XIII. THE INTERVIEW WITH THE MINISTER OF FINANCE
“Well, I am really anxious to know whether the minister will give me the money,” murmured Gentz; “his reply will indicate to me, if the letter to the king I intrusted yesterday to Menken, has made a favorable impression, and if I may hope at length for promotion and other favors. My God, I am pining away in my present miserable and subordinate position! I am able to accomplish greater things. I am worth more than all these generals, ministers, and ambassadors, who are so proud and overbearing, and dare to look down upon me as though I were their inferior. Ah! I shall not stoop so low as to knuckle to them and flatter them. I don’t want to be lifted up by them, but I will be their equal. I feel that I am the peer of the foremost and highest of all these so-called statesmen. I do not need them, but they need me. Ah, my God! somebody knocks at the door again, and John is not at home. Good Heaven, if it should be another of those noisy, impertinent creditors! I am indebted to Julia for all these vexations. Because her things are being sent away, every door in the house is open, and every one can easily penetrate into my room. Yes, yes, I am coming. I am already opening the door.”
He hastened to the door and unlocked it. This time, however, no creditor was waiting outside, but a royal footman, who respectfully bowed to the military counsellor.
“His royal highness Prince Louis Ferdinand,” he said, “requests Mr. Counsellor Gentz to dine with him to-morrow.”
Gentz nodded haughtily. “I shall come,” he said briefly, and then looked inquiringly at his own footman who had just entered the other room.
“Well, John, what did the minister reply?”
“His excellency requests Mr. Counsellor Gentz to call on him in the course of an hour.”
“All right!” said Gentz, and an expression of heart-felt satisfaction overspread his features. He closed the door, and stepped back into his study, and, folding his hands on his back, commenced pacing the room.
“He is going to receive me in the course of an hour,” he murmured. “I may conclude, therefore that the king was pleased with my letter, and that I am at last to enter upon a new career. Ah, now my head is light, and my heart is free; now I will go to work.”
He sat down at his desk and commenced writing rapidly. His features assumed a grave expression, and proud and sublime thoughts beamed on his expansive forehead.
He was so absorbed in his task that he entirely forgot the audience the minister had granted to him, and his footman had to come in and remind him that the hour for calling upon his excellency was at hand.
“Ah! to be interrupted in my work for such a miserable trifle,” said Gentz, indignantly laying down his pen and rising. “Well, then, if it must be, give me my dress-coat. John, and I will go to his excellency.”
A quarter of an hour later Counsellor Frederick Gentz entered the anteroom of Count Schulenburg-Kehnert, minister of finance. “Announce my arrival to his excellency,” he said to the footman in waiting, with a condescending nod, and then quickly followed him to the door of the minister’s study.
“Permit me to announce you to his excellency,” said the footman, and slipped behind the portiere. He returned in a few minutes.
“His excellency requests Mr. Gentz to wait a little while. His excellency has to attend to a few dispatches yet, but will very soon be ready to admit Mr. Gentz.”
“Very well, I shall wait,” said Gentz, with a slight frown, and he approached the splendidly bound books which were piled up in gilt cases on the walls of the room. The most magnificent and precious works of ancient and modern literature, the rarest editions, the most superb illustrated books were united in this library, and Gentz noticed it with ill-concealed wrath.
“These men can have all these treasures, nay, they have got them, and value them so little as to keep them in their anterooms,” he murmured, in a surly tone, forgetting altogether that the footman was present and could overhear every word he said. He had really heard his remark, and replied to it, approaching Gentz:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Counsellor, his excellency does not undervalue these treasures, but appreciates them highly, and is always glad enough when the bookbinder delivers new volumes in gorgeous bindings. For this very reason his excellency has ordered the library to be placed in this anteroom, so that it also may gladden the hearts of other people, and those gentlemen who have to wait here may have something wherewith to while away their time.”
“They are permitted, then, to take the books down and read them?” asked Gentz.
The footman looked somewhat embarrassed. “I believe,” he said, timidly, “that would not be altogether agreeable to his excellency, for you see, Mr. Counsellor, all of these beautiful books are gilt-edged, and gilt edges suffer greatly if the books are read. You cannot even open the books without injuring them slightly.”
“And the gilt edges on this row of the books before me are as good as new, and perfectly uninjured,” said Gentz, gravely.
“Well, that is easily explained. They have not been disturbed since the bookbinder brought them here,” exclaimed the footman, solemnly. “No one would dare to handle them.”
“Does not his excellency read these books?”
“God forbid! His excellency likes books, but he has not got time to read much. But whenever his excellency passes through this anteroom, he pauses before his bookcases, and looks at them, and, with his own hands, frequently wipes off the dust from the gilt edges of the books.”
“Indeed, that is a most honorable occupation for a minister of finance,” said Gentz, emphatically. “It is always a great consolation to know that a minister of finance wipes off the dust from the gold. I should be very happy if his excellency should consent to do that also for me as often as possible. But does it not seem to you, my dear fellow, that it takes his excellency a good while to finish those dispatches? It is nearly half an hour since I have been waiting here.”
“I am sure his excellency will soon ring the bell.”
“Ring the bell?” asked Gentz, uneasily, “for whom?”
“Why, for myself, in order to notify me to admit you, Mr. Counsellor.”
“Ah, for you?” asked Gentz, drawing a deep breath, and turning once more to the books in order to while away the time by reading at least the titles, as he was not permitted to take down and open one of the magnificent volumes.
Time passed on in this manner, and Gentz was walking up and down near the bookcases, studying the titles, and waiting. The footman had withdrawn into the most remote window, and was waiting likewise.
Suddenly the large clock commenced striking solemnly and slowly, and announced to Gentz that he had been a whole hour in his excellency’s anteroom. And his excellency had not yet rung the bell.
At this moment Gentz turned toward the footman with a gesture of indignation and impatience.
“I am satisfied that his excellency has entirely forgotten that I am waiting here in the anteroom,” he said, angrily. “The dispatches must be quite lengthy, for I have been here now for an hour already! Hence I must beg you to inform the minister that I cannot wait any longer, for I am quite busy too, and have to return to my study. Please say that to his excellency.”
“But can I dare to disturb his excellency?” asked the footman, anxiously. “He has not rung the bell, sir.”
“Well, you must be kind enough to disturb him and tell him I must leave unless he can admit me at once,” exclaimed Gentz, energetically. “Go, sir, go!”
The footman sighed deeply. “Well, I will do so at your risk, Mr. Counsellor,” he said, in a low voice, stepping behind the portiere. He soon returned, a malicious smile playing on his lips.
“His excellency regrets that you cannot wait any longer, Mr. Counsellor,” he said. “His excellency being so busy that he cannot be disturbed, he requests you to call again to-morrow at the same hour.”
“So his excellency dismisses me after detaining me here in the anteroom for more than an hour?” asked Gentz, incredulously.
“His excellency is overwhelmed with unexpected business,” said the footman, with a shrug of his shoulders. “His excellency therefore requests you, Mr. Counsellor, to call again to-morrow.”
Gentz cast upon the footman a glance which would have shivered him like a thunderbolt if he had not been a man of stone. But being a man of stone, the thunderbolt harmlessly glanced off from him. With a peculiar smile, he assisted the enraged counsellor in putting on his cloak, handed him his hat with a polite bow, and then hastened to the door in order to open it to him.
At this moment the minister in his study rang the bell loudly and violently. The footman quickly opened the door leading to the hall, and, with a polite gesture, invited Gentz to step out. The latter, however, did not stir. He had hastily placed his hat on his head and was now putting on his gloves with as grave an air as if they were gauntlets with which he was going to arm himself for the purpose of stepping out into the arena.
The minister’s bell resounded even louder and more violently than before.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Counsellor,” the footman exclaimed, impatiently, “his excellency is calling me. Be kind enough to close the door when you leave. I must go to his excellency.”
He hurriedly crossed the room and hastened into the minister’s study.
Gentz now put on his gloves and approached the door. He bent one more glance full of anger upon the anteroom, and finally fixed his eyes upon the glittering books in the cases on the wall. An expression of malicious joy suddenly overspread his features. He drew back from the door, and hurriedly crossing the room, he approached the books. Without any hesitation whatever, he took down one of the largest and most richly ornamented volumes, concealed the book under his cloak, hastened back to the door, and left the house of the minister of finance with a haughty and defiant air.
Without nodding or greeting any one, he hastened through the streets back to his own house. At the door of the latter there stood two huge furniture-wagons, half filled with the sofas, arm-chairs, tables, and looking-glasses which heretofore had adorned his rooms, and which he was now going to lose with his wife.
The servants had not finished removing the furniture, and he had to pause in the hall in order to let them pass with the large silken sofa which had been the chief ornament of his own parlor. This greatly increased his anger; with furious gestures he rapidly ascended the staircase and went to his rooms. Every door was open--the apartments which he crossed with ringing steps, were empty and deserted, and finally he reached the door of his study, where his footman had posted himself like a faithful sentinel. Gentz silently beckoned him to open it, and entered. But when the servant was going to follow him, he silently but imperiously kept him back, and slammed the door in his face.
Now at last he was alone; now no one could see and watch him any longer; now he could utter the cry of rage that was filling his breast and almost depriving him of the power of speech; and after uttering this cry, he could appease his wrath still in some other way.
He threw his cloak and hat upon a chair, seized the splendidly bound and richly gilt volume from the minister’s library with both hands and hurled it upon the floor.
“Lie there, toy of a proud minister!” he exclaimed furiously. “I will treat you as I would like to treat him. I will abuse you as I would like to abuse him. There! take this! and this! and that!”
And he stamped with his heels upon the magnificent work, clinching his fists and swearing fearfully. [Footnote: Vide “Gallerie von Bildnissen aus Rahel’s Umgang,” edited by Varnhagen von Ense, vol ii., p 168.]
A loud and merry laugh was heard behind him, and upon turning round he beheld in the door one of his friends, who was looking at him with a radiant face.
“Herr von Gualtieri, you laugh, and I am furious,” exclaimed Gentz, stamping again upon the costly volume.
“But why, for God’s sake, are you furious?” asked Herr von Gualtieri. “Why do you perpetrate such vandalism upon that magnificent volume under your feet?”
“Why? Well, I will tell you. I was to-day at the house of Count Schulenburg-Kehnert; he had sent me word to call on him at ten o’clock, and when I was there, he made me stand for an hour in his anteroom like his gorgeous, gilt-edged books, which his footman told me he never opens because he is afraid of injuring their gilt edges.”
“And did he admit you after you had been in the anteroom for an hour?”
“No. When I had been there for an hour, he sent me word through his footman that he was too busy to receive me, and that I had better call again to-morrow. Bah! He wanted to treat me like those books of his, which he never opens; he did not want to open me either--me, a man who has got more mind, more knowledge, and information than all his books together. He made me wait in his anteroom for a whole hour, and then dismissed me!”
“And you allowed yourself to be dismissed?”
“Yes, sir, I did; but I took one of his splendid gilt-edged volumes along, in order to stamp on it and maltreat it, as I would like to maltreat him. Thus! and thus! To crush it under my heels. It does me good. It relieves me. At this moment this is the only revenge I can take against the miserable fellow.” [Footnote: Gentz’s own words. Vide “Rahel’s Umgang,” vol ii., p. 168.]
Herr von Gualtieri laughed uproariously. “Ah! that is an entirely novel jus gentium,” he exclaimed; “an exceedingly funny jus gentium. My friend, let me embrace you; you are a glorious fellow!”
With open arms he approached Gentz and pressed him tenderly, laughing all the while, to his heart.
Gentz was unable to withstand this kindness and this laughter, and suddenly forgetting his anger, he boisterously joined his friend’s mirth.
“You like my revenge?” he asked.
“Ah! it is admirable; it is the revenge of a genuine Corsican!” said Gualtieri, gravely.
“Of a Corsican?” asked Gentz, shrinking back. “That is an ugly comparison, sir. I do not want to have any thing in common with that Corsican, General Bonaparte. I tell you I am afraid that man will some day prove a terrible scourge for us.”
“And I adore him!” exclaimed Gualtieri. “He is the resuscitated Alexander of Macedon, the conqueror of the world, the master of the world. He alone has stemmed the tide of revolution in France. To him alone the French are indebted for the restoration of order and tranquillity in their country. The thirteenth of Vendemiaire is as heroic a deed, as great a victory, as the battles of Lodi and Arcole.”
“That may be,” said Gentz, morosely. “I am no soldier, and do not like battles and warfare. And what do we Germans care for the Corsican? Have we not got enough to do at home? Germany, however, is so happy and contented that, like the Pharisee, she may look upon republican France and exclaim: ‘I thank thee, my God, that I am not like this man.’”
“You are right,” replied Gualtieri. “We also stand in need of a revolution. In Germany, too, a guillotine must be erected--heads must fall, and death must hold its bloody harvest.”
“Hush, my friend, hush!” said Gentz, drawing back in dismay. “Did you merely come to me for the purpose of speaking of such dreadful matters, while you are well aware that I don’t like to hear anybody allude to bloodshed, murders, and similar horrors?”
“I merely wanted to try you a little in order to see whether you are still the same dear old childish coward,” exclaimed Gualtieri, laughing. “The same great child with the strong, manly soul, and the gentle, weak, and easily moved child’s heart. Now, let me know quickly what you wanted of the minister of finance, and I shall reward you then by telling you some good news. Well, then, what did you want of Schulenburg?”
“I had asked him to lend me five hundred dollars, and to appoint an hour when I might call for the money. He named ten o’clock, and I went to his house, merely to leave it an hour after in a towering passion and with empty hands. Oh, it is infamous, it is dreadful! It is--”
At that moment the door opened, and the footman entered.
“From his excellency. General von Schulenburg-Kehnert,” he said, delivering to Gentz a small sealed package and a letter. “The servant who brought it has left, as he said no reply was required.”
Gentz beckoned his servant to withdraw, and he then hastily opened the package.
“Twelve fifty-dollar bills!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “One hundred dollars more than I had asked for! That is very kind, indeed.”
“May be he does not give it to you, but merely lends it to you,” said Gualtieri, smiling.
“Lend it to me!” exclaimed Gentz, scornfully. “People don’t lend any money to me, because they know that I am unable to pay it back; people reward me, sir; they show their gratitude toward me in a substantial manner, but they are not so mean as to lend me what I ask for.”
“Does the minister tell you so in his letter?” asked Gualtieri, dryly.
“Ah! that is true. I have not yet read the letter,” said Gentz, breaking the seal. While he was reading it, a slight blush suffused his cheeks, and an expression of shame overspread his features. “Here, read it,” he murmured, handing the letter to his friend.
Gualtieri took it and read as follows:
“My Dear Counsellor,--You wished to see me, and I begged you to call at ten o’clock, although I was overwhelmed with business and hardly had any time to spare. Precisely at ten o’clock I was ready to receive you, for in all matters of business I am a very punctual man. However, after vainly waiting for you for half an hour, I resumed my work. I had to examine some very complicated accounts, and could not allow myself to be interrupted after once taking them up. Hence I had to ask you to wait, and when, after waiting for half an hour, like myself, you grew impatient and would not stay any longer, I sent you word to call again to-morrow. Now, that I have concluded my pressing business, however, I hasten to comply with your request. You asked me for five hundred dollars; here they are. Knowing, however, how precious your time is, and that you had to wait for half an hour through my fault, I take the liberty of adding one hundred dollars for the time you have lost to-day. Farewell, sir, and let me conclude with expressing the hope that you will soon again delight the world and myself with one of your excellent works.”
XIV. THE MEMORIAL TO FREDERICK WILLIAM III
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, returning the letter to Gentz, “I believe the minister wanted to teach you a lesson. He made you wait in order to teach you the necessity of being punctual.”
“And I shall not forget the lesson.”
“You will be punctual hereafter?”
“On the contrary. This time I was half an hour behind time, and he paid me one hundred dollars for it. Hereafter I shall be an hour too late; he will make me wait an hour and pay me two hundred dollars for it. I believe that is sound arithmetic. Don’t look at me so scornfully, Gualtieri; this state of affairs will not last for any length of time; there will be a time at no distant period when no minister will dare to make me wait in his anteroom, nor to pay me such petty, miserable sums. The ministers then will wait in my anteroom, and will be only too happy if I accept the thousands which they will offer to me. I have formed the fixed resolution to obtain a brilliant position and to coin wealth out of my mind.”
“And I am sure you will succeed in accomplishing your purpose,” said Gualtieri. “Yes, I am satisfied a brilliant future is in store for you. You are a genius such as Germany has not seen heretofore, for you are a political genius, and you may just as well confess that Germany greatly lacks politicians who are able to wield their pen like a pointed two-edged sword, to strike fatal blows in all directions and obtain victories. Germany has already fixed her eyes upon you, and even in England your name is held in great esteem since you published your excellent translation of Burke’s work on the French Revolution. The political pamphlets you have issued since that time, and the excellent political magazine you have established, have met with the warmest approval, and the public hopes and expects that you will render great and important services to the country. Go on in this manner, my friend; boldly pursue the path you have entered, and it will become for you a path of glory, honor, and wealth.”
Gentz looked at him almost angrily.
“I hope,” he said, “you will not believe me to be an avaricious and covetous man. I value money merely because it is an instrument wherewith to procure enjoyment, and because, without it, we are the slaves of misery, privations, and distress. Money renders us free, and now that people would like to set up freedom as the religion of all nations, every one ought to try to make as much money as possible, that alone rendering him really free. The accursed French Revolution, which has dragged all principles, all laws and old established institutions under the guillotine, was under the necessity of leaving one power unharmed--the power of money. The aristocracy, the clergy, nay, even royalty had to bleed under the guillotine, but money never lost its power, its influence, and its importance. Money speaks a universal language, and the Sans-culotte and Hottentot understand it as well as the king, the minister, and the most beautiful woman. Money never needs an interpreter; it speaks for itself. See, my friend, that is the reason why I love money and try to make as much as possible, not in order to amass it, but because with it I can buy the world, love, honor, enjoyment, and happiness. But not being one of those who find money in their cradles, I must endeavor to acquire it and avail myself of the capital God has given me in my brains. And that I shall and will do, sir, but I pledge you my word, never in a base and unworthy manner. I shall probably make people PAY very large sums of money for my services, but never shall I SELL myself; all the millions of the world could not induce me to write AGAINST MY PRINCIPLES, but all the millions of the world I shall demand, when they ask me to write FOR MY PRINCIPLES! See, my friend, that is my programme, and you may be sure that I shall live up to it. I am an aristocrat by nature and conviction; hence I hate the French Revolution which intended to overthrow every aristocracy, not only that of pedigree, but also that of the mind, and therefore I have sworn to oppose it as an indefatigable and indomitable champion, and to strike it as many blows with my pen and tongue as I can. Hence I shall never join the hymns of praise which the Germans, always too complaisant, are now singing to the little Corsican, General Bonaparte. Whatever you may say about his heroism and genius, I believe him to be an enemy of Germany, and am, therefore, on my guard.”
“So you do not admire his victories, the incomparable plans of his battles, which he conceives with the coolness of a wise and experienced chieftain, and carries out with the bravery and intrepidity of a hero of antiquity?”
“I admire all that, but at the same time it makes me shudder when I think that it might some day come into the head of this man who conquers every thing, to invade and conquer Germany also. I believe, indeed, he would succeed in subjugating her, for I am afraid we have no man of equal ability on our side who could take the field against him. Ah, my friend, why does not one of our German princes resemble this French general, this hero of twenty-seven years? Just think of it, he is no older than our young king; both were born in the same year.”
“You must not count his years,” exclaimed Gualtieri, “count his great days, his great battles. The enthusiasm of all Europe hails his coming, for he fights at the head of his legions for the noblest boons of manhood--for freedom, honor, and justice. No wonder, therefore, that he is victorious everywhere; the enslaved nations everywhere are in hopes that he will break their fetters and give them liberty.”
“He is a scourge God has sent to the German princes so that they may grow wiser and better. He wishes to compel them to respect the claims of their subjects to freedom and independence, that being the only way for them to erect a bulwark against this usurper who fights his battles not only with the sword, but also with ideas. Oh, I wish our German sovereigns would comprehend all this, and that all those who have a tongue to speak, would shout it into their ears and arouse them from their proud security and infatuation.”
“Well, have not you a tongue to speak, and yet you are silent?” asked Gualtieri, smiling.
“No, I have not been silent,” exclaimed Gentz, enthusiastically. “I have done my duty as a man and citizen, and told the whole truth to the king.”
“That means--”
“That means that I have written to the king, not with the fawning slavishness of a subject, but as a man who has seen much, reflected much, and experienced much, and who speaks to a younger man, called upon to act an important part, and holding the happiness of millions of men in his hands. It would be a crime against God and humanity, if we knew the truth and should not tell it to such a man. Because I believe I know the truth, I have spoken to the king, not in a letter which he may read to-day and throw to-morrow into his paper-basket, but in a printed memorial, which I shall circulate in thousands of copies as soon as I have heard that it is in the hands of the king.”
“And you believe the king will accept this printed memorial of yours?”
“My friend, Counsellor Menken, has undertaken to deliver it to the king.”
“In that case he will accept it, for he thinks very highly of Menken. But what did you tell the king in this memorial?”
“I gave him sound advice about government affairs.”
“Advice! my friend, kings do not like to listen to advice, especially when it is given to them spontaneously. Did you confine yourself to general suggestions? You see I am very anxious to learn more about your bold enterprise. Just read the memorial to me, friend Gentz!”
“Ah, that would be a gigantic task for you to hear it, and for myself to read it, the memorial being quite lengthy. I ask the king therein in impressive and fervent words--oh, I wept myself when I penned them--to make his people happy and prosperous. I directed his attention to the various branches of our administration; first, to military affairs--”
“And you advise him to make war?” asked Gualtieri, hastily.
“No, I advise him always to be armed and prepared, but to maintain peace as long as it is compatible with his honor. Next I allude to the condition of our judicial and financial affairs. I beseech him to abstain from interference with the administration of justice, to insist upon a constant equilibrium being maintained between the expenses and revenues of the state, so as not to overburden his subjects with taxes, and not to curtail the development of commerce and industry by vexatious monopolies. Finally, I ask him to devote some attention to intellectual affairs and to the press.”
“Oh, I expected that,” said Gualtieri, smiling, “and I should not be surprised at all if you had been bold enough to ask the timid and diffident young king to grant freedom of the press to his people.”
“Yes, that is what I ask him to do,” said Gentz, enthusiastically. “You want me to read the whole memorial to you. Let me read at least what I have said about the freedom of the press. Will you listen to it?”
“Oh, I am most anxious to hear it,” said Gualtieri, sitting down on the sofa.
Gentz took several sheets of paper from his desk, sat down opposite his friend and commenced reading in a loud and enthusiastic voice:
“Of all things repugnant to fetters, none can bear them as little as human thought. The oppression weighing down the latter is not merely injurious because it impedes what is good, but also because it promotes what is bad. Compulsion in matters of faith may be passed over in silence. It belongs to those antiquated evils on which now that there is greater danger of an utter prostration of religious ideas than of their fanatical abuse, only narrow-minded babblers are declaiming. Not so, however, with regard to freedom of the press. Misled by unfounded apprehensions, arising from the events of the times, even sagacious men might favor a system which, viewed in its true light, is more injurious to the interests of the government than it ever can be to the rights of the citizens, even in its most deplorable abuses.”
“What, even aside from all other considerations, peremptorily and absolutely condemns any law muzzling the press, is the important fact that it is impossible to enforce it. Unless there be a regular inquisition watching over the execution of such a law, it is now-a-days utterly impossible to carry it out. The facilities for bringing ideas before the public are so great, as to render any measure destined to curtail this publicity a mere matter of derision. But if these laws prove ineffectual they may yet exasperate the people, and that is precisely their most dangerous feature; they exasperate without deterring. They instigate those against whom they are directed to offer a resistance which frequently not only remains successful, but moreover becomes glorious and honorable. The most wretched productions, whose real value would not secure a life of two hours, obtain general circulation because it seems to have required some degree of courage to write them. The most insignificant scribblers will be looked upon as men of mind, and the most venal writers suddenly become ‘martyrs of truth.’ A thousand noxious insects, whom a sunbeam of truth and real sagacity would have dispersed, favored by the darkness created for them with deplorable short-sightedness, insinuate themselves into the unarmed minds of the people, and instil their poison to the last drop, as though it were a forbidden delicacy of the most exquisite character. The only antidote, the productions of better writers, loses its strength because the uninformed only too easily mistake the advocates of salutary restrictions for the defenders of such as are manifestly unjust and oppressive.”
“Let freedom of the press, therefore, be the immovable principle of your government, not as though the state or mankind, in this age so prolific in books, were interested in the publication of a thousand works more or less, but because your majesty is too great to maintain an unsuccessful, and therefore disastrous struggle, with petty adversaries. Every one should be held responsible, strictly responsible for unlawful acts and writings assuming such a character, but mere opinion should meet with no other adversary than its opposite, and if it be erroneous, with the truth. Never will such a system prove dangerous to a well-regulated state, and never has it injured such a one. Where it apparently became pernicious, destruction had preceded it already, and mortification and putrefaction had set in.” [Footnote: Memorial respectfully presented to his majesty Frederick William III., on his accession to the throne, November 16, 1797, by Frederick Gentz.]
“Well?” asked Gentz, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, when he had ceased reading, “what do you think of my exposition of the freedom of the press? Is it not clear, convincing, and unanswerable? Will not the king see that my words contain the truth, and hence follow them?”
Gualtieri looked at his friend with an air of compassionate tenderness.
“Oh, you are a full-grown child,” he said; “you still believe in the possibility of realizing Utopian dreams, and your faith is so honest, so manly! You want to force a scourge upon a timid young king, who most ardently desires to maintain peace, and to remain unnoticed, and tell him, ‘With this scourge drive out the evil spirits and expel the lies, so as to cause daylight to dawn, and darkness to disappear!’--as though that daylight would not be sure to lay bare all the injuries and ulcers of which our own poor Prussia is suffering, and for which she greatly needs darkness and silence.”
“What! you think the king will take no notice of my demands?”
“I believe,” said Gualtieri, shrugging his shoulders, “that you are a highly-gifted visionary, and that the king is a tolerably intelligent and tolerably sober young gentleman, who, whenever he wants to skate, does not allow himself to be dazzled and enticed by the smooth and glittering surface, but first repeatedly examines the ice in order to find out whether it is firm enough to bear him. And now good-by, my poor friend. I came here to congratulate you for having regained your liberty, and for belonging again to the noble and only happy order of bachelors; but instead of hearing you rejoice, I find in you a philanthropic fanatic, and an enthusiastic advocate of a free press.”
“But that does not prevent you from wishing me joy at my return to a bachelor’s life,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Yes, my friend, I am free; life is mine again, and now let the flames of pleasure close again over my head--let enjoyment surround me again in fiery torrents, I shall exultingly plunge into the whirlpool and feel as happy as a god! We must celebrate the day of my regeneration in a becoming manner; we must celebrate it with foaming champagne, pates de foie gras, and oysters; and if we want to devote a last tear to the memory of my wife, why, we shall drink a glass of Lacrymce Christi in her honor. You must come and see me to-night, Gualtieri. I shall invite a few other friends, and if you will afford us a rare pleasure, you will read to us some of La Fontaine’s Fables, which no one understands to recite so well as you.”
“I shall do so,” said Gualtieri, extending his hand to Gentz. “I shall read to you one of La Fontaine’s Fables, the first two lines of which eloquently express the whole history of your past.”
“Let me hear those two lines.”
Gualtieri covered his head, and standing in the door he had opened, he said with a deep pathos and in a profoundly melancholy voice:
“Deux coqs vivaient en paix; une poule survint, Et voila la guerreallumec”--
and nodding a last adieu, he disappeared. Gentz laughed. “Indeed, he is right,” he exclaimed; “that is the end of wedded life. But, thank God, mine is over, and, I swear by all my hopes, never will I be such a fool as to marry again! I shall remain a bachelor as long as I live; for he who belongs to no woman owns all women. It is time, however, to think of to-night’s banquet. But in order to give a banquet, I must first procure new furniture for my rooms, and this time I won’t have any but beautiful and costly furniture. And how shall I get it? Ah, parbleu, I forgot the six hundred dollars I received from the minister. I shall buy furniture for that sum. No, that would be very foolish, inasmuch as I greatly need it for other purposes. The furniture dealers, I have no doubt, will willingly trust me, for I never yet purchased any thing of them. Unfortunately, I cannot say so much in regard to him who is to furnish me the wines and delicacies for the supper, and I have only one hundred dollars in my pocket. The other five hundred dollars I must send to that bloodsucker, that heartless creditor Werner. But must I do so? Ah! really, I believe it would be rank folly. The fellow would think he had frightened me, and as soon as I should owe him another bill, he would again besiege my door, and raise a fresh disturbance here. No; I will show him that I am not afraid of him, and that his impudent conduct deserves punishment. Oh, John! John!”
The door was opened immediately, and the footman entered.
“John,” said Gentz, gravely, “go at once to Mr. Werner. Tell him some friends are coming to see me to-night. I therefore want him to send me this evening twenty-four bottles of champagne, three large pates de foie gras, two hundred oysters, and whatever is necessary for a supper. If he should fill my order promptly and carefully, he can send me to-morrow a receipt for two hundred dollars, and I will pay him the money. But if a single oyster should be bad, if a single bottle of champagne should prove of poor quality, or if he should dare to decline furnishing me with the supper, he will not get a single groschen. Go and tell him that, and be back as soon as possible.”
“Meantime, I will write a few invitations,” said Gentz, as soon as he was alone. “But I shall invite none but unmarried men. In the first place, the Austrian minister, Prince von Reuss. This gentleman contents himself with one mistress, and as he fortunately does not suspect that the beautiful Marianne Meier is at the same time my mistress, he is a great friend of mine. Yes, if he knew that--ah!” he interrupted himself, laughing, “that would be another illustration of La Fontaine’s fable of the two cocks and the hen. Well, I will now write the invitations.”
He had just finished the last note when the door opened, and John entered, perfectly out of breath.
“Well, did you see Mr. Werner?” asked Gentz, folding the last note.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Werner sends word that he will furnish the supper promptly and satisfactorily, and will deliver here to-night twenty-four bottles of his best champagne, three large pates de foie gras, two hundred oysters, etc., but only on one condition.”
“What! the fellow actually dares to impose conditions?” exclaimed Gentz, indignantly. “What is it he asks?”
“He asks you, sir, when he has delivered every thing you have ordered, and before going to supper, to be kind enough to step out for a moment into the anteroom, where Mr. Werner will wait for you in order to receive there his two hundred dollars. I am to notify him if you accept this condition, and if so, he will furnish the supper.”
“Ah, that is driving me to the wall,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “Well, go back, to the shrewd fellow and tell him that I accept his conditions. He is to await me in the anteroom, and as he would, of course, make a tremendous noise in case I should disappoint him, he may be sure that I shall come. So go to him, John.”
“As for myself,” said Gentz, putting on his cloak, “I shall go and purchase several thousand dollars’ worth of furniture; my rooms shall hereafter be as gorgeous as those of a prince. By the by, I believe I have been too generous. If I had offered Werner one hundred dollars, he would have contented himself with that sum.”
XV. THE WEDDING
At the house of the wealthy banker Itzig a rare festival took place to-day, a festival which all Berlin had been talking of for the last few days, and which had formed the topic of conversation, no less among the people on the streets, than among the aristocratic classes in their palatial mansions. To-day the wedding of three of his beautiful young daughters was to take place, and the rich, ostentatious, and generous gentleman had left nothing undone in order to celebrate this gala-day in as brilliant and imposing a manner as possible. All the manufacturers of Berlin had been employed for months to get up the trousseaux of his daughters, for he had declared that they should wear exclusively the productions of German industry, and that not a single piece of their new household goods should be of French manufacture. Hence, all the gorgeous brocades, velvets, and laces for their dresses and furniture had been woven in Berlin manufactories; the most magnificent linen had been ordered from Silesia, and a host of milliners and seamstresses had got up every thing required for the wardrobe of the young ladies, in the most skilful and artistic manner. Even the plate and costly jewelry had been manufactured by Berlin jewellers, and the rich and exquisitely painted china had been purchased at the royal Porzellan-fabrik. These three trousseaux, so beautiful and expensive, had been, as it were, a triumph of home art and home industry, and for this reason they excited general attention. Herr Itzig had finally, though very reluctantly, yielded to the urgent entreaties of his friends and admitted the public to the rooms and halls of his house in which the trousseaux of his daughters were displayed. However, in order not to lay himself open to the charge of boastful ostentation, he had tried to impart a useful and charitable character to this exhibition. He had fixed a tablet over the entrance to those rooms, bearing the inscription of “Exhibition of Productions of Home Industry;” in addition, every visitor had to buy a ticket of admission for a few groschen, the proceeds to be distributed among the poor.
Every one hastened to the banker’s house in order to admire the “productions of home industry.” Even the queen had come with one of her ladies of honor to inspect the gorgeous display, and while admiring the magnificence of the silks and velvets and the artistic setting of the diamonds, she had exclaimed joyfully: “How glad I am to see that Germany is really able to do entirely without France, and to satisfy all her wants from her own resources!”
The queen had uttered these words perhaps on the spur of the moment, but the public imparted to them a peculiar meaning and tendency; and the newspapers, the organs of public opinion, never tired of praising the royal words, and of admonishing the inhabitants of Berlin to visit the patriotic exhibition at the banker’s house.
Curiosity, moreover, stimulated the zeal of the ladies, while political feeling caused the male part of the population to appear at the exhibition. But when it became known that the French embassy had taken umbrage at the zeal manifested by the people of Berlin, and that the French minister had even dared at the royal table to complain loudly and bitterly of the words uttered by the queen in Herr Itzig’s house, the indignation became general, and the visits to the exhibition assumed the character of a national demonstration against the overbearing French. Hosts of spectators now hastened to Herr Itzig’s house, and gay, mischievous young men took pleasure in stationing themselves in groups in the street on which the French minister was living, right in front of the house, in order to converse loudly in the French language about the rare attractions of the banker’s exhibition, and to praise the noble patriot who disdained to buy abroad what he could get at home just as well, if not better.
The success of his exhibition, however, far exceeded the wishes of the banker, and he was glad when the days during which the exhibition was to continue were at an end, so that he could exclude the inquisitive visitors from his house.
But to-day the house was to be opened to the invited guests, for to-day, as we stated before, Herr Itzig was going to celebrate simultaneously the wedding of three of his beautiful daughters, and the whole place was astir with preparations for a becoming observance of the gala-day.
While the footmen and other servants, under the direction of skilful artists, were engaged in gorgeously decorating the parlors and halls; while a hundred busy hands in the kitchen and cellar were preparing a sumptuous repast; while Herr Itzig and wife were giving the last directions for the details of the festival, the three brides were chatting confidentially in their own room. All of them were quite young yet, the eldest sister having scarcely completed her twenty-first year. They were very beautiful, and theirs was the striking and energetic beauty peculiar to the women of the Orient--that beauty of flaming black eyes, glossy black hair, a glowing olive complexion, and slender but well-developed forms. They wore a full bridal costume; their bare, beautifully rounded arms and necks were gorgeously adorned with diamonds and other precious stones; their tall and vigorous figures were clad in white silk dresses, trimmed with superb laces. He who would have seen them thus in the full charm of beauty, grace, and youth, in their magnificent costumes, and with delicate myrtle-crowns on their heads, would have believed he beheld three favorite daughters of Fate, who had never known care and grief, and upon whose heads happiness had poured down an uninterrupted sunshine.
Perhaps it was so; perhaps it was only the beautiful myrtle-crowns that cast a shadow over the faces of the three brides, and not their secret thoughts--their silent wishes.
They had eagerly conversed for a while, but now, however, they paused and seemed deeply absorbed. Finally, one of them slowly raised her glowing black eyes and cast a piercing glance upon her sisters. They felt the magic influence of this glance, and raised their eyes at the same time.
“Why do you look at us so intently, Fanny?” they asked.
“I want to see if I can read truth on your brow,” said Fanny; “or if the diamonds and the myrtle-crowns conceal every thing. Girls, suppose we take off for a moment the shining but lying masks with which we adorn ourselves in the eyes of the world, and show to each other our true and natural character? We have always lied to each other. We said mutually to each other: ‘I am happy. I am not jealous of you, for I am just as happy as you.’ Suppose we now open our lips really and tell the truth about our hearts? Would not it be novel and original? Would it not be an excellent way of whiling away these few minutes until our betrothed come and lead us to the altar? See, this is the last time that we shall be thus together--the last time that we bear the name of our father; let us, therefore, for once tell each other our true sentiments. Shall we do so?”
“Yes,” exclaimed the two sisters. “But about what do you want us to tell you the truth?”
“About our hearts,” replied Fanny, gravely. “Esther, you are the eldest of us three. You must commence. Tell us, therefore, if you love your betrothed, Herr Ephraim?”
Esther looked at her in amazement. “If I love him?” she asked. “Good Heaven! how should I happen to love him? I scarcely know him. Father selected him for me; it is a brilliant match; I shall remain in Berlin; I shall give splendid parties and by my magnificent style of living greatly annoy those ladies of the so-called haute volee, who have sometimes dared to turn up their noses at the ‘Jewesses.’ Whether I shall be able to love Ephraim, I do not know; but we shall live in brilliant style, and as we shall give magnificent dinner-parties, we shall never lack guests from the most refined classes of society. Such are the prospects of my future, and although I cannot say that I am content with them, yet I know that others will deem my position a most enviable one, and that is at least something.”
“The first confession!” said Fanny, smiling. “Now it is your turn, Lydia. Tell us, therefore, do you love Baron von Eskeles, your future husband?”
Lydia looked at her silently and sadly. “Do not ask me,” she said, “for you and Esther know very well that I do not love him. I once had a splendid dream. I beheld myself an adored wife by the side of a young man whom I loved and who loved me passionately. He was an artist, and when he was sitting at his easel, he felt that he was rich and happy, even without money, for he had his genius and his art. When I was looking at his paintings, and at the handsome and inspired artist himself, it seemed to me there was but one road to happiness on earth: to belong to that man, to love him, to serve him, and, if it must be, to suffer and starve with him. It was a dream, and father aroused me from it by telling me that I was to marry Baron von Eskeles, that he had already made an agreement with the baron’s father, and that the wedding would take place in two weeks.”
“Poor Lydia!” murmured the sisters.
A pause ensued. “Well,” asked Esther, “and you, Fanny? You examine us and say nothing about yourself. What about your heart, my child? Do you love your betrothed, Baron von Arnstein, the partner of Eskeles, your future brother-in-law? You are silent? Have you nothing to say to us?”
“I have to say to you that we are all to be pitied and very unhappy,” said Fanny, passionately. “Yes, to be pitied and very unhappy, notwithstanding our wealth, our diamonds, and our brilliant future! We have been sold like goods; no one has cared about the hearts which these goods happen to have, but every one merely took into consideration how much profit he would derive from them. Oh, my sisters, we rich Jewesses are treated just in the same manner as the poor princesses; we are sold to the highest bidder. And we have not got the necessary firmness, energy, and independence to emancipate ourselves from this degrading traffic in flesh and blood. We bow our heads and obey, and, in the place of love and happiness, we fill our hearts with pride and ostentation, and yet we are starving and pining away in the midst of our riches.”
“Yes,” sighed Lydia, “and we dare not even complain! Doomed to eternal falsehood, we must feign a happiness we do not experience, and a love we do not feel.”
“I shall not do so!” exclaimed Fanny, proudly. “It is enough for me to submit to compulsion, and to bow my head; but never shall I stoop so low as to lie.”
“What! you are going to tell your husband that you do not love him?” asked the sisters.
“I shall not say that to my husband, but to my betrothed as soon as he makes his appearance.”
“But suppose he does not want to marry a girl who does not love him?”
“Then he is the one who breaks off the match, not I, and father cannot blame me for it. But do you not hear footsteps in the hall? It is my betrothed. I begged him to be here a quarter of an hour previous to the commencement of the ceremony, because I desired to speak to him about a very serious matter. He is coming. Now pray go to the parlor, and wait for me there. I shall rejoin you, perhaps alone, and in that case I shall be free; perhaps, however, Arnstein will accompany me, and in that eventuality he will have accepted the future as I am going to offer it to him. Farewell, sisters; may God protect us all.”
“May God protect YOU.” said Lydia, tenderly embracing her sister. “You have a courageous and strong soul, and I wish mine were like yours.”
“Would that save you, Lydia?” asked Fanny, sharply. “Courage and energy are of no avail in our case; in spite of our resistance, we should have to submit and to suffer. He is coming.”
She pushed her sisters gently toward the parlor door, and then went to meet her betrothed, who had just entered.
“Mr. Arnstein,” said Fanny, giving him her hand, “I thank you for complying so promptly with my request.”
“A business man is always prompt,” said the young baron, with a polite bow.
“Ah, and you treat this interview with me likewise as a business affair?”
“Yes, but as a business affair of the rarest and most exquisite character. A conference with a charming young lady is worth more than a conference with the wealthiest business friend, even if the interview with the latter should yield a profit of one hundred per cent.”
“Ah, I believe you want to flatter me,” said Fanny, closely scanning the small and slender figure and the pale face of the baron.
He bowed with a gentle smile, but did not raise his eyes toward her. Fanny could not help perceiving that his brow was slightly clouded.
“Baron,” she said, “I have begged you to come and see me, because I do not want to go to the altar with a lie on my soul. I will not deceive God and yourself, and therefore I now tell you, frankly and sincerely, I do not love you, baron; only my father’s will gives my hand to you!”
There was no perceptible change in the young baron’s face. He seemed neither surprised nor offended.
“Do you love another man?” he asked quietly.
“No, I love no one!” exclaimed Fanny.
“Ah, then, you are fortunate indeed,” he said, gloomily. “It is by far easier to marry with a cold heart, than to do so with a broken one; for the cold heart may grow warm, but the broken one never.”
Fanny’s eyes were fixed steadfastly on his features.
“Mr. Arnstein,” she exclaimed, impetuously, “you do not love me either!”
He forced himself to smile. “Who could see you--you, the proud, glorious beauty--without falling in love with you?” he exclaimed, emphatically.
“Pray, no empty flatteries,” said Fanny, impatiently. “Oh, tell me the truth! I am sure you do not love me!”
“I saw you too late,” he said, mournfully; “if I had known you sooner, I should have loved you passionately.”
“But now I am too late--and have you already loved another?” she asked, hastily.
“Yes, I love another,” he said, gravely and solemnly. “As you ask me, I ought to tell you the truth. I love another.”
“Nevertheless, you want to marry me?” she exclaimed, angrily.
“And you?” he asked, gently. “Do you love me?”
“But I told you already my heart is free. I love no one, while you--why don’t you marry her whom you love?”
“Because I cannot marry her.”
“Why cannot you marry her?”
“Because my father is opposed to it. He is the chief of our house and family. He commands, and we obey. He is opposed to it because the young lady whom I love is poor. She would not increase the capital of our firm.”
“Oh, eternally, eternally that cold mammon, that idol to whom our hearts are sacrificed so ruthlessly!” exclaimed Fanny, indignantly. “For money we sell our youth, our happiness, and our love.”
“I have not sold my love. I have sacrificed it,” said Baron Arnstein, gravely; “I have sacrificed it to the interests of our firm. But in seeing you so charming and sublime in your loveliness and glowing indignation, I am fully satisfied already that I am no longer to be pitied, for I shall have the most beautiful and generous wife in all Vienna.”
“Then you really want to marry me? You will not break off the match, although your heart belongs to another woman, and although you know that I do not love you?”
“My beautiful betrothed, let us not deceive each other,” he said, smiling; “it is not a marriage, but a partnership we are going to conclude in obedience to the wishes of our fathers. In agreeing upon this partnership only our fortunes, but not our hearts, were thought of. The houses of Itzig, Arnstein, and Eskeles will flourish more than ever; whether the individuals belonging to these houses will wither is of no importance. Let us therefore submit to our fate, my dear, for we cannot escape from it. Would it be conducive to your happiness if I should break off the match? Your father would probably select another husband for you, perhaps in Poland or in Russia, and you would be buried with all the treasures of your beauty and accomplishments in some obscure corner of the world, while I shall take you to Vienna, to the great theatre of the world--upon a stage where you will at least not lack triumphs and homage. And I? Why should I be such a stupid fool as to give you up--you who bring to me much more than I deserve--your beauty, your accomplishments, and your generous heart? Ah, I shall be the target of general envy, for there is no lady in Vienna worthy of being compared with you. As I cannot possess her whom I love, I may thank God that my father has selected you for me. You alone are to be pitied, Fanny, for I cannot offer you any compensation for the sacrifices you are about to make in my favor. I am unworthy of you; you are my superior in beauty, intellect, and education. I am a business man, that is all. But in return I have at least something to give--wealth, splendor, and a name that has a good sound, even at the imperial court. Let me, then, advise you as a friend to accept my hand--it is the hand of a friend who, during his whole life, will honestly strive to compensate you for not being able to give his love to you and to secure your happiness.”
He feelingly extended his hand to her, and the young lady slowly laid hers upon it.
“Be it so!” she said, solemnly; “I accept your hand and am ready to follow you. We shall not be a pair of happy lovers, but two good and sincere friends.”
“That is all I ask,” said Arnstein, gently. “Never shall I molest you with pretensions and demands that might offend your delicacy and be repugnant to your heart; never shall I ask more of you than what I hope I shall be able to deserve--your esteem and your confidence. Never shall I entertain the infatuated pretensions of a husband demanding from his wife an affection and fidelity he is himself unable to offer her. In the eyes of the world we shall be man and wife; but in the interior of your house you will find liberty and independence. There you will be able to gratify all your whims and wishes; there every one will bow to you and obey you. First of all, I shall do so myself. You shall be the pride, the glory and joy of my house, and secure to it a brilliant position in society. We shall live in princely style, and you shall rule as a queen in my house. Will that satisfy you? Do you accept my proposition?”
“Yes, I accept it,” exclaimed Fanny, with radiant eyes, “and I assure you no other house in Vienna shall equal ours. We will make it a centre of the best society, and in the midst of this circle which is to embrace the most eminent representatives of beauty, intellect, and distinction, we will forget that we are united without happiness and without love.”
“But there will be a day when your heart will love,” said Arnstein. “Swear to me that you will not curse me on that day because I shall then stand between you and your love. Swear to me that you will always regard me as your friend, that you will have confidence in me, and tell me when that unhappy and yet so happy hour will strike, when your heart begins to speak.”
“I swear it to you!” said Fanny, gravely. “We will always be sincere toward each other. Thus we shall always be able to avert wretchedness, although it may not be in our power to secure happiness. And now, my friend, come, give me your arm and accompany me to the parlor where they are already waiting for us. Now, I shall no longer weep and mourn over this day, for it has given to me a friend, a brother!”
She took his arm and went with him to the parlor. A gentle smile was playing on her lips when the door was opened and they entered. With an air of quiet content she looked at her sisters, who were standing by the side of their betrothed, and had been waiting for her with trembling impatience.
“There is no hope left,” murmured Lydia; “she accepts her fate, too, and submits.”
“She follows my example,” thought Esther; “she consoles herself with her wealth and brilliant position in society. Indeed, there is no better consolation than that.”
At that moment the door opened, and the rabbi in his black robe, a skull-cap on his head, appeared on the threshold, followed by the precentor and sexton. Solemn silence ensued, and all heads were lowered in prayer while the rabbi was crossing the room in order to salute the parents of the brides.
XVI. MARIANNE MEIER
At that moment of silent devotion, no one took any notice of a lady who crossed the threshold a few seconds after the rabbi had entered. She was a tall, superb creature of wonderful beauty. Her black hair, her glowing eyes, her finely-curved nose, the whole shape of her face imparted to her some resemblance to Fanny Itzig, the banker’s beautiful daughter, and indicated that she belonged likewise to the people who, scattered over the whole world, have with unshaken fidelity and constancy preserved everywhere their type and habits. And yet, upon examining the charming stranger somewhat more closely, it became evident that she bore no resemblance either to Fanny or to her sisters. Hers was a strange and peculiar style of beauty, irresistibly attractive and chilling at the same time--a tall, queenly figure, wrapped in a purple velvet dress, fastened under her bosom by a golden sash. Her shoulders, dazzling white, and of a truly classical shape, were bare; her short ermine mantilla had slipped from them and hung gracefully on her beautiful, well-rounded arms, on which magnificent diamond bracelets were glittering. Her black hair fell down in long, luxuriant ringlets on both sides of her transparent, pale cheeks, and was fastened in a knot by means of several large diamond pins. A diamond of the most precious brilliants crowned her high and thoughtful forehead.
She looked as proud and glorious as a queen, and there was something haughty, imperious, and cold in the glance with which she now slowly and searchingly surveyed the large room.
“Tell me,” whispered Baron Arnstein, bending over Fanny Itzig, “who is the beautiful lady now standing near the door?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fanny, joyfully, “she has come after all. We scarcely dared to hope for her arrival. It is Marianne Meier.”
“What! Marianne Meier?” asked Baron Arnstein. “The celebrated beauty whom Goethe has loved--for whom the Swedish ambassador at Berlin, Baron Bernstein, has entertained so glowing a passion, and suffered so much--and who is now the mistress of the Austrian minister, the Prince von Reuss?”
“Hush, for Heaven’s sake, hush!” whispered Fanny. “She is coming toward us.”
And Fanny went to meet the beautiful lady. Marianne gently inclined her head and kissed Fanny with the dignified bearing of a queen.
“I have come to congratulate you and your sisters,” she said, in a sonorous, magnificent alto voice. “I wanted to see how beautiful you looked, and whether your betrothed was worthy of possessing you or not.”
Fanny turned round to beckon Baron Arnstein to join them, but he had just left with the rabbi and the other officers of the synagogue.
The ladies were now alone, for the ceremony was about to begin. And now the women entered, whose duty it was to raise loud lamentations and weep over the fate of the brides who were about to leave the parental roof and to follow their husbands. They spread costly carpets at the feet of the brides, who were sitting on armchairs among the assembled ladies, and strewing flowers on these carpets, they muttered, sobbing and weeping, ancient Hebrew hymns. The mother stood behind them with trembling lips, and, raising her tearful eyes toward heaven. The door was opened, and the sexton in a long robe, his white beard flowing down on his breast, appeared, carrying in his hand a white cushion with three splendid lace veils. He was followed by Mr. Itzig, the father of the three brides. Taking the veils from the cushion, and muttering prayers all the while, he laid them on the heads of his daughters so that their faces and bodies seemed to be surrounded by a thin and airy mist. And the mourning-women sobbed, and two tears rolled over the pale cheeks of the deeply-moved mother. The two men withdrew silently, and the ladies were alone again.
But now, in the distance, the heart-stirring sounds of a choir of sweet, sonorous children’s voices were heard. How charming did these voices reecho through the room! They seemed to call the brides, and, as if fascinated by the inspiring melody, they slowly rose from their seats. Their mother approached the eldest sister and offered her hand to her. Two of the eldest ladies took the hands of the younger sisters. The other ladies and the mourning-women formed in pairs behind them, and then the procession commenced moving in the direction of the inviting notes of the anthem. Thus they crossed the rooms--nearer and nearer came the music--and finally, on passing through the last door, the ladies stepped into a long hall, beautifully decorated with flowers and covered with a glass roof through which appeared the deep, transparent azure of the wintry sky. In the centre of this hall there arose a purple canopy with golden tassels. The rabbi, praying and with uplifted hands, was standing under it with the three bridegrooms. The choir of the singers, hidden behind flowers and orange-trees, grew louder and louder, and to this jubilant music the ladies conducted the brides to the canopy, and the ceremony commenced.
When it was concluded, when the veils were removed from the heads of the brides so that they could now look freely into the world, the whole party returned to the parlor, and brides and bridegrooms received the congratulations of their friends.
Fanny and Marianne Meier were chatting in a bay-window at some distance from the rest of the company. They were standing there, arm in arm--Fanny in her white bridal costume, like a radiant lily, and Marianne in her purple dress, resembling the peerless queen of flowers.
“You are going to leave Berlin to-day with your husband?” asked Marianne.
“We leave in an hour,” said Fanny, sighing.
Marianne had heard this sigh. “Do you love your husband?” she asked, hastily.
“I have seen him only twice,” whispered Fanny.
A sarcastic smile played on Marianne’s lips. “Then they have simply sold you to him like a slave-girl to a wealthy planter,” she said. “It was a mere bargain and sale, and still you boast of it, and pass your disgusting trade in human hearts for virtue, and believe you have a right to look proudly and contemptuously down upon those who refuse to be sold like goods, and who prefer to give away their love to being desecrated without love.”
“I do not boast of having married without love,” said Fanny, gently. “Oh, I should willingly give up wealth and splendor--I should be quite ready to live in poverty and obscurity with a man whom I loved.”
“But first the old rabbi would have to consecrate your union with such a man, I suppose?--otherwise you would not follow him, notwithstanding your love?” asked Marianne.
“Yes, Marianne, that would be indispensable,” said Fanny, gravely, firmly fixing her large eyes upon her friend. “No woman should defy the moral laws of the world, or if she does, she will always suffer for it. If I loved and could not possess the man of my choice, if I could not belong to him as his wedded wife, I should give him up. The grief would kill me, perhaps, but I should die with the consolation of having remained faithful to virtue--”
“And of having proved false to love!” exclaimed Marianne, scornfully. “Phrases! Nothing but phrases learned by heart, my child, but the world boasts of such phrases, and calls such sentiments moral! Oh, hush! hush! I know what you are going to say, and how you wish to admonish me. I heard very well how contemptuously your husband called me the mistress of the Prince von Reuss. Don’t excuse him, and don’t deny it, for I have heard it. I might reply to it what Madame de Balbi said the other day upon being upbraided with being the mistress of the Royal Prince d’Artois: ‘Le sang des princes ne souille pas!’ But I do not want to excuse myself; on the contrary, all of you shall some day apologize to me. For I tell you, Fanny, I am pursuing my own path and have a peculiar aim steadfastly in view. Oh, it is a great, a glorious aim. I want to see the whole world at my feet; all those ridiculous prejudices of birth, rank, and virtue shall bow to the Jewess, and the Jewess shall become the peer of the most distinguished representatives of society. See, Fanny, that is my plan and my aim, and it is yours too; we are only pursuing it in different ways--YOU, by the side of a man whose wife you are, and to whom you have pledged at the altar love and fidelity WITHOUT feeling them; I, by the side of a man whose friend I am--to whom, it is true, I have not pledged at the altar love and fidelity, but whom I shall faithfully love BECAUSE I have given my heart to him. Let God decide whose is the true morality. The world is on your side and condemns me, but some day I shall hurl back into its teeth all its contempt and scorn, and I shall compel it to bow most humbly to me.”
“And whosoever sees you in your proud, radiant beauty, must feel that you will succeed in accomplishing what you are going to undertake,” said Fanny, bending an admiring glance on the glorious creature by her side.
Marianne nodded gratefully. “Let us pursue our aim,” she said, “for it is one and the same. Both of us have a mission to fulfil, Fanny; we have to avenge the Jewess upon the pride of the Christian women; we have to prove to them that we are their equals in every respect, that we are perhaps better, more accomplished, and talented than all of those haughty Christian women. How often did they neglect and insult us in society! How often did they offensively try to eclipse us! How often did they vex us by their scorn and insolent bearing! We will pay it all back to them; we will scourge them with the scourges with which they have scourged us, and compel them to bow to us!”
“They shall at least consider and treat us as their equals,” said Fanny, gravely. “I am not longing for revenge, but I want to hold my place in society, and to prove to them that I am just as well-bred and aristocratic a lady, and have an equal, nay, a better right to call myself a representative of true nobility; for ours is a more ancient nobility than that of all these Christian aristocrats, and we can count our ancestors farther back into the most remote ages than they--our fathers, the proud Levites, having been high-priests in Solomon’s temple, and the people having treated them as noblemen even at that time. We will remind the Christian ladies of this whenever they talk to us about their own ancestors, who, at best, only date back to the middle ages or to Charlemagne.”
“That is right. I like to hear you talk in this strain,” exclaimed Marianne, joyfully. “I see you will represent us in Vienna in a noble and proud manner, and be an honor to the Jews of Berlin. Oh, I am so glad, Fanny, and I shall always love you for it. And do not forget me either. If it pleases God, I shall some day come to Vienna, and play there a brilliant part. However, we shall never be rivals, but always friends. Will you promise it?”
“I promise it,” said Fanny, giving her soft white hand to her friend. Marianne pressed it warmly.
“I accept your promise and shall remind you of it some day,” she said. “But now farewell, Fanny, for I see your young husband yonder, who would like to speak to you, and yet does not come to us for fear of coming in contact with the mistress of the Prince von Reuss. God bless and protect his virtue, that stands in such nervous fear of being infected! Farewell; don’t forget our oath, and remember me.”
She tenderly embraced her friend and imprinted a glowing kiss upon her forehead, and then quickly turning around, walked across the room. All eyes followed the tall, proud lady with admiring glances, and some whispered, “How beautiful she is! How proud, how glorious!” She took no notice, however; she had so often received the homage of these whispers, that they could no longer gladden her heart. Without saluting any one, her head proudly erect, she crossed the room, drawing her ermine mantilla closely around her shoulders, and deeming every thing around her unworthy of notice.
In the anteroom a footman in gorgeous livery was waiting for her. He hastened down-stairs before her, opened the street door, and rushed out in order to find his mistress’s carriage among the vast number of coaches encumbering both sides of the street, and then bring it to the door.
Marianne stood waiting in the door, stared at by the inquisitive eyes of the large crowd that had gathered in front of the house to see the guests of the wealthy banker Itzig upon their departure from the wedding. Marianne paid no attention whatever to these bystanders. Her large black eyes swept over all those faces before her with an air of utter indifference; she took no interest in any one of them, and their impertinent glances made apparently no impression upon her.
But the crowd took umbrage at her queenly indifference.
“Just see,” the bystanders whispered here and there, “just see the proud Jewess! How she stares at us, as if we were nothing but thin air! What splendid diamonds she has got! Wonder if she is indebted for them to her father’s usury?”
On hearing this question, that was uttered by an old woman in rags, the whole crowd laughed uproariously. Marianne even then took no notice. She only thought that her carriage was a good while coming up, and the supposed slowness of her footman was the sole cause of the frown which now commenced clouding her brow. When the crowd ceased laughing, a woman, a Jewess, in a dirty and ragged dress, stepped forth and placed herself close to Marianne.
“You think she is indebted to her father for those diamonds!” she yelled. “No, I know better, and can tell you all about it. Her father was a good friend of mine, and frequently traded with me when he was still a poor, peddling Jew. He afterward made a great deal of money, while I grew very poor; but he never bought her those diamonds. Just listen to me, and I will tell you what sort of a woman she is who now looks down on us with such a haughty air. She is the Jewess Marianne Meier, the mistress of the old Prince von Reuss!”
“Ah, a mistress!” shouted the crowd, sneeringly. “And she is looking at us as though she were a queen. She wears diamonds in her hair, and wants to hide her shame by dressing in purple velvet. She--”
At that moment the carriage rolled up to the door; the footman obsequiously opened the coach door and hastened to push back the crowd in order to enable Marianne to walk over the carpet spread out on the sidewalk to her carriage.
“We won’t be driven back!” roared the crowd; “we want to see the beautiful mistress--we want to see her close by.”
And laughing, shouting, and jeering, the bystanders crowded closely around Marianne. She walked past them, proud and erect, and did not seem to hear the insulting remarks that were being levelled at her. Only her cheeks had turned even paler than before, and her lips were quivering a little.
Now she had reached her carriage and entered. The footman closed the door, but the mob still crowded around the carriage, and looked through the glass windows, shouting, “Look at her! look at her! What a splendid mistress she is! Hurrah for her! Long live the mistress!”
The coachman whipped the horses, and the carriage commenced moving, but it could make but little headway, the jeering crowd rolling along with it like a huge black wave, and trying to keep it back at every step.
Marianne sat proudly erect in her carriage, staring at the mob with naming and disdainful eyes. Not a tear moistened her eyes; not a word, not a cry issued from her firmly-compressed lips. Even when her carriage, turning around the corner, gained at last a free field and sped away with thundering noise, there was no change whatever in her attitude, or in the expression of her countenance. She soon reached the embassy buildings. The carriage stopped in front of the vestibule, and the footman opened the coach door. Marianne alighted and walked slowly and proudly to the staircase. The footman hastened after her, and when she had just reached the first landing place he stood behind her and whispered;
“I beg your pardon, madame; I was really entirely innocent. Your carriage being the last to arrive, it had to take the hindmost place; that was the reason why it took us so long to get it to the door. I beg your pardon, madame.”
Marianne only turned to him for a moment, bending a single contemptuous glance upon him, and then, without uttering a word, continued ascending the staircase.
The footman paused and looked after the proud lady, whispering with a sigh--
“She will discharge me--she never forgives!”
Marianne had now reached the upper story, and walked down the corridor as slowly and as proudly as ever. Her valet stood at the door, receiving her with a profound bow, while opening the folding door. She crossed gravely and silently the long suite of rooms now opening before her, and finally entered her dressing-room. Her two lady’s maids were waiting for her here in order to assist her in putting on a more comfortable dress.
When they approached their mistress, she made an imperious, repelling gesture.
“Begone!” she said, “begone!”
That was all she said, but it sounded like a scream of rage and pain, and the lady’s maids hastened to obey, or rather to escape. When the door had closed behind them, Marianne rushed toward it and locked it, and drew the heavy curtain over it.
Now she was alone--now nobody could see her, nobody could hear her. With a wild cry she raised her beautiful arms, tore the splendid diadem of brilliants from her hair, and hurled it upon the floor. She then with trembling hands loosened the golden sash from her tapering waist, and the diamond pins from her hair, and threw all these precious trinkets disdainfully upon the floor. And now with her small feet, with her embroidered silken shoes, she furiously stamped on them with flaming eyes, and in her paroxysm of anger slightly opening her lips, so as to show her two rows of peerless teeth which she held firmly pressed together.
Her fine hair, no longer fastened by the diamond pins, had fallen down, and was now floating around her form like a black veil, and closely covered her purple dress. Thus she looked like a goddess of vengeance, so beautiful, so proud, so glorious and terrible--her small hands raised toward heaven, and her feet crushing the jewelry.
“Insulted, scorned!” she murmured. “The meanest woman on the street believes she has a right to despise me--me, the celebrated Marianne Meier--me, at whose feet counts and princes have sighed in vain! And who am I, then, that they should dare to despise me?”
She asked this question with a defiant, burning glance toward heaven, but all at once she commenced trembling, and hung her head humbly and mournfully.
“I am a disgraced woman,” she whispered. “Diamonds and velvet do not hide my shame. I am the prince’s mistress. That’s all!”
“But it shall be so no longer!” she exclaimed, suddenly. “I will put a stop to it. I MUST put a stop to it! This hour has decided my destiny and broken my stubbornness. I thought I could defy the world in MY way. I believed I could laugh at its prejudices; but the world is stronger than I, and therefore I have to submit, and shall hereafter defy it in its own way. And I shall do so most assuredly. I shall do so on the spot.”
Without reflecting any further, she left her chamber and hastened once more through the rooms. Her hair now was waving wildly around her shoulders, and her purple dress, no longer held together by the golden sash, was floating loosely around her form. She took no notice whatever of her dishabille; only one idea, only one purpose filled her heart.
In breathless haste she hurried on, and now quickly opened a last door, through which she entered a room furnished in the most sumptuous and comfortable manner.
At her appearance, so sudden, and evidently unexpected, the elderly gentleman, who had reposed on the silken sofa, arose and turned around with a gesture of displeasure.
On recognizing Marianne, however, a smile overspread his features, and he went to meet her with a pleasant greeting.
“Back already, dearest?” he said, extending his hand toward her.
“Yes, your highness--I am back already,” she said drily and coldly.
The gentleman upon whose features the traces of a life of dissipation were plainly visible, fixed his eyes with an anxious air upon the beautiful lady. He only now noticed her angry mien and the strange dishabille in which she appeared before him.
“Good Heaven, Marianne!” he asked, sharply, “what is the cause of your agitation, of your coldness toward me? What has happened to you?”
“What has happened to me? The most infamous insults have been heaped upon my head!” she exclaimed with quivering lips, an angry blush suffusing her cheeks, “For a quarter of an hour, nay, for an eternity, I was the target of the jeers, the contempt, and the scorn of the rabble that publicly abused me in the most disgraceful manner!”
“Tell me,” exclaimed the old gentleman, “what has occurred, and whose fault it was!”
“Whose fault it was?” she asked, bending a piercing glance upon him. “YOURS, my prince; you alone are to blame for my terrible disgrace and humiliation. For your sake the rabble has reviled me, called me your mistress, and laughed at my diamonds; calling them the reward of my shame! Oh, how many insults, how many mortifications have I not already suffered for your sake--with how many bloody tears have I not cursed this love which attaches me to you, and which I was nevertheless unable to tear from my heart, for it is stronger than myself. But now the cup of bitterness is full to overflowing. My pride cannot hear so much contumely and scorn. Farewell, my prince, my beloved! I must leave you. I cannot stay with you any longer. Shame would kill me. Farewell! Hereafter, no one shall dare to call me a mistress.”
With a last glowing farewell, she turned to the door, but the prince kept her back. “Marianne,” he asked, tenderly, “do you not know that I love you, and that I cannot live without you?”
She looked at him with a fascinating smile. “And I?” she asked, “far from you, shall die of a broken heart; with you, I shall die of shame. I prefer the former. Farewell! No one shall ever dare again to call me by that name.” And her hand touched already the door-knob.
The prince encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back. “I shall not let you go,” he said, ardently. “You are mine, and shall remain so! Oh, why are you so proud and so cold? Why will you not sacrifice your faith to our love? Why do you insist upon remaining a Jewess?”
“Your highness,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, “why do you want me to become a Christian?”
“Why?” he exclaimed. “Because my religion and the laws of my country prevent me from marrying a Jewess.”
“And if I should sacrifice to you the last that has remained to me?” she whispered--“my conscience and my religion.”
“Marianne,” he exclaimed, solemnly, “I repeat to you what I have told you so often already: ‘Become a Christian in order to become my wife.’”
She encircled his neck impetuously with her arms and clung to him with a passionate outburst of tenderness. “I will become a Christian!” she whispered.
XVII. LOVE AND POLITICS
“At last! at last!” exclaimed Gentz, in a tone of fervid tenderness, approaching Marianne, who went to meet him with a winning smile. “Do you know, dearest, that you have driven me to despair for a whole week? Not a word, not a message from you! Whenever I came to see you, I was turned away. Always the same terrible reply, ‘Madame is not at home,’ while I felt your nearness in every nerve and vein of mine, and while my throbbing heart was under the magic influence of your presence. And then to be turned away! No reply whatever to my letters, to my ardent prayers to see you only for a quarter of an hour.”
“Oh, you ungrateful man!” she said, smiling, “did I not send for you to-day? Did I not give you this rendezvous quite voluntarily?”
“You knew very well that I should have died if your heart had not softened at last. Oh, heavenly Marianne, what follies despair made me commit already! In order to forget you, I plunged into all sorts of pleasures, I commenced new works, I entered upon fresh love-affairs. But it was all in vain. Amidst those pleasures I was sad; during my working hours my mind was wandering, and in order to impart a semblance of truth and tenderness to my protestations of love, I had to close my eyes and imagine YOU were the lady whom I was addressing-.”
“And then you were successful?” asked Marianne, smiling.
“Yes, then I was successful,” he said, gravely; “but my new lady-love, the beloved of my distraction and despair, did not suspect that I only embraced her so tenderly because I kissed in her the beloved of my heart and of my enthusiasm.”
“And who was the lady whom you call the beloved of your distraction and despair?” asked Marianne.
“Ah, Marianne, you ask me to betray a woman?”
“No, no; I am glad to perceive that you are a discreet cavalier. You shall betray no woman. I will tell you her name. The beloved of your distraction and despair was the most beautiful and charming lady in Berlin--it was the actress Christel Eughaus. Let me compliment you, my friend, on having triumphed with that belle over all those sentimental, lovesick princes, counts, and barons. Indeed, you have improved your week of ‘distraction and despair’ in the most admirable manner.”
“Still, Marianne, I repeat to you, she was merely my sweetheart for the time being, and I merely plunged into this adventure in order to forget you.”
“Then you love me really?” asked Marianne.
“Marianne, I adore you! You know it. Oh, now I may tell you so. Heretofore you repelled me and would not listen to my protestations of love because I was a MARRIED man. Now, however, I have got rid of my ignominious fetters, Marianne; now I am no longer a married man. I am free, and all the women in the world are at liberty to love me. I am as free as a bird in the air!”
“And like a bird you want to flit from one heart to another?”
“No, most beautiful, most glorious Marianne; your heart shall be the cage in which I shall imprison myself.”
“Beware, my friend. What would you say if there was no door in this cage through which you might escape?”
“Oh, if it had a door, I should curse it.”
“Then you love me so boundlessly as to be ready to sacrifice to me the liberty you have scarcely regained?”
“Can you doubt it, Marianne?” asked Gentz, tenderly pressing her beautiful hands to his lips.
“Are you in earnest, my friend?” she said, smiling. “So you offer your hand to me? You want to marry me?”
Gentz started back, and looked at her with a surprised and frightened air. Marianne laughed merrily.
“Ah!” she said, “your face is the most wonderful illustration of Goethe’s poem. You know it, don’t you?” And she recited with ludicrous pathos the following two lines:
“‘Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort, Hor ich’s, mocht ich gleich wieder fort.’”
“Good Heaven, what a profound knowledge of human nature our great Goethe has got, and how proud I am to be allowed to call him a friend of mine--Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort.”
“Marianne, you are cruel and unjust, you--”
“And you know the next two lines of the poem?” she interrupted him. “The maiden replied to him:”
“‘Heirathen wir eben, Das Ubrige wird sich geben.’”
“You mock me,” exclaimed Gentz, smiling, “and yet you know the maiden’s assurance would not prove true in our case, and that there is something rendering such a happiness, the prospect of calling you my wife, an utter impossibility. Unfortunately, you are no Christian, Marianne. Hence I cannot marry you.” [Footnote: Marriages between Christians and Jews were prohibited in the German states at that period.]
“And if I were a Christian?” she asked in a sweet, enchanting voice.
He fixed his eyes with a searching glance upon her smiling, charming face.
“What!” he asked, in evident embarrassment. “If you were a Christian? What do you mean, Marianne?”
“I mean, Frederick, that, I have given the highest proof of my love to the man who loves me so ardently, constantly, and faithfully. For his sake I have become a Christian, Yesterday I was baptized. Now, my friend, I ask you once more, I ask you as a Christian woman: Gentz, will you marry me? Answer me honestly and frankly, my friend! Remember that it is ‘the beloved of your heart and of your enthusiasm,’ as you called me yourself a few moments ago, who now stands before you and asks for a reply. Remember that this moment will be decisive for our future--speedily, nay, immediately decisive. For you see I have removed all obstacles. I have become a Christian, and I tell you I am ready to become your wife in the course of the present hour. Once more, then, Gentz, will you marry me?”
He had risen and paced the room in great excitement. Marianne followed him with a lurking glance and a scornful smile, but when he now stepped back to her, she quickly assumed her serious air.
“Marianne,” he said, firmly, “you want to know the truth, and I love you too tenderly to conceal it from you. I will not, must not, cannot marry you. I WILL not, because I am unable to bear once more the fetters of wedded life. I MUST not, because I should make you unhappy and wretched. I CANNOT, while, doing so, I should act perfidiously toward a friend of mine, for you know very well that the Prince von Reuss is my intimate friend.”
“And I am his mistress. You wished to intimate that to me by your last words, I suppose?”
“I wished to intimate that he loves you boundlessly, and he is a generous, magnanimous man, whose heart would break if any one should take you from him.”
“For the last time, then: you will not marry me?”
“Marianne, I love you too tenderly--I cannot marry you!”
Marianne burst into a fit of laughter. “A strange reason for rejecting my hand, indeed!” she said. “It is so original that in itself it might almost induce me to forgive your refusal. And yet I had counted so firmly and surely upon your love and consent that I had made already the necessary arrangements in order that our wedding might take place to-day. Just look at me, Gentz. Do you not see that I wear a bridal-dress?”
“Your beauty is always a splendid bridal-dress for you, Marianne.”
“Well said! But do you not see a myrtle-wreath, my bridal-wreath, on the table there? Honi soit qui mal y pense! The priest is already waiting for the bride and bridegroom in the small chapel, the candles on the altar are lighted, every thing is ready for the ceremony. Well, we must not make the priest wait any longer. So you decline being the bridegroom at the ceremony? Well, attend it, then, as a witness. Will you do so? Will you assist me as a faithful friend, sign my marriage-contract, and keep my secret?”
“I am ready to give you any proof of my love and friendship,” said Gentz, gravely.
“Well, I counted on you,” exclaimed Marianne, smiling, “and, to tell you the truth, I counted on your refusal to marry me. Come, give me your arm. I will show you the same chapel which the Prince von Reuss has caused to be fitted up here in the building of the Austrian embassy. The servants will see nothing strange in our going there, and I hope, moreover, that we shall meet with no one on our way thither. At the chapel we shall perhaps find Prince Henry--that will be a mere accident, which will surprise no one. Come, assist me in putting on this long black mantilla which will entirely conceal my white silk dress. The myrtle-wreath I shall take under my arm so that no one will see it. And now, come!”
“Yes, let us go,” said Gentz, offering his arm to her. “I see very well that there is a mystification in store for me, but I shall follow you wherever you will take me, to the devil or--”
“Or to church,” she said, smiling. “But hush now, so that no one may hear us.”
They walked silently through the rooms, then down a long corridor, and after descending a narrow secret staircase, they entered a small apartment where three gentlemen were waiting for them.
One of them was a Catholic priest in his vestments, the second the Prince von Reuss, Henry XIII., and the third the first attache of the Austrian embassy.
The prince approached Marianne, and after taking her hand he saluted Gentz in the most cordial manner.
“Every thing is ready,” he said; “come, Marianne, let me place the wreath on your head.”
Marianne took off her mantilla, and, handing the myrtle-wreath to the prince, she bowed her head, and almost knelt down before him. He took the wreath and fastened it in her hair, whereupon he beckoned the attache to hand to him the large casket standing on the table. This casket contained a small prince’s coronet of exquisite workmanship and sparkling with the most precious diamonds.
The prince fastened this coronet over Marianne’s wreath, and the diamonds glistened now like stars over the delicate myrtle-leaves.
“Arise, Marianne,” he then said, loudly. “I have fastened the coronet of your new dignity in your hair; let us now go to the altar.”
Marianne arose. A strange radiance of triumphant joy beamed in her face; a deep flush sufused used her cheeks, generally so pale and transparent; a blissful smile played on her lips. With a proud and sublime glance at Gentz, who was staring at her, speechless and amazed, she took the prince’s arm.
The priest led the way, and from the small room they now entered the chapel of the embassy. On the altar, over which one of Van Dyck’s splendid paintings was hanging, large wax-tapers were burning in costly silver chandeliers. On the carpet in front of the altar two small prie-dieus for Marianne and the prince were placed, and two arm-chairs for the witnesses stood behind them. Opposite the altar, on the other side of the chapel, a sort of choir or balcony with an organ had been fitted up.
But no one was there to play on that organ. All the other chairs and benches were vacant; the ceremony was to be performed secretly and quietly.
Gentz saw and observed every thing as though it were a vision, he could not yet make up his mind that it was a reality; he was confused and almost dismayed, and did not know whether it was owing to his surprise at what was going on, or to his vexation at being so badly duped by Marianne. He believed he was dreaming when he saw Marianne and the prince kneeling on the prie-dieus, Marianne Meier, the Jewess, at the right hand of the high-born nobleman, at the place of honor, only to be occupied by legitimate brides of equal rank; and when he heard the priest, who stood in front of the altar, pronounce solemn words of exhortation and benediction, and finally ask the kneeling bride and bridegroom to vow eternal love and fidelity to each other. Both uttered the solemn “Yes” at the same time, the prince quietly and gravely, Marianne hastily and in a joyful voice. The priest thereupon gave them the benediction, and the ceremony was over. The whole party then returned to the anteroom serving as a sacristy. They silently received the congratulations of the priest and the witnesses. The attache then took a paper from his memorandum-book; it contained the minutes of the ceremony, which he had drawn up already in advance. Marianne and the prince signed it; the witnesses and the priest did the same, the latter adding the church seal to his signature. It was now a perfectly valid certificate of their legitimate marriage, which the prince handed to Marianne, and for which she thanked him with a tender smile.
“You are now my legitimate wife,” said the Prince von Reuss, gravely; “I wish to give you this proof of my love and esteem, and I return my thanks to these gentlemen for having witnessed the ceremony; you might some day stand in need of their testimony. For the time being, however, I have cogent reasons for keeping our marriage secret, and you have promised not to divulge it.”
“And I renew my promise at this sacred place and in the presence of the priest and our witnesses, my dear husband,” said Marianne. “No one shall hear from me a word or even an intimation of what has occurred here. Before the world I shall be obediently and patiently nothing but your mistress until you deem it prudent to acknowledge that I am your wife.”
“I shall do so at no distant day,” said the prince. “And you, gentlemen, will you promise also, will you pledge me your word of honor that you will faithfully keep our secret?”
“We promise it upon our honor!” exclaimed the two gentlemen.
The prince bowed his thanks. “Let us now leave the chapel separately, just as we have come,” he said; “if we should withdraw together, it would excite the attention and curiosity of the servants, some of whom might meet us in the hall. Come, baron, you will accompany me.” He took the attache’s arm, and left the small sacristry with him. “And you will accompany me,” said Marianne, kindly nodding to Gentz.
“And I shall stay here for the purpose of praying for the bride and bridegroom,” muttered the priest, returning to the altar.
Marianne now hastily took the coronet and myrtle-wreath from her hair and concealed both under the black mantilla which Gentz gallantly laid around her shoulders.
They silently reascended the narrow staircase and returned through the corridor to Marianne’s rooms. Upon reaching her boudoir, Marianne doffed her mantilla with an indescribable air of triumphant joy, and laid the coronet and myrtle-wreath on the table.
“Well,” she asked in her sonorous, impressive voice, “what do you say now, my tender Gentz?”
He had taken his hat, and replied with a deep bow: “I have to say that I bow to your sagacity and talents. That was a master-stroke of yours, dearest.”
“Was it not?” she asked, triumphantly. “The Jewess, hitherto despised and ostracized by society, has suddenly become a legitimate princess; she has now the power to avenge all sneers, all derision, all contempt she has had to undergo. Oh, how sweet this revenge will be--how I shall humble all those haughty ladies who dared to despise me, and who will be obliged henceforth to yield the place of honor to me!”
“And will you revenge yourself upon me too, Marianne?” asked Gentz, humbly--“upon me who dared reject your hand? But no, you must always be grateful to me for that refusal of mine. Just imagine I had compelled you to stick to your offer: instead of being a princess, you would now be the unhappy wife of the poor military counsellor, Frederick Gentz.”
Marianne laughed. “You are right,” she said, “I am grateful to you for it. But, my friend, you must not and shall not remain the poor military counsellor Gentz.”
“God knows that that is not my intention either,” exclaimed Gentz, laughing. “God has placed a capital in my head, and you may be sure that I shall know how to invest it at a good rate of interest.”
“But here you will obtain no such interest,” said Marianne, eagerly, “let us speak sensibly about that matter. We have paid our tribute to love and friendship; let us now talk about politics I am authorized--and she who addresess you now is no longer Marianne Meier, but the wife of the Austrian ambassador--I am authorized to make an important offer to you. Come, my friend, sit down in the arm-chair here, and let us hold a diplomatic conference.”
“Yes, let us do so,” said Gentz, smiling, and taking the seat she had indicated to him.
“Friend Gentz, what are your hopes for the future?”
“A ponderous question, but I shall try to answer it as briefly as possible. I am in hopes of earning fame, honor, rank, influence, and a brilliant position by my talents.”
“And you believe you can obtain all that here in Prussia?”
“I hope so,” said Gentz, hesitatingly.
“You have addressed a memorial to the young king; you have urged him to give to his subjects prosperity, happiness, honor, and freedom of the press. How long is it since you sent that memorial to him?”
“Four weeks to-day.”
“Four weeks, and they have not yet rewarded you for your glorious memorial, although the whole Prussian nation hailed it with the most rapturous applause? They have not yet thought of appointing you to a position worthy of your talents? You have not yet been invited to court?”
“Yes, I was invited to court. The queen wished to become acquainted with me. Gualtieri presented me to her, and her majesty said very many kind and flattering things to me.” [Footnote: Varnhagen, “Gallerie von Bildnissen,” etc., vol. ii.]
“Words, empty words, my friend! Their actions are more eloquent. The king has not sent for you, the king has not thanked you. The king does not want your advice, and as if to show to yourself, and to all those who have received your letter so enthusiastically, that he intends to pursue his own path and not to listen to such advice, the king, within the last few days, has addressed a decree to the criminal court, peremptorily ordering the prosecuting attorneys to proceed rigorously against the publishers of writings not submitted to or rejected by the censors.” [Footnote: F. Foerster, “Modern History of Prussia,” vol. i., p. 498.]
“That cannot be true--that is impossible!” exclaimed Gentz, starting up.
“I pardon your impetuosity in consideration of your just indignation,” said Marianne, smiling. “That I told you the truth, however, you will see in to-morrow’s Gazette, which will contain the royal decree I alluded to. Oh, you know very well the Austrian ambassador has good friends everywhere, who furnish him the latest news, and keep him informed of all such things. You need not hope, therefore, that the young king will make any use of your talents or grant you any favors. Your splendid memorial has offended him instead of winning him; he thought it was altogether too bold. Frederick William the Third is not partial to bold, eccentric acts; he instinctively shrinks back from all violent reforms. The present King of Prussia will not meddle with the great affairs of the world; the King of Prussia wishes to remain neutral amidst the struggle of contending parties. Instead of thinking of war and politics, he devotes his principal attention to the church service and examination of the applicants for holy orders, and yet he is not even courageous enough formally to abolish Wollner’s bigoted edict, and thus to make at least one decisive step forward. Believe me, lukewarmness and timidity will characterize every act of his administration. So you had better go to Austria.”
“And what shall I do in Austria?” asked Gentz, thoughtfully.
“What shall you do there?” exclaimed Marianne, passionately. “You shall serve the fatherland--you shall serve Germany, for Germany is in Austria just as well as in Prussia. Oh, believe me, my friend, only in Austria will you find men strong and bold enough to brave the intolerable despotism of the French. And the leading men there will welcome you most cordially; an appropriate sphere will be allotted to your genius, and the position to which you will be appointed will amply satisfy the aspirations of your ambition. I am officially authorized to make this offer to you, for Austria is well aware that, in the future, she stands in need of men of first-class ability, and she therefore desires to secure your services, which she will reward in a princely manner. Come, my friend, I shall set out to-day with the prince on a journey to Austria. Accompany us--become one of ours!”
“Ours! Are you, then, no longer a daughter of Prussia?”
“I have become a thorough and enthusiastic Austrian, for I worship energy and determination, and these qualities I find only in Austria, in the distinguished man who is holding the helm of her ship of state, Baron Thugut. Come with us; Thugut is anxious to have you about his person; accompany us to him.”
“And what are you going to do in Vienna?” asked Gentz, evasively. “Is it a mere pleasure-trip?”
“If another man should put that question to me, I should reply in the affirmative, but to you I am going to prove by my entire sincerity that I really believe you to be a devoted friend of mine. No, it is no pleasure-trip. I accompany the prince to Vienna because he wants to get there instructions from Baron Thugut and learn what is to be done at Rastadt.”
“Ah, at Rastadt--at the peace congress,” exclaimed Gentz. “The emperor has requested the states of the empire to send plenipotentiaries to Rastadt to negotiate there with France a just and equitable peace. Prussia has already sent there her plenipotentiaries, Count Goertz and Baron Dohm. Oh, I should have liked to accompany them and participate in performing the glorious task to be accomplished there. That congress at Rastadt is the last hope of Germany; if it should fail, all prospects of a regeneration of the empire are gone. That congress will at last give to the nation all it needs: an efficient organization of the empire, a well-regulated administration of justice, protection of German manufactures against British arrogance, and last, but not least, freedom of the press, for which the Germans have been yearning for so many years.”
Marianne burst into a loud fit of laughter. “Oh, you enthusiastic visionary!” she said, “but let us speak softly, for even the walls must not hear what I am now going to tell you.”
She bent over the table, drawing nearer to Gentz, and fixing her large, flaming eyes upon him, she asked in a whisper, “I suppose you love Germany? You would not like to see her devoured by France as Italy was devoured by her? You would not like either to see her go to decay and crumble to pieces from inherent weakness?”
“Oh, I love Germany!” said Gentz, enthusiastically. “All my wishes, all my hopes belong to her. Would to God I could say some day, all my talents, my energy, my perseverance are devoted to my fatherland--to Germany!”
“Well, if you really desire to be useful to Germany,” whispered Marianne, “hasten to Rastadt. If Germany is to be saved at all, it must be done at once. You know the stipulations of the treaty of Campo Formio, I suppose?”
“I only know what every one knows about them.”
“But you do not know the secret article. I will tell you all about it. Listen to me. The secret article accepted by the emperor reads as follows: ‘The emperor pledges himself to withdraw his troops from Mentz, Ehrenbreitstein, Mannheim, Konigstein, and from the German empire in general, twenty days after the ratification of the peace, which has to take place in the course of two months.’” [Footnote: Schlosser’s “History of the Eighteenth Century,” vol. v., p. 43.]
“But he thereby delivers the empire to the tender mercies of the enemy,” exclaimed Gentz, in dismay. “Oh, that cannot be! No German could grant and sign such terms without sinking into the earth from shame. That would be contrary to every impulse of patriotism--”
“Nevertheless, that article has been signed and will be carried out to the letter. Make haste, therefore, Germany is calling you; assist her, you have got the strength. Oh, give it to her! Become an Austrian just as Brutus became a servant of the kings; become an Austrian in order to save Germany!”
“Ah, you want to entice me, Delilah!” exclaimed Gentz. “You want to show me a beautiful goal in order to make me walk the tortuous paths which may lead thither! No, Delilah, it is in vain! I shall stay here; I shall not go to Austria, for Austria is the state that is going to betray Germany. Prussia may be able to save her; she stands perhaps in need of my arm, my pen, and my tongue for that purpose. I am a German, but first of all I am a Prussian, and every good patriot ought first to serve his immediate country, and wait until she calls him. I still hope that the king will prove the right man for his responsible position; I still expect that he will succeed in rendering Prussia great and Germany free. I must, therefore, remain a Prussian as yet and be ready to serve my country.”
“Poor enthusiast! You will regret some day having lost your time by indulging in visionary hopes.”
“Well, I will promise, whenever that day comes, whenever Prussia declares that she does not want my services, then I will come to you--then you shall enlist me for Austria, and perhaps I may then still be able to do something for Germany. But until then, leave me here. I swear to you, not a word of what you have just told me here shall be betrayed by my lips; but I cannot serve him who has betrayed Germany.”
“You cannot be induced, then, to accept my offer? You want to stay here? You refuse to accompany me to Vienna, to Rastadt, in order to save what may yet be saved for Germany?”
“If I had an army under my command,” exclaimed Gentz, with flaming eyes, “if I were the King of Prussia, then I should assuredly go to Rastadt, but I should go thither for the purpose of dispersing all those hypocrites, cowards, and scribblers who call themselves statesmen, and of driving those French republicans who put on such disgusting airs, and try to make us believe they had a perfect right to meddle with the domestic affairs of Germany--beyond the Rhine! I should go thither for the purpose of garrisoning the fortresses of the Rhine--which the Emperor of Germany is going to surrender to the tender mercies of the enemy--with my troops, and of defending them against all foes from without or from within. That would be my policy if I were King of Prussia. But being merely the poor military counsellor, Frederick Gentz, and having nothing but some ability and a sharp pen, I shall stay here and wait to see whether or not Prussia will make use of my ability and of my pen. God save Germany and protect her from her physicians who are concocting a fatal draught for her at Rastadt: God save Germany!”
FRANCE AND GERMANY.
XVIII. CITOYENNE JOSEPHINE BONAPARTE
A joyful commotion reigned on the eighth of November, 1797, in the streets and public places of the German fortress of Rastadt. The whole population of the lower classes had gathered in the streets, while the more aristocratic inhabitants appeared at the open windows of their houses in eager expectation of the remarkable event for which not only the people of the whole city, but also the foreign ambassadors, a large number of whom had arrived at Rastadt, were looking with the liveliest symptoms of impatience.
And, indeed, a rare spectacle was in store for them. It was the arrival of General Bonaparte and his wife Josephine that all were waiting for this morning. They were not to arrive together, however, but both were to reach the city by a different route. Josephine, who was expected to arrive first, was coming from Milan by the shortest and most direct route; while Bonaparte had undertaken a more extended journey from Campo Formio through Italy and Switzerland. It was well known already that he had been received everywhere with the most unbounded enthusiasm, and that all nations had hailed him as the Messiah of liberty. There had not been a single city that had not received him with splendid festivities, and honors had been paid to him as though he were not only a triumphant victor, but an exalted ruler, to whom every one was willing to submit. Even free Switzerland had formed no exception. At Geneva the daughters of the first and most distinguished families, clad in the French colors, had presented to him in the name of the city a laurel-wreath. At Berne, his carriage had passed through two lines of handsomely decorated coaches, filled with beautiful und richly adorned ladies, who had hailed him with the jubilant shout of “Long live the pacificator!”
In the same manner the highest honors had been paid to his wife Josephine, who had been treated everywhere with the deference due to a sovereign princess. The news of these splendid receptions had reached Rastadt already; and it was but natural that the authorities and citizens of the fortress did not wish to be outdone, and that they had made extensive arrangements for welcoming the conqueror of Italy in a becoming manner.
A magnificent triumphal arch had been erected in front of the gate through which General Bonaparte was to enter the city, and under it the city fathers, clad in their official robes, were waiting for the victorious hero, in order to conduct him to the house that had been selected for him. In front of this house, situated on the large market-place, a number of young and pretty girls, dressed in white, and carrying baskets with flowers and fruits which they were to lay at the feet of the general’s beautiful wife, had assembled.
At the gate through which Josephine was to arrive, a brilliant cavalcade of horsemen had gathered for the purpose of welcoming the lady of the great French chieftain, and of escorting her as a guard of honor.
Among these cavaliers there were most of the ambassadors from the different parts of Germany, who had met here at Rastadt in order to accomplish the great work of peace. Every sovereign German prince, every elector and independent count had sent his delegates to the southwestern fortress for the purpose of negotiating with the French plenipotentiaries concerning the future destinies of Germany. Even Sweden had sent a representative, who had not appeared so much, however, in order to take care of the interests of Swedish Pomerania, as to play the part of a mediator and reconciler.
All these ambassadors had been allowed to enter Rastadt quietly and entirely unnoticed. The GERMAN city had failed to pay any public honors to these distinguished GERMAN noblemen; but every one hastened to exhibit the greatest deference to the French general--and even the ambassadors deemed it prudent to participate in these demonstrations: only they tried to display, even on this occasion, their accustomed diplomacy, and instead of receiving the victorious chieftain in the capacity of humble vassals, they preferred to present their respects as gallant cavaliers to his beautiful wife and to escort her into the city.
The German ambassadors, therefore, were waiting for Mme. General Bonaparte on their magnificent prancing steeds in front of the gate through which she was to pass. Even old Count Metternich, the delegate of the Emperor of Austria and ruler of the empire, notwithstanding the stiffness of his limbs, had mounted his horse; by his side the other two ambassadors of Austria were halting--Count Lehrbach, the Austrian member of the imperial commission, and Count Louis Cobenzl, who was acting as a delegate for Bohemia and Hungary. Behind old Count Metternich, on a splendid and most fiery charger, a young cavalier of tall figure and rare manly beauty might be seen; it was young Count Clemens Metternich, who was to represent the corporation of the Counts of Westphalia, and to begin his official diplomatic career here at Rastadt under the eye of his aged father. By his side the imposing and grave ambassadors of Prussia made their appearance--Count Goertz, who at the time of the war for the succession in Bavaria had played a part so important for Prussia and so hostile to Austria; and Baron Dohm, no less distinguished as a cavalier, than as a writer. Not far from them the representatives of Bavaria, Saxony, Wurtemberg, and of the whole host of the so-called “Immediates” [Footnote: The noblemen owning territory in the states of secondary princes, but subject only to the authority of the emperor, were called “Immediates.”] might be seen, whom the editors and correspondents had joined, that had repaired to Rastadt in the hope of finding there a perfect gold-mine for their greedy pens. But not merely the German diplomatists and the aristocratic young men of Rastadt were waiting here for the arrival of Mme. General Bonaparte; there was also the whole crowd of French singers, actors, and adventurers who had flocked to the Congress of Rastadt for the purpose of amusing the distinguished noblemen and delegates by their vaudevilles, comedies, and gay operas. Finally, there were also the French actresses and ballet-girls, who, dressed in the highest style of fashion, were occupying on one side of the road a long row of splendid carriages. Many of these carriages were decorated on their doors with large coats-of-arms, and a person well versed in heraldry might have easily seen therefrom that these escutcheons indicated some of the noble diplomatists on the other side of the road to be the owners of the carriages. In fact, a very cordial and friendly understanding seemed to prevail between the diplomatists and the ladies of the French theatre. This was not only evident from the German diplomatists having lent their carriages to the French ladies for the day’s reception, but likewise from the ardent, tender, and amorous glances that were being exchanged between them, from their significant smiles, and from their stealthy nods and mute but eloquent greetings.
Suddenly, however, this inimical flirtation was interrupted by the rapid approach of a courier. This was the signal announcing the impending arrival of Josephine Bonaparte. In fact, the heads of four horses were seen already in the distance; they came nearer and nearer, and now the carriage drawn by these horses, and a lady occupying it, could be plainly discerned.
It was a wonderful warm day in November. Josephine, therefore, had caused the top of her carriage to be taken down, and the spectators were able, not merely to behold her face, but to scan most leisurely her whole figure and even her costume. The carriage had approached at full gallop, but now, upon drawing near to the crowd assembled in front of the gate, it slackened its speed, and every one had time and leisure to contemplate the lady enthroned in the carriage. She was no longer in the first bloom of youth; more than thirty years had passed already over her head; they had deprived her complexion of its natural freshness, and left the first slight traces of age upon her pure and noble forehead. But her large dark eyes were beaming still in the imperishable fire of her inward youth, and a sweet and winning smile, illuminating her whole countenance as though a ray of the setting sun had fallen upon it, was playing around her charming lips. Her graceful and elegant figure was wrapped in a closely fitting gown of dark-green velvet, richly trimmed with costly furs, and a small bonnet, likewise trimmed with furs, covered her head, and under this bonnet luxuriant dark ringlets were flowing down, surrounding the beautiful and noble oval of her face with a most becoming frame.
Josephine Bonaparte was still a most attractive and lovely woman, and on beholding her it was easily understood why Bonaparte, although much younger, had been so fascinated by this charming lady and loved her with such passionate tenderness.
The French actors now gave vent to their delight by loud cheers, and rapturously waving their hats, they shouted: “Vive la citoyenne Bonaparte! Vive l’august epouse de l’Italique!”
Josephine nodded eagerly and with affable condescension to the enthusiastic crowd, and slowly passed on. On approaching the diplomatists, she assumed a graver and more erect attitude; she acknowledged the low, respectful obeisances of the cavaliers with the distinguished, careless, and yet polite bearing of a queen, and seemed to have for every one a grateful glance and a kind smile. Every one was satisfied that she had especially noticed and distinguished him, and every one, therefore, felt flattered and elated. From the diplomatists she turned her face for a moment to the other side, toward the ladies seated in the magnificent carriages. But her piercing eye, her delicate womanly instinct told her at a glance that these ladies, in spite of the splendor surrounding them, were no representatives of the aristocracy; she therefore greeted them with a rapid nod, a kind smile, and a graceful wave of her hand, and then averted her head again.
Her carriage now passed through the gate, the cavaliers surrounding it on both sides, and thereby separating the distinguished lady from her attendants, who were following her in four large coaches. These were joined by the carriages of the actresses, by whose sides the heroes of the stage were cantering and exhibiting their horsemanship to the laughing belles with painted cheeks.
It was a long and brilliant procession with which Mme. General Bonaparte made her entrance into Rastadt, and the last of the carriages had not yet reached the gate, when Josephine’s carriage had already arrived on the market-place and halted in front of the house she was to occupy with her husband. Before the footman had had time to alight from the box, Josephine herself had already opened the coach door in order to meet the young ladies who were waiting for her at the door of her house, and to give them a flattering proof of her affability. In polite haste she descended from the carriage and stepped into their midst, tendering her hands to those immediately surrounding her, and whispering grateful words of thanks to them for the beautiful flowers and fruits, and thanking the more distant girls with winning nods and smiling glances. Her manners were aristocratic and withal simple; every gesture of hers, every nod, every wave of her hand was queenly and yet modest, unassuming and entirely devoid of haughtiness, just as it behooved a prominent daughter of the great Republic which had chosen for her motto “Liberte, egalite, fraternite.”
Laden with flowers, and laughing as merrily as a young girl, Josephine finally entered the house; in the hall of the latter the ladies of the French ambassadors, the wives and daughters of Bonnier Reberjot and Jean Debry, were waiting for her. Josephine, who among the young girls just now had been all hilarity, grace, and familiarity, now again assumed the bearing of a distinguished lady, of the consort of General Bonaparte, and received the salutations of the ladies with condescending reserve. She handed, however, to each of the ladies one of her splendid bouquets, and had a pleasant word for every one. On arriving at the door of the rooms destined for her private use, she dismissed the ladies and beckoned her maid to follow her.
“Now, Amelia,” she said hurriedly, as soon as the door had closed behind them--“now let us immediately attend to my wardrobe. I know Bonaparte--he is always impetuous and impatient, and he regularly arrives sooner than he has stated himself. He was to be here at two o’clock, but he will arrive at one o’clock, and it is now almost noon. Have the trunks brought up at once, for it is high time for me to dress.”
Amelia hastened to carry out her mistress’s orders, and Josephine was alone. She hurriedly stepped to the large looking-glass in the bedroom and closely scanned in it her own features.
“Oh, oh! I am growing old,” she muttered after a while. “Bonaparte must love me tenderly, very tenderly, not to notice it, or I must use great skill not to let him see it. Eh bien, nous verrons!”
And she glanced at herself with such a triumphant, charming smile that her features at once seemed to grow younger by ten years. “Oh, he shall find me beautiful--he shall love me,” she whispered, “for I love him so tenderly.”
Just then Amelia entered loaded with bandboxes and cartons, and followed by the servants carrying the heavy trunks. Josephine personally superintended the lowering of the trunks for the purpose of preventing the men from injuring any of those delicate cartons; and when every thing was at last duly arranged, she looked around with the triumphant air of a great general mustering his troops and conceiving the plans for his battle.
“Now lock the door and admit no one, Amelia,” she said, rapidly divesting herself of her travelling-dress. “Within an hour I must be ready to receive the general. But stop! We must first think of Zephyr, who is sick and exhausted. The dear little fellow cannot stand travelling in a coach. He frequently looked at me on the road most dolorously and imploringly, as if he wanted to beseech me to discontinue these eternal travels. Come, Zephyr; come, my dear little fellow.”
On hearing her voice, a small, fat pug-dog, with a morose face and a black nose, arose from the trunk on which he had been lying, and waddled slowly and lazily to his mistress.
“I really believe Zephyr is angry with me,” exclaimed Josephine, laughing heartily. “Just look at him, Amelia--just notice this reserved twinkling of his eyes, this snuffling pug-nose of his, this proudly-erect head that seems to smell roast meat and at the same time to utter invectives! He exactly resembles my friend Tallien when the latter is making love to the ladies. Come, my little Tallien, I will give you some sweetmeats, but in return you must be kind and amiable toward Bonaparte; you must not bark so furiously when he enters; you must not snap at his legs when he gives me a kiss; you must not snarl when he inadvertently steps on your toes. Oh, be gentle, kind, and amiable, my beautiful Zephyr, so as not to exasperate Bonaparte, for you know very well that he does not like dogs, and that he would throw you out of the window rather than suffer you at my feet.”
Patting the dog tenderly, she lifted him upon an arm-chair, and then spread out biscuits and sweetmeats before him, which Zephyr commenced examining with a dignified snuffling of the nose.
“Now, Amelia, we will attend to my toilet,” said Josephine, when she saw that Zephyr condescended to eat some of the biscuits.
Amelia had opened all the trunks and placed a large number of small jars and vials on the dressing-table. Josephine’s beauty stood already in need of some assistance, and the amiable lady was by no means disinclined to resort to cosmetics for this purpose. It is true, the republican customs of the times despised rouge, for the latter had been very fashionable during the reign of the “tyrant” Louis XVI., and Marie Antoinette had greatly patronized this fashion and always painted her cheeks. Nevertheless Josephine found rouge to be an indispensable complement to beauty, and, as public opinion was adverse to it, she kept her use of it profoundly secret. Amelia alone saw and knew it--Amelia alone was a witness to all the little secrets and artifices by which Josephine, the woman of thirty-three years, had to bolster up her beauty. But only the head stood in need of some artificial assistance. The body was as yet youthful, prepossessing, and remarkable for its attractiveness and luxuriant forms, and when Josephine now had finished her task, she was truly a woman of enchanting beauty and loveliness. Her eyes were so radiant and fiery, her smile so sweet and sure of her impending triumph, and the heavy white silk dress closely enveloped her figure, lending an additional charm to its graceful and classical outlines.
“Now, a few jewels,” said Josephine; “give me some diamonds, Amelia; Bonaparte likes brilliant, sparkling trinkets. Come, I will select them myself.”
She took from Amelia’s hands the large case containing all of her caskets, and glanced at them with a smile of great satisfaction.
“Italy is very rich in precious trinkets and rare gems,” she said, with a gentle shake of her head. “When, a few months ago, I came thither from Paris, I had only three caskets, and the jewelry they contained was not very valuable. Now, I count here twenty-four etuis, and they are filled with the choicest trinkets. Just look at these magnificent pearls which the Marquis de Lambertin has given to me. He is an old man, and I could not refuse his princely gift. This casket contains a bracelet which Mancini, the last Doge of Venice, presented to me, and which he assured me was wrought by Benvenuto Cellini for one of his great-great-grandmothers. This splendid set of corals and diamonds was given to me by the city of Genoa when she implored my protection and begged me to intercede with Bonaparte for her. And here--but do you not hear the shouts? What does it mean! Should Bonaparte--”
She did not finish the sentence, but hastened to the window. The market-place, which she was able to overlook from there, was now crowded with people, but the dense masses had not assembled for the purpose of seeing Josephine. All eyes were directed toward yonder street from which constantly fresh and jubilant crowds of people were hurrying toward the market-place, and where tremendous cheers, approaching closer and closer, resounded like the angry roar of the sea. Now some white dots might be discerned in the midst of the surging black mass. They came nearer and grew more distinct; these dots were the heads of white horses. They advanced very slowly, but the cheers made the welkin ring more rapidly and were reechoed by thousands and thousands of voices. Amidst these jubilant cheers the procession drew near, now it turned from the street into the market-place. Josephine, uttering a joyful cry, opened the window and waved her hand, for it was Bonaparte whom the excited masses were cheering.
He sat all alone in an open barouche, drawn by six milk-white horses magnificently caparisoned in a silver harness. [Footnote: “These six horses with their magnificent harness were a gift from the Emperor of Austria, who had presented them to Bonaparte after the peace of Campo Fonnio. Bonaparte had rejected all other offers.”--Bourrienne, vol. 1., p. 389.]
Leaning back into the cushions in a careless and fatigued manner, he scarcely seemed to notice the tremendous ovation that was tendered to him. His face looked pale and tired; a cloud had settled on his expansive marble forehead, and when he from time to time bowed his thanks, he did so with a weary and melancholy smile. But it was exactly this cold, tranquil demeanor, this humble reserve, this pale and gloomy countenance that seemed to strike the spectators and fill them with a feeling of strange delight and wondering awe. In this pale, cold, sombre, and imposing face there was scarcely a feature that seemed to belong to a mortal, earth-born being. It seemed as though the spectre of one of the old Roman imperators, as though the shadow of Julius Caesar had taken a seat in that carriage, and allowed the milk-white horses to draw him into the surging bustle and turmoil of life. People were cheering half from astonishment, half from fear; they were shouting, “Long live Bonaparte!” as if they wanted to satisfy themselves that he was really alive, and not merely the image of an antique imperator.
The carriage now stopped in front of the house. Before rising from his seat, Bonaparte raised his eyes hastily to the windows. On seeing Josephine, who stood at the open window, his features became more animated, and a long, fiery flash from his eyes struck her face. But he did not salute her, and the cloud on his brow grew even gloomier than before.
“He is in bad humor and angry,” whispered Josephine, closing the window, “and I am afraid he is angry with me. Good Heaven! what can it be again? What may be the cause of his anger? I am sure I have committed no imprudence--”
Just then the door was hastily opened, and Bonaparte entered.
XIX. BONAPARTE AND JOSEPHINE
Bonaparte had scarcely deigned to glance at the French ambassadors and their ladies, who had received him at the foot of the staircase. All his thoughts centred in Josephine. And bowing slightly to the ladies and gentlemen, he had impetuously rushed upstairs and opened the door, satisfied that she would be there and receive him with open arms. When he did not see her, he passed on, pale, with a gloomy face, and resembling an angry lion.
Thus he now rushed into the front room where he found Josephine. Without saluting her, and merely fixing his flashing eyes upon her, he asked in a subdued, angry voice: “Madame, you do not even deem it worth the trouble to salute me! You do not come to meet me!”
“But, Bonaparte, you have given me no time for it,” said Josephine, with a charming smile. “While I thought you were just about to alight from your carriage, you burst already into this room like a thunder-bolt from heaven.”
“Oh, and that has dazzled your eyes so much that you are even unable to salute me?” he asked angrily.
“And you, Bonaparte?” she asked, tenderly. “You do not open your arms to me! You do not welcome me! Instead of pressing me to your heart, you scold me! Oh, come, my friend, let us not pass this first hour in so unpleasant a manner! We have not seen each other for almost two months, and--”
“Ah, madame, then you know that at least,” exclaimed Bonaparte; “then you have not entirely forgotten that you took leave of me two months ago, and that you swore to me at that time eternal love and fidelity, and promised most sacredly to write to me every day. You have not kept your oaths and pledges, madame!”
“But, my friend, I have written to you whenever I was told that a courier would set out for your headquarters.”
“You ought to have sent every day a courier of your own for the purpose of transmitting your letters to me,” exclaimed Bonaparte, wildly stamping his foot, so that the jars and vials on the table rattled violently, while Zephyr jumped down from his arm-chair and commenced snarling. Josephine looked anxiously at him and tried to calm him by her gestures.
Bonaparte continued: “Letters! But those scraps I received from time to time were not even letters. Official bulletins of your health they were, and as cold as ice. Madame, how could you write such letters to me, and moreover only every fourth day? If you really loved me, you would have written every day. But you do not love me any longer; I know it. Your love was but a passing whim. You feel now how ridiculous it would be for you to love a poor man who is nothing but a soldier, and who has to offer nothing to you but a little glory and his love. But I shall banish this love from my heart, should I have to tear my heart with my own teeth.” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--Vide “Lettres a Josephine. Memoires d’une Contemporaine,” vol. i., p. 853.]
“Bonaparte,” exclaimed Josephine, half tenderly, half anxiously, “what have I done that you should be angry with me? Why do you accuse me of indifference, while you know very well that I love you?”
“Ah, it is a very cold love, at all events,” he said, sarcastically. “It is true, I am only your husband, and it is not in accordance with aristocratic manners to love one’s husband; that is mean, vulgar, republican! But I am a republican, and I do not want any wife with the manners and habits of the ANCIEN REGIME. I am your husband, but woe to him who seeks to become my wife’s lover! I would not even need my sword in order to kill him. My eyes alone would crush him![Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--Ibid.] And I shall know how to find him; and if he should escape to the most remote regions, my arm is a far-reaching one, and I will extend it over the whole world in order to grasp him.”
“But whom do you allude to?” asked Josephine, in dismay.
“Whom?” he exclaimed in a thundering voice. “Ah, madame, you believe I do not know what has occurred? You believe I see and hear nothing when I am no longer with you? Let me compliment you, madame! The handsome aide-de-camp of Leclerc is a conquest which the ladies of Milan must have been jealous of; and Botot, the spy, whom Barras sent after me, passes even at Paris for an Adonis. What do you mean by your familiarities with these two men, madame? You received Adjutant Charles at eleven o’clock in the morning, while you never leave your bed before one o’clock. Oh, that handsome young fellow wanted to tell you how he was yearning for his home in Paris, and what his mother and sister had written to him, I suppose? For that reason so convenient an hour had to be chosen? For that reason he came at eleven o’clock while you were in bed yet. His ardor was so intense, and if he had been compelled to wait until one o’clock, impatience would have burned his soul to ashes!” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--Vide “Memoires d’un Contemporaine,” vol. ii., p. 80.]
“He wanted to set out for Paris precisely at twelve o’clock. That was the only reason why I received him so early, my friend,” said Josephine, gently.
“Oh, then, you do not deny that you have actually received him?” shouted Bonaparte, and his face turned livid. With flaming eyes and uplifted hand, he stepped up close to Josephine. “Madame,” he exclaimed, in a thundering voice, “then you dare to acknowledge that Charles is your lover?”
Before Josephine had time to reply to him Zephyr, who saw him threaten his mistress, furiously pounced upon Bonaparte, barking and howling, showing his teeth, and quite ready to lacerate whom he supposed to be Josephine’s enemy.
“Ah, this accursed dog is here, too, to torment me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, and raising his foot, he stamped with crushing force on the body of the little dog. A single piercing yell was heard; then the blood gushed from Zephyr’s mouth, and the poor beast lay writhing convulsively on the floor. [Footnote: Vide “Rheinischer-Antiquar.,” vol. ii., p. 574.]
“Bonaparte, you have killed my dog,” exclaimed Josephine, reproachfully, and bent over the dying animal.
“Yes,” he said, with an air of savage joy, “I have killed your dog, and in the same manner I shall crush every living being that dares to step between you and myself!”
Josephine had taken no notice of his words. She had knelt down by the side of the dog, and tenderly patted his head and writhing limbs till they ceased moving.
“Zephyr is dead,” she said rising. “Poor little fellow, he died because he loved me. Pardon me, general, if I weep for him. But Zephyr was a cherished souvenir from a friend who died only a short while ago. General Hoche had given the dog to me.”
“Hoche?” asked Bonaparte, in some confusion.
“Yes, Lazarus Hoche, who died a few weeks ago. A few days before his death he sent the dog to me while at Milan--Lazarus Hoche who, you know it very well, loved me, and whose hand I rejected because I loved you,” said Josephine, with a noble dignity and calmness, which made a deeper impression upon Bonaparte than the most poignant rebuke would have done.
“And now, general,” she proceeded, “I will reply to your reproaches. I do not say that I shall JUSTIFY myself, because I thereby would acknowledge the justice of your charges, but I will merely answer them. I told you already why I admitted Charles at so early an hour. He was about to set out for Paris, and I wished to intrust to him important and secret letters and other commissions.”
“Why did not you send them by a special courier?” asked Bonaparte, but in a much gentler voice than before.
“Because it would have been dangerous to send my letters to Botot by a courier,” said Josephine, calmly.
“To Botot? Then you admit your familiarities with Botot, too? People did not deceive me, then, when they told me that you received this spy Botot, whom Barras had sent after me, in order to watch me, every morning in your boudoir--that you always sent your maid away as soon as he came, and that your interviews with him frequently lasted for hours?”
“That is quite true; I do not deny it,” said Josephine, proudly.
Bonaparte uttered an oath, and was about to rush at her. But she receded a step, and pointing at the dead dog with a rapid gesture, she said: “General, take care! There is no other dog here for you to kill, and I am only a weak, defenceless woman; it would assuredly not behoove the victor of Arcole to attack me!”
Bonaparte dropped his arm, and, evidently ashamed of himself, stepped back several paces.
“Then you do not deny your intimate intercourse with Botot and Charles?”
“I do not deny that both of them love me, that I know it, and that I have taken advantage of their love. Listen to me, general: I have taken advantage of their love. That is mean and abominable; it is playing in an execrable manner with the most exalted feelings of others, I know it very well, but I did so for your sake, general--I did so in your interest.”
“In my interest?” asked Bonaparte, in surprise.
“Yes, in your interest,” she said. “Now I can tell and confess every thing to you. But as long as Charles and Botot were present, I could not do so, for if you had ceased being jealous--if, warned by myself, you had treated these two men kindly instead of showing your jealous distrust of them by a hostile and surly demeanor, they might have suspected my game and divined my intrigue, and I would have been unable to avail myself any longer of their services.”
“But, for God’s sake, tell me what did you need their services for?”
“Ah, sir, I perceive that you know better how to wield the sword than unravel intrigues,” said Josephine, with a charming smile. “Well, I made use of my two lovers in order to draw their secrets from them. And secrets they had, general, for you know Botot is the most intimate and influential friend of Barras, and Madame Tallien adores Charles, the handsome aide-de-camp. She has no secrets that he is not fully aware of, and she does whatever he wants her to do; and again, whatever she wants to be done, her husband will do--her husband, that excellent Tallien, who with Barras is one of the five directors of our republic.”
“Oh, women, women!” muttered Bonaparte.
Josephine continued: “In this manner, general, I learned every scheme and almost every idea of the Directory; in this manner, through my devoted friends, Botot and Charles, I have succeeded in averting many a foul blow from your own head. For you were menaced, general, and you are menaced still. And what is menacing you? That is your glory and your greatness--it is the jealousy of the five kings of France, who, under the name of directors, are now reigning at the Luxemburg. The Quintumvirate beheld your growing power and glory with terror and wrath, and all endeavors of theirs only aimed at lessening your influence. A favorite way of theirs for carrying out their designs against you was the circulation of false news concerning you. Botot told me that Barras had even hired editors to write against you, and to question your integrity. These editors now published letters purporting to come from Verona, and announcing that Bonaparte was about to proclaim himself dictator. Then, again, they stated in some letter from the frontier, or from a foreign country, that the whole of Lombardy was again on the eve of an insurrection; that the Italians detested the tyranny imposed upon them by the conqueror, and that they were anxious to recall their former sovereigns.”
“Ah, the miserable villains!” exclaimed Bonaparte, gnashing his teeth, “I--”
“Hush, general! listen to my whole reply to your reproaches,” said Josephine, with imperious calmness. “At some other time these hirelings of the press announced in a letter from Turin that an extensive conspiracy was about to break out at Paris; that the Directory was to be overthrown by this conspiracy, and that a dictatorship, at the head of which Bonaparte would be, was to take place. They further circulated the news all over the departments, that the ringleaders of the plot had been arrested and sent to the military commissions for trial; but that the conqueror of Italy had deemed it prudent to avoid arrest by running away.” [Footnote: Le Normand, Memoires, vol. i., p. 267.]
“That is a truly infernal web of lies and infamies!” ejaculated Bonaparte, furiously. “But I shall justify myself, I will go to Paris and hurl the calumnies of these miserable Directors back into their teeth!”
“General, there is no necessity for you to descend into the arena in order to defend yourself,” said Josephine, smiling. “Your actions speak for you, and your friends are watching over you. Whenever such an article appeared in the newspapers. Botot forwarded it to me; whenever the Directory sprang a new mine, Botot sent me word of it. And then I enlisted the assistance of my friend Charles, and he had to refute those articles through a journalist who was in my pay, and to foil the mine by means of a counter-mine.”
“Oh, Josephine, how can I thank you for what you have done for me!” exclaimed Bonaparte, enthusiastically. “How--”
“I am not through yet, general,” she interrupted him, coldly. “Those refutations and the true accounts of your glorious deeds found an enthusiastic echo throughout the whole of France, and every one was anxious to see you in the full splendor of your glory, and to do homage to you at Paris. But the jealous Directory calculated in advance how dangerous the splendor of your glory would be to the statesmen of the Republic, and how greatly your return would eclipse the five kings. For that reason they resolved to keep you away from Paris; for that reason exclusively they appointed you first plenipotentiary at the congress about to be opened at Rastadt, and intrusted the task to you to exert yourself here for the conclusion of peace. They wanted to chain the lion and make him feel that he has got a master whom he must obey.”
“But the lion will break the chain, and he will not obey,” exclaimed Bonaparte, angrily. “I shall leave Rastadt on this very day and hasten to Paris.”
“Wait a few days, general,” said Josephine, smiling. “It will be unnecessary for you to take violent steps, my friends Botot and Charles having worked with me for you. Botot alone not being sufficiently powerful, inasmuch as he could influence none but Barras, I sent Charles to his assistance in order to act upon Madame Tallien. And the stratagem was successful. Take this letter which I received only yesterday through a special messenger from Botot--you know Botot’s handwriting, I suppose?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Well, then, satisfy yourself that he has really written it,” said Josephine, drawing a sheet of paper from her memorandum-book and handing it to Bonaparte.
He glanced at it without touching the paper. “Yes, it is Botot’s handwriting,” he murmured.
“Read it, general,” said Josephine.
“I do not want to read it; I believe all you tell me!” he exclaimed, impetuously.
“I shall read it to you,” she said, “for the contents will interest you. Listen therefore: ‘Adored Citoyenne Josephine.--We have reached the goal--we have conquered! The Directory have at length listened to wise remonstrances. They have perceived that they stand in need of a strong and powerful arm to support them, and of a pillar to lean against. They will recall Bonaparte in order that he may become their pillar and arm. In a few days a courier will reach Bonaparte at Rastadt and recall him to Paris.--BOTOT.’ That is all there is in the letter, General; it contains nothing about love, but only speaks of you.”
“I see that I am the happiest of mortals,” exclaimed Bonaparte, joyfully; “for I shall return to Paris, and my beautiful, noble, and adored Josephine will accompany me.”
“No, general,” she said, solemnly, “I shall return to Italy; I shall bury myself in some convent in order to weep there over the short dream of my happiness, and to pray for you. Now I have told you every thing I had to say to you. I have replied to your reproaches. You see that I have meanly profited by the love of these poor men, that I have made a disgraceful use of the most sacred feeling in order to promote your interests. I did so secretly, for I told you already, general, your valorous hand knows better how to wield the sword than to carry on intrigues. A strong grasp of this hand might have easily destroyed the whole artificial web of my plans, and for this reason I was silent. But I counted on your confidence, on your esteem. I perceive now, however, that I do not possess them, and this separates us forever. Unreserved confidence is not only the nourishment that imparts life to friendship, but without it love also pines away and dies. [Footnote: Josephine’s own words.--Vide Le Normand, vol. i., p. 248.] Farewell, then, general; I forgive your distrust, but I cannot expose myself any longer to your anger. Farewell!”
She bowed and turned to the door. But Bonaparte followed her, and keeping her back with both hands, he said, in a voice trembling with emotion: “Where are you going, Josephine?”
“I told you already,” she sighed, painfully; “I am going to a convent to weep and pray for you.”
“That means that you want to kill me!” he exclaimed, with flaming eyes. “For you know I cannot live without you. If I had to lose you, your love, your charming person, I would lose every thing rendering life pleasant and desirable for me. Josephine, you are to me a world that is incomprehensible to me, and every day I love you more passionately. Even when I do not see you, my love for you is constantly growing; for absence only destroys small passions; it increases great passions. [Footnote: Bonaparte’s words.--Vide “Memoires d’une Contemporaine,” vol. ii., p. 363.] My heart never felt any of the former. It proudly refused to fall in love, but you have filled it with a boundless passion, with an intoxication that seems to be almost degrading. You were always the predominant idea of my soul; your whims even were sacred laws for me. To see you is my highest bliss; you are beautiful and enchanting; your gentle, angelic soul is depicted in your features. Oh, I adore you just as you are; if you had been younger, I should have loved you less intensely. Every thing you do seems virtuous to me; every thing you like seems honorable to me. Glory is only valuable to me inasmuch as it is agreeable to you and flatters your vanity. Your portrait always rests on my heart, and whenever I am far from you, not an hour passes without my looking at it and covering it with kisses. [Footnote: Vide “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” Lettre v.] The glass broke the other day when I pressed it too violently against my breast. My despair knew no bounds, for love is superstitious, and every thing seems ominous to it. I took it for an announcement of your death, and my eyes knew no sleep, my heart knew no rest, till the courier whom I immediately dispatched to you, had brought me the news that you were well, and that no accident had befallen you. [Footnote: “Memoires sur Napoleon, par Constant,” vol. i.. p. 809.] See, woman, woman, such is my love! Will you now tell me again that you wish to leave me?”
“I must, general,” she said, firmly. “Love cannot be lasting without esteem, and you do not esteem me. Your suspicion has dishonored me, and a dishonored and insulted woman cannot be your wife any longer. Farewell!”
She wanted to disengage herself from his hands, but he held her only the more firmly. “Josephine,” he said, in a hollow voice, “listen to me, do not drive me to despair, for it would kill me to lose you. No duty, no title would attach me any longer to earth. Men are so contemptible, life is so wretched--you alone extinguish the ignominy of mankind in my eyes. [Footnote: “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” p. 875] Without you there is no hope, no happiness. I love you boundlessly.”
“No, general, you despise me; you do not love me!”
“No, no!” he shouted, wildly stamping his foot. “If you go on in this manner, I shall drop dead at your feet. Do not torment me so dreadfully. Remember what I have often told you: Nature has given to me a strong, decided soul, but it has made you of gauze and lace. You say I do not love. Hear it, then, for the last time. Since you have been away from me, I have not passed a single day without loving you, not a single night without mentally pressing you to my heart. I have not taken a single cup of tea without cursing the glory and ambition separating me from the soul of my life. [Footnote: “Correspondance,” etc., p. 532.] Amidst my absorbing occupations--at the head of my troops, on the march and in the field--my heavenly Josephine ever was foremost in my heart. She occupied my mind; she absorbed my thoughts. If I left you with the impetuosity of the Rhone, I only did so in order to return the sooner to your side. If I ran from my bed at night and continued working, I did so for the purpose of accelerating the moment of our reunion. The most beautiful women surrounded me, smiled upon me, gave me hopes of their favor, and tried to please me, but none of them resembled you; none had the gentle and melodious features so deeply imprinted on my heart. I only saw you, only thought of you, and that rendered all of them intolerable to me. I left the most beautiful women in order to throw myself on my couch and sigh, ‘When will my adored wife be again with me?’ [Footnote: Ibid., p. 349.] And if I just now gave way to an ebullition of anger, I only did so because I love you so boundlessly as to be jealous of every glance, of every smile. Forgive me, therefore, Josephine, forgive me for the sake of my infinite love! Tell me that you will think no more of it, and that you will forget and forgive every thing.”
He looked at her anxiously and inquiringly, but Josephine did not reply to his glances. She averted her eyes and remained silent.
“Josephine.” he exclaimed, perfectly beside himself, “make an end of it. Just touch my forehead; it is covered with cold perspiration, and my heart is trembling as it never trembled in battle. Make an end of it; I am utterly exhausted. Oh, Josephine, my dear Josephine, open your arms to me.”
“Well, come then, you dear, cruel husband,” she said, bursting into tears and extending her arms to him.
Bonaparte uttered a joyful cry, pressed her to his heart, and covered her with kisses.
“Now I am sure you have forgiven every thing,” he said, encircling her all the time with his arms. “You forgive my madness, my abominable jealousy?”
“I forgive every thing, Bonaparte, if you will promise not to be jealous again,” she said, with a charming smile.
“I promise never to be jealous again, but to think, whenever you give a rendezvous to another man, that you only do so for my sake, and for the purpose of conspiring for me. Ah, my excellent wife, you have worked bravely for me, and henceforth I know that I can intrust to your keeping my glory and my honor with implicit confidence. Yea, even the helm of the state I would fearlessly intrust to your hands. Pray, therefore, Josephine, pray that your husband may reach the pinnacle of distinction, for in that case I should give you a seat in my council of state and make you mistress of every thing except one point--” [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i. p. 341.]
“And what is that?” asked Josephine, eagerly.
“The only thing I should not intrust to you, Josephine,” he said, laughing, “would be the keys of my treasury; you never would get them, my beautiful prodigal little wife of gauze, lace, diamonds, and pearls!” [Footnote: Ibid., vol. i., p. 342.]
“Ah, then you would deprive me of the right to distribute charities in your name?” she asked, sadly. “Is not that the most precious and sublime duty of the wife of a great man, to conquer Heaven for him by charities while he is conquering earth by his deeds? And you would take from me the means for doing so? Yours is a wild and passionate nature, and I shall often have to heal the wounds that you have inflicted in your outbursts of anger. Happy for me if I should always be able to heal them, and if your anger should be less fatal to men than to my poor little dog, who merely wanted to defend me against your violence.”
“Poor little dog!” said Bonaparte, casting a glance of confusion upon Zephyr. “I greatly regret the occurrence, particularly as the dog was a gift from Hoche. But no lamentations of mine being able to recall Zephyr to life, Josephine, I will immortalize him at all events. He shall not find an unknown grave, like many a hero; no, we will erect to this valiant and intrepid defender of the charming fortress Josephine, a monument which shall relate his exploits to the most remote posterity. Have Zephyr packed up in a box; couriers and convoys of troops will set out to-day for Milan. They shall take the corpse along, and I will issue orders that a monument be erected to your Zephyr in the garden of our villa. [Footnote: Bonaparte kept his word. The little victim of his Jealousy, Zephyr, the dog, was buried in the gardens of Mondeza, near Milan, and a marble monument was erected on his grave.--Le Normand, vol. i., p. 498.] But now, Josephine, I must leave you; life, with its stern realities, is calling me. I must go and receive the Austrian ambassadors.”
XX. THE RECEPTION OF THE AMBASSADORS
A motley crowd of gentlemen in uniforms and glittering gala-dresses had filled the anterooms of the French embassy ever since the arrival of General Bonaparte and Josephine. All these high-born representatives of German sovereigns and states hastened to do homage to the French lady and to commend themselves to the benevolence and favor of the victorious general of the republic. But the doors of the general and of his wife were as difficult to open as those of the French ambassadors, Bonnier, Jean Debry, and Roberjot. General Bonaparte had received the Austrian ambassadors, and returned their visit. But nobody else had been admitted to him during the first day. The ambassadors, therefore, flocked the more eagerly on this second day after his arrival to the anterooms of the French ambassadors, for every one wanted to be the first to win for his sovereign and for his state the good-will of the French conqueror. Every one wished to obtain advantages, to avert mischief, and to beg for favors.
Happy were they already who had only succeeded in penetrating into the anterooms of the French embassy, for a good deal of money had to be spent in order to open those doors. In front of them stood the footmen of the ambassadors with grave, stern countenances, refusing to admit any but those who had been previously recommended to them, or who knew now how to gain their favor by substantial rewards. [Footnote: The employes of the French embassy, from the first secretary down to the lowest footman and cook, received handsome gifts at the hands of the German delegates, for every one was anxious to secure the goodwill of the French representatives; and in obedience to the old trick of diplomatists, they tried to gain the favor of the masters by means of that of their servants. The latter made a very handsome thing out of it.--Vide Hausser, vol. ii., p. 163.] And when they finally, by means of such persuasive gifts, had succeeded in crossing the threshold of the anteroom, they found there the clerks and secretaries of the French gentlemen, and these men again barred the door of the cabinet occupied by the ambassadors themselves. These clerks and secretaries had to be bribed likewise by solicitations, flatteries, and money; only, instead of satisfying them with silver, as in the case of the doorkeepers, they had to give them heavy gold pieces.
Having finally overcome all these obstacles--having now penetrated into the presence of the French diplomatists--the ambassadors of the German powers met with a haughty reserve instead of the kindness they had hoped for, and with sarcastic sneers in lieu of a warm reception. It was in vain for Germany thus to humble herself and to crouch in the dust. France was too well aware of her victories and superiority, and the servility of the German aristocracy only excited contempt and scorn, which the French gentlemen did not refrain from hurling into the faces of the humble solicitors. The greater the abjectness of the latter, the more overbearing the haughty demeanor of the former, and both gained the firm conviction that France held the happiness and quiet of Germany in her hands, and that France alone had the power to secure to the German princes the possession of their states, to enlarge their dominions, or to deprive them thereof, just as she pleased, and without paying any deference to the wishes of the Germans themselves.
To-day, however, all these distinguished men--the counts and barons of the empire, the bishops and other ecclesiastical dignitaries--had not appeared for the purpose of conquering the favor of the three French stars--to-day a new constellation had arisen on the sky of Rastadt, and they wanted to stare at it--they wanted to admire Bonaparte and Josephine.
But Bonaparte took hardly any notice of the crowd assembled in the anteroom. His hands folded on his back, he was pacing his room, and listening with rapt attention to the accounts the three French ambassadors were giving him concerning the policy they had pursued up to the present time.
“We have done every thing in our power to spread republican notions hereabouts,” said Jean Debry, at the conclusion of his lengthy remarks. “We have sent agents to all of these small German states for the purpose of enlightening the people about their dignity, their rights, and the disgrace of submitting to miserable princes, instead of being free and great under the wholesome influence of republican institutions.”
“We have, moreover, even here, excellent spies among the ambassadors,” said Roberjot, “and through them we have skilfully fanned the flames of that discord which seems to be the bane of Germany. It is true, they hold secret meetings every day in order to agree on a harmonious line of policy, but discord, jealousy, and covetousness always accompany them to those meetings, and they are therefore never able to agree about any thing. Besides, these German noblemen are very talkative, hence we find out all their secrets, and it is an easy task for us to foil every scheme of theirs. Every one of them is anxious to enlarge his possessions; we therefore give them hopes of acquiring new territory at the expense of their neighbors, and thereby greatly increase the discord and confusion prevailing among them. We fill the ambassadors of the secondary princes, and especially those of the ecclesiastical sovereigns, with distrust against the more powerful German states, and intimate to them that the latter are trying to aggrandize themselves at their expense, and that they have asked the consent of France to do so. We inform the first-class governments of the desire of the smaller princes to enlarge their dominions, and caution them against placing implicit trust in their representations. Thus we sow the seeds of discord among these princely hirelings, and endeavor to undermine the thrones of Germany.”
“Germany must throw off all her princes like ripe ulcers,” exclaimed Bonnier, scornfully. “These numerous thrones beyond the Rhine are dangerous and fatal to our sublime and indivisible French Republic--bad examples spoiling good manners. Every throne must disappear from the face of the earth, and freedom and equality must shine throughout the whole world like the sun.”
“You are right,” said Bonaparte, gravely. “It is our duty to disseminate our principles among these Germans, who are living in slavery as yet, and to assist the poor serfs in obtaining their liberty. Germany must become a confederate republic, and discord is the best sword wherewith to attack these princely hirelings. But what does the Swedish ambassador--whose name I noticed on the list of applicants for interviews with myself--here among the representatives of the German princes?”
“He pretends to participate in the congress of peace because Sweden warranted the execution of the treaty of Westphalia,” exclaimed Jean Debry, shrugging his shoulders.
“Bah! that is a most ridiculous pretext,” said Bonnier, gloomily. “This M. Fersen is a royalist. The political part played by this diplomatist at the court of Louis Capet, and afterward continued by him, is only too well known. He now tries to dazzle us by his kindness merely for the purpose of laying a trap for the French Republic.”
“Ah, we shall show to the gentleman that the Republic has got an open eye and a firm hand, and that it discovers and tears all such meshes and traps,” said Bonaparte, impetuously. “But we have done business enough for to-day, and I will go and receive the ambassadors who have been waiting here for a long while in the ante-room.”
He saluted the three gentlemen with a familiar nod, and then repaired to the reception-room, the doors of which were opened at last to admit the German ambassadors.
It was a brilliant crowd now entering in a solemn procession through the opened folding-doors. The ambassadors of every German sovereign were in attendance; only the representatives of Austria and Prussia, whom Bonaparte had received already in a special audience, were absent.
This German peace delegation, which now entered the room to do homage to the French general, was a very large one. There were first the ambassadors of Bavaria and Saxony, of Baden and Wurtemberg, of Hanover and Mecklenburg; then followed the host of the small princes and noblemen, by whose side the ecclesiastical dignitaries, the representatives of the electors and bishops, were walking in. [Footnote: The whole German peace delegation consisted of seventy-nine persons, and all these seventy-nine distinguished men, the ambassadors of emperor, kings, and princes, tried to gain the favor of the ambassadors of France: and the three gentlemen, representing the great Republic, seemed more powerful and influential than all the representatives of Germany.]
Bonaparte stood proudly erect in the middle of the room, his gloomy glances inspecting the gentlemen, who now commenced stationing themselves on both sides of the apartment. A master of ceremonies, who had been previously selected for the meetings of the peace congress, now walked solemnly through the ranks and announced in a ringing voice the name, rank, and position of every ambassador.
“His excellency Count Fersen,” he shouted just now, in a solemn manner, “ambassador of his majesty the King of Sweden and Duke of Pomerania.”
Count Fersen had not yet finished his ceremonious obeisance, When Bonaparte rapidly approached him.
“Just tell me, sir,” he exclaimed, bluntly; “what is the name of the minister whom Sweden has now in Paris?”
Count Fersen looked in evident surprise and confusion at the pale face of the general, whose flaming eyes were fixed upon him with an angry expression.
“I do not know,” he faltered, “I am not quite sure--”
“Ah, sir, you know only too well that Sweden has not yet given a successor to M. de Haill,” Bonaparte interrupted him violently, “and that the only ambassador whom she was willing to send had to be rejected by the Directory. You were this ambassador whom the Directory would not tolerate in Paris. Friendly ties have united France and Sweden for a long series of years, and I believe Sweden ought to appreciate and recognize their importance at the present time more than ever. How, then, is the conduct of the court of Stockholm to be explained, that tries to make it its special business to send everywhere, either to Paris or wherever the plenipotentiaries of France may be seen, ministers and ambassadors who must be peculiarly distasteful to every citizen of France?”
“That is certainly not the intention of my court,” exclaimed Count Fersen, hastily.
“That may be,” said Bonaparte, proudly, “but I should like to know if the King of Sweden would remain indifferent in case a French ambassador should try to instigate an insurrection of the people of Stockholm against him! The French Republic cannot permit men, whose connection with the old court of France is a matter of notoriety, to appear in official capacities, and thus to irritate and humble the republican ambassadors, the representatives of the first nation on earth, who, before consulting her policy, knows how to maintain her dignity.”
“I shall immediately set out for Stockholm in order to communicate these views of the conqueror of Italy to my court,” said Count Fersen, pale with shame and mortification.
“Do so, set out at once,” exclaimed Bonaparte, impetuously, “and tell your master, unless he should conclude to pursue a different policy, I will send him some day a skilful diplomatic Gascon who knows how to simplify the machine and make it go less rapidly. King Gustavus will perhaps find out, when it is too late, and at his own expense, that the reins of government must be firmly held in one hand, and the other skilfully wield the sword, while it is yet time. Go, sir, and inform your king of what I have told you!”
Count Fersen made no reply; he merely bowed hastily and silently, and, beckoning his attaches who were standing behind him, he left the room with his suite. [Footnote: This whole scene actually took place, and contains only such words as really were exchanged between Bonaparte and Fersen.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. v., p. 64. Le Normand, Memoires, vol. i., p. 263.]
Bonaparte’s flashing eyes followed him until he had disappeared, and then the general turned once more to the ambassadors.
“I could not suffer a traitor and enemy in our assembly,” he said, in a loud and firm voice. “We are here in order to make peace, while he was secretly anxious for a renewal of war, and was bent upon sowing the evil seeds of discord among us. Let us all endeavor to make peace, gentlemen, to the best of our power. Do not compel me to enter the lists against you, too, for the struggle could not be doubtful between a nation that has just conquered her liberty, and princes who tried to deprive her of it again. If you reject to-day the pacific overtures I shall make to you, I shall impose other conditions to-morrow; but woe unto him among you, who should refuse my mediation; for in that case I should overthrow the whole framework of a false policy, and the thrones standing on a weak foundation would soon break down. I speak to you with the frankness of a soldier and the noble pride of a victorious general; I caution you because I have the welfare of the nations at heart, who more than ever need the blessings of peace. It is now for you to say whether we shall have war or peace, and it will solely depend upon your submissiveness whether France will be able to conclude an honorable peace with her German neighbors, or whether you will compel us to take up arms once more. But in that case woe unto you, for we should retaliate in the most terrible manner on those who would dare to oppose us!” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--Vide Le Normand, vol. i.. p. 964]
He paused and rapidly glanced at the assembled gentlemen. They stood before him with grave and gloomy faces, but none of them were courageous enough to make a dignified reply to the proud and humiliating words of the French general. The ambassadors of Germany received the severe lecture of the representative of France with silent submissiveness.
An imperceptible smile played on Bonaparte’s lips. He saluted the gentlemen with a slight nod and rapidly returned to his own rooms.
XXI. FRANCE AND AUSTRIA
Bonaparte had scarcely reached his room and just closed the door, when the opposite door opened, and the entering footman announced, “His excellency Count Louis Cobenzl.” Bonaparte waved his hand and went to meet the count in the anteroom, where he welcomed him with the utmost kindness and courtesy.
The two gentlemen thereupon reentered the room hand in hand, a pleasant smile playing on their lips, while both were assuring each other of their kind intentions, but at the same time secretly entertaining the ardent desire and purpose to divine their mutual thoughts, but to conceal their own schemes. The general, with great politeness, offered the seat of honor on the sofa to the count, and sat down in an arm-chair in front of him. A small round table with writing-materials and paper stood between them, forming as it were the frontier between Austria and France.
“So the ardent desires of Austria are fulfilled now,” said Count Cobenzl, with a sweet smile. “France will no longer oppose us; she will be our friend and ally.”
“France will welcome this new friend and ally of hers,” exclaimed Bonaparte, feelingly, “provided Austria’s intentions are loyal. Ah, my dear count, no protestations now! In politics words prove nothing, deeds every thing. Let Austria, then, prove by her deeds that she really desires to keep up a good understanding with France, and that she has given up forever her hostile attitude toward the republic.”
“But has not Austria given proof of her intentions toward France already?” asked the count, in surprise. “Has not his majesty the emperor declared his willingness to resume diplomatic relations with France, and thereby formally and before the whole world to recognize the French Republic?”
“Sir,” exclaimed Bonaparte, “the French Republic does not humbly solicit to be recognized. She compels hostile states to recognize her, for, like the sun, she sheds her light over the whole globe, and she would pierce the eyes of such as would feign not to see her, rendering them blind for all time to come! [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--Vide Constant, vol. i., p. 284.] Austria beheld this radiant sun of the republic at Lodi, at Rivoli, Arcole, and Mantua; whence, then, would she derive courage enough to refuse recognizing France? But instead of words, prove to us by your actions that your friendship is honest and sincere.”
“We are ready to do so,” said Count Cobenzl, politely. “Austria is ready to give a public and brilliant proof of her devotion to the great general whose glory is now filling the whole world with astonishment and admiration. His majesty the emperor, in the letter which I had the honor of delivering to you some time ago, told you already in eloquent words how greatly he admired the conqueror of Italy, and how gladly his majesty, if it were in his power, would grant you such favors as would be agreeable to you. But at that time you rejected all such offers, general, and nothing could induce you to accept of what we wished to present to you. It seemed not to have value enough to--”
“Rather say, count, it was all too valuable not to be looked upon as a bribe,” exclaimed Bonaparte. “I was negotiating with you, sword in hand, and it would not have been becoming of me to lay the sword aside in order to fill my hands with your presents.”
“But now, general, now that we have laid the sword aside, that we have made peace, that we have exchanged the ratifications of the treaty--now that you tender your hand to Austria in friendship and peace, you might permit his majesty the Emperor of Austria to deposit something in your friendly hand, that might prove to you how sincerely my august master the emperor is devoted to you.”
“And what does the emperor desire to deposit in my hand?” asked Bonaparte, with a quiet smile.
Count Cobenzl hesitated a little before making a reply. “General,” he then said, “when I see you thus before me in your marble beauty, I am involuntarily reminded of the heroes of Rome and Greece, who have immortalized the glory of their countries, but whom the admiration of posterity had to compensate for the ingratitude of their contemporaries. General, republics never were grateful to their great men, and only too often have they stigmatized their most glorious deeds; for the republics deprecated the greatness of their heroes, because he who distinguished himself, thereby annulled the equality and fraternity of all the citizens. Pericles was banished from Athens, and Julius Caesar was assassinated! General, will modern republics be more grateful than those of antiquity? For my part, I dare say, it is rather doubtful, and the French being descendants of the Romans, I am afraid they will not prove any more grateful than the latter. The emperor, my august master, shares my fears, and as he loves and venerates you, he would like to exalt you so high as to prevent the hands of the political factions from reaching up to you. His majesty therefore proposes to create a principality for you in Germany, and to make you the sovereign ruler of two hundred thousand people, appointing you at the same time a prince of the German empire, and giving you a seat and vote at the imperial diet. [Footnote: Historical.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. V., p. 67.] General, do you accept my emperor’s offer?”
“To become the emperor’s vassal?” asked Bonaparte, with an imperceptible smile. “A small prince of the German empire who on solemn occasions might be deemed worthy to present the wash-basin to the emperor, or to be his train bearer, while every king and elector would outrank me. No, my dear count, I do not accept the offer. I sincerely thank the emperor for the interest he takes in my welfare, but I must accept no gifts or favors not coming directly from the French nation, and I shall always be satisfied with the income bestowed upon me by the latter,” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own reply.--Vide “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. V., p. 51.]
“You reject the emperor’s offer?” asked Cobenzl, mournfully--“you disdain wearing a crown?”
“If the crown should crush the few laurels with which my victories have adorned me, yes; in that case I should prefer to decline the crown in favor of my laurels. And, my dear count, if I had been so anxious for a crown, I might have picked up one of those crowns that fell down at my feet in Italy. But I preferred to crush them under my heels, just as St. George crushed the dragon; and the gold of the crushed crowns, as it behooved a good and dutiful son, I laid down on the altar of the great French Republic. So you see I am not longing for crowns. If I might follow my own inclinations, I should return to the silence and obscurity of my former life, and I should lay my sword aside in order to live only as a peaceable citizen.”
“Oh, general, if you should do so,” exclaimed Cobenzl, “there would soon be men to pick up your sword in order to fight with it against the Republic and to recall the Bourbons to the throne of the lilies.”
A rapid flash from Bonaparte’s eyes struck the count’s face and met his sharp, searching glance.
“Count Cobenzl,” he said, quietly and coldly, “the lilies of France have dropped from their stems, and, being drowned in the blood of the guillotine, they could not be made to bloom again. He would be a poor, short-sighted gardener who would try to draw flowers from seeds dead and devoid of germs. And believe me, we are no such poor, short-sighted gardeners in France. You alluded just now to the ingratitude of republics, and you apprehended lest I might likewise suffer thereby. Let me assure you, however, that even my country’s ingratitude would be dearer to me than the gratitude of a foreign power, and that the crown of thorns, which France may press upon my head, would seem to me more honorable than the coronet with which an enemy of France might adorn my brow. And now, count, a truce to such trifling matters! Let us speak about business affairs. We have signed the ratifications of peace, which are to be laid before the congress; it only remains for us to sign the secret articles which shall be known by none but France and Austria. The main point is the evacuation of Mentz by your troops, so that our army may ocupy the fortress.”
“I am afraid, general, this very point will be a stumbling-block for the members of the congress. They will raise a terrible hue and cry as soon as they learn that we have surrendered Mentz.”
“Let these gentlemen say what they please,” said Bonaparte, contemptuously; “we have called them hither that they may talk, and while they are talking, we shall act!”
“They will say that Austria has sacrificed the welfare and greatness of Germany to her own private interests,” exclaimed Count Cobenzl, anxiously.
“Fools are they who care for what people will say!” replied Bonaparte, shrugging his shoulders. “A prudent man will pursue his path directly toward his aim, and the hum of babblers never disturbs him. Hear, then, my last words: in case the Austrian troops do not leave Mentz within one week, and surrender the fortress to the French forces, the French army will remain in Venice, and I would sooner send the latter city to the bottom of the sea than to let Austria have a single stone of hers. Mentz must be ours, or I tear the treaty, and hostilities will recommence!”
And Bonaparte, with a furious gesture, seized the papers lying on the table and was about to tear them, when Count Cobenzl suddenly jumped up and grasped his hands.
“General,” he said, imploringly, “what are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” exclaimed Bonaparte, in a thundering voice, “I am going to tear a treaty of peace, which you merely wanted to sign with words, but not with deeds! Oh, that was the nice little trick of your diplomacy, then! With your prince’s coronet you wanted to dazzle my eyes--with the two hundred thousand subjects you offered me just now, you wanted me to corrupt my soul, and induce me to barter away the honor and greatness of France for the miserable people of a petty German prince! No, sir. I shall not sell my honor at so low a price. I stand here in the name of the French Republic and ask you, the representative of Austria, to fulfil what we have agreed upon at Campo Formic. Mentz must be ours even before our troops leave Venice. If you refuse that, it is a plain infringement of the treaty, and hostilities will be resumed. Now, sir, come to a decision. I am only a soldier, and but a poor diplomatist, for with my sword and with my word I always directly strike at my aim. In short, then, count, will you withdraw your troops from Mentz and from the other fortresses on the Rhine, and surrender Mentz to our army? Yes, or no?”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Count Cobenzl, with a sigh, “we will fulfil your wishes--we will withdraw our troops from Mentz and surrender the fortress to the French.”
“When will the surrender take place? As speedily as possible, if you please.”
“On the ninth of December, general.”
“Very well, on the ninth of December. The matter is settled, then.”
“But let there be no solemn ceremonies at the surrender,” said the count, imploringly. “Let our troops withdraw quietly--let your forces occupy the place in the same manner, so that when the delegates of the German empire, assembled in congress in this city, and to whom the Emperor of Germany has solemnly guaranteed the entire integrity and inviolability of the empire, hear the news of the transaction, the latter may be already an accomplished fact, to which every one must submit.”
“Be it so, if that be Austria’s desire,” said Bonaparte, smiling.
“And now we will consider the other secret articles. The Austrian troops retire from the German empire up to the line of the Inn and Lech, occupying hereafter only Austrian territory.”
“Yes, general; in return for all these concessions on our part, the French troops will evacuate on the thirtieth of December the fortresses and territory of Venice, which has been ceded to Austria by the treaty of Campo Formio, and retire behind the line of demarcation.”
“Granted! At the same time the troops of the republic seize the tete-de-pont at Mannheim either by intimidating the isolated garrison, or by making a sudden dash at the position, [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat.” The French took the tete-de-pont at Mannheim by assault, on the 15th of January, 1798, the garrison refusing to evacuate it. Mentz surrendered without firing a gun, and during the night of the 28th of December 1797, the French entered this great fortress, which was thereupon annexed to the French Republic] and during the continuation of the negotiations here at Rastadt, the French forces leave the left bank of the Rhine and occupy the right bank from Basle to Mentz.”
“Granted,” sighed Count Cobenzl. “Austria yields the frontier of the Rhine to France--that is, by the simultaneous retreat of her own forces she surrenders to the republic the most important points of the German empire, including Ehrenbreitstein. The congress of the states of the German empire will deliberate, therefore, under the direct influence produced by the immediate neighborhood of a French army.”
“In case the delegates of Germany do not like the looks of the French soldiers, they may turn their eyes to the other side, where the Austrian army is encamped on the Danube and on the Lech,” exclaimed Bonaparte. “Thus the delegates will be surrounded by two armies. This fact may interfere a little with the freedom of speech during the session of congress, but it will be advantageous, too, inasmuch as it will induce the delegates to accelerate their labors somewhat, and to finish their task sooner than they would have done under different circumstances.”
“It is true, right in the face of these two armies at least the small German princes will not dare to oppose the German emperor in ceding the entire left bank of the Rhine to France. But it is only just and equitable for us to indemnify them for their losses. In one of our secret articles, therefore, we should acknowledge the obligation of promising compensations to the princes and electors--”
“Yes, let us promise compensations to them,” said Bonaparte, with a tinge of sarcasm. “As to the possessions of Prussia on the left bank of the Rhine, France declares her readiness to give them back to the King of Prussia.”
“But both powers agree not to allow the King of Prussia to acquire any new territory,” exclaimed Count Cobenzl, hastily.
“Yes, that was our agreement at Campo Formio,” said Bonaparte. “Austria’s increase of territory, besides Venice, will consist of Salzburg and a piece of Upper Bavaria. In case she should make further conquests in the adjoining states, France may claim a further aggrandizement on the right bank of the Rhine.” [Footnote: Schlosser’s “History of the Eighteenth Century,” vol. v., p. 43.]
“Yes, that was the last secret article of the preliminaries of Campo Formio,” said Cobenzl, sighing.
“Then we have remained entirely faithful to our agreement,” said Bonaparte. “We have not made any alterations whatever in the programme which we agreed upon and deposed in writing at the castle of Campo Formio. It only remains for us to-day to sign these secret articles.”
He took the pen and hastily signed the two documents spread out on the table.
Count Cobenzl signed them also; but his hand was trembling a little while he was writing, and his face was clouded and gloomy. Perhaps he could not help feeling that Austria just now was signing the misery and disgrace of Germany in order to purchase thereby some provinces, and that Austria enlarged her territory at the expense of the empire whose emperor was her own ruler--Francis II. Their business being finished, the two plenipotentiaries rose, and Count Cobenzl withdrew. Bonaparte accompanied him again to the door of the anteroom, and then returned to his cabinet.
A proud, triumphant smile was now playing on his pale, narrow lips, and his eyes were beaming and flashing in an almost sinister manner. Stepping back to the table, he fixed his eyes upon the document with the two signatures.
“The left bank of the Rhine is ours!” he said, heavily laying his hand upon the paper. “But the right bank?”
He shook his head, and folding his arms upon his back, he commenced pacing the room, absorbed in profound reflections. His features had now resumed their marble tranquillity; it was again the apparation of Julius Caesar that was walking up and down there with inaudible steps, and the old thoughts of Julius Caesar, those thoughts for which he had to suffer death, seemed to revive again in Bonaparte’s mind, for at one time he whispered, “A crown for me! A crown in Germany. It would be too small for me! If my hand is to grasp a crown, it must--”
He paused and gazed fixedly at the wall as if he saw the future there, that arose before him in a strange phantasmagoria.
After a long pause, he started and seemed to awake from a dream.
“I believe I will read the letter once more, which I received yesterday by mail,” he murmured, in an almost inaudible tone. “It is a wonderful letter, and I really would like to know who wrote it.”
He drew a folded paper from his bosom and opened it. Stepping into a bay window, he perused the letter with slow, deliberate glances. The bright daylight illuminated his profile and rendered its antique beauty even more conspicuous. Profound silence surrounded him, and nothing was heard hut his soft and slow respiration and the rustling of the paper.
When he had finished it, he commenced perusing it again, but this time he seemed to be anxious to hear what he was reading. He read it, however, in a very low and subdued voice, and amidst the silence surrounding him the words that fell from the lips of the resurrected Caesar sounded like the weird whispers of spirits.
“You have to choose now between so great an alternative,” he read, “that however bold your character may be, you must be uncertain as to the determination you have to come to, if you are to choose between respect and hatred, between glory or disgrace, between exalted power or an abject insignificance, that would lead you to the scaffold, and, finally, between the immortality of a great man, or that of a punished partisan.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Bonaparte, and his voice was now loud and firm. “Ah! I shall never hesitate between such alternatives. I should bear disgrace, abject insignificance, and an utter lack of power? And my hand should not be withered--it should be able yet to grasp a sword and pierce my breast with it?”
He lowered his eyes again and continued reading: “You have to choose between three parts: the first is to return quietly to France and to live there as a plain and unassuming citizen; the second, to return to France at the head of an army and there to become the leader of a party; the third, to establish a great empire in Italy and proclaim yourself king of the peninsula. I advise you to do so, and to grasp the Italian crown with a firm hand.” [Footnote: Sabatier de Castres, living at that time in exile at Hamburg, had written this anonymous letter to Bonaparte.]
“He is a fool,” said Bonaparte, “who believes a man might make himself king of Italy and maintain himself on the throne, unless he previously has seized the sovereign power in France, [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. v., p. 69.] But no one must hear these thoughts! I will go to Josephine!”
He hastily folded the paper and concealed it again in his bosom. Then stepping to the looking-glass, he closely scanned his face in order to see whether or not it might betray his thoughts; and when he had found it to be as pale and impassive as ever, he turned round and left the room.
XXII. THE BANNER OF GLORY
Four days had elapsed since Bonaparte’s arrival at Rastadt, and the congress had profited by them in order to give the most brilliant festivals to the French general and his beautiful wife. All those ambassadors, counts, barons, bishops, and diplomatists seemed to have assembled at Rastadt for the sole purpose of giving banquets, tea-parties, and balls; no one thought of attending to business, and all more serious ideas seemed to have been utterly banished, while every one spoke of the gorgeous decorations of the ball-rooms and of the magnificence of the state dinners, where the most enthusiastic toasts were drunk in honor of the victorious French general; and the people seemed most anxious entirely to forget poor, suffering, and patient Germany.
Josephine participated in these festivities with her innate cheerfulness and vivacity. She was the queen of every party; every one was doing homage to her; every one was bent upon flattering her in order to catch an affable word, a pleasant glance from her; and, encouraged by her unvaried kindness, to solicit her intercession with her husband, in whose hands alone the destinies of the German princes and their states now seemed to lie.
But while Josephine’s radiant smiles were delighting every one--while she was promising to all to intercede for them with her husband, Bonaparte’s countenance remained grave and moody, and it was only in a surly mood that he attended the festivals that were given in his honor. His threatening glances had frequently already been fixed upon his wife, and those moody apprehensions, ever alive in his jealous breast, had whispered to him: “Josephine has deceived you again! In order to silence your reproaches, she invented a beautiful story, in which there is not a word of truth, for the letter that was to call you back to Paris does not arrive, and the Directory keeps you here at Rastadt.”
And while he was indulging in such reflections, his features assumed a sinister expression, and his lips muttered: “Woe to Josephine, if she should have deceived me!”
Thus the fourth day had arrived, and the Bavarian ambassador was to give a brilliant soiree. Bonaparte had promised to be present, but he had said to Josephine, in a threatening manner, that he would attend only if the expected courier from Paris did arrive in the course of the day, so that he might profit by the Bavarian ambassador’s party to take leave of all those “fawning and slavish representatives of the German empire.”
But no courier had made his appearance during the whole morning. Bonaparte had retired to his closet and was pacing the room like an angry lion in his cage. All at once, however, the door was hastily opened, and Josephine entered with a radiant face, holding in her uplifted right hand a large sealed letter.
“Bonaparte!” she shouted, in a jubilant voice, “can you guess what I have got here?”
He ran toward her and wanted to seize the letter. But Josephine would not let him have it, and concealed it behind her back. “Stop, my dear sir,” she said. “First you must beg my pardon for the evil thoughts I have read on your forehead during the last few days. Oh, my excellent general, you are a poor sinner, and I really do not know if I am at liberty to grant you absolution and to open the gates of paradise to you.”
“But what have I done, Josephine?” he asked. “Was I not as patient as a lamb? Did I not allow myself to be led like a dancing-bear from festival to festival? Did I not look on with the patience of an angel while every one was making love to you, and while you were lavishing smiles and encouraging, kind glances in all directions?”
“What have you done, Bonaparte?” she retorted gravely. “You inwardly calumniated your Josephine. You accused her in your heart, and day and night the following words were written on your forehead in flaming characters: ‘Josephine has deceived me.’ Do you pretend to deny it, sir?”
“No,” said Bonaparte, “I will not deny any thing, dear, lovely expounder of my heart! I confess my sins, and implore your forgiveness. But now, Josephine, be kind enough not to let me wait any longer. Let me have the letter!”
“Hush, sir! this letter is not directed to you, but to myself,” replied Josephine, smiling.
Bonaparte angrily stamped his foot. “Not to me!” he exclaimed, furiously. “Then is it not from the Directory--it does not call me back from Rastadt?--”
“Hush, Bonaparte!” said Josephine, smiling, “must you always effervesce like the stormy sea that roared around your cradle, you big child? Be quiet now, and let me read the letter to you. Will you let me do so?”
“Yes, I will,” said Bonaparte, hastily. “Read, I implore you, read!”
Josephine made a profound, ceremonious obeisance, and withdrawing her hand with the letter from her back, she unfolded several sheets of paper.
“Here is first a letter from my friend Botot,” she said, “just listen:--‘Citoyenne Generale: The Directory wished to send off to-day a courier with the enclosed dispatches to General Bonaparte. I induced the gentlemen, however, to intrust that dispatch to myself, and to permit me to send it to you instead of the general. It is to yourself chiefly that the general is indebted for the contents of this dispatch from the Directory. It is but just, therefore, Citoyenne, that you should have the pleasure of handing it to him. Do so, Citoyenne, and at the same time beg your husband not to forget your and his friend.--Botot.’ That is my letter Bonaparte, and here, my friend, is the enclosure for yourself. You see, I am devoid of the common weakness of woman, I am not inquisitive, for the seal is not violated, as you may see yourself.”
And with a charming smile she handed the letter to Bonaparte. But he did not take it.
“Break the seal, my Josephine,” he said, profoundly moved. “I want to learn the contents of the letter from your lips. If it should bring me evil tidings, they will sound less harshly when announced by you; is it joyful news, however, your voice will accompany it with the most beautiful music.”
Josephine nodded to him with a tender and grateful glance, and hastily broke the seal.
“Now pray, quick! quick!” said Bonaparte, trembling with impatience.
Josephine read:
“The executive Directory presumes, citizen general, that you have arrived at Rastadt. It is impatient to see and to weigh with you the most important interests of the country. Hence it desires you to bring the exchanged ratifications personally to Paris, and to inform us what dispositions you have taken in regard to the occupation of Mentz by our troops, in order that this event may take place without further delay. It may be, however, that you have forwarded this intelligence to us already by means of a courier or an aide-de-camp; in that case it will be kept secret until your arrival. The journey you are now going to make to Paris will first fulfil the sincere desire of the Directory to manifest to you publicly its most unbounded satisfaction with your conduct and to be the first interpreter of the nation’s gratitude toward you. Besides, it is necessary for you to be fully informed of the government’s views and intentions, and to consider in connection with it the ultimate consequences of the great operations which you will be invited to undertake; so we expect you immediately, citizen general. The executive Directory also desires you to indicate to the returning courier, who is to deliver this dispatch to you, the precise day of your arrival at Paris.”
“In the name of the Directory:”
“Barkas.”
“We shall set out at once!” exclaimed Bonaparte, radiant with joy.
“In order to arrive together with the courier?” asked Josephine, laughing, “and to lose all the triumphs which the grateful country is preparing for you? No, my impatient friend, you will patiently remain to-day by the side of your Josephine and we shall start only to-morrow. Do you promise it?”
“Well, be it so!” he exclaimed, glowing with excitement, “we will set out to-morrow for Paris. My task in Italy is accomplished; if it please God, there will be new work for me at Paris.”
“Your enemies will soon find means to drive you away from the capital, if you should be incautious, and if they should fear lest your presence might become dangerous to themselves. Nothing is more dangerous to small, insignificant souls than a great man. Remember that, my friend, and do not irritate them.”
Bonaparte eagerly grasped her hand. “Believe me,” he said, in a low voice, “as soon as I have reached Paris, I shall know what line of policy I must pursue hereafter. Two years shall not elapse ere the whole ridiculous republican edifice will be overthrown.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. v., p. 60.] “And then,” exclaimed Josephine, joyfully, “when you have accomplished that--when you stand as a victorious general on the ruins of the republic--you will reestablish the throne over them, I hope?”
“Yes, I will reestablish the throne,” [Footnote: Bonaparte’s own words.--“Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. v., p. 70.] said Bonaparte, enthusiastically.
“And your arm will place upon this throne him to whom this throne is due. Oh, my generous and noble friend, what a heavenly day it will be when the King of France by your side makes his solemn entry into Paris, for you will recall the legitimate king, Louis XVIII., from his exile.”
Bonaparte stared at her in amazement. “Do you really believe that?” he asked, with a peculiar smile.
“I have no doubt of it,” she said, innocently. “Bonaparte can do whatever he wishes to do. He has overthrown thrones in Italy, he can reestablish the throne in France. I repeat, Bonaparte can do whatever he wishes to do.”
“And do you know, then, you little fool, do you know what I really wish to do?” he asked. “I wish to be the great regulator of the destinies of Europe, or the first citizen of the globe. I feel that I have the strength to overthrow every thing and to found a new world. The astonished universe shall bow to me and be compelled to submit to my laws. Then I shall make the villains tremble, who wished to keep me away from my country. [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. 1., p. 347.] I have made the beginning already, and this miserable government has to call me back to Paris notwithstanding its own secret hostility. Soon it shall be nothing but a tool in my hands, and when I do not need this tool any longer, I shall destroy it. This government of lawyers has oppressed France long enough. It is high time for us to drive it away.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. v., p. 70.]
“Hush, Bonaparte, for God’s sake, hush!” said Josephine, anxiously. “Let no one here suspect your plans, for we are surrounded in this house by austere and rabid republicans, who, if they had heard your words, would arraign you as a criminal before the Directory. Intrust your plans to no one except myself, Bonaparte. Before the world remain as yet a most enthusiastic republican, and only when the decisive hour has come, throw off your tunic and exhibit your royal uniform!”
Bonaparte smiled, and encircled her neck with his arms.
“Yes, you are right,” he said; “we must be taciturn. We must bury our most secret thoughts in the deepest recesses of our souls, and intrust them to no one, not even to the beloved. But come, Josephine, I owe you my thanks yet for the joyful tidings you have brought me. You must permit me to make you a few little presents in return.”
“Give me your confidence, and I am abundantly rewarded,” said Josephine, tenderly.
“Henceforth I shall never, never distrust you,” he replied, affectionately. “We belong to each other, and no power of earth or heaven is able to separate us. You are mine and I am thine; and what is mine being thine, you must permit me to give you a trinket sent to me to-day by the city of Milan.”
“A trinket?” exclaimed Josephine, with radiant eyes; “let me see it. Is it a beautiful one?”
Bonaparte smiled. “Yes, beautiful in the eyes of those to whom glory seems more precious than diamonds and pearls,” he said, stepping to the table from which he took a small morocco casket. “See,” he said, opening it, “it is a gold medal which the city of Milan has caused to be struck in my honor, and on which it confers upon me the title of ‘The Italian.’”
“Give it to me,” exclaimed Josephine, joyfully--“give it to me, my ‘Italian!’ Let me wear this precious trinket which public favor has bestowed upon you.”
“Public favor,” he said, musingly--“public favor, it is light as zephyr, as fickle as the seasons, it passes away like the latter, and when the north wind moves it, it will disappear.” [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i., p. 261.]
He was silent, but proceeded after a short pause in a less excited manner.
“As to my deeds,” he said, “the pen of history will trace them for our grandchildren. Either I shall have lived for a century, or I shall earn for all my great exploits nothing but silence and oblivion. Who is able to calculate the whims and predilections of history?” [Footnote: Ibid., vol. i, p. 262.]
He paused again, and became absorbed in his reflections.
Josephine did not venture to arouse him from his musing. She fixed her eyes upon the large gold medal, and tried to decipher the inscription.
Bonaparte suddenly raised his head again, and turned his gloomy eyes toward Josephine. “I suppose you know,” he said, “that I have always greatly distinguished the Duke of Litalba among all Milanese, and that I have openly courted his friendship?”
“You have always manifested the greatest kindness for him,” said Josephine, “and he is gratefully devoted to you for what you have done for him.”
“Gratefully!” exclaimed Bonaparte, sarcastically. “There is no gratitude on earth, and the Duke of Litalba is as ungrateful as the rest of mankind. I called him my friend. Do you know how he has paid me for it, and what he has said of me behind my back?”
“Oh, then, they have told you libels and made you angry again by repeating to you the gossip of idle tongues?”
“They shall tell me every thing--I want to know every thing!” retorted Bonaparte, violently. “I must know my friends and my enemies. And I believed Litalba to be my friend, I believed him when he told me, with tears in his eyes, how much he was afflicted by my departure, and how devotedly he loved me. I believed him, and on the same day he said at a public casino, ‘Now at last our city will get rid of this meteor that is able all alone to set fire to the whole of Europe, and to spread the sparks of its revolutionary fire to the most remote corners of the world.’ [Footnote: Ibid., vol. I., p. 362.] He dared to call me a meteor, a shining nothing which after lighting up the sky for a short while explodes and dissolves itself into vapor. I shall prove to him and to the whole world that I am more than that, and if I kindle a fire in Europe, it shall be large enough to burn every enemy of mine.”
“Your glory is the fire that will consume your enemies,” said Josephine, eagerly. “You will not reply to their calumnies--your deeds will speak for themselves. Do not heed the voice of slander, my Italian, listen only to the voice of your glory. It will march before you to France like a herald, it will fill all hearts with enthusiasm, and all hearts will hail your arrival with rapturous applause--you, the victorious chieftain, the conqueror of Italy!”
“I will show you the herald I am going to send to-day to France, to be presented there in my name by General Joubert to the Directory,” replied Bonaparte. “It is a herald whose mute language will be even more eloquent than all the hymns of victory with which they may receive me. Wait here for a moment. I shall be back directly.”
He waved his hand to her and hastily left the room. Josephine’s eyes followed him with an expression of tender admiration. “What a bold mind, what a fiery heart!” she said, in a low voice. “Who will stem the bold flight of this mind, who will extinguish the flames of this heart? Who--”
The door opened, and Bonaparte returned, followed by several footmen carrying a rolled-up banner. When they had reached the middle of the room, he took it from them and told them to withdraw. As soon as the door had closed behind them, he rapidly unrolled the banner so that it floated majestically over his head.
“Ah, that is the proud victor of the bridge of Arcole!” exclaimed Josephine, enthusiastically. “Thus you must have looked when you headed the column, rushing into the hail of balls and bullets, and bearing the colors aloft in your right hand! Oh, Bonaparte, how glorious you look under your glorious banner!”
“Do not look at me, but look at the banner,” he said. “Future generations may some day take it for a monument from the fabulous times of antiquity, and yet this monument contains nothing but the truth. The Directory shall hang up this banner in its hall, and if it should try to deny or belittle my deeds, I shall point at the banner which will tell every one what has been accomplished in Italy by the French army and its general.”
Josephine looked in silent admiration at the splendid banner. It was made of the heaviest white satin, trimmed with a broad border of blue and white. Large eagles, embroidered in gold, and decorated with precious stones, filled the corners on both sides; warlike emblems, executed by the most skilful painters, filled the inside of the colored border, and inscriptions in large gold letters covered the centre.
“Read these inscriptions, Josephine,” said Bonaparte imperiously, pointing at them with his uplifted arm. “It is a simple and short history of our campaign in Italy. Read aloud, Josephine; let me hear from your lips the triumphal hymn of my army!”
Josephine seized the gold cord hanging down from the banner and thus kept it straight. Bonaparte, proudly leaning against the gilt flag-staff, which he grasped with both hands, listened smiling and with flashing eyes to Josephine, who read as follows:
“One hundred and fifty thousand prisoners; one hundred and seventy stands of colors; five hundred and fifty siege-guns; six hundred field-pieces; five pontoon parks; nine line-of-battle ships, of sixty-four guns; twelve frigates of thirty-two guns; twelve corvettes; eighteen galleys; armistice with the King of Sardinia; treaty with Genoa; armistice with the Duke of Parma; armistice with the King of Naples; armistice with the Pope; preliminaries of Leoben; treaty of Montebello with the Republic of Genoa; treaty of peace with the emperor at Campo Formio.”
“Liberty restored to the people of Bologna, Ferrara, Modena, Massacarrara, of the Romagna, of Lombardy, Brescia, Bergamo, Mantua, Cremona, Chiavenna, Bormio, and the Valtellino; further, to the people of Genoa, to the vassals of the emperor, to the people of the department of Corcyra, of the Aegean Sea and Ithaca.”
“Sent to Paris all the masterpieces of Michel Angelo, Guercino, Titian, Paul Veronese, Correggio, Albarro, the two Carracci, Raphael, and Leonardo da Vinci.” [Footnote: This wonderful banner was hung up in the hall of the Directory while the members of the latter were occupying the Luxemburg. It afterward accompanied the three consuls to the Tuileries, and was preserved there in the large reception-room. It is now in the “Dome des Invalides” in the chapel containing the emperor’s sarcophagus.]
“Ah, my friend,” exclaimed Josephine, enthusiastically, “that is a leaf from history which the storms of centuries will never blow away!”
Bonaparte slowly lowered the banner until it almost covered the floor and then he muttered gloomily: “Men are like leaves in the wind; the wind blows the leaves to the ground, [Footnote: Homer] and--but no,” he interrupted himself, “I shall write my name on every rock and every mountain in Europe, and fasten it there with iron-clasps in such a manner that no winds shall blow it away! Oh, footmen! come in, roll up the banner again, and put it back into the case!”
The footmen hastened to obey, and took the banner away. Bonaparte turned again to his wife with a smile.
“I promised you a few presents,” he said. “As yet I have given you only the medals. The best gift I have kept back. Marmont sent me the statue of the Holy Virgin which he removed from Loretto.”
“Then you have not fulfilled my urgent prayers!” said Josephine, reproachfully. “Even the property of the Church and of the Holy Father at Rome have not been safe from the hands of the conquerors!”
“That is the law of war,” said Bonaparte. “Woe to the places which war touches on its bloody path! But you may reassure yourself, Josephine. I have only taken from the Holy Father these superfluous things which he may easily spare. I only took his plate, his jewelry, and diamonds, thus reducing him to the simplicity of the apostles; and I am sure the good old man will thank me for it. I have, moreover, only striven to promote the welfare of his soul by doing so, and the Roman martyrologist some day will add his name to the list of saints. [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i., p. 243.] The jewels and the gold I sent to Paris, together with the statue of the Madonna of Loretto, but I retained a few relics for you, Josephine. See here the most precious one of them all!”
He handed her a small paper, carefully folded up. Josephine hastily opened it and asked, in surprise--“A piece of black woollen cloth! And that is a relic?”
“And a most precious one at that! It is Loretto’s most priceless treasure. It is a piece of the gown of the Virgin Mary, in which she was mourning for the Saviour. [Footnote: Ibid., vol. i., p. 245.] Preserve this relic carefully, dear Josephine, and may it protect you from danger and grief!” Josephine folded up the piece of cloth, and opening a large locket hanging on her neck on a heavy gold chain, she laid the cloth into it, and then closed the locket again.
“That shall be the sanctuary of my relic,” she said. “I shall keep it till I die.”
“Why do you speak of dying?” he exclaimed, almost indignantly. “What have we to do with grim-death? We, to whom life has to fulfil and offer so much! We shall return to Paris, and, if it please God, a great future is awaiting us there!”
“If it please God, a happy future!” said Josephine, fervently. “Oh, Bonaparte, how gladly I shall reenter our dear little house in the Rue Chantereine, where we passed the first happy days of our love!”
“No, Josephine,” he exclaimed, impetuously, “that little house will not be a fitting abode for the conqueror of Italy, I am no longer the poor general who had nothing but his sword. I return rich in glory, and not poor as far as money is concerned. I might have easily appropriated the spoils amounting to many millions; but I disdained the money of spoliation and bribery, and what little money I have got now, was acquired in an honest and chivalrous manner, [Footnote: Bonaparte at St. Helena said to Las Casas that he had brought only three hundred thousand francs from Italy. Bourrienne asserts, however, Bonaparte had brought home no less than three million francs. He adds, however, that this sum was not the fruit of peculation and corruption, Bonaparte having been an incorruptible administrator. But he had discovered the mines of Yorda, and he had an interest in the meat contracts for the army. He wanted to be independent, and knew better than any one else that he could not be independent without money. He said to Bourrienne in regard to it, “I am no Capuchin!”--Memoires de Bourrienne, vol 11., p. 47.] It is sufficient, however, to secure a brilliant existence to us. I shall not be satisfied until I live with you in a house corresponding with the splendor of my name. I need a palace, and shall have it decorated with all the stands of colors I have taken in Italy. To you alone, Josephine, to you I intrust the care of designating to me a palace worthy of being offered to me by the nation I have immortalized, and worthy also of a wife whose beauty and grace could only beautify it. [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i., p. 265.] Come, Josephine--come to Paris! Let us select such a palace!”