house. Is the coach mounted on the wheels?"

"No, your highness."

"Then let the upholsterer have the carriage brought to my room, with the drawings and his tools. Be off! In ten minutes all must be here!"

Just ten minutes later the door opened, and in came a handbarrow, upon which stood the body of the coach. It was one mass of bronze, plate-glass mirrors, and gilding. Behind it appeared the upholsterer, pale with fright, carrying on one arm a bundle of satin and velvet, and in his right hand holding the drawings of the prince. "Set it down in the centre of the room," said Kaunitz, imperiously, and then turning a look of wrath upon the unhappy upholsterer, he said, with terrible emphasis: "Is it true that you have the audacity to say that you cannot work after my drawings?"

"I hope your highness will forgive me," stammered the upholsterer, "but there is not room in the inside of the coach for all the bows and rosettes. I would have been obliged to make them so small that the coach would have looked like one of the patterns we show to our customers. "

"And you dare tell me that to my face? Do you suppose that I do not know your miserable trade, or do you mean that it is easier to govern an empire than to trim up a coach? I will prove to you that I am a better upholsterer than you are. Open the door, and I will decorate the coach myself."

The upholsterer opened the richly-gilded glass door, and Kaunitz, as much in earnest as when he had been giving and taking a kingdom, entered the coach and seated himself.

"Give me the satin and velvet, and hold up the drawings, that I may work after them. Some of you hand me the nails, and some one have the needle ready. You shall see how Prince Kaunitz, through the stupidity of his upholsterer, is obliged to decorate the interior of his own coach."

The prince began to work; and in the same room where he had signed treaties and received ambassadors, the great Austrian statesman sewed and hammered until he had decorated his carriage to his own satisfaction.

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LXXVII. THE LAST PETITION

Maria Theresa paced her cabinet in visible agitation. Her face was sad beyond expression, and her eyes turned anxiously toward the door.

"I tremble," murmured she; "for the first time in my life I mistrust the deed I am about to do. All is not clear in the depths of my conscience; the voice that whispers such misgivings to my heart, is one which shames the worldly wisdom of my councillors. We are about to do a wicked deed, and we shall answer for it before Heaven! Would that my right hand had lost its cunning, ere ever it had been forced to sign this cruel document! Oh, it is an unholy thing, this alliance with an unbelieving king and a dissolute empress! And an alliance for what? To destroy a kingdom, and to rob its unhappy people of their nationality forever!"

"But what avails remorse?" continued she, heaving a deep sigh. "It is too late, too late! In a few moments Joseph will be here to exact my signature, and I dare not refuse it. I have yielded my right to protest against this crime, and--ah, he comes!" cried the empress, pressing her hands upon her heart, as she heard the lock of the door turning.

She fell into an arm-chair and trembled violently. But it was not the emperor who appeared as the door opened; it was the Baroness von Salmour, governess to the archduchesses.

"Baroness!" cried the empress, "it must be something of most imminent importance that brings you hither. What is it?"

"I come in the name of misfortune to ask of your majesty a favor," said the baroness, earnestly.

"Speak, then, and speak quickly."

"Will your majesty grant an audience to my unhappy country-woman, the Countess Wielopolska?"

"The Countess Anna!" said the empress, with a shudder. Then, as if ashamed of her agitation, she added, quickly.

"Admit her. If the emperor comes, let him enter also."

The baroness courtesied and withdrew, but she left the door open; and now was seen advancing the tall and graceful figure of the countess. Her face was pale as that of the dead. She still wore her black velvet dress, and the long veil which fell around her person, hovered about her like a dark, storm-heralding cloud.

"She looks like the angel of death," murmured the empress. "It seems to me that if those pale, transparent hands, which she folds over her breast, were to unclasp, her icy breath would still the beatings of my heart forever!"

The countess glided in like a vision, and the door closed behind her. The empress received her with an affable smile.

"It is very long since I have seen you," said the proud Maria Theresa, with an embarrassment to which her rank had hitherto made her a stranger.

"I was waiting to be summoned by your majesty," replied the countess.

"And as I did not summon you, you came voluntarily. That was kind. I am very glad to see you."

The lady replied to these flattering words by an inclination of the head, and a pause ensued. Each one seemed waiting for the other to speak. As the empress perceived, after a while, that the lips of the pale countess did not move, she resolved to break the irksome silence herself. In her own frank way, scorning all circumlocution, she went at once to the subject nearest their hearts.

"I know why you are here to-day," said she, with a painful blush. "You have heard of the fate which threatens Poland, and you have come to ask if thus I fulfil the promises I made to you! Speak--is it not so? Have I not rightly read the meaning of that lovely but joyless face?"

"It is so," sighed the countess, and her voice trembled with unshed tears. "Yes, from the solitude wherein I had buried my grief since last I saw your majesty, I have heard the fatal tidings of my country's woe, and yet I live! Oh, why should the body survive, when the soul is dead?"

Her words died away upon her lips, and she seemed to grow paler and more pale as though every drop of blood in her veins had stiffened and turned to ice. But she heaved a sigh and rallied, for hope now touched her heart, and the statue awoke to life.

"Ah, great empress," said she, with fervor, "I come to you, in whose powerful hand lies the issue of my country's fate, whose mighty word can bid us live, or doom us to death."

"Oh, were it so, you would not sue in vain!" cried the empress, sorrowfully. "Had the fate of Poland lain in MY hands, she would have risen triumphant from the arena, where she has battled so bravely for her sacred rights!"

"Poland's fate lies in your majesty's hand!" exclaimed the countess, vehemently. "You have not yet signed the warrant for my country's execution; you are still innocent of her blood; your hand is still free from participation in the crime of her enemies and yours! Oh, let me kiss that hand and bless it, while yet it is spotless and pure as your noble heart."

Hurried away by the might of the sorrow that overwhelmed her, the countess darted forward, and throwing herself at the feet of the empress, drew her hand fervently to her lips.

"Rise, dear countess Anna, rise," said the empress, soothingly. "I cannot bear to see you at my feet, when I can do nothing to avert the fate of Poland."

"Who, then, can help her, if not your majesty?" cried the countess. "Oh, I did not come hither to reproach you; I came but to entreat you to speak the word that will disenthrall my country!"

"I cannot do it; as God hears me, I cannot," repeated Maria Theresa, in a voice of anguish. "I have striven against it with all my might. What I have suffered for your countrymen, no one will ever know! The anxious days and wretched nights that I have spent for their sakes, have threatened my life." [Footnote: The empress's own words. See Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. iv., p. 539.]

"I CANNOT!" echoed the countess, who seemed to have heard nothing but these few words. "An empress!--an empress! who, with a wave of her hand, sways millions of men, and is responsible for her actions to no earthly power!"

"Save that which resides in the claims of her subjects upon the sovereign, who is bound to reign for their good. I am responsible to my people for the preservation of peace. Too much blood has been shed since I came to the throne; and nothing would induce me to be the cause that the soil of Austria should be crimsoned by another drop." [Footnote: The empress's own words. See Wolf, "Austria under Maria Theresa," p. 527.]

"And to spare a drop of Austrian blood, your majesty will deal the blow that murders a whole nation!" cried the countess, rising to her feet and looking defiance at the empress. "In your egotism for Austria, you turn from a noble nation who have as good a right to freedom as your own people!"

"Countess, you forget yourself. By what right do you reprove me?"

"By the right which misfortune gives to truth," replied she, proudly, "and by the right which your imperial word has given me to speak. For now I recall to you that promise, and I ask where is the eagle that was to swoop down upon the vultures which are preying upon Poland?"

"Oh, they have caged the eagle," said the empress, sadly. "God in heaven knows how manfully I have battled for Poland. When I threatened interference, the answer was this: 'We have resolved to dismember Poland, and you shall not prevent us.' What, then, could I do? Declare war? That were to ruin my people. Remain passive, while my enemies enlarged their frontiers, so as to endanger my own? We then had recourse to stratagem. We defended our soil inch by inch, and gave up when resistance became fanaticism. We required for our share more than we desired, hoping to be refused. But no! To my sorrow and disappointment, even more was apportioned than we had claimed. Oh! the whole thing has been so repugnant to my sense of justice, that I refused to take any share in its arrangements, and all the negotiations have been conducted by the emperor, Prince Kaunitz and Marshal Lacy." [Footnote: This discourse is historical. See Wolf, p. 825. Raumer, vol. iv., p. 540.]

"And these are the ashes of the mighty promises of emperors and empresses!" exclaimed the countess, bitterly. "Oh, empress, think of the time when you shall appear before God, to give account of your deeds! How will you answer, when the record of this day is brought before you? For the last time I am at your feet. Oh, as you hope for mercy above, do not sign the act that dismembers Poland!"

She was again on her knees; her beautiful eyes drowned in tears, and her hands clasped convulsively above her head.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the empress, rising to her feet, "she does not believe me." Then bending tenderly over the countess, she pressed her hands between her own, and gently raised her to a seat.

"Do you not see how deeply I suffer, when I have no spirit to chide your hard words to me? It is because I comprehend your sorrow, poor child, that I forgive your injustice. And now, to prove my sincerity," added she, going to her escritoire and taking from it a letter, "read this! I was about to send it to Prince Kaunitz when your visit caused me to forget it. Read it aloud, that I may know whether you understand me at last."

The countess unfolded the letter and read:

"When my own empire was threatened, and I knew not where to lay my head; when the sorrows of childbirth were overtaking me, I threw myself upon God and my just rights. But to-day, when humanity, justice, ay--reason itself, cry aloud against our acts, I confess to you that my anxiety transcends all that I have ever suffered in my life before. Tell me, Prince Kaunitz, have you thought of the evil example we are giving to the nations of earth, when, for the sake of a few acres of additional territory, we cast away our reputation, our dignity, and our honor?

"If I yield to-day, it is because I struggle alone, and no longer have the vigor of mind to contend for right, as in years gone by I would have done. I am overpowered, but I surrender with a bleeding heart." [Footnote: This letter was written by Maria Theresa's own hand. See Hormayer, "Pocket History of Our Native Land," 1831, p. 66.]

The countess remained looking at the parer for a time, then she raised her tearful eyes to the face of the empress. "I thank your majesty," said she, deeply moved, "for allowing me to see this letter. It will remain in history as a noble monument of Maria Theresa's rectitude. I have no longer a word of blame for you; and once again, in love and reverence, I kiss this hand, although I know that to-day it must sign the death-warrant of unhappy Poland."

She drew near, and raised the hand of the empress to her lips. But Maria Theresa threw her arms around the countess, exclaiming: "To my heart, dear, unhappy one! I cannot save Poland, but I can weep with her loveliest and noblest daughter!"

The countess, overcome by this unexpected tenderness, leaned upon the bosom of the empress, and wept. Maria Theresa stroked her lustrous black hair, and, as she kissed her marble cheek, the tears that had gathered in her eyes, fell upon the head of the countess, where they glittered like stars upon the darkness of the night.

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LXXVIII. FINIS POLONIE

Neither saw the door open; but both heard a soft, melodious voice, saying: "Pardon me, your majesty, I thought you were alone."

The countess uttered a low cry, and trembled from head to foot.

"Do not fear," said the empress, as she gently withdrew her arms, "it is my son the emperor. We need not hide our tears from him, for he knows that this is not the first time his mother has wept for Poland."

The emperor said nothing; he stood staring at the pale and trembling Anna. He, too, grew deathly pale as he looked, and now his trembling limbs answered to the agitation that was overpowering her. Suddenly, as though awaking from a painful dream, he approached, and offering his hand, said:

"I rejoice to see you. I have long sought you in vain."

She did not appear to see him. Her arm hung listlessly at her side, while her figure swayed to and fro like a storm-tossed lily.

"I have not been in Vienna," answered she, in a voice scarcely audible. "I had gone to bury my sorrow in solitude."

"But her love for Poland brought her hither," said the empress, putting her arm affectionately around the countess's waist.

"I believe you," returned Joseph, bitterly. "The fate of Poland is the only thing worthy of touching the Countess Wielopolska. She is not a woman, she is a Pole--nothing more."

One low wail struggled from the depths of her breaking heart, but she spoke not a word.

The emperor went on: "The Countess Wielopolska is not a woman. She is a monad, representing patriotism; and he who cannot think as she does, is a criminal unworthy of her regard."

"You are cruel, my son," said the empress, deprecatingly. "If the countess has been bitter in her reproaches to you, we must remember her grief and her right to reproach us. We should be gentle with misfortune--above all, when we can bring no relief."

"Let him go on, your majesty," murmured the wretched Anna, while her eyes were raised with a look of supreme agony upon the stern face of the emperor.

"Your majesty is right. I am nothing but a Pole, and I will die with my fatherland. Your hands shall close our coffin-lids, for our fates will not cost you a tear. The dear, noble empress has wept for us both, and the remembrance of her sympathy and of your cruelty we will carry with us to the grave."

The emperor's eyes flashed angrily, and he was about to retort, but he controlled himself and approached the empress.

"Your majesty will pardon me if I interrupt your interesting conversation, but state affairs are peremptory, and supersede all other considerations. Your majesty has commanded my presence that I might sign the act of partition. The courier, who is to convey the news to Berlin and St. Petersburg, is ready to go. Allow me to ask if your majesty has signed?"

The countess, who understood perfectly that the emperor, in passing her by, to treat with his mother of this dreadful act of partition, wished to force her to retire, withdrew silently to the door.

But the empress, hurt that her son should have been so unfeeling, went forward, and led her back to her seat.

"No, countess, stay. The emperor says that you represent Poland. Then let him justify his acts to us both, and prove that what he has done is right. I have suffered such anguish of mind over the partition of Poland, that Joseph would lift a load from my heart, if he could show me that it is inevitable. My son, you have come for my signature. Before God, your mother, and Poland herself, justify our deed, and I will sign the act."

"Justify? There are many things which we may defend without being able to justify them: and stern necessity often forces us to the use of measures which conscience disapproves."

"Prove to me, then, the necessity which has forced us to dismember a country whose people have never injured us," said the empress, authoritatively.

"But whose disunion at home has become dangerous to their neighbors. Poland lies like a sick man in our midst, whose dying breath infects the land. When there is a fire in our neighborhood, we are sometimes obliged to tear down the burning house lest the fire spread to our own."

"Yes," interrupted the countess, "but you do not rob the neighbor of his land. The soil belongs to him who owns the house."

"But the Poles are not worthy to own their soil. What is Poland to-day? A race of slaves and peasants, without law or order, driven hither and thither by a lewd and corrupt aristocracy, who, instead of blushing for the degeneracy of their caste, hold their saturnalia over the very graves of their noble ancestors. And at the head of this degenerate people is their king, the minion of a foreign court, who promulgates the laws which he receives from his imperial Russian mistress. Verily, God has weighed the Polish nation in His balance, and they have been found wanting."

"Enough!" faltered the countess, raising her hand in deprecation. "Why will you vilify a people who are in the throes of death?"

"No, it is not enough," said the emperor, sternly. "The empress says that I must justify the acts of the three powers to Poland--that pale and beautiful statue before me which lives--and yet is not a woman. I say it again: a nation dies by its own corruption! Poland bears within herself the seeds of her destruction. Her people have been false to their antecedents, false to themselves, to their honor, and even to their faith." [Footnote: Wolf. "Austria under Maria Theresa." p. 535.]

"You accuse, but you bring no proofs!" exclaimed the countess, her eyes now flashing with wounded pride.

"It will not be difficult to collect my proofs," said the emperor, sneering. "Look at what takes place in Poland, since your countrymen have foreseen the fate of their fatherland. What are the Polish diet doing since they anticipate the close of their sittings? Voting themselves pensions, property, and every conceivable revenue, at the expense of the republic, and giving her, with their own parricidal hands, the coup de grace. Such shameless corruption has never come to light in the history of any other nation. Freedom and fatherland are in every mouth, but, in reality, no people care less for either than do the Poles. Slaves, who, while they hold out their hands to be manacled, are striving to reign over other slaves! [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions," Vol. iv., p. 551.] This is a picture of the Poland whom you love, and through her own crimes she is dying."

"It is not true!" cried the indignant countess. "She dies through the covetousness and greed of her neighbors. It is they who have sown dissension in Poland, while forcing upon her unhappy people a king who is nothing but the despicable tool of their despicable intrigues."

"All this has no reference to Austria," objected the emperor. "We had nothing to do with the selection of the king--nothing to do with the projects of dismemberment. They were resolved upon, with or without our sanction, and the law of self-preservation demands that if we cannot prevent, we must endeavor to profit by them. I know that the partition of Poland has an appearance of gross outrage which is obvious to every eye; while the stringent necessity which has driven Austria to participate in it is known to few. I confess that I would be grieved if the world should misjudge me on this question; for I try, both in public and private life, to be an honest man; and I believe that honesty in statesmanship is the wisest and soundest policy. [Footnote: The emperor's own words. See Raumer, "Contributions," &c., Vol. iv., p. 539.] We could not do otherwise than we have done, and now, with the full conviction of the exigency which has called for the act, I repeat my question to your majesty, have you signed the act, or will you be so kind as to sign it now?"

The empress had listened with profound attention to her son's discourse, and her countenance, which before had been pale with anxiety, had assumed an expression of blended serenity and resolution. A pause ensued. Marble-white and speechless the countess, with half-open mouth, started and bent forward, her eyes fixed upon the empress; the emperor, stern and proud, threw back his head and gazed defiantly.

In the midst of this throbbing silence, Maria Theresa went forward and took her seat at the escritoire. She dipped her pen in the silver inkstand, and a sob, that sounded like the last death-sigh, escaped from the lips of the countess. The empress turned quickly around; but the glance of her eye was resolute and her hand was firm.

She bent over the parchment and wrote; then, throwing her pen on the floor, she turned to the emperor and pointed with her right hand to the deed. "Placet," cried she, with her clear, ringing voice--"placet, since so many great and wise men will have it so. When I am dead, the world will learn what came of this violation of all that man holds sacred." [Footnote: The empress's own words.]

And either that she might conceal her own emotion, or avoid an outburst of grief from the countess, the empress walked hastily through the room, and shut herself up in her dressing-room.

The countess moaned, and murmuring, "Finis Poloniae!" she, too, attempted to cross the room.

The emperor watched her, his eyes beaming with tenderness, his heart a prey to violent anguish. As she reached the door, he saw her reel and cling to a column for support.

With one bound he reached her, and flinging his arms around her swaying figure, she fell, almost unconscious, upon his bosom. For one bewildering moment she lay there.

"Finis Poloniae!" murmured she again, and, drawing herself up to her full height, she again approached the door.

"Farewell!" said she, softly.

The emperor seized her hand. "Anna," said he, imploringly, "Anna, do we part thus? Is this our last interview? Shall we never meet again?"

She turned, and all the love that she had struggled to conquer was in her eyes as they met his. "We shall meet once more," replied she.

"When?" cried Joseph, frantic with grief.

"When the hour has come for us to meet again, I will send for you. Promise to be there to receive my last farewell."

"I swear to be there."

"Then, farewell."

"Farewell, beloved Anna! Oh, let me touch your hand once more!"

"No!" said she, harshly; and, opening the door, she disappeared, and the emperor was left alone.

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LXXIX. THE MAD COUNTESS

Count Starhemberg paced his splendid drawing-room in a state of great excitement. Sometimes he murmured broken sentences, then he sighed heavily, and again he seemed to be a prey to fear. Occasionally, his eyes glanced almost reproachfully toward the figure of a young man, who, with folded arms and smiling countenance, stood in the embrasure of a window watching the old man's agitation.

As the clock on the marble mantel struck the hour, the count stopped before his young visitor, and looked searchingly at his mild and effeminate farce.

"The half hour has elapsed, Count Esterhazy," said he, solemnly. "I have told you frankly that my niece, although a beautiful and perchance a good-hearted woman, has a temper which is the terror of my household. She inherits this misfortune from her deceased father, and, unhappily, her lovely and amiable mother did not long survive him. There has been no one, therefore, to control her; and her terrible temper has never been restrained. Do not say to me that I might have conquered it! I have dedicated my whole life to her; and lest she should make another being unhappy, I have remained a bachelor, as you perceive. But I had made a solemn promise to her parents that I would be a father to her, and I have kept my promise. It is not my fault if their child is less amiable than other women. She has an energetic character, and I fear that if she marries, she will find means to tyrannize over her husband. I repeat this to you count, that we may clearly understand each other; and now that the half hour has gone by, do you still urge your suit?"

"Yes, count, I do," replied Esterhazy in a, soft, treble voice. "I repeat to you the offer of my hand to the Countess Margaret Starhemberg."

The count bowed. "I have done my duty, and, being cleared of all responsibility in the affair, I give my consent. You must now try to win hers."

"I would like to see the countess in your presence," said Esterhazy, unmoved.

Count Starhemberg rang the bell, and ordered a servant to bear a request to his niece to join him in the drawing-room.

"The countess would have the honor of joining her uncle immediately," was the answer.

"This promises well," said the old count, looking relieved. "She generally practises her music at this hour; and I am surprised that--"

Just then the sharp tones of an angry female voice were heard without, then the jingling of glasses, then a crash, and the fall of some heavy metallic body.

"That is my niece," said the old man with a shiver. "With that fanfare she usually announces her coming."

Now the door was flung violently open, and a tall, magnificent woman dashed into the room. Her features, marvellously chiselled as those of the antique Venus, would have been irresistible in beauty, if their expression had corresponded to their symmetry--But in her large black eyes glared the fire of ungoverned passion, and her rosy mouth was curled with contempt.

Her tall figure was of exquisite proportions; and her arms, adorned but not hidden by the lace which fell from the short sleeves of her crimson velvet dress, were as fair and beautiful as those of the Venus of Milo.

Count Esterhazy, intoxicated by the sight of her wondrous beauty, withdrew abashed behind the window-curtain, while the countess, graceful as an angry leopardess, bounded through the room, and stood before her uncle.

"Who has annoyed you, my child?" asked he timidly.

"He is an idiot, an awkward animal, and shall be driven from the house with the lash!" cried she. "Just imagine, uncle, that as I was coming hither, I met him in the anteroom with a plateau of cups and glasses. When he saw me, the fool fell to trembling as if he had seen an evil spirit--the plateau shook; and my dear mother's last gift, the goblet from which she had cooled her dying lips, fell to the floor and was broken."

Her voice, at first so loud and angry, was now soft and pathetic, and her eyes glistened with tears. She shook them off impatiently.

"I can well understand, dear child, how much it must have grieved you to lose this precious relic," said her uncle, soothingly.

She blushed as though she had been surprised in a fault.

"Oh, it was not that," said she, pettishly, "it is all the same to me whether the goblet was a relic or not, for I hate sentiment. But I detest such an awkward fool. He never COULD carry any thing without letting it fall."

"Nay, my child, he has often carried you for hours in his arms, and yet he never let you fall."

"Uncle, your jests are insupportable," cried she, stamping with her little satin-slippered foot upon the carpet. "You excuse this gray-headed dunce merely to vex me, and to remind me that I am an orphan without a home."

"But my dear--"

"Peace! I will not be interrupted. If I am tyrannized over in every other way, I will at least claim the right to speak--I wish to say that this old plague shall not remain here another day to torment my life with his nonsense. This time, however, I made him feel the weight of my hand. His face was as red as my dress after it."

"You struck my faithful old Isidor?" cried the count, shocked.

"Yes, I did," replied she, looking defiantly into her uncle's mild face. "I beat him well, and then I threw the whole waiter of cups and glasses upon the floor. Have you any fault to find with that, my sympathizing uncle?"

"None, none," said the old man. "If it gave you pleasure to break the glasses, we will go out and buy others."

"WE! No, indeed, we shall not. Isidor shall pay for them from his wages. It was his fault that I was obliged to break them, and no one shall suffer for it except himself. I claim that as an act of bare justice to myself. "

"But, my dear countess--"

She stamped her foot again. "Great God! have you no object in life except that of contradicting and ill-treating me?"

The count sighed and approached the door. She heard him, and an exulting smile lit up her beautiful, stormy face.

"Well, as you will not tell him, I shall do it myself. Yes--I shall do it myself. Do you hear, uncle? You shall not say a word to him."

"I will say nothing, Margaret. Will you now allow me to speak of other things? Is your vehemence--"

"UNCLE!"

"In your just displeasure, you have overlooked the fact that we are not alone."

He pointed to the window where, half hidden by the heavy silk drapery, stood Count Frank Esterhazy. The countess followed her uncle's glance, and as she became aware of the visitor's presence, burst into a merry laugh.

"Do not be frightened, young man," said she then; "you may come out from your corner. I am not a cat, and I don't devour mice. Ah, you have heard our discussion? What a pity you are not a dramatic poet, you have had such an opportunity for depicting a foolish old guardian and his spirited ward!"

"Unfortunately, I am not a poet," said the young count, coming forward and bowing to the floor. "If I were, I could write to-day a hundred sonnets to the eyes of the majestic Hera whose anger heightens her wonderful beauty."

"Uncle," said the countess, suddenly assuming a stately and court-like demeanor, "be so good as to present me this young stranger, who pays such insipid compliments."

"My dear niece, let me introduce Count Frank Esterhazy, a nobleman just returned from Italy, who is in high favor with the empress."

"The latter is no recommendation, uncle, for am I not also a favorite with the empress? Have you not often told me so, when the empress was humbling me with some of her tyrannical condescension?"

"Certainly, my child, I have said so."

"Then you see that it is not necessary to be estimable for one to gain the empress's good-will. For my part, I wish she loved me less, for then she would spare me some of the long sermons with which she edifies me, when I happen to appear at court."

"That, probably, is the reason you appear so seldom," said Count Esterhazy. "I have heard your absence complained of."

"By her majesty?" asked Count Starhemberg.

"No, your excellency, by the emperor."

"What did he say?"

"Dare I repeat his words?" asked Esterhazy, appealing to the countess. She bowed her head, and leaned against the back of an arm-chair.

"I was yesterday at the empress's reception. The emperor was so kind as to do the honors of the court to me. He pointed out the several beauties of Vienna, who were all strangers to me--'But,' said he, 'the most beautiful woman in Austria I cannot show you, for she is not here. The Countess Margaret von Starhemberg has the beauty of Juno and Venus united.'"

The countess said nothing; she stood with downcast eyes. Her cheek had paled, and her lips were firmly compressed together. Suddenly she rallied and said, with a careless laugh

"I wager that the empress and her ladies made some amiable commentary on the emperor's words. Come, tell me, what said the empress?"

"If you command me, countess, I will tell you. The empress added, with a sigh, 'It is true, she is as beautiful as a goddess, but it is Eris whom she resembles."'

"Very witty!" exclaimed the countess, with a sneer.

"And the emperor?" inquired the uncle.

"The emperor frowned at the ladies, who began to laugh. 'Your majesty may be right,' said he, 'but Grecian mythology has forgotten to say whether the fierce goddess was ever vanquished by love. Love tames the most turbulent of women."'

The countess uttered a sharp cry, and caught with both her hands at the back of the arm-chair. Her eyes closed, and a deadly paleness overspread her countenance. Her uncle hastened to put his arm around her, inquiring tenderly, "Dearest child, what ails you?"

She leaned for a while upon his shoulder; then raising her head while deep blushes crimsoned her cheeks, she said, haughtily: "It is nothing. A sudden faintness to which I am subject." With an inclination of the head to Count Esterhazy, she continued

"You will be so good as not to mention this weakness of mine. It is purely physical, and I hope to conquer it in time. I am rejoiced to think that I have verified the words of the empress and have appeared before you to-day as an Eris. I suppose you came hither to see me out of curiosity."

"No Countess Margaret, the purport of my visit was any thing but curiosity. I come, with the sanction of your guardian, to offer you my hand."

The black eyes of the countess darted fire at the smiling suitor.

"You do not answer me," said he blandly. "I say that I have won the consent of your uncle, and respectfully solicit yours. It shall be the study of my life to make you happy, and, perhaps, at some future day, my untiring devotion may win a return of my love. Speak, then, countess; say that you will be my wife."

"Never, never!" cried she, stretching forth her arms as though to ward away some threatening evil. "I shall never be the wife of any man. I was not made for marriage, I cannot bow my will before that of any other fellow-mortal."

"I shall not require you to do so," replied the count, as though he had now removed every objection. "You will be in my house as you are here, absolute mistress of all things, and I shall claim nothing but the right of being your humblest and most devoted servant."

"Unhappily for you, you know not what you claim," exclaimed the countess angrily. "Ask my uncle, ask his household, and they will tell you that I am a tyrant, changing my will twenty times an hour; hating to-day the thing I shall love to-morrow. You would aspire to be my husband, would you? Have you no friends to warn you of the reefs upon which you are running that poor little crazy bark of yours? Why the very people, as they see me pass, tell of my frantic doings; and every child in Vienna knows that I beat my servants, rage about my uncle's house like the foul fiend, and dash through the streets on horseback like the Wild Huntsman."

"'Love tames the wildest hearts,' so says the emperor."

Margaret started, and darted a fiery glance at his tranquil face.

"But I do not love you, I tell you; and it is useless to say another word on the subject."

"Nay," said the count, taking her hand, "it is not useless. I beseech you, do not deny my suit."

At this moment the door opened, and a servant came in with a golden tray, on which lay a letter.

"From her majesty the empress," said the servant, handing it to Count Starhemberg. The count took the letter and went into the embrasure of the window, while the servant retired noiselessly.

"Countess Margaret," said Count Esterhazy, in an imploring voice, "once more I entreat you to accept me as your husband."

She looked at him with withering contempt. "Have I not told you," cried she, passionately, "that I do not love you? A man of honor ceases to importune a woman after such an avowal."

"A man of spirit never gives up; he perseveres, in the hope that sooner or later, he will reach his goal. No man has the right to expect that he will obtain a treasure without trouble."

"Cant! miserable cant!" And the great glowing eyes that were looking with such scorn at the alight figure of the count, encountered their own image in the glass before which they both were standing.

"Look!" cried she, pointing to the mirror, "yonder reflection gives its answer to your suit. Do you see that tall woman, whose head towers above the blond mannikin that stands beside her? Look at her black hair, her fiery eyes, and resolute bearing! And now look at the little fair-haired puppet, that resembles a man about as much as do the statuettes on my toilet-table. Ah, sir count, if you were the woman and I the man there might be marriage between us! But as it is, you would die of my violence, or I of your insipidity. So, excuse me."

She made a deep courtesy and turned to leave the room. But she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and looking back, she saw her uncle gazing at her with a face of great anxiety.

"My child," said he, in a faltering voice, "do not send Count Esterhazy so rudely away. He is rich, noble, and distinguished, and in every way worthy of my lovely niece. Do not refuse him, Margaret."

"The count has recovered from his stupid delusion, uncle; I have told him how impossible it is for me to accept his hand."

"But, my poor child, you must try to love him. You dare not reject his offer."

"What! I dare not reject whom I please!" cried she, in a voice shrill with passion.

"No, you dare not. The empress commands you to accept the hand of Count Esterhazy. Here is the note I have at this moment received from her majesty."

Margaret tore the paper savagely from her uncle's hand. With staring eyes she read its contents, while her whole body trembled violently, and her lips were bloody with the efforts she was making to suppress a scream.

At last she gave it back. "Read it," said she, hoarsely; "the letters swim before my eyes."

The count took the note and read:

"Dear Count Starhemberg: It is my desire that your niece, the Countess Margaret, shall become the wife of some honorable man. In this way she may hope to conquer her ungovernable temper, and become a reasonable woman. I have heard that Count Esterhazy intends to become her suitor, and I command her to accept his hand. She has led a life of wild independence, and it is time she were tamed by the cares, duties, and responsibilities of matrimony. I am both her empress and godmother, and I use my double right for her good. The marriage shall take place in one week, or she goes into a convent. That is my ultimatum. "I remain yours with sentiments of esteem, "MARIA THERESA."

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LXXX. THE BETROTHAL

A long pause ensued after the reading of the letter. The countess stood with her eyes riveted upon her uncle's face, as though she were waiting for something more. The young count watched her furtively, but he looked determined.

"You see, my child," at last sighed the old count, "it is inevitable. The empress must be obeyed."

"No, no!" screamed the wretched girl, awaking from her stupor, "I will not be the wife of that man."

"Then you will have to go into a convent."

"No!" cried she, her face suddenly lighting up with a flash of hope--"no, I will do neither. There is a means of rescuing me from both."

She turned with a bewitching smile to Count Esterhazy, and in a voice whose softness was music to his ear, she addressed him:

"In your hands lies the power to rescue me from a forced bridal. You have heard that despotic note from the empress. Match-making is a monomania with Maria Theresa: it is useless, therefore, for me to appeal to her, for on a question of marriage she is inexorable. But you, Count Esterhazy," continued she, in tones of caressing melody, "you will rescue me, will you not? I cannot be your wife, for I do not love you; I cannot go into a convent, for I have no piety. Go, then, to the empress, and tell her that you do not wish to marry me. You, at least, are free. Refuse to accept me for your wife, and this miserable comedy is at an end."

She had clasped her little white hands, and was looking imploringly in his face.

The young man shook his head. "I cannot say this to the empress," said he, quietly, "for it is she who sent me hither to woo you."

"The empress sent you hither!" cried the countess, springing forward like a lioness. "You came not as a free suitor, but as an obedient slave of the empress."

"I came at the command of the empress," said the young man, mildly.

The countess burst into a loud laugh.

"That, then, was the glowing love which you were describing just now; that your tender wish to live for my happiness alone. Obedient school-boy! You were told to come and ask for my hand, and you came--for fear of being whipped--Oh! why am I not a man? By the heaven above! no woman should inflict upon me such contumely!"

"It is true," said Count Esterhazy, taking no note of her words, "that the empress ordered me hither. But since I have seen you, I need no prompting save that of my own heart."

"Peace, fool! nobody believes you. You had consented to woo me, in obedience to your despotic sovereign. But you have seen me; now you know with how much justice I am called 'The Mad Countess,' and now, surely, you have manhood enough to reject a termagant like me. Go, then, and tell the empress that I was willing, but you were not--"

"I would not thus belie you, lovely Margaret."

"What do I care whether you belie me or not, so that I am rid of you?" said she, contemptuously.

"Submit, my dear child," said the old count, with tears in his eyes. "'Tis the first time in your life that you have been thwarted, and therefore it is hard for you to succumb."

"I will not submit!" cried Margaret, flinging back her head. "I will not marry this man. Uncle, dear uncle, leave me one moment with him. I have something to say that he alone must hear."

The count withdrew at once into another room.

"Now, sir, that we are alone, I have a secret to reveal--to God and to yourself. Swear by the memory of your mother that you will not betray me."

"I swear."

She bowed her head, as though accepting the oath. "And now," raid she, faltering and blushing, "I will tell you why I can never be your wife. I--" she hesitated, and her head sank upon her bosom, while she stifled a sigh. "I love another," whispered she, almost inarticulately. "Yes, I love another. I love him with every throb of my heart, with all the strength of my being. My every breath is a prayer for him. Every wish, hope, and longing of my soul points to him alone. I would die to give him one hour of joy. Now, that I have made this avowal, you retract your suit, do you not? You will go now to the empress and say that you will not accept me for your wife. You give me my freedom, surely--you give it to me now."

Count Esterhazy smiled compassionately. "This is a fable, countess, which you have invented to escape me. A few moments ago you said that you would never love."

"I said that to disincline you to marry me."

"I do not believe you," said Esterhazy, calmly. "You have invented this story of your love for that end; but it is a falsehood, for you are as cold as an icicle."

"Oh, I wish that I were. For this love is my greatest misfortune. Look at me, count. Does this seem like dissimulation?"

And she raised up to his view a face, scarlet with blushes, and eyes filled with burning tears.

"No, countess," sail Esterbazy, after contemplating her earnestly, "I will believe the tears that glisten in your speaking eyes. But now, answer me one question. Your confidence gives me the right to ask it. Is your love returned?"

She remained silent, as if communing with herself, while every trace of color vanished from her cheeks.

"No," said she, at last, with quivering lips. "No, he does not know it; and if he did, he could not offer me his hand."

"Then," replied Esterhazy, coolly, "your love is no impediment to our marriage. Cherish it, if you choose; raise altars to this unknown god, and deck them with the brightest flowers of devotion. I will not inquire the name of your deity. Your secret is safe, even from myself. I, on the contrary, have never loved. My heart stands with doors and windows open, ready to receive its mistress; and as the empress has selected you, it waits joyfully for you to take possession."

The countess laid her hand upon his arm, and grasped it like a vise.

"You will not recede!" said she, hoarsely. "You still persist in desiring me for your wife?"

"You have told me that your love is hopeless, therefore is mine hopeful. Perhaps one day it may succeed in winning yours."

"But you do not love me," shrieked the maddened girl. "You are here by command of the empress."

"And the Esterhazys have always been the loyal servants of the empress. Whenever she commands, they obey--were it at the cost of life and happiness. Allow me, then, to persevere in my obedience, not only to her desires, but to my own. I once more solicit the honor of your hand."

"Woe to you if, after this, I yield!" cried she, with threatening gesture. "I have stooped to entreat you, and my prayers have been vain. I have withdrawn the womanly veil that concealed my heart's cherished secret, and you have not renounced your unmanly suit. I said that I did not love you. Look at me, and hear me, while I vow eternal hatred, should I be forced to give you my hand."

"There is but one step from hate to love. Allow me to hope that you will think better of it, and take that step."

A fearful cry rang from her lips, her eyes glowed like burning coals, and she raised her clinched hand as though she had hoped it might fell him to the earth. But suddenly it sank helpless to her side, and she looked long and searchingly into Count Esterhazy's face.

A long silence ensued. "It is well," said she, at length, in clear, shrill tones. "You have challenged me to mortal combat, and it may be that you will win. But, oh, believe me when I tell you that victory will bring you no glory! Your strength is not your own; it lies in the imperial hand of Maria Theresa. I swear to you that if I become your wife, my whole life shall be consecrated to hatred and revenge. Count Esterhazy, I hold my word inviolate, whether I pledge it to friend or foe; tend when the blight shall fall upon your head that will grow out of this hour we have spent together, remember that had you been a man of honor you might have spared yourself the shame!"

Without another word she lifted her proud head, and, with a look of withering scorn, left the room.

Count Esterhazy's eyes followed her retreating figure, and his placid brow grew troubled. "Beautiful as she is," murmured he, "it is dangerous to woo her. She has the beauty of Medusa. My heart positively seems to petrify under her glance. I would be more than willing to renounce the honor of wedding this beautiful demon, but I dare not refuse."

And he drew out his delicate, embroidered handkerchief to wipe off the big drops of sweat that stood upon his forehead.

"Well?" asked Count Starhemberg, opening the door and putting through his head.

"Pray come in," said Esterhazy, in a piteous tone.

"Ah, my niece has left! Well, I suppose that, as usual, she has conquered, and you release her?"

"Not at all," replied the unhappy mannikin; "I still beg for the honor of her hand. The empress has spoken, and I have only to obey."

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LXXXI. FRANZ ANTONY MESMER

For some weeks great excitement had existed in Vienna. In all assemblies, coffee-houses, and restaurants, in the streets and on the public places, the topic of conversation had been the wonderful cures of the Suabian physician, Mesmer. These cures contravened all past experience, and set at naught all reason. Mesmer made no use of decoction or electuary--he prescribed neither baths nor cataplasms; he cured his patients by the power of his hand and the glance of his large, dark eye. He breathed upon their foreheads, and forthwith they saw visions of far-off lands; he passed the tips of his fingers over their faces, and pain and suffering vanished at his touch. No wonder that physicians denounced him as a charlatan, and apothecaries reviled him as an impostor.

No wonder that the populace, so prone to believe the marvellous, had faith in Mesmer, and reverenced him as a saint. Why should he not perform miracles with his hand, as did Moses with a rod, when he struck the rock? Why should not the power of his eye master disease, as once the glance of the Apostles gave speech to the dumb, and awakened life in the dead?

Mesmer, too, was an apostle--the apostle of a new faith. He bade suffering humanity turn to heaven for relief. "The reflection from the planets," said he, "and the rays of the sun, exercise over the human system a magnetic power. The great remedy for disease lies in this magnetic power, which resides in iron and steel, and which has its highest and most mysterious development in man."

The people believed, and sought his healing hand. He mastered their infirmities, and soothed their sufferings. But the more the world honored and trusted him, the more bitter grew the hatred of the faculty. Each day brought him fresh blessings and fresh imprecations. The physicians, who, in Salzburg, had hurled Paracelsus from a rock, dared not attempt the life of Mesmer; but they persecuted him as an impostor, and proved, by learned and scientific deduction, that his system was a lying absurdity.

Those who affected strength of mind, and refused to believe any thing except that which could be demonstrated by process of reasoning, gave in their adherence to the indignant physicians. Those, on the contrary, who had faith in the mysteries of religion, were disciples of Mesmer; and they reverenced him as a prophet sent from heaven, to prove the supremacy of nature over knowledge.

Mesmer's fame had reached the court, and the empress herself became interested in his extraordinary achievements. In vain Van Swieten and Stork besought her to silence the audacious quack, who was ruining a great profession. She shook her head, and would have nothing to do with the feud.

"I shall wait and see," said she. "His system is harmless, and I shall not fetter him. One thing is certain. His manipulations will never poison anybody, as many a regular physician's prescription has done, and he shall not be molested. He has voluntarily sought an ordeal which will determine his position before the world. If he cures the blindness of my little protege, Therese, I shall give in my adherence with the rest; for he who restores the blind to sight, holds his skill from above."

This young girl was known to all Vienna. In her second year, after an attack of suppressed measles, she had become blind, and all attempts to restore her sight had proved unavailing. But if sight had been denied to her eyes, her soul was lit up by the inspiration of art. When Therese sat before the harpsichord and her dexterous fingers wandered over its keys--when, with undisturbed serenity, she executed the most difficult music that could be written for the instrument, no one who saw her beautiful eyes could have surmised their inutility. Her features were expressive, and those sightless eyes apemed at times to brighten with joy, or to grow dim with sorrow. Nevertheless, Therese von Paradies was wholly blind; her eyes were merely the portals of her soul--they sent forth light, but received none in return.

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