C. THE NEW FASHIONS AND THEIR UNHAPPY RESULTS…

C. THE NEW FASHIONS AND THEIR UNHAPPY RESULTS

A murmur of surprise and admiration was heard among the ladies, when the queen appeared in the reception-room. The Countess of Provence could scarcely retain her discontent, as she surveyed the magnificent costume of her beautiful sister-in-law.

For a few moments the queen enjoyed the pleasure of being sincerely admired. Then, advancing to the princess, she took her hand and said: "Oblige me, dear sister, by dining with the king and myself en famille. Let us have a social meal together to-day."

"Certainly, your majesty, I will do so with pleasure; but what you are pleased to call a family dinner will lose all its charm through the curiosity of your majesty's admirers, who come from Paris, from Versailles, and from all the ends of the earth, to look at the royal family taking their dinner."

"Not at all," said the queen, eagerly. "I look upon this daily exhibition as a tyrannical custom, which must be abolished. It is too hard that we cannot have our meals in private, but must be gazed at like animals, and denied the privilege of confidential intercourse. I have submitted to be stared at for four years, but the queen is not to be ruled as the dauphiness has been. We shall dine to-day en famille, and from this time the public have access to our dining-room no more."

"That is delightful news," answered the princess, "but I pity the good people who are coming in expectation of seeing your majesty at table."

"They will return to their homes," said the queen, slightly raising her shoulders, "and when they reflect coolly on the subject, they will certainly not think less of me because I prefer to dine like the rest of the world. I believe that if we desire popularity with the people, we must show them that we have feeling hearts like themselves, and it is by such means that I hope to gain the love of the French nation."

The princess was secretly vexed at the honesty and purity of the queen's motives, but she forced a smile, and replied: "You have already succeeded in doing so: for the French people adore you; and if they could only see you to-day in that piquant head-dress, they would verify the saying of the mayor of Paris: 'Your majesty beholds in us a hundred thousand lovers.' "

Marie Antoinette laughed. "Quite a respectable army," said she slightly blushing; "but to complete its worth it must be commanded by the king. How surprised he will be to see us dining in private!"

"His majesty has not been consulted?"

"It is a surprise which I have in store for him. He has often bewailed this stupid custom, but dared not complain, for fear of remarks. I am less timid than he, and I am about to give you a proof of the same."

"Madame de Noailles," added she, aloud, "inform the ushers that while the royal family are at dinner no strangers will be admitted to the dining-room. The privilege of entrance shall cease from to-day."

The countess had been awaiting her opportunity to speak.

"Your majesty," said she, with an expression of painful anxiety, "I entreat of you not to revoke that privilege! Believe me when I tell you that it is dangerous to interfere with customs which are so old that the people have grown to look upon them as right. Ever since the days of Francis I the royal family has dined in public, and every decently-clad person has enjoyed the privilege of entering the banquet-room. Moreover, allow me to observe to your majesty that this public meal is an express ceremony of the French court, and it is indispensable to its dignity."

"Etiquette, madame," replied Marie Antoinette, "is not made for sovereigns, but regulated by them. You speak of the people's rights; allow me to claim something for mine. It has ever been the habit of kings and queens to give commands, not to receive them. Let me, therefore, advise you to strike out from your code of etiquette the rule which obliges us to dine in public, and to insert in its stead the following: `On days of festivals or of public rejoicing, the people will be admitted to the king's dining-room.' And now, sister, let us take a turn in the park."

So saying, the queen took the arm of the princess, and, followed by the ladies in waiting, they went out upon the terrace. Madame de Noailles remained behind in the large, empty reception-room. Her face was pale and troubled, and she leaned despondently against the high back of an arm-chair near that from which the queen had just risen.

"Royalty totters on its throne!" murmured she, in a low voice. "This woman's bold hand is shaking the pillars of her own temple, and when it falls it will bury both king and queen under its fragments. She laughs at etiquette as ridiculous despotism; she does not know that it is the halo that renders her sacred in the eyes of the people. I see the tempest lowering," continued the mistress of ceremonies, after a thoughtful pause. "The queen is surrounded by enemies whom she defies, and those who would be her friends she alienates by her haughtiness. In the innocence of her thoughtless heart, what unhappy precedents has she established this day! They are the dragon's teeth that will grow armed men to destroy their sower. She despises conventionalities and braves old customs. She does not know how dearly she will pay for her milliner, her hair-dresser, and her dinners in private! I have done my duty. I have warned and remonstrated, and will continue to do so as long as my patience and honor can endure the humiliations to which I am exposed--but no longer! By the Heaven that hears me--no longer!"

The countess was right. The apparently trifling incidents of the day were fraught with mournful consequences to the queen. Heretofore she had been remarked for her simplicity of dress; from the introduction of Bertin and Leonard into her household she dressed with rare magnificence. Not only the ladies of the court, but those of the city, followed her extravagance at a distance. They must wear the same jewels, the same flowers, the same costly silks and laces. Ostrich-feathers became the rage, and they were soon so scarce that fabulous prices were paid to import them for the use of the Frenchwomen.

The trousseau of a young beauty became as important as her dowry. Mothers and husbands sighed, and at last ended by abusing the queen. It was she who had set the example of this wasteful luxury in dress; she who had bewitched all the women, so that they had gone mad for a feather or a flower. Strife was in every house. Parents were at variance with their children; marriages were broken off through the exactions of the brides; and on all sides the blame of everybody's domestic troubles fell upon the shoulders of the queen.

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CI. SUNRISE

The court had now moved to Marly. Each day brought its variety of sports, and the palace became the very shrine of pleasure. Even the king, fascinated by his wife's grace and gayety, lost his awkward bearing, and became a devoted lover. He was ready to gratify every whim of hers without ever inquiring whether it was consistent with the dignity and station of a queen. True, all her whims were innocent in themselves; but some of them were childish, and therefore inappropriate to her position.

The king grew so bold that he paid graceful compliments to the queen on the subject of her beauty; and in the exuberance of his young, gushing love, he went beyond his courtiers in felicity of expression, so that finally he became more eloquent than D'Artois, more impassioned than De Chartres, and more piquant than De Provence.

Marie Antoinette beheld this transformation with rapture; and her little innocent coquetries with the princes and noblemen of the court had but one aim--that of heightening the effect of her charms upon her royal husband.

"One of these days," thought she, "he will learn to love me. I await this day, as Nature throughout her dark winter nights, awaits the rising of the glorious sun. Oh how happy will I be when the morning of my wedded love has dawned!"

"But,"--added she, interrupting herself and smiling, "what a simpleton I am with my similes; like a blind man enraptured with a color! I talk of sunrise--I, who am such a barbarian that I never saw the day dawn in my life!--And to think that the French are so fond of comparing me to the rising sun! I think I had better make acquaintance with the original of which I hear so often that I am the copy!"

So the queen, full of a new idea, sent for the Countessde Noailles. "Madame," said she, "can you tell me at what hour the sun rises?"

"When the sun rises!" exclaimed madame, who had hardly ever taken the trouble to remember that the sun rose at all.

"Yes, madame, I wish to know at what hour the sun rises; and I hope there is nothing in your code of etiquette which forbids the Queen of France to aspire to a knowledge of that very commonplace fact."

"I regret, your majesty, that I cannot enlighten you, for I have never felt any interest in the matter. But if you allow me, I will make the necessary inquiries."

"Do so, if you please, madame."

Madame de Noailles was absent for some time. At last she returned.

"Pardon me, your majesty, that I have been away so long. But no one in the palace could give me the information I sought. Luckily, in passing one of the corridors, I met a gardener coming in with fresh flowers for your majesty's cabinet, and he was able to tell me. The sun rises at present at three o'clock."

"Thank you. Be so good as to make your arrangements accordingly. I shall get up at three o'clock to-morrow morning and go out upon the hillock in the garden to see the dawn of day."

"Your majesty would go out into the garden at three o'clock in the morning?" said madame, almost fainting with horror.

"Yes, madame," said Marie Antoinette, with decision. "Is there any law in France to forbid me a sight of the sun at that hour?"

"No, your majesty, for such an extraordinary demand could never have been presupposed. Since France was a kingdom, no Queen of France has ever been known to indulge a wish to see the sun rise."

"Unhappy queens! I suppose they were so profoundly engaged in the study of your favorite code, that they had no time to admire the works of God. But you see that I am an eccentric queen, and I would go in all humility to adore Him through one of His glorious works. And as, luckily for me, etiquette has never legislated on the subject, you have no grounds for objection, and I shall commit the astounding indiscretion of going out to see the sun rise."

"Still, your majesty must allow me to say that for all extraordinary cases not provided for in the code of etiquette, the queen must have the consent of the king."

"Do not concern yourself about that; I shall express my desire to the king, and that will suffice. My ladies in waiting who keep diaries can then note, with quiet conscience, that on this day the Queen of France, with the consent of her husband, went into the garden to see the sun rise."

Marie Antoinette slightly inclined her head, and passed into her dressing-room, there to put herself in the hands of Monsieur Leonard. The skilful hair-dresser was in his happiest vein; and when he had achieved the great labor of his day, the queen was inexpressibly charming.

Conformably to her wishes, many irksome court-customs had been laid aside at Marly. The strict lines of demarcation between royalty and nobility no longer hampered the daily intercourse of the sovereigns and their subjects. The lords and ladies in waiting were at liberty to join the queen's circle in the drawing-rooms, or to group themselves together as inclination prompted. Some talked over the events of the day, some discussed the new books which lay in heaps upon a table in one of the saloons; others, again, played billiards with the king.

To-day the court was assembled in an apartment opening into the garden; and the queen, who had just made her appearance in all the splendor of her regal beauty, was the cynosure of attraction and of admiration. She stood in the centre of the room, her eyes fixed wistfully upon the setting sun, whose dying rays were flooding park, terrace, and even the spot on which she stood, with a red and golden light. By her side stood the king, his mild countenance illumined with joy and admiration of his young wife's surpassing loveliness. On the other side of the queen were the princes and princesses of the blood; and around the royal group an assemblage of the youngest, prettiest, and sprightliest women of the aristocracy, escorted by their cavaliers, young nobles whose rank, worth, and culture entitled them to all the favor which they enjoyed at court. At the head of the wits were the Count de Provence, the Count d'Artois, and their kinsman, the Duke de Chartres, known years afterward as "Philippe Egalite." De Chartres and the witty Duke de Lauzun were among the most enthusiastic admirers of the queen.

The French court was in the zenith of its splendor. Youth and beauty were the rule, age was the exception; and in the saloons of Marie Antoinette, its solitary representatives frowned through the deep and angry furrows that dented the wrinkled visage of Madame de Noailles.

To-day the high-priestess of etiquette had taken advantage of the liberty allowed to all, and had absented herself. Her absence was a sensible relief to a court where no man was older than the king, and many a woman was as young as the queen.

For a time Marie Antoinette's glance lingered caressingly upon the garden, through whose perfumed alleys the evening wind was rustling with a sweet, low song. The court, following the mood of the queen, kept perfectly silent. Of what were they thinking? that crowd of youthful triflers, so many of whom were hurrying to the bloody destiny which made heroes of coxcombs and heroines of coquettes

Suddenly the expression of the queen's face, which had been thoughtful and solemn, changed to its usual frankness and gayety. "Ladies and gentlemen," said she, in that clear, rich voice of hers, which always reminded one of little silver bells, "I have a riddle to propose."

"A riddle!" echoed the company, crowding around to hear.

"Yes, a riddle, and woe to those who cannot guess it! They will be sentenced to sit up this whole night long. "

"A severe sentence," said the king, with a sigh. "May I not be one of the condemned? Well, then, lovely sphinx, tell us your riddle."

"Listen all!" said Marie Antoinette, "and strain your every faculty to its solution. Princes and princesses, lords and ladies, can you tell me at what hour the sun will rise to-morrow?"

The perplexed company looked at one another. Everybody seemed puzzled except the king. He alone smiled, and watched the countenances of the others.

"Come, gentlemen, you who are fed on the sciences--come, ladies you so expert to guess--will none of you solve my riddle?" tried the lively queen. "You, brother Philip, who know all things, have you never asked this question of the sun?"

"I interest myself, dear sister, in matters which concern myself, my family, and France," replied the Count de Provence, not over-pleased at the appeal. "The sun, which belongs to another world, has no share in my studies or my meditations."

"Condemned," said the queen, with a merry laugh. "No sleep for you tonight. And you, brother d'Artois, who are such a devotee of beauty, have you never worshipped at the shrine of solar magnificence?"

"The sun rose in this room, your majesty, about a quarter of an hour ago," said Count d'Artois, bowing. "I can, therefore, safely say that in the chateau of Marly it usually rises at eight o'clock."

"Compliments will not save you, D'Artois; you shall not go to sleep this night. And what say you, my sisters-in-law, and our dear Elizabeth?"

"Oh, we dare not be wiser than our husbands!" said the Countess de Provence, quickly.

"Then you shall share their fate," returned Marie Antoinette. "And now," continued she, "cousin de Chartres, it is said that your merry-making sometimes lasts until morning. You, then, must be intimately acquainted with the habits of the rising sun."

"Ma foi," said the duke, with a careless laugh, "your majesty is right. My vigils are frequent; but if returning thence, I have ever met with the sun, I have mistaken it for a street-lantern, and have never given a second thought to the matter."

"Nobody, then, in this aristocratic assemblage, knows aught about the rising of the sun," said the queen.

A profound silence greeted the remark. The queen's face grew pensive, and gradually deepened into sadness.

"All!" exclaimed she, with a sigh, "what egotists we are in high life! We expect heaven to shield and sustain us in our grandeur, and never a thought do we return to heaven."

"Am I not to be allowed the privilege of guessing, madame?" asked the king.

"You, sire!" said Marie Antoinette. "It does not become the king's subjects to put questions to him, which he might not be able to answer."

"Nevertheless, I request your majesty to give me a trial."

"Very well, sire. Can you read my riddle, and tell me at what hour the sun will rise to-morrow?"

"Yes, your majesty. The sun will rise at three o'clock," said Louis, with a triumphant smile.

Everybody wondered. Marie Antoinette laughed her silvery laugh, and clapped her little white hands with joy. "Bravo, bravo, my royal OEdipus!" cried she, gayly. "The sphinx is overcome; but she will not throw herself into the sea just yet. She is too happy to bend the knee before her husband's erudition."

With bewitching grace, the queen inclined her beautiful head and knelt before the king. But Louis, blushing with gratification, clasped her hands in his, and raised her tenderly to her feet.

"Madame," said he, "if I had the tact and wit of my brother Charles, I would say that the sun, which so lately has risen, must not set so soon upon its worshippers. But answer me one question--what is the meaning of the riddle with which your majesty has been entertaining us?"

"May I answer with another question? Tell me, sire, have you ever seen the sun rise?"

"I? No, your majesty. I confess that I never have."

"And you, ladies and gentlemen?"

"I can answer for all that they have not," laughed D'Artois.

"Now, sire," said the queen, again addressing her husband, "tell me one thing. Is it unseemly for a Queen of France to see the sun rise?"

"Certainly not," answered the king, laughing heartily.

"Then will your majesty allow me to enjoy that privilege?"

"It seems to me, madame, that you have no consent to ask save that of your own bright eyes. If they promise to remain open all night, you have no one to consult on the subject but yourself."

"I thank your majesty," said the queen. "And now, as none of the company were able to solve my riddle, all must prepare to sit up with me. May I hope, sire, that you will be magnanimous enough to relinquish the right you have earned to retire, and afford me the happiness of your presence also?"

Louis looked quite discomfited, and was about to stammer out some awkward reply, when the marshal of the household threw open the doors of the banquet-hall, and approaching the king, cried out, "Le roi est servi."

"Ah!" said he, much relieved, "let us refresh ourselves for the vigil."

Dinner over, the company promenaded in the gardens for an hour, and then returned to the drawing-room to await the compulsory privilege of seeing the sun rise. Marie Antoinette, with the impatience of a child, was continually going out upon the terrace to see how the night waned; but the moon was up, and the gardens of Marly were bathed in a silver lizht that was any thing but indicative of the dawn of day.

The scene was so calm and lovely, that the young queen returned to the drawing-room in search of the king, hoping to woo him to the enjoyment of the beautiful nature, which was elevating her thoughts far above the kingdoms of earth and peacefully leading her heart to Heaven. But the king was nowhere to be seen, and as she was seeking him first in one room, then in another, she met the Count de Provence.

"I am charged, madame," said he, "with an apology from the king. His majesty begs that you will pardon him for making use of his right to retire. He hopes that your majesty will not enjoy your night the less for his absence." [Footnote: Campan vol. i., p 38]

The queen colored to her brows, and her expressive face gave token of serious annoyance. She was about to dismiss the company, saying that she had changed her mind, but she remembered that by so doing she might become the subject of the ridicule of the court. Her pride whispered her to remain, and smothered her instinctive sense of propriety. She looked anxiously around for Madame de Noailles, but on the first occasion, when her advice might have been welcome, she was absent. She had been told that etiquette had nothing to do with the queen's party of pleasure, and she, like the king, had retired to rest.

Marie Antoinette then motioned to her first lady of honor, the Princess de Chimay, and requested her to say to Madame de Noailles that her presence would be required in the drawing-room at two o'clock, when the court would set out for the hill, from whence they would witness the dawn of the morrow.

"It is an unconscionable time coming," yawned the Countess de Provence. "See, my dear sister, the hand of the clock points to midnight. What are we to do in the interim?" asked she, peevishly.

"Propose something to while away the time," said the queen, smiling.

"Let us depute D'Artois to do it. He is readier at such things than the rest of us," said the princess.

"Does your majesty second the proposal?" asked D'Artois.

"I do with all my heart."

"Then," said the thoughtless prince, "I propose that we play the most innocent and rollicking of games--blindman's buff." [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 95.]

A shout of laughter, in which the young queen joined, was the response to this proposition.

"I was charged with the duty of relieving the tedium of the court," continued the prince gravely. "I once more propose the exciting game of blindman's buff." [Footnote: This game was frequently played in the courtly circles, and not only in aristocratic houses, but in all social gatherings. It became the fashion. Madame de Gonlis, who was fond of scourging the follies of her day, made this fashion the subject of one of her dramas.]

"We are bound to accede," replied the queen, forgetting her embarrassment of the moment before. "Let us try to recall the happy days of our childhood. Let us play blindman's buff until the sun rises and transforms the children of the night once more into earnest and reasoning mortals."

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CII. THE FOLLOWING DAY

The queen was alone in her cabinet, which she had not left since she had seen the sun rise. She had taken cold in the garden, and as a souvenir of the event, had carried home a fever and a cough. But it was not indisposition alone which blanched her cheeks. Something mightier than fever glowed in her flashing eyes, something more painful than malady threw that deadly paleness over her sweet, innocent face. From time to time she glanced at a paper lying on the table before her, and every time her eye fell upon it her brow grow darker.

There was a knock at the door. She started, and murmuring--"The king!"--she flung her handkerchief over the papers, and throwing back her head, compelled herself to calmness; while her husband, lifting the silken portiere, advanced toward the table. She tried to rise, but Louis came hastily to prevent it, saying: "I come to make inquiries concerning your health; but if my presence is to disturb you, I shall retire."

"Remain, then, sire--I will not rise," said the queen, with a languid smile.

"Are you still suffering?" said Louis.

"Only from a cold, sire; it will pass away."

"A cold, for which you are indebted to the chill night-air. It would appear that the Queens of France, who lived and died without seeing the sun rise, were not so stupid, after all."

The queen gave a searching look at the king's face, and saw that it was disturbed.

"I went with your majesty's consent."

"I believe that I was wrong to give it," returned he, thoughtfully; "I should have remembered that for a hundred years past the court of France has been so corrupt that unhappily the French nation have lost all faith in chastity and purity of heart. You, madame, must teach them to distinguish the innocence which has nothing to conceal, from the depravity which has lost all shame. But we must be cautious, and so conduct ourselves, that our actions may be beyond misconstruction."

"Your majesty wishes me to infer that my harmless desire to behold one of the glorious works of my Maker, has been misinterpreted?" said the queen, opening her large eyes full upon her husband.

The king avoided her glance.

"No, no," said he, with embarrassment. "I speak not of what has been, but of what might be."

"And this most innocent of wishes has inspired your majesty with these apprehensions?"

"I do not say so, but--"

"But your majesty knows that it is so," cried the queen. "It is very generous of you to save my feelings by concealing that which you know must subject me to mortification; but others here are less magnanimous than you, sire. I have already seen the obscene libel to which my pleasure party has given birth. I have read 'Le lever de l'aurore.'"

"Who has dared to insult you by the sight of it?" asked Louis, indignantly.

"Oh, sire," said Marie Antoinette, bitterly, "there are always good friends, who are ready to wound us with the weapons of others. I found the lampoon on my table this morning, among my letters."

"You shall not be exposed to a repetition of this. Campan shall look over your papers before he presents them."

"Do you think I am likely to find them often, sire? I hope not. But be that as it may, I am no coward. I have courage to face any amount of calumny--for my heart is pure, and my life will vindicate me."

"It will, indeed," said the king, tenderly. "But you must keep aloof from the poisonous atmosphere of slander. We must live less among the multitude."

"Ah, sire, how can we keep aloof from those who have the right to be near us?"

The king started, almost imperceptibly, and his anxious glance rested upon his wife's honest, truthful eyes. Removing her handkerchief, she pointed to a paper.

"This is the envelope in which I found 'Le lever de l'aurore.' The handwriting is disguised; but tell me frankly if you do not recognize it. I do."

"I--really--I may be mistaken," began the king, "but--"

"Nay, you see that it is the hand of the Count de Provence, your own brother, sire. He it is, who enjoys the cruel satisfaction of having forced this indecent libel upon my notice, and I doubt not for one moment that he also is the one who sent it to you. "

"Yes, no doubt, he did it to warn us, and we must be grateful and take the warning to our hearts."

The queen laughed scornfully.

"Does your majesty suppose that these drawings were made with the same benevolent intention?" said she, handing him a second paper. "Look at these indecent caricatures, made still more obnoxious by the vulgar observations attached to them. There is no disguise of his handwriting here, for this was not intended for my eye. "

"Too true," sighed the king--"the drawings and the writing are both my brother's. But who can have sent you these shameful sketches?"

"I told you just now, sire, that there are always people to be found, who stab their friends with borrowed weapons. The drawings were accompanied by a letter, informing me, that they were executed in the saloons of Madame Adelaide, and that the remarks were the joint productions of your majesty's brother and your aunts."

The king passed his handkerchief over his forehead, to dry the heavy drops of sweat that were gathering there, and rose up, with the paper in his hand.

"Where is your majesty going?" asked the queen.

"To my brother," cried he, indignantly. "I will show him this disgraceful paper, and ask by what right he outrages my wife and his queen! I shall tell him that his actions are those of a traitor and--"

"And when you have told him that, will you punish him as kings punish traitors?"

The king was silent, and the queen continued, with a sad smile.

"You could not punish him; for the traitor who outrages the queen is the brother of the king, and, therefore, he can outrage with impunity."

"He shall not do it with impunity! I will force him to honor and love you."

"Ah, sire, love will not yield to force," said Marie Antoinette, in atone of anguish. "Were I as pure as an angel, the Count de Provence would hate me for my Austrian birth, and Madame Adelaide would use the great influence she possesses over your majesty to rob me of the little favor I am gaining in your sight."

"Oh, Antoinette, do you not feel that my whole heart is yours?" said Louis, affectionately. "Believe me, when I say that it is in the power of no human being to sully your sweet image in my eyes. Do not fear the royal family. I am here to protect you, and, soon or late, your worth will overcome their prejudices."

"No, sire, no. Nothing will ever win me their regard. But I am resolved to brave their emnity, satisfied that, in the eyes of the world, my conduct and my conscience both will sustain me."

"Your husband also," said the king, kissing her hand.

"Sire, I hope so," said Marie Antoinette, in a tremulous voice. "And now," continued she, dashing away the tear-drops that were gathering in her eyes, "now give me those caricatures. They have served to convince your majesty that I know my enemies--and defy them. Their mission is accomplished; let us try to forget their existence."

She took the drawings from his hand, and, tearing them to pieces, scattered them over the carpet. The king picked up a few of the fragments.

"Will you allow me to retain these as a souvenir of this hour?" said he, gazing fondly upon her sweet face.

"Certainly, sire."

"But you know that princes can never receive a gift without returning one. Therefore, do me the favor to accept this. It is paper for paper. "

He drew from his bosom a little package, to which the royal seal was affixed, and Marie Antoinette took it, with a glance of surprise.

"What can it be?" said she, as she unfolded it.

He watched her as she read; and thought how beautiful she was, as, blushing and smiling, she held out her hand to thank him.

"How, sire," said she, joyfully, "you make me this royal gift?"

"If you will accept it. The chateau de Trianon is a small estate, but its mistress may at least find it a home where she will have liberty to enjoy nature without exciting the malevolence of her enemies. No one can watch you there, Antoinette; for your castle is not large enough to lodge your slanderers. It will scarcely accommodate your friends."

"How can I ever thank you, sire?" said she, in grateful accents. "You have understood my heart, and have gratified its weary longings for occasional solitude. This, then, is my own private domain?"

"Certainly."

"And I may rule there without interference from state or etiquette?"

"Assuredly. As chatelaine of Trianon, you alone will regulate its customs, and all who visit you, must submit to your rules."

"And no man can enter my chateau without an invitation?"

"Not even the king himself."

Marie Antoinette smiled until the pearls encased within her coral lips dazzled the royal vision.

"How delightful!" said she. "I do not think that the Count de Provence will ever be invited to Trianon."

"Nor I," replied Louis.

"But the king will be asked so often, that he will certainly wish he were the Count de Provence. Still, he must promise not to come until he receives his invitation."

"I promise, beautiful chatelaine."

"And then to come whenever I invite him."

"That I can promise more safely than the other."

"Upon your royal word?"

"Upon my royal word. And thus I seal it with a kiss upon your fair hand."

"Upon my hand only, sire?" asked she, while she turned a cheek, whose hue was like the rosy lining of a sea-shell.

Louis accepted the challenge, and pressed a kiss so passionate upon that cheek, that it flushed to a deep, burning crimson, and the queen's eyes were cast down, till nothing of them was visible except her long, dark lashes.

The royal lover, too, grew very red, and stammered a few inaudible words. Then bowing, awkwardly, he stumbled over an armchair, and retreated in dire confusion.

Marie Antoinette looked after her clumsy king with a beating heart.

"Am I, indeed, to be blessed with his love?" thought the poor, young thing. "If I am, I shall be the happiest and most enviable of women."

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CIII. THE LAST APPEAL

The carriage of the Countess Esterhazy was returning from a ball which the empress had given in honor of her son's departure from Vienna. Joseph was about to visit France, and his lovely young sister was once more to hear the sound of a beloved voice from home.

It was long past midnight; but the Hotel Esterhazy was one blaze of light. It had been one of the countess's first orders to her steward that, at dusk, every chandelier in her palace should be lighted. She hated night and darkness, she said, and must have hundreds of wax-lights burning from twilight until morning. This was one of the whims of the fair Margaret, which, although it amused all Vienna, was any thing but comic to her husband, for it cost him one thousand florins a month.

The hotel, then, from ground-floor to attic, was bright as noon-day. Six lackeys, in silvered livery, stood on either side of the entrance, with torches in their hands, to light their lady to the vestibule. From the inner door to the staircase a rich Turkey carpet covered the floor; and, here again, stood twelve more lackeys, performing the office of candelabra to the light-loving countess. At the foot of the stairs stood the steward and the butler of the household, awaiting such orders as she might choose to fling at them on her way; and at the head of the stairs, waiting to receive her, stood a bevy of dames de compagnie, and other female attendants.

The countess passed through this living throng without vouchsafing one glance in acknowledgment of their respectful greetings. In profound silence she swept up the stairway; her long, glossy train of white satin following her as she went, like the foaming track that a ship leaves upon the broad bosom of the ocean, and the diamonds that decked her brow, neck, and arms, flinging showers of radiance that dazzled the eye like lightning when the storm is at its height. Her head was thrown back, her large black eyes were starry as ever, and her face was so pale that its pallor was unearthly.

At the landing-place she turned, and speaking to the steward, said:

"Let Count Esterhazy know that in ten minutes I await him in the blue room." Having said thus much, she continued her way, and disappeared from the eyes of her staring household.

Her disappearance was the signal for the transformation of the candelabra into men.

"Did you hear her?" whispered one. "She has sent for the count."

"Never troubling herself whether he sleeps or wakes," said another. "Poor man! He has been in bed for four hours."

"No wonder he goes to bed early," remarked a third. "It is the only place on earth where he has peace."

"Nevertheless he will be obedient and come; he dare not refuse." "Oh, no!" was the general response. "In ten minutes he will be here; or his amiable countess will treat us to a scene like some we have witnessed, wherein she flings handfuls of gold out of the windows, and gathers all the people in Vienna before the hotel to see the show. "

The servants were right; Count Esterhazy did not disobey his wife. He trembled when he received her message, called nervously for his valet to dress him, and at the end of the ten minutes was on his way to the blue-room.

The countess was there before him, looking like an angry queen about to condemn a recreant vassal to death. And Esterhazy, with the mien and gait of a culprit, carne into her presence with a bow that was almost a genuflection.

"You see, countess," said he, "with what haste I obey your commands. I feel so honored at the call, that--"

He paused--for really her fiery eyes seemed to burn him; and her contempt dried up the stream of his commonplace flattery, as the breath of the sirocco parches up the dew-drops.

"Why do you not go on?" said she.

"I am bewildered by my own joy," replied he, blandly. "Remember--it is the first time since our marriage that you have allowed me the privilege of an interview in private; and I may well lose my speech in the intoxication of such a moment."

"It is the first time. You have a good memory. Can you also recollect how long it is since we had that interview?"

"Can I recollect? Four long years!"

"Four long years," sighed she, "to the day, and almost to the hour."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the count. "And can you forgive me for having forgotten this charming anniversary?"

"You are happy to have tasted of the Lethe of indifference. I--I have counted the days and the hours of my slavery; and each day and hour is branded upon my heart. Have you forgotten, too, Count Esterhazy, what I swore to you on that wedding-night?"

"Yes, Margaret--I have forgotten all the cruel words you spoke to me in an outburst of just indignation."

"I wonder that you should have forgotten them, for it has been my daily care to remind you of the vow I then made. Have I not kept my word? Have I not crossed your path with the burning ploughshares of my hatred? Have I not cursed your home, wasted your wealth and made you the laughing-stock of all Vienna?"

"You judge yourself with too much severity, Margaret," said the count, mildly. "True--we have not been very happy; since this is the first time since our marriage-night, that we are face to face without witnesses. I will not deny, either, that our household expenditures have cost several millions, and have greatly exceeded our income. But the lovely Countess Esterhazy has a right to exceed all other women in the splendor of her concerts and balls, and the richness of her dress. Come, make me amends for the past--I forgive you. There is still time to--"

"No!" exclaimed she, "the time went by four years ago. You can never make amends to me, nor I to you. Look at yourself! You were then a young man, with high hopes and a light heart. Many a woman would have been proud to be called your wife--and yet you chose me. Now, that four years of accursed wedded life have gone over your head, you have passed from youth to old age, without ever having known an interval of manhood. And I--O God! What have I become through your miserable cowardice! I might have grown to be a gentle woman, had fate united me to him whom I love; but the link that has bound me to you has unsexed me. Our marriage was a crime, and we have paid its penalty; you are as weak as a woman, and I--as inflexible as a man."

Two large tears glittered in her eyes, and fell slowly down her pale cheeks. Count Esterhazy approached and caressed her with his hands. She shuddered at his touch, recoiling as if from contact with a reptile. Meanwhile, he was imploring her to begin a new life with him--to give him her hand, to make him the happiest of men.

"No, no, no!" cried she. "In mercy cease, or you will drive me mad. But I will forgive you even your past treachery, if you will grant the request I am about to make."

"You will condescend to ask something of me! Speak, Margaret speak! What can I do to make you happy?"

"You can give me my freedom," replied the countess, in a soft, imploring voice. "Go with me to the empress, and beg her to undo what she has done. Tell her that she has blasted the lives of two human beings--tell her that we are two galley-slaves, pining for liberty."

Count Esterhazy shook his head. "The empress will never allow us to be divorced," said he, "for I have too often assured her that I was happy beyond expression, and she wouldn't believe me if I came with another story."

"Then let us go to the fountain head," said the countess, wringing her hands. "Let us go to the pope, and implore him to loose the bands of our mutual misery."

"Impossible! That would be a slight which the empress never would forgive. I should fall under her displeasure."

"Oh, these servile hearts that have no life but that which they borrow from the favor of princes!" cried Margaret, scornfully. "What has the favor of the empress been worth to you? For what have you to thank her? For these four years of martyrdom, which you have spent with a woman who despises you?"

"I cannot dispense with the good-will of my sovereign," said the count, with something like fervor. "For hundreds of years, the Esterhazys have been the favorites of the Emperors of Austria; and we cannot afford to lose the station we enjoy therefrom. No--I will do nothing to irritate the empress. She chose you for my wife, and, therefore, I wear my chains patiently. Maria Theresa knows how I have obeyed and honored her commands; and, one of these days, I shall reap the reward of my loyalty. If Count Palfy dies, I am to be marshal of the imperial household; but yet higher honors await us both. If I continue to deserve the favor of the empress, she will confer upon me the title of 'prince.' You refuse to be my wife, Margaret; but you will one day be proud to let me deck that haughty brow with the coronet of a princess."

Margaret looked more contemptuously at him than before.

"You are even more degraded than I had supposed," said she. "Poor, crawling reptile, I do not even pity you. I ask you for the last time, will you go with me to Rome to obtain a divorce?"

"Why do you repeat your unreasonable request, Margaret? It is vain for you to hope for a divorce. Waste my fortune if you will--I cannot hinder you--I will find means to repair my losses; and the empress, herself, will come to my assistance, for--"

"Enough!" interrupted the countess. "Since you will not aid me in procuring our divorce, it shall be forced upon you. I will draw across your escutcheon such a bar sinister as your princely coronet will not be large enough to hide. That is my last warning to you. Now leave me."

"Margaret, I implore you to forgive me if I cannot make this great sacrifice. I cannot part from you, indeed I cannot," began the count.

"And the empress will reward your constancy with the title of 'prince,"' replied Margaret, with withering scorn. "Go--you are not worthy of my anger--but I shall know where to strike. Away with you!"

Count Esterhazy, with a deep sigh, turned and left the room.

"The last hope to which I clung, has vanished!" said she, "and I must resort to disgrace!"

She bent her head, and a shower of tears came to her relief. But they did not soften her heart. She rose from her seat, muttering, "It is too late to weep! I have no alternative. The hour for revenge has struck!"

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CIV. THE FLIGHT

The countess passed into her dressing-room. She closed and locked the door, then, going across the room, she stopped before a large picture that hung opposite to her rich Venetian toilet-mirror. The frame of this picture was ornamented with small gilt rosettes. Margaret laid her hand upon one of these rosettes, and drew it toward her. A noise of machinery was heard behind the wall. She drew down the rosette a second time, and then stepped back. The whirr was heard again, the picture began to move, and behind it appeared a secret door. Margaret opened it, and, as she did so, her whole frame shook as if with a deadly repugnance to that which was within.

"I am here, Count Schulenberg," said she, coldly.

The figure of a young man appeared at the doorway.

"May I presume to enter paradise?" said he, stepping into the room with a flippant air.

"You may," replied she, without moving; but the hue of shame overspread her face, neck, and arms, and it was plain to Count Schulenberg that she trembled violently.

These were to him the signals of his triumph; and he smiled with satisfaction as he surveyed this lovely woman, so long acknowledged to be the beauty par excellence of the imperial court at Vienna. Margaret allowed him to take her hand, and stood coldly passive, while he covered it with kisses; but when he would have gone further, and put his arm around her waist, she raised her hands, and receded.

"Not here," murmured she, hoarsely. "Not here, in the house of the man whose name I bear. Let us not desecrate love; enough that we defile marriage."

"Come, then, beloved, come," said he, imploringly. "The coach is at the door, and I have passes for France, Italy, Spain, and England. Choose yourself the spot wherein we shall bury our love from the world's gaze."

"We go to Paris," replied she, turning away her head.

"To Paris, dearest? Why, you have forgotten that the emperor leaves for Paris to-morrow, and that we incur the risk of recognition there."

"Not at all--Paris is a large city, and if we are discovered, I shall seek protection from the emperor. He knows of my unhappy marriage, and sympathizes with my sorrows."

"Perhaps you are right, dearest. Then in Paris we spend our honey-moon, and there enjoy the bliss of requited love."

"There, and not until we reach there," said she, gravely. "I require a last proof of your devotion, count. I exact that until we arrive in Paris you shall not speak to me of love. You shall consider me as a sister, and allow me the privilege of travelling in the carriage with my maid--she and I on one seat, you opposite."

"Margaret, that is abominable tyranny. You expect me to be near you, and not to speak of love! I must be watched by your maid, and sit opposite to you!--You surely cannot mean what you say."

"I do, indeed, Count Schulenberg."

"But think of all that I have endured for a year that I have adored you, cold beauty! Not one single proof of love have you ever given me yet. You have tolerated mine, but have never returned it."

"Did I not write to you?"

"Write; yes. You wrote me to say that you would not consent to be mine unless I carried you away from Vienna. Then you went on to order our mode of travelling as you would have done had I been your husband. 'Be here at such an hour; have your passes for various countries. Describe me therein as your sister. Come through the garden and await me at the head of the secret stairway.' Is this a love-letter? It is a mere note of instructions. For one week I have waited for a look, a sigh, a pressure of the hand; and when I come hither to take you from your home forever, you receive me as if I were a courier. No, Margaret, no--I will not wait to speak my love until we are in Paris."

"Then, Count Schulenberg, farewell. We have nothing more to say to one another."

She turned to leave the room, but Schulenberg darted forward and fell at her feet. "Margaret, beloved," cried he, "give me one single word of comfort. I thirst to know that you love me."

"Can a woman go further than I am going at this moment?" asked Margaret, with a strange, hollow laugh.

"No. I acknowledge my unspeakable happiness in being the partner of your flight. But I cannot comprehend your love. It is a bitter draught in a golden beaker."

"Then do not drink it," said she, retreating.

"I must--I must drink it; for my soul thirsts for the cup, and I will accept its contents."

"My conditions?"

"Yes, since I must," said Schulenberg, heaving a sigh. "I promise, then, to contain my ecstasy until we reach Paris, and to allow that guardian of virtue, your maid, to sit by your side, while I suffer agony opposite. But oh! when we reach Paris--"

"In Paris we will talk further, and my speech shall be different."

"Thank you, beloved," cried the count passionately. "This heavenly promise will sustain me through my ordeal." He kissed the tips of her fingers, and she retired to change her ball-dress for a travelling habit.

When she had closed the door, the expression of Count Schulenberg's face was not quite the same.

"The fierce countess is about to be tamed," thought he. "I shall win my bet, and humble this insolent beauty. Let her rule if she must, until we reach Paris; but there I will repay her, and her chains shall not be light. Really, this is a piquant adventure. I am making a delightful wedding-tour, without the bore of the marriage-ceremony, at the expense of the most beautiful woman in Europe; and to heighten the piquancy of the affair, I am to receive two thousand louis d'ors on my return to Vienna. Here she comes."

"I am ready," said Margaret, coming in, followed by her maid, who held her mistress's travelling-bag.

Count Schulenberg darted forward to offer his arm, but she waved him away.

"Follow me," said she, passing at once through the secret opening. Schulenberg followed, "sighing like a furnace," and looking daggers at the confidante, who in her turn looked sneeringly at him. A few moments after they entered the carriage. The windows of the Hotel Esterhazy were as brilliantly illuminated as ever, while the master of the house slumbered peacefully. And yet a shadow had fallen upon the proud escutcheon which surmounted the silken curtains of his luxurious bed--the shadow of that disgrace with which his outraged wife had threatened him!

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CV. JOSEPH IN FRANCE

A long train of travelling carriages was about to cross the bridge which spans the Rhine at Strasburg, and separates Germany from France. It was the suite of the Count of Falkenstein, who was on his way to visit his royal sister.

Thirty persons, exclusive of Count Rosenberg and two other confidential friends, accompanied the emperor. Of course, the incognito of a Count of Falkenstein, who travelled with such a suite, was not of much value to him; so that he had endured all the tedium of an official journey. This was all very proper in the eyes of Maria Theresa, who thought it impossible for Jove to travel without his thunder. But Jove himself, as everybody knows, was much addicted to incognitos, and so was his terrene representative, the Emperor of Austria.

The imperial cortege, then, was just about to pass from Germany to France. It was evening, and the fiery gold of the setting sun was mirrored in the waves of the Rhine which with gentle murmur were toying with the greensward that sloped gracefully down to the water's edge. The emperor gave the word to halt, and rising from his seat, looked back upon the long line of carriages that followed in his wake.

"Rosenberg" said he, laying his hand upon the count's shoulder, "tell me frankly how do you enjoy this way of travelling?"

"Ah, sire, I have been thinking all day of the delights of our other journeys. Do you remember our hunt for dinner in the dirty little hamlet, and the nights we spent on horseback in Galicia? There was no monotony in travelling then!"

"Thank you, thank you," said the emperor, with a bright smile. "I see that we are of one mind."

He motioned to the occupants of the carriage immediately behind him, and they hastened to obey the signal.

The emperor, after thanking them for the manner in which they had acquitted themselves of their respective duties, proposed a change in their plans of travel.

"Then," replied Herr von Bourgeois, with a sigh, "your majesty has no further use for us, and we return to Vienna."

"Not at all, not at all," said the emperor, who had heard and understood the sigh wafted toward Paris and its thousand attractions. "We will only part company that we may travel more at our ease, and once in Paris, we again join forces. Be so good as to make your arrangements accordingly, and to make my adieux to the other gentlemen of our suite."

Not long after, the imperial cortege separated into three columns, each one of which was to go independent of the other, and all to unite when they had reached Paris. As the last of the carriages with which he had parted, disappeared on the other side of the bridge the emperor drew a long breath and looked radiant with satisfaction.

"Let us wait," said he, "until the dust of my imperial magnificence is laid, before we cross the bridge to seek lodgings for the night. Meanwhile, Rosenberg, give me your arm and let us walk along the banks of the Rhine."

They crossed the high-road and took a foot-path that led to the banks of the river. At that evening hour every thing was peaceful and quiet. Now and then a peasant came slowly following his hay-laden wagon, and occasionally some village-girl carolled a love-lay, or softly murmured a vesper hymn.

The emperor, who had been walking fast, suddenly stopped, and gazed with rapture upon the scene.

"See, Rosenberg," said he, "see how beautiful Germany is to-day! As beautiful as a laughing youth upon whose brow is stamped the future hero."

"Your majesty will transform the boy into a hero," said Rosenberg.

The emperor frowned. "Let us forget for a moment the mummery of royalty," said he. "You know, moreover, that royalty has brought me nothing but misery. Instead of reigning over others, I am continually passing under the Caudine Forks of another's despotic will."

"But the day will come when the emperor shall reign alone, and then the sun of greatness will rise for Germany."

"Heaven grant it! I have the will to make of Germany one powerful empire. Oh, that I had the power, too! My friend, we are alone, and no one hears except God. Here on the confines of Germany, the poor unhappy emperor may be permitted to shed a tear over the severed garment of German royalty--that garment which has been rent by so many little princes! Have you observed, Rosenberg, how they have soiled its majesty? Have you noticed the pretensions of these manikins whose domains we can span with our hands? Is it not pitiable that each one in his principality is equal in power to the Emperor of Austria!"

"Yes, indeed," said Rosenberg with a sigh, "Germany swarms with little princes!"

"Too many little princes," echoed Joseph, "and therefore their lord and emperor is curtailed by so much of his own lawful rights, and Germany is an empty name among nations! If the Germans were capable of an enlightened patriotism; if they would throw away their Anglomania, Gallonmania, Prussomania, and Austromania, they would be something more than the feeble echoes of intriguers and pedants.[Footnote: The emperor's own words. See "Joseph II., Correspondence," p. 176.] Each one thrusts his own little province forward, while all forget the one great fatherland!"

"But the Emperor Joseph will be lord of all Germany," cried Rosenberg, exultingly, "and he will remind them that they are vassals and he is their suzerain!"

"They must have a bloody lesson to remind them of that," said the emperor, moodily. "Look behind you, Rosenberg, on the other side of the Rhine. There lies a kingdom neither larger nor more populous than Germany; a kingdom which rules us by its industry and caprices, and is great by reason of its unity, because its millions of men are under the sway of one monarch."

"And yet it was once with France as it is to-day with Germany," said Count Rosenberg. "There were Normandy, Brittany, Provence, Languedoc, Burgundy, and Franche-Comte, all petty dukedoms striving against their allegiance to the king. Where are their rulers now? Buried and forgotten, while their provinces own the sway of the one monarch who rules all France. What France has accomplished, Germany, too, can compass."

The emperor placed his hand affectionately upon Rosenberg's shoulder. "You have read my heart, friend," said he, smiling. "Do you know what wild wishes are surging within me now? wishes which Frederick of Prussia would condemn as unlawful, although it was quite righteous for him to rob Austria of Silesia. I, too, have my Silesia, and, by the Lord above me! my title-deeds are not as mouldy as his!"

"Only that your Silesia is called Bavaria," said Rosenberg, with a significant smile.

"For God's sake," cried Joseph, "do not let the rushes hear you, lest they betray me to the babbling wind, and the wind bear it to the King of Prussia. But you have guessed. Bavaria is a portion of my Silesia, but only a portion. Bavaria is mine by right of inheritance, and I shall take it when the time comes. It will be a comely patch to stop some of the rents in my imperial mantle. But my Silesia lies at every point of the compass. To the east lie Bosnia and Servia--to the south, see superannuated Venice. The lion of St. Mark is old and blind, and will fall an easy prey to the eagle of Hapsburg, This will extend our dominions to the Adriatic sea. When the Duke of Modena is gathered to his fathers, my brother, in right of his wife, succeeds to the title; and as Ferrara once belonged to the house of Modena, he and I together can easily wrest it from the pope. Close by are the Tortonese and Alessandria, two fair provinces which the King of Sardinia supposes to be his. They once formed a portion of the duchy of Milan; and Milan is ours, with every acre of land that ever belonged to it. By Heaven, I will have all that is mine, if it cost me a seven years' war to win it back! This is not all. Look toward the west, beyond the spires of Strasburg, where the green and fertile plains of Alsatia woo our coming. They now belong to France, but they shall be the property of Austria. Farther on lies Lorraine. That, too, is mine, for my father's title was 'Duke of Lorraine.' What is it to me that Francis the First sold his birthright to France? All that I covet I shall annex to Austria, as surely as Frederick wrested Silesia from me."

"And do you intend to let him keep possession of Silesia?" asked Rosenberg.

"Not if I can prevent it, but that may not be optional with me. I will--but hush! Let us speak no more of the future; my soul faints with thirst when I think of it. Sometimes I think I see Germany pointing to her many wounds, and calling me to come and heal her lacerated body. And yet I can do nothing! I must stand with folded arms, nor wish that I were lord of Austria; for God knows that I do not long for Maria Theresa's death. May she reign for many years; but oh! may I live to see the day wherein I shall be sole monarch not only of Austria, but of all Germany. If it ever dawns for me, the provinces shall no longer speak each one its own language. Italians, Hungarians, and Austrians, all shall be German, and we shall have one people and one tongue. To insure the prosperity of my empire, I will strengthen my alliance with France. I dislike the French, but I must secure their neutrality before I step into possession of Bavaria, and assert my claims to my many-sided Silesia. Well--these are dreams; day has not yet dawned for me! The future Emperor of Germany is yet a vassal, and he who goes to France to day is nothing but a Count of Falkenstein. Come, let us cross the bridge that at once unites France with Germany, and divides them one from the other." [Footnote: These are Joseph's own words. See "Letters of Joseph II.," p. 175.]

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CVI. THE GODFATHER

There was great commotion at the post-house of the little town of Vitry. Two maids, in their Sunday best, were transforming the public parlor of the inn into a festive dining-room; wreathing the walls with garlands, decking the long dining-table with flowers, and converting the huge dresser into a buffet whereon they deposited the pretty gilt china, the large cakes, the pastries, jellies, and confections, that were designed for the entertainment of thirty invited guests. The landlord and postmaster, a slender little man with an excellent, good-humored face, was hurrying from buffet to table, from table to kitchen, superintending the servants. The cook was deep in the preparation of her roasts and warm dishes; and at the kitchen door sat a little maiden, who, with important mien, was selecting the whitest and crispest leaves from a mountain of lettuce which she laid into a large gilt salad-bowl beside her; throwing the others to a delighted pig, who, like Lazarus, stood by to pick up the leavings of his betters. In the yard, at the fountain, stood the man-of-all-work, who, as butler pro tem., was washing plates and glasses; while close by, on the flags, sat the clerk of the post-office polishing and uncorking the bottles which the host had just brought from the cellar in honor of his friends.

Monsieur Etienne surveyed his notes of preparation, and gave an approving nod. His face was radiant as he returned to the house; gave another glance of satisfaction around the dining-room, and passed into an adjoining apartment. This was the best-furnished room in the post-house; and on a soft lounge, near the window, reclined a pale young woman, beautifully dressed, whose vicinity to a cradle, where lay a very young infant, betokened her recent recovery from confinement.

"Athanasia, my goddess," said Monsieur Etienne, coming in on tiptoe, "how do you feel to-day?"

She reached out her pale hand and answered in a languid voice: "The doctor says that, so far, I am doing pretty well, and, by great precautions, I may be able, in a few weeks, to resume my household duties."

Monsieur Etienne raised his eyebrows, and looked thoughtful. "The doctor is over-anxious, my dear," said he: "he exaggerates your weakness. Our little angel there is already three weeks old, and will be standing on his legs before long."

"The doctor is more sympathizing than you, Monsieur Etienne," began the wife.

"My treasure," interrupted her husband, "no one can wish to spare you premature exertion more than I. But I do entreat of you, my angel, to do your best to remain with the company to-day as long as you can."

"I will do all in my power to oblige you," said Madame Etienne, condescendingly, "and if you require it. I will sit up from first to last."

"It will be a great festival for us, provided no passengers arrive to-day. Good Heaven! if they should come, what could I do with them? Even the best of those we receive here are scarcely fit to introduce among our respectable guests; and then, as for post-horses, I want every one of them for the company. Heaven defend us, then, from passengers, for--oh! oh! is it possible! Can it be!" said Etienne, interrupting himself. "Yes, it is the sound of a post-horn."

"Perhaps it is some of our guests," suggested Madame Etienne. "No no, for our postilions to-day play but one air, 'Je suis pere, un pere heureux,'" said Monsieur Etienne, listening with all his might to the approaching horn.

"It is a passenger," said he, despondingly, "Athanasia, my angel, we are lost!"

So saying, Monsieur Etienne darted out of the room, as if be were rushing off to look for himself; but he stopped as soon as he had reached his front door, for there was no necessity to go farther. A dark caleche, with three horses, dashed up to the door, while not far behind came another chaise, whose post-horn was sounding "Je suis pere, un pere heureux."

"Is it possible?" thought the discomfited postmaster. "Yes, here they come at the very moment when the guests are arriving."

Just then another horn was heard, and "Je suis peree, un pere heureux," made the welkin ring.

On every side they came, but the unlucky passenger caleche blocked up the passage. Monsieur Etienne, following the impulses of his heart, rushed past the strangers, and ran to greet the most important of his guests, the village curate and the pastor of the next market-place. But just then the bewildered little man remembered his duty, and darted back to the passengers.

There were two gentlemen in the carriage, and on the box, near the postilion, a third person, who had the air of a valet.

"The gentlemen wish to go on to the next stage?" said Etienne, without opening the door.

"No, sir," said one of the passengers, raising his dark-blue eyes to the post-house. "Your house looks inviting, and we would like a room and a cosy dinner."

Monsieur Etienne scarcely knew what reply to make to this untimely request. "You wish to dine here--here--you would--"

Down came another post-chaise, thundering on the stones, and louder than ever was the sound of "Je suis pere, un pere heureux."

Certainly, at that moment, the song was a mockery, for Monsieur Etienne was a most unhappy and distracted father.

"Gentlemen," said he, pathetically, "oblige me by going on to the next town. Indeed--"

"Why, will you not give us dinner?" asked the gentleman who had spoken before. "I see a number of people passing us and entering the house. How is that?"

"Sir, they are--that is--I am," stammered the landlord; then suddenly plunging into a desperate resolve, he said, "Are you a father?"

A shade passed over the stranger's face as he replied, "I have been a father. But why such a question?"

"Oh, if you have been a father," answered Etienne, "you will sympathize with me, when I tell you that to-day we christen our first-born child."

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the passenger, with a kind smile. "Then these persons are--"

"My guests," interrupted the landlord and postmaster, "and you will know how to excuse me if--"

"If you wish us to the devil," returned the blue-eyed stranger, laughing merrily. "But, indeed, I cannot oblige you my excellent friend, for I don't know where his infernal majesty is to be found; and if I may be allowed a preference, I would rather remain in the society of the two priests whom I see going into your house."

"You will not go farther, then--"

"Oh, no, we ask to be allowed to join your guests, and attend the christening. The baptism of a first-born child is a ceremony which touches my heart, and yours, also, does it not?" said the stranger to his companion.

"Certainly," replied the other, laughing, "above all, when it is joined to another interesting ceremony--that of a good dinner. "

"Oh, you shall have a good dinner!" cried Etienne, won over by the sympathy of the first speaker. "Come in, gentlemen, come in. As the guests of our little son, you are welcome."

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CVII. THE GODFATHER

"We accept with pleasure," said the strangers, and they followed the host into the house. The door of the room where the guests were assembled was open, and the strangers, with a self-possession which proved them to be of the aristocracy, walked in and mingled at once in the conversation.

"Allow me, gentlemen," said the host, when he had greeted the remainder of his guests, "allow me to present you to Madame Etienne. She will he proud to receive two such distinguished strangers in her house to-day."

Madame Etienne, with a woman's practised eye, saw at once that these unknown guests, who were so perfectly unembarrassed and yet so courteous, must belong to the very first ranks of society; and she was happy to be able to show off her savoir vivre before the rest of the company.

She received the two travellers with much grace and affability; and whereas the curates were to have been placed beside her at table, she assigned them to her husband, and invited the strangers to the seats instead. She informed them of the names and station of every person present, and then related to them how the winter previous, at the ball of the sub-prefect, she had danced the whole evening, while some of the prettiest girls in the room had wanted partners.

The gentlemen listened with obliging courtesy, and appeared deeply interested. The blue-eyed stranger, however, mingled somewhat in the general conversation. He spoke with the burgomaster from Solanges of the condition of his town, with the curates of their congregations, and seemed interested in the prosperity of French manufactures, about which much was said at table.

All were enchanted with the tact and affability of the strangers. Monsieur Etienne was highly elated, and as for madame, her paleness had been superseded by a becoming flush, and she never once complained of over-exertion.

The dinner over, the company assembled for the baptism. It was to take place in the parlor, where a table covered with a fine white cloth, a wax-candle, some flowers, a crucifix, and an improvised font, had been arranged for the occasion.

The noble stranger gave his arm to Madame Etienne. "Madame," said he, "may I ask of you the favor of standing godfather to your son?"

Madame Etienne blushed with pleasure, and replied that she would be most grateful for the honor.

"In this way," thought she, "we shall find out his name and rank."

The ceremony began. The curate spoke a few impressive words as to the nature of the sacrament, and then proceeded to baptize the infant. The water was poured over its head, and at last came the significant question: "What is the name of the godfather?" All eyes were turned upon him, and Madame Etienne's heart beat hard, for she expected to hear the word "count" at the very least.

"My name?" said he. "Joseph."

"Joseph," repeated the priest. "Joseph--and the surname?"

"I thought Joseph would be enough," said the stranger, with some impatience.

"No, sir," replied the priest. "The surname, too, must be registered in the baptismal records."

"Very well then--Joseph the Second."

"The Second?" echoed the curate, with a look of mistrust. "The SECOND! Is that your surname?"

"Yes, my name is 'The Second.'"

"Well, be it so," returned the curate, with a shrug. "Joseph-- the--Second. Now, what is your profession--excuse me, sir, but I ask the customary questions."

The stranger looked down and seemed almost confused. The curate mildly repeated his question. "What is your profession, or your station, sir?"

"Emperor of Austria," replied Joseph, smiling.

A cry of astonishment followed this announcement. The pencil with which the priest was about to record the "profession" of the godfather fell from his hands. Madame Etienne in her ecstasy fell almost fainting into an arm-chair, and Monsieur Etienne, taking the child from the arms of the nurse, came and knelt with it at the emperor's feet.

This was the signal for a renewal of life and movement in the room. All followed the example of the host, and in one moment old and young, men and women, were on their knees.

"Your majesty," said Etienne, in a voice choked with tears, "you have made my child famous. For a hundred years the honor you have conferred upon him will be the wonder of our neighborhood, and never will the people of Vitry forget the condescension of your majesty in sitting among us as an equal and a guest. My son is a Frenchman at heart he shall also be a German, like our own beautiful queen, who is both Austrian and French. God bless and preserve you both! Long live our queen, Marie Antoinette, and long live her noble brother, the Emperor of Austria!"

The company echoed the cry, and their shouts aroused Madame Etienne, who arose and advanced toward her imperial visitor. He hastened to replace her gently in her arm-chair.

"Where people are bound together by the ties of parent and god-father," said he, "there must be no unnecessary ceremony. Will you do me one favor, madame?"

"Sire, my life is at your majesty's disposal."

"Preserve and treasure it, then, for the sake of my godson. And since you are willing to do me the favor," continued he, drawing from his bosom a snuff-box richly set with diamonds, "accept this as a remembrance of my pleasant visit to you to-day. My portrait is upon the lid, and as I am told that all the lovely women in France take snuff perhaps you will take your snuff from a box which I hope will remind you of the giver.

"And now," continued the emperor, to the happy Monsieur Etienne, "as I have been admitted to the christening, perhaps you will accommodate me with a pair of horses with which I may proceed to the next stage."

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CVIII. THE ARRIVAL AT VERSAILLES

The French court was at Versailles, it having been decided by the king and queen that there they would receive the emperor's visit. A magnificent suite of apartments had been fitted up for his occupation, and distinguished courtiers appointed as his attendants. He was anxiously expected; for already many an anecdote of his affability and generosity had reached Paris.

A courier had arrived too say that the emperor had reached the last station, and would shortly be in Versailles. The queen received this intelligence with tears of joy, and gathered all her ladies around her in the room where she expected to meet her brother. The king merely nodded, and a shade of dissatisfaction passed over his face. He turned to his confidential adviser, Count Maurepas, who was alone with him in his cabinet.

"Tell me frankly, what do you think of this visit?"

The old count raised his shoulders a la Francaise. "Sire, the queen has so often invited the emperor, that I presume he has come to gratify her longings."

"Ah, bah!" said Louis, impatiently. "He is not so soft-hearted as to shape his actions to suit the longings of his family. Speak more candidly."

"Your majesty commands me to be perfectly sincere?"

"I entreat you, be truthful and tell me what you think."

"Then I confess that the emperor's visit has been a subject of much mystery to your majesty's ministers. You are right in saying that he is not the man to trouble himself about the state of his relatives' affections. He comes to Paris for something nearer to his heart than any royal sister. Perhaps his hope is that he may succeed in removing me, and procuring the appointment of De Choiseul in my stead."

"Never! Austria cannot indulge such vain hopes, for her watchful spies must ere this have convinced the Hapsburgs that my dislike toward this duke, so precious in the eyes of Maria Theresa, is unconquerable. My father's shade banished him to Chanteloup, and I will follow this shade whithersoever it leads. If my father had lived (and perchance Choiseul had a hand in his death) there would have been no alliance of France with Austria. I am forced to maintain it, since my wife is the daughter of Maria Theresa; so that neither the Austrian nor the anti-Austrian party can ever hope to rule in France. Marie Antoinette is the wife of my heart, and no human being shall ever dislodge her thence. But my love for her can never influence my policy, which is steadfast to the principles of my father. If Joseph has come hither for political purposes, he might have spared his pains."

"He may have other views besides those we have alluded to. He may come to gain your majesty's sanction to his ambitious plans of territorial aggrandizement. The emperor is inordinately ambitious, and is true to the policy of his house."

"Which, nevertheless, was obliged to yield Silesia," said Louis, derisively.

That is the open wound for which Austria seeks balsam from Turkey. If your majesty does not stop him, the emperor will light the torch of war and kindle a conflagration that may embrace all Europe. "

"If I can prevent war, it is my duty to do so; for peace is the sacred right of my people, and nothing but imperative necessity would drive me to invade that right."

"But the emperor is not of your majesty's mind. He hopes for war, in expectation of winning glory."

"And I for peace, with the same expectation. I, too, would win glory--the glory of reigning over a happy and prosperous people. The fame of the conqueror is the scourge of mankind; that of the legislator, its blessing. The last shall be my portion--I have no object in view but the welfare of the French nation."

"The emperor may endeavor to cajole your majesty through your very love for France. He may propose to you an extension of French territory to reconcile you to his acquisitions in Turkey. He may suggest the Netherlands as an equivalent for Bosnia and Servia."

"I will not accept the bribe," cried Louis hastily. "France needs no aggrandizement. If her boundaries were extended, she would lose in strength what she gained in size; so that Joseph will waste his time if he seeks to awaken in me a lust of dominion. I thirst for conquest, it is true--the conquest of my people's hearts. May my father's blessing, and my own sincere efforts enable me to accomplish the one purpose of my life!"

"You have accomplished it, sire," replied De Maurepas, with enthusiasm. "You are the absolute master of your subjects' hearts and affections."

"If so, I desire to divide my domains with the queen." said Louis, with a searching look at De Maurepas. The minister cast down his eyes. The king went on: "You have something against her majesty--what is it?"

"The queen has something against me, sire. I am an eyesore to her majesty. She thinks I am in the way of De Choiseul, and will try every means to have me removed."

"You know that she would try in vain. I have already told you so. As a husband, I forget that Marie Antoinette is an Archduchess of Austria, but as my father's son--never! It is the same with her brother. I may find him agreeable as a relative; but as Emperor of Austria, he will know me as King of France alone. Be his virtues what they may, he never can wring the smallest concession from me. But hark!--I hear the sound of wheels. You know my sentiments-communicate them to the other ministers. I go to welcome my kinsman."

When the king entered the queen's reception-room, she was standing in the midst of her ladies. Her cheeks were pale, but her large, expressive eyes were fixed with a loving gaze upon the door through which her brother was to enter. When she saw the king, she started forward, and laying both her hands in his, smiled affectionately.

"Oh, sire," said she, "the emperor has arrived, and my heart flutters so, that I can scarcely wait for him here. It seems to me so cold that we do not go to meet him. Oh, come, dear husband, let us hasten to embrace our brother. Good Heaven! It is not forbidden a queen to have a heart, is it?"

"On the contrary, it is a grace that well becomes her royalty," said Louis, with a smile. "But your brother does not wish us to go forward to meet him. That would be an acknowledgment of his imperial station, and you know that he visits us as Count of Falkenstein."

"Oh, etiquette, forever etiquette!" whispered the queen, while she opened her huge fan and began to fan herself. "There is no escape from its fangs. We are rid of Madame de Noailles, but Madame Etiquette has stayed behind to watch our every look, to forbid us every joy--"

Just then the door opened, and a tall, manly form was seen upon the threshold. His large blue eyes sought the queen, and recognizing her, his face brightened with a bewitching smile. Marie Antoinette, heedless of etiquette, uttered a cry of joy and flew into his arms. "Brother, beloved brother!" murmured she, in accents of heartfelt tenderness.

"My sister, my own dear Antoinette!" was the loving reply, and Joseph drew her head upon his breast and kissed her again and again. The queen, overcome by joy, burst into tears, and in broken accents, welcomed the emperor to France.

The bystanders were deeply affected, all except the king--he alone was unmoved by the touching scene. He alone had remarked with displeasure that Marie Antoinette had greeted her brother in their native tongue, and that Joseph had responded. It was a German emperor and a German archduchess who were locked in each other's arms--and near them stood the King of France, for the moment forgotten. The position was embarrassing, and Louis had not tact enough to extricate himself gracefully. With ruffled brow and downcast eyes he stood, until, no longer able to restrain his chagrin, he turned on his heel to leave the room.

At this moment a light hand was laid upon his arm, and the clear, sonorous voice of the queen was heard.

"My dear husband, whither are you going?"

"I am here too soon," replied he, sharply. "I had been told that the Count of Falkenstein had arrived, and I came to greet him. It appears that it was a mistake, and I retire until he presents himself."

"The Count of Falkenstein is here, sire, and asks a thousand pardons for having allowed his foolish heart to get the better of his courtesy," said Joseph, with the superiority of better breeding. "Forgive me for taking such selfish possession of my sister's heart.. It was a momentary concession from the Queen of France to the memories of her childhood; but I lay it at your majesty's feet, and entreat you to accept it as your well-won trophy."

He looked at the king with such an expression of cordiality, that Louis could not withstand him. A smile which he could not control, rippled the gloomy surface of the king's face; and he came forward, offering both hands.

"I welcome you with my whole heart, my brother," said he in reply. "Your presence in Versailles is a source of happiness both to the queen and to myself. Let me accompany you to your apartments that you may take possession at once, and refresh yourself from the fatigues of travelling."

"Sire," replied Joseph, "I will follow your majesty wheresoever you please; but I cannot allow you to be inconvenienced by my visit. I and a soldier, unaccustomed to magnificence, and not worthy of such royal accommodation as you offer."

"How!" cried the queen." You will not be our guest?"

"I will gladly be your guest at table if you allow it," replied the emperor, "but I can dine with you without lodging at Versailles. When I travel, I do not go to castles but to inns."

The king looked astounded. "To inns?" repeated he with emphasis.

"Count Falkenstein means hotels, your majesty," cried the queen, laughing. "My brother is not quite accustomed to our French terms, and we will have to teach him the difference between a hotel and an inn. But to do this, dear brother, you must remain with us. Your apartments are as retired as you could possibly desire them."

"I know that Versailles is as vast as it is magnificent," said Joseph, "but I have already sent my valet to take rooms for me in Paris. Let us, then, say no more on the subject. [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. i., p. 172.] I am very grateful to you for your hospitality, but I have come to France to hear, to see, and to learn. I must be out early and late, and that would not suit the royal etiquette of Versailles."

"I thought you had come to Paris to visit the king and myself," said Marie Antoinette, looking disappointed.

"You were right, dear sister, but I am not so agreeable that you should wish to have me constantly at your side. I wish to become acquainted with your beautiful Paris. It is so full of treasures of art and wonders of industry, that a man has only to use his eyes, and he grows accomplished. I am much in need of such advantages, sire, for you will find me a barbarian for whose lapses you will have to be indulgent."

"I must crave then a reciprocity of indulgence," replied Louis. "But, come, count--give your arm to the queen, and let her show you the way to dinner. To-day we dine en famille, and my brothers and sisters are impatient to welcome Count Falkenstein to Versailles."

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CIX. COUNT FALKENSTEIN IN PARIS

A modest hackney-coach stood before the door of the little Hotel de Turenne, in the Rue Vivienne. The occupant, who had just alighted, was about to enter the hotel, when the hunt, who was standing before the door, with his hands plunged to the very bottom of his breeches pockets, stopped the way, and, not very politely, inquired what he wanted.

"I want what everybody else wants here, and what your sign offers to everybody--lodgings, "replied the stranger.

"That is precisely what you cannot have," said mine host, pompously. "I am not at liberty to receive any one, not even a gentleman of your distinguished appearance."

"Then, take in your sign, my friend. When a man inveigles travellers with a sign, he ought to be ready to satisfy their claims upon his hospitality. I, therefore, demand a room."

"I tell you, sir, that you cannot have it. The Hotel de Turenne has been too highly honored to entertain ordinary guests. The Emperor of Austria, brother of the beautiful queen, has taken lodgings here."

The stranger laughed. "If the emperor were to hear you, he would take lodgings with someone more discreet than yourself. He travels incognito in France."

"But everybody is in the secret, sir; and all Paris is longing for a sight of Count Falkenstein, of whom all sorts of delightful anecdotes are circulated. He is affability itself, and speaks with men generally as if they were his equals."

"And pray," said the stranger, laughing, "is he made differently from other men?"

The host eyed his interrogator with anger and contempt. "This is very presuming language," said he, "and as his majesty is my guest, I cannot suffer it. The French think the world of him, and no wonder, for he is the most condescending sovereign in Europe. He refused to remain at the palace, and comes to take up his abode here. Is not that magnanimous?"

"I find it merely a matter of convenience. He wishes to be in a central situation. Has he arrived?"

"No, not yet. His valet is here, and has set up his camp-bed. I am waiting to receive the emperor and his suite now."

"Is the valet Guther here?"

"Ah, you know this gentleman's name! Then perhaps you belong to the emperor's suite?"

"Yes," said the stranger, laughing, "I shave him occasionally. Now call Gunther."

There was something rather imperious in the tone of the gentleman who occasionally shaved the emperor, and the landlord felt impelled to obey.

"Of course," said he, respectfully, "if you shave the emperor, you are entitled to a room here."

The stranger followed him up the broad staircase that led to the first story of the hotel. As they reached the landing, a door opened, and the emperor's valet stepped out into the ball.

"His majesty!" exclaimed he, quickly moving aside and standing stiff as a sentry by the door.

"His majesty!" echoed the landlord. "This gentleman--this--Your majesty--have I--"

"I am Count Falkenstein," replied the emperor, amused. "You see now that you were wrong to refuse me; for the man whom you took for an ordinary mortal was neither more nor less than the emperor himself."

The landlord bent the knee and began to apologize, but Joseph stopped him short. "Never mind," said he, "follow me, I wish to speak with you."

The valet opened the door, and the emperor entered the room, the frightened landlord following.

"These are my apartments!" continued Joseph, looking around.

"Yes, your majesty."

"I retain four of them--an anteroom, a sitting-room, a bedroom, and a room for my valet. I will keep them for six weeks, on one condition."

"Your majesty has only to command here."

"Well, then, I command you to forget what I am in Austria. In France, I am Count Falkenstein; and if ever I hear myself spoken of by any other name, I leave your house on the spot."

"I will obey your instructions, count."

"You understand, then, that I desire to be received and regarded as an ordinary traveller. Whence it follows that you will take in whatever other guests apply to you for lodging. You have proved to me to-day how unpleasant it is to be turned away, and I desire to spare other applicants the--same inconvenience."

"But suppose the Parisians should wish to see Count Falkenstein?"

"They will have to submit to a disappointment."

"Should any one seek an audience of--the count?"

"The count receives visitors, but gives audience to no one. His visitors will be announced by his valet. Therefore you need give yourself no trouble on that head. Should any unfortunate or needy persons present themselves, you are at liberty to admit them."

"Oh!" cried the host, with tears in his eyes, "how the Parisians will appreciate such generosity!"

"They will not have the opportunity of doing so, for they shall not hear a word of it. Now go and send me a barber; and take all the custom that presents itself to you, whether it comes in a chariot or a Hackney-coach."

The host retired, and as the door was closing, Count Rosenberg appeared. The emperor took his hand, and bade him welcome.

"I Have just been to the embassy," said Rosenberg, "and Count von Mercy says--"

"That I told him I would take rooms at the Hotel of the Ambassadors, but I also reserve to myself this nice little bachelor establishment, to which I may retreat when I feel inclined to do so. The advantage of these double quarters is, that nobody will know exactly where to find me, and I shall enjoy some freedom from parade. At the Hotel of the Ambassadors I shall be continually bored with imperial honors. Here, on the contrary, I am free as air, and can study Paris at my leisure."

"And you intend to pursue these studies alone, count? Is no one to accompany you to spare you inconvenience, perchance to assist you in possible peril?"

"Oh, my friend, as to peril, you know, that I am not easily frightened, and that the Paris police is too well organized to lose sight of me. Monsieur de Sartines, doubtless, thinks that I need as much watching as a house-breaker, for it is presumed at court that I have come to steal the whole country, and carry it to Austria in my pocket."

"They know that to Count Falkenstein nothing is impossible." replied Rosenberg. "To carry away France would not be a very hard matter to a man who has robbed the French people of their hearts."

"Ah, bah! the French people have no hearts. They have nothing but imagination. There is but one man in France who has genuine sensibility--and that one is their poor, timid young king. Louis has a heart, but that heart I shall never win. Heaven grant that the queen have power to make it hers!"

"The queen? If Louis has a heart, it surely cannot be insensible to the charms of that lovely young queen!"

"It ought not to be, for she deserves the love of the best of men. But things are not as they should be here. I have learned that in the few hours of my visit to Versailles. The queen has bitter enemies, and you and I, Rosenberg, must try to disarm them."

"What can I do, count, in this matter?"

"You can watch and report to me. Swear to me, as an honest man, that you will conceal nothing you hear to the queen's detriment or to mine."

"I swear it, count."

"Thank you, my friend. Let us suppose that our mission is to free my sister from the power of a dragon, and restore her to her lover. You are my trusty squire, and together we shall prevail over the monster, and deliver the princess."

At that moment a knocking was heard at the door. It was opened, and an elegant cavalier, with hat and sword, entered the room, with a sweeping bow. The emperor stepped politely forward, and inquired his business.

The magnificent cavalier waved his hat, and with an air of proud consciousness, replied:

"I was requested to give my advice regarding the arrangement of a gentleman's hair."

"Ah, the barber," said the emperor. "Then be so good, sir, as to give your advice, and dress my hair."

"Pardon me, sir, that is not my profession," replied the cavalier, haughtily. "I am a physiognomist. Allow me to call in my subordinate."

"Certainly," said the emperor, ready to burst with laughter, as he surveyed the solemn demeanor of the artiste. The latter walked majestically to the door, and opened it.

"Jean!" cried he, with the voice of a field-marshal; and a youth fluttered in, laden with powder-purses, combs, curling-tongs, ribbons, pomatum, and the other appurtenances of a first-rate hair-dresser.

"Now, sir," said the physiognomist, gravely, "be so good as to take a seat." Joseph obeyed the polite command, upon which the physiognomist retired several paces, folded his arms, and contemplated the emperor in solemn silence.

"Be so kind as to turn your head to the left--a little more--so--that is it--I wish to see your profile," said he after a while.

"My dear sir, pray inform me whether in France it is customary to take a man's portrait before you dress his hair?" asked the emperor, scarcely able to restrain his increasing mirth; while Rosenberg retired to the window, where Joseph could see him shaking, with his handkerchief before his mouth.

"It is not customary, sir," replied the physiognomist, with grave earnestness. "I study your face that I may decide which style becomes you best."

Behind the chair stood the hair-dresser in a fashionable suit of nankeen, with lace cuffs and ruffles, hovering like a large yellow butterfly over the emperor, and ready at the signal to alight upon the imperial head with brush and comb.

The physiognomist continued his study. He contemplated the head of the emperor from every point of view, walking slowly around him, and returning to take a last survey of the front. Finally his eye rested majestically upon the butterfly, which fluttered with expectation.

"Physiognomy of a free negro," said he, with pathos. "Give the gentleman the Moorish coiffure." [Footnote: "Memoires d'un Voyageur qui se Repose," vol. iii., p. 42.] And with a courtly salute he left the room.

The emperor now burst into shouts of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by Rosenberg.

Meanwhile the butterfly had set to work, and was frizzing with all his might.

"How will you manage to give me the Moorish coiffure?" asked the emperor, when he had recovered his speech.

"I shall divide your hair into a multitude of single locks; curl, friz them, and they will stand out from your head in exact imitation of the negro's wool," answered the butterfly, triumphantly.

"I have no doubt that it would accord charmingly with my physiognomy," said the emperor, once more indulging in a peal of laughter, "but to-day I must content myself with the usual European style. Dress my hair as you see it, and be diligent, for I am pressed for time."

The hair-dresser reluctantly obeyed, and in a few minutes the work was completed and the artiste had gone.

"Now," said Joseph to Count Rosenberg, "I am about to pay some visits. My first one shall be to Monsieur de Maurepas. He is one of our most active opponents, and I long to become acquainted with my enemies. Come, then, let us go to the hotel of the keeper of the great seal."

"Your majesty's carriages are not here," replied Rosenberg.

"Dear friend, my equipages are always in readiness. Look on the opposite side of the street at those hackney-coaches. They are my carriages for the present. Now let us cross over and select one of the neatest."

Perfect silence reigned in the anteroom of Monsieur de Maurepas. A liveried servant, with important mien, walked forth and back before the closed door of the reception-room, like a bull-dog guarding his master's sacred premises. The door of the first anteroom was heard to open, and the servant turned an angry look toward two gentlemen who made their appearance.

"Ah," said he, "the two gentlemen who just now alighted from the hackney-coach?"

"The same," said the emperor. "Is monsieur le comte at home?"

"He is," said the servant pompously.

"Then be so good as to announce to him Count Falkenstein."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry that I cannot oblige you, sir. Monsieur de Taboreau is with the count; and until their conference is at an end, I can announce nobody."

"Very well, then, I shall wait," replied Joseph, taking a seat, and pointing out another to Count Rosenberg.

The servant resumed his walk, and the two visitors in silence awaited the end of the conference.

"Do you know, Rosenberg," said Joseph, after a pause, "that I am grateful to Count de Maurepas for this detention in his ante-room? It is said that experience is the mother of wisdom. Now my experience of to-day teaches me that it is excessively tiresome to wait in an anteroom. I think I shall be careful for the future, when I have promised to receive a man, not to make him wait. Ah! here comes another visitor. We are about to have companions in ennui."

The person who entered the room was received with more courtesy than "the gentlemen who had come in the hackney-coach." The servant came forward with eagerness, and humbly craved his pardon while informing him that his excellency was not yet visible.

"I shall wait," replied the Prince de Harrai, advancing to a seat. Suddenly he stopped, and looked in astonishment at Count Falkenstein, who, perfectly unconcerned, was sitting in a corner of the room.

"Great Heaven! his majesty, the emperor!" cried he, shocked, but recovering himself sufficiently to make a deep inclination.

"Can your majesty pardon this unheard of oversight!"

"Peace, prince," replied the emperor, smiling; "you will disturb the ministers at their conference."

"Why, man, how is it that his excellency is not apprised of his majesty's presence here?" said the Prince de Harrai to the lackey.

"His excellency never spoke to me of an emperor," stammered the terrified lackey. "He desired me to admit no one except a foreign count, whose name, your highness, I have been so unlucky as to forget."

"Except Count Falkenstein."

"Yes, your highness, I believe--that is, I think it--"

"And you leave the count to wait here in the anteroom!"

"I beg monsieur le comte a thousand pardons. I will at once repair my error."

"Stay," said the emperor, imperatively. Then turning to the Prince de Harrai, he continued good-humoredly: "If your highness is made to wait in the anteroom, there is no reason why the Count of Falkenstein should not bear you company. Let us, then, wait together."

The ministerial conference lasted half an hour longer, but at last the door opened, and Monsieur de Maurepas appeared. He was coming forward with ineffable courtesy to receive his guests, when perceiving the emperor, his self-possession forsook him at once. Pale, hurried, and confused, he stammered a few inaudible words of apology, when Joseph interrupted and relieved him.

He offered his hand with a smile, saying: "Do not apologize; it is unnecessary. It is nothing but right that business of state should have precedence over private visitors." [Footnote: The emperor's own words. Hubner. "Life of Joseph H.," p. 141.]

"But your majesty is no private individual!" cried the minister, with astonishment.

"Pardon me," said the emperor, gravely. "As long as I remain here. I am nothing more. I left the Emperor of Austria at Vienna: he has no concern with the Count of Falkenstein, who is on a visit to Paris, and who has come hither, not to parade his rank, but to see and to learn where there is so much to be learned. May I hope that you will aid Count Falkenstein in his search after knowledge?"

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CX. THE QUEEN AND THE "DAMES DE LA HALLE."

A brilliant crowd thronged the apartments of the Princess d'Artois. The royal family, the court, and the lords and ladies of high rank were assembled in her reception-rooms, for close by an event of highest importance to France was about to transpire. The princess was giving birth to a scion of royalty. The longings of France were about to be fulfilled--the House of Bourbon was to have an heir to its greatness.

The accouchement of a royal princess was in those days an event that concerned all Paris, and all the authorities and corporations of the great capital had representatives in those reception-rooms. It being only a princess who was in labor, and not a queen, none but the royal family and the ministers were admitted into her bedchamber. The aristocracy waited in the reception-rooms, the people in the corridors and galleries. Had it been Marie Antoinette, all the doors would have been thrown open to her subjects. The fishwives of Paris, the laborers, the gamins, even the beggars had as much right to see the Queen of France delivered, as the highest dignitary of the land. The people, then, who thronged both palace and gardens, were awaiting the moment when the physician should appear upon the balcony and announce to the enraptured populace that a prince or princess had been vouchsafed to France.

From time to time one of the royal physicians came out to report the progress of affairs, until finally the voice of the accoucheur proclaimed that the Princess d'Artois had given birth to a prince.

A cry of joy followed this announcement. It was that of the young mother. Raising her head from her pillow, she cried out in ecstasy, "Oh, how happy, how happy I am!" [Foreword: Madame de Campan, vol. i., p 216. The prince whose advent was a source of such triumph to his mother, was the Duke de Berry, father of the present Count de Chambord. He it was who, in 1827, was stabbed as he was about to enter the theatre, and died in the arms of Louis XVIII., former Count de Provence.]

The queen bent over her and kissed her forehead, whispering words of affectionate sympathy in her ear; but no one saw the tears that fell from Marie Antoinette's eyes upon the lace-covered pillow of her fortunate kinswoman.

She kissed the princess again, as though to atone for those tears, and with tender congratulations took her leave. She passed through the reception-rooms, greeting the company with smiling composure, and then went out into the corridors which led to her own apartments. Here the scene changed. Instead of the respectful silence which had saluted her passage through the rooms, she encountered a hum of voices and an eager multitude all pressing forward to do her homage after their own rough fashion.

Every one felt bound to speak a word of love or of admiration, and it was only by dint of great exertion that the two footmen who preceded the queen were able to open a small space through which she could pass. She felt annoyed--even alarmed--and for the first time in her life regretted the etiquette which once had required that the Queen of France should not traverse the galleries of Versailles without an escort of her ladies of honor.

Marie Antoinette had chosen to dispense with their attendance, and now she was obliged to endure the contact of those terrible "dames de la halle," who for hundreds of years had claimed the privilege of speaking face to face with royalty, and who now pressed around her, with jokes that crimsoned her cheeks while they were rapturously received by the canaille.

With downcast eyes and trembling steps, she tried to hurry past the odious crowd of poissardes.

"Look, look," cried one, peering in her face, "look at the queen and see her blushing like a rose-bud!"

"But indeed, pretty queen, you should remember that you are not a rose-bud, but a full-blown rose, and it is time that you were putting forth rose-buds yourself."

"So it is, so it is," shouted the multitude. "The queen owes us a rose-bud, and we must have it." "See here, pretty queen," cried another fish-wife, "it is your fault if we stand here on the staircases and out in the hot sun to-day. If you had done your duty to France instead of leaving it to the princess in yonder, the lackeys would have been obliged to open the doors to us as well as to the great folks, and we would have jostled the dukes and princes, and taken our ease on your velvet sofas. The next time we come here, we must have a tramp into the queen's room, and she must let us see herself and a brave dauphin, too."

"Yes, yes," cried the fish-wives in chorus, "when we come back we must see the young dauphin."

The queen tried to look as though she heard none of this. Not once had she raised her eyes or turned her head. Now she was coming to the end of her painful walk through the corridors, for Heaven be praised! just before her was the door of her own anteroom. Once across that threshold she was safe from the coarse ribaldry that was making her heart throb and her cheeks tingle; for there the rights of the people ended, and those of the sovereign began.

But the "dames de la halle" were perfectly aware of this, and they were determined that she should not escape so easily.

"Promise us," cried a loud, shrill voice, "promise us that we shall have a young dauphin as handsome as his mother and as good as his father."

"Yes, promise, promise," clamored the odious throng; and men and women pressed close upon the queen to see her face and hear her answer.

Marie Antoinette had almost reached her door. She gave a sigh of relief, and for the first time raised her eyes with a sad, reproachful look toward her tormentors.

Just then a strapping, wide-shouldered huckster, pushed her heavy body between the queen and the door, and barring the entrance with her great brown arms, cried out vociferously: "You to not pass until you promise! We love you and love the king we will none of the Count de Provence for our king; we must have a dauphin."

The queen still pretended not to hear. She tried to evade the poissarde and to slip into her room; but the woman perceived the motion, and confronted her again.

"Be so kind, madame," said Marie Antoinette, mildly, "as to allow me to pass."

"Give us the promise, then," said the fish-wife, putting her arms a-kimbo.

The other women echoed the words, "Give us the promise, give us the promise!"

Poor Marie Antoinette! She felt her courage leaving her--she must be rid of this fearful band of viragos at any price. She would faint if she stood there much longer.

Again the loud cry. "Promise us a dauphin, a dauphin, a dauphin!"

"I promise," at last replied the queen. "Now, madame, in mercy, let me have entrance to my own rooms."

The woman stepped back, the queen passed away, and behind her the people shouted out in every conceivable tone of voice, "She has promised. The queen has promised a dauphin!"

Marie Antoinette walked hurriedly forward through the first anteroom where her footman waited, to the second wherein her ladies of honor were assembled.

Without a word to any of them she darted across the room and opening the door of her cabinet, threw herself into an arm-chair and sobbed aloud. No one was there excepting Madame de Campan.

"Campan," said she, while tears were streaming down her cheeks, "shut the door, close the portiere. Let no one witness the sorrow of the Queen of France."

With a passionate gesture, she buried her face in her hands and wept aloud.

After a while she raised her tearful eyes and they rested upon Madame de Campan, who was kneeling before her with an expression of sincerest sympathy.

"Oh, Campan, what humiliation I have endured today! The poorest woman on the street is more fortunate than I; and if she bears a child upon her arm, she can look down with compassion upon the lonely Queen of France,--that queen upon whose marriage the blessing of God does not rest; for she has neither husband nor child."

"Say not so, your majesty, for God has smitten your enemies, and with His own tender hand He is kindling the fire of love in the heart of the king your husband."

Marie Antoinette shook her head sadly. "No--the king does not love me. His heart does not respond to mine. He loves me, perhaps, as a sister, but no more--no more!"

"He loves your majesty with the passion and enthusiasm of a lover, but he is very timid, and waits for some token of reciprocity before he dares to avow his love."

"No, he does not love me," repeated Marie Antoinette with a sigh. "I have tried every means to win his heart. He is indulgent toward my failings, and kindly anticipates my wishes; sometimes he seems to enjoy my society, but it is with the calm, collateral affection of a brother for his sister. And I!--oh, my God! my whole heart is his, and craves for that ardent, joy-bestowing love of which poets sing, and which noble women prize above every earthly blessing. Such love as my father gave to my happy mother, I would that the king felt for me."

"The king does not know the extent of his love for your majesty," said De Campan soothingly. "Some fortunate accident or dream of jealousy will reveal it to him before long."

"God speed the accident or the dream!" sighed the queen; and forthwith her tears began to flow anew, while her hands lay idly upon her lap.

Those burning tears at last awakened her from the apathy of grief. Suddenly she gave a start and threw back her head. Then she rose from her seat, and, like Maria Theresa, began to pace the apartment. Gradually her face resumed its usual expression, and her demeanor became, as it was wont to be, dignified and graceful. Coming directly up to Madame de Campan, she smiled and gave her hand. "Good Campan," said she, "you have seen me in a moment of weakness, of which I am truly ashamed. Try to forget it dear friend, and I promise that it shall never be repeated. And now, call my tire-women and order my carriage. Leonard is coming with a new coiffure, and Bertin has left me several beautiful hats. Let us choose the very prettiest of them all, for I must go and show myself to the people. Order an open carriage, that every one may see my face, and no one may say that the queen envies the maternal joys of the Countess d'Artois. Tonight we are to have the opera of 'Iphigenia'--it is one of my magnificent teacher's chefs-d'oeuvre. The emperor and I are to go together to listen to our divine Gluck's music, and Paris must believe that Marie Antoinette is happy--too happy to envy any woman! Come, Campan, and dress me becomingly."

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CXI. THE ADOPTED SON OF THE QUEEN

An hour later, the queen entered her carriage in all the splendor of full dress. Leonard had altered her coiffure. Instead of the three-story tower, her hair was low, and she wore a most becoming hat, chiefly made up of flowers and feathers. She also wore rouge, for she was very pale; and to conceal the traces of weeping she had drawn a faint dark line below her lower lashes which greatly increased the brilliancy of her eyes.

She ordered her coachman to drive through the town. Wherever the royal outriders announced her coming, the people gathered on: either side of the streets to wave their hats and handkerchiefs, and greet her with every demonstration of enthusiasm and love.

Marie Antoinette greatly enjoyed her popularity, she bowed her head, and smiled, and waved her hand in return, calling upon the ladies who accompanied her to sympathize with her happiness.

"Indeed," said she to the Princess de Lamballe, [Footnote: The Princess de Lamballe was subsequently beheaded, and her head was carried through the streets of Paris on a pike.--Trans.] "the people love me, I do believe. They seem glad to see me, and I, too, like to see them."

"Your majesty sees that in Versailles, as in Paris, you have thousands of lovers," replied the princess.

"Ah," said the queen, "my lovers are there to be seen; but my enemies, who lie concealed, are more active than my friends. And how do I know that they are not now among the crowd that welcomes me! How dreadful it is to wear a mask through life! They, perhaps, who shout `Long live the queen,' are plotting against her peace, and I, who smile in return, dare not trust them!"

The royal equipage had now reached the gates, and was passing into the country. Marie Antoinette felt a sense of relief at the change. She gazed with rapture upon the rich foliage of the trees, and then looking pensively above for a few moments, she watched the floating clouds of blue and silver, and then followed the flight of the birds that were soaring in such freedom through the air.

"How I wish that I could fly!" said she, sighing. "We mortals are less privileged than the little birds--we must creep along the earth with the reptiles that we loath! Faster, tell the coachman to drive faster!" cried she, eagerly, "I would like to move rapidly just now. Faster, still faster!"

The command went forward, and the outriders dashed ahead at full speed. The carriage whirled past the cottages on the wayside, while the queen, leaning back upon her satin cushions, gave herself up to the dreamy enjoyment which steals over the senses during a rapid drive.

Suddenly there was an exclamation, and the horses were reined in. The queen started from her reverie, and leaned forward.

"What has happened?" cried she of the equerry, who at that moment sprang to the side of the caleche.

"Your majesty, a child has just run across the road, and has been snatched from under the horses' feet."

"A child!" exclaimed the queen, starting from her seat. "Is it killed?"

"No, your majesty. It is luckily unhurt. The coachman reined up his horses in time for one of the outriders to save it. It is unhurt--nothing but frightened. Your majesty can see him now in the arms of the old peasant-woman there."

"She is about to return to the cottage with it," said the queen. Then stretching her arms toward the old woman, she cried out in an imploring voice: "Give me the child--bring it here! Heaven has sent it to me as a comfort! Give it to me, I entreat you."

Meanwhile the old woman, recalled by the equerry, was approaching the carriage. "See," exclaimed the queen to her ladies, "see what a lovely boy!" And, indeed, he was a beautiful child, in spite of his little tattered red jacket, and his bare brown legs, of dark with dirt as with sunburn.

"Where is his mother?" asked Marie Antoinette, looking compassionately at the child.

"My daughter is dead, madame," said the peasant. "She died last winter, and left me the burden of five young children to feed."

"They shall burden you no longer," exclaimed the queen kindly. "I will maintain them all, and this little angel you must give to me. Will you not?"

"Ah, madame, the child is only too lucky! But my little Jacob is so wilful that he will not stay with you."

"I will teach him to love me," returned the queen. "Give him to me now."

She leaned forward and received the child from his grandmother's arms. It was so astounded, that it uttered not a cry; it only opened its great blue eyes to their utmost, while the queen settled it upon her lap.

"See," exclaimed the delighted Marie Antoinette, "he is not at all afraid of me. Oh, we are going to be excellent friends! Adieu, my poor old grandmother. I will send you something for your children as soon as I reach home. And now, Monsieur de Vievigne, let us return to Versailles. Tell your grandmamma good-by, little Jacob. You are going to ride with me."

"Adieu, my little one," said the grandmother. "Don't forget your--"

Her words were drowned in the whirr of the carriage, which disappeared from her wondering eyes in a cloud of dust.

The motion, the noise, and the air brushing his curls into his face, awakened the boy from his stupor. He started from the queen's arms, and looking wildly around, began to yell with all his might. Never had such unharmonious sounds assailed the ears of the queen before. But she seemed to be quite amused with it. The louder little Jacob screamed and kicked, the closer she pressed him to her heart; nor did she seem to observe that his dirty little feet were leaving unsightly marks upon her rich silk dress.

The caleche arrived at Versailles, and drew up before the doors of the palace. With her newly acquired treasure in her arms, the queen attempted to leave the carriage, but the shrieks and kicks became so vigorous, that she was obliged to put the child down. The pages, gentlemen, and ladies in waiting, stared in astonishment as her majesty went by, holding the refractory little peasant by the hand, his rosy cheeks covered with many an arabesque, the joint production of tears and dirt. Little cared Jacob for the splendor around him; still less for the caresses of his royal protectress.

"I want to go to my grandmother," shrieked he, "I want my brother Louis and sister Marianne!"

"Oh, dear little one!" cried the queen, "what an affectionate heart he has! He loves his relatives better than all our luxury, and the Queen of France is less to him than his poor old grandmother!--Never mind, darling, you shall be loved as well and better than you ever were at home, and all the more that you have not learned to flatter!"

She bent down to caress him, but he wiped off her kisses with indignation. Marie Antoinette laughed heartily, and led the child into her cabinet, where she placed him on the very spot where she had been weeping a few hours earlier.

"Campan," said she, "see how good God has been to me to-day! He has sent me a child upon whom I can lavish all the love which is consuming my poor, lonely heart. Yes, my little one, I will be a mother to you, and may God and your own mother hear my vow! Now, Campan, let us take counsel together as to what is to be done. First, we must have a nurse, and then his face must be washed, and he must be dressed as becomes my pretty little adopted son."

The child, who had ceased his cries for a moment, now broke out into fresh shrieks. "I want to go home! I won't stay here in this big house! Take me to my grandmother!"

"Hush, you unconscionable little savage!" said Madame de Campan.

"Oh, Campan!" cried, the queen deprecatingly, "how can you chide the little fellow! His cries are so many proofs of the honesty of his heart, which is not to be bribed of its love by all that royalty can bestow!" [Footnote: The queen kept her word. The boy was brought up as her own child. He always breakfasted and dined by her side, and she never called him by any other name save that of "my child." When Jacques grew up, he displayed a taste for painting, and of course had every advantage which royal protection could afford him. He was privileged to approach the queen unannounced. But when the Revolution broke out, this miserable wretch, to avoid popularity, joined the Jacobins, and was one of the queen's bitterest enemies and most frenzied accusers.]

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Chapter CXII

"CHANTONS, CELEBRONS NOTRE REINE."

The opera-house was full to overflowing. In the lowest tier were the ladies of the aristocracy, their heads surmounted by those abominable towers of Leonard's invention. Above them sat the less distinguished spectators; and the parquet was thronged by poets, learned men, students, and civil officers of various grades. Almost every class found some representatives in that brilliant assemblage; and each one felt keenly the privilege he enjoyed in being present on that particular occasion. But it was not altogether for the sake of the music that all Paris had flocked to the opera. The Parisians were less desirous to hear "Iphigenia," than to see the emperor, who was to be there in company with his sister.

Since his arrival in the capital, Joseph had been the theme of every conversation. Every one had something to relate of his affability, his condescension, or his goodness. His bon mots, too, were in every mouth; and the Parisians, who at every epoch have been so addicted to wit, were so much the more enraptured with the impromptu good things which fell from Joseph's lips, that the Bourbons were entirely deficient in sprightliness.

Every man had an anecdote to relate that concerned Joseph. Yesterday he had visited the Hotel-Dieu. He had even asked for admission to the apartments of the lying-in women, and upon being refused entrance by the sisters, he had said, "Do let me see the first scene of human misery." The sisters, struck by the words as well as by the noble bearing of the stranger, had admitted him; and upon taking leave he had remarked to the nun who accompanied him, "The sufferings which you witness in this room, reconcile you without doubt to the vows you have made." It was only after his departure that his rank was discovered, and this by means of the gift he left in the hands of the prioress--a draft upon the imperial exchequer of forty-eight thousand livres.

A few days previous, he had sought entrance to the "Jardin des Plantes;" but the porter had refused to open the gates until a larger number of visitors should arrive. So the emperor, instead of discovering himself, took a seat under the trees and waited quietly until the people had assembled. On his return, he had given eight louis d'ors to the porter; and thus the latter had learned his majesty's rank.

Again--the emperor had called upon Buffon, announcing himself simply as a traveller. Buffon who was indisposed, had gone forward to receive his guest in a dressing-gown. His embarrassment, as he recognized his imperial visitor, had been very great. But Joseph, laughing, said, "When the scholar comes to visit his teacher, do you suppose that he troubles himself about the professor's costume?"

That was not all. He was equally affable with artists. He talked daily with the painters in the Louvre; and having paid a visit to the great actor Le Kain, whom he had seen the night before in the character of a Roman emperor, he found him like Buffon in a dressing-gown.

When Le Kain would have apologized, the emperor had said, "Surely emperors need not be so fastidious one toward the other!"

"The emperor goes everywhere," cried a voice in the crowd. "Yesterday he paid a visit to one of the tribunals and remained during the sitting. He was recognized, and the president would have assigned him a seat among the council, but the emperor declined and remained in a trellised-box with the other spectators."

"How!" cried another voice, "the emperor sat in a little common trellised-box?"

"Yes," replied the first speaker, "he was in one of those boxes called lanterns. Even Marsorio and Pasquin had something to say on the subject." [Foreword: Marsorio and Pasquin were the anonymous wits of the people, the authors of all the epigrams and pasquinades which were pasted about the streets and originated with--nobody. Marsorio and Pasquin still exist in Rome.]

"What did they say? Tell us what said our good friends, Marsorio and Pasquin."

"Here it is. I found it pasted on a corner of the Palais Royal and I tore it down and put it in my pocket. Shall I read it?"

"Yes, yes," cried the multitude; and it was whispered among them that this was Riquelmont, the author of the satires that were sung on the Pont-Neuf, and were attributed to Marsorio and Pasquin.

"Now, gentlemen, listen!"

And with a loud voice, Riquelmont began to read:

"MANSORIO.--Grand miracle. Pasquin. Le soleil dans une lanterne!

PASQUIN.--Allons done, to me Hernes!

MANSORIO.-Pour to dire le vrai, tiens: Dioggne en vain Cherehait jadis un homme, une lanterne a la main, Eh bien, a Paris ce matin Il l'eut trouve dans la lanterne."

"Good, good!" cried the listeners, "the emperor is indeed a wonderful--"

Just then the bell for the curtain was heard, and the crowd pressed into the parterre. Amid the profoundest stillness the opera began. Before the first scene had ended, a slight rustling of chairs was heard in the king's box, and all eyes were turned thither. The whole royal family, with the exception of the king, were there; and in their midst, loveliest of all, appeared the, young queen, brilliant with youth, grace, and beauty as she bent her head, and, with bewitching smiles, returned the greetings of her subjects.

The audience broke out into a storm of rapturous applause, and Marie Antoinette, kissing her fair hand, took her seat and prepared to listen to the music.

But the spectators were less interested in "Iphigenia" than in the imperial box. Their eyes were continually seeking the emperor, who, concealed behind the heavy velvet draperies, was absorbed in the performance. At one stage of the representation, Iphigenia is led in triumph through the Greek camp, while a chorus of Thessalians sing-- "Que d'attraits que de majeste; Que de graces l que de beaute! Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"

The audience took the cue and transformed themselves into actors. Every eye and every head turned to the royal box, and for the sea and time every hand was raised to applaud. From boxes, galleries, and parquet, the cry was, "Da capo, da capo! Again that chorus!"

The singer who represented Achilles comprehended that the enthusiasm of the spectators was not for the music.

Enchanted with the idea, of being the mouthpiece of the people, he stepped to the front of the stage, and raising his arm in the direction of the royal box, he repeated the line,

"Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"

The heart of the young queen overflowed with excess of joy. She leaned toward the emperor, and gently drawing him forward, the brother and sister both acknowledged the graceful compliment. The emperor was saluted with shouts, and the singers began for the second time, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The people, with one accord, rose from their seats, and now, on every side, even from the stage, were heard the cries of "Long live our queen! Long live the emperor!"

Marie Antoinette, leaning on her brother's arm, bent forward again, and, for the third time, the singers, and with them the people sang, "Chantons, eelebrons notre reine!"

This time, every occupant of the imperial box rose to return acknowledgments, and the audience began for the fourth time,

"Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"

The queen was so overcome, that she could no longer restrain her tears. She tried to incline her head, but her emotion overpowered her, and covering her face with her handkerchief, she leaned upon the shoulder of her brother, and wept.

The applause ceased. The emotion of Marie Antoinette had communicated itself to her worshippers, and many an eye was dimmed with sympathetic tears.

Suddenly, in the parterre, a tall, manly form arose from his seat, and, pointing to the queen, recited the following couplet

"Si le peuple pout esperer Qu'il hui sera permis de rire, Ce n'est que sons l'heureux empire Des princes qui savent pleurer."

This happy impromptu was enthusiastically received. Marie Antoinette had dried her tears to listen, and as she prepared to leave the theatre, she turned to her brother, and said

"Oh! that I could die now! Death would be welcome, for in this proud moment I have emptied my cup of earthly joy!" [Footnote: "Memoires de Weber," vol i., p. 45.--Memoires de Madame de Campan, vol. i., p. 127. --Hubner, "Life of Joseph II," page 142.]

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CXIII. THE HOTEL TURENNE

The host of the Hotel Turenne had punctually obeyed the orders of Count Falkenstein. He had taken every applicant for rooms, whether he came in an ignominious hackney-coach or in a magnificent carriage.

But now every room was taken, and the host, fearful of consequences, was waiting for the emperor to appear, that he might be informed of the important fact.

In ten or fifteen minutes, his imperial majesty was seen coming down the staircase, and Monsieur Louis approached, with a low bow.

"May I have the honor of speaking with Count Falkenstein?"

"Certainly," said the count. "What is it?"

"I wished to inform monsieur le comte, that my hotel is full to the garret. Should monsieur le comte, then, see a traveller leaving my door, he will know that I am not infringing his imp--his orders, I mean. I have not a single room left."

"Your hotel is popular. I congratulate you. But I am not at all surprised, for you make your visitors exceedingly comfortable."

"A thousand thanks, monsieur le comte, but that is not the reason. I have never been so thronged before. It is all owing to the honor conferred upon me by your--, I mean by monsieur le comte. It will be a heavy disappointment to all who apply to hear that I have no room."

"Monsieur Louis," said the emperor, "you are mistaken. There are two empty rooms, opening into mine."

"But monsieur le comte, it is impossible for me to let those rooms, for not only every word spoken in your own room can be overheard there, but yourself will be disturbed by hearing all that is said by the occupants. You see that these rooms cannot be occupied, monsieur le comte."

"I see nothing of the sort," said Joseph, laughing. "Not only are you welcome to let those two rooms, but I request you to do so. Let no man be incommoded on my account. I shall know how to submit to the inconvenience which may be entailed upon me."

"Well, he certainly is the most condescending and humane prince that I ever heard of," thought Monsieur Louis, as the emperor's carriage drove off. "And one thing is certain--I shall be careful whom I give him for neighbors. I do not believe a word of what the Count de Provence's valet says, that he wants to take Alsace and Lorraine, and has come to France to change the ministry. The king's brothers are not over-fond of the queen nor of the emperor but the people love them, and everybody in Paris envies me, now that I have the great emperor as my guest."

And Monsieur Louis, with head erect and hands folded behind him, went up and down his entrance hall, enjoying the sunshine of his favor with princes.

"I do wish nobody else would come here," thought he, in an ecstasy of disinterestedness. "Suppose that the enemies of his majesty should introduce a murderer in my house, and the emperor should lose his life! I should be eternally disgraced. I am really responsible to his majesty's subjects for his safety. I am resolved, since he has commanded me to let these rooms, to allow none but ladies to occupy them."

Filled with enthusiasm at this fortunate idea, the host walked to the door, and shook his fist at mankind in general--above all to that segregate of the male species who might happen to be entertaining thoughts of lodging at the Hotel Turenne.

Presently a travelling-chariot came thundering to the door. Monsieur Louis peered with his keen, black eyes into the vehicle, and, to his great relief, saw two ladies.

The gentleman who accompanied them asked to be accommodated with two rooms; and the host, in his joy, not only opened the coach door himself, but took the huge silver candelabrum from the butler's hand, and lighted the company himself to their apartments. As they reached the landing, a carriage stopped before the door, and a manly voice was heard in the vestibule below.

"How lucky for me that these happened to be women," thought Monsieur Louis, "for there is the emperor already returned from the theatre!"

He opened the door of the anteroom, and his guests followed him in silence. Not a word had been spoken by either of the ladies, and nothing was to be seen of their faces through the thick veils which covered them.

"Do the ladies require supper?" inquired the host.

"Certainly," replied the gentleman whom Monsieur Louis took to be the husband of the lady who had seated herself. "The best you can provide; and let it be ready in quarter of an hour."

"Will madame be served in this room?"

"Yes; and see that we have plenty of light. Above all, be quick."

"This gentleman is very curt," thought the host, as he left the room. "What if he should entertain evil designs?--I must be on my guard." Then returning, he added, "Pardon, monsieur, for how many will supper be served?"

The stranger cast a singular glance at the lady in the arm-chair, and said in a loud and somewhat startling voice, "For two only."

"Right," thought the host, "the other one is a lady's maid. So much the worse. They are people of quality, and all that tribe hate the emperor. I must be on my guard."

So Monsieur Louis determined to warn the emperor; but first he attended to his professional duties. "Supper for the guests just arrived!" cried he to the chief butler. "Plenty of light for the chandeliers and candelabra! Let the cook be apprised that he must be ready before fifteen minutes."

Having delivered himself of these orders, the host hastened to inform the emperor's valet, Gunther, of his uneasiness and suspicions.

Meanwhile, the garcons were going hither and thither preparing supper for the strangers. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before the first course was upon the table, and the butler, with a bow, announced the supper.

The singular pair for whom these costly preparations had been made, spoke not a word to each other. The lady, motionless, kept within the privacy of her veil; and the gentleman, who was watching the waiters with an ugly frown, looked vexed and impatient.

"Retire, all of you," said be, imperiously. "I shall have the honor of waiting on madame myself."

The butler bowed, and, with his well-bred subordinates, left the room.

"Now, madame," said the stranger, with a glance of dislike, to the lady's maid, "do you leave the room also. Go and attend to your own wants. Good-night."

The maid made no reply, but remained standing in the window as though nothing had been said.

"You seem not to hear," said the stranger. "I order you to leave this room, and, furthermore, I order you to return to your place as a servant, and not to show yourself here in any other capacity. Go, and heed my words!"

The lady's maid smiled derisively and replied, "Count, I await my lady's orders."

The veiled lady then spoke. "Gratify the count, my good Dupont," said she, kindly. "I do not need you to-night. Let the host provide you with a comfortable room, and go to rest. You must be exhausted."

"At last, at last we are alone," exclaimed the count as the door closed upon his enemy, the lady's maid.

"Yes, we are alone," repeated the lady, and, throwing off her wrappings, the tall and elegant form of the Countess Esterhazy was disclosed to view.

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CXIV. THE DENOUEMENT

For a moment they confronted each other; then Count Schulenberg, with open arms, advanced toward the countess.

"Now, Margaret," cried he, "you are mine. I have earned this victory by my superhuman patience. It is achieved--I am rewarded--come to my longing heart!"

He would have clasped her in his arms, but she stepped back, and again, as in her dressing-room at Vienna, her hands were raised to ward him off. "Do not touch me," said she, with a look of supreme aversion. "Come no nearer, Count Schulenberg, for your breath is poison, and the atmosphere of your proximity is stifling me."

The count laughed. "My beautiful Margaret, you seek in vain to discourage me by your charming sarcasm. Oh, my lovely, untamed angel, away with your coldness! it inflames my passion so much the more. I would not give up the triumph of this hour for a kingdom!"

"It will yield you nothing nevertheless, save my contempt. You must renounce your dream of happiness, for I assure you that it has been but a dream."

"You jest still, my Margaret," replied the count, with a forced laugh. "But I tell you that I intend to tame my wild doe into a submissive woman, who loves her master and obeys his call. Away with this mask of reluctance! You love me; for you have given me the proof of your love by leaving kindred and honor to follow me."

"Nay, count I have given you a proof of my contempt, for I have deliberately used you as a tool. You, the handsome and admired Count Schulenberg--you who fancied you were throwing me the handkerchief of your favor, you are nothing to me but the convenient implement of my revenge. You came hither as my valet, and as I no longer need a valet, I discharge you. You have served me well, and I thank you. You have done admirably, for Dupont told me to-day that you had not yet exhausted the money I gave you for the expenses of our journey. I am, therefore, highly satisfied with you, and will recommend you to any other woman desirous of bringing disgrace upon her husband."

The count stared at her in perfect wonder. He smiled, too--but the smile was sinister and threatened evil.

"How!" said the countess. "You are not yet gone! True--I forgot--a lady has no right to discharge her valet without paying him."

With these words she drew a purse from her pocket and threw it at his feet.

A loud grating laugh was the reply. He set his foot upon the purse, and folding his arms, contemplated the countess with a look that boded no good to his tormentor.

"You do not go, Count Schulenberg?" said she.

"No--and what is more, I do not intend to go."

"Ah!" cried Margaret, her eyes glowing like coals, "you are dishonorable enough to persist, when I have told you that I despise you!"

"My charming Margaret, this is a way that women have of betraying their love. You all swear that you despise us; all the while loving us to distraction. You and I have gone too far to recede. You, because you allowed me to take you from your husband's house; I, because I gave in to your rather exacting whims, and came to Paris as your valet. But you promised to reward me, and I must receive my wages."

"I promised when we should reach Paris to speak the truth, Count Schulenberg; and as you are not satisfied with as much as I have vouchsafed, hear the whole truth. You say that in consenting to accompany you, I gave a proof of love. Think better of me, sir! Had I loved you, I might have died for you, but never would I have allowed you to be the partner of my disgrace. You have shared it with me precisely because I despise you, precisely because there was no man on earth whom I was less likely to love. As the partner of my flight, you have freed me from the shackles of a detested union, to rupture which, I underwent the farce of an elopement. The tyranny of Maria Theresa had compelled me to marriage with a wretch who succeeded in beguiling me to the altar by a lie. I swore to revenge myself, and you have been the instrument of my revenge. The woman who could condescend to leave her home with you, is so doubly-dyed in disgrace that Count Esterhazy can no longer refuse to grant her a divorce. And now, count, that I have concealed nothing, oblige me by leaving me--I need repose."

"No, my bewitching Margaret, a thousand times no!" replied the count. "But since you have been so candid, I shall imitate your charming frankness Your beauty, certainly, is quite enough to madden a man, and embolden him to woo you, since all Vienna knows how the Countess Esterhazy hates her husband. But you seemed colder to me than you were to other men, all of whom complained that you had no heart to win. I swore not to be foiled by your severity, and thereupon my friends staked a large wager upon the result. Fired by these united considerations, I entered upon my suit and was successful. You gave me very little trouble, I must say that for you, countess. Thanks to your clemency, I have won my bet, and on my return to Vienna, I am to receive one thousand louis d'ors."

"I am delighted to hear it, and I advise you to go after them with all speed," replied the countess quietly.

"Pardon me if I reject the advice--for, as I told you before, I really love you. You have thrown yourself into my arms, and I would be a fool not to keep you there. No, my enchantress, no. Give up all hope of escaping from the fate you have chosen for yourself. For my sake you have branded your fair fame forever, and you shall be rewarded for the sacrifice."

"Wretch," cried she, drawing herself proudly up to her full height, "you well know that you had no share in the motives of the flight! Its shame is mine alone; and alone will I bear it. To you I leave the ridicule of our adventure, for if you do not quit my room, I shall take care that all Vienna hears how I took you to Paris as my valet."

"And I, Countess Esterbazy, shall entertain all Vienna with the contents of your album, which I have taken the liberty not only of reading, but of appropriating."

The countess gave a start. "True," murmured she, "I have missed it since yesterday."

"Yes, and I have it. I think a lover has a right to his mistress's secrets, and I have made use of my right. I have been reading your heavenly verses to the object of your unhappy attachment, and all Vienna shall hear them. What delicious scandal it will be to tell how desperately in love is the Countess Esterhazy with the son of her gracious and imperial godmother!"

"Tell it then," cried Margaret, "tell it if you will, for I do love the emperor! My heart bows down before him in idolatrous admiration, and if he loved ME, I would not envy the angels their heaven! He does not return my love--nor do I need that return to make me cherish and foster my passion for him. No scorn of the world can lessen it, for it is my pride, my religion, my life! And now go and repeat my words; but beware of me, Count Schulenberg, for I will have revenge!"

"From such fair hands, revenge would fall quite harmless," exclaimed the count, dazzled by the splendor of Margaret's transcendent beauty; for never in her life had she looked lovelier than at that moment. "Revenge yourself if you will, enchantress, but mine you are doomed to be. Come, then, come!"

Once more he approached, when the door was flung violently open, and a loud, commanding voice was heard:

"I forbid you to lay a finger upon the Countess Esterhazy," exclaimed the emperor.

Margaret uttered a loud cry, the color forsook her cheeks, and closing her eyes she fell back upon the sofa.

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CXV. THE PARTING

The emperor hastened to her assistance, but finding her totally insensible, he laid her gently down again.

"She is unconscious," said he; "kind Nature has lulled her to insensibility--she will recover." Then taking the veil from the countess's hat, he covered her face, and turned toward the terrified count, who, trembling in every limb, was powerless to save himself by flight.

"Give me the countess's album!" said the emperor sternly. Count Schulenberg drew it mechanically forth, and, with tottering steps advanced and fell at the emperor's feet.

Joseph tore the book from his hands, and laid it on the sofa by the countess. Then returning, he cried out in a tone of indignation, "Rise! You have behaved toward this woman like a dishonorable wretch, and you are unworthy the name of nobleman. You shall be punished for your crimes."

"Mercy, sire, mercy," faltered the count. "Mercy for a fault which--"

"Peace!" interrupted Joseph. "The empress has already sent a courier to order your arrest. Do you know what is the punishment in Austria for a man who flies with a married woman from the house of her husband?"

"The punishment of death," murmured the count inaudibly.

"Yes, for it is a crime that equals murder," returned the emperor; "indeed, it transcends murder, for it loses the soul of the unhappy woman, and brands her husband with infamy."

"Mercy, mercy!" prayed the wretch.

"No," said Joseph sternly, "you deserve no mercy. Follow me." The emperor returned to is own room, and opening the door that led to the anteroom he called Gunther.

When the valet appeared, Joseph pointed to the count, who was advancing slowly, and now stopped without daring to raise his head.

"Gunther," said the emperor, "I give this man in charge to you. I might require him on his honor not to leave this room until I return; but no man can pledge that which he does not possess; I must, therefore, leave him to you. See that he does not make his escape."

The emperor then recrossed his own room, and closing the door behind him, entered the apartment of the countess. She had revived; and was looking around with an absent, dreamy expression.

"I have been sleeping," murmured she. "I saw the emperor, I felt his arm around me, I dreamed that he was bending over me--"

"It was no dream, Countess Esterhazy," said Joseph softly.

She started, and rose from the sofa, her whole frame tremulous with emotion. Her large; glowing eyes seemed to be searching for the object of her terror, and then her glance rested with inexpressible fear upon the door which led into the emperor's room.

"You were there, sire, and heard all--all?" stammered she, pointing with her hand.

"Yes--God be praised, I was there, and I am now acquainted with the motives which prompted your flight from Count Esterhazy. I undertake your defence, countess; my voice shall silence your accusers in Vienna, and if it becomes necessary to your justification, I will relate what I have overheard. I cannot blame you, for I know the unspeakable misery of a marriage without love, and I comprehend that, to break its fetters, you were ready to brave disgrace, and to wear upon your spotless brow the badge of dishonor The empress must know what you have undergone, and she shall reinstate you in the world's estimation; for she it is who has caused your unhappiness. My mother is too magnanimous to refuse reparation where she has erred."

"Sire," whispered the countess, while a deep blush overspread her face, "do you mean to confide all--all to the empress?"

"All that concerns your relations with your husband and with Count Schulenberg. Pardon me that I overheard the sweet confession which was wrung from you by despair! Never will I betray it to living mortal; it shall be treasured in the depths of my heart, and sometimes at midnight hour I may be permitted to remember it. I--Come back to Vienna, countess, and let us seek to console each other for the agony of the past!"

"No, sire," said she mournfully, "I shall never return to Vienna; I should be ashamed to meet your majesty's eye."

"Have you grown so faint-hearted?" said the emperor, gently. "Are you suddenly ashamed of a feeling which you so nobly avowed but a few moments since? Or am I the only man on earth who is unworthy to know it?"

"Sire, the judgment of the world is nothing to me; it is from your contempt that I would fly and be forgotten. Let other men judge me as they will--I care not. But oh! I know that you despise me, and that knowledge is breaking my heart. Farewell, then, forever!"

The emperor contemplated her with mournful sympathy, and took both her hands in his. She pressed them to her lips, and when she raised her head, her timidity had given place to strong resolution.

"I shall never see your majesty again," said she, "but your image will be with me wherever I go. I hope for great deeds from you, and I know that you will not deceive me, sire. When all Europe resounds with your fame, then shall I be happy, for my being is merged in yours. At this moment, when we part to meet no more, I say again with joyful courage, I love you: May the blessing of that love rest upon your noble head! Give me your hand once more, and then leave me."

"Farewell, Margaret," faltered the emperor, intoxicated by her tender avowal, and opening his arms, be added in passionate tones,

"Come to my heart, and let me, for one blissful moment, feel the beatings of yours! Come, oh, come!"

Margaret leaned her head upon his shoulder and wept, while the emperor besought her to relent and return to Vienna with him.

"No, sire," replied she, firmly. "Farewell!"

He echoed "farewell," and hastily left the room.

When the door had closed upon him, the countess covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud. But this was for a moment only.

Her pale face resumed its haughty expression as she rose from her seat and hastily pulled the bell-rope. A few minutes later, she unbolted the door, and Madame Dupont entered the room.

"My good friend," said the countess, "we leave Paris to-night."

"Alone?" asked the maid, looking around.

"Yes; rejoice with me, we are rid of him forever. But we must leave this place at once. Go and order post-horses."

"But dear lady, whither do we journey?"

"Whither?" echoed Margaret, thoughtfully. "Let the will of God decide. Who can say whence we come, or whither we go?"

The faithful servant hastened to her mistress, and taking the hand of the countess in hers, pressed it to her lips. "Oh, my lady," said she, "shake off this lethargy--be your own brave self again."

"You are right, Dupont," returned Margaret, shaking back her long black hair, which had become unfastened and fell almost to her feet, "I must control my grief that I may act for myself. From this day I am without protector, kindred, or borne. Let us journey to the Holy Land, Dupont. Perhaps I may find consolation by the grave of the Saviour."

One hour later, the emperor, sitting at his window, heard a carriage leave the Hotel Turenne. He followed the sound until it was lost in the distance; for well he knew that the occupant of that coach was the beautiful and unfortunate Countess Esterhazy.

Early on the following morning another carriage with blinds drawn up, left the hotel. It stopped before the Austrian embassy, and the valet of the emperor sprang out. He signified to the porter that he was to keep a strict watch over the gentleman within, and then sought the presence of the Count von Mercy.

A quarter of an hour went by, during which the porter had been peering curiously at the pale face which was staring at the windows of the hotel. Presently a secretary and a servant of the ambassador came out equipped for a journey. The secretary entered the carriage; the servant mounted the box, and Count Schulenberg was transported a prisoner to Vienna. [Footnote: Count Schulenberg was sentenced to death; and Maria Theresa, who was inexorable where a breach of morals was concerned, approved the sentence. But Count Esterhazy hastened to intercede for his rival, acknowledging at last that Schulenberg had freed him from a tie which was a curse to him.]

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CXVI. JOSEPH AND LOUIS

The emperor was right when he said that his sister would derive little pleasure from his visit to Paris. Her happiness in his society had been of short duration; for she could not be but sensible of the growing dislike of the king for his imperial brother-in-law. Joseph's easy and graceful manners were in humiliating contrast to the stiff and awkward bearing of Louis; and finally, Marie Antoinette felt many a pang as she watched the glances of aversion which her husband cast upon her brother, at such times as the latter made light of the thousand and one ceremonies which were held so sacred by the royal family of France.

The king, who in his heart had been sorely galled by the fetters of French etiquette, now that the emperor ridiculed it, became its warmest partisan; and went so far as to reprove his wife for following her brother's example, and sacrificing her royal dignity to an absurd longing for popularity.

The truth was, that Louis was envious of the enthusiasm which Joseph excited among the Parisians; and his brothers, the other members of the royal family, and his ministers, took every opportunity of feeding his envy, by representing that the emperor was doing his utmost to alienate the affections of the French from their rightful sovereign; that he was meditating the seizure of Alsace and Lorraine; that he was seeking to reinstate De Choiseul, and convert France into a mere dependency upon Austria.

Louis, who had begun to regard his wife with passionate admiration, became cold and sarcastic in his demeanor toward her. The hours which, until the emperor's arrival in Paris, he had spent with Marie Antoinette, were now dedicated to his ministers, to Madame Adelaide, and even to the Count de Provence--that brother whose enmity to the queen was not even concealed under a veil of courtly dissimulation.

Not satisfied with filling the king's ears with calumnies of his poor young wife, the Count de Provence was the instigator of all those scandalous songs, in which the emperor and the queen were daily ridiculed on the Pont-Neuf; and of the multifarious caricatures which, hour by hour, were rendering Marie Antoinette odious in the eyes of her subjects. The Count de Provence, who afterward wore his murdered brother's crown, was the first to teach the French nation that odiouus epithet of "d'Autrichienne," with which they hooted the Queen of France to an ignominious death upon the scaffold.

The momentary joy which the visit of the emperor had caused to his sister had vanished, and given place to embarrassment and anxiety of heart. Even she felt vexed, not only that her subjects preferred a foreign prince to their own rightful sovereign, but that Joseph was so unrestrained in his sarcasms upon royal customs in France. Finally she was obliged to confess in the silence of her own heart, that her brother's departure would be a relief to her, and that these dinners en famille, to which he came daily as a guest, were inexpressibly tedious and heavy.

One day the emperor came earlier than usual to dinner--so early, in fact, that the king was still occupied holding his daily levee.

Joseph seated himself quietly in the anteroom to await his turn. At first no one had remarked his entrance; but presently he was recognized by one of the marshals of the household, who hastened to his side, and, apologizing, offered to inform the king at once of Count Falkenstein's presence there.

"By no means," returned the emperor, "I am quite accustomed to this sort of thing. I do it every morning in my mother's ante-room at Vienna." [Footnote: Memoires de Weber, vol. i., p. 98.]

Just then the door opened, and the king, who had been apprised of the emperor's arrival, carne forward to greet him.

"We were not aware that we had so distinguished a guest in our anteroom," said Louis, bowing. "But come, my brother." continued he cordially, "the weather is beautiful. Let us stroll together in the gardens. Give me your arm."

But Joseph, pointing to the crowd, replied, "Pardon me, your majesty, it is not yet my turn; and I should be sorry to interrupt you in your duties as sovereign."

Louis frowned; and all traces of cordiality vanished from his face. "I will receive these gentlemen to-morrow," said he, with a slight nod to his courtiers; and they, comprehending that they were dismissed, took their leave.

"Now, count," pursued the king, trying to smile, but scarcely succeeding in doing so, "we are at liberty."

So saying, he bowed, but did not repeat the offer of his arm; he walked by the emperor's side. The usher threw open the doors, crying out in aloud voice:

"The king is about to take a walk!"

"The king is about to take a walk," was echoed from point to point; and now from every side of the palace came courtiers and gentlemen in waiting, to attend their sovereign; while outside on the terrace the blast of trumpets was heard, so that everybody in Versailles was made aware that the king was about to take a turn in his garden, and his anxious subjects, if so disposed, might pray for his safe return.

The emperor looked on and listened with an amused smile, highly diverted at the avalanche of courtiers that came rushing on them from corridor and staircase. Meanwhile the sovereigns pursued their way in solemn silence until the brilliant throng had descended the marble stairs that led from the terrace to the gardens. Then came another flourish of trumpets, one hundred Swiss saluted the king, and twelve gardes de corps advanced to take their places close to the royal promenaders.

"Sire," asked Joseph, stopping, "are all these people to accompany us?"

"Certainly, count," replied Louis, "this attendance upon me when I walk is prescribed by court etiquette."

"My dear brother, allow me to state that it gives us much more the appearance of state prisoners than of free sovereigns enjoying the fresh air. In the presence of God let us be simple men--our hearts will be more apt to be elevated by the sight of the beauties of nature, than if we go surrounded by all this `pomp and circumstance' of royalty."

"You wish to go without attendants?" asked Louis.

"I ask of your majesty as a favor to let me act as a body-guard to the King of France to-day. I promise to serve him faithfully in that capacity--moreover, have we not this brilliant suite of noblemen to defend us in case of danger?"

The king made no reply. He merely turned to the captain of the Swiss guard to inform him that their majesties would dispense with military escort. The officer was so astounded that he actually forgot to make his salute.

At the gate of the park the king also dismissed the gardes de corps. These were quite as astonished as the Swiss had been before there; for never until that day had a King of France taken a walk in his gardens without one hundred Swiss and twelve body-guards. [Footnote: Hubner, i., p. 148.]

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CXVII. THE PROMENADE AND THE EPIGRAM

The royal brothers-in-law then were allowed to promenade alone; that is to say, they were attended by twenty courtiers, whose inestimable privilege it was to follow the king wherever he went.

"It is not then the custom in Austria for princes to appear in public with their escort?" asked the king, after a long pause.

"Oh, yes, we have our body-guards, but they are the people themselves, and we feel perfectly secure in their escort. You should try this body-guard, sire; it is more economical than yours, for its service is rendered for pure love."

"Certainly," replied the king carelessly, "it is a very cheap way of courting popularity: but the price would be too dear for a king of France to pay--he cannot afford to sell his dignity for such small return."

The emperor raised his large blue eyes, and looked full in the king's face. "Do you really think," he said, "that a king compromises his dignity by contact with his subjects? Do you think that to be honored by your people you must be forever reminding them of your `right divine?' I, on the contrary, believe that the sovereign who shows himself to be a man, is the one who will be most sincerely loved by the men whom he governs. We are apt to become dazzled by the glare of flattery, sire, and it is well for us sometimes to throw off our grandeur, and mix among our fellows. There we will soon find out that majesty is not written upon the face of kings, but resides in the purple which is the work of the tailor, and the crown, which is that of the goldsmith. I learned this not long ago from a shoemaker's apprentice."

"From a shoemaker's apprentice!" exclaimed Louis, with a supercilious smile. "It would be highly edifying to hear from the Count of Falkenstein how it happened that the Emperor of Austria was taught the nothingness of royalty by a shoemaker's lad!"

"It came quite naturally, sire. I was out driving in a plain cabriolet, when I remarked the boy, who was singing, and otherwise exercising his animal spirits by hopping, dancing, and running along the road by the side of the vehicle. I was much diverted by his drollery, and finally invited him to take a drive with me. He jumped in--without awaiting a second invitation, stared wonderfully at me with his great brown eyes, and in high satisfaction kicked his feet against the dash-board, and watched the motion of the wheels. Now and then he vented his delight by a broad smile, in which I could detect no trace of a suspicion as to my rank of majesty. Finally I resolved to find out what place I occupied in the estimation of an unfledged shoemaker; so I questioned him on the subject. He contemplated me for a moment, and then said, `Perhaps you might be an equerry?'--'Guess higher,' replied I. 'Well, a count?'--I shook my head. 'Still higher.'--'A prince?'--'Higher yet.'--'Well, then, you must be the emperor.'--'You have guessed,' said I. Instead of being overcome by the communication, the boy sprang from the cabriolet and pointing at me with a little finger that was full of scorn and dirt, he cried out to the passers-by, 'Only, look at him! he is trying to pass himself off for the emperor.'" [Footnote: "Characteristics and Anecdotes of Joseph II, and his Times," p. 106.]

Louis had listened to this recital with grave composure, and as his face had not once relaxed from its solemnity, the faces of his courtiers all wore a similar expression. As Joseph looked around, he saw a row of blank countenances.

There was an awkward pause. Finally the king observed that he could not see any thing diverting in the insolence of the boy.

"I assure your majesty," replied the emperor, "that it was far more pleasing to me than the subservience of a multitude of fawning courtiers." He glanced sharply at the gentlemen of their suite, who knit their brows in return.

"Let us quicken our pace if it be agreeable to you, count," said Louis, with some embarrassment. The attendants fell back, and the two monarchs walked on for some moments, in silence. The king was wondering how he should manage to renew the conversation, when suddenly, his voice, tremulous with emotion, Joseph addressed him.

"My brother," said he, "accident at last has favored me, and I may speak to you for once without witnesses. Tell me, then, why do you hate me?"

"My brother," exclaimed Louis, "who has dared--"

"No one has intimated such a thing," returned Joseph, vehemently; "but I see it, I feel it in every look of your majesty's eyes, every word that falls from your lips. Again, I ask why do you hate me? I who came hither to visit you as friend and brother! Or do you believe the idle rumors of your courtiers, that I came to rob aught besides the heart of the King of France? I know that I have been represented as unscrupulous in my ambition, but I entreat of you, dear brother, think better of me. I will be frank with you and confess that I DO seek for aggrandizement, but not at the expense of my allies or friends. I strive to enlarge my territory, but I shall claim nothing that is not righteously my own. There are provinces in Germany which are mine by right of inheritance, others by the right which Frederick used when he took Silesia from the crown of Austria."

"Or that which Joseph used when he took Galicia from the King of Poland," interrupted Louis, significantly.

"Sire, we did not take Galicia. It fell to us through the weakness of Poland, and by reason of exigencies arising from an alliance between the three powers. My claim to Bavaria, however, is of another nature. It is mine by inheritance--the more so that the Elector of Zweybrucken, the successor of the Elector of Bavaria, is willing to concede me my right to that province. The Bavarians themselves long for annexation to Austria, for they know that it is their only road to prosperity. They look with hope and confidence to Maria Theresa, whose goodness and greatness may compensate them for all that they have endured at the hands of their pusillanimous little rulers. The only man in Germany who will oppose the succession of Austria to Bavaria, is Frederick, who is as ready to enlarge his own dominions as to cry 'Stop thief!' when he sees others doing likewise. But he will not raise a single voice unless he receive encouragement from other powers. If my visit to France has any political significance, it is to obtain your majesty's recognition of my right to Bavaria. Yes, sire, I DO wish to convince you of the justice of my claim, and to obtain from you the promise of neutrality when I shall be ready to assert it. You see that I speak without reserve, and confide to you plans which heretofore have been discussed in secret council at Vienna alone."

"And I pledge my royal word never to betray your majesty's confidence to living mortal," replied Louis, with undisguised embarrassment and anxiety. "Believe me when I say that every thing you have spoken is as though I had never heard it. I shall bury it within the recesses of my own heart, and there it shall remain."

The emperor surveyed his brother-in-law with a glance of mistrust. He thought that the assurance of his secrecy was given in singular language. He was not altogether satisfied to hear that what he had been saying was to be treated as though it had never been said at all.

"Will your majesty, then, sustain me?" asked he of Louis. This direct question staggered his majesty of France. He scarcely knew what he was saying.

"You ask this question," replied he, with a forced smile, "as if the elector was dead, and our decision were imperative. Fortunately, his highness of Bavaria is in excellent health, and the discussion may be--deferred. Let us think of the present. You were wise, my dear brother, when you remarked that the beauties of Nature were calculated to elevate our minds. What royalty can be compared to hers?"

The emperor made no reply. He felt the full significance of the king's ungracious words, and more than ever he was convinced that Louis regarded him with dislike and ill-will. Again there was a painful silence between the two, and every moment it weighed more heavily upon both.

At last Louis, awaking to a sense of what was due from host to guest, made a desperate resolution, and spoke.

"Have you made any plans for this evening, my brother?" asked he timidly.

"No!" was the curt reply.

"You would be very amiable if, instead of visiting the theatres, you would join the queen in a game of cards."

"I never play," returned Joseph. "A monarch who loses money at cards, loses the property of his subjects." [Footnote: Joseph's own words. Hubner, part i., page 151.]

"Since you do not like cards, we have other recreations at hand. How would you relish a hunt in the woods of Meudon?"

"Not at all," said Joseph. "Hunting is no recreation for a monarch. HIS time is too precious to be frittered away in such idle sport."

"Ah," said Louis, whose patience was exhausted, "you imitate your old enemy, the King of Prussia, who for twenty years has been crying out against the sins of hunting and gambling."

The emperor's face grew scarlet, and his eyes flashed. "Sire;" replied he, "allow me to observe to you that I imitate nobody, and that I am resolved now as ever to conduct myself as I see fit."

To this the king bowed in silence. He was so weary of his walk that he led the way to a road by which a short-cut might be made to the palace. This road was crossed by an avenue of trees which bordered a large iron gate leading to the front entrance of the palace. Here the people were accustomed to assemble to obtain a view of their sovereigns; and to-day the throng was greater than usual, for they had learned from the Swiss guard that the two monarchs were out together, and thousands of eager eyes were watching for the glittering uniforms of the gardes de corps.

Great was their astonishment to see two individuals alone; apparently independent of the courtiers at some distance behind them.

"Who could they be--these two gentlemen advancing together? Certainly not the emperor and the king, for the latter never took a step without his life-guards."

"But it is the emperor!" cried a voice in the crowd. "I know his handsome face and his dark-blue eyes."

"And the other is the king!" exclaimed another voice.

"It cannot be," said a third. "The King of France never moves in his own palace without a wall of guards around him--how much less in the open parks, where he is exposed to the danger of meeting his subjects!"

"I suppose we are indebted to the emperor for this bold act of his majesty to-day" said another critic.

"Yes, yes, he it is who has persuaded the king to trust us," cried the multitude. "Let us thank him by a hearty welcome."

The two princes were now quite near, and the crowd took off their hats. The emperor greeted them--with an affable smile; the king with several nods, but without a shadow of cordiality. Suddenly the air was rent with shouts, and a thousand voices cried out, "Long live the emperor!"

The king reddened, but dared not give vent to his displeasure. His eyes sought the ground, while Joseph, gently shaking his head, looked at the people and pointed furtively at their sovereign. They understood him at once, and, eager to repair the inadvertence, they shouted, "Long live the emperor! Long live our king, the father of his people!"

The emperor now smiled and waved his band; while the king still displeased, bowed gravely and turned toward Joseph.

"You are quite right," said he, in sharp, cutting accents, "popularity is a cheap commodity. A king has only to ride about in hackney-coaches and put on the people's garb, to become the idol of the lower classes. The question, however, is, how long will a popularity of this sort last? "

"If it be called forth by a hackney-coach and an ordinary dress, sire, it may be of short duration; but if it is to last, it must be accorded to real worth," replied Joseph, sympathizing with the discontent of the king.

"Which no one would presume to deny in your majesty's case," rejoined Louis with a constrained and awkward bow.

"Oh," exclaimed Joseph, blushing, "I had not understood that your majesty's irony was intended for me, else I should not, have answered as I did. I do not strive after popularity. My actions flow naturally from my convictions. These teach me that my natural condition is not that of an emperor, but of a man, and I conduct myself accordingly." [Footnote: The emperor's own words. Ramshorn's "Joseph II.," page 146.]

So saying, the emperor turned once more to salute the people, and then ascended the white marble steps which led to the terrace of the palace. The two monarchs and the glittering courtiers disappeared amid the "vivas" of the multitude, and now they became suddenly silent.

In the midst of this silence, the same voice which had so sharply criticised the king, was heard. Again it spoke as follows

"Marsorio has made another epigram, and mistaking me for Pasquin has just whispered it in my ear!"

"What did he say? Tell us what our good Marsorio says! Repeat the epigram!" saluted the speaker on every side.

"Here it is," returned the voice.

"A nos yeux etonnes de sa simplicite Falkenstein a montre la majeste sans faste; Chez nous par un honteux contraste Qu'a-t'il trouve? Faste sans majeste." [Footnote: Ramshorn, page 146.]

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CXVIII. THE DINNER EN FAMILLE

Meanwhile the king and the emperor reached the apartment which opened into the private dining-room of the royal family. The princes with their wives were already there; but Marie Antoinette always came at the last moment. She dreaded the sarcasm of the Count de Provence, and the sullen or contemptuous glances of the king. She would have given much to return to the old stiff, public ceremonial which she had banished, but that she could not do. It would have been too great a concession to the court. Her only refuge was to stay away as long as decorum allowed, and after the emperor's arrival she never entered the room until he had been announced.

To-day she was even later than usual; and the king, who like other mortals, was hungry after his walk, began to grow sulky at the delay. When at last she entered the room, he scarcely vouchsafed her an inclination of the head as he rose to conduct her to the table. The queen seemed not to perceive the omission. She gave him her hand with a sweet smile, and despite his ill-humor, Louis could not suppress a throb as he saw how brilliantly beautiful she was.

"You have made us wait, madame," said he, "but your appearance to-day repays us for your tardiness."

The queen smiled again, for well she knew that she was bewitchingly dressed, and that the new coiffure which Leonard had contrived, was really becoming, and would heighten her charms by contrast with the hideout towers that were heaped, like Pelion upon Ossa, over the heads of the princesses.

"I hope that your majesty will forgive me for being late," said she, secure in the power of her fascinations. "My little Jacques is to blame. He is sick to-day, and would have no one to put him to sleep but myself."

"Your majesty should feel flattered," cried the Count de Provence. "You are expected to put off your dinner until a little peasant is pleased to go to sleep."

"Pardon me, your highness," said the queen, coloring, "Jacques is no longer a peasant--he is my child."

"The dauphin, perchance, which your majesty promised not long since to the dames de la halle?" answered the king's brother.

The queen blushed so deeply that the flush of her shame overspread her whole face and neck; but instead of retorting, she turned to address her brother.

"You have not a word of greeting for me, Joseph?"

"My dear sister," said the emperor, "I am speechless with admiration at your coiffure. Where did you get such a wilderness of flowers and feathers?"

"They are the work of Leonard."

"Who is Leonard?"

"What!" interrupted the Countess d'Artois, "your majesty does not know who Leonard is--Leonard the queen's hair dresser--Leonard the autocrat of fashion? He it is who imagined our lovely sister's coiffure, and certainly these feathers are superb!"

"Beautiful indeed!" cried the Countess de Provence, with an appearance of ecstasy.

"Are these the costly feathers which I heard your majesty admiring in the hat of the Duke de Lauzun?" asked the Count de Provence, pointedly.

"That is a curious question," remarked the king. "How should the feathers of the Duke de Lauzun be transported to the head of the queen?"

"Sire, I was by, when De Guemenee on the part of De Lauzun, requested the queen's acceptance of the feathers."

"And the queen?" said Louis, with irritation.

"I accepted the gift, sire," replied Marie Antoinette, calmly. "The offer was not altogether in accordance with court-etiquette, but no disrespect was intended, and I could not inflict upon Monsieur de Lauzun the humiliation of a refusal. The Count de Provence, however, can spare himself further anxiety in the matter, as the feathers that I wear to-day are those which were lately presented to me by my sister, the Queen of Naples."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the emperor, "I was not aware that Caroline gave presents, although I know that she frequently accepts them from her courtiers."

"The etiquette at Naples differs then from that of Paris," remarked the king. "No subject has the right to offer a gift to the Queen of France."

"Heaven be praised!" cried the Count de Provence, "nobody here pays any attention to court-customs! Since Madame de Noailles gave in her resignation we have been free to do all things. This inestimable freedom we owe to our lovely sister-in-law; who, in defiance of all prejudice, has had boldness enough to burst the fetters which for so many hundred years bad impeded the actions of the Queens of France."

At that moment the first lady of honor, on bended knee, presented the queen her soup, and this relieved Marie Antoinette from the painful embarrassment which this equivocal compliment occasioned. But the emperor interposed.

"You have reason to be thankful to my sister that she has had the independence to attack these absurdities," said Joseph, warmly. "But pardon me if I ask if etiquette at Versailles approves of the conversion of the corridors, galleries, and staircases of the palace into booths for the accommodation of shopkeepers and tradesmen." [Footnote: This custom was subsequently abolished by Marie Antoinette, and the lower classes never forgave her for withdrawing this extraordinary privilege from the hucksters of Palls.]

"It is an old privilege which custom has sanctioned," returned the king, smiling.

"But which violates the sanctity of the king's residence," objected the emperor. "The Saviour who drove the money-changers from the temple, would certainly expel these traders, were he to appear on earth to-day."

This observation was received in sullen silence. The royal family looked annoyed, but busied themselves with their knives and forks. A most unpleasant pause ensued, which was broken by the queen, who turning to her brother, asked him what he had seen to interest him since his arrival in Paris.

"You well know," said he, "that Paris abounds in interesting institutions. Yesterday I was filled with enthusiasm with what I saw in the course of my morning ramble."

"Whither did you go, count?" asked Louis, appeased and flattered by the emperor's words.

"To the Invalides; and I confess to you that the sight of this noble asylum filled me with as much envy as admiration. I have nothing in Vienna that will bear comparison with this magnificent offering of France to her valiant defenders. You must feel your heart stir with pride whenever you visit those crippled heroes, sire."

"I have never visited the Invalides," said the king, coloring.

"What?" cried Joseph, raising his hands in astonishment, "the King of France has never visited the men who have suffered in his behalf! Sire, if you have neglected this sacred duty, you should hasten to repair the omission."

"What else did you see?" asked the queen, striving to cover the king's displeasure, and the contemptuous by-play of the Count de Provence.

"I visited the Foundling Hospital. To you, Antoinette, this hospital must possess especial interest."

"Oh, yes. I subscribe yearly to it from my private purse," said the Queen.

"But surely you sometimes visit the pious sisters upon whom devolves the real burden of this charity, to reward them by your sympathy for their disinterested labors?"

"No, I have never been there," replied the queen, confused. "It is not allowed to the Queens of France to visit public benevolent institutions."

"And yet it is allowable for them to attend public balls at the opera-house!"

Marie Antoinette blushed and looked displeased. This sally of the emperor was followed by another blank pause, which finally was broken by himself.

"I also visited another noble institution," continued he, "that of the deaf mutes. The Abbe de l'Epee deserves the homage of the world for this monument of individual charity; for I have been told that his institution has never yet received assistance from the crown. My dear sister, I venture to ask alms of you for his unfortunate proteges. With what strength of love has he explored the dark recesses of their minds, to bear within the light of intelligence and cultivation! Think how he has rescued them from a joyless stupor, to place them by the side of thinking, reasoning and happy human beings! As soon as I return to Vienna, I shall found an institution for the deaf and dumb; I have already arranged with the abbe to impart his system to a person who shall be sent to conduct the asylum I propose to endow."

"I am happy to think that you meet with so many things in France worthy of your approval, count," remarked the king.

"Paris, sire," said Joseph, "is rich in treasures of whose existence you are scarcely aware."

"What are these treasures, then? Enlighten me, count."

"They are the magnificent works of art, sire, which are lying like rubbish in your royal store-houses in Paris. Luckily, as I have been told, etiquette requires that the pictures in your palaces should, from time to time, be exchanged, and thus these masterpieces are sometimes brought to view. In this matter, I acknowledge that etiquette is wisdom." [Footnote: The emperor's words. Campan, vol. i., p. 178]

"Etiquette," replied Louis, "is often the only defence which kings can place between themselves and importunate wisdom."

"Wisdom is so hard to find that I should think it impossible for her to be importunate," returned Joseph. "I met with her yesterday, however, in another one of your noble institutions--I mean the military school. I spent three hours there, and I envy you the privilege of visiting it as often as you feel disposed."

"Your envy is quite inappropriate," replied Louis, sharply, "for I have never visited the institute at all."

"Impossible!" cried the emperor, warmly. "You are unacquainted with all that is noblest and greatest in your own capital, sire! It is your duty as a king to know every thing that concerns the welfare of your subjects, not only here in Paris, but throughout all France." [Footnote: The emperor's words. Campan, vol. i., p. 79.]

"I disagree with you, and I am of opinion that wisdom is often exceedingly offensive," replied the king, frowning, as with a stiff bow, he rose from the table.

Marie Antoinette looked anxiously at Joseph to see the effects of her husband's impoliteness; but the emperor looked perfectly unconscious, and began to discuss the subject of painting with the Count d'Artois.

The queen retired to her cabinet, heartily rejoicing that the diner en famille had come to an end: and almost ready to order that the royal meals should be served in the state dining-room, and the people of Paris invited to resume their old custom of coming to stare at the royal family!

She sat down to her escritoire, to work with her treasurer and private secretary; that is, to sign all the papers that he placed before her for that purpose.

The door opened and the emperor entered the room. The queen would have risen, but he prevented her, and begged that he might not feel himself to be an intruder.

"I came, dear sister," said he, "to ask you to accompany me to the theatre to-night. Meanwhile it will give me great pleasure to see you usefully employed."

So the queen went on signing papers, not one of which she examined. The emperor watched her for a time in astonished silence; finally he came up to the escritoire.

"Sister," said he, "I think it very strange that you put your name to so many documents without ever looking at their contents."

"Why strange, brother?" asked the queen, opening her large eyes in wonder.

"Because it is a culpable omission, Antoinette. You should not so lightly throw away your royal signature. The name of a sovereign should never be signed without deliberation; much less blindly, as you are signing yours at present." [Footnote: The emperor's own words.]

Marie Antoinette colored with vexation at this reproof in presence of one of her own subjects. "Brother," replied she hastily, "I admire the facility with which you generalize on the subject of other people's derelictions. Unhappily, your homilies are sometimes misapplied. My secretary, Monsieur d'Augeard, has my full confidence; and these papers are merely the quarterly accounts of my household expenditures. They have already been approved by the auditor, and you perceive that I risk nothing by affixing my signature."

"I perceive further," replied Joseph, smiling, "that you are of one mind with your husband, and find wisdom sometimes very offensive. Forgive me if in my over-anxiety I have hurt you, dear sister. Let us be friends; for indeed, my poor Antoinette, you are sorely in need of friends at this court."

The queen dismissed her secretary, and then came forward and took her brother's hand. "You have discovered then," said she, "that I am surrounded by enemies?"

"I have indeed; and I tremble for your safety. Your foes are powerful, and you--you are not sufficiently cautious, Antoinette."

"What is it in me that they find to blame!" exclaimed she, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.

"Some other day, we must talk of this together. I see that you are threatened; but as yet, I neither understand the cause of your danger nor its remedy. As soon as I shall have unravelled the mystery of your position, I will seek an interview with you; and then, dear sister, we must forget that we are sovereigns, and remember but one thing--the ties that have bound us together since first we loved each ether as children of one father and mother."

Marie Antoinette laid her head upon her brother's bosom and wept. "Oh, that we were children again in the gardens of Schonbrunn!" sobbed she; "for there at least we were innocent and happy!"

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CXIX. A VISIT TO JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU

Before the door of a small, mean house in the village of Montmorency, stood a hackney-coach from which a man, plainly dressed, but distinguished in appearance, had just alighted. He was contemplated with sharp scrutiny by a woman, who, with arms a-kimbo, blocked up the door of the cottage.

"Does Monsieur Rousseau live here?" asked the stranger, touching his hat.

"Yes, my husband lives here," said the woman, sharply.

"Ah, you are then Therese Levasseur, the companion of the great philosopher?"

"Yes, I am; and the Lord knows that I lead a pitiful life with the philosopher."

"You complain, madame, and yet you are the chosen friend of a great man!"

"People do not live on greatness, sir, nor on goodness either. Jean Jacques is too good to be of any use in this world. He gives away every thing he has, and leaves nothing for himself and me."

The stranger grew sad as he looked at this great, strapping woman, whose red face was the very representative of coarseness and meanness.

"Be so good as to conduct me to Monsieur Rousseau's presence, madame," said he, in rather a commanding tone.

"I shall do no such thing," cried Therese Levasseur, in a loud, rough voice. "People who visit in hackney-coaches should not take airs. Monsieur Rousseau is not to be seen by everybody."

"A curious doctrine that, to be propounded before a philosopher's door!" said the stranger, laughing. "But pray, madame, excuse me and my hackney-coach, and allow me to pass."

"You shall first tell your business. Do you bring music to copy?"

"No, madame, I come merely to visit monsieur."

"Then you can go as you came!" exclaimed the virago. "My husband is not a wild animal on exhibition, and I am not going to let in every idle stranger that interferes with his work and cuts off my bread. God knows he gives me little enough, without lessening the pittance by wasting his time talking to you or the like of you."

The stranger put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing it out again, laid something in the palm of Therese's broad, dirty hand. He repeated his request.

She looked at the gold, and her avaricious face brightened.

"Yes, yes," said she, contemplating it with a greedy smile, "you shall see Jean Jacques. But first you must promise not to tell him of the louis d'or. He would growl and wish me to give it back. He is such a fool! He would rather starve than let his friends assist him."

"Be at ease--I shall not say a word to him."

"Then, sir, go in and mount the stairs, but take care not to stumble, for the railing is down. Knock at the door above, and there you will find Jean Jacques. While you talk to him I will go out and spend this money all for his comfort. Let me see--he needs a pair of shoes and a cravat--and--well," continued she, nodding her head, "farewell, don't break your neck."

"Yes," muttered she, as she went back to the street, "he wants shoes and cravats, and coats, too, for that matter, but I am not the fool to waste my money upon him. I shall spend it on myself for a new neckerchief; and if there is any thing left, I shall treat myself to a couple of bottles of wine and some fish."

While Therese stalked through the streets to spend her money, the stranger had obtained entrance into the little dark room where sat Jean Jacques Rousseau.

It was close and mouldy like the rest of the house, and a few straw chairs with one deal table was the only furniture there. On the wall hung several bird-cages, whose inmates were twittering and warbling one to another. Before the small window, which looked out upon a noble walnut-tree, stood several glass globes, in which various worms and fishes were leading an uneasy existence.

Rousseau himself was seated at the table writing. He wore a coat of coarse gray cloth, like that of a laborer, the collar of his rough linen shirt was turned down over a bright cotton scarf, which was carelessly tied around his neck. His face was pale, sad, and weary; and his scant gray hairs, as well as the deep wrinkles upon his forehead, were the scroll whereon time had written sixty years of strife and struggle with life. Imagination, however, still looked out from the depths of his dark eyes, and the corners of his mouth were still graceful with the pencillinga of many a good-humored smile.

"Pardon me, air," said the stranger, "that I enter unannounced. I found no one to precede me hither."

"We are too poor to keep a servant, sir," replied Rousseau, "and I presume that my good Therese has gone out on some errand. How can I serve you!"

"I came to visit Jean Jacques Rousseau, the poet and philosopher."

"I am the one, but scarcely the other two. Life has gone so roughly with me, that poetry has vanished long ago from my domicile, and men have deceived me so often, that have fled from the world in disgust. You see, then, that I have no claim to the title of philosopher."

"And thus speaks Jean Jacques Rousseau, who once taught that mankind were naturally good?"

"I still believe in my own teachings, sir," cried Rousseau warmly. "Man is the vinculum that connects the Creator with His creation, and light from heaven illumes his birth and infancy. But the world, sir, is evil, and is swayed by two demons--selfishness and falsehood. [Footnote: This is not very philosophical. If the fraction man be intrinsically good, how is it that the whole (the world which is made up of nothing but men) is so evil? Is there a demiurge responsible for the introduction of these two demons?] These demons poison the heart of man, and influence him to actions whose sole object is to advance himself and prejudice his neighbor."

"I fear that your two demons were coeval with the creation of the world," said the stranger, with a smile.

"No, no; they were not in Paradise. And what is Paradise but the primitive condition of man--that happy state when in sweet harmony with Nature, he lay upon the bosom of his mother earth, and inhaled health and peace from her life-giving breath? Let us return to a state of nature, and we shall find that the gates of Paradise have reopened."

"Never! We have tasted of the tree of knowledge, and are for ever exiled from Eden."

"Woe to us all, if what you say is true; for then the world is but a vale of misery, and the wise man has but one resource-- self-destruction! But pardon me, I have not offered you a chair."

The stranger accepted a seat, and glanced at the heaps of papers that covered the rickety old table.

"You were writing?" asked he. "Are we soon to receive another great work from Rousseau's hands?"

"No, sir," replied Rousseau, sadly, "I am too unhappy to write."

"But surely this is writing," and the stranger pointed to the papers around.

"Yes, sir, but I copy music, and God knows that in the notes I write, there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give them a chance to sing, and they sing." [Footnote: This is Rousseau's own language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]

"It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge correctly."

"You are right," replied Rousseau. "The dissonance increases with every hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before."

"But who denies their rights to the people?"

"The property-holders, the priests, the nobles, and the king."

"The king! what has he done?"

"He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the disgrace save an ocean of royal blood."

"Terrible!" exclaimed the visitor, with a shudder. "Are you a prophet, that you allow yourself such anticipations of evil?"

"No, sir, I predict what is to come, from my knowledge of that which has gone by."

"What do you mean?"

Rousseau slowly shook his head. "Fate has threatened this unhappy king from the day of his birth. Warning after warning has been sent and disregarded. Truly, the man was a wise one who said, 'Whom the gods destroy, they first blind!'"

"I implore you, speak further. What evil omens have you seen that lead you to apprehend misfortune to Louis XVI.?"

"Have you never heard of them? They are generally known."

"No, indeed, I beseech you, enlighten me, for I have good reason for my curiosity."

"Louis was not born like his predecessors, and it is generally believed that he will not die a natural death. Not a single member of the royal family was present at his birth. When, overtaken by the pangs of childbirth, his mother was accidentally alone in the palace of Versailles; and the heir of France, upon his entrance into life, was received by some insignificant stranger. The courier who was sent to announce his birth fell from his horse and was killed on the spot. The Abbe de Saujon, who was called in to christen the infant, was struck by apoplexy while entering the chapel door, and his arm and tongue were paralyzed. [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Creque," vol. iii., p. 179.] From hundreds of healthy women the physician of the dauphiness chose three nurses for the prince. At the end of a week two of them were dead, and the third one, Madame Guillotine, after nursing him for six weeks, was carried of by small-pox. Even the frivolous grandfather was terrified by such an accumulation of evil omens, and he was heard to regret that he had given to his grandson the title of Duke de Berry, 'For,' said he the 'name has always brought ill-luck to its possessors.'" [Footnote: Creque, vol. iii., p. 180.]

"But the king has long since outlived the name, and has triumphed over all the uncomfortable circumstances attending his birth, for he is now King of France."

"And do you know what he said when the crown was placed upon his head?"

"No, I have never heard."

"He was crowned at Rheims. When the hand of the archbishop was withdrawn from the crown, the king moaned, and turning deadly pale, murmured, 'Oh, how it pains me!' [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 115.] Once before him, a King of France had made the same exclamation, and that king was Henry III."

"Strange!" said the visitor. "All this seems very absurd, and yet it fills me with horror. Have you any thing more of the same sort to point out?"

"Remember all that occurred when the dauphin was married to the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. When she put her foot upon French ground, a tent had been erected, according to custom, where she was to lay aside her clothing and be attired in garments of French manufacture. The walls of the tent were hung with costly Gobelin tapestry, all of which represented scenes of bloodshed. On one side was the massacre of the innocents, on the other the execution of the Maccabees. The archduchess herself was horror-stricken at the omen. On that night, two of the ladies in waiting, who had assisted the queen in her toilet, died suddenly. Think of the terrible storm that raged on the dauphin's wedding night; and of the dreadful accident which accompanied his entrance into Paris; and then tell me whether death is not around, perchance before this unhappy king?"

"But to what end are these omens, since they cannot help us to avert evil?"

"To what end?" asked Rousseau, as with a smile he contemplated the agitated countenance of his guest. "To this end--that the emperor Joseph may warn his brother and sister of the fate which threatens, and which will surely engulf them, if they do not heed the signs of the coming tempest."

"How, Rousseau! you know me?"

"If I had not known you, sire, I would not have spoken so freely of the king. I saw you in Paris at the theatre; and I am rejoiced to be able to speak to your majesty as man to man, and friend to friend."

"Then let me be as frank as my friend has been to me," said Joseph extending his hand. "You are not situated as becomes a man of your genius and fame. What can I do to better your condition?"

"Better my condition?" repeated Rousseau absently. "Nothing. I am an old man whose every illusion has fled. My only wants are a ray of sunshine to warm my old limbs, and a crust of bread to appease my hunger."

At this moment a shrill voice was heard without: "Put down the money and I will fetch the music, for we are sadly pressed for every thing."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Rousseau, anxiously. "I am not ready, and I had promised the music to Therese for this very hour. How shall I excuse myself?" Here the unhappy philosopher turned to the emperor. "Sire, you asked what you could do for me--I implore you leave this room before Therese enters it. She will be justly displeased if she finds you here; and when my dear good Therese is angry, she speaks so loud that my nerves are discomposed for hours afterward. Here, sire, through this other door. It leads to my bedroom, and thence by a staircase to the street."

Trembling with excitement, Rousseau hurried the emperor into the next room. The latter waved his hand, and the door closed upon him. As he reached the street Joseph heard the sharp, discordant tones of Therese Levasseur's voice, heaping abuse upon the head of her philosopher, because he had not completed his task, and they would not have a sou wherewith to buy dinner.

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CXX. THE PARTING

The visit of the emperor was drawing to a close. He had tasted to its utmost of the enjoyments of the peerless city. He had become acquainted with its great national institutions, its industrial resources, its treasures of art and of science. The Parisians were enthusiastic in his praise; from the nobleman to the artisan, every man had something to say in favor of the gracious and affable brother of the queen. Even the fish-wives, those formidable dames de la haile, had walked in procession to pay their respects, and present him a bouquet of gigantic proportions. [Footnote: On this occasion Madame Trigodin, one of the most prominent of the poissurdes, made an address on behalf of the sisterhood. Hubner, i., p. 151.]

The emperor was popular everywhere except at court. His candor was unacceptable, and his occasional sarcasms had stung the pride of the royal family. The king never pardoned him the unpalatable advice he had bestowed relative to the hospitals, the Invalides, and the military schools. The queen, too, was irritated to see that whereas her brother might have expressed his disapprobation of her acts in private, he never failed to do so in presence of the court. The consequence was, that, like the king and the rest of the royal family, Marie Antoinette was relieved when this long-wished-for visit of the emperor was over. This did not prevent her from clinging to his neck, and shedding abundant tears as she felt his warm and loving embrace.

The emperor drew her close to his heart, whispering meanwhile, "Remember that we must see each other in private. Send some one to me to conduct me to the room in the palace which you call your 'asylum.'"

"How!" said the queen with surprise, "you have heard of my asylum? Who told you of it?"

"Hush, Antoinette, you will awaken the king's suspicion, for all eyes are upon us! Will you admit me?"

"Yes, I will send Louis to conduct you this afternoon." And withdrawing herself from her brother's arms, the queen and the royal family took leave of Count Falkenstein.

His carriages and suite had all left Paris, and Joseph, too, was supposed to have gone long before the hour when he was conducted to the queen's "asylum" by her faithful servant Louis. This "asylum" was in an obscure corner of the Tuileries, and to reach it the emperor was introduced into the palace by a side door. He was led through dark passages and up narrow staircases until they reached a small door that Louis opened with a key which he took from his pocket. He clapped his hand three times, and the signal being answered, he made a profound inclination to the emperor.

"Your majesty can enter. The queen is there."

Joseph found himself in a small, simple apartment, of which the furniture was of white wood covered with chintz. On the wall was a hanging etagere with books; opposite, an open harpsichord, and in the recess of the window, a table covered with papers. The emperor hastily surveyed this room, and no one coming forward, he passed into another.

Here he found his sister, no longer the magnificent queen whose rich toilets were as proverbial as her beauty; but a lovely, unpretending woman, without rouge, without jewels, clad in a dress of India muslin, which was confined at the waist by a simple sash of pale lilac ribbon.

Marie Antoinette came forward with both hands outstretched. "I am dressed as is my custom," said she, "when the few friends I possess come to visit me here--here in my asylum, where sometimes I am able to forget that I am Queen of France."

"You have no right ever to forget it, Antoinette, and it was expressly to remind you of this that I asked for a private interview with my sister."

"You wished to see this asylum of which you had heard, did you not?" asked the queen with a shade of bitterness. "I have been calumniated to you, as I have been to the king and to the French people. I know how my enemies are trying to make my subjects hate me! I know that about these very rooms, lewd songs are sung on the Pont-Neuf which make the Count de Provence hold his sides with laughter."

"Yes, Antoinette, I have heard these things, and I came hither expressly to visit this 'asylum.'"

"Well, Joseph, it is before you. The room through which you passed, and this one, form my suite. The door yonder leads to the apartments of the Princess de Lamballe, and I have never opened it to enter my retreat except in her company."

"You had never the right to enter it at all. A retreat of this kind is improper for you; and woe to you, Antoinette, if ever another man beside myself should cross its threshold! It would give a coloring of truth to the evil reports of your powerful enemies."

"Gracious God of Heaven!" cried the queen, pale with horror, "what do they say of me?"

"It would avail you nothing to repeat their calumnies, poor child. I have come hither to warn you that some dark cloud hangs over the destiny of France. You must seek means to disperse it, or it will burst and destroy both you and your husband."

"I have already felt a presentiment of evil, dear brother, and for that very reason I come to these little simple rooms that I may for a few hours forget the destiny that awaits me, the court which hates and vilifies me, and in short--my supremest, my greatest sorrow--the indifference of my husband."

"Dear sister, you are wrong. You should never have sought to forget these things. You have too lightly broken down the barriers which etiquette, hundreds of years ago, had built around the Queens of France."

"This from YOU, Joseph, you who despise all etiquette!"

"Nay, Antoinette, I am a man, and that justifies me in many an indiscretion. I have a right to attend an opera-ball unmasked, but you have not."

"I had the king's permission, and was attended by my ladies of honor, and the princes of the royal family."

"An emperor may ride in a hackney-coach or walk, if the whim strike him, but not a queen, Antoinette. "

"That was an accident, Joseph. I was returning from a ball with the Duchess de Duras, when our carriage broke, and Louis was obliged to seek a hackney-coach or we would have returned to the palace on foot."

"Let it pass, then. An emperor or a king, were he very young, might indulge himself in a game of blind man's buff without impropriety; but when a queen ventures to do as much, she loses her dignity. Nevertheless, you have been known to romp with the other ladies of the court, when your husband had gone to his room and was sound asleep."

"But who ever went to bed as early as the king?" said Marie Antoinette deprecatingly.

"Does he go to bed too early, Antoinette? Then it is strange that on one evening when you were waiting for him to retire so that you and your ladies might visit the Duchess de Duras, you should have advanced the clock by half an hour, and sent your husband to bed at half-past ten, when of course he found no one in his apartments to wait upon him. [Footnote: Campan. 129.] All Paris has laughed at this mischievous prank of the queen. Can you deny this, my thoughtless sister?"

"I never tell an untruth, Joseph; but I confess that I am astounded to see with what police-like dexterity you have ferreted out every little occurrence of my private life;."

"A queen has no private life. She is doomed to live in public, and woe to her if she cannot account to the world for every hour of her existence! If she undertake to have secrets, her very lackeys misrepresent her innocence and make it crime."

"Good Heaven, Joseph!" cried the queen, "you talk as if I were a criminal before my accusers."

"You are a criminal, my poor young sister. Public opinion has accused you; and accusation there is synonymous with guilt. But I, who give you so much pain, come as your friend and brother, speaking hard truths to you, dearest, by virtue of the tie which binds us to our mother. In the name of that incomparable mother, I implore you to be discreet, and to give no cause to your enemies for misconstruction of your youthful follies. Take up the load of your royalty with fortitude; and, when it weighs heavily upon your poor young heart, remember that you were not made a queen to pursue your own happiness, but to strive for that of your subjects, whose hearts are still with you in spite of all that your enemies have done or said. Give up all egotism, Antoinette--set aside your personal hopes; live for the good of the French nation; and one of these days you will believe with me, that we may be happy without individual happiness."

The queen shook her head, and tears rolled down her cheeks. "No, no, dear Joseph, a woman cannot be happy when she is unloved. My heart is sick with solitude, brother. I love my husband and he does not return my love. If I am frivolous, it is because I am unhappy. Believe me when I tell you that all would be well if the king would but love me."

"Then, Antoinette, all shall be well," said a voice behind them; and, starting with a cry of surprise and shame, the queen beheld the king.

"I have heard all," said Louis, closing the door and advancing toward Joseph. With a bright, affectionate smile, he held out his hand, saying as he did, "Pardon me, my brother, if I am here without your consent, and let me have a share in this sacred and happy hour."

"Brother!" repeated Joseph, sternly. "You say that you have overheard us. If so, you know that my sister is solitary and unhappy. Since you have no love for her, you are no brother to me; for she, poor child, is the tie that unites us! Look at her, sire; look at her sweet, innocent, tear-stricken face! What has she done that you should thrust her from your heart, and doom her to confront, alone, the sneers and hatred of your cruel relatives? She is pure, and her heart is without a stain. I tell you so--I, who in unspeakable anxiety have watched her through hired spies. Had I found her guilty I would have been the first to condemn her; but Antoinette is good, pure, virtuous, and she has but one defect--want of thought. It was your duty to guide her, for you received her from her mother's hands a child--a young, harmless, unsuspecting child. What has she ever done that you should refuse her your love?"

"Ask, rather, what have I done, that my relatives should have kept us so far asunder?" replied Louis, with emotion. "Ask those who have poisoned my ears with calumnies of my wife, why they should have sought to deny me the only compensation which life can offer to my royal station--the inestimable blessing of loving and being loved. But away with gloomy retrospection! I shall say but one word more of the past. Your majesty has been watched, and your visit here discovered. I was told that you were seeking to identify the queen with her mother's empire--using your influence to make her forget France, and plot dishonor to her husband's crown. I resolved to prove the truth or falsehood of these accusations myself. I thank Heaven that I did so; for from this hour I shall honor and regard you as a brother."

"I shall reciprocate, sire, if you will promise to be kind to my sister?"

The king looked at Marie Antoinette, who, seated on the sofa whence her brother had risen, was weeping bitterly. Louis went toward her, and, taking both her hands in his, pressed them passionately to his lips. "Antoinette," said he, tenderly, "you say that I do not love you. You have not then read my heart, which, filled to bursting with love for my beautiful wife, dared not ask for response, because I had been told that you--you--but no--I will not pain you with repetition of the calumny. Enough that I am blessed with your love, and may at last be permitted to pour out the torrent of mine! Antoinette, will you be my wife?"

He held open his arms, and looked--as lovers alone can look. The queen well knew the meaning of that glance, and, with a cry of joy, she rose and was pressed to his heart. He held her for some moments there, and then, for the first time in their lives, the lips of husband and wife met in one long, burning kiss of love.

"My beloved, my own," whispered Louis. "Mine forever--nothing on earth shall part us now."

Marie Antoinette was speechless with happiness. She leaned her head upon her husband's breast and wept for joy, while he fondly stroked and kissed tier shining hair, and left the trace of a tear with every kiss.

Presently he turned an imploring look upon the emperor, who stood by, contemplating the lovers with an ecstasy to which he had long been a stranger.

"My brother," said Louis, "for I may call you so now--seven years ago, our hands were joined together by the priest; but, the policy that would have wounded Austria through me, has kept us asunder. This is our wedding-day, this is the union of love with love. Be you the priest to bless the rites that make us one till death."

The emperor came forward, and, solemnly laying his hands upon the heads of the king and queen, spoke in broken accents "God bless you, beloved brother and sister--God give you grace to be true to each other through good and evil report. Be gentle and indulgent one toward the other, that, from this day forward, your two hearts may become as one! Farewell! I shall take with me to Austria the joyful news of your happiness. Oh, how Maria Theresa will rejoice to know it, and how often will the thought of this day brighten my own desolate hearth at Vienna! Farewell!"

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