LXXXII. THERESE VON PARADIES…

LXXXII. THERESE VON PARADIES

Therese von Paradies was in her room; her mother stood near, for, with the assistance of a maid, she had just completed her daughter's toilet. Therese was elegantly dressed, and she seemed to enjoy her splendor although she was not permitted to see it.

"Say, mother," said she, as the last touch had been given to her dress, "of what material is my gown? It feels as soft as a young girl's cheek."

"It is satin, my child."

"Satin? And the color?"

"White."

"White!" repeated she, softly. "The color without color. How strange that must be! I shudder when I think that I shall see it before long."

"Why should you shudder?" said her mother, tenderly. "You should rejoice, dear child, that the world, with all its beauties, is about to become known to you."

"I do not know," replied Therese, thoughtfully. "I shall enter upon a new world which will astonish and perchance affright me by its strangeness. Now I know you all in my heart, but when I see you I shall no longer recognize you. Oh, mother, why do you wish me to be restored to sight? I am very happy as I am."

"Silly child, you will be still happier when you see. It is absurd for you to dread an event which will add a hundredfold to your enjoyment of life."'

"And why absurd, dear mother? Does not the heart of the bride, on her wedding-day, beat half in hope and half in fear? And is not her soul filled with sweet apprehension? I am a bride--the bride of light--and I await my lover to-day."

"Ah, who knows if light will come?" sighed the mother.

"It will come, mother," said Therese, confidently. "I felt it yesterday, when, for a moment, Mesmer removed the bandage from my eyes. It was for a second, but I SAW, and what I saw cut like a sharp sword athwart my eyes, and I fell, almost unconscious."

"That was a ray of light---the first glance of your bridegroom!" cried the mother, joyfully.

"Then I fear that I shall never be able to bear his presence," replied Therese, sadly. "But tell me, mother, am I dressed as becomes a bride?"

"Yes, Therese, you are beautifully dressed; for to-day we receive a throng of distinguished guests. The empress herself has sent one of her lords in waiting, to bear her the tidings of your restoration to sight. The two great doctors, Van Swieten and Stork, will be here to see the marvel; and princes and princesses, lords and ladies, ministers and generals, will be around you."

"How is my hair dressed?"

"It is dressed as you like it, a la Matignon. Pepi has built a tower upon your head at least three quarters of an ell high, and above that is a blue rosette, with long ends."

"It is indeed very high," replied Therese, laughing, "for I cannot reach it with my hands. But I have another question to ask, dear mother. Promise me that it shall be frankly answered."

"I promise."

"Well, then, tell me, is my appearance pleasing? Hitherto every one has been kind to me because of my misfortune; but when I stand upon equal footing with other women, do you think that I am pretty enough to give pleasure to my friends?"

"Yes, my dear, you are very handsome," said the mother, smiling lovingly at her child's simplicity. "Your figure is graceful, your face is oval, your features are regular, and your brow is high and thoughtful. When the light of day shall be reflected from your large, dark eyes, you will be a beautiful woman, my daughter."

"Thank you, dear mother, these are pleasant tidings," said Therese, kissing her.

"I must leave you, dearest," said her mother, softly disengaging herself from Therese's arms. "I have my own toilet to make, and some preparations for our guests. I will send the maid."

"No, dear mother, send no one. I need silence and solitude. I, too, have preparations to make for the heavenly guest that visits me to-day. I must strengthen my soul by prayer."

She accompanied her mother to the door, kissed her again, and returning, seated herself at the harpsichord. And now from its keys came forth sounds of mirth and melancholy, of love and complaint, of prayers and tear. At one time she intoned a hymn of joy; then came stealing over the air a melody that brought tears to the eyes of the musician; then it changed and swelled into a torrent of gushing harmony.

Suddenly she paused, a tremor ran through her frame, and a blush slowly mantled her cheek. Her hands fell, and her bosom heaved. As if drawn by some invisible power, she rose from her instrument and went toward the door. In the centre of the room she stopped and pressed her hands upon her heart.

"He comes," murmured she, with a smile of ecstasy, "he mounts the staircase, now he is in the corridor, his hand is upon the door."

Yes; the door opened so softly that the acutest ear could not have detected a sound. But Therese felt it, and she would have gone forward, but her feet were paralyzed, and she remained with outstretched arms. With her heart she had seen him who now appeared upon the threshold. The person, whose coming had so agitated the young girl, was a man of scarcely forty years, of a lofty imposing carriage, and of prepossessing features. His large, blue eyes rested upon Therese with a glance of power, which thrilled through every fibre of her being. He held out his right arm toward her; then slowly lowering it, he pointed to the floor. Therese followed its motion and sank on her knees. A triumphant smile beamed over Mesmer's face, and he raised his hand again. The girl arose, and as though she had seen him open his arms, she darted forward and laid her head upon his breast.

"Mesmer, my friend, my physician," whispered she, softly.

"Yes, it is I," replied Mesmer, in a rich, melodious voice. "Your heart has seen me, your eyes shall see me too, my child."

He led her to a sofa and seated her gently beside him. Then passing his outstretched band before her, she trembled.

"You are very much excited to-day, Therese," said he, with a slight tone of disapprobation.

"I am excited because you are so, dear friend," said the blind girl. "Your eyes dart beams that threaten to consume the world."

"A world of ignorance and of wickedness," said he, in reply. "Yes, Therese, I will consume it to-day, and in its stead shall arise a supernatural world; yet one to which banished Nature shall return and claim her rights to man. Oh, will I have strength to say, 'Let there be light!"'

"Dear friend, if you doubt the result, do not expose yourself to the humiliation of failure. I am satisfied with my blindness, for I have a world of light in my heart."

"No!" cried Mesmer, with energy, "the work is begun, it must be completed. You MUST see, Therese, or all for which I have striven will recoil upon my head, and bury me beneath its ruins. This day decides not only your fate, poor child, but mine. To-day must Mesmer prove to the world that the animal magnetism, which physicians deride as a quackery, savans deny as impracticable, and the people ignorantly worship as sorcery, is a golden link which binds humanity to heaven. To-day you shall be healed by the magnetic power which binds you to me, and links us both to God."

"Heal me then, dear master!" cried the girl, inspired by his enthusiasm. "Restore me to sight, and, in so doing, give light to those who cannot see your Godlike gift."

He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and gazed earnestly in her face. "You have faith in me then, Theresa, have you not?"

"I believe in you, and I comprehend you, master. I know that I shall see; and when the scales fall from my eyes, the light of conviction will dawn for others. They will then comprehend that there is a power in Nature stronger than the craft of bare human wisdom."

"Oh, you speak my very thoughts, dear Therese," said Mesmer, tenderly. "You see into my mind, and its perceptions find birth upon your lips. Let doctors sneer, and learned skeptics disbelieve, but the day will come when all must acknowledge that magnetism is truth, and all human wisdom lies. Physicians, though, will be its deadliest enemies, for they are travellers, who, having strayed from the right path, go farther and farther from truth, because they will not retrace their steps." [Footnote: Mesmer's own words. See "Franz Anton Mesmer, of Suabia," by Dr. Justinus Kerner. p. 58.]

"But you will show them the path, my master, and the world will honor you above other men."

"If ingratitude do not blind it to truth. It is hard to find daylight in the labyrinth of established faith. I, too, have wandered in this labyrinth, but in all my divarications I sought for Truth. With passionate longing I called her to my help. Far removed from the hum of human imbecility, down among the solitudes of untrodden forests I sought her. Here I was face to face with Nature, and listened for response to the anxious questionings of my restless heart. It was well for me that the trees were the only witnesses of my agitation, for my fellow-men, had they met, would have chained me as a madman."

"Not I, master. I would have understood your noble strife."

Mesmer pressed her hand and went on: "Every occupation became distasteful to me, every moment dedicated to aught else seemed to be treason to truth. I regretted the time which it cost me to translate my thoughts into words, and I formed the singular resolution of keeping silence. For three months I reflected without speaking a word. At the end of this time a new faculty unfolded itself in my mind, and I began to see with rapture that the day of truth had dawned. I knew that henceforth my life would be one long struggle against preconceived error; but this did not affright me. So much the more did I feel the obligation resting upon me to impart to my fellow-beings the gifts I had received. I have suffered much from their prejudices; but most from the sneers of envious physicians, who, sooner than receive a light from other hands, would stumble in the night of their ignorance forever. [Footnote: This whole conversation is in Mesmer's words. See Justinus Kerner, p. 60.] But my day of triumph is here. You, Therese, are the evangelist of my new faith, and your restored vision shall announce it to the world!"

"It shall, dear master, it shall; and against their will these infidels shall believe. They will see that we have all been blind together--all but you, who, questioning in faith, have received your answer from on high. Take the bandage from my eyes and let me see the light of day! I tremble no longer with apprehension of its splendor!"

Mesmer held her back as she raised her hands to her head. "Not yet, Therese. Your bandage must be removed in the presence of my enemies."

"Whom do you expect, master?"

"I have told you--I expect my enemies. Professor Barth will be there to sneer at the charlatan who, by an invisible power, has healed the malady which his couching knife would have sought in vain to remove. Doctor Ingenhaus, my bitter rival, will be there, to find out by what infernal magic the charlatan has cured hundreds of patients pronounced by him incurable. Father Hell will be there, to see if the presence of a great astronomer will not affright the charlatan. Oh, yes!--And others will be there--none seeking knowledge, but all hoping to see me discomfited."

"Do not call yourself so often by that unworthy name," said Therese sorrowfully.

"Men call me so; I may as well accept the title."

"Perhaps they have called you so in days gone by; but from this day they will call you 'Master,' and will crave your pardon for the obloquy they have heaped upon your noble head."

"How little you know of the world, Therese! It never pardons those who convict it of error; and above all other hatred is the hatred that mankind feel for their benefactors."

"Gracious Heaven, master, if this is the world which is to open to my view, in mercy leave me to my blindness!"

She stopped suddenly, and sank back upon the cushion of the sofa. Mesmer raised his hands and passed them before her forehead.

"You are too much excited. Sleep!"

"No, no, I do not wish to sleep," murmured she.

"I command you to sleep," repeated Mesmer.

Therese heaved a sigh; her head fell farther back, and her audible, regular breathing soon proved that sleep had come at the bidding of her master.

Mesmer bent over her, and began his manipulations. He approached her lips, and opening her mouth, breathed into it. She smiled a happy smile. He then raised his hands and touching the crown of her head described half-circles in the air; then stooping over her, he again inhaled her breath, and breathed his own into her mouth.

The door opened, and the mother of Therese came in.

"The guests are here," said she.

Mesmer inclined his head. "We are ready."

"Ready and Therese sleeps so soundly?"

"I will awake her when it is time. Where is my harmonicon?"

"In the parlor, where you ordered it to be placed."

"Let us go, then, and thence we will call Therese. "

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LXXXIII. THE FIRST DAY OF LIGHT

The elite of Vienna were assembled in the drawing-room of Herr von Paradies. The aristocratic, the scientific, and the artistic world were represented; and the empress, as before intimated, had sent her messenger to take notes of the extraordinary experiment which was that day to be tried upon the person of her young pensioner. At the request of Mesmer, some of the lower classes were there also, for it was his desire that the cottage as well as the palace should bear testimony to the triumph of animal magnetism over the prejudices of conventional science.

By order of Mesmer, the room had been darkened, and heavy green curtains hung before every window. Seats were arranged around the room, in the centre of which was a space occupied by a couch, some chairs, and a table on which lay a box.

Upon this box the eyes of the spectators were riveted; and Professor Barth himself, in spite of his arrogant bearing, felt quite as much curiosity as his neighbors, to see its contents.

"You will see, Herr Kollege," said he to one who sat beside him, "you will see that he merely wishes to collect this brilliant assemblage in order to perform an operation in their presence, and so make a name for himself. This box of course contains the instruments. Wait and watch for the lancet that first or last is sure to make its appearance."

"What will be the use of his lancet," replied Herr Kollege, "when there is nothing upon which it can operate? The girl is irretrievably blind; for neither knife nor lancet can restore life to the deadened optical nerve."

"If he attempts to use the lancet in MY presence," said the professor in a threatening tone, "I will prevent him. I shall watch him closely, and woe to the impostor if I surprise him at a trick!"

"The box does not contain surgical instruments," whispered the astronomer Hell. "I know what he has in there."

"What?" asked the others eagerly.

"A planet, my friends. You know be is given to meddling with planets. I hope it is one unknown to science; for if he has carried off any of MY stars, I shall have him arrested for robbery."

This sally caused much laughter, which was interrupted by the entrance of Mesmer with Frau von Paradies. Without seeming to observe the spectators who now thronged the room, Mesmer advanced to the table where lay the box. His face was pale, but perfectly resolute; and as his eyes were raised to meet those of the guests, each one felt that whatever might be the result, in the soul of the operator there was neither doubt nor fear.

Mesmer opened the box. A breathless silence greeted this act. Every whisper was hushed, every straining glance was fixed upon that mysterious coffer. He seated himself before it, and Professor Barth whispered, "Now he is about to take out his instruments."

But he was interrupted by the sound of music--music so exquisite that the heart of the learned professor himself responded to its pathos. It swelled and swelled until it penetrated the room and filled all space with its thrilling notes. All present felt its power, and every eye was fixed upon the enchanter, who was swaying a multitude as though their emotions had been his slaves, and his music the voice that bade them live or die.

"Ah!" whispered the astronomer, "you made a mistake of a part of speech. The man has not instruments, but AN instrument."

"True," replied the professor, "and your planet turns out to be an insignificant harmonicon."

"And the lancet," added Inaenhaus, "is a cork, with a whale-bone handle."

Mesmer played on, and now his music seemed an entreaty to some invisible spirit to appear and reveal itself to mortal eyes. At least, so it sounded to the ears of his listeners. They started--for responsive to the call, a tall white figure, whose feet seemed scarcely to touch the floor, glided in and stood for a moment irresolute. Mesmer raised his hand and stretching it out toward her, she moved. Still he played on, and nearer and nearer she came, while the music grew louder and more irresistible in its pleadings.

A movement was perceptible among the spectators. Several ladies had fainted; their nerves had given way before the might of that wonderful music.[Footnote: It frequently happened that not only women, but men also, fainted, when Mesmer played on the glass-harmonicon. Justinus Kerner, p. 41.] But no one felt disposed to move to assist them, for all were absorbed by the spell, and each one gazed in speechless expectation upon Mesmer and Therese.

He still played on, but he threw up his head, and his large eyes were directed toward his patient with a look of authority. She felt the glance and trembled. Then she hastened her steps, and smilingly advanced until she stood close beside the table. He pointed to the couch, and she immediately turned toward it and sat down.

"This is well gotten up," said Professor Barth. "The scene must have been rehearsed more than once."

"If the blind are to be restored to sight by harmonicons," whispered Doctor Ingenhaus, "I shall throw my books to the winds, and become an itinerant musician."

"If planets are to be brought down by a wave of the hand," said Hell, "I will break all my telescopes, and offer my services to Mesmer as an amanuensis."

The harmonicon ceased, and the censorious professors were forced to stop their cavilling.

Mesmer arose, and, approaching Therese, made a few passes above her head.

"My eyes burn as if they were pierced with red-hot daggers," said she, with an expression of great suffering.

He now directed the tips of his fingers toward her eyes, and touched the bandage.

"Remove the bandage, and see!" cried he in a loud voice.

Therese tore it off, and pale as death she gazed with wonder at the "Master," who stood directly in front of her. Pointing to him, she said with an expression of fear and dislike:

"Is that a man which stands before me?" [Footnote: Therese's own words. Justinus Kerner, p. 63.]

Mesmer bowed his head. Therese started back, exclaiming, "It is fearful! But where is Mesmer? Show me Mesmer!"

"I am he," said Mesmer, approaching her.

She drew back and looked at him with a scrutinizing expression.

"I had supposed that the human face was radiant with joy," said she, "but this one looks like incarnate woe. Are all mankind sad? Where is my mother?"

Frau von Paradies was awaiting her daughter's call; she now came forward, her face beaming with love and joy. But Therese, instead of meeting her with equal fervor, shrank, and covered her face with her hands.

"Therese, my daughter, look upon me," said the mother.

"It is her voice," cried Therese, joyfully, removing her hands. Frau von Paradies stood by, smiling.

"Is this my mother?" continued she, looking up into her face. "Yes--it must be so; those tearful eyes are full of love. Oh, mother, come nearer, and let me look into those loving eyes!"

Her mother leaned over her, but again Therese recoiled. "What a frightful thing!" said she, with a look of fear.

"What, Therese? What is frightful?" asked her mother.

"Look at your mother, Therese," said Mesmer. She heard the well-beloved voice, and her hands fell from her eyes.

"Now tell me, what disturbs you," said Frau von Paradies.

Therese raised her hand and pointed to her mother's nose. "It is that," said she. "What is it?"

"It is my nose!" exclaimed her mother, laughing, and her laugh was echoed throughout the room.

"This nose on the human face is horrible," said Therese. "It threatens me as though it would stab my eyes." [Footnote: These are the exact words of Therese. Justinus Kerner, p 68.]

"I will show you the figure of a man who threatens," said Mesmer, assuming an angry air, clinching his fists, and advancing a few paces.

Therese fell upon her knees with a cry. "You will kill me!" exclaimed she, cowering to the floor.

The spectators were thunderstruck. Even Professor Barth yielded to the overwhelming evidence of his senses.

"By Heaven, it is no deception!" exclaimed he. "She sees!"

"Since Professor Barth is convinced, no one will dare dispute the fact," observed Mesmer, loud enough to be overheard by the professor.

Barth frowned, and pretended not to hear. He already repented of what he had said, and would have bought back his own words with a handful of ducats. But it was too late. Every one had heard him, and on every side murmurs of astonishment and of admiration grew into distinct applause.

Meanwhile, Therese was greeting her father and her other relatives. But she, who had always been so affectionate, was now embarrassed and cold.

"I knew it," said she, sadly. "I knew that the gift of sight would not increase my happiness. Imagination had drawn your images, and I loved the pictures she had painted. But now that I see you with the eyes of flesh, my heart recoils from participation in the sad secrets which your careworn faces reveal. Ah, I believe that love, in its highest sense, is known to the blind alone! But where is Bello? Let me see my dog, the faithful companion of my days of dependence."

Bello had been whining at the door, and as Frau von Paradies opened it, he bounded to his mistress, caressing her with his paws, and licking her hands.

Therese bent over him, and the dog raised his eyes to hers. She stroked his glossy, black coat and; for the first time since she had recovered her sight, she smiled.

"This dog is more pleasing to me than man," said she, communing with herself. "There is truth in his eyes, and his face does not terrify me, like those of my own race." [Footnote: Therese's own words. Justinus Kerner, p. 63.]

"I think we may take our leave," growled Professor Barth, "the comedy is over, and the relations and friends can applaud the author and the actress. I don't feel it my duty to remain for that purpose."

"Nor I," added Doctor Ingenhaus, as he prepared to accompany the professor. "My head is in a whirl with the antics of this devilish doctor."

"Take me with you," said Father Hell. "I must go and look after my planets. I'm afraid we shall miss another Pleiad."

So saying, the representatives of science took their leave. At the door they met Count von Langermann, the messenger of the empress.

"Ah, gentlemen," said he, "you are hastening from this enchanted spot to announce its wonders to the world. No one will venture to doubt, when such learned professors have seen and believed. I myself am on my way to apprise the empress of Mesmer's success."

"Pray inform the empress, also, that we have seen an admirable comedy, count," said Barth, with a sneer.

"A comedy!" echoed the count. "It is a marvellous reality. Yourself confessed it, professor."

"A careless word, prematurely uttered, is not to be accepted as evidence," growled Barth.

"Such astounding things demand time for consideration. They may be optical delusions," added Ingenhaus.

"Ah, gentlemen, the fact is a stubborn one," laughed Count Langermann. "Therese von Paradies has recovered her sight without couching-knife or lancet, and I shall certainly convey the news of the miracle to the empress."

"What shall we do?" asked the astronomer of his compeers, as Count Langermann bowed and left them.

Professor Barth answered nothing.

"We must devise something to prop up science, or she will fall upon our heads and crush us to death," said Ingenhaus.

"What are we to do?" repeated Barth, slowly, as after an embarrassing silence, the three had walked some distance together down the street. "I will tell you what we must do. Treat the whole thing as a farce, and maintain, in the face of all opposition, that Therese von Paradies is still blind."

"But, my honored friend, unhappily for us all, you have made this impracticable by your awkward enthusiasm."

"I spoke ironically, and the ass mistook sarcasm for conviction."

"Yes, and so did everybody else." sighed Hell. "You will find it difficult to convince the world that you were not in earnest."

"Perhaps today and tomorrow I may fail to convince the world, but the day after it will begin to reason and to doubt. If we do not oppose this quack with a strong phalanx of learned men, we shall be sneered at for our previous incredulity. Now I adhere to my text. Therese von Paradies is blind, and no one shall prove to me that she can see. Come to my study, and let us talk this provoking matter over."

Meanwhile, Therese was receiving the congratulations of her friends. She gazed at their unknown faces with a melancholy smile, and frowned when it was said to her, "This is the friend whom you love so much"--"This is the relative whose society has always been so agreeable to you."

Then she closed her eyes, and said they were weary. "Let me hear your voices, and so accustom myself to your strange countenances," said she. "Speak, dear friends; I would rather know you with the heart than with these deceiving eyes."

Suddenly, as one of her female companions came up to greet her, Therese burst into a merry laugh. "What absurd thing is that growing out of your head?" asked she.

"Why, that is the coiffure, which you like the best," replied her mother. "It is a coiffure a la Matignon."

Therese raised her hands to her own head. "True, the very same towering absurdity. I never will wear it again, mother."

"It is very fashionable, and you will become accustomed to it."

"No, I shall never be reconciled to such a caricature. Now that I can choose for myself, I shall attend less to fashion than to fitness in my dress. But I have seen mankind--let me see nature and heaven. Mesmer, may I look upon the skies?"

"Come, my child, and we will try if your eyes can bear the full light of day," replied Mesmer, fondly, and taking her arm he led her toward the window.

But Therese, usually so firm in her tread, took short, uncertain steps, and seemed afraid to advance.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed she, clinging anxiously to Mesmer, "see how the windows come toward us! We shall be crushed to death!"

"No, Therese; it is we who advance, not they. You will soon acquire a practical knowledge of the laws of optics, and learn to calculate distances and sizes as well as the rest of us."

"But what is this?" cried she, as they approached the tall mirror that was placed between the windows.

"That is a mirror."

"And who is that man who is so like yourself?"

"That is only the reflection of my person in the mirror."

"And who is that ridiculous being with the coiffure a la Matignon?"

"That is yourself."

"I!" exclaimed she, quickly advancing to the mirror. But suddenly she retreated in alarm. "Gracious Heaven! it comes so fast that it will throw me down. "Then she stopped for a moment and laughed. "See," said she, "the girl is as cowardly as myself. The farther I step back the farther she retreats also."

"All this is an optical delusion, Therese. The girl is nothing but a reflection, a picture of yourself in the mirror."

"True, I forgot. You told me that just now," replied Therese, drawing her hand wearily across her forehead. "Well, let me contemplate myself. This, then, is my likeness," said she, musing. "My mother was mistaken. This face is not handsome. It is weary and soulless. Come, master, I have enough of it--let me see the heavens."

"Wait until I draw the curtain to see whether you are able to bear the full light of day."

The curtain was lifted, and Therese, giving a scream, hid her eyes.

"Oh, it cuts like the point of a dagger!" cried she.

"I thought so; you will have to become gradually accustomed to it. You shall see the sky this evening. But now you must suffer me to bind up your eyes, for they must have rest." [Footnote: The description of Therese's impressions, and the words she used upon the recovery of her sight, are not imaginary. They are all cited by Justinus Kerner, and were related to him by her own father.]

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LXXXIV. DIPLOMATIC STRATEGY

The Emperor Joseph was in his cabinet, engaged in looking over the letters and documents of the day, when a page announced his highness Prince Kaunitz. Joseph waved his hand in token of consent, and when the prince appeared at the door, rose to meet him as he entered the room.

"It must be business of state that brings your highness to my study at this early hour," said the emperor.

"It is indeed, sire," said Kaunitz, taking the chair which Joseph himself had just placed for him.

"And it must be a day of rejoicing with you, prince, for I see that you wear every order with which you have been decorated by every court in Europe. What does this display signify?"

"It signifies, sire, that the day has come, which I have awaited for twenty years, the day for which I have schemed and toiled, and which for me shall be the proudest day of my life. I go out to battle, and if I am to be victorious, your majesty must come to my assistance."

"Is it a duel with the empress, in which I am to be your second? I thank you for the honor, but you know that I have no influence with my lady mother. I am an emperor without a sceptre. But tell me Kaunitz, what is the cause of the trouble?"

"You know it, sire, and I have come to prove to you that I am a man of my word, and keep my promises."

"I do not remember that you ever promised me any thing."

"But I do. I remember a day on which my young emperor came to me to complain of a wrong which had been inflicted upon him at court."

"Marianne!" exclaimed the emperor, with a sigh. "Yes, yes, the day on which I lost sight of her forever."

"Yes, sire. The emperor, worthy of his high vocation, relinquished the girl who had found favor in his eyes, and for this sacrifice I promised him my loyal friendship. Three objects formed the ties that bound us together on that day. Does your majesty remember?"

"Yes. You promised to place Austria at the head of European affairs; you have done so. You promised indemnity for Silesia; we have it in our recent acquisitions in Poland."

"I promised also to crush the priesthood, and to ruin the Jesuits," cried Kaunitz, exultingly, "and I am here to fulfil my promise. The hour has come; for I am on my way to obtain the consent of the empress to the banishment of the Jesuits from Austria."

"You never will obtain it. Attachment to the Order of Jesus is an inheritance with the house of Hapsburg; and my mother styles me a degenerate son because I do not participate in the feeling."

"We will find means to alienate the empress," said Kaunitz, quietly.

"I hope so, but I doubt it. Tell me what I am to do, and I am ready to make another charge against them."

Prince Kaunitz opened his pocket-book, and took thence a letter which he handed to the emperor.

"Will your majesty have the goodness to hand this to the empress? It is a letter from Carlos III., in which he earnestly requests his illustrious kinswoman to give protection no longer to the Jesuits, whom he has driven from Spain."

"Indeed?" said the emperor, smiling. "If that is all, the Spanish ambassador might have delivered it quite as well as I."

"No, sire, that is not all. It was the King of Spain's request that your majesty should deliver the letter, and sustain it by every argument which your well-known enmity to the Jesuits might suggest."

"I am more than willing to undertake it; but to-day, as ever, my representations to the empress will be vain."

"Do your best, sire, and I will come to your relief with a reserved force, which will do good service. Only allow me to request that you will not quit the empress until the reserve comes up."

"Then the parts we are to play are distributed and learned by heart?"

"Just so; and Heaven be propitious, that the scenery may work well, and the actors may know their cue!"

"We have accomplices, then?"

"I shall be accompanied by the papal nuncio, and if your majesty permits me, I will go for him at once. In half an hour I shall come to the rescue."

"Go, then, and I fly to the empress," cried Joseph, with exultation.

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LXXXV. DOMINUS AC REDEMPTOR NOSTER

True to their agreement, the emperor sought an interview with his mother. Not enjoying, like her prime minister, the privilege of entering the empress's presence without formal leave, Joseph was always obliged to wait in her anteroom until the chamberlain returned with her majesty's answer. To-day the empress was propitious, and gave word for her son to be admitted to her private cabinet at once. That he might enter promptly upon the object of his visit, the emperor opened the interview by handing the letter of the King of Spain, and requesting her majesty to read it in his presence.

The empress, surprised at the urgency of the demand, sat before her escritoire and read the missive of her royal relative; while her son, with folded arms, stood near a window, and scrutinized her countenance.

He saw how gradually her expression lowered, until heavy folds corrugated her brow, and deep heavings agitated her chest.

"Those are the sea-gulls that announce the coming storm," said he, to himself. "I must be on my guard lest I be engulfed in the foaming waves."

As if she had guessed his thoughts, Maria Theresa raised her eyes from the letter, and darted a look of displeasure at her son.

"Is the emperor aware of the contents of this letter?" asked she.

"I believe so, your majesty," replied he, coming forward and bowing. "It is an urgent request on the part of the King of Spain to have the Jesuits removed from Austria."

"Nothing less," cried the empress, indignantly. "He expects me to assume all his enmity toward the Jesuits, and urges it in a most unseemly manner. Doubtless, he requested your majesty to present his letter in person, because it is well known, that in this, as in all other things, your opinions are at variance with those of your mother. I presume this is a new tilt against my predilections, like that in which you overthrew me but a few weeks since, when I signed the act that ruined Poland. Speak out. Are you not here to sustain the King of Spain?"

"I am, your majesty," cried Joseph, reddening. "I would do as the King of Spain has done. I would importune you until the power of the Jesuits is crushed in Austria, as it has been crushed in France and in Spain."

"You will not succeed!" cried the empress, trying to control her rising anger. "I make no protest against the action of the kings of France, Spain, or Portugal, for I presume that they have decided according to their convictions; but in Austria the Jesuits deserve all praise for their enlightened piety, and their existence is so essential to the well-being of the people, that I shall sustain and protect them as long as I live." [Footnote: Peter Philip Wolf, "General History of the Jesuits," vol. iv., p. 53.]

"Then," cried Joseph, passionately, "Austria is lost. If I were capable of hate, I should hate these Jesuits, who, propagating the senile vagaries of an old Spanish dotard, have sought to govern the souls of men, and have striven for nothing on earth or in heaven save the extension of their own influence and authority."

"It appears to me that my son has no reason to lament the softness of his own heart," replied Maria Theresa, bitterly. "If he were absolute sovereign here, the Jesuits would be exiled to-morrow; and the King of Prussia, for whom he entertains such unbounded admiration, would be the first one to offer them shelter. I will answer your vituperation, my son, by reading to you a letter written by Frederick to his agent in Rome. It relates to the rumor now afloat that the pope is about to disperse the holy brotherhood. I have just received a copy of it from Italy, and it rejoices me to be able to lay it before you. Hear your demi-god."

The empress took a paper from her escritoire, and unfolding it, read aloud:

"Announce distinctly, but without bravado, that as regards the Jesuits, I am resolved to uphold them for the future, as I have done hitherto. Seek a fitting opportunity to communicate my sentiments on the subject to the pope. I have guaranteed free exercise of religion to my subjects in Silesia. I have never known a priesthood worthier of esteem than the Jesuits. Add to this, that as I am an infidel, the pope cannot dispense me from the obligation of performing my duty as an honorable man and an upright sovereign. "FREDERICK." [Footnote: Peter Philip Wolf, "General History of the Jesuits," vol. iv., p. 53.]

"Well," asked the empress, as she folded the letter, "shall the infidel shame the Christian? Would you seriously ask of me to be less clement to the priesthood than a Protestant prince? Never, never shall it be said that Maria Theresa was ungrateful to the noble brotherhood who are the bulwarks of order and of legitimate authority."

Joseph was about to snake an angry retort, when the door opened and a page announced, with great formality:

"His highness Prince Kaunitz, and his eminence the papal nuncio, Monsignore Garampi."

The two ministers followed close upon the announcement, and the nuncio was received by the empress with a beaming smile.

"I am curious to know what has brought Prince Kaunitz and the papal nuncio together," said she. "It is unusual to see the prime minister of Austria in the company of churchmen. It must, therefore, be something significant which has united church and state to-day."

"Your majesty is right," replied Kaunitz, "the visit of the nuncio is so significant for Austria, that the visit of your majesty's minister in his company was imperative."

"Your eminence comes to speak of state affairs?" inquired the empress, surprised.

The nuncio drew from his robe a parchment to which was affixed a ribbon with the papal seal.

"His holiness instructed me to read this document to your apostolic majesty," said Monsignore Garampi, with a respectful inclination of the head. "Will your majesty allow me?"

"Certainly," said the empress, leaning forward to listen.

The nuncio then unfolded the parchment, and amid the breathless attention of all present, read the celebrated document, which in history bears the name of its first words "Dominus ac Redemptor Noster." This letter stated that in all ages the pope had claimed the right to found religious orders or to abolish them. It cited Gregory, who had abolished the order of the Mendicant Friars; and Clement V., who had suppressed that of the Templars. It then referred to the Society of the Brotherhood of Jesus. It stated that this society had hitherto been sustained and fostered by the papal see, on acccount of its signal usefulness and the eminent piety of its members. But of late, the brotherhood had manifested a spirit of contentiousness amongst themselves, as well as toward other orders, organizations, and universities; and had thereby fallen under the displeasure of the princes from whom they had received encouragement and protection.

When the nuncio had read thus far, he paused and raised his eyes to the face of the empress. It was very pale and agitated, while the countenance of the emperor, on the contrary, was flushed with triumph. Joseph tried to meet the glance of Prince Kaunitz's eye, but it was blank as ever; sometimes fixed vacantly upon the nuncio, and then turning with cold indifference toward the speaking countenances of the devoted friend and inveterate enemy of the Order of Jesus.

"Go on, your eminence," at length faltered the empress.

The nuncio bowed and continued in an audible voice: "Seeing that between the Holy See and the kings of France, Spain, Portugal, and the Sicilies, misunderstandings have arisen which are attributable to the influence of the Order of Jesus; seeing that the society at this present time has ceased to bear the rich fruits of its past usefulness; the pope, after conscientious deliberation, has resolved, in the fulness of his apostolic right, to suppress the brotherhood."

A loud cry burst from the lips of the empress, as overwhelmed by these bitter tidings she covered her face with her hands. The emperor approached as though he wished to address her, but she waved him off impatiently.

"Away, Joseph!" said she; "I will listen neither to your condolence nor to your exultation. Let me advise you, too, to moderate your transports, for this is Austrian soil, and no one reigns in Austria but Maria Theresa. The Jesuits have been a blessing to mankind; they have instructed our youth, and have been the guardians of all knowledge; they have encouraged the arts and sciences, and have disseminated the Christian faith in every part of the world. They have been the true and loyal friends of my house; and in their day of adversity, though I may not defend them against their ecclesiastical superiors, I will protect them against malice and insult."

Thus spoke the generous and true-hearted Maria Theresa; but her efforts to sustain the Jesuits, as an organized brotherhood, were fruitless. They were an ecclesiastic fraternity, and as such, their existence was beyond the reach of civil authority. As individuals, they were her subjects; but as a society, they were amenable to the laws of the Church, and by that code alone, they stood or fell.

Bravely she struggled; but the earnest representations of the nuncio, the sharp, cutting arguments of Kaunitz, and her own reluctance to come to a rupture with the pope in a matter essentially within ecclesiastical jurisdiction, all these things united, bore down her opposition; and with the same reluctance as she had felt in acquiescing to the partition of Poland, she consented to the suppression of the Society of Jesus.

"Come hither, my son," said the empress, reaching her hand to Joseph. "Since I have seen fit to give my consent to this thing, I have nothing wherewith to reproach you. As co-regent I hope that what I am about to say will obtain your approbation. Monsignore, you have read to me the order of his holiness, Clement XIV., for the suppression of the Jesuits. For my part, nothing would ever have induced me to expel them from my dominions. But since his holiness sees fit to do so, I feel it to be my duty, as a true daughter of the Church, to allow the order to be put into execution. [Footnote: The empress's own words. Gross-Horitnger, vol. i., p. 195.] Acquaint his holiness with my decision, and remain a few moments that you may witness the promptitude with which his intentions shall be carried out."

She sat down to her escritoire, and tracing a few lines upon a piece of paper, handed it to Prince Kaunitz.

"Prince," said she, "here is the order, which, in accordance to strict form, must be in my own handwriting. Take it to Cardinal Migazzi. Let him carry out the intentions of the pope, and himself perform the funeral rites of the devoted Sons of Jesus."

She turned away her head, that none might see the tears which were streaming from her eyes. Then rising from her seat, she crossed the room. Those who had brought this grief upon her, watched her noble form, and as they saw how her step faltered, they exchanged silent glances of sympathy. When she reached the door, she turned, and then they saw her pale, sad face and tearful eyes.

"When the cardinal visits the College of the Jesuits to read the papal order, let an imperial commissarius accompany him," said Maria Theresa in an imperative tone. "Immediately after its promulgation, he shall promise to the Jesuits my imperial favor and protection, if they submit to the will of the pope as becomes true servants of God and of the Church. It shall also be exacted that the proceedings against the Order of Jesus shall be conducted with lenity and due respect; and for the future, I shall never suffer any member of the society to be treated with contumely or scorn." [Footnote: The empress's words. Adam Wolf. "Maria Theresa," p. 432.]

She bowed her lofty head, and withdrew.

Complete silence followed the disappearance of the empress. No one dared to violate the significance of the moment by a word. The nuncio bowed low to the emperor and retired; but as Kaunitz was about to follow, Joseph came hastily forward and clasped him in his arms.

"I thank you," whispered he. "You have fulfilled your pledges, and Austria is free. My obligations to you are for life!"

The two ministers then went down together to the great palace gate, where their state-carriages awaited them.

Prince Kaunitz greeted the nuncio with another silent bow; and shrinking from the blasts of a mild September day, [Footnote: The papal order was promulgated in Vienna on September 10, 1773.] wrapped himself up in six cloaks, and sealed up his mouth with a huge muff of Rahles. He then stepped into his carriage, and drove off. Once safe and alone within his exhausted receiver, he dropped his muff for a moment, and, wonderful to relate--he smiled.

"Let Wings shape themselves as they will," said he, thoughtfully. "I am absolute master of Austria. Whether the sovereign be called Maria Theresa, or Joseph, it is all one to me. Both feel my worth, and both have vowed to me eternal gratitude. Poland has fallen--the Jesuits are dispersed; but Kaunitz is steadfast, for he is the pillar upon which the imperial house leans for support!"

Four weeks after the publication of the papal order by Cardinal Migazzi, the great doors of the Jesuit College were opened, and forth from its portals came the brotherhood of the Order of Jesus.

Led by their superior, all in their long black cassocks, with rosaries hanging at their blue girdles, they left the familiar home, which had been theirs for a hundred years. Each one carried in his hands his Bible and breviary. The faces of the brothers were pale and unspeakably sad, and their lips were compressed as though to thrust back the misery that was surging within their hearts.

The multitude were mute as they. Not a word, whether of sympathy or of animosity, greeted the silent procession. On went the noiseless, spectre-like train until it reached the market-place. There the superior stopped, and the brothers gathered around him in one vast circle.

He uncovered his head, and all followed his example. All bowed their heads in prayer to God who had willed that this great humiliation should befall them. In one last petition to Heaven for resignation, they bade adieu to their glorious past with its glorious memories; and the people, overcome by the simple sublimity of the scene, fell upon their knees and wept, repeating, while they wept, the prayers which they had learned from the teachers with whom they were parting forever.

The prayer was ended, and now the superior went from brother to brother, taking the hand of each one. And every man faltered a blessing which their chief returned. So he went from one to another, until he had greeted them all; then passing from the crowd, with a Jesuit on either side, he disappeared.

So ended the dispersion of the Order of Jesus, whom the whole world believed to be crushed forever. But they knew better; for, as crowding around their chief, they had whispered: "Shall we ever be a brotherhood again?" he had returned the pressure of their friendly hands, and had replied with prophetic fervor:

"Yes; whenever it is God's will to reinstate us. Wait patiently for the hour. It will surely come; for Loyola's order, like the soul, is immortal!"

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LXXXVI. HEART-STRUGGLES

The week of delay which the empress had granted to the Countess Margaret had passed away, and the eve of her bridal had dawned. During those eight eventful days the countess had been more fitful than ever, and her uncle's household had suffered accordingly.

"She will take her life," whispered the servants among themselves, as each day, like a pale spectre, she glided through the house, to mount her wild Arabian. The two footmen who accompanied her on these occasions, told how she galloped so madly that they could scarcely keep pace with her; and then suddenly checked her horse, and with her head bent over its neck, remained motionless and wept.

Once the emperor had surprised her in tears, and when she became aware of his presence, she started off on a mad run and left him far behind. This occurred twice; but the third time the emperor came upon her so quickly, that before she had time to fly, he had grasped her rein. The footmen declared that they had never heard such a cry as she gave; and they thought that the emperor would be highly offended. But he only laughed, and said:

"Now, countess, you are my prisoner; and I shall not allow my beautiful Amazon to go, until she has told me why we never see her at court."

The countess turned so pale that her servants thought she would fall from her horse, and the emperor cried out: "Good Heaven! what is the matter with you?"

She broke into a loud laugh, and striking her horse with the whip, tried to gallop off again. But the emperor put spurs to his horse, and the two dashed on together. Neck and neck they ran; the countess lashing her Arabian until he made wild leaps into the air, the emperor urging his Barb with whip and spur, until his flanks were white with foam. At last he came so near, that he made a grasp at her rein and caught it, exclaiming, with a merry laugh:

"Caught again!"

The countess turned around with eyes that darted lightning.

"Why do you laugh so immoderately?" said she.

"Because we are enacting such a delightfully comic scene. But do not look so angry; your bright eyes are on fire, and they make a man's heart boil over. Answer my question, and I restore you to freedom. Why do you shun me, and why do you never come to court?"

Now the pale cheeks flushed, and the voice was subdued until its tones were like plaintive music. "Sire, I do not visit the court, because I am a poor, unhappy creature, unfitted for society, and because no one misses me there."

"And why do you fly from me as if I were Lucifer, the son of the morning?"

"Ah, your majesty, grief flies from the light of day, and seeks the cover of friendly night! And now, free my horse, if you would not have me fall dead at your feet!"

Again she turned pale, and trembled from head to foot. When the emperor saw this, he loosed her rein, and bowing to her saddle bow, galloped away--out of sight. The countess turned her horse's head, and went slowly home.

All this Count Starhemberg learned from the footmen, for never a word had his niece spoken to him since the unhappy day of Count Esterhazy's visit. To say the truth, the old man was not sorry that her sorrow had taken the shape of taciturnity; for her pale cheeks and glaring eyes affrighted him; and he hugged himself close in his short-lived security, as each day she declined to appear at table, and was served in the solitude of her own room. She was served; but her food returned untouched. Neither did she seem to sleep; for at all times of the night she could be heard pacing her room. Then she would sit for hours before her piano; and, although her playing and singing had been equally renowned, her uncle had never suspected the genius that had lain concealed in the touch of her hands and the sound of her voice. It was no longer the "fierce countess," whose dashing execution had distanced all gentler rivals; it was a timid maiden, whose first love was finding utterance in entrancing melody. On the night following her last encounter with the emperor, the music became more passionate in its character. It was less tender, but far more sad; and often it ceased, because the musician stopped to weep.

Her uncle heard her sob, and following the impulse of his affection and compassion, he opened the room, and came softly in. He called her, and she raised her head. The light from the wax-candles that stood on the harpsichord fell directly upon her face, which was bedewed with tears. Her uncle's entrance seemed neither to have surprised nor irritated her. With an expression of indescribable woe she merely murmured

"See, uncle, to what the empress has reduced me."

Her uncle took her in his arms, and, like a weary child, she leaned her head upon his shoulder. Suddenly she started, and disengaging herself, she stood before him, and took his hands in hers.

"Oh, is it inevitable? Must I bow my head like a slave to this marriage, while my heart proclaims an eternal NO!"

The old count wiped his eyes. "I fear there is no hope, my child. I have done all that I could."

"What have you done?"

"I first appealed to Count Esterhazy; but he declared himself to be too intoxicated by your beauty to resign you. I then tried to interest some of our friends at court; but no one dared to intercede for my darling. The empress has received a severe blow in the expulsion of the Jesuits, and no one has the courage to come between her and her mania for match-making. I then appealed to her majesty myself; but in vain. Her only answer was this: 'You were to marry the count, or go into a convent.' She added, that to-morrow every thing would be prepared in the court chapel for your marriage; that she, herself, would honor you by giving you away; and that, if you did not come punctually, when the imperial state coach was sent for you, she would have you taken instead to a convent."

"Is that all?" asked she, with a painful blush.

"No, Margaret. I saw the emperor also."

"What said he?" asked the countess, in a hoarse voice, pressing so heavily upon the old man's shoulder, that he could scarcely stand under the weight of her hands. "Word for word, tell me what he said."

"I will tell you. The emperor said: 'Dear count, no one would serve you sooner than I. But as regards her mania for marrying people, the empress is inflexible. And, indeed, it seems to me that she has chosen admirably for your beautiful niece. Count Esterhazy is young, handsome, immensely rich, and a favorite at court. You will see, dear count, that she will end by making him an affectionate and obedient wife; for a young girl's hate is very often nothing but concealed love. Those were the emperor's words, my dear. I protested against his interpretation of your dislike to Count Esterhazy--but in vain."

To this, Margaret replied not a word. Her hands had gradually fallen from her uncle's shoulders, until they hung listless at her side. Her graceful head was bowed down by the sharp stroke of the humiliation which had just stricken her, and her whole attitude was that of hopeless disconsolation.

After a few moments she threw back her head with wild defiance. "He will find that he is a false prophet," exclaimed she, with a laugh of scorn. "I promise him that."

"But, my dear girl--" began Count Starhemberg. "Will you, too, insult me with prophecies of my future obedience to this fine young man? Do you, too, wish to prove to me that I am a fortunate--"

"My child, I wish nothing of the sort."

"Then what means the 'but'? Does it mean that I am to be consoled by the splendor that is to attend this--execution? Does it mean that my maidenly blushes--the blushes that betray my secret love--are to be hidden by a veil of priceless lace? Does it mean that the chains, with which your peerless empress will fetter my arms, are to be of gold, secured with diamonds? Have you taken care to provide the myrtle-wreath, the emblem of love, wherewith to deck the bride's bow? O God! O God! May some imperial daughter of this woman suffer worse than death for this!"

The count shuddered, and left the room. He had not dared to say that, in truth, her bridal-dress was all that she had described. It had all been chosen. The rich robe, the costly veil, the golden bracelets, the glittering diamonds, even the myrtle-wreath, the emblem of the humble as well as the high-born bride--all were there, awaiting the morrow.

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LXXXVII. THE FORCED BRIDAL

The ceremony was to take place at eleven o'clock. The imperial carriage of state was at the door; and behind it stood the gilded coaches of Counts Esterhazy and Starhemberg. The former had been awaiting the appearance of his bride for two hours; but to all his tender messages she had curtly replied that she would come when she was ready.

"I fear she will play us some dreadful trick," sighed the old count.

"My dear count," returned Esterhazy, "no man would be so presuming as to thwart the empress."

"Perhaps not--but my niece has more character than some men."

"What have I done for her to scorn me as she does!" cried the unhappy little bridegroom.

"You have opposed her, that is all. My niece is an Amazon, and cannot bear to give up her heart at another's will! Had she been left free, it might have been otherwise."

"Do you really think she will come to love me?" asked Esterhazy, surveying his diminutive comeliness in the mirror opposite.

"I am quite sure of it, and so is the emperor. Take courage, then; bear with her whims for a while; they are nothing but harmless summer lightnings. Do not heed the storm; think of the flowers that will spring up to beautify your life, when the showers of her tears shall have passed away."

"Oh, I will be patient. She shall exhaust herself."

Here the door opened, and the countess's maid entered with a request that Count Esterhazy would follow her to her lady's apartment.

The count kissed his hand to Count Starhemberg and hurried away. When he entered the countess's sitting-room, she was standing in all the pride of her bridal attire, and seemed more transcendently beautiful than ever. The court-dress, with its long trail, heightened the elegance of her figure, and the silver-spotted veil, that fell to her feet, enveloped her like a white evening cloud. But how little did her face accord with this superb festive dress Her cheek was deadly pale; her exquisite mouth was writhing with anguish, and her great, glowing eyes darted glances of fiery hatred.

"You really have the courage to persevere, Count Esterhazy? You will perpetrate the crime of marriage with me?"

"When a man opens his arms to receive the most enchanting woman that ever was sent on earth, do you call that a crime?" said Esterhazy, tenderly.

An impatient shrug was the answer to this attempt at gallantry.

"Have I not told you that you would earn nothing for your reward but my hatred? In the despair of my heart, have I not told you that I love another man? Oh, you have come to tell me that you spare me the sacrifice--have you not? You will not force a helpless girl to marry you, who does so only to escape a convent--will you? Oh, tell me that you have summoned manliness enough to resist the empress, and to give me my freedom!"

"I have summoned manliness enough to resist you; and bearing your anger, I am resolved to take the bewitching woman to wife whom my generous empress has selected for me."

"You are a contemptible coward!" cried she.

"I forgive you the epithet, because I am in love," replied he, with a smile.

"But if you have no pity for me," cried she wildly, "have pity on yourself. You have seen how I treat my uncle, and yet I love him dearly. Think what your fate will be, since I hate you immeasurably."

"Ah," said he, "can you expect me to be more merciful to myself than to you? No, no! I rely upon my love to conquer your hate. It will do so all in good time."

"As there is a God in heaven, you will rue this hour!" cried Margaret with mingled defiance and despair.

"Come, countess, come. The empress and her son await us in the court-chapel."

Margaret shivered, and drew her veil around her. She advanced toward the door, but as the count was in the act of opening it, she laid her two hands upon his arm, and held him back. "Have mercy with my soul!" sobbed she. "It is lost if I become your wife. I have a stormy temper, and sorrow will expand it into wickedness. I feel that I shall be capable of crime if you force me to this marriage."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the count, pettishly, "if you abhor me to such a degree, why do you not go into a convent?"

"I had resolved to do so, for the convent is less repulsive to me than a home in your palace; but I could not bring myself to the sacrifice. No!--Were I to be immured within those convent walls, I should forever be shut out from the sight of him whom I love. Do you hear this? Do you hear that I marry you only to be free to see him, to hear his voice, to catch one glance of his eye as he passes me in the crowd? Oh, you will not take to wife a woman who meditates such perjury as this! You will not give your father's name to her who is going to the altar with a lie upon her lips and a crime upon her soul! Go-tell all this to the empress. Tell her that you will not disgrace your noble house by a marriage with me! Oh, Count Esterhazy, be merciful, be merciful!"

"Impossible, countess, impossible; were it even possible for me to belie you by such language. I shall not see the empress until we stand before the altar together, and then she will be in her oratorium, far beyond my reach."

"Yes, yes, you can reject nie at the altar. Oh, see how I humble myself! I am on my knees before you. Spurn me from you in the face of the whole world!"

Count Esterhazy looked thoughtful. Unhappily, the countess on her knees was more beautiful than ever; so that remembering her uncle's words, he said to himself

"Yes-I will humor her-I must feign to yield."

He stretched out his hands, saying, "Rise, countess. It does not become a sovereign to kneel before her slave. I have no longer the power to oppose your will. Before the altar, I will say `No' to the priest's question, and you shall be free."

The countess uttered a loud cry of joy, and rose to her feet. And as her pale cheek kindled with hope, and her eyes beamed with happiness, she was more beautiful than she had ever been in her life before, and Count Esterhazy exulted over it.

"God bless you!" exclaimed she, with a heavenly smile. "You have earned my affection now; for my life I vow to love you as a cherished brother. Come, dear, generous, noble friend, come. Let us hasten to the chapel."

It was she now who opened the door. Count Starhemberg awaited them in the drawing-room. Margaret flew to meet him, and embracing him, said

"Do I not look like a happy bride now? Come, uncle, come, dear Count Esterbazy, let us go to our bridal."

She took Esterhazy's arm, and be placed her in the carriage. The old count followed, in speechless wonder.

At the door of the chapel, they were met by the empress's first lady of honor, who conducted the bride to the altar. The emperor walked by the side of Count Esterhazy. The face of the countess was radiant with happiness, and all who saw her confessed that she was lovely beyond all description.

And now the ceremonial began. The priest turned to Count Esterhazy and asked him if he took the Countess Maragret von Starhemberg for his wedded wife--to love, honor, and cherish her until death should them divide.

There was a pause, and Margaret looked with a bright smile at the face of her bridegroom. But the eyes of the spectators were fixed upon him in astonishment, and the brow of the empress grew stormy.

"Will you take this woman for your wedded wife?" repeated the priest.

"I will," said Esterhazy, in a loud firm voice.

A cry escaped from the lips of Margaret. She was so faint that she reeled and would have fallen, but for the friendly support of an arm that sustained her, and the witching tones of a voice that whispered: "Poor girl, remember that a cloister awaits you." She recognized the voice of the emperor; and overcoming her weakness, the courage of despair came to her help.

She raised herself from Joseph's arms and taking the vinaigrette that was tendered her by the lady of honor, she inhaled its reviving aroma; then she looked at the priest.

He continued, and repeated his solemn question to her. Etiquette required that before she answered, she should have the sanction of the empress. The countess turned, with a low inclination, to the lady of honor, who, in her turn, courtesied deeply to the empress.

Maria Theresa bowed acquiescence, and the bride, having thanked her with another courtesy, turned once more to the priest and said, "Yes."

The ceremony was over, and the young couple received the congratulations of the court. Even the empress herself descended from the oratorium to meet them.

"I have chosen a very excellent husband for you," said she, smiling, "and I have no doubt you will be a very happy woman." "It must be so, of course, your majesty," replied the bride; "for had your majesty not ascertained that this marriage had been made in heaven, you would not have ordered it on earth, I presume." Maria Theresa darted a look of anger at the countess, and turning her back upon such presumption, offered her good wishes to the count.

"What did you say, to irritate the empress so?" whispered Joseph to the bride.

Margaret repeated her words. "That was a bold answer," said he.

"Has your majesty ever taken me for a coward? I think I have shown preter-human courage this day."

"What! Because you have married Count Esterhazy? Believe me, you will be the happiest of tyrants, and he the humblest of your slaves."

"I will show him that slaves deserve the lash!" cried she, with a look of hatred at her husband, who came forward to conduct her to the palace, where the marriage guests were now to be received.

The festivities of the day over, the empress's lady of honor conducted the countess to her new home. It was the duty of this lady to assist the bride in removing her rich wedding-dress, and assuming the costly neglige which lay ready prepared for her on a lounge in her magnificent dressing-room.

But the countess imperiously refused to change her dress. "Have the goodness," said she, "to say to her majesty, that you conducted me to my dressing-room. You can say further," added she, hearing the door open, "that you left me with Count Esterhazy."

She pointed to the count, who entered, greeting the ladies with a respectful bow.

"I will leave you, then," said the lady, kissing Marearet's forehead. "May Heaven bless you!"

Count Esterhazy was now alone with his wife. With a radiant smile and both hands outstretched, he came toward her.

"Welcome to my house, beautiful Margaret! From this hour you reign supreme in the palace of the Esterhazys."

The countess stepped back. "Do not dare to touch my hand. A gulf yawns between us; and if you attempt to bridge it, I will throw you, headlong, into its fiery abyss."

"What gulf? Point it out to me, that I may bridge it with my love," cried Esterhazy.

"The gulf of my contempt," said she, coldly. "You are a coward and a liar. You have deceived a woman who trusted herself to your honor; and God in heaven, who would not hear my prayers, God shall be the witness of my vengeance. Oh, you shall repent from this hour to come, that ever you called me wife! I scorn to be a liar like you, and I tell you to beware. I will revenge myself for this accursed treachery."

"I do not fear your revenge, for you have a noble heart. The day will come when I shall be forgiven for my deception. Heaven is always clement toward the repentant sinner; and you are my heaven, Margaret. I await the day of mercy."

"Such mercy as Heaven has shown to me, I shall show to you," cried she. "And now, sir, leave this room. I have nothing more to say to you."

"What, Margaret!" said Esterhazy, with an incredulous smile, "you would deny me the sweet right of visiting your room? Chide, if you will; but be not so cruel. Let me have the first kiss--"

As he attempted to put his arms around her, Margaret uttered a fearful cry. Freeing herself with such violence that Esterhazy reeled backward with the shock, she exclaimed:

"You are worse than a coward, for you would take advantage of rights which my hatred has annulled forever."

"But, Margaret, my wife--"

"Count Esterhazy," said Margaret slowly, "I forbid you ever to use that word in this room. Before the world I must endure the humiliation of being called your wife; but once over the threshold of my own room, I am Margaret Starhemberg, and you shall never know me as any other Margaret. Now go!"

She pointed to the door; and as the count looked into her face, where passion was so condensed that it almost resembled tranquillity, he had not the hardihood to persist. He felt that he had gained his first and last victory.

As soon as he had passed the door, Margaret locked and bolted it; then, alone with the supreme anguish that had been crushed for these long, long hours, she fell upon her knees, and wept until the morning-star looked down upon her agony.

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LXXXVIII. PRINCE LOUIS DE ROHAN

The cardinal prince, Louis de Rohan, French ambassador at Vienna, had petitioned the empress for a private audience, and the honor had been granted him. It was the first time, since a year, that he had enjoyed this privilege; and the proud prince had determined that all Vienna should know it, for all Vienna was fully aware of the empress's dislike to him.

Accompanied by a brilliant cortege, the prince set out for the palace. Six footmen stood behind his gilded carriage, while inside, seated upon cushions of white satin, the prince dispensed smiles to the women, and nods to the men who thronged the streets to get a glimpse of his magnificence. Four pages, in the Rohan livery, dispensed silver coin to the populace; while behind came four carriages, bearing eight noblemen of the proudest families in France, and four other carriages which bore the household of this haughty prince of church and realm. [Footnote: In the beginning of the year 1780, Prince de Rohan was made cardinal and grand almoner of France. Before that time, he had been Archbishop of Strasburg. "Memoires sur la Vie Privee de Marie Antoinette," vol. i., p. 47.]

The cortege moved slowly, and the people shouted. From every window, burgher's or nobleman's, handsome women greeted the handsome cardinal who was known to be a connoisseur in female beauty. The crowd outside followed him to the palace-gates, and when his carriage stopped, they shouted so vociferously, that the noise reached the ears of the empress; and so long, that their shouts had not ceased when the cardinal, leaving his brilliant suite, was ushered into the small reception-room where Maria Theresa awaited him.

She stood by the window, and half turned her head, as the prince, with profoundest salutations, came forward. She received his obsequious homage with a slight inclination of the head.

"Can your eminence tell me the meaning of this din?" asked she, curtly.

"I regret not to be able to do so, your majesty. I hear no din; I have heard nothing save the friendly greetings of your people, whose piety edifies my heart as a priest, and whose welcome is dear to me as a quasi subject of your majesty. For the mother of my future queen must allow me the right to consider myself almost as her subject."

"I would prefer that you considered yourself wholly the subject of my daughter; as I doubt whether she will ever find much loyalty in your heart, prince. But before we go further, pray inform me what means all this parade attendant upon the visit of the French ambassador here to-day? I am not aware that we are in the carnival; nor have I an unmarried daughter for whom any French prince can have sent you to propose. "

"Surely your majesty would not compare the follies of the carnival with the solemnity of an imperial betrothal," said the archbishop, deferentially.

"Be so good as not to evade my question. I ask why you came to the palace with a procession just fit to take its place in a carnival?"

"Because the day on which the mother of the dauphiness receives me, is a great festival for me. I have so long sued for an audience, that when it is granted me, I may well be allowed to celebrate it with the pomp which befits the honor conferred."

"And in such a style that all Vienna may know it, and the rumor of your audience reach the ears of the dauphiness herself."

"I cannot hope that the dauphiness takes interest enough in the French ambassador to care whether he be received at a foreign court or not," replied the cardinal, still in his most respectful tone. "I request you to come to the point," said Maria Theresa, impatiently. "Tell me, at once, why you have asked for an audience? What seeks the French ambassador of the empress of Austria?"

"Allow me to say that had I appeared to-day before your majesty as the French ambassador, I would have been accompanied by my attaches and received by your majesty in state. But your majesty is so gracious as to receive me in private. It follows, therefore, that the Cardinal de Rohan, the cousin of the dauphin, visits the imperial mother of the young dauphiness."

"In other words, you come hither to complain of the dauphiness-consort; again to renew the unpleasant topics which have been the cause of my repeated refusals to see you here."

"No, your majesty, no. I deem it my sacred duty to speak confidentially to the mother of the dauphiness."

"If the mother of the dauphiness-consort will listen," cried the proud empress, sharply emphasizing the word "consort."

"Pardon me, your majesty, the apparent oversight," said De ROhan, with a smile. "But as a prince of the church, it behooves me, above all things, to be truthful, and the Dauphiness of France is not yet dauphiness-consort. Your majesty knows that as well as I do."

"I know that my daughter's enemies and mine have succeeded so far in keeping herself and her husband asunder," said the empress bitterly.

"But the dauphiness possesses, in her beauty, worth, and sweetness, weapons wherewith to disarm her enemies, if she would but use them," said De Rohan, with a shrug. "Unhappily, she makes no attempt to disarm them."

"Come--say what you have to say without so much circumlocution," cried Maria Theresa, imperiously. "What new complaint have the French against my daughter?"

"Your majesty is the only person that can influence the proud spirit of the dauphiness. Marie Antoinette adores her mother, and your majesty's advice will have great weight with her."

"What advice shall I give her?"

"Advise her to give less occasion to her enemies to censure her levity and her contempt of conventional forms."

"Who dares accuse my daughter of levity?" said the empress, her eyes flashing with angry pride.

"Those who, in the corruption of their own hearts, mistake for wantonness that which is nothing more than the thoughtlessness of unsuspecting innocence."

"You are pleased to speak in riddles. I am Maria Theresa--not Oedipus. "

"I will speak intelligently," said De Rohan, with his everlasting smile. "There are many things, innocent in themselves, which do not appear so to worldly eyes. Innocence may be attractive in a cottage, but it is not so in a palace. An ordinary woman, even of rank, has the right, in the privacy of her own room, to indulge herself in childish sport; but your majesty's self cannot justify your daughter when I tell you that she is in the habit of playing wild games with the young ladies who have been selected as her companions."

"My poor little Antoinette!" exclaimed the empress, her eyes filling with compassionate tears. "Her enemies, who do not allow her to be a wife, might surely permit her to remain a child! I have heard before to-day, of the harmless diversions which she enjoys with her young sisters-in-law. If there were any sense of justice in France, you would understand that, to amuse half-grown girls, the dauphiness must herself play the child. But I know that she has been blamed for her natural gayety, poor darling; and I know that Madame de Marsan will never forgive her for feeling a sisterly interest in the education of the young princesses of France. [Footnote: Madame de Marsan was their governess.] I know that the saloons of Madame de Marsan are a hot-bed of gossip, and that every action of the dauphiness is there distorted into crime. [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Campan." vol. i., p. 65.] If my lord cardinal has nothing else to tell me it was scarcely worth his while to come to the palace in so pompous a manner, with such a solemn face."

"I did not come to your majesty to accuse the dauphiness, but to warn her, against her enemies; for unfortunately she HAS enemies at court. These enemies not only deride her private diversions, but, with affectation of outraged virtue, they speak of recreations, hitherto unheard of at the court of France."

"What recreations, pray?"

"The dauphiness, without the sanction of the king; indulges in private theatricals."

"Private theatricals! That must be an invention of her enemies."

"Pardon me, your majesty, it is the truth. The dauphiness and her married sisters-in-law take the female characters, and the brothers of the king the male. Sometimes Monsieur de Campan, the private secretary of the deceased queen, and his son, who fills the same office for the dauphiness, join the actors. The royal troupe give their entertainments in an empty entre-sol, to which the household have no access. The Count of Provence plays the jeune premier, but the Count d'Artois also is considered a good performer. I am told that the costumes of the princesses are magnificent, and their rivalry carried to the extreme."

The empress, affecting not to hear the last amiable remark, said "Who are the audience?"

"There is but one spectator, your majesty, the dauphin himself."

Maria Theresa's face lighted up at once, and she smiled.

The cardinal went on: "The aunts of the dauphin themselves are not admitted to their confidence, lest they might inform the king, and his majesty forbid the indecorous representations."

"I shall write to the dauphiness and advise her to give up these representations," said Maria Theresa, calmly, "not because they are indecorous, but because they are a pretext for her enemies. If she has the approbation of her husband, that of itself ought to suffice to the court; for it is not an unheard thing to have dramatic representations by the royal family. Louis XIV. appeared on the boards as a dancer; and even under the pious Madame de Maintenon, the princes and princesses of France acted the dramas of Corneille and Racine."

"But they had the permission of the king, and none of them were future queens."

"What of that? If the queen approved of the exhibition, the dauphiness might surely repeat it. My daughter is doing no more at Versailles, than she has been accustomed to do at Schonbrunn, in her mother's presence."

"The etiquette of the two courts is dissimilar," said De Rohan, with a shrug. "In Vienna, an archduchess is permitted to do that which, in Paris, would be considered an impropriety."

"Another complaint!" cried the empress, out of patience.

"The dauphiness finds it a bore," continued De Rohan, "to he accompanied wherever she goes, by two ladies of honor. She has, therefore, been seen in the palace, even in the gardens of Versailles, without any escort, except that of two servants."

"Have you come to the end of your complaints?" said the empress scarcely able to control her passion.

"I have, your majesty. Allow me to add, that the reputation of a woman seldom dies from a single blow--it expires gradually from repeated pricks of the needle. And queens are as liable to such mortality as other women."

"It ill becomes the Prince de Rohan to pass judgment upon the honor of women," cried Maria Theresa, exasperated by his lip-morality. "If the French ambassador presumes to come to me with such trivial complaints as I have heard to-day, I will direct my minister in Paris to make representations to the king of another and a more serious nature."

"Regarding the unpardonable indifference of the dauphin to his wife?" asked the cardinal, with sympathizing air.

"No. Regarding the unpardonable conduct of the French ambassador in Vienna." exclaimed the empress. "If the cardinal is so shocked at a slight breach of etiquette, he should be careful to conceal his own deformities under its sheltering veil. Innocence may sin against ceremony; but he, who leads a dissolute and voluptuous life, should make decorum a shield wherewith to cover his own shame!"

"I thank your majesty for this axiom so replete with worldly wisdom. But for whom can it be intended? Certainly not for the dauphiness."

"No; for yourself, prince and cardinal!" cried the empress, beside herself with anger. "For the prelate who, unmindful of his rank and of its obligations, carries on his shameless intrigues even with the ladies of my court. For the ambassador who, leading a life of Oriental magnificence, is treading under foot the honor of his country, by living upon the credulity of his inferiors. All Vienna knows that your household makes unworthy use of your privileges as a foreign minister, by importing goods free of tax, and reselling them here. All Vienna knows that there are more silk stockings sold at the hotel of the French embassy than in all Paris and Lyons together. The world blames me for having revoked the privilege enjoyed by foreign embassies to import their clothing free of duty. It does not know that the abuse of this privilege by yourself has forced me to the measure."

"Your majesty is very kind to take so much trouble to investigate the affairs of my household. You are more au fait to the details than myself. I was not aware, for instance, that silk stockings were sold at the embassy. No more than I was aware that I had had any amours with the ladies of the court. I have a very cold heart, and, perhaps, that is the reason why I have never seen one to whom I would devote a second thought. As regards my manner of living, I consider it appropriate to my rank, titles, and means; and that is all that I feel it necessary to say on the subject."

"You dispose of these charges in a summary manner. To hear you, one would really suppose there was not the slightest ground for reproach in your life," said the empress, satirically.

"That this is quite within the range of possibility, is proved by the case of the dauphiness," replied De Rohan. "If your majesty thinks so little of her breaches of etiquette, it seems to me that mine are of still less consequence. And allow me to say, that the French nation will sooner forgive me a thousand intrigues with the ladies of Vienna, than pass over the smallest deviation from court usages on the part of the dauphiness. Marie Antoinette has defied them more than once, and I fear me, she will bitterly repent her thoughtlessness. Her enemies are watchful and--"

"Oh, I see that they are watchful," exclaimed Maria Theresa, "I see it. Do not deny it, you are one of those whose evil eyes see evil doings in every impulse of my dear defenceless child's heart. But have a care, sir cardinal, the friendless dauphiness will one day be Queen of France, and she will then have it in her power to bring to justice those who persecute her now!" [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. i., p. 47.]

"I hope that I shall never be accused of such fellowship," said De Rohan, for the first time losing his proud self-possession.

"I, the Empress of Austria, accuse you to-day of it!" cried Maria Theresa, with threatening mien. "Oh, my lord, it does you little honor--you, a royal personage and a prince of the church, to exchange letters with a Du Barry, to whose shameless ears you defame the mother of your future queen!"

"When did I do this? When was I so lost to honor as to speak a disrespectful word of the Empress of Austria?"

"You deny it--do you? Let me tell you that your praise or your blame are all one to me; and if I have granted you this interview, it was to show you how little I am disturbed by your censorious language. I know something of the intriguing at Versailles. I have even heard of the private orgies of the 'Oeil de Boeuf,' where Louis entertains his favorites. And I will tell you what took place at the last one. The Countess du Barry was diverting the company with accounts of the hypocrisy of the Empress of Austria; and to prove it, she drew from her pocket-book a letter, saying: 'Hear what the Cardinal de Rohan says about her.' Now, cardinal, do you still deny that you correspond with her?"

"I do deny it," said the prince, firmly. "I deny that I ever have written her a word."

The empress took from her pocket a paper, and read as follows

"True, I have seen Maria Theresa weeping over the fate of Poland, but this sovereign, who is such an adept in the art of dissimulation, appears to have tears and sighs at her command. In one hand she holds her pocket-handkerchief, and in the other the sword with which she cuts off a third of that unhappy country." [Footnote: "Memoires de Weber concernant Marie Antoinette," vol. viii., p. 803.]

"Now, sir cardinal, upon your sacred honor, did you or did you not write these words?"

The prince turned pale, and grasped the arm of the chair on which he sat.

"Upon your honor and your conscience, before God!" reiterated the empress.

The cardinal raised his eyes slowly, and in a low voice, said "I dare not deny it. I wrote them. In an unlucky hour I wrote them--but not to Du Barry."

"To whom, then?"

"To one who has betrayed me to Du Barry. Far be it for me to name him. I alone will bear the weight of your majesty's displeasure. I alone am the culprit."

"I know of no culprit in the matter," replied Maria Theresa, throwing back her stately head. "I stand before God and before the world, and every man has a right to pass sentence upon my actions--even the Cardinal de Rohan. I merely wish to show him that the dauphiness and her mother both know what to expect of his eminence."

"The dauphiness knows of this letter?" cried De Rohan.

"It is she who sent me this copy."

The prince bowed his head down upon his hands.

"I am lost!" murmured he.

The empress surveyed him with mistrust. Such emotion on the part of such a man astonished her, and she doubted its sincerity.

"Why this comedy, prince?" said she. "I have already told you that I am indifferent to your opinion."

"But the dauphiness never will forgive me," said he, uncovering his face. "My contrition is no comedy: for I look with prophetic eyes into the future--and there I see anguish and tears."

"For whom?" said Maria Theresa, scornfully.

"For me, and perchance for the dauphiness. She considers me her enemy, and will treat me as such. But hatred is a two-edged sword which is as apt to wound the one who holds it as the one for whom it is unsheathed. Oh, your majesty, warn the dauphiness! She stands upon the brow of a precipice, and if she do not recede, her enemies will thrust her headlong into the abyss below. Marie Antoinette is an angel of innocence and chastity, but the world in which she lives does not understand the language of angels; and the wicked will soil her wings, that her purity may not be a reproach to their own foulness. Warn the dauphiness to beware of her enemies. But, as God hears me, I am not one of them. Marie Antoinette will never believe me, and, therefore, my fate is sealed. I beg leave of your majesty to withdraw."

Without awaiting the answer, the prince bowed and retired.

Maria Theresa looked thoughtfully after him, and long after be had closed the door, she remained standing in the centre of the room, a prey to the anxious misgivings which his visit had kindled in her heart.

"He is right," said she, after a time. "She wanders upon the edge of a precipice, and I must save her. But, oh my God! where shall I find a friend who will love her enough to brave her displeasure, and, in the midst of the flattery which surrounds her, will raise the honest voice of reproof and censure? Ah, she is so unhappy, my little Antoinette, and I have no power to help her! Oh my God! succor my persecuted child!"

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LXXXIX. THE POLES AT VIENNA

The three powers which had lived so long at variance, had united themselves in one common cause--the pacification of Poland. In vain had Stanislaus refused his assent to their friendly intervention. In vain had he appealed to England and France for help. Neither of these powers was willing, for the sake of unhappy Poland, to become involved in a war with three nations, who were ready to hurl their consolidated strength against any sovereign who would have presumed to dispute their joint action.

In vain King Stanislaus began, by swearing, that sooner than consent to the dismemberment of Poland, he would lose his right hand. The three powers, tired of his impotent struggles, informed him, through their envoys at Warsaw, that there were limits to the moderation which decorum prescribed to governments; that they stood upon these limits, and awaited his speedy acquiescence to the act of partition. [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. iv., p 516.] The Russian empress added that, if Stanislaus did not call a convention of the Polish Diet to recognize the act, she would devastate his land, so that he would not have a silver spoon left to him. [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. i., p. 507.]

The unhappy king had no longer the nerve to brave such terrific threats. He submitted to the will of his tyrants, and came in as a fourth power, eager to obtain as much as he could for his own individual advantage.

The wretched Poles took no notice of the edicts of a king who had been forced upon them by a strange sovereign. Only a few cowards and hirelings obeyed the call for a convention; so that in all, there were only thirty-six members, who, under the surveillance of Austrian and Prussian hussars, signed their names to the act of partition.

The King of Prussia received Pomerelia, and the district of Nantz; Russia took Livonia, and several important waywodeships; and Austria obtained the county of Zips, a portion of Galicia and of Lodomeria, and half of the palatinate of Cracow.

Here and there an isolated voice was raised to protest against the stupendous robbery; but it was lost amidst the clash of arms and the tread of soldiery. Whenever a word was spoken that fretted the sensibilities of Austria or Prussia, Catharine said she was willing to bear all the blame of the thing; and, laughing heartily, she called the protests that were sent on the subject, "moutarde apres diner." Frederick resorted to self-deception, proclaiming to the world, "that for the first tune the King and the Republic of Poland were established on a firm basis; that they could now apply themselves in peace to the construction of such a government as would tend to preserve the balance of power between proximate nations, and prevent them from clashing." [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions," p. 542.]

The Poles, in silent rancor, submitted to their fate, and took the oath of allegiance to their oppressors. New boundary-lines were drawn, and new names assigned to the sundered provinces of the dismembered fatherland. The citadels were given over to their foreign masters, and now the deed was consummated.

Even Maria Theresa rejoiced to know it, and whether to relieve her burdened heart, or to pretend to the world that she approved of the transaction, she ordered a solemn "Te Deum" to be sung in the cathedral of St. Stephen, in commemoration of the event.

The entire court was to assist at this ceremony, after which the empress was to receive the oath exacted from those of her new subjects who desired to retain possession of their property.

The ladies of the court were in the anteroom, awaiting the entrance of the sovereigns. Their handsome, rouged faces were bright with satisfaction; for they had all suffered from the misery which, for a year past, had been endured by their imperial mistress. Now they might look forward to serene skies and a renewal of court festivities, and they congratulated one another in triumph.

But they were cautious not to give too audible expression to their hopes. They whispered their expectations of pleasure, now and then casting stolen glances at a tall figure in black, which, sorrowful and alone, stood tearfully regarding the crowds in the streets who were hurrying to church to celebrate her country's downfall. This was the Countess von Salmour, governess to the Archduchess Mariana. With the other ladies of the palace, she was to accompany the empress to the cathedral; but it was clear to all beholders that to her this was a day of supreme humiliation.

The great bell of St. Stephen's announced to her people that the empress was about to leave the palace. The folding-doors were flung open, and she appeared leaning on the arm of the emperor, followed by the princes, princesses, generals, and statesmen of her realms. Silently the ladies of honor ranged themselves on either side of the room to let the imperial family pass by. Maria Theresa's eyes glanced hastily around, and fell upon the pale, wan features of the Countess von Salmour.

All eyes now sought the face of the unhappy lady, whose sad mourning garments were in such striking contrast with the magnificent dresses of the ladies around her.

"Madame von Salmour," said the empress, "I dispense you from your duties for this day. You need not accompany the court to church."

The countess courtesied deeply, and replied: "Your majesty is right to excuse me; for had I gone with the court to church, I might have been tempted to utter treason to Heaven against the oppressors of my country."

The company were aghast at the audacity of the rejoinder, but the empress replied with great mildness:

"You are right; for the temptation would indeed be great, and it is noble of you to speak the truth. I respect your candor."

She was about to pass on, but paused as if she had forgotten something.

"Is the Countess Wielopolska in Vienna?" asked she.

"She arrived yesterday, your majesty."

"Go to her while we are at church." said Maria Theresa, compassionately.

Madame von Salmour glanced toward the emperor, who, with an expression of painful embarrassment, was listening to their conversation.

"Pardon me, your majesty," said the lady, "the Countess Wielopolska is making preparations for a journey, and she receives no one. We parted yesterday. To-morrow she leaves Vienna forever."

"I am glad that she intends to travel," said Maria Theresa; approvingly. "It will divert her mind;" and with a friendly smile, she took leave of the governess, and passed on.

Joseph followed with wildly throbbing heart; and neither the triumphant strains of the Te Deum, nor the congratulatory shouts of his subjects, could bring back serenity to his stormy brow. He knelt before the altar, and with burning shame thought of his first entry into St. Stephen's as Emperor of Austria. It had been the anniversary of the deliverance of Vienna by John Sobieski and his Poles; and in the self-same spot where the emperor had thanked God for this deliverance, he now knelt in acknowledgment of the new principalities which were the fruits of his own ingratitude to Poland.

From these painful and humiliating retrospections, the emperor's thoughts wandered to the beautiful being, who, like a hamadryad, had blended her life with the tree of Polish liberty. He thought of that face whose pallid splendor reminded him of the glories of waning day; and he listened through the long, dim aisles of memory, to the sound of that enchanting voice, whose melody had won his heart long ago on that first, happy evening at Neustadt.

The Countess Wielopolska was leaving Vienna forever, and yet there was no message for him. A longing, that seemed to drown him in the flood of its intensity, rushed over his soul. He would fly to her presence and implore her to forgive the chant of victory that was rejoicing over her country's grave! Oh, the crash of that stunning harmony, how it maddened him, as kneeling, he listened to its last exultant notes!

It was over, and Joseph scarcely knew where he was, until his mother laid her hand upon his shoulder and motioned him to rise.

In the great reception-room, with all the pomp of imperial splendor, Maria Theresa sat upon her throne and received the homage of her new subjects. Each one, as he passed, knelt before the powerful empress, and as he rose, the chief marshal of the household announced his name and rank. The ceremony over, Maria Theresa descended from the throne to greet her Polish subjects in a less formal manner. No one possessed to a greater degree than herself the art of bewitching those whom she desired to propitiate; and to-day, though her youth and beauty were no longer there to heighten the charms of her address, her elegant carriage, her ever-splendid eyes, and graceful affability, were as potent to win hearts as ever. Discontent vanished from the faces of the Poles, and by and by they gathered into groups, in which were mingled Hungarians, Italians, and Austrians, all the subjects of that one great empress.

The majority of the Poles had adopted the French costume of the day. Few had possessed the hardihood to appear before their new sovereign in their rich national dress. Among these few was an old man of tall stature and distinguished appearance, who attracted the attention of every one present.

While his countrymen unbent their brows to the sunshine of Maria Theresa's gracious words, he remained apart in the recess of a window. With scowling mien and folded arms, he surveyed the company; nor could the empress herself, obtain from him more than a haughty inclination of the head.

The emperor was conversing gayly with two Polish noblemen, whose cheerful demeanor bore evidence to the transitory nature of their national grief, when he observed this old man.

"Can you tell me," said he, "the name of yonder proud and angry nobleman?"

The faces of the two grew scarlet, as following the direction of the emperor's finger, they saw the eyes of the old man fixed, with scorn, upon their smiling countenances.

"That," said one of them, uneasily, "is Count Kannienski."

"Ah, the old partisan leader!" exclaimed the emperor. "As he does not seem inclined to come to me, I will go forward and greet him myself."

So saying, Joseph crossed over to the window where, the old count was standing. He received him with a cold, solemn bow.

"I rejoice to meet Count Kannienski, and to express to him my esteem for his character," began the emperor, reaching out his hand.

The count did not appear to perceive the gesture, and merely made a silent bow. But Joseph would not be deterred from his purpose by a hauteur which he knew very well how to excuse.

"Is this your first visit to Vienna?" asked he.

"My first and last visit, sire."

"Are you pleased with the Austrian capital?"

"No, your majesty, Vienna does not please me."

The emperor smiled. Instead of being irritated at the haughtiness with which his advances were met, he felt both respect and sympathy for the noble old man who disdained to conceal his discontent from the eyes of the sovereign himself.

"I wonder that you do not like Vienna. It has great attractions for strangers, and you meet so many of your countrymen here just now!--there were never as many Poles in Vienna before."

An angry glance shot athwart the face of the old man. "There were many more when John Sobieski delivered Vienna from the hands of her enemies," said he. "But that is almost a hundred years ago, and the memory of princes does not extend so far to the obligations of the past. [Footnote: This whole conversation is historical. It was often related by the emperor who said that he had been so touched by Count Kannienski's patriotism and boldness, that but for the fear of a repulse, he would have embraced him. Swinburne, vol. i., page 349.] But," continued he, more courteously, "I did not come here to speak of my country. We must be resigned to the fate apportioned to us by Providence, and you see how readily my countrymen adapt themselves to the vicissitudes of their national life."

"And yet, count, their smiles are less pleasing to me than your frowns. In spite of the present, I cherish the past, and honor those who mourn over the misfortunes of their native land."

The old man was touched, and looked at the handsome, expressive face of the emperor. "Sire," said he, sadly, "if Stanislaus had resembled you, Poland would have been free. But I have not come hither to-day to whine over the unalterable past. Nor did I come to pay homage to the empress."

"Nevertheless the empress would rejoice to become acquainted with the brave Count Kannienski. Allow me, count, to present you."

Kannienski shook his gray locks. "No, sire, I came to Vienna purely for the sake of a woman who will die under the weight of this day's anguish. I came to console her with what poor consolation I have to bestow."

"Is she a Pole?" asked Joseph, anxiously.

"Yes, sire; she is the last true-hearted Polish woman left on earth, and I fear she is about to die upon the grave of her fatherland."

"May I ask her name?"

"Countess Anna Wielopolska. She it is who sent me to the palace, and I came because she asked of me one last friendly service."

"You bring me a message?" faltered the emperor.

"The countess begs to remind the emperor of the promise he made on the day when the empress signed the act of--"

"I remember," interrupted the emperor.

"She asks, if mindful of his promise, he will visit her to-morrow afternoon at six o'clock."

"Where shall I find her?"

"In the very same room which she occupied before. I have delivered my message. Your majesty will, therefore, permit me to withdraw."

He bowed and turned away. Slowly and proudly he made his way through the giddy crowd, without a word of recognition for the frivolous Poles who saluted him as he passed.

"He is the last Polish hero, as she is the last Polish heroine," sighed the emperor, as he followed the old man with his eyes. "Our destiny is accomplished. She would bid me a last farewell."

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XC. THE LAST FAREWELL

Countess Anna Wielopolska was alone in her room, which, like herself, was decked to receive some great and distinguished guest. A rich carpet covered the floor, flowers bloomed in costly vases, the piano was opened, and the music on the stand showed that the countess still found consolation in her genius. But she herself was strangely altered since the day on which she had thrown her bouquet to the emperor in Neustadt. Nevertheless she wore the same dress of black velvet, the same jewels, and in her bosom the same bouquet of white roses, bound with a long scarlet ribbon.

Her heart beat high, and her anxious eyes wandered to the little bronze clock that stood upon a console opposite. The clock struck six, and her pale cheek flushed with anticipated happiness.

"It is the hour," said she. "I shall see him once more." And as she spoke, a carriage stopped, and she heard his step within the vestibule below. Trembling in every limb, she approached the door, and bent her ear to listen.

"Yes, he comes," whispered she, while, with a gesture of extreme agitation she drew from her pocket a little case, whence she took a tiny flask, containing a transparent, crimson liquid. She held it for a few seconds to the light, and now she could hear the sound of his voice, as he spoke with Matuschka in the anteroom. The steps came nearer and nearer yet.

"It is time," murmured she; and hastily moving the golden capsule that covered the vial, she put it to her lips and drank it to the last drop.

"One hour of happiness," said she, replacing the vial in her pocket, and hastening back to the door.

It was opened, and the emperor entered the room. Anna met him, with both hands outstretched, and smiled with unmistakable love as he came forward to greet her. Silent, but with visible agitation, the emperor looked into those eyes, which were already resplendent with the glory of approaching death. Long they gazed upon each other without a word, yet speaking love with eyes and lips.

Suddenly the emperor dropped her hands, and laying his own gently upon her cheeks, he drew down her head, and rested it upon his breast. She left it there, and looked up with a tender smile.

"Do not speak, love," said he. "I am an astrologer, who looks into his heaven to read the secrets there. And, oh," sighed he, after he had gazed for a time. "I see sorrow and suffering written upon that snowy brow. Tears have dimmed the splendor of my stars, but they have not been able to lessen their beauty. I know you again, my queen of the night, as you first appeared to me at Neustadt. You are still the same proud being, Anna."

"No, dearest, no. I am a trembling woman, craving nothing from earth save the glance of my beloved, and the privilege of dying in his embrace."

"She who loves, desires to live for her lover," said he, pressing her again and again to his heart.

"Death is the entrance to eternal life, and she who truly loves will love throughout eternity."

"Speak not of death in this hour of ecstasy, when I have found you once more as I had pictured you in dreams. Oh, Anna, Anna! will you part me from you again? Have you indeed brought me hither to cheat me with visions of love, and then to say farewell, forever!"

"No, Joseph, I bid you eternal welcome. Oh, my lover, my soul has gone forth to meet yours, and nothing shall ever part us again."

"And are you mine at last!" cried Joseph, kissing her passionately. "Has the statue felt the ray of love, and uttered its first sweet sound? Oh, how I longed to hear that sound! I have gone about by day, wearing the weight of sovereignty upon my fainting shoulders; and by night I have wept like a lovesick boy for your sake, Anna; but no one suspected it. No one knew that the emperor was unhappy."

"I knew it," whispered she--"I knew it; for your sorrows have all been mine."

"No, no!" cried Joseph, awaking from his dream of bliss, "you told me that Poland was dearer to you than I. I remember it now You refused me your hand, and forsook me for the sake of your country."

"But, now, beloved," said she, clinging to him, "now I am but a woman--a woman who abandons her fatherland with all its memories, and asks but one blessing of Heaven--the blessing of living and dying in her lover's arms."

"Oh, if you would not kill me, speak no more of dying, Anna! Now you are mine--mine for life; and my heart leaps with joy as it did when first I heard your heavenly voice. Let me hear it once more. Sing to me, my treasure."

She went to the harpsichord, and the emperor bent over her, smiling as he watched the motion of her graceful hands upon the keys. She struck a few full chords, and then glided into a melody of melancholy sweetness. The emperor listened attentively; then, suddenly smiling, he recognized the song which she had sung before the King of Prussia and himself.

The words were different now. They represented Poland as a beggared queen, wandering from door to door, repulsed by all. She is starving, but she remembers that death will release her from shame and hunger.

The countess was singing these lines--

"If life to her hath brought disgrace, Honor returns with death's embrace--"

when she stopped and her hands fell powerless from the instrument. The emperor raised her head, and saw with alarm that her face was distorted by pain. Without a word, he took her in his arms, and, carrying her across the room, laid her gently upon the sofa. She raised her loving eyes to his, and tried to steal her arm around his neck, but it fell heavily to her side. Joseph saw it, and a pang of apprehension shook his manly frame.

"Anna!" groaned he, "what means this?"

"Honor returns with death's embrace," whispered she.

The emperor uttered a savage cry, and raised his despairing arms to heaven. "And it was false," cried he, almost mad with grief--"it was false! She had not forgotten Poland. Oh, cruel, cruel Anna!" and he sobbed piteously, while she strove to put her trembling hand upon his head.

"Cruel to myself, Joseph, for I have just begun to value life. But I swore to my mother that I would not outlive the disgrace of Poland; and you would have ceased to love me had I violated my oath. Forgive the pain I inflict upon you, dearest. I longed for one single hour of happiness, and I have found it here. With my dying breath I bless you."

"Is there no remedy?" asked he, scarcely able to speak.

"None," said she, with a fluttering smile. "I obtained the poison from Cagliostro. Nay--dear one, do not weep: you see that I could not live. Oh, do not hide your face from me; let me die with my eyes fixed upon yours!"

"And," cried Joseph, "must I live forever?"

"You must live for your subjects--live to be great and good, yet ever mistrusted, ever misunderstood. But onward, my prince, and the blessing of God be upon you! Think, too, that the Poles, my brethren, are among your subjects, and promise me to love and cherish them?"

"I promise."

"Try to reconcile them to their fate--do not return their ill-will; swear to me that you will be clement to my countrymen?"

"I swear! I swear to respect their misfortunes, and to make them happy!"

One last, beaming illuminated her face. "Thank you--dearest," said she, with difficulty. "My spirit shall look out from the eye of every Pole, to whom you will have given--one moment--of joy! Oh, what agony! Farewell!"

One more look--one shudder--and all was still.

The emperor fell upon his knees by the body, and prayed long and fervently. The little clock struck seven. The hour of happiness had passed away forever.

The following day, Joseph, pale, but perfectly calm, sought an interview with his mother.

"I come to ask leave of absence of your majesty," said he, languidly.

"Leave of absence, my son? Do you wish to travel again so soon?"

"I must travel, your majesty. I must make a journey to Galicia, to become acquainted with our new subjects."

"Perhaps it might be as well for us to show them some consideration at this period. I had already thought of this; but I have been told that Galicia is rather an uncivilized country, and that the people are ill-disposed toward us."

"We cannot expect them to love their oppressors, your majesty."

"No--but it is a dreadful country. No roads--no inns--miles and miles of uninhabited woods, infested by robbers. Oh, my son, postpone your journey to a milder season! I shall be trembling for your safety."

"There is no danger, your majesty. Give me your consent; I am very, very desirous of visiting Poland."

"But no vehicle can travel there at this time of year, my son."

"I will go on horseback, your majesty."

"But where will you get provisions, Joseph? Where will you rest at night?"

"I will rest wherever night overtakes me, either in a cottage, on my horse, or on the ground. And as for food, mother, if there is food for our people, there will be some for me; and if there should be scarcity, it is but just that I should share their hardships. Let me go, I entreat you."

"Go, then, my son, and God's blessing be with you," said the empress, kissing her son's forehead.

"Joseph!" said she, as he was leaving the room, "have you heard that the poor young Countess Anna has committed suicide on account of the troubles in Poland?"

"Yes, your majesty," replied Joseph, without flinching.

"Perhaps you had better defer your journey for a day to attend her funeral. All the Poles will be there; and as we both knew and admired her, I think it would propitiate our new subjects if we gave some public mark of sympathy by following the body to the grave. I have forbidden mention to be made of the manner of her death, that she may not be denied a resting-place within consecrated ground."

How she probed his wound until the flesh quivered with agony!

"The Countess Wielopolska is not to be interred in Austria, your majesty," said he. "Count Kannienski will accompany the body to Poland. Near Cracow there is a mound wherein it is said that Wanda, the first Queen of Poland, was buried. Anna Wielopolska will share her tomb. Her heroic spirit could rest nowhere save in Poland. When I visit Cracow I will go thither to plant flowers upon her grave, that the white roses she loved may grow from the consecrated earth that lies upon her heart."

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XCI. THE CONCERT

Therese Paradies was to give a concert, the first at which she had performed since the restoration of her sight. Of course, the hall was thronged, for in spite of the incontrovertible fact itself, and of its corroboration by the Paradies family, there were two parties in Vienna--one who believed in the cure, and the other who did not. Those who did not, doubted upon the respectable testimony of Professor Barth, Doctor Ingenhaus, and the entire faculty, who, one and all, protested against the shameful imposition which Mesmer was practising upon an enlightened public.

The audience, therefore, was less interested in Therese's music, wonderful as it was, than in her eyes; for her father had announced that during the pauses Therese would prove to the incredulous that her cure was no deception.

Professor Barth, Doctor Ingenhaus, and the astronomer were there in the front row, sneering away the convictions of all who were within hearing. Herr Paradies now appeared, and as he stood reckoning the profits that were to gladden his pockets on that eventful evening, Barth left his seat and approached him.

"You really believe, do you, that your daughter sees?" said the professor.

"She sees as well as I do. Were you not there to witness it yourself when her bandage was removed?"

"I humored the jest to see how far the impudence of Mesmer and the credulity of his admirers would travel together. I hear curious accounts of your daughter's mistakes, granting her the use of her eyesight. It is said that some one presented her a flower, when, looking at it, she remarked, 'What a pretty star!' And did she not put a hair-pin in her mother's cheek while trying to fasten her hair?"

"Yes, she did both these things, but I think they prove her to be making awkward use of a new faculty. She is not likely to know the name of a thing when she sees it for the first time; neither has she learned to appreciate distances. Objects quite close to her she sometimes stumbles upon, and those out of reach she puts out her hand to take. All this will correct itself, and when Therese has become as familiar with prospective illusions as the rest of us, she will go out into the streets, and the world will be convinced."

"You really believe it, then?"

"I am as convinced of it as that I see myself."

"It is very disinterested of you to publish it," said the professor, looking significantly at the happy father. "This acknowledgment will cost you a considerable sum."

"How?" asked Von Paradies, frightened. "I do not understand."

"It is very simple, nevertheless," said the professor, carelessly. "Does the empress give your daughter a pension?"

"Certainly. You know she does, and a handsome one, too."

"Of course it is lost to her," replied Berth, enjoying the sudden paleness which overspread the radiant face of Von Paradies. "A girl who sees has no right to the money which is given to the blind, and I heard Von Stork this very day saying that as soon as it was proved that your daughter could see, he intended to apply to the empress for her pension in behalf of another party."

"But this pension is our chief support; it enables us to live very comfortably. If it were withdrawn, I should be a beggar."

"That would not alter the case. Pensions are granted to those who by their misfortunes have a claim upon the public charity. The claim dies from the moment that your daughter's infirmity is removed. Through the favor of the empress she has become a scientific musician, and this now must be her capital. She can teach music and give concerts."

"But that will not maintain us respectably," urged Von Paradies, with increasing uneasiness.

"Of course it will not maintain you as you live with your handsome pension. But you need not starve. Be that as it may, there is a blind countess who is my patient, for whom Von Stork is to obtain the pension as soon as you can convince the faculty that your daughter is no longer in need of it. This patient, I assure you, will receive it as long as she lives, for it will never enter into her head to fancy that she has been cured by Master Mesmer."

"But, my dear professor," entreated Von Paradies, "have mercy on me and my family! For sixteen years we have received this income, and it had been secured to us during Therese's lifetime."

"Nevertheless, it goes to the countess, if she is not blind, I tell you. The empress (so says Von Stork) has never refused a request of his because he never asks any thing but that which is just and reasonable."

"We are ruined!" exclaimed Von Paradies, in accents of despair.

"Not unless you prove to us that your daughter IS NOT DECEIVING YOU," replied Barth, with sharp emphasis. "If you can show her to be blind, you are saved; and Von Stork would petition the empress, in consideration of the shameful imposition practised upon your paternal love, to increase the pension. Well--this evening's entertainment will decide the matter. Meanwhile, adieu!"

The professor lounged back to his seat, leaving his poisoned arrow behind.

"I think," said Barth, smiling, as he saw the victim writhe, "that I have given him a receipt for his daughter's eyes that will be more potent than Mesmer's passes. It will never do to restore the age of miracles."

"No, indeed; if miracles are to make their appearance upon the stage of this world, what becomes of science?" asked Ingenhaus.

"Let us await the end of the farce," said the professor. "Here she comes."

A murmur went through the hall as Therese entered. The guests rose from their seats to obtain a sight of her. They had known her from infancy; but to-night she was an object of new and absorbing interest, even to the elegant crowd, who seldom condescended to be astonished at anything.

Therese seemed to feel her position, for whereas she had been accustomed to trip into the concert-room with perfect self-possession, she now came timidly forward, with downcast eyes. The audience had always received her with enthusiasm, for she was a great artiste; but now perfect silence greeted her entrance, for nothing was remembered, save the marvel which her appearance there was to attest.

Whether accidentally or intentionally, several chairs were in her way as she passed to the instrument. She avoided them with perfect confidence, scarcely brushing them with the folds of her white satin dress.

"She is cured! She is no longer blind!" murmured the spectators; and with renewed curiosity, they watched her every motion.

There were three people within the concert-room upon whom these murmurs produced profound and dissimilar impressions. Barth frowned angrily; Von Paradies grew paler and trembled like a coward as he was; while Mesmer, who leaned against a pillar, fixed his eyes upon Therese with a glance of supreme happiness. Therese returned the glance with one of such deep trust and love, that no one who saw it could doubt her power of vision. The audience burst out into one simultaneous storm of applause, and this reminded the young girl that she was not alone with her "master." She raised her eyes for the first time toward the spectators, and met every glance directed toward herself.

The sight of this sea of upturned faces so terrified the poor child, that she felt faint and dizzy. She groped about with her hands, to find a seat, for she could scarcely stand.

The action attracted universal attention. A significant look passed between Von Paradies and Barth, while Mesmer's brow darkened, and his face flushed with disappointment. It was very unfortunate--that faintness of Therese. She stood irresolute and alone, unable to advance, and too weak to see the chair that stood close at hand.

For some time, the audience surveyed her with breathless interest. Suddenly the silence was broken by a voice in the crowd:

"Will no one take pity upon the girl and lead her to the harpsichord? Do you not see that she is as blind as ever?"

Therese recovered herself when she heard these insulting words, and her eyes flashed strangely for eyes that could not see.

"I am not blind!" cried she, in a clear, firm voice, and as if the sneer had restored her strength and self-possession, she came forward at once, and took her seat.

The audience applauded a second time, and Therese bowed and smiled. While she drew off her gloves, she looked back at Mesmer, who returned the glance with one of affectionate pride.

Scarcely knowing what she did, Therese began to play. She kept her eyes fixed upon Mesmer, and as she felt the power of his magnetic glance, she soared into heights of harmony that ravished the ears of her listeners, and left all her previous performances far behind.

She ended with a sigh, as though awaking from some heavenly dream. Never had she been so enthusiastically applauded as now. This time it was not her vision, but her incomparable skill which had elicited the acclamations of the public; and Therese, happy in her success, bowed, and smiled again upon her admirers.

And now the artistic exhibition was at an end. Herr von Paradies, advancing, informed the public that they would now proceed to test the genuineness of his daughter's cure. He then came to the edge of the platform, and spoke in a loud, distinct voice: "I request the distinguished company, who have brought books or music for the purpose, to hand them to me, that we may discover whether in truth she sees, or imagines that she sees. I beg so much the more for your attention, ladies and gentlemen," continued he, in a faltering voice, "that this night is to decide a fearful doubt in my own mind. Doctor Mesmer affirms that my daughter's vision has been restored. I, alas! believe that she is yet blind!"

The audience expressed astonishment; Therese uttered a cry of horror, and turned to Mesmer, who, pale and stunned by the shock of her father's cruel words, had lost all power to come to the poor child's assistance.

Barth was laughing behind his pocket-handkerchief. "The remedy works," whispered he to Ingenhaus--"the remedy works."

Two gentlemen arose. One handed a book, the other a sheet of music. As Von Paradies turned the book over to his daughter, she gave him a reproachful look. She opened it and read: "Emilia Galotti, by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing."

"And, now," continued she, "if one of the ladies present will select a passage, and another will look over me as I read, the audience can thus convince themselves that I see."

One of the most distinguished ladies in Vienna approached Therese and stood close by her side, while another, a celebrated actress, requested her to open the book at page 71.

Therese turned over the leaves and found the place.

"That is right, my love," said the countess. "Now read."

Therese began to read, and when she ended, the excitement of the people knew no bounds.

"She sees! She sees!" cried the people. "Who can doubt it?"

And now from the crowd arose a voice:

"We have enough proof. The fact is self-evident, and we may all congratulate the fraulein upon the recovery of her sight. Let us have more of her delightful music."

"I am sorry that I cannot agree with Doctor Mesmer's invisible patron," said Von Paradies. "I strive to forget that I am her father, and place myself on the side of the incredulous public, who have a right to demand whether indeed the days of miracles have returned."

"My remedy does wonders," said Barth to the faculty.

Herr von Paradies continued: "This being the case, it is easier for us to suppose that the distinguished actress, who selected the page, has been requested to do so, than to believe that my daughter has seen the words just read; for this lady is known to be a follower of Doctor Mesmer. Perhaps the countess did not remark that the corner of the leaf is slightly turned down."

He took the book and passed the leaves rapidly over his thumb.

"Here it is," said he, holding it up.

"Father!" exclaimed Therese, indignantly, "I saw you turn the leaf a few minutes ago with your own hand."

"SAW" cried Von Paradies, raising his hands. Then turning to the audience, he continued: "As regards this book, it was handed to me just now by Baron von Horka, one of Mesmer's most devoted adherents. He may have been commissioned to select this particular work, and Therese may be aware of it. If I am thus stringent in my acceptance of the evidence in this case, it is because I long to possess the sweet assurance of my dear child's complete cure."

"Hear him," laughed Barth, touching Ingenhaus on the elbow.

Therese, meanwhile, was growing embarrassed; and, looking to Mesmer for encouragement she lost sight of every thing under the influence of his eyes. Her father held the paper before her, but she was not aware of it. The audience whispered, but Mesmer at that moment, turning away from Therese, she sighed, and, recovering her self-possession, took the paper and placed it before the harpsichord.

"March, from 'OEdipus,'" said she, seating herself before the instrument.

"Why, Therese," cried her father, "you read the title without turning to the title-page."

"I saw the piece when it was handed to you by Ritter Gluck."

"You are acquainted with Gluck?" asked Von Paradies. "He has never been to our house."

"I have seen him at Doctor Mesmer's," replied Therese.

"Ah, indeed! Ritter Gluck, who hands the music, is like Baron von Horka, who brought the book, a friend of Mesmer's," said Von Paradies, with a sneer that affrighted his daughter and made her tremble.

But she placed her hands upon the keys and began to play.

The enraptured audience again forgot her eyes, and, entranced by the music, hung breathless upon her notes, while she executed the magnificent funeral march in "OEdipus." Suddenly, at the conclusion of a passage of exquisite beauty, she ceased, and her hands wandered feebly over the keys, Her father, who was turning the leaves, looked almost scornfully at the poor girl; who, alarmed and bewildered by his unaccountable conduct, grew deadly pale, and finally, with a deep sigh, closed her eyes.

After a few moments she began again. From her agile fingers dropped showers of pearly notes, while, through all the fanciful combinations of sound, was beard the solemn and majestic chant of the funeral march. The audience could scarcely contain their raptures; and yet they dared not applaud for fear of losing a note.

She seemed to be astray in a wilderness of harmony, when her father, with an impatient gesture, laid his hands upon her fingers and held them down.

"You are no longer playing by note!" exclaimed he, with affected surprise. "You are giving us voluntaries from 'Orpheus,' instead of the funeral march. I appeal to the public to say whether my daughter is playing the funeral march?"

There was a pause, then a voice, tremulous with emotion, said, "No, it is no longer the funeral march; it is now a beautiful arrangement from 'Orpheus.'"

Herr von Paradies, with an expression of profoundest anguish, threw his arm around his daughter, exclaiming, "Oh, my beloved child, it is then as I feared! We have been deceived, and you are blind for life."

"Father!" screamed Therese, flinging him off; "father, you know--"

"I know that you are blind," cried he, following her, and again clasping her in his arms. "Come, my poor child, come, and fear nothing! Your father will work for you; and his hand shall guide your faltering steps. Oh, my child! May God forgive those who have brought this bitter disappointment upon my head! My dream of hope is over. You are blind, Therese, hopelessly blind, and your father's heart is broken!"

The audience were deeply moved by this outburst of paternal grief and tenderness. Here and there were heard half-audible murmurs of sympathy, and many of the ladies had their handkerchiefs to their eyes. Everybody was touched except Professor Barth. He, on the contrary, was chuckling with satisfaction, and felt much more inclined to applaud than to commiserate. He looked at Ingenhaus, who, not being in the secret, was divided between sympathy for the father and indignation toward the charlatan. Indeed, he had so far forgotten his own interest in the scene, that he was weeping with the rest.

"Console yourself, my friend," said Barth, "all this is the result of my efforts in behalf of science. I deserve a public vote of thanks for having out-mesmered Mesmer."

He stopped--for Therese's voice was heard in open strife with her father. "Let me go!" cried she, with passion. "I am not blind. As God hears me, I see--but oh, how fearful have been the revelations that sight has made to me this night!"

Poor, poor Therese! The shock of her father's treachery had proved too great for her girlish frame. She reeled and fell back insensible in his arms.

Von Paradies, with simulated anguish, turned to the audience and bowed his stricken head. Then raising his daughter in his arms, he carried her away from the stage.

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XCII. THE CATASTROPHE

Therese lay for several hours unconscious, while her mother wept, and watched over her, and her father stood by, sullenly awaiting the result.

At last she heaved a sigh and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" asked she, feebly.

"At home, darling," replied the tender mother, bending over and kissing her.

"No--I am in the fearful concert-room. They stare at me with those piercing daggers which men call eyes; and oh, their glances hurt me, mother! There they sit, heartlessly applauding my misery, because it has shaped itself into music! Let me go; I am strong, and I SEE!"

She attempted to rise, but her father held her back. "Lie still, my child," said he, reproachfully; "it is in vain for you to carry this deception further. Trust your parents, and confess that you are blind. Were it otherwise, you would not mistake your own familiar chamber for the vast concert-room. For Mesmer's sake, you have sought to deceive us, but it is useless, for we know that you are blind."

"You are blind--you are blind!" These oft-repeated words seemed fraught with a power that almost made her doubt her own senses. She saw, and yet she felt as if sight were receding from her eyes.

"Oh, my God! Why will my father madden me!" cried the unhappy girl, rising in spite of all efforts to detain her, and looking around the room. "Ah--now I remember, I fainted and was brought home. Yes, father, yes, I tell you that I see," cried she, wringing her hands, and writhing with the agony he was inflicting upon her. "I see in the window the blue flower-pot which Mesmer brought me yesterday--there opposite stands my harpsichord, and its black and white keys are beckoning me to come and caress them. Two open books lie upon the table, and over it are scattered drawings and engravings. Oh, father, have I not described things as they are?"

"Yes, child--you have long been familiar with this room, and need not the help of eyes to describe it."

"And then," continued she, "I see you both. I see my mother's dear face, tender as it was when first my eyes opened to the light of its love; and, my father, I see you with the same frown that terrified me in the concert-room--the same scowl that to my frightened fancy, seemed that of some mocking fiend who sought to drive me back to blindness! What is it, father? What has changed you so that you love your child no longer, and seek to take the new life that God has just bestowed?"

"God has bestowed nothing upon you, and I will no longer be the tool of an impostor," replied he, morosely. "Am I to be the laughing-stock of Vienna, while men of distinction see through the tricks of the charlatan? I must and will have the strength to confess my folly, and to admit that you are blind."

Therese uttered a cry, and shook as though a chill had seized her. "O God, help me!" murmured the poor girl, sinking in her mother's outstretched arms, and weeping piteously. Suddenly she raised her head and gradually her face brightened, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted with a smile, and her large expressive eyes beamed with happiness. Once more she trembled--but with joy, and leaning her head upon her mother's shoulder, she whispered, "He comes."

The door opened, and Mesmer's tall and commanding figure advanced toward the group. Therese flew to meet him and grasped his hands in hers.

"Come, master, come and shield me! God be thanked, you are here to shelter me. If you leave again, I shall lose my sight."

He passed his hands lightly over her face, and looked earnestly into her eyes.

"You are dissatisfied with me, master," said she anxiously. "You are displeased at my childish behavior. I know that I was silly; but when I saw those multitudinous heads so close together, all with eyes that were fixed on me alone, I began again to feel afraid of my own race. It seemed as if the walls were advancing to meet me--and I retreated in terror."

"What confused you at the harpsichord, child?"

"The sight of the small, dazzling notes, and the singular motions of my own fingers. I am so unaccustomed to see, that hands and notes appeared to be dancing a mad Morrisco, until at last I grew confused and saw nothing."

"All this is so natural," said Mesmer sadly, "for the seat of your infirmity lay in the nerves. And now that they require rest, you are a prey to agitation and to tears. Unhappy Therese, there are some who seek to plunge you back into the darkness from whence I have rescued you!"

She put her arms upon his shoulders and sobbed, "Save me, master, save me--I could not bear blindness now!"

At the other end of the room stood Von Paradies and his wife. She laid her hand upon his arm, saying imploringly:

"What signifies all this mystery, husband? Why do you torture our little Therese so cruelly? You know that she sees; why, then, do you--"

"Peace!" interrupted Von Paradies angrily. "If Therese does not become blind again, we shall lose our pension."

"My poor child," sobbed the mother, "you are lost!"

"I have come to your help, Therese," said Mesmer audibly. "I know all that is passing under this roof," continued he, with a look of scorn at her parents. "They are trying to deprive you of your sight, and they well know that excitement and weeping will destroy it. But my name and honor are linked with your fortunes, child; and I shall struggle for both. I have come to take you to the villa, with my other patients. You shall be under my wife's care, and will remain with us until your eyes are fortified against nervous impressions. The carriage is at the door."

"I am ready to go," replied Therese joyfully.

"I will not suffer her to leave the house!" cried Von Paradies, striding angrily forward. "Therese is my daughter, and shall not be torn from her father's protection."

"She goes with me," thundered Mesmer with eyes that flashed lightning, like those of Olympian Zeus. "You gave her to me as a patient, and until she is cured she belongs to her physician."

He took Therese in his arms and carried her toward the door. But Von Paradies, with a roar like that of some wild animal, placed himself before it and defended the passage.

"Let me pass," cried he.

"Go--but first put down Therese."

"No--you shall not deprive her of the sight I have bestowed." With these words, he raised his muscular right arm, and swinging off Von Paradies as if he had been a child, Mesmer passed the opening and stood outside.

"Farewell, and fear nothing," cried he, "for your pension will not be withdrawn. Therese is once more blind. But as God is just, I will restore her again to sight!"

Mesmer, however, was destined to be foiled. His enemies were richer and more influential than he; and Von Paradies, in mortal terror for his pension, sustained them. Von Stork obtained an order, commanding the relinquishment of Therese to her natural guarians; and her father, armed with the document, went and demanded his daughter. Therese flew to Mesmer's arms, and a fearful scene ensued. It shall be described in Mesmer's own words.

"The father of Therese, resolved to carry her away by main force, rushed upon me with an unsheathed sword. I succeeded in disarming him, but the mother and daughter both fell insensible at my feet: the former from terror, the latter because her unnatural father had hurled her against the wall, where she had struck her head with such violence as to lose all consciousness. Madame von Paradies recovered and went home; but poor Therese was in a state of such nervous agony that she lost her sight entirely. I trembled for her life and reason. Having no desire to revenge myself upon her parents, I did all that I could to save her. Herr von Paradies, sustained by those who had instigated him, filled Vienna with the cry of persecution. I became an object of universal contumely, and a second order was obtained by which I was commanded to deliver Therese to her father." [Footnote: Justinus Kerner, "Fraaz Anton Mesmer," p.70.]

From this time Therese remained blind, and continued to give concerts in Vienna, as she had done before. Barth and his accomplices were triumphant; and Mesmer, disgusted with his countrymen, left Vienna, and made his home in Paris.

Therese von Paradies then, as her father asserted, was blind. Whether she ever was any thing else, remains to this day an open question. The faculty denied furiously that she had seen; Mesmer's friends, on the contrary, declared solemnly that she had been restored by animal magnetism; but that her cruel father, for the sake of the pension, had persecuted her, and so succeeded in destroying her eyesight forever.

MARIE ANTOINETTE

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XCIII. LE ROI EST MORT, VIVE LE ROI!

It was the evening of the tenth of May, 1774. The palace of Versailles, the seat of royal splendor, was gloomy, silent, and empty. Regality, erst so pleasure-loving and voluptuous, now lay with crown all dim, and purple all stained, awaiting the last sigh of an old, expiring king, whose demise was to restore to it an inheritance of youth, beauty, and strength.

In one wing of the palace royalty hovered over a youthful pair, as the genius of hope; in another it frowned upon the weak old king as the implacable angel of death.

Louis the Fifteenth was balancing the great account of his life--a life of luxury, voluptuousness, and supreme selfishness. Yielding to the entreaties of his daughters, he had sent for the Archbishop of Paris; but knowing perfectly well that the sacraments of the church would not be administered under a roof which was polluted by the presence of Du Barry, the old libertine had banished her to the Chateau de Ruelles.

But Monseigneur de Beaumontr required something more than this of the royal sinner. He exacted that he should make public confession of his scandalous life in presence of the court to which he had given such shameful example. The king had struggled against such open humiliation, but the archbishop was firm, and the fear of death predominating over pride, Louis consented to make the sacrifice.

For three days the courtiers had hung about the anteroom, afraid to enter (for the king's disease was small-pox), yet afraid to take flight, lest by some chance he should recover. But now the doors of the royal apartments were flung wide open, and there was great trepidation among the crowd. The archbishop in his canonicals was seen standing by the bed of state; on one side of him stood the grand almoner, and on the other the minister, the Duke d'Aiguillon. At the foot of the bed knelt the daughters of the king, who in soft whispers were trying to comfort their miserable father.

"The king wishes to bid adieu to his friends!" cried the Duke d'Aiguillon, in a loud voice.

Here was a dilemma! Everybody was afraid of the small-pox, for the handsome Marquis de Letorieres, whom Louis had insisted upon seeing, had just died of the infection, and nobody desired to follow him. And yet the king might outlive this attack, and then--what?

Once more the Duke d'Aiguillon called out for the king's friends; and, trembling from apprehension of results that might follow this latter contingency, they entered the chamber of death. The atmosphere was fearful. Not all the fumes of the incense which was sending its vapory wreaths to the pictured ceilings could overpower the odor of approaching dissolution. In vain the acolytes swung their golden censers--death was there, and the scent of the grave.

Breathless and with compressed lips the king's friends listened to his indistinct mutterings, and looked upon his swollen, livid, blackened face. Each one had hurried by, and now they all were free again, and were preparing to fly as far as possible from the infected spot. But the clear, solemn voice of the archbishop--that voice which so often had stricken terror to their worldly hearts--was heard again, and he bade them stay.

"The king asks pardon of his subjects for the wicked and scandalous life which he has led on earth," said the archbishop. "Although as a man he is responsible to God alone for his deeds, as a sovereign he acknowledges to his subjects that he heartily repents of his wickedness, and desires to live only that he may do penance for the past and make amends for the future."

A piteous groan escaped from the lips of the dying monarch, but his "friends" did not stay to hear it; they fled precipitately from the frightful scene.

While here a trembling soul was being driven from its earthly dwelling, in another wing of the palace the other members of the royal family were in the chapel at prayer. The evening services were over, and the chaplain was reading the "forty hours' prayer," when the sky became suddenly obscured, peal upon peal of thunder resounded along the heavens, and night enveloped the chapel in its dismal pall of black. Livid flashes of lightning lit up the pale faces of the royal supplicants, while to every faltering prayer that fell from their lips the answer came from above in the roar of the angry thunder-clap.

There, before the altar, knelt the doomed pair, the innocent heirs of a selfish and luxurious race of kings; whose sins were to be visited upon their unconscious heads. No wonder they wept--no wonder they shuddered on the dark and stormy night which heralded their reign.

The rites were ended, and the dauphin and dauphiness went silently together to their apartments. The few trusty attendants who were gathered in the anteroom greeted them with faint smiles, and uttered silent orisons in their behalf; for who could help compassionating these two young creatures, upon whose inexperienced heads the thorny crown of royalty was so soon to be placed?

As they entered the door, a flash of lightning; that seemed like the fire which smote the guilty cities of Israel, flashed athwart their paths, and the thunder cracked and rattled above the roof as though it had been riving that palace-dome asunder. The dauphiness cried out, and clung to her husband's arm. He, scarcely less appalled, stood motionless on the threshold.

The violence of the wind at that moment had burst open some outer door. The lights in the chandeliers were almost extinguished, and one solitary wax-light, that had been burning in the recess of a window, went entirely out. Regardless of etiquette, and of the presence of the royal pair, Monsieur de Campan sprang to the chandelier, and, relighting the candle, quickly replaced it in the window.

The dauphin beheld the act with astonishment, for no one at that court was more observant of decorum than Monsieur de Campan.

"What means that light in the window?" inquired the dauphin, in his clear, touching voice.

"Pardon me, your highness, it is merely a ceremony," replied Monsieur de Campan, confused.

"What ceremony?" asked the dauphin, with surprise.

"Your highness commands me?"

"I request you--if the dauphiness permits," said Louis, turning to his wife, who, almost exhausted, leaned for support against him, and bowed her head.

"Your majesty has given orders, that as soon as the event, which is about to take place, has occurred, the whole court shall leave Versailles for Choisy. Now it would not be possible to issue verbal orders in such a moment as the one which we await; so that the master of the horse and myself had agreed upon a signal by which the matter could be arranged without speech. The garden du corps, pages, equerries, coaches, coachmen, and outriders, are all assembled in the court-yard, their eyes fixed upon this light. As soon as it is extinguished, it will be understood that the moment has arrived when the court is to leave Versailles."

"The disappearance of the light, then, will communicate the tidings of the king's death?"

Monsieur de Campan bowed. Louis drew his wife hurriedly forward, and passed into another room, where, with his hands folded behind him, he walked to and fro.

"God is just," murmured he to himself, "and there is retribution in heaven."

Marie Antoinette, whose large violet eyes had followed her husband's motions, raised them to his face with a look of inquiry. She rose from the divan on which she was sitting, and putting her small, white hand upon the dauphin's shoulder, said:

"What do you mean, Louis?"

"I mean that this solitary light, for whose disappearance these people are waiting, shines in retribution for the fearful death-bed of my father."

"I do not understand."

"No, Antoinette, how should you? You have never heard the tragic story of my father's death, have you?"

"No, my husband," said she, tenderly; "tell it to me now."

"I will, Antoinette. He was one of the best and truest hearts that ever lived; and yet these selfish courtiers all forsook him in his dying hour. He lay alone and abandoned in his room by all save my angelic mother, who nursed him as loving woman alone can nurse. The court was at Fontainebleau, and the dauphin's father announced that as soon as his son had expired, they would all journey to Choisy. My father, who in an arm-chair, was inhaling, for the last time, the balmy breath of spring, saw these hurried preparations for departure from the open window where he sat. He saw carriages, horses, trunks, lackeys, and equerries ready at a moment's warning to move. He saw that the signal for the rushing crowd to depart was to be his death. Turning to his physician, he said, with a sad smile, 'I must not be too long in dying, for these people are becoming impatient.'" [Footnote: Soulavie, "Memoires," etc., vol. i.]

"Shameful!" cried Marie Antoinette, wiping away her tears.

"Ay, more than shameful!" exclaimed Louis. "Now, you see, that the hour of retribution has come, for once more the court grows impatient with the length of a dying sovereign's agony. Oh, would that my noble father were alive! How much more worthy was he to be a king than I."

"From my heart I echo your wish," said Antoinette, fervently. "How was it that he died so young?"

Louis looked searchingly at the face of his young wife. "He died of a malady whose name is an impeachment of the honor of those who survive him," said the dauphin, sternly, "and my mother died of the same disease. [Footnote: It was generally believed that the dauphin and his wife were poisoned by a political party, whose leader was the Duke de Choiseul. The royal couple belonged to the anti-Austrian party. "Memoires de Campan," vol. i., p. 78.] But let us not throw any darker shadows over the gloom of this heavy hour. I am stifled--I have a presentiment of--" A loud shout interrupted the dauphin. It came nearer and nearer, and now it reached the anteroom, where the crowding courtiers were pouring in to greet King Louis XVI.

The dauphin and his wife were at no loss to understand these shouts. They exchanged glances of fear, and side by side they fell upon their knees while, with tear-streaming eyes, they faltered. "O God have mercy upon us, we are so young to reign!" [Footnote: "Memoires de Campan," vol. i., p. 78.]

The doors were thrown open, and the mistress of ceremonies of Marie Antoinette appeared. Behind her came a multitude of lords and ladies, their curious eyes peering at what they had never expected to see--a royal couple assuming the purple, not with pomp and pride, but with humility, distrust, and prayer.

They rose, and faced their subjects. Madame de Noailles courtesied so low that she was upon her knees.

"Your majesties will forgive this intrusion," said she, with all the aplomb of her dignity. "I come to request that your majesties will repair to the state reception-room to receive the congratulations of your royal relatives, and those of your court, who are all waiting anxiously to do you homage."

Such a request, from the lips of Madame de Noailles, was the exaction of an indispensable form of court-etiquette, which the young couple dared not evade.

Arm in arm they went, Marie Antoinette hiding her tears with her handkerchief, and looking inexpressibly lovely in her childish emotions, while the loud greetings of a magnificent court hailed her as their queen.

While the consorts of the royal princes folded their sister-in-law in their arms, the princes, with courtly decorum, bowed ceremoniously before the king.

"Permit us, sire," began the Count of Provence, "to be the first to lay our homage at your majesty's feet, and to--"

"My brothers, my brothers!" cried Louis, deeply affected, "is my crown to rob me of the dear ties of kindred? Oh, do not call me king, for I cannot afford to lose the dear companions of my childhood."

"Sire," replied the Count of Provence, "you shall not lose them; and for us, our gain is two-fold. We receive from God a gracious king, and retain our much-loved brother." And the count embraced the king, who had opened his arms to receive him.

A quarter of an hour later, the chateau of Versailles was deserted. The courtiers, pages, equerries, and lackeys, had all departed, delighted to leave that infected atmosphere within whose poisonous influence the iron rules of etiquette had detained them while Louis XV. lived. None of them felt inclined to do homage to departed royalty. Even the Duke de Villequier, first gentleman of the bed-chamber, in his terror, forgot etiquette; and instead of watching the king's corpse, he, too, made ready to go with the rest.

"Monsieur," said the duke to Andouille, the king's physician, "I leave you that you may be able to open and embalm the body." Andouille grew pale, for he knew perfectly well that the performance of such a ceremony as that, was his death-warrant. However, after a pause, he replied, "I am ready, your grace, but you must remain to hold the king's head. It is, as you know, a part of your duty as gentleman of the bedchamber." [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 79]

The Duke de Villequier said nothing. He merely bowed and hurried from the room. Andouille followed his example, but, more considerate than the other attendants of the king, he made some provision for the deserted corpse. He sent for one of the subordinates of the palace, and ordered him to watch by the body. Then, going to his carriage, he saw several hodmen lounging about, who were carrying mortar for some repairs that were being made at the palace. The physician called them, and bade them go tell the lord-Steward that the king's coffin must be saturated with spirits of wine, and his winding-sheet also.

Such were the preparations that were made for the obsequies of the defunct king; and his body was watched by a few servants and these hodmen whom Andouille had employed as messengers.

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XCIV. THE MEMORANDA

It was early in the morning. The court had accompanied the king and queen to Choisy, and thither had flocked the representatives of every class in Paris, to do homage to the king and wish him a prosperous reign.

The people seemed wild with joy, and nobody vouchsafed a thought to the memory of the "Bien-aime," whose body was even now being taken to its last rest, in the vaults of St. Denis. The funeral train was any thing but imposing. The coffin, placed upon a large hunting-wagon, was followed by two carriages, containing the Duke d'Ayen, the Duke d'Aumont, and two priests. Twenty pages and as many grooms closed the procession, which went along without attracting the notice of anybody. The burial-service was read in the crypt, and the coffin hastily lowered in the vault, which was not only walled up, but cemented also, for fear the infection imprisoned within might escape from the dungeon of the dead and infest the abodes of the living.

Not one of the royal family had followed the body. The king was at Choisy, and all hearts were turned to him. Thousands of men went in and out of the palace, each one with his burden of fears, hopes, uneasiness or expectations. Who was now to find favor at court! Would it be the queen, or the aunts of the king? What fate awaited Du Barry? Who would be prime minister?

While these matters were being discussed without, the king, who had not yet made his appearance, was in his cabinet. His disordered mien, tangled hair, and red eyes, as well as the lights that still flickered in the chaneliers, showed plainly that he had not been to bed that night.

He could not sleep. The future lowered dark and threatening before him, and day had not brought comfort to his anxious mind. Great drops of sweat stood upon his brow, and his face, never at the best of tunes handsome, to-day was less attractive than ever. "I am so young!" thought he, despondently. "I know of no man at this court, in whose honesty I can confide. Every man of them has curried favor with that shameless woman whose presence has defiled the throne of my ancestors, and disgraced the declining years of my grandfather. To whom shall I turn? Who will give counsel to a poor, inexperienced youth?"

A slight knock was heard at the door. The king rose and opened it.

"Monsieur de Nicolai," said Louis, surprised, as the old man stood. before him with head inclined. "What brings you to me?"

"The will of your deceased father, sire."

The king stepped back and motioned him to enter. "Now speak," said he. "I know that you were with my father on his death-bed; and I have often sought to win your friendship, but until now leave sought in vain."

"Sire, I was afraid that if I betrayed an interest in your majesty, I might not be allowed to live long enough to fulfil the trust confided to me by your father. I had sworn that on the day you ascended the throne of France I would deliver his will to your majesty."

"And you have preserved it? You have brought it to me?"

"Sire, here it is," said the old nobleman, taking from his breast a sealed package, and laying it in the king's hands.

Louis grasped it eagerly, and deeply moved, read the address "Papers to be delivered to whichever one of my sons ascends the throne of France."

"Your majesty sees that I have kept my trust," said De Nicolai.

"Oh, why is not my father here to reign in my stead!" exclaimed Louis.

"He died, sire, that he might be spared the sight of the disgrace which has overtaken France. He died that the world might bear witness to the baseness of those who, since his death, have swayed the destinies of France. He did not die in vain. Your majesty's self will profit by his martyrdom."

"Yes, I have heard of it all. I know the invisible hand that dealt the death-blow to my father, my mother, and my grand-mother. I know it, and--"

"Sire, your majesty's father forgave his enemies; and, through me, he prays your majesty to do likewise."

"I will obey," said Louis, inclining his head, "and leave the guilty to the vengeance of Heaven. "

"And now, sire, that my mission is accomplished, allow me to retire, and let me entreat you to lay your father's words to heart."

"I will do so, I promise you. Can I do aught to serve you?"

"No, your majesty, I have nothing to ask of man."

The king gave him his hand, and followed him with wistful eyes until the door had closed behind him.

"Oh, how beggared seems a king, when he has nothing wherewith to recognize the loyalty and love of his friends!" thought Louis, with a weary sigh.

He took up the packet and read: "Treaty concluded between Louis XV. and Maria Theresa, on the 1st of May, 1756. Arguments to prove that, sooner or later, the Austrian alliance will be an injury to France."

The king turned over the pages and read the following:

"Whichever one of my sons is called to the throne of Louis XV. let him hearken to the warning of his father. Beware, my son, of entanglements with Austria. Never seek the hand of an Austrian princess; for marriages with Austria have brought no blessing to France."

The king sighed heavily, and his head sank upon his breast. "Too late--too late, my father! My fate is decided!" And Louis took up the second memorandum.

"List of persons whom I recommend to my son, the King of France."

"Ah!--this is the guide I was seeking. Let me see. First,--`Monsieur de Maurepas--a statesman who has steadily opposed the policy advocated by La Pompadour.' That is well--I shall recall him from banishment. 'Messieurs de Machault, de Nivernois, de Muy Perigord, de Broglie, d'Estaing, and others--all men of honor.' How far-sighted was my father, in recommending these men! They are the very nobles who have kept aloof from the late king's mistresses. With one exception, I adopt the list; but there is one among them, who stooped to be a flatterer of Du Barry. The Duke d'Aiguillon is certainly a statesman, but he cannot be of my ministry."

Here the king paused, perplexed to know who should be appointed in D'Aiguillon's place. Suddenly his face brightened, and he rose from his chair.

"Marie Antoinette," thought he, "I will advise with her. Though we may not love one another, we are friendly; and she has a right to my confidence. Besides, she is intelligent and principled."

Here the king took up his memoranda, and prepared to seek his wife. He had gotten as far as the door, when his expression changed again, and his face once more wore a look of blank despondency. With a grieved and perplexed mind, he returned to the table.

"No, no," sighed he, falling back into his chair, "that will never do. She is an Austrian; and her policy would be in direct opposition to that of my father."

For some time the poor young king sat in profound discouragement. Finally, with a long, weary sigh, he raised his head, and began to reflect again. At last he solved he difficult problem. "Ah!--I have it now," thought he, heartily relieved. "I will go to Madame Adelaide. She was my mother's dearest friend and my father's favorite sister. She shall be my counsellor. I believe that, with her assistance, I may succeed in carrying out the policy dictated by my father."

He gathered up his papers, and went into the anteroom, where he ordered a page to go to Madame Adelaide, and say that the king would visit her if she could conveniently receive him. [Footnote: Madame Adelaide, an anti-Austrian, and, therefore, one of the queen's enemies was, throughout his whole reign, the counsellor of her nephew.]

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XCV. FRANCE AND AUSTRIA

While the king was closeted with Madame Adelaide, the queen, on her side, was receiving her royal household. This ceremony over, she had gladly retired to the privacy of her own room, there to restore order to her confused mind.

But her rest was not of long duration, for presently came Monsieur de Campan to announce the visit of the Austrian ambassador.

The queen received him most cordially, rising from her seat, and advancing a few steps to meet him. Madame de Noailles, who, conforming to etiquette, had entered with Monsieur de Campan, and was to remain in the room during the interview, was shocked at the queen, and frowned visibly.

Marie Antoinette paid no attention to her. She reached her hand to Count von Mercy, and allowed him to press it to his lips.

Again Madame de Noailles was horror-stricken. The kissing of the queen's hand was a state ceremonial, and was inadmissible in private.

The queen had forgotten the existence of her mistress of ceremonies. With sparkling eyes and beaming smiles she greeted the old count, who, to her, was the representative of all that she loved--her mother, her sisters, and her native country.

"Have you news for me from Vienna, count?" said she, in a voice whose tones were strikingly like those of her mother.

"I bring to your majesty letters of condolence and of congratulation from the empress and the emperor."

"Why, you must be a conjurer, count. Our reign is not twenty-four hours old yet, and you bring us congratulations from Vienna?"

"I will explain, your majesty," said the old count, with a smile. "You remember, that more than a week ago the king lay in a stupor, which, for some hours, was supposed to be death. During his stupor, my courier started for Vienna, and the messenger sent after him, to stop the dispatches, arrived too late. The answers had been sent, and there are the congratulatory letters."

The count handed his papers, and as the queen cast down her beautiful eyes to read the address, she exclaimed, joyfully:

"My mother's handwriting and my brother's!"

She broke the seal of the empress's letter, and her countenance fell.

"Nothing but official papers," said she, sighing and putting them on the table. "I know the contents of Joseph's letter without reading it. Have you no news for me from Vienna? Think of something to tell me from home, dear count."

Count von Mercy cast a stolen glance at the mistress of ceremonies, who, stiff and watchful, stood close by the side of the queen's chair. Marie Antoinette understood the look.

"Madame de Noailles" said she, turning with a smile to address her, "you will not, I hope, think me rude, if I request you to allow me a few moments interview with Count von Mercy. He has something to say to me that is of a strictly confidential nature."

The mistress of ceremonies did not appear to have heard a word of this address. Marie Antoinette reddened, and threw back her head.

"I request Madame de Noailles," repeated she, changing her tone, "to retire into the reception-room. I wish to speak with Count von Mercy alone."

"I must be permitted to say that your majesty's request cannot be granted," replied Madame de Noailles. "No Queen of France is permitted to receive a foreign ambassador otherwise than in the presence of the court. I shall have to ask his majesty's pardon for a breach of decorum, which I was too late to prevent--the reception of the ambassador here with myself alone to witness the interview."

The queen's eyes flashed with anger as she listened to this presumptuous language.

"You will have to ask pardon of no one but myself, madame, for your unseemly language to your sovereign."

"Excuse me, your majesty, I perform my duty, and this requires of me to see that no one here commits any breach of court etiquette. The laws of etiquette are as binding upon the queen as upon her subjects--and she cannot infringe them."

"I announce to you, madame, that no laws of yours shall be binding upon me. The Queen of France is here to make laws--not to receive them. And for the last time I command you to quit this room, and to leave me alone with the representative of my imperial mother."

Madame de Noailles made a deep courtesy, and backed out of the room.

Marie Antoinette looked after her, until the last traces of her long train had vanished, and the silk portiere had fallen in its place.

"Ah!" said she, taking a long breath, "at last I have gained a victory. It is now my turn to lecture, and madame has received her first scolding. Well, count, now that she is fairly off, what have you to tell me from Vienna?"

Count von Mercy looked toward the door, and having convinced himself that it was well closed, he drew from his pocket a package, and presented it to the queen.

Marie Antoinette hastily tore open the seals and began to read.

"Oh!" said she, with a disappointed look, "this is no private letter. It is nothing but a letter of instructions, directing me how to win the king's confidence, so as to influence his policy and secure a new ally to Austria. The empress need not remind me that I must look to the interests of the house of Hapsburg. The Queen of France will never forget that she is the daughter of Maria Theresa, and she will do all in her power to promote an alliance between France and Austria. Tell my mother that I never will cease to be her subject, and that her interests shall always be mine. And now for the other mission."

"Good Heaven!" cried she, after opening the letter, "more politics." She looked down the page, and read: "Personages whom I recommend as suitable for the counsellors and household of the king."

This was quite a long list in the empress's handwriting, and at its head stood the name of the Duke de Choiseul. "The Queen of France must use every effort to secure his appointment as minister, for he is sincerely attached to us."

Many other distinguished names were there; but not one of those which had been mentioned by the king's father.

"I will preserve this paper with care," said Marie Antoinette, burying her letters deep in her pocket. "No doubt, you know their contents, count. A postscript says, 'Consult frequently with Mercy;' so let us begin at once."

"Will your majesty not read the letter of the emperor?"

"Why should I read it now? It grieves me to see these political documents from the hands of dear relatives who ought to write to me of home and love. I will put it with the official letter of the empress for the king to read."

"Pardon me, your majesty, but I do not think it is official."

"Read it for me, then," said the queen, throwing herself back in the deep recesses of her arm-chair. "I have confidence enough in you to be willing that you shall see my brother's letter, should it even be a private one."

Count von Mercy bowed, and unfolded the letter, which was as follows:

"Madame: I congratulate you upon your husband's accession to the throne of France. He will repair the faults of his predecessor's reign, and win the love of his people. The French nation has groaned under the inflictions of a king who not only proscribed parliament, but intrusted every office of state to his favorites. He banished De Choiseul, Malesherbes, and Chalotais; and in their stead elevated the Maurepas, the D'Aiguillons, and that hateful Abbe Terray, who, for rapacity, were none of them better than Du Barry--and thus he ended by losing the love of his subjects. I have often pitied Louis XV. for degrading himself as he did before the eyes of his family, his subjects, and the world.

"Unite your efforts to those of your husband, that you may win the love of the French nation. Leave no stone unturned to secure their affection, for, by so doing, you will prove a blessing to your people.

"Strengthen our alliance with France, and apply yourself to the mission for which you were educated--that of peace-maker between two of the most important powers of Europe.

"I kiss your hands, and remain, with the highest esteem and consideration, your majesty's friend and brother,

"Joseph." [Footnote: "Letters of Joseph II, as Characteristic Contributions," etc., p. 20.]

"You are right, count," said the queen, as the ambassador concluded his reading. "This is no official document, but a most significant letter of instructions. I am expected to preserve peace between France and Austria. Ah, I fear that I am not calculated to walk the slippery arena of politics, and I confess to you that I feel in no wise drawn toward it. It does seem to me that a queen of nineteen may be pardoned if she feels some desire to enjoy life. I intend to begin by breaking the fetters which have hitherto made such wretched puppets of the queens of France; and before long you will see the workings of my court revolution. But there is one thing near to my heart, which you must assist me to compass. The Duke de Choiseul must be minister of foreign affairs. I know that he desires it, and I am under obligations to him which deserve some return. I owe it to him that I am Queen of France. Now, if I succeed in elevating Choiseul to the ministry," continued the queen, with an appealing smile, "I hope that Austria will be satisfied, and will allow me to retire from the field. The Duke de Choiseul will be a much abler auxiliary than I, near the king. We must, therefore, have him recalled."

"The duke arrived in Paris from Chanteloup this morning, but does not think it advisable to present himself, until he receives a message from the king."

"I shall see that the message is sent," said Marie Antoinette, confidently. "The king will not refuse me, I know. You shrug your shoulders, count. Do you think it doubtful?"

"Your majesty condescends to speak confidentially with me," said the count, seriously. "I am an old servant of your house, and my hair has grown gray in its service. In consideration, then, of the deep affection which I have ever felt for your majesty, will you allow me to speak with you frankly?"

"I implore you, count, to do so."

"Then, your majesty, let me warn you to be careful. Things do not work at this French court as they ought to do. Your majesty has bitter enemies, who await an opportunity to declare themselves openly. The Count of Provence and the aunts of the king are at the head, and, believe me, they are watchful spies."

"Oh, my God!" cried the poor young queen, "what have I done to earn their enmity?"

"You are an Austrian princess, and that suffices for them. Your marriage was a victory over the anti-Austrian party, for which the Duke de Choiseul never will be forgiven; and as for yourself, if you give them the opportunity, they will not scruple to take revenge upon your own royal person. The Count of Provence has a sharp tongue, and his aunts and himself will spare no means to wound or to injure you. Therefore, pardon me, if again I bid you beware of your enemies. There is Madame de Noailles, for instance, she belongs to the most powerful families in France, and the French nation regard her as the palladium of the queen's honor. Your majesty cannot afford to offend her. It would be a great misfortune for you, if she should resign her office; for her resignation would place on the list of your enemies all the most influential nobles in France."

"Is that all?" asked the queen, with a painful blush.

"Yes, your majesty; and I thank you for your condescension in listening so long."

"Then hear me," said Marie Antoinette, rising and standing proudly before him. "You tell me that I have enemies. Be it so, and may God forgive them! But it were unworthy the daughter of Maria Theresa to stoop to conciliate them. With visor raised, and front exposed, I stand before them. My blameless life shall be my defence, for I will so live that all France shall be my champions. As for Madame de Noailles, I will make no concessions to her. My virtue needs no more protection from etiquette than that of any other woman. Heretofore the Queens of France have been nothing but Marionettes in the hands of their high-born duennas. I intend to transform the puppets into women, whom the French nation can love and esteem, for I wish my people to know that their queen's virtue is not a thing of form, but the veritable overflowing of a heart aspiring to perfection."

"Right royally spoken!" said a soft voice behind, and the queen starting, beheld the king, who, having opened the door quietly, had heard her last words.

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XCVI. THE KING'S LIST

Marie Antoniette, with a happy smile, gave her hand to her husband. He raised it to his lips, and kissed it so fervently that his young wife blushed with pleasure.

"Do you know what brings me to you, Antoinette?" said he gayly. "The deadly anxiety of good Madame Etiquette. She met me in the anteroom, and confessed that she had been guilty of the crime of leaving the queen alone with a foreign ambassador. To relieve her mind, I promised to come hither myself, and put an end to the treason that was hatching between France ad Austria."

"Ah!" said Marie Antoinette, with a bewitching pout, "then you came, not to see me, but to save Madame Etiquette a fit of the vapors."

"I made use of her as a pretext to intrude myself upon you," said the king with embarrassment.

"Oh, your majesty well knows that you need no pretext to come in my presence!" said Marie Antoinette, eagerly.

"Certainly, I require it just now, for I have broken up a charming tete-a-tete," said the king, bowing to Von Mercy.

"The count has brought me letters from the empress," said Marie Antoinette, "And what do you suppose they were? Congratulations upon our accession to the throne."

The king smiled, but expressed no surprise.

"What, you are not surprised!" said the queen. "Do you take the count for a sorcerer?"

"I take him for a true and loyal friend of his sovereign," said Louis, "and I only wish that I possessed one as faithful. But I am not at all astonished to hear of the congratulations, since the courier started off with the news a week ago."

"Your majesty knew it, then?"

"A king must know all things," said he gravely. "Are you not of my opinion, count? Is it not proper that a sovereign should possess a knowledge of every important letter which comes into his kingdom or leaves it?"

"I believe so, your majesty," replied the count, somewhat confused.

"I am convinced of it, and so is the Empress of Austria," said the king, with a laugh. "She is admirably well posted in all that concerns foreign courts, and not a document leaves the French embassy in Vienna of which she has not a copy. Is it not so, Count von Mercy?"

"I do not believe, sire, that there is any person in the French embassy capable of betraying the interests of his country, or of revealing its secrets."

"Then change your creed, count, for in every country there are men open to bribery. But," continued he, turning to the queen, "we have wandered from our subject--your majesty's letters from Vienna. Have you good news?"

"It is merely official, sire," replied the queen, handing the letter to the king.

Louis looked it over; then replacing it upon the table, said, "And the other letters?"

"Which other letters?" asked the queen.

"Did you not tell me there were several?"

"No, sire," replied the queen, reddening.

"What fables men do invent!" exclaimed the king. "A courier has just arrived from the French embassy, in Vienna, with dispatches informing us that Count von Mercy had received for your majesty one official letter from the empress, and two private letters of instruction, one of which contained a list of persons recommended by her majesty; and, finally, a fourth missive, private, from the Emperor Joseph. And all this is pure invention, Count von Mercy?"

"It is, your majesty," said the count, with much embarrassment, while Marie Antoinette cast down her eyes, and blushed.

The king enjoyed their confusion for a while; he seemed to take pleasure in this first triumph of his regal power, and a smile flitted over his rather clumsy features.

"You see, then," continued he, "that I have received false intelligence, and it is evident that Austrians are less corrupt than Frenchmen, for I am told that Count von Mercy and Prince Kaunitz are au fait to every thing that transpires in the palace here. Be that as it may, we intend to follow the example of the queen. Our policy shall be so frank and honorable that all the world may know it and welcome. But--it occurs to me that the mistress of ceremonies is in great anguish of mind. She will not recover her equanimity until she sees you again, count."

"In that case, your majesty, I beg leave to retire," replied the count.

The king bowed, and the queen gave him her hand.

As the count was about to raise the portiere, the king called him back. "Do you send a courier to Vienna to-day?" asked his majesty. "Yes, sire, in one hour."

"Then let me impart to you a secret which I think will interest her imperial majesty of Austria--my new ministry."

"How! has your your majesty already chosen them?" asked Marie Antoinette, anxiously.

The king nodded. "It was my first sacred duty to seek guides for my inexperience, and I have chosen ministers who are able statesmen, and have already served before."

The queen's eyes brightened, and even Count von Mercy seemed surprised and pleased.

"Do, your majesty, let us have their names," said Marie Antoinette.

"First, Monsieur de Maurepas."

The queen uttered an exclamation. "The minister of the regency, who has been banished for forty years!"

"The same. He was a friend of my father. He will be prime minister; and as I am so unfortunate as to have to bear the weight of royalty at twenty years, I have taken care to select old and experienced men as my counsellors."

"And who is to succeed the Duke d'Aiguillon?" cried Marie Antoinette, "for I presume that your majesty intends to give him his dismissal."

"I would be glad to retain him as my minister," said the king, pointedly, "for his policy is identical with mine. He has the interests of France at heart, and has never suffered himself to be led away by foreign influence. But unluckily, he was too intimate with Du Barry, and on this ground I shall dismiss him."

"And his successor?" asked the queen, scarcely able to restrain her bitter disappointment.

"His successor is the Count do Vergennes."

"De Vergennes!" cried the queen, scornfully. "He who married a slave in Constantinople?"

"Ah, you have heard that ridiculous story, which was invented by Monsieur de Choiseul? Nobody here ever believed it; and let me tell you that the Countess de Vergennes enjoys the esteem and consideration of all who know her. Vergennes himself is a man of talent, and will do me good service. The other ministers are: for the war department, Count de Muy; for the minister of finance, instead of that hateful Abbe Terray--(was not that the emperor's expression?)--I have chosen Count de Clugny."

"Count de Clugny!" said Marie Antoinette, again beginning to hope. "Does your majesty mean the friend of the Duke de Choiseul?"

"Himself, madame," said the king, coolly. "And while you are speaking of Monsieur de Choiseul, I am reminded that this is not the first time his name has been mentioned to-day. You, Count von Mercy, are a friend of his--I am not. You can, therefore, tell me whether it is true that he has left Chantoloup, wither the deceased king had banished him."

"Yes, sire, the Duke de Choiseul arrived this morning in Paris."

"What can he want in Paris?" asked the king, with an unconscious look. "Why did he leave Chanteloup? It seems to me that for the man who is so lucky as to have a landed estate, this is the very time of year to stay there. You had better advise your friend to return to the country. And now, count, you know all that I have to tell, and I will detain you no longer. Madame de Noailles must be in despair. Comfort her by informing her that you left the Queen of France in the company of her husband."

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XCVII. THE FIRST PASQUINADE

The court had left Choisy for the Chateau de la Muette, near Paris. Here the queen was to hold her first public levee, and her subjects longed to appear before her, for the Parisians were enthusiastic admirers of grace and beauty. Marie Antoinette had won their hearts by refusing to accept the tax called "La ceinture de la reine." This tax was the perquisite of the Queen of France on her accession to the throne. But having discovered that the nobles had managed to evade it and cast the burden of taxation upon the poor, Marie Antoinette had requested her husband's leave to relinquish her right to it. Like wildfire the news of the young queen's generosity spread throughout Paris; and in all the streets, cafe, and cabarets the people were singing this couplet

"Vous renoncez, charmante souveraine, Au plus beau de vos revenus; A quol vous serviraiio la celnture de refine, Vous avez celle de Venus."

They sang, they shouted, and made merry, happy in the possession of a young king, and a beautiful queen, casting never a thought toward him who, years before, had been surnamed Le Bien-aime.[Footnote: "Memoires de Weber," vol. i., p. 43.]

One speculating jeweller, alone, honored the memory of the deceased king, and made his fortune thereby. He manufactured a mourning snuff-box, of black shagreen, whose lid was ornamented with a portrait of the queen. He called his boxes "La consolation, dans le chagrin,"[Footnote: "Mbmoires de Madame de Campan" vol. i., p. 91.] and his portrait and pun became so popular, that in less than a week he had sold a hundred thousand of these boxes.[Footnote: This word "chagrin," signifies not only grief, but also that preparation of leather, which, in English, is called "shagreen." Hence the pun.]

Louis, also, had his share of the national good-will. He renounced the tax called "Le joyeux avenement;" and to commemorate the act, another snuff-box made its appearance in Paris as a pendant to the "Consolation in Grief." The king's box contained the portraits of Louis XII. and Henry IV. Below these, was his own likeness, with the following inscription: "Les peres du peuple, XII et IV. font XVI." These boxes were as popular as those of the queen, and Louis and Marie Antoinette were the idols of the Parisians.

"Long live the king!" was the cry from morn till night. Hope brightened every eye, and reigned in every heart. The people dreamed of peace, happiness, and plenty, and the fashions symbolized their state of mind. The women dressed their heads with ears of wheat, and ate their dragees from cornucopias. The men poured out their enthusiasm in sonnets and addresses, and every thing in France was couleur de rose.

Couleur de rose--with one exception. The anti-Austrian party frowned, and plotted, and hated. Exasperated by the enthusiasm which the beautiful young queen inspired, they watched her every motion, eager to magnify the most trivial imperfection into crime; hoping, sooner or later, to render her obnoxious to the French people, and finally, to compass the end of all their wicked intrigues--a separation between the king and queen, and the disgrace and banishment of Marie Antoinette to Austria.

It was the day of the grand reception, at La Muette, where every lady having a right to appear at court might come uninvited and be presented to the queen. The great throne-room was prepared for the occasion; and although its decorations were black, they were tastefully enlivened with white and silver. The throne itself was covered with black velvet, trimmed with silver and fringe. Hundreds of ladies thronged the room, all with their eyes fixed upon the door through which the queen and her court must make their entrance.

The folding-doors were thrown wide open, and, announced by her mistress of ceremonies, Marie Antoinette appeared.

A murmur of admiration was heard among the crowd. Never had the queen looked so transcendently lovely as she did to-day in her dress of deep mourning. She seemed to feel the solemnity of her position as queen-consort of a great nation, and the expression of her face was tranquil and dignified. No woman ever represented royalty with better grace than Marie Antoinette, and the old coquettes of the regency and of the corrupt court of Louis XV. were awed by her stateliness. They could not but confess that they were in the presence of a noble and virtuous woman; therefore they disliked her, whispering one to the other, "What an actress!"

Marie Antoinette took her seat upon the throne. On her right and left were the royal family, and behind them the ladies of the court. Opposite stood Madame de Noailles, whose duty it was to present those who were unknown to the queen.

The presentation began. Forth in their high-heeled shoes came the noble-born widows, who, old and faded, were loath to forget that in the days of the regency they had been blooming like the queen, and who, in happy ignorance of their crow's feet and wrinkles, were decked in the self-same costumes which had once set off their roses and dimples.

It was a ludicrous sight--these ugly old women, with their jewels and patches, their extraordinary head-dresses and their deep, courtesies, painful by reason of the aching bones of three-score and ten. The young princesses dared not raise their eyes to these representatives of by-gone coquetry, for they were afraid to commit a crime--they were afraid that they might laugh. But the ladies of honor, safe behind the hoops of the queen and her sisters-in-law made merry over the magnificent old ruins. Madame de Noailles was so busy with the front, that she overlooked the rear, where the lively young Marquise de Charente Tounerre, tired of standing, had glided down and seated herself comfortably on the floor. Neither could she see that the marquise, in the exuberance of her youthful spirits, was pulling the other ladies by their skirts, and amusing them with mimicry of the venerable coquettes before mentioned; so that while etiquette and ceremony were parading their ugliness in front of the throne, behind it, youth and beauty were tittering and enjoying the absurd pageant in utter thoughtlessness of all consequences.

The mistress of ceremonies was in the act of presenting one of the most shrivelled and most elaborately dressed of the ancients, when the queen, attracted by the whispering behind, turned her head in the direction of her ladies of honor. There on the floor, sat the Marquise de Charente Tounerre, imitating every gesture of the old comtesse; while the others, including the princesses themselves, were pursing up their lips, and smothering their laughter behind handkerchiefs and fans. The drolleries of the marquise were too much for the queen. She turned away in terror, lest they should infect her with untimely levity, and just at that moment the comtesse made precisely such a courtesy as the marquise was making behind her.

Marie Antoinette felt that her dignity was departing. She straggled to recall it, but in vain; and instead of the stately inclination which it was her duty to return, she suddenly opened her fan to hide the mirth which she was unable to control.

The gesture was seen not only by the austere mistress of ceremonies, but by the comtesse herself, who, furious at the insult, looked daggers at the queen, and omitting her third courtesy, swept indignantly to her place.

A short pause ensued. Madame de Noailles was so shocked that she forgot to give the signal for another presentation. The queen's face was still buried under her fan, and the princesses had followed her example. Discontent was manifest upon the countenances of all present, and the lady whose turn it was to advance did so with visible reluctance.

Marie Antoinette recovered her self-possession, and looked with perfect serenity toward the high and mighty duchess, whose titles were being pompously enumerated by the punctilious mistress of ceremonies. As ill luck would have it, this one was older, uglier, and more strangely bedizened than all the others together. The queen felt a spasmodic twitch of her face; she colored violently, and opening her fan again, it was evident to all that assemblage of censorious dames that for the second time youth and animal spirits had prevailed over decorum.

In vain Marie Antoinette sought to repair the contretemps. In vain she went among them with her sweetest smiles and most gracious words. Their outraged grandeur was not to be appeased--she had offended beyond forgiveness.

The Areopagus sent forth its fist. The queen was a frivolous woman; she had that worst of failings--a taste for satire. She despised all conventionalities, and trampled all etiquette under foot.

On that day the number of her enemies was increased by more than a hundred persons, who attacked her with tongues sharper than two-edged swords. The first thrust was given her on the morning that followed the reception; and the same people who a few days before had been singing her praises on the Pont-neuf, were equally, if not better pleased with the ballad of "La Reine moqueuse," of which the cruel refrain was as follows:

"Petite reine de vingt ails Vous qui traitez si mal les gens, Vous repasserez la barriere Laire, laire, laire, lanlaire, lanla." [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de C'ampan," vol. i., pp. 90, 91.]

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XCVIII. THE NEW FASHIONS

The queen had submitted to a state of things which she felt to be irremediable. She had renounced all idea of interceding with the king for De Choiseul, for she felt that interference on her part would be resented; and she could not afford to lessen, by so much as a shade, the kindly feelings which her husband had begun to manifest toward her.

Louis appeared to have no greater happiness than that which he found in his wife's society. They were often seen wandering in the shady walks of the palace gardens, talking, jesting, and laughing together, as might have done any other young couple, unencumbered by the burden of royalty. It had even happened to Louis to steal an arm around the graceful form of the queen, and once or twice to bestow a shy kiss upon her ivory shoulders.

The heart of the king was thawing; and Marie Antoinette, who had so longed and pined for his regard, sometimes blushed, while with beating heart she indulged a hope that the king was falling in love.

She sought, by every means in her power, to please him; and she who, hitherto, had seemed indifferent to dress, now bestowed hours of thought upon the toilet of the day.

The anti-Austrian party, the royal aunts, the brothers of the king, and the Orleans family, all her enemies, observed this new taste for dress with secret satisfaction. Not one of them suspected that it was aimed at the heart of the king; and that Marie Antoinette, whom they were deriding as a coquette, was coquetting with her husband, and dressing for him alone. So they flattered and encouraged her, hoping to divert her mind from politics, and urge her on to ruin.

The Duchess of Chartres had mentioned to the queen a Parisian modiste, who had instituted a complete revolution in dress. This wonderful modiste, whose taste in modes was exquisite, was Mademoiselle Bertin. The duchess had described her dresses, laces, caps, and coiffures, with so much enthusiasm, that Marie Antoinette grew impatient with curiosity, ordered her carriage, and sent a message to Madauie de Noailles to prepare to accompany her at once to Bertin's establishment.

Madame received this message with indignation, and instead of making ready to obey, went in hot haste to the queen's reception room.

"I wish to drive to Bertin's to make some purchases," said Marie Antoinette, as her tormentor appeared at the door.

"That is impossible, your majesty," said the guardian of the inferno of etiquette. "No Queen of France has ever set foot within the precincts of a shop, or has ever appeared in a public place of that sort. It would be such an egregious breach of etiquette, that I am convinced your majesty will not be guilty of it."

"Well," said the queen, with a scornful laugh, "I will not disturb your virtuous convictions. I will not be guilty of that which no Queen of France has ever stooped to do, so that you can have Bertin sent to the palace, and I can examine her goods here."

"Here! Your majesty would receive a modiste in your reception room!" cried De Noailles, rolling up the whites of her eyes. "I beseech your majesty to remember that none but the noble ladies, who have the privilege of the tabouret, are allowed to enter the queen's reception-room."

The queen bit her rosy lips. "Well, then, madame," said she, "I will receive Bertin in my own cabinet. I presume there can be no objections to that; and, if there were, I should certainly not heed them."

"The duty of my office, nevertheless, obliges me to remark to your--"

"There is no office at this court which justifies any one in a direct disobedience of the queen's orders. Go, then, madame, and order that Bertin be sent to me in an hour."

"Oh!" murmured Marie Antoinette, as the mistress of ceremonies slowly retreated, "that woman's sole delight in life is to irritate and annoy me!"

An hour later, Mademoiselle Bertin made her appearance before the queen. Four royal lackeys followed her, laden with band-boxes.

"Mademoiselle," said the queen, "have you brought me the latest fashions?"

"No, your majesty," replied Bertin, reverentially, "I bring the materials wherewith to fill your majesty's orders."

"Were you not told to bring your samples of fashions?" asked Marie Antoinette, with surprise.

"Your majesty, there are no new fashions," said Bertin. "Your majesty's word is necessary to create them. A queen does not follow the fashion, it follows her."

"Ah! you intend that I shall invent now fashions?"

"Yes, your majesty. The Queen of France cannot stoop to wear that which has already been worn by others."

"You are right," said the queen, pleased by the flattery of the shrewd modiste." Make haste, and show me your goods, that I may begin at once to set the fashions to the court. It will be quite an amusement to invent new modes of dress."

Mademoiselle Bertin smiled, and, opening her boxes, exhibited her goods. There were the beautiful silken fabrics of Lyons; the shimmering white satin, besprinkled with bouquets that rivalled nature; there were heavy, shining velvets, heightened by embroidery of gold and silver; laces, from Alencon and Valenciennes, whose web was as delicate as though elfin fingers, had spun the threads; muslins, from India, so fine that they could only he woven in water; crapes, from China, with the softness of satin and the sheen of velvet; there were graceful ostrich-plumes from Africa, and flowers from Paris, so wondrous in their beauty that nothing was wanting to their perfection save perfume.

Marie Antoinette flitted from one treasure to another; her white hands at one moment deriving new beauty from the dark velvets upon which they rested; at another, looking lovelier than ever, as they toyed with the transparent laces. There was nothing queenly about her now. She was merely a charming woman, anxious to outshine all other women in the eyes of one man.

When Mademoiselle Berlin took her leave, the queen gave her orders to return to the palace daily. "One thing I shall exact of you, mademoiselle, you shall disclose the secret of my toilet for the day to nobody; and the fashions shall be made public at the end of one week."

Mademoiselle Bertin, with a solemnity befitting the importance of her office, swore that henceforth the hands which had been honored by carrying out the ideas of a queen, should never work for lesser mortals; that her dresses should be made with closed doors, and that she would rather be led to execution than betray to a living soul the mysteries of her royal patroness's toilet. [Footnote: Mademoiselle Bertin, from that day, became an important personage, and received many a rich present from noble ladies anxious to imitate the queen in dress.]

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XCIX. THE TEMPLE OF ETIQUETTE

The hour for the queen's toilet was one of ravishment to Madame de Noailles; for it was a daily glorification of that etiquette which she worshipped, and which Marie Antoinette abhorred. In that hour, its chains were on her hands and feet. She could neither breathe, speak, nor move, but within the narrow limits of its weary exactions.

The queen's toilet, then, was Madame de Noailles' triumph; and she always made her appearance in the dressing-room with an air of supreme satisfaction.

The first lady of honor poured the water into the golden basin, and Marie Antoinette, who at least had the privilege of washing her own hands, stood patiently waiting until the towel had been passed by a lady of the bedchamber to the same lady of honor who had poured out the water. The latter, on one knee, gave the towel, and the queen wiped her hands.

The second act of the royal toilet began at the solemn moment when the queen changed her richly-embroidered night-chemise for the simpler one she wore during the day. This changing of garments was a sublime ceremonial, not only in the queen's dressing-room, but also in that of the king. At the king's great levee, none but a prince of the blood had the right to reach him his shirt. At the lesser levee, the nobleman whom the king wished to honor, was called upon to fill this high office; and the enviable mortal, thus honored, remained near the king's person for the whole day; was entitled to dine at the royal table, and had a seat in the king's hunting-wagon.

Now, at the toilet of the queen, the ceremonial was different; and, as in all such matters, more onerous for the woman than for the man. The honor of presenting the chemise, devolved upon the lady present whose rank was the highest.

On the particular day to which we allude, it was the privilege of Madame de Noailles. Marie Antoinette had allowed her night-dress to slip from her shoulders, and stood, bare to the waist, awaiting the pleasure of her mistress of ceremonies. She crossed her beautiful arms, and bent her head in readiness to receive the chemise, which the lady of the bedchamber was in the act of passing to Madame de Noailles.

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and the Duchess of Orleans entered the room. A triumphant smile lit up the face of Madame Etiquette, for now the ceremony would be prolonged. It was no longer her duty, it was that of the duchess, to wait upon the queen. But the proud Countess de Noailles could not condescend to pass the garment to the duchess. That was the duty of the aforesaid lady of the bedchamber. The mistress of ceremonies motioned her to approach, and the duchess began to draw off her gloves.

Meanwhile, Marie Antoinette, with folded arms, stood beautiful as one of Dian's nymphs, but very uncomfortable in her beauty; for she was beginning to grow chilly, and her teeth chattered. At last the preparations were made, and the duchess advanced with the coveted garment.

Suddenly she stopped, and stood perfectly still. She had heard the voice of "Madame," the Countess of Provence; and it would have been an unpardonable sin for the Duchess of Orleans to deprive a princess of the blood, of handing the chemise to the queen.

The door opened, and the sister-in-law of Marie Antoinette came in. The duchess retreated--Madame de Noailles approached slowly and relieved her of the chemise, and with unflinching deliberation, again gave it into the hands of the lady of the bedchamber.

And there stood the queen, shivering and waiting. Scarlet with shame and anger, though trembling from head to foot, she murmured resentful words against her tormentors. The princess saw it all, and hastened to her relief. Without stopping to remove her gloves, she took the chemise, and advancing, in great haste, to throw it over the queen's head, she struck against her high toupet and disarranged the headdress.

"Oh, my dear sister," said the queen, laughing, "my hair will have to be dressed anew."

Madame de Noailles drew down her eyebrows, as she was accustomed to do when irritated by indecorum, and motioned to the second lady of the bedchamber to put on the queen's shoes, The royal toilet now went on more smoothly, and was completed according to form. This done, it became the duty of the victim to pass into her reception-room, attended by her ladies. Madame de Noailles had opened the door and stood before it like a she-cerberus waiting for her prey to pass within, when the queen, still laughing at her disordered coiffure, threw herself into a chair before cheval-glass, and said:

"I hope, madame, that etiquette does not require of the Queen of France to appear before her court with dishevelled hair. If I may be permitted to express a preference in the matter, I would like to have my hair in order."

Madame de Noailles closed the door, and turned stiffly to the first lady of the bedchamber.

"Oh, no," said Marie Antoinette, "I will not trouble my good Madame de Campan today. Did my secretary fetch the hair-dresser from Paris?"

"Yes, your majesty," said a lady in waiting, "the hair-dresser is in the outer room."

"Go and call him, De Campan. And now, ladies," said Marie Antionette to the princesses, "you shall see one of the demi-gods. Leonard is called in the world of fashion 'le dieu des coiffures.'"

"Leonard!" exclaimed Madame de Noailles. "And has your majesty then forgotten that the queen is not permitted to be waited upon by any but womanly hands?"

"The queen not permitted!" echoed Marie Antoinette, proudly. "We shall see whether the Queen of France asks permission of her subjects to employ a male or female hair dresser!"

The door opened, and the discussion was stopped by the entrance of Madame de Campan with Leonard.

"Now, ladies," continued the queen, "be so good as to await me in the reception-room." As she saw that the prim lips of De Noailles were about to be opened, she added: "The mistress of ceremonies and the ladies of the bedchamber will remain."

Leonard's skilful hands were soon at work, loosening the queen's hair; and it glistened, as it fell, like glimmering gold. He surveyed it with such looks of enthusiasm as a statuary might bestow upon the spotless block of marble, whence he will fashion, ere long, the statue of a goddess.

Marie Antoinette, from the mirror, saw his complacent face, and smiled. "What style do you intend to adopt for me?" asked she.

"The coiffure a la Marie Antoinette," said Leonard.

"I have never seen it."

Here Leonard sank the subject, and became the artiste. His head went proudly back with a look of conscious power.

"Your majesty must not think me so barren of invention that I should deck the head of my queen with a coiffure that has been seen before by mortal eyes."

"Then you are about to invent a coiffure?"

"If it please your majesty--if your majesty will condescend to leave its fashion to the inspiration of my genius."

"Follow your inspiration by all means," said the queen, highly amused, and Leonard began his work. A long, solemn pause ensued, and all eyes were strained to see the result. He combed the queen's hair over a trellis of fine wire, then he introduced two down cushions, which he had brought in his band-box, and after he had built him a tower of a foot high, he took a long breath and surveyed the structure. Then he glanced at the toilet-table where lay a mass of flowers, feathers, and laces, which Bertin had left.

"May I be allowed to select from these?" asked he.

The queen nodded, and Leonard chose a bunch of white ostrich-feathers, which he prepared to place in her head.

"Feathers!" cried Marie Antoinette. "You surely are not going to put feathers in my hair!"

"Pardon me, your majesty," said Leonard, with an air of supreme wisdom, "if I beg you to allow me to complete my coiffure, before you decide upon its merits." And he went to work to fasten the feathers in his tower.

"This is really becoming," said the queen, not reflecting that her beautiful face with its lofty brow and exquisite contour could bear any abomination with which Leonard chose to invest it.

"I adopt the feathers," said she, "and allow you to call the coiffure after me. Poor ostriches, they will not thank me! From this day you are in my service, Monsieur Leonard, and my steward will assign you your apartments."

Leonard bowed with the dignity of an artist who feels that in the favor of his sovereign he receives his merited reward.

"Come every morning at this hour, and every evening at seven o'clock," said Marie Antoinette. "Meanwhile, you are at liberty to dress the hair of as many ladies as you choose."

"Pardon me, your majesty," interposed Madame de Noailles. "An old immutable regulation of the French court forbids any person employed by the royal family to serve a subject; and the coiffeur of the queen cannot be allowed to dress the hair of any lady in France."

"Nevertheless, I give him permission to dress as many heads as he pleases, when he is not in attendance upon myself. What is the use of a man's taste and talent if it is all to be wasted on one monotonous employment? Let Monsieur Leonard exercise his ingenuity upon different styles of women, that he may have scope for his imagination."

The mistress of ceremonies sighed, and opened the door. Marie Antoinette approached it gayly, for she was all anxiety to test the effect of her coiffure upon the ladies in waiting.

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