LI. JUDITH…

LI. JUDITH

Marianne was awakened after a short and calm slumber by the low sound of stealthy steps approaching her couch. She opened her eyes hastily, and beheld her mistress of ceremonies, who stood at her bedside, holding in her hand a golden salver with a letter on it.

“What, Camilla,” she asked, in terror, “you have not yet dispatched the letter which I gave you last night? Did I not instruct you to have it delivered by the footman early in the morning?”

“Yes, your highness, and I have faithfully carried out your orders.”

“Well, and this letter?”

“Is the major’s reply. Your highness ordered me to awaken you as soon as the footman would bring the answer.”

Marianne hastily seized the letter and broke the seal.

“He will come,” she said, loudly and joyfully, after reading the few lines the letter contained. “What o’clock is it, Camilla?”

“Your highness, it is just ten o’clock.”

“And I am looking for visitors already at eleven o’clock. Quick, Madame Camilla, tell my maid to arrange every thing in the dressing-room. Please see to it yourself that I may find there an elegant, rich, and not too matronly, morning costume.”

“Will your highness put on the dress which Lord Paget received the other day for you from Loudon?” asked Madame Camilla. “Your highness has never yet worn it, and his lordship would doubtless rejoice at seeing your highness in this charming costume.”

“I do not expect Lord Paget,” said Marianne, with a stern glance; “besides, you ought to confine your advice to matters relating to my toilet. Do not forget it any more. Now bring me my chocolate, I will take it in bed. In the mean time cause an invigorating, perfumed bath to be prepared, and tell the cook that I wish him to serve up a sumptuous breakfast for two persons in the small dining-room in the course of an hour. Go.”

Madame Camilla withdrew to carry out the various orders her mistress had given her, but she did not do so joyfully and readily as usual, but with a grave face and careworn air.

“There is something going on,” she whispered, slowly gliding down the corridor. “Yes, there is something going on, and at length I shall have an opportunity for spying and reporting what I have discovered. Well, I get my pay from two men, from the French governor of Vienna and from Lord Paget. Would to God I could serve both of them to-day! As for Lord Paget, I have already some news for him, for Mr. von Gentz was with her last night, and remained for two hours; my mistress then wrote a letter to Major von Brandt, which I had to dispatch early in the morning. And this is exactly the point, concerning which I do not know whether it ought to be reported to my French customer or to the English lord. Well, I will consider the matter. I will watch every step of hers, for it is certain that something extraordinary is going on here, and I want to know what it is.”

And, after taking this resolution, Madame Camilla accelerated her steps to deliver the orders of the princess to the cook. An hour later, the lady’s maid had finished the toilet of the princess, who approached the large looking-glass in order to cast a last critical look on her appearance.

A charming smile of satisfaction overspread her fair face when she beheld her enchanting image in the glass, and she said, with a triumphant air, “Yes, it is true, this woman is beautiful enough even to court the favor of an emperor. Do you not think so, too, Madame Camilla?”

Madame Camilla had watched, with a very attentive and grave face, every word her mistress tittered, but now she hastened to smile.

“Your highness,” she said, “if we lived still in the days of the ancient gods, I would not trust any butterfly nor any bird, nay, not even a gold-piece, for, behind every thing, I should suspect Jove disguised, for the purpose of surprising my beautiful mistress.”

Marianne laughed. “Ah, how learned you are,” she said. “You refer even to the disguised bull of poor Europa and to the golden rain of Danae. But fear not; no disguised god will penetrate into my rooms, for unhappily the time of gods and demi-gods is past.”

“Nevertheless, those arrogant French would like to make the world believe that M. Bonaparte had restored that time,” said Madame Camilla, with a contemptuous air; “they would like to persuade us that the son of that Corsican lawyer was a last and belated son of Jove.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Marianne, triumphantly; “the world shall discover soon enough that he is nothing but a miserable son of earth, and that his immortality, too, will find sufficient room between six blackboards. I know, Camilla, you hate the usurper as ardently, as bitterly and vindictively as I do, and this hatred is the sympathetic link uniting me with you. Well, let me tell you that your hatred will speedily be gratified, and that your vindictiveness will be satiated. Pray to God, Camilla, that He may bless the hand about to be raised against the tyrant; pray to God that He may sharpen the dagger which may soon be aimed at his heart! The world has suffered enough; it is time that it should find an avenger of its wrongs!”

“Major von Brandt,” announced a footman, entering the room.

“Conduct the major to the drawing-room,” said Marianne, hastily; “I will join him directly.”

She cast a last triumphant look on the mirror, and then left the room.

Madame Camilla watched her, with a scowl, until the door had closed behind her. “Now I know whom I have to inform of her doings,” she muttered. “They concern the French governor; I have to take pains, however, to find out more about her schemes, so that my report may embrace as much important information as possible. The better the news, the better the pay.”

Marianne had meanwhile gone to the drawing-room. A tall, elderly officer, in Austrian uniform, with the epaulets of a major, came to meet her, and bent down to kiss reverentially the hand which she offered to him.

Marianne saluted him with a fascinating smile. “You have entirely forgotten me, then, major?” she asked. “It was necessary for me to invite you in order to induce you to pay me a visit?”

“I did not know whether I might dare to appear before you, most gracious princess,” said the major, respectfully. “The last time I had the honor of waiting on you, I met your highness in the circle of your distinguished friends who used to be mine, too. But nobody had a word of welcome, a pleasant smile for me, and your highness, it seemed to me, did not notice me during the whole evening. Whenever I intended to approach you, you averted your face and entered into so animated a conversation with one of the bystanders, that I could not venture to interrupt it. Hence I withdrew, my heart filled with grief and despair, for I certainly believed that your highness wished to banish me from your reception-room forever.”

“And you consoled yourself for this banishment in the reception-room of the French governor whom the great Emperor Napoleon had given to the good city of Vienna, I suppose?” asked the princess, with an arch smile. “And you would have never come back to me unless I had taken the bold resolution to invite you to my house?”

“By this invitation you have rendered me the happiest of mortals, most gracious princess,” exclaimed the major, emphatically. “You have reopened to me the gates of Paradise, while, in my despair, I believed them to be closed against me forever.”

“Confess, major,” said Marianne, laughing, “that you did not make the slightest attempt to see whether these gates were merely ajar or really closed. Under the present circumstances we may speak honestly and frankly to each other. You believed me to be an ardent patriot, one of those furious adversaries of the French and their rule, who do not look upon Napoleon as a hero and genius, but only as a tyrant and usurper. Because I was the intimate friend of Lord Paget and M. von Gentz, of the Princesses von Carolath and Clary, of the Countess von Colloredo, and Count Cobenzl, you believed that my political sentiments coincided with theirs?”

“Yes, your highness, indeed that is what I believed,” said Major von Brandt, “and as you want me to tell the truth, I will confess that it was the reason why I did not venture to appear again in your drawing-room. I have never denied that I am an enthusiastic admirer of that great man who is conquering and subjugating the whole world, because God has destined him to be its master. Hence, I never was able to comprehend the audacity of those who instigated our gracious and noble Emperor Francis to wage war against the victorious hero, and as a true and sincere patriot I now bless the dispensations of fate which compels us to make peace with Napoleon the Great, for Austria can regain her former prosperity only by maintaining peace and harmony with France. The war against France has brought the barbarian hordes of Russia to Germany; after the conclusion of peace, France will assist us in expelling these unclean and unwelcome guests from the soil of our fatherland.”

Marianne had listened to him smilingly and with an air of un-qualified assent. Only once a slight blush, as if produced by an ebullition of suppressed anger, had mantled her cheeks--only for a brief moment she had frowned, but she quickly overcame her indignation and appeared as smiling and serene as before.

“I am precisely of your opinion, my dear major,” she said, with a fascinating nod.

“Your highness assents to the views I have just uttered?” exclaimed the major, in joyful surprise.

“Do you doubt it still?” she asked. “Have I followed, then, the example of all my friends, even that of Lord Paget and Gentz? Have I fled from the capital because the Emperor Napoleon, with his army, has turned his victorious steps toward Vienna? No, I have remained, to the dismay of all of them; I have remained, although my prolonged sojourn in Vienna has deprived me of two of my dearest friends, and brought about an everlasting rupture between myself and Lord Paget, as well as Herr von Gentz. I have remained because I was unable to withstand any longer the ardent yearning of my heart--because I wished to get at length a sight of the hero to whom the whole world is bowing. But look, my footman comes to tell me that my breakfast has been served. You must consent to be my guest to-day and breakfast with me.”

She took the major’s arm and went with him to the dining-room. In the middle of it a table had been set, on which splendid pates, luscious tropical fruits, and well-spiced salamis agreeably surprised the major by their appetizing odor, while golden Rhenish wine and dark Tokay in the white decanters seemed to beckon him.

They took seats at the table in elastic, soft arm-chairs, and for a while the conversation was interrupted, for the pastry and the other dainty dishes absorbed their whole attention. The major, who was noted for his epicurism, enjoyed the delicacies served up to him with the profound seriousness and immovable tranquillity of a philosopher. Besides, the princess shared his enjoyment after a while by her conversation, sparkling with wit and humor; she was inexhaustible in telling piquant anecdotes and merry bon-mots; she portrayed her friends and acquaintances in so skilful a manner that the major did not know whether to admire their striking resemblance or the talent with which she rendered their weak traits most conspicuous.

When they had reached the dessert, the princess made a sign to the footman to leave the room, and she remained alone with the major. With her own fair hand she poured fragrant Syracusan wine into his glass, and begged him to drink the health of Napoleon the Great.

“And your highness will not do me the honor to take wine with me?” asked the major, pointing at the empty glass of the princess.

She smiled and shook her head. “I never drink wine,” she said; “wine is a magician who suddenly tears the mask from my face and compels my lips to speak the truth which they would otherwise, perhaps, never have uttered. But I will make an exception this time; this time I will fill my glass, for I must drink the health of the great emperor. Pour some wine into it, and let us cry: ‘Long live Napoleon the Great!’”

She drank some of the fiery southern wine, and her prediction was fulfilled. The wine took the mask from her face, and loosened the fetters of her tongue.

Her eyes beamed now with the fire of enthusiasm, and the rapturous praise of Napoleon flowed from her lips like a torrent of the most glowing poetry.

She was wondrously beautiful in her enthusiastic ardor, with the flaming blush on her cheeks, with her flashing eyes and quivering lips, the sweet smile of which showed two rows of pearly teeth.

“Oh,” exclaimed the major, fascinated by her loveliness, “why is the great emperor not here--why does he not hear your enchanting words--why is he not permitted to admire you in your radiant beauty!”

“Why am I not allowed to hasten to him in order to sink down at his feet and worship him?” exclaimed Marianne, fervently. “Why am I not allowed to lie for a blissful hour before him on my knees in order to beg with scalding tears his pardon for the hatred which formerly filled my soul against him, and to confess to him that my hatred has been transformed into boundless love and ecstatic adoration? Where shall I find the friend who will pity my longing, and open for me the path leading to him? Such a friend I should reward with a gold-piece for every minute of my bliss, for every minute I should be allowed to remain near the great emperor.”

“Do you speak in earnest, your highness?” asked Major von Brandt, gravely and almost solemnly.

“In solemn earnest!” asseverated Marianne. “A gold-piece for every minute of an interview with the Emperor Napoleon.”

“Well, then,” said the major, joyfully, “I shall procure this interview for you, your highness, and your beauty and fascinating loveliness will cause the emperor not to count the minutes, nor the hours either, so that it will be only necessary for me to reduce the hours to minutes.”

“A gold-piece for every minute!” repeated Marianne, whose face was radiant with joy and happiness. “Oh, you look at me doubtingly, you believe that I am only joking, and shall not keep afterward what I am now promising.”

“Most gracious princess, I believe that enthusiasm has carried you away to a promise the acceptance of which would be an abuse of your generosity. Suppose the emperor, fascinated by your wit, your beauty, your charming conversation, should remain four hours with you, that would be a very handsome number of gold pieces for me!”

Instead of replying to him, Marianne took the silver bell and rang it.

“Bring me pen, ink, and paper, a burning candle and sealing-wax,” she said to the footman who entered.

In a few minutes every thing had been brought to her, and Marianne hastily wrote a few lines. She then drew the seal-ring from her finger and affixed her seal to the paper, which she handed to the major.

“Read it aloud,” she said.

The major read:

“I promise to Major von Brandt, in case he should procure me an interview with the Emperor Napoleon, to pay him for every minute of this interview a louis-d’or as a token of my gratitude.”

“MARIANNE, PRINCESS VON EIBENBERG.”

“Are you content and convinced?” asked the princess.

“I am, your highness.”

“And you will and can procure me this interview?”

“I will and can do so.”

“When will you conduct me to Schonbrunn?”

The major reflected some time, and seemed to make a calculation. “I hope to be able to procure for your highness to-morrow evening an interview with the emperor,” he said. “I am quite well acquainted with M. de Bausset, intendant of the palace, and I besides know Constant, his majesty’s valet de chambre. These are the two channels through which the wish of your highness will easily reach the emperor, and as his majesty is a great admirer of female beauty, he will assuredly be ready to grant the audience applied for.”

“Will you bring me word to-day?” asked Marianne.

“Yes, princess, to-day. I will immediately repair to Schonbrunn. The emperor arrived there yesterday.”

“Hasten, then,” said Marianne, rising from her seat--“hasten to Schonbrunn, and remember that I am waiting for your return with trembling impatience and suspense.”

She gave her hand to the major.

“Good Heaven, your highness!” he exclaimed, in terror, “your hand is as cold as marble.”

“All my blood is here,” she said, pointing to her heart. “Hasten to Schonbrunn.”

He imprinted a kiss on her hand and left the room.

Marianne smiled until the door had closed behind him. Then her features underwent a sudden change, and assumed an air of horror and contempt.

“Oh, these miserable men, these venal souls!” she muttered. “They measure every thing by their own standard, and cannot comprehend the longings and schemes of a great soul. Accursed be all those who turn traitors to their country and adhere to its enemies! May the wrath of God and the contempt of their fellow-creatures punish them! But I will use the traitors as tools for the purpose of accomplishing the sacred task which the misfortunes of Germany have obliged me to undertake. I will put my house in order, that I may be ready when the hour has come.”

Madame Camilla was right, indeed; something was going on, and she was able to collect important news for the French governor.

The Princess von Eibenberg, since her interview with the major, had been a prey to a feverish agitation and impatience which caused her to wander restlessly through the various rooms of her mansion. At length, toward evening, the major returned, and the news he had brought must have been highly welcome, for the countenance of the princess had been ever since radiant with joy, and a wondrous smile was constantly playing on her lips.

During the following night she was incessantly engaged in writing, and Madame Camilla as well as the maid were waiting in vain for their mistress to call them; the princess did not leave her cabinet, and did not go to bed at all. Early next morning she took a ride in her carriage, and Madame Camilla, who had heretofore invariably accompanied the princess on her rides, was ordered to stay at home. When Marianne returned after several hours, she was pale and exhausted, and her eyes showed that she had wept. Then officers of the city courts made their appearance, and asked to see the princess, stating that she had sent for them. The princess locked her room while conferring with them, and the officers withdrew only after several hours. At the dinner-table, to which, by her express orders, no guests had been admitted to-day, she scarcely touched any food, and seemed absorbed in deep reflections.

Soon after dinner she repaired to her dressing-room, and never before had she been so particular and careful in choosing the various articles of her costume; never before had she watched her toilet with so much attention and anxiety. At last the work was finished, and the princess looked radiantly beautiful in her crimson velvet dress, floating behind her in a long train, and fastened under her bosom, only half veiled by a clear lace collar, by means of a wide, golden sash. Her hair, framing her expansive brow in a few black ringlets a la Josephine, was tied up in a Greek knot, adorned with pearls and diamonds. Similar jewels surrounded her queenly neck and the splendidly-shaped snow-white arms. Her cheeks were transparently pale to-day, and a gloomy, sinister fire was burning in her large black eyes.

She looked beautiful, proud, and menacing, like Judith, who has adorned herself for the purpose of going to the tent of Holofernes. Madame Camilla could not help thinking of it when she now saw the princess walk across the room in her proud beauty, and with her stern, solemn air. Madame Camilla could not help thinking of it when she saw the princess draw an oblong, flashing object from a case which the mistress of ceremonies had never beheld before, and hastily concealed it in her bosom.

Was it, perhaps, a dagger, and was the princess a modern Judith, going to kill a modern Holofernes in her voluptuous arms?

The footman now announced that Major von Brandt was waiting for the princess in the reception-room, and that the carriage was at the door. A slight shudder shook the whole frame of the princess, and her cheeks turned even paler than before. She ordered the foot-man to withdraw, and then made a sign to Madame Camilla to give her her cloak and bonnet. Camilla obeyed silently. When the princess was ready to depart, she turned to Camilla, and, drawing a valuable diamond ring from her finger, she handed it to her.

“Take this ring as a souvenir from me,” she said. “I know you are a good and enthusiastic Austrian; like myself, you hate the tyrant who wants to subjugate us, and you will bless the hand which will order him to stop, and put au end to his victorious career. Farewell”

She nodded once more to her and left her cabinet to go to the reception-room, where Major von Brandt was waiting for her.

“Come,” she said, hastily, “it is high time. I hope you have got a watch with you, so as to be able to count the minutes.”

“Yes, your highness,” said Major von Brandt, smiling, “I have got my watch with me, and I shall have the honor of showing it to you before you enter the imperial cabinet.”

Marianne made no reply, but rapidly crossed the room to go down-stairs to the carriage waiting at the door. Major von Brandt hastened after her and offered his arm to her.

Madame Camilla, who had not lost a single word of her short conversation with Major von Brandt, followed the princess downstairs, and remained standing humbly at the foot of it till the princess and her companion had entered the carriage and the coach door had been closed.

But no sooner had the brilliant carriage of the princess rolled out of the court-yard in front of her mansion, than Madame Camilla hastened into the street, entered a hack, and ordered the coachman to drive her to the residence of the French governor as fast as his horses could run.

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LII. NAPOLEON AND THE PRUSSIAN MINISTER

Napoleon had left Austerlitz, and had, for some days, again resided at Schonbrunn. The country palace of the great empress Maria Theresa was now the abode of him who had driven her grandson from his capital, defeated his army, and was just about to dictate a peace to him, the terms of which would be equivalent to a fresh defeat of Austria and a fresh victory for France. The plenipotentiaries of Austria and France were already assembled at Presburg to conclude this treaty, and every hour couriers reached Schonbrunn, who reported to the emperor the progress of the negotiations and obtained further instructions from him.

But while Austria now, after the disastrous battle of the 2d of December, was treating with Napoleon about the best terms of peace, the Prussian envoy, Count Haugwitz, who was to deliver to Napoleon the menacing declaration of Prussia, was still on the road, or, at least, had not been able to lay his dispatch before the emperor.

Prussia demanded, in this dispatch, which had been approved by Russia, that Napoleon should give up Italy and Holland, and recognize the independence of both countries, as well as that of Germany. Prussia gave France a month’s time to take this proposition into consideration; and if it should be declined, then Prussia would declare war against the Emperor Napoleon.

This month had expired on the 15th of December, and, as previously stated, Count Haugwitz had not yet succeeded in delivering his dispatch to the Emperor Napoleon.

It is true, he had set out from Berlin on the 6th of November; but the noble count liked to travel as comfortably as possible, and to repose often from the hardships of the journey. He had, therefore, travelled every day but a few miles, and stopped several days in every large city through which he had passed. Vainly had Minister von Hardenberg and the Russian and Austrian ministers in Berlin sent courier upon courier after him, in order to induce him to accelerate his journey.

Count Haugwitz declared himself unable to travel any faster, because he was afraid of stating that he was unwilling to do so.

Now, he was unwilling to travel any faster, because the message, of which he was the bearer, was a most oppressive burden to him, and because he felt convinced that the energetic genius, by some rapid and crushing victory, would upset all treaties, change all standpoints, and thereby render it unnecessary for him to deliver to him a dispatch of so harsh and hostile a description.

Thanks to his system of delay, Count Haugwitz had succeeded in obtaining a first interview with Napoleon on the day before the battle of Austerlitz. But instead of presenting the ominous note to the emperor, he had contented himself, after the fashion of a genuine courtier, with offering incense to the great conqueror, and Napoleon had prevented him from transacting any business by putting off all negotiations with him until after the great battle.

After the battle of Austerlitz, the emperor had received the envoy of the King of Prussia at Schonbrunn, and granted him the longed-for audience. Napoleon greeted him in an angry voice, and reproached him violently for having affixed his name to the treaty of Potsdam. But Haugwitz had managed, by his skilful politeness, to appease the emperor’s wrath, and to regain his favor. Since then Count Haugwitz had been at Schonbrunn every day, and Napoleon had always received him with especial kindness and affability. For the emperor, who knew very well that Austria was still hoping for an armed intervention by Prussia, wished to delay his decision, as to the fate of Prussia at least, until he had made peace with Austria. Only when he had trampled Austria under foot, he would think of chastising Prussia for her recent arrogance, and to humiliate her as he had hitherto humiliated all his enemies. Hence he had received Count Haugwitz every day, and succeeded gradually and insensibly in winning him for his plans. Today, on the 13th of December, Count Haugwitz had repaired to Schonbrunn to negotiate with Napoleon. He wore his full court-costume, and was adorned with the grand cordon of the Legion of Honor, which he had received a year ago, and which the Prussian minister seemed to wear with especial predilection.

Napoleon received the count in the former drawing-room of Maria Theresa, which had now become Napoleon’s study. On a large round table in the centre of the room, there lay maps, dotted with variously colored pins; the green pins designated the route fixed by Napoleon for the retreat of the Russian army; the dark-yellow pins surrounded the extreme boundaries of Austria, and according to the news which Napoleon received from Presburg, and which informed him of constantly new concessions made by the Austrian plenipotentiaries, who declared their willingness to cede several provinces, he changed the position of these pins, which embraced every day a more contracted space; while the blue pins, designating the boundaries of Bavaria, advanced farther and farther, and the red pins, representing the armies of France, seemed to multiply on the map.

Napoleon, however, was not engaged in studying his maps when Count Haugwitz entered his room, but he was seated at the desk placed close to the table with the maps, and seemed to write assiduously. On the raised back part of this desk the busts of Frederick the Great and Maria Theresa had been placed. Napoleon sometimes, when he ceased writing, raised his gloomy eyes to them, and then it seemed as though these three heads, the two marble busts and the marble head of Napoleon, bent threateningly toward each other, as though the flashes bursting from Napoleon’s eyes kindled the fire of life and anger in the marble eyes of the empress and the great king; their frowning brows seemed to ask him then, by virtue of what right the son of the Corsican lawyer had taken a seat between their two crowned heads, and driven the legitimate Emperor of Austria from the house of his fathers.

When Count Haugwitz entered, Napoleon cast the pen impetuously aside and rose. He saluted the count, who bowed to him deeply and respectfully, with a pleasant nod.

“You are there,” said the emperor, kindly, “and it is very lucky. I was extremely impatient to see you.”

“Lucky?” asked Count Haugwitz, with the inimitable smile of a well-bred courtier. “Lucky, sire? It seems to me as though there were neither luck nor ill-luck in the world, nay; I am now more than ever convinced of it. Have not I heard men say more than a hundred times, ‘He is lucky! he is lucky!’ Since I have made the acquaintance of the great man who owes every thing to himself, I have become convinced that luck should not be taken into consideration, and that it is of no consequence.”

Napoleon smiled. “You are a most adroit and well-bred cavalier and courtier,” he said, “but it is a rule of wisdom for princes not to repose any confidence in the words of courtiers and flatterers, but always to translate them into the opposite sense. Therefore, I translate your words, too, into the contrary, and then they signify, ‘It seems, unfortunately, as though luck had deserted us, and particularly the third coalition, forever, but still sticks to the colors of France.’”

“Oh, sire,” exclaimed Count Haugwitz, in a tone of grievous reproach, “can your majesty really doubt my devotion and admiration? Was I not the first man to congratulate your majesty, the indomitable chieftain, on the fresh laurels with which you had wreathed your heroic brow, even in the cold days of winter?”

“It is true,” said Napoleon, “you did so, but your compliment was intended for others; fate, however, had changed its address. [Footnote: The whole conversation is strictly in accordance with history.--Vide “Memoires in edits du Comte de Haugwitz,” 1837.] Of your sincerity I have hitherto had no proofs whatever, but a great many of your duplicity; for, at all events, you have affixed your name to the treaty of Potsdam?”

“I have done so, and boast of it,” said Count Haugwitz, quickly.

“A glance into the heart of Napoleon satisfied me that he who stands at the head of human greatness knew no higher aim than to give peace to mankind, and thus complete the great work which Providence has intrusted to him.”

“Words, words!” said Napoleon. “Let me see actions at last. The instructions that were given to you before leaving Berlin have been annulled by the recent events in Moravia; we are agreed about this point. Now, you are a member of the Prussian cabinet. By sending you to me, the king has intrusted to you alone the welfare of his monarchy. We shall see, therefore, whether you will know how to profit by a rare, perhaps never-recurring opportunity, and to crown the work which Frederick II., notwithstanding his victories, left unfinished. Come hither and see.”

He stepped rapidly to the table with the maps, and in obedience to a wave of his hand, Count Haugwitz glided, with his imperturbable smile, to his side.

“See here,” exclaimed Napoleon, pointing at the map; “this is Silesia, your native country. The king does not rule over the whole of it, the Emperor of Austria still retaining a portion of it; but that splendid province ought to belong exclusively to Prussia. We will see and consider how far your southern frontier ought to be extended. Just follow my finger on the map; it will designate to you the new boundaries of Prussian Silesia.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--“Memoires inedits,” p. 17.]

And Napoleon’s forefinger passed, flashing like a dagger-point, across the map, and encircled the whole Austrian portion of Silesia, from Teschen to the Saxon frontier, and from the mountains of Yablunka to the point where the Riesengebirge disappears in Lusatia. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 18.] “Well,” he then asked, hastily, “would not such an arrangement round off your Silesian province in the most desirable manner?”

Count Haugwitz did not reply immediately, but continued gazing at the map. Napoleon’s eagle glance rested on him for a moment, and then passed on to the busts of Maria Theresa and Frederick the Great.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, with a triumphant smile, pointing to the bust of Frederick, “that great man would have accepted my proposition without any hesitation whatever.”

“Sire,” said Count Haugwitz, hesitatingly, “but that great woman, Maria Theresa, would not have permitted it so easily.”

“But now,” exclaimed Napoleon, “now there is no Maria Theresa to hinder the King of Prussia; now I am here, and I grant the whole of Silesia to your king if he will conclude a close alliance with me. Consider well; can you be insensible of the glory which awaits you?”

And his eyes again pierced the embarrassed face of the count like two dagger-points.

“Sire,” said Haugwitz, in a low voice, “your proposition is tempting, it is admirable; but as far as I know his majesty the king, I must?”

“Oh,” said Napoleon, impatiently, “do not allude to the king and his person. We have nothing to do with that. You are minister, and it behooves you to fulfil the duties which your position demands from you, and to embrace the opportunity which will never return. One must be powerful, one can never be sufficiently so, believe me, and consider well before replying to me.”

“But, perhaps, sire, it would be better for us to seek for aggrandizement on another side,” said Haugwitz.

“On the side of Poland or France, I suppose?” asked Napoleon, harshly. “You would like to deprive me again of Mentz, Cleves, and the left bank of the Rhine, and you flirt with Russia and Austria because you hope they might assist you one day, after all, in obtaining those territories? But, on the other hand, you would not like to quarrel with me, because there is a possibility that your hopes will not be fulfilled, and because, in such an eventuality, you would fear my enmity. You Prussians want to be the allies of every one; that is impossible, and you must decide for me or for the others. I demand sincerity, or shall break loose from you, for I prefer open enemies to false friends. Your king tolerates in Hanover a corps of thirty thousand men, which, through his states, keeps up a connection with the great Russian army; that is an act of open hostility. As for me, I attack my enemies wherever I may find them. If I wished to do so, I might take a terrible revenge for this dishonesty. I could invade Silesia, cause an insurrection in Poland, and deal Prussia blows from which she would never recover. But I prefer forgetting the past, and pursuing a generous course. I will, therefore, forgive Prussia’s rashness, but only on condition that Prussia should unite with France by indissoluble ties; and as a guaranty of this alliance, I require Prussia to take possession of Hanover.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.? “Memoires ineidits,” p. 20]

“Sire,” exclaimed Haugwitz, joyfully, “this was the desirable aggrandizement which I took the liberty of hinting at before, and I believe it is the only one which the king’s conscience would allow him to accept.”

“Very well, take Hanover, then,” said Napoleon, “I cede my claims on it to Prussia; but in return Prussia cedes to France the principality of Neufchatel and the fortress of Wesel, and to Bavaria the principality of Anspach.”

“But, sire,” exclaimed Haugwitz, anxiously, “Anspach belongs to Prussia by virtue of family treaties which cannot be contested; and Neufchatel?”

“No objections,” interrupted Napoleon, sternly; “my terms must be complied with. Either war or peace. War, that is to say, I crush Prussia, and become her inexorable enemy forever; peace, that is to say, I give you Hanover and receive for it Neufchatel, Wesel, and Anspach. Now, make up your mind quickly; I am tired of the eternal delays and procrastinations. I want you to come at length to a decision, and you will not leave this room until I have received a categorical reply. You have had time enough to take every thing into consideration; hence you must not equivocate any more. Tell me, therefore, quickly and categorically, what do you want, war or peace?”

“Sire,” said Haugwitz, imploringly, “what else can Prussia want than peace with France.”

“Indeed, it is an excellent bargain you make on this occasion,” exclaimed Napoleon. “Neufchatel is for Prussia a doomed position, to which, moreover, she has got but extremely doubtful rights. In return for it, for Wesel and Anspach, with their four hundred thousand inhabitants, you receive Hanover, which is contiguous to Prussia, and contains more than a million inhabitants! I believe Prussia ought to be content with such an aggrandizement.”

“Sire,” said Hangwitz, “she would be especially content if she should obtain the faithful and influential friendship of France, and be able to retain it forever.”

“You may rely on my word,” replied the emperor, “I am always faithful to my enemies as well as to my friends. I crush the former and promote the interests of the latter whenever an opportunity offers. We will, however, prove to each other that we are in earnest about this alliance, and draw up its stipulations even to day. Grandmarshal Duroc has already received my instructions concerning this matter, and he will lay before you the particulars of the offensive and defensive alliance to be concluded between France and Prussia. Be kind enough to go to him and settle every thing with him, so that we may sign the document as soon as possible. Go, my dear count; but first accept my congratulations, for at this hour you have done an important service to Prussia: you have saved her from destruction. I should have crushed her like a toy in my hand if you had rejected my offers of friendship. Go, the grand-marshal is waiting for you.” [Footnote: The offensive and defensive alliance between the Emperor of France and the King of Prussia was concluded agreeably to the demands of Napoleon. Count Haugwitz, without obtaining further instructions from his sovereign, signed it on the 15th of December. The same day, in accordance with the treaty of Potsdam, he was to have delivered to Napoleon Prussia’s declaration of war. Owing to the conclusion of this alliance, the position of Austria became utterly untenable, and she was obliged to accept the humiliating terms of Napoleon, and to sign, on the 26th of December, 1805, the peace of Presburg. This treaty deprived Austria of her best provinces, which were annexed to France, Bavaria, Wurtemberg and Baden. It is true, Prussia obtained the kingdom of Hanover by virtue of the treaty with France, but this was an illusory aggrandizement which Prussia would have to conquer, sword in hand, from England.] He nodded a parting greeting to the confused, almost stunned count, and returned to his maps, thus depriving the Prussian minister of the possibility of entering into further explanations. The latter heaved a profound sigh, and, walking backward, turned slowly to the door.

Napoleon took no further notice of him; he seemed wholly absorbed in his maps and plans; only when the door closed slowly behind the count, he said, in a low voice: “He will sign the treaty, and then Austria’s last hope is gone! Now I shall assume a more decided attitude in Presburg, and Austria will accept all my conditions; she will be obliged to cede to me the Netherlands, Venice, and Tuscany, for now she cannot count any longer on Prussia’s armed intervention.”

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LIII. JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES

Napoleon was still engaged in studying his maps and in changing the positions of the pins on it. From time to time he was interrupted in this occupation by couriers bringing fresh dispatches from Presburg or France, but he constantly returned to his maps, and his finger passing over them extinguished kingdoms and boundaries to create new states in their places.

Evening was already drawing near, and the emperor was still in his cabinet. The door had already been opened repeatedly in a cautious manner, and Constant, the valet de chambre, had looked in with prying eyes, but seeing the emperor so busily engaged, he had always withdrawn cautiously and inaudibly. At length, however, he seemed tired of waiting any longer, and instead of withdrawing, again he entered and closed the door noiselessly.

The noise caused the emperor to start up.

“Well, Constant, what is the matter?” he asked.

“Sire,” whispered Constant, in a low voice, as though he were afraid the walls might hear him, “sire, that distinguished lady has been here for an hour; she is waiting for the audience your majesty has granted to her.”

“Ah, the countess or princess,” said Napoleon, carelessly, “the foolish person who asserts that she hated me formerly but loves me now?”

“Sire, she speaks of your majesty in terms of the most unbounded enthusiasm!”

“Ah, bah! Women like to be enthusiastic admirers of somebody, and to worship him with the gushing transports of their tender hearts! Would so many women go into convents and call Christ their bridegroom, if it were not so? But what is the name of this lady who has been pleased to fall in love with me?”

“Sire, I believe, the only condition she stipulated was that your majesty should not ask for her name.”

The emperor frowned. “And you would persuade me to receive this nameless woman? Who knows but she may be a mere intriguer anxious to penetrate to me for some dark purpose?”

“Sire, one of the most faithful adherents and admirers of your majesty, M. von Brandt, formerly major in the Austrian service, pledges his word of honor that she is not, and?”

At this moment the door was opened violently, and Grand-marshal Duroe entered.

“Ah, your majesty is here still!” he exclaimed, joyfully. “Your majesty has not yet received the lady?”

“Well, does that concern you?” asked Napoleon, smiling. “You are jealous, perhaps? This lady is said to be very beautiful.”

“Sire,” said Duroc, solemnly, “even though she were as beautiful as Cleopatra, your majesty ought not to receive her.”

“I ought not?” asked Napoleon, sternly. “What should prevent me from doing so?”

“Sire, the sacred duty to preserve yourself to your people, to your empire. This lady who tries to penetrate with so much passionate violence to your majesty is a dangerous intriguer, a mortal enemy of France and your majesty.”

Napoleon cast a triumphant glance on Constant, who, pale and trembling, was leaning against the wall.

“Well,” he asked, “will you defend her still?”

Without waiting for Constant’s reply, he turned again to the grand-marshal.

“Whence did you obtain this information?”

“Sire, the governor of Vienna, M. de Vincennes, has just arrived here in the utmost haste. His horse fell half dead to the ground when he entered the courtyard. He feared that he might be too late.”

“How too late?”

“Too late to warn your majesty from this lady, who has evidently come to carry out some criminal enterprise.”

“Ah, bah! she was, perhaps, going to assassinate me?”

“Sire, that is what M. de Vincennes asserts.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Napoleon, turning once more toward Constant, “did you not tell me that she was deeply enamoured of me? Is the governor here still?”

“Yes, sire; he wants to know whether he shall not immediately arrest the lady and closely question her.”

Napoleon was silent for a moment, and seemed to reflect.

“Constant,” he then said, “tell M. de Vincennes to come hither. I myself want to speak to him.”

Constant went at once into the anteroom and returned in a minute, to introduce the governor of Vienna, M. de Vincennes.

Napoleon hastily went to meet him. “You have come to warn me,” he said, sternly. “What are your reasons for doing so?”

“Sire, the intentions of this lady are extremely suspicious. Since I have been in Vienna she has been incessantly watched by my agents, because she is the intellectual head of all the dangerous and hostile elements of the city. All the enemies of your majesty, all the so-called German patriots, meet at her house, and by closely watching HER, we could learn all our enemies’ plans and actions. Hence, it was necessary for us to find an agent in her house who would report to me every day what had been going on there, and I was so fortunate as to enlist the services of her mistress of ceremonies.”

“By what means did you bribe her?” asked Napoleon. “By means of love or money?”

“Sire, thank God, money alone was sufficient for the purpose.”

The emperor smiled. “The woman is old and ugly, then?”

“Very ugly, sire.”

“And she hates her mistress because she is beautiful. For, I suppose, she is very beautiful?”

“Extremely so, sire; a most fascinating woman, and consequently the more dangerous as an intriguer.”

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders. “Proceed with your report. You had bribed her mistress of ceremonies, then?”

“Yes, sire; she kept an accurate diary, containing a statement of what her mistress had been doing every hour, and brought it to me every evening. For the last few days the conduct of her mistress has seemed to her particularly suspicious; hence she watched her more closely, and my other agents dogged her steps in disguise whenever she left her mansion. All symptoms appeared suspicious enough, and pointed to the conclusion that she was meditating an attack upon some distinguished person. But I did not guess as yet whom she was aiming at. All at once, two hours ago, her mistress of ceremonies came to bring me her diary, and to report to me that her mistress had just left her mansion with Major von Brandt, and that her last words had indicated that she had gone to see your majesty at Schonbrunn. While I was still considering what ought to be done, another agent of mine made his appearance; I had commissioned him specially to watch M. von Brandt; for, although he seems to be extremely devoted to us, I do not trust him.”

“And you are perfectly right,” said Napoleon, sternly. “Traitors ought never to be trusted, and this M. von Brandt is a traitor, inasmuch as he adheres to us, the enemies of his country. What was the information brought to you by your agent?”

“Sire, my agent caused one of his men, who is a very skilful pickpocket, to steal the major’s memorandum-book just at the moment when he was entering the lady’s house.”

“Indeed,” said Napoleon, laughing. “Your agents are clever fellows. What did you find in the memorandum-book? Love letters and unpaid bills, I suppose?”

“No, sire, I found in it an important document; an agreement, by virtue of which the lady is to pay the major, in case he should obtain for her an interview with your majesty, a gold-piece for every minute of its duration.”

Napoleon laughed. “The lady is as rich as Croesus, then?” he asked.

“Yes, sire, the princess is said to?”

“Princess! What princess?”

“Sire, the lady to whom your majesty has granted an audience is the Princess von Eibenberg.”

“The Princess von Eibenberg,” replied Napoleon, musingly. “Did I not hear that name on some former occasion? Yes, yes, I remember,” he said, in a low voice, after a short pause, as if speaking to himself; “the agent of the Count de Provence, who delivered to me the letter, and whom I then expelled from Paris.”

“Have you got the diary of the mistress of ceremonies and the other papers with you?” he then asked the governor.

“I have, sire, here they are,” replied M. de Vincennes, drawing a few papers from his bosom. “Here is also the singular agreement of the princess.”

“Give them to me,” said Napoleon; and taking the papers, he looked over them and read a few lines here and there. “Indeed,” he then said, “this affair is piquant enough; it begins to excite my curiosity. Constant, where is the lady?”

“Sire, M. de Bausset has taken her to the small reception-room of your majesty; she is waiting there.”

“Well,” said Napoleon, “she has waited long enough, and might become impatient; I will, therefore, go to her.”

“But, sire, you will not see her alone, I hope?” asked Duroc, anxiously. “I trust your majesty will permit me to accompany you?”

“Ah, you are anxious to see the famous belle?” asked Napoleon, laughing. “Another time, M. grand-marshal--but this time I shall go alone. Just remember that the princess is passionately enamoured of me, and that it, therefore, would terribly offend her if I should not come alone to the interview with her.”

He advanced a few steps toward the door. But now Constant rushed toward him, and kneeling before him, exclaimed, in a voice trembling with anguish: “Sire, your majesty must have pity on me. Do not expose your priceless life to such a danger! Do not plunge my poor heart which adores your majesty into everlasting despair! It was I who first dared to request your majesty to receive this lady! Now, sire, I implore your majesty on my knees--do not receive her!”

“Sire, I venture to unite my prayers with those of Constant,” said Duroc, urgently. “Sire, do not receive this lady!”

“Your majesty, permit me rather to arrest her immediately,” exclaimed M. de Vincennes.

Napoleon’s flaming eyes glanced in succession smilingly at the three men. “Truly,” he said, “on hearing you, one might almost believe this beautiful woman to be a mine, and that it was merely necessary to touch her in order to explode and be shattered! Reassure yourselves, I believe we will save our life this time. You have warned me, and I shall be on my guard. Not another word, no more prayers! My resolution is fixed; I will see this beautiful woman, and, moreover, alone!”

“Sire,” exclaimed Constant, anxiously, “suppose this crazy woman should fire a pistol at your head at the moment when your majesty appears before her?”

“In that case the bullets would harmlessly glance off from me, or the pistol would miss fire,” replied Napoleon, in a tone of firm conviction. “Fate did not place me here to fall by the hands of an assassin! Go, gentlemen, and accept my thanks for your zeal and sympathy. M. de Vincennes, return to Vienna; I shall keep your papers here. Is Count Haugwitz still at your rooms, Duroc?”

“Yes, sire, we were just engaged in drawing up the several sections of the treaty, when M. de Vincennes sent for me.”

“Return to the count, and you, Constant, go to M. von Brandt and count with him the minutes which his lady will pass in my company. I should not be surprised if he should earn a great many gold-pieces, for I do not intend dismissing the interesting belle so soon.”

He nodded to them, and hastily crossing the room, passed through the door which Constant opened. With rapid steps, and without any further hesitation, he walked across the two large reception-halls, and then opened the door of the small reception-room where the lady, as Constant had told him, was waiting for him.

He remained for a moment on the threshold, and his burning glances turned toward Marianne, who, as soon as she saw him coming in, had risen from the arm-chair in which she had been sitting.

“It is true,” murmured Napoleon to himself, “she is really beautiful!”

He advanced a few steps; then, as if remembering only at this moment that he had left the door wide open, he turned around and closed it. “I suppose you want to speak to me without witnesses?” he asked, approaching Marianne.

“Sire, the words of love and adoration fail too often in the presence of others,” whispered Marianne, casting a flaming glance on him.

Napoleon smiled. “Well, why did you hesitate, then, just now to write the words of love and adoration between my shoulders?” he asked. “I turned my back to you intentionally; I wished to give you an opportunity for carrying out your heroic deed.”

“What?” exclaimed Marianne, in terror, “has your majesty any doubts of my intentions?”

“No,” said Napoleon, laughing, “I have no doubts whatever of your intentions; on the contrary, I am quite sure of them. I know that you have come hither to translate the Bible, the truth of which has been questioned so often, into reality. You intended to make of the chapter of Judith and Holofernes a tragedy of our times. But although you are as beautiful and seductive as Judith, I am no Holofernes, who allows himself to be ruled by his passion, and forgets the dictates of prudence in the arms of a woman. I never was the slave of my passions, madame, and it is not sufficient for a woman to be beautiful in order to win my heart; I must be able, too, to esteem her, and never should I be able to esteem a woman capable of loving the conqueror of her country. You see, therefore, that I am no Holofernes, and that I should not have opened my arms to you if I should have believed you to be a recreant daughter of your country. But I know that you are a patriot, and that alters the case: I know that I may esteem you; hence, I do not say that I cannot love you, for it is true, you are enchantingly beautiful.”

“Sire,” said Marianne, indignantly, “if you have only received me to insult and mortify me, pray permit me to withdraw!”

“No, I have received you because I wanted to give you good advice,” said Napoleon, gravely; “I, therefore, pray you to remain. You must choose your servants more cautiously, madame; you must confide in them less and watch them better; for slavish souls are easily led astray, and money is a magnet they are unable to withstand. Your mistress of ceremonies is a traitress; beware of her!”

“Then she has slandered me?” asked Marianne, with quivering lips.

“No, she has only betrayed you,” said Napoleon, smiling. “Even the diamond ring which you gave her as a souvenir did not touch her heart. Do you yet remember what you said to her when you handed it to her?”

“Sire, how should I remember it?” asked Marianne.

“Well, I will repeat it to you,” exclaimed Napoleon, unfolding the papers which M. de Vincennes had given to him, and which he had kept all the time rolled up in his hand. “Here it is. You said: ‘I know you are a good and enthusiastic Austrian; like myself, you hate the tyrant who wants to subjugate us, and you will bless the hand which will order him to stop, and put an end to his victorious career.’ Well, was it not so, madame?”

Marianne made no reply; her cheeks were pale, and her eyes stared at the emperor, who looked at her smilingly.

“A moment before you had concealed a flashing object in your bosom,” continued Napoleon. “That object which your mistress of ceremonies did not see distinctly was a dagger which you had bought this forenoon. Shall I tell you where?”--He glanced again at the papers, and then said: “You bought this dagger in a gun store on the Kohlmarkt, and paid four ducats for it. You have now got this dagger with you; truly, it occupies an enviable hiding-place, and I might be jealous of it. Why do you not draw it forth and carry out your purpose? Do you really believe what so many fools have said about me, viz, that I was in the habit of wearing a coat-of-mail? I pledge you my imperial word, my breast is unprotected, and a dagger will meet with no resistance provided it is able to reach my breast. Just try it!”

Marianne, who, while the emperor was speaking, had dropped on a chair as if stupefied, now rose impetuously. “Sire,” she said, proudly, “it is enough. Your officers doubtless await me in the adjoining room, in order to arrest me like a criminal. Permit me to go thither and surrender to them.”

She was about turning toward the door, but Napoleon seized her hand and kept her back. “Oh, no,” he said, “our interview is not yet over; it has scarcely lasted fifteen minutes, and remember that M. von Brandt would consequently get only fifteen gold-pieces. Ah, you look at me in surprise. You wonder that I should be aware of that, too? I am no magician, however, and have acquired my knowledge of this laughable incident in a very simple manner. Look here, this is the written agreement you gave to M. von Brandt!”

He offered the paper to Marianne; she did not take it, however, but only glanced at it. “Your majesty may see from it how ardently I longed for an interview with you,” she said. “Had M. von Brandt asked half my fortune for this interview with your majesty, I should have joyfully given it to him, for an hour in the presence of your majesty is worth more than all the riches of the world.”

“And yet you were going to leave me just now!” exclaimed Napoleon, reproachfully. “How ingenuous that would have been toward your friend who is standing in the anteroom with Constant, and, watch in hand, calculating the number of his gold-pieces. We will be generous and grant him three hours. Three hours--that is a good time for a rendezvous; when you leave me, then, you will pay M. von Brandt one hundred and eighty louis-d’or, and I shall receive the congratulations of my confidants.”

Marianne’s eyes flashed angrily, and a deep blush mantled her cheeks. “Sire,” she exclaimed almost menacingly, “call your officers--have me arrested like a criminal--take my life if I have deserved it, but let me leave this room!”

“Ah, you would die rather than that people should believe you had granted me a rendezvous of three hours’ duration,” asked Napoleon. “It is true, this rendezvous, if it should result peacefully and without the eclat which you hoped for when you came hither to play the part of Judith, would discredit you with your friends! Your party will distrust you as soon as it learns that, after being three hours with me, you left Schonbrunn in the middle of the night, while I was not found on my couch with a dagger in my heart. I cannot spare you this humiliation; it shall be the only punishment I shall inflict on you. You remain here!”

“Sire, let me go,” exclaimed Marianne, “and I swear to you that I will never dare again to approach you; I swear to you that I will live in some remote corner in the most profound retirement, far from the noise and turmoil of the world.”

“Oh, the world would never forgive me if I should deprive it in this manner of its most beautiful ornament,” said the emperor, smiling. “You are too lovely to live in obscurity and solitude. You will now grant me three hours, and you are free to tell everybody during the whole remainder of your life that you hate me; but it is true, people will hardly believe in the sincerity of your hatred.”

“Then you will not permit me to withdraw?” asked Marianne, with quivering lips. “You want me to stay here?”

“Only three hours, madame; then you may go. Let us improve this time and speak frankly and honestly to each other. Forget where we are; imagine we were the heads of two parties, meeting on neutral ground and telling each other the truth with respectful frankness for the purpose of thereby bringing about peace, if possible. Well, then, tell me honestly: do you really hate me so ardently as to have come hither for the purpose of assassinating me?”

“You ask me to tell you the truth,” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes sparkling with anger, “well, you shall hear it! Yes, I hate you; I swore to you in Paris, at the time when you sent me like a criminal to the frontier, the most ardent and implacable hatred, and in accordance with my oath I came hither to accomplish a work which would be a boon for Germany, nay, for the whole world. Yes, I wanted to assassinate you, I wanted to deliver the world from the tyrant who intends to enslave it. Yes, I had concealed a dagger in my bosom to kill you as Judith killed Holofernes. Had I accomplished my purpose, the world would have blessed me and paid the highest honors to my name; but now that I have failed in carrying out my plan, I shall be laughed and sneered at. Now I have told you the truth, and in order that you may not doubt it, I will show you the dagger which was intended for your breast, and which I shall now hurl down at your feet as the dragon’s feet, from which one day full-grown warriors will spring for our cause in order to combat you.”

She drew the dagger from her bosom, and, with a violent gesture, threw it at Napoleon’s feet. “Sire,” she then asked, in an imploring voice, “will you not yet order me to be arrested?”

“Why?” asked Napoleon, “Words falling from the lips of beautiful women are never insulting, and I do not punish thoughts which have not yet become actions. Your hands are free from guilt, and the only criminal here in this room is that dagger on the floor. I trample it under foot, and it is unable to rise any more against me.”

He placed his foot on the flashing blade, and fixed his piercing eyes on the princess. “Madame,” he said, “when you came to me in Paris, it was the Count de Provence who had sent you. He sent me a letter through you at that time. Tell me, did he send me this dagger to-day?”

“No, I will take the most solemn oath that he knows nothing about it,” replied Marianne. “Nobody knew of my undertaking; I had no confidants and no accomplices.”

“You had only your own hatred, madame,” said Napoleon, musingly. “Why do you hate me so bitterly? What have I done to all of you that you should turn away from me?”

“Why I hate you?” asked Marianne, impetuously. “Because you have come to trample Germany in the dust, to transform her into a French province, and to defraud us of our honor, our good rights, and independence. What have you done, that all honest men should turn away from you? You have broken your most sacred oaths--you are a perjurer!”

“Oh, that goes too far,” cried Napoleon, passionately. “What hinders me, then--”

“To have me arrested?” Marianne interrupted him, defiantly--“please do so.”

“No, I shall not do you that favor. Proceed, proceed! You stand before me as though you were Germania herself rising before me to accuse me. Well, then, accuse me. When have I broken my oaths?”

“From the moment when you raised the banner in the name of the republic which you intended to upset; from the moment when you called the nations to you in the name of liberty, in order to rule over them as their tyrant and oppressor!”

“To those who wanted to keep up the despotism of liberty under which France had bled and groaned so long, I was a tyrant,” said Napoleon, calmly; “to those who entertained the senseless idea of restoring the Bourbons, under whom France had bled and groaned as long and longer, I was an oppressor. The family of the Bourbons has become decrepit; it resembles a squeezed lemon, the peel of which is thrown contemptuously aside, because there is no longer any juice in it. Did you really believe I should have been such a fool as to pick up this empty peel, which France had thrown aside, and to clothe it in a purple cloak and crown? Did you believe I had, like those Bourbons and all legitimate princes, learned nothing from history, and not been taught by the examples it holds up to all those who have eyes to see with? I have learned from history that dynasties dry up like trees, and that it is better to uproot the hollow, withered-up trunk rather than permit it, in its long decay, to suck up the last nourishing strength from the soil on which it stands.”

“Sire, you do not only uproot the decaying trunk, but with the axe of the tyrant you deprived this trunk of its fresh, green branches also,” exclaimed Marianne.

“Ah, you refer to the Duke d’Enghien,” said Napoleon, quietly. “It was an act of policy, which I do not regret. The Bourbons had to understand at length that France wanted to give them up and create a new era for herself. I stood at the head of this new era, and I had to fill in a becoming manner the position Providence had conferred on me. Providence destined me to become the founder of a new dynasty, and there will be a day when my family will occupy the first thrones of the world.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide “Le Normand,” vol. ii., p. 29.]

“That is to say, you declare war against all princes,” exclaimed Marianne.

“Against the princes, yes,” said Napoleon, “for they are nothing but over-ripe fruits only waiting for the hand that is to shake them off. I shall be this hand, and before me they will fall to the ground, and I shall rise higher and higher above them. You call me a conqueror, but how could I stop now in my work? If I should pause now in my conquests and sheathe my sword, what should I have gained by so many efforts but a little glory, without having approached the goal to which I was aspiring? What should I have gained by setting all Europe in a blaze if I should be contented with having overthrown empires and not hasten to build up MY OWN empire on solid foundations? It is not birth that entitles me to immortality. The man who is possessed of courage, who does good service to his country, and renders himself illustrious by great exploits, that man needs no pedigree, for he is everything by himself.”[Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide “Le Normand.” vol. ii., p. 49.]

“But in the eyes of the legitimists he is always nothing but an upstart,” said Marianne, shrugging her shoulders.

“In that case he must overthrow and annihilate all legitimists,” said Napoleon, quickly; “so that a new dynasty may arise, of which he will be the founder. I am the man of Destiny, and shall found a new dynasty, and one day the whole of Europe will be but one empire, MY empire! All of you, instead of cursing me, should joyfully hail my coming and welcome me as your liberator sent by Providence to raise you from your degradation and disgrace. Just look around, you Germans, and see what sort of princes and governments you have got. Are you being ruled by noble, high-minded sovereigns; are men of ability and character at the head of your governments? I only behold impotence, infamy, and venality everywhere in the German cabinets. The system of nepotism is everywhere in force; offices are gifts of favor, and not rewards of merit; intrigues and corrupt influences succeed in placing the foremost positions of the state into the hands of incapable men, and great minds, if there be any at all, are utterly ignored. The result of this system is, of course, that men cease cultivating their minds, and that the virtues and talents which are not rewarded with a just tribute of glory, lose their vigor and enthusiasm; nay, often their very existence. When a nation sees none but incapable favorites and venal intriguers at the head of the various departments of its administration and of its armies, how is it to prosper and expand, to increase its wealth, and to win victories! Woe to the nation which allows itself to be governed by such ministers, and to be defended by such generals as I have found everywhere in Germany! As the man of Destiny, I have come to devote to her my hand, my mouth, and my heart for the purpose of liberating her and delivering her from her disgraceful chains.” [Footnote: Ibid., p. 29.]

“And to load her with even more disgraceful ones,” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes naming with anger; “for there is nothing more disgraceful on earth than a nation submitting to a foreign barbarian and humbly kissing the feet of its oppressor, instead of expelling him by the majesty of its wrath. If you, a modern Attila, go on with your murderous sword, Europe is ruined, and all dignity of the nations, all the centres of scientific eminence, all the hopes of humanity are lost. For nations can only perform great things, and create great things, when they are independent; and freedom itself is of no use to them if they must receive it as a favor at the hands of their conqueror.”

“Earth ought to have but one ruler, as heaven has but one God,” said Napoleon, solemnly. “I have only begun my task; it is not yet accomplished. Hitherto I have subjected only France, Italy, Switzerland, and Holland to my sceptre, but my goal is even more sublime than that. And who will prevent me from seizing Westphalia, the Hanseatic cities, and Rome, and from annexing the Illyrian provinces, Etruria, and Portugal to France? I do not know yet where to fix the boundaries of my empire. Perhaps it will have no other boundaries than the vast space of the two hemispheres; perhaps, like Americus Vespucius and Columbus, I shall obtain the glory of discovering and conquering another unknown world!”[Footnote: Napoleon’s own words. “Le Normand, Memoires,” vol. ii., p. 69.]

“And if you should discover a third world,” exclaimed Marianne, “God may decree, perhaps, that in this new world, an avenger of the two old worlds may arise and tell you in the thundering voice of Jehovah: ‘Here are the boundaries of your empire! So far and no farther!’”

“But I should not shrink back,” said Napoleon, smiling, “but advance to fight for my good right with the avenger sent by Providence, for I was also sent by Providence; I am a chosen son of Heaven, and if there is a misfortune for me, it is that I have come too late. Men are too enlightened or too sober; hence, it is impossible to accomplish great things.”

“Ah, you say so,” exclaimed Marianne, “you, whose fate is so brilliant and exalted? You, who once were a humble officer of artillery, and now are seated as emperor on a mighty throne?”

“Yes,” said Napoleon, in a low voice, as if to himself, “I admit, my career was brilliant enough,--I have pursued a splendid path! But how much difference there is between me and the heroes of antiquity! How much more fortunate was Alexander! After conquering Asia, he declared he was the son of Jove, and the whole Orient believed it, except Olympias, who knew very well what to think of it, and except Aristotle, and a few other pedants of Athens! But if I, who have made more conquests and won greater victories than Alexander,--if I should declare to-day I were the son of God, and offer Him my thanksgiving under this title, there would be no fishwoman that would not laugh at me. The nations are too enlightened and too sober; it is impossible to accomplish great things.”[Footnote: Napoleon’s own words.--Vide “Memoires du Marechal Duc de Raguse,” vol. ii., p. 243.] “There will be a day, sire, when the nations will rise and prove to you that they are able to accomplish great things!”

“And on that day they will trample me in the dust, I suppose?” asked Napoleon, with an almost compassionate smile. “Do not hope too sanguinely for this day, for your hopes might deceive you. I have spoken so freely and frankly to you,” he continued, rising, “because I knew that, by speaking to you, I was speaking, through you, to the most eminent, high-minded, and patriotic men of your nation, and because I wished to be comprehended and appreciated by them. Go, then, and repeat my words to them--repeat them to those, too, who believe that the throne which I have erected belongs to THEM, and that the tri-colored flag would have to disappear one day before the lilies. Go, madame, and tell those enthusiastic Bourbons the lilies were so dreadfully steeped in the misery and blood of France that nobody would recognize them there, and that everybody was shrinking back from their cadaverous smell and putridity. Empires and dynasties, like flowers, have but one day of bloom; the day of the Bourbons is past; they are faded and stripped of their leaves. State it to those who one day sent you CERTAINLY to me, and PERHAPS again to-day. If you relate to them to-day’s scene, they may deplore, perhaps, that fate did not permit you to become a Judith, but they will have to acknowledge at least that I am no Holofernes. For although the most beautiful woman of my enemies came to my couch to visit me, she did not kill me, and her dagger lies at my feet! I shall preserve it as a remembrancer, and Grand-marshal Duroc, M. von Brandt, and Constant, my valet de chambre, who are waiting for you in the anteroom, will believe that dagger to be a souvenir of your love and of a delightful hour of my life. We will not undeceive them! Farewell, madame!”

He gave Marianne no time to answer him, but took the silver bell and rang it so loudly and violently that Constant appeared in evident terror in the door.

“Constant,” said the emperor, “conduct the lady to her carriage; she will return to Vienna; and as for M. von Brandt, tell him the princess had allowed me to be her paymaster, and to pay him in her place for the happy minutes of our interview.”

“Sire,” ejaculated Marianne, in dismay, “you will--”

“Hush,” the emperor interrupted her proudly, “I will pay my tribute to Dame Fortune! Farewell, madame; remember this hour sometimes!”

He waved a parting salutation to her with his hand, and then disappeared through the door leading to his bedroom.

Marianne stared at him until he was gone, as though she had just seen a ghost walking before her, and as though her whole soul were concentrated in this look with which she gazed after him.

“Madame,” said Constant, in a low voice, “if you please!” And he approached the large hall-door which he opened.

Marianne started when she heard his words as if she were awaking from a dream; she left the room silently, and without deigning to glance at Constant, and followed her smiling guide through the halls. In the first anteroom she beheld Grand-marshal Duroc and several generals, who looked at the princess with threatening and sorrowful glances. Marianne felt these glances as if they were daggers piercing her soul, and daggers seemed to strike her ears when she heard Constant say to Major von Brandt: “You will stay here, sir; for the emperor has ordered me to pay you here for the hours his majesty has spent with the princess.”

By a violent effort, Marianne succeeded in overcoming her emotions, and with a proudly erect head, with a cold and immovable face, she walked on across the anterooms and descended the staircase until she reached her carriage.

Only when the carriage rolled along the road toward Vienna through the silent night, the coachman, notwithstanding the noise of the wheels, thought he heard loud lamentations, which seemed to proceed from the interior of the carriage. But he must have certainly been mistaken, for when the carriage stopped in the courtyard in front of her mansion, and the footman hastened to open the coach-door, the princess alighted as proud and calm, as beautiful and radiant as ever, and ascended the staircase coolly and slowly. At the head of the stairs stood Madame Camilla, muttering a few words with trembling lips and pale cheeks. Marianne apparently did not see her at all, and walked coldly and proudly down the corridor leading to her rooms.

She ordered the maids, who received her in her dressing-room, with an imperious wave of her hand, to withdraw, and when they had left the room she locked the door behind them. She then went with rapid steps to the boudoir contiguous to the dressing-room, and here, where she was sure that no one could see or overhear her, she allowed the proud mask to glide from her face, and showed its boundless despair. With a loud shriek of anguish she sank on her knees and raising her folded hands to heaven, cried, in the wailing notes of terrible grief:

“Oh, my God, my God! let me succumb to this disgrace. Have mercy on me, and let me die!”

But after long hours of struggling and despair, of lamentations and curses, Marianne rose again from her knees with defiant pride and calm energy.

“No,” she muttered, “I must not, will not die! Life has still claims on me, and the secret league, of which I have become the first member, imposes on me the duty of living and working in its service. I was unable to strike the tyrant with my dagger; well, then, we must try to kill him gradually by means of pin-pricks. Such a pin-prick is the manuscript which Gentz has intrusted to me in order to have it published and circulated throughout Germany. Somewhere a printing-office will be found to set up this manuscript with its types; I will seek for it, and pay the weight of its types in gold.”

Early next morning the travelling-coach of the princess stood at the door, and Marianne, dressed in a full travelling-costume, prepared for immediate departure. She had spent the whole night in arranging her household affairs. Now every thing was done, every thing was arranged and ready, and when about to descend the staircase, the princess turned around to Madame Camilla, who followed her humbly.

“Madame,” she said, coldly and calmly, “you will be kind enough to leave my house this very hour, in order to write your diary somewhere else. The French governor of Vienna will assign to you, perhaps, a place with his MOUCHARDS; go, therefore, to him, and never dare again to enter my house. My steward has received instructions from me; he will pay you your wages, and see to it that you will leave the house within an hour. Adieu!”

Without vouchsafing to glance at Madame Camilla, she descended the staircase calmly and haughtily, and entered her carriage, which rolled through the lofty portal of the court-yard with thundering noise.

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LIV. THE FALL OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE

The peace of Presburg had been concluded; it had deprived Austria of her best provinces.

The offensive and defensive alliance between Prussia and France had been signed; it had deprived Prussia of the principalities of Cleves, Berg, and Neufchatel.

Germany, therefore, had reason enough in the beginning of 1806 to mourn and complain, for her princes had been humiliated and disgraced; her people had to bear with their princes the ignominy of degradation and dependence.

Germany, however, seemed to be joyful and happy; festivals were being celebrated everywhere--festivals in honor of the Emperor Napoleon and his family, festivals of love and happiness.

After the victory Napoleon had obtained at Austerlitz over the two emperors, after the conclusion of the treaty of Presburg and the alliance with Prussia, all causes of war with Germany seemed removed, and Napoleon laid his sword aside in order to repose on his laurels in the bosom of his family, and, instead of founding new states, to bring about marriages between his relations and the scions of German sovereigns--marriages which were to draw closer the links of love and friendship uniting France with Germany, and to make all Germany the obedient son-in-law and vassal of the Emperor of France.

In Munich, the wedding-bells which made Napoleon the father-in-law of a German dynasty, were first rung. In Munich, in the beginning of 1806, Eugene Beauharnais, Napoleon’s adopted son, was married to the beautiful and noble Princess Amelia of Bavaria, daughter of Maximilian, Elector of Bavaria, who, by the grace of Napoleon, had become King of Bavaria, as Eugene, by the same grace, had become Viceroy of Italy.

All Bavaria was jubilant with delight at the new and most fortunate ties uniting the German state with France; all Bavaria felt honored and happy when the Emperor Napoleon, with his wife Josephine, came to Munich to take part in the wedding-ceremonies. Festivals followed each other in quick succession in Munich; only happy faces were to be seen there, only jubilant shouts, laughter, and merry jests were to be heard; and whenever Napoleon appeared in the streets or showed himself on the balcony of the palace, the people received him with tremendous cheers, and waved their hats at the emperor, regardless of the blood and tears he had wrung but a few days before from another German state.

No sooner had the wedding-bells ceased ringing in Munich than they commenced resounding in Carlsruhe; for Napoleon wanted there, too, to become the father-in-law of another German dynasty, and the niece of Josephine, Mademoiselle Stephanie de Beauharnais, married the heir of the Elector of Baden, who now, by the grace of Napoleon, became Grand-duke of Baden.

And to the merry notes of the wedding-bells of Munich and Carlsruhe, were soon added the joyful sound of the bells which announced to Germany the rise of a new sovereign house within her borders, and inaugurated the elevation of the brother-in-law of the Emperor of France to the dignity of a sovereign German prince. Those solemn bells resounded in Cleves and Berg, and did homage to Joachim Murat, who, by the grace of Napoleon, had become Grand-duke of Berg. Prussia and Bavaria had to furnish the material for this new princely cloak; Prussia had given the larger portion of it, the Duchy of Cleves, and Bavaria, grateful for so many favors, had added to it the principality of Berg, so that these two German states together formed a nice grand-duchy for the son of the French innkeeper--for Joachim Murat, for the brother-in-law of the French emperor.

And when the joyful sounds had died away in Munich, Carlsruhe, and the new grand-duchy of Berg, they resounded again in Stuttgart, for in that capital the betrothal of Jerome, youngest brother of Napoleon, and of a daughter of the Elector of Wurtemberg, who now, by the grace of Napoleon, had become King of Wurtemberg, was celebrated. It is true Jerome, the emperor’s brother, wore no crown as yet; it is true this youngest son of the Corsican lawyer had hitherto been nothing but an “imperial prince of France,” but his royal father-in-law of Wurtemberg felt convinced that his august brother, Napoleon, would endow the husband of his daughter in a becoming manner, and place some vacant or newly-to-be-created crown on his head. Napoleon, moreover, had just then endowed his elder brother Joseph in such a manner, and made him King of Naples, after solemnly declaring to Europe in a manifesto, that “the dynasty of Naples had ceased to reign, and that the finest country on earth was to be delivered at length from the yoke of the most perfidious persons.” And in accordance with his word, Napoleon had overthrown the Neapolitan dynasty, expelled King Ferdinand and Queen Caroline from their capital, and placed his brother Joseph on the throne of Naples. [Footnote: Napoleon rewarded his generals and ministers, besides, with duchies, which he created for them in Italy, and the rich revenues of which he assigned to them. Thus Marmont became Duke of Ragusa; Mortier, Duke of Treviso; Bessieres, Duke of Istria; Savary, Duke of Rovigo; Lannes, Duke of Montebello; Bernadotte, Prince of Pontecorvo; Talleyrand, Prince of Benevento; Fouche, Duke of Otranto; Maret, Duke of Bassano; Soult, Duke of Dalmatia; Berthier, Prince of Neufchatel; Duroc, Duke of Frioul, etc.]

Hence, the King of Wurtemberg was not afraid; he was sure that Napoleon would discover somewhere a falling crown for his brother Jerome, and give to the daughter of the most ancient German dynasty a position worthy of the honor of her house.

But the joyful bells were not only rung in Germany; they resounded also from the borders of Holland, which now, by the grace of Napoleon, had become a kingdom, and to which, again by the grace of Napoleon, a king had been given, in the person of Louis, another brother of the Emperor of France. They resounded, too, from Italy, where, in this blessed year of 1806, so productive of new crowns, on one day, March 30, 1806, suddenly twelve duchies sprang from the ground and placed as many ducal crowns on the heads of Napoleon’s friends and comrades.

The year of 1806, therefore, was a blessed and happy year; joy and exultation reigned everywhere, and Napoleon was the author of all this happiness.

Still there was in the German empire a city which, in spite of all these recent festivals and demonstrations of satisfaction, maintained a grave and gloomy aspect, and apparently took no part whatever in the universal joy, but lived in its sullen, dull quiet as it had done for centuries.

This city was Ratisbon, the seat of the German Diet, and now the property and capital of the archchancellor of the German empire, Baron Dalberg.

For centuries Ratisbon had enjoyed the proud honor of having the ambassadors of all the German states meet in its old city-hall, for the purpose of deliberating on the welfare of Germany. From the arched windows of the large session hall the new laws flitted all over Germany, and what the gentlemen at Ratisbon had decided on, had to be submitted to by the princes and people of Germany.

And, just as hundreds and hundreds of years ago, they were still in session at Ratisbon--the ambassadors of the emperor, of the kings, electors, dukes, free cities, counts, and barons of the German empire. There met every day in their old hall the states of Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, Hanover, Wurtemberg, Baden, Hesse-Darmstadt, Mecklenberg, Brunswick, and whatever might be the names of the different members of the great German empire.

They met, but they did not deliberate any longer; they merely guessed what might be the fate of Germany, how long they would sit there in gloomy idleness, and when it might please the new protector of Germany, the Emperor of France, to remember them and say to them: “Go home, gentlemen, for your time has expired. The German Diet has ceased to exist, and I will deliver Germany from this burden.”

But neither the Emperor of France nor the sovereigns of Germany seemed to remember that there was a Diet still in session at the ancient city-hall of Ratisbon, which formerly had to sanction all treaties of peace, all cessions of territory, and all political changes whatever, so that they might be recognized and become valid in the German empire.

Now, the Emperor of Germany had not even deemed it necessary to submit to the Diet at Ratisbon the treaty of peace concluded with Napoleon at Presberg for ratification, but had contented himself with merely notifying the Diet of its conclusion. In the same manner, and on the same day, the ambassadors of Bavaria and Wurtemberg had risen from their seats to announce to the Diet that they were now no longer representatives of electors, but of kings--Bavaria and Wurtemberg, with the consent of the Emperor of France, having assumed the royal title; and when these two gentlemen had resumed their seats, the ambassador of the Elector of Baden rose for the purpose of declaring that he was representing no longer an electorate, but a grand-duchy--the Elector of Baden, with the consent of the Emperor of France, having assumed the grand-ducal title.

The Diet had received these announcements silently and without objection; it had been silent, also, when, a few days later, the French ambassador, M. Bacher, appeared in the session-hall and announced that Murat, as Duke of Cleves, had become a member of the German empire. Every ambassador, however, had asked himself silently how it happened that the new member of the empire did not hasten to avail himself of his rights, and to send an ambassador to take his seat at the Diet of Ratisbon.

The Diet, as we have stated already, received all these announcements in silence, and what good would it have done to it to speak? Who still respected its voice? Who still bowed to its name?

Only for appearance sake, only for the purpose of conversing with each other in a low tone about their own misfortunes, their weakness and impotence, did the ambassadors of the German princes and cities meet still, and instead of giving laws to Germany, as formerly, they only communicated to each other their suppositions concerning the fate that might be in store for Germany and the German Diet at Ratisbon.

The gentlemen were assembled again to-day in the large session-hall, and all the German states, which elsewhere were bitterly quarrelling with each other, were sitting peaceably around the large green table and chatting about the events that had taken place in the German empire, and might occur in the near future.

“Have you read the new pamphlets which are creating so great a sensation at the present time?” said Prussia to Saxony, who was seated by her side.

“No, I never read any pamphlets,” replied Saxony.

“It is worth while, however, to read these pamphlets,” said Prussia, smiling: “for they treat of an absurd idea in a most eloquent and enthusiastic manner. Just think of it, they advocate in dead earnest the idea of placing the German empire, now that the power of Austria has been paralyzed, under the protection of Bavaria, and of appointing the new King of Bavaria chief of Germany.”

“The idea is not so bad, after all,” said Saxony, smiling; “the Bavarian dynasty is one of the most ancient in Germany, and its power is greater than ever, inasmuch as it may boast of the friendship and favor of the Emperor of France. The Emperor Napoleon would, perhaps, raise no objections in case the King of Bavaria should be elected Emperor of Germany.”

“Oh, no,” whispered Brunswick, Saxony’s neighbor on the left; “I received late and authentic news yesterday. The Emperor Napoleon intends completely to restore the German empire of the middle ages, and will himself assume the imperial crown of Germany.” [Footnote: Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 721.] “What,” exclaimed Hesse, who had overheard the words, “the Emperor Napoleon wants to make himself Emperor of Germany?”

And Hesse had spoken so loudly in her surprise that the whole Diet had heard her words, and every one repeated them in great astonishment, while every face assumed a grave and solemn air.

“Yes, you may believe that such is the case,” said Bavaria, in an audible tone; “important changes are in store for us, and I know from the best source that Minister Talleyrand said the other day, quite loudly and positively, ‘That the fate of the German empire would be decided on toward the end of this month.’” [Footnote: Ibid., p. 723.]

“And to-day is already the 23d of May,” said Oldenburg, musingly; “we may look, therefore, every hour for a decision.”

“Yes, we may do so,” exclaimed Wurzburg; “I know for certain that they are already engaged in Paris in drawing up a new constitution for Germany.”

“It might be good, perhaps,” said her neighbor, “if we should also commence to draw up a new constitution for Germany, and then send it to Minister Talleyrand, because we are certainly more familiar with the customs and requirements of the German empire than the statesmen of France. We ought to consult with the archchancellor, Baron Dalberg, about this matter. But where is the archchancellor; where is Dalberg?”

“Yes, it is true, the archchancellor has not yet made his appearance,” exclaimed Oldenburg, wonderingly. “Where can he be? Where is Dalberg?”

And the question was whispered from mouth to mouth, “Where is Dalberg?”

Formerly, in the glorious old times of the German empire, it had been the German emperor who, at the commencement of the sessions of the Diet, had always asked in a loud voice, “Is there no Dalberg?” And at his question, the Dalbergs had come forward and placed themselves around the emperor’s throne, always ready to undertake great things and to carry out bold adventures.

Now, it was not the emperor who called for his Dalberg, but the Diet that whispered his name.

And it seemed as if the man who had been called for, had heard these whispers, for the large doors of the old session-hall opened, and the archchancellor of the empire, Baron Dalberg, entered. Clad in his full official costume, he stepped into the hall and approached his seat at the green table. But instead of sitting down on the high-backed, carved arm-chair, he remained standing, and his eyes glided greetingly past all those grave and gloomy faces which were fixed on him.

“I beg the august Diet to permit me to lay a communication before it,” said the archchancellor of the empire, with a bow to the assembly.

The grave faces of the ambassadors nodded assent, and Dalberg continued, in a loud and solemn voice: “I have to inform the Diet that, as I am growing old and feel a sensible decline of my strength, I have deemed it indispensable for the welfare of Germany and myself to choose already a successor and coadjutor. Having long looked around among the noble and worthy men who surround me in so great numbers, I have at length made my selection and come to such a decision as is justified by the present state of affairs. The successor whom I have selected is a worthy and high-minded man, whose ancestors have greatly distinguished themselves in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in the service of the German empire. It is the Archbishop and Cardinal Fesch, uncle of the Emperor of France.”

A long and painful pause ensued; the members of the Diet looked, as if stupefied with terror and astonishment, at this man who, himself a German prince, dared to inform the German Diet that he had invited a foreigner to share with him the high dignity of a first German elector and of inheriting it after his death.

Dalberg read, perhaps, in the gloomy mien of the gentlemen the thoughts which they dared not utter, for he hastened to communicate to the Diet the motives which had influenced him in making the above named selection. He told them he had acted thus, not in his own interest, but in order to maintain the menaced constitution of the German empire, and to place it under Napoleon’s powerful protection. He then informed them joyfully that the Emperor of the French had already approved of the appointment of his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, and promised, moreover, that he would devote his personal attention to the regeneration of the German empire and always afford it protection.

The members of the Diet had moodily listened to him; their air had become more and more dissatisfied and gloomy; and when the elector paused, not a single voice was heard to propose the vote of thanks which Dalberg, on concluding his remarks, had asked for, but only a profound, ominous stillness followed his speech.

This, however, was the only official demonstration which the German Diet ventured to make against the appointment of Cardinal Fesch, and their silence did not prevent the consummation of this unparalleled measure. A foreigner, not even familiar with the German language, now became coadjutor of the archchancellor of the German empire--a foreigner became the first member of the German electoral college--a foreigner was to have the seals of the empire in his hands, keep the laws of Germany in his archives, and preside at the election of the emperors and at the sessions of the Diet!

And this foreigner was the uncle of the Emperor of the French, of the conqueror of the world. But the German Diet was silent and suffered on.

The horizon of Germany became more and more clouded; the Diet continued its sessions quietly, calmly, and inaudibly in the old city-hall at Ratisbon.

It was reported everywhere that the Emperor of France was about to give a new constitution to the German empire, and that the Emperor of Germany had pledged himself in the treaty of Presburg not to oppose the plans of Napoleon in relation to Germany.

The Diet paid no attention to these rumors; it remained in session, and did not interrupt its silence. It remained in session while the secondary German princes, whose ambassadors were assembled in Ratisbon, hastened in person to Paris, in order to appear there as humble supplicants in the anterooms of the emperor and Talleyrand, and to win the favor of Napoleon and his minister. This favor, they hoped, would gain for them crowns and states, render them powerful and influential, and give them a brilliant position. For Talleyrand had secretly whispered into the ears of all of them: “Those who oppose the emperor’s plans, and refuse to accept his protection, will be mediatized!” [Footnote: Mediatized position of the small German states, when their princes were under an emperor.] Every one of these secondary German princes hoped, therefore, that the others would be mediatized, and that he would receive the possessions of his neighbors.

Every one, therefore, was most jealous in protesting his entire submission to the emperor’s will, and in trying to gain as much as possible by flattery, bribery, and humble supplication. It seemed as though in Paris, in the anterooms of the emperor and his minister Talleyrand, a market-booth had been opened, in which dice were being thrown for German states and German crowns, or where they were sold at auction to the highest bidder! [Footnote: Enormous bribes were paid by the German princes to win the favor of the prominent functionaries of the French empire, in order to be saved by their influence from being mediatized, and to obtain as valuable additions to their territories as possible. Diplomatic gifts were not even secretly distributed, but the business was carried on as publicly as if the persons concerned in it had been on ‘change. Everybody knew that the Prince of Salm-Kyrburg had bought of one of the French ministers two hundred thousand bottles of champagne at an enormous rate; that Labesnardiere, Talleyrand’s first secretary, had received half a million of francs from Hesse Darmstadt; and that the Duke of Mecklenburg had promised him one hundred and twenty thousand Fredericks d’ors if he should retain his sovereignty.--Vide Montgaillard, “Histoire de France,” vol. x., p. 115.]

The Diet heard only rumors, vague rumors, about these proceedings, and remained quietly in session. It met every day and waited.

And at length, on the 1st of August, 1806, the large doors of the hall, in which the ambassadors of the German empire were assembled, opened, and the minister of the French emperor appeared in their midst, and approached in solemn earnest the green table, on which hitherto Germany alone had had the right to depose her notes and declarations, and on which hitherto the German Diet alone had written laws for Germany.

But Bacher, the French minister, came to force a new law upon the German Diet--the law of the French emperor.

The representative of the French emperor addressed the German Diet in a solemn tone, and as the vast session-hall echoed the loud, imperious voice of the foreigner, it seemed as if he called up from their graves the ghosts of past centuries, and as if they then placed themselves like a protecting gray cloud before the menaced Diet.

“The German constitution,” said the minister of France--“the German constitution is now but a shadow; the Diet has ceased to have a will of its own. Hence his majesty, the Emperor of France and Italy, is not obliged to recognize the existence of this German constitution any longer; a new confederation of German princes will be formed under his protection, and his majesty will assume the title of Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine. In order to maintain peace, he declared formerly that he would never extend the boundaries of France beyond the Rhine, and he has faithfully kept his word.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. ix., p. 160.]

And after Bacher had uttered these words, sixteen members of the Diet, twelve princes, and four electors, rose from their seats. The first of the German electors, the archchancellor of the empire, Charles Theodore von Dalberg, was their speaker, and he explained to the Diet, in the name of his fifteen colleagues, their intentions and views.

“The last three wars have demonstrated,” he exclaimed, “that the German empire is rotten and virtually destroyed; hence we German princes of the south and west of Germany will sever our connection with a constitution which has ceased to exist, and place ourselves under the protection of the Emperor of the French, who is anxious to secure the welfare and prosperity of Germany. We have formed a confederation among ourselves, and the Emperor of the French will be the head and protector of this league, which will be called the Confederation of the Rhine. Solemnly and forever do we, princes of the German Confederation of the Rhine, renounce the German empire and the German Diet, acknowledging none but the Emperor of the French as our head and protector.”

“Yes, we renounce the German empire and the German Diet,” exclaimed the sixteen princes, in one breath. “We renounce them now and forever!”

And they noisily pushed aside the high-backed arm-chairs, on which the representatives of their states had sat for centuries, and left the session-hall in a solemn procession, headed by the archchancellor of the empire. [Footnote: The members of the Confederation of the Rhine were Bavaria, Wurtemberg, Baden, the archchancellor with his territory, Berg, Hesse-Darmstadt, Nassau-Weilburg, Nassau-Usingen, Hohenzollern-Hechingen, Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, Salm-Salm, Salm-Kyrberg, Isenburg, Aremberg, Lichtenstein, and Von der Leyen.]

The remaining members of the Diet gazed on them in profound silence, and when the door closed behind the disappearing princes of the Confederation of the Rhine, it seemed as though strange sounds and whisperings filled the old hall, and as though low sighs and lamentations resounded from the walls where the portraits of the emperors were hanging.

The remaining members of the Diet were filled with awe; the sixteen vacant chairs struck terror into their souls; they rose silently from their seats and left the hall with hasty steps.

But on the following day the German Diet met again. It wanted to consult and deliberate as to what ought to be done in relation to the desertion of sixteen of its members.

And it consulted and deliberated for six days without coming to any decision. But on the sixth day a stop was put to the debates.

On the 6th of August a special envoy of the Emperor of Germany appeared at the city-hall of Ratisbon while the Diet was in session. He approached the green table and saluted the small remnant of the great assembly, and producing a large letter bearing the emperor’s privy seal, said in a loud and solemn voice: “In the name of the emperor!”

And the members of the Diet rose from their seats to listen reverentially to the imperial message which his majesty had addressed to the German Diet in an autograph letter. He had commissioned his envoy to read the letter to the Diet, and the minister read as follows:

“Feeling convinced that it is impossible for us to exercise our imperial rights any longer, we deem it our duty to renounce a crown which was of value to us only so long as we enjoyed the confidence of the electors, princes, noblemen, and states of the German empire, and so long as we were able to fulfil the duties they imposed upon us. Hence we are obliged to declare by these presents in the most solemn manner, that, considering the ties which united us with the German empire as broken by the Confederation of the Rhine, we hereby give up the imperial crown of Germany; at the same time we release by these presents the electors, princes, and states, as well as the members of the supreme court and other magistrates from the duties which they owed to us as legal head of the German empire. Given under our own hand and seal. Francis the Second, Emperor of Austria, and ruler of the hereditary states of Austria.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. ix., p. 160.]

A long and awful silence greeted the reading of this letter, which put an end to the ancient German empire after an existence of one thousand and six years, from Charlemagne, crowned in 800, to Francis II., dispossessed in 1806.

The members of the German Diet then rose in their seats; they were as silent and shy as night-owls startled from their dark hiding-places by a stray sunbeam. They left the old session-hall at Ratisbon in gloomy silence, and when the door closed behind them, the German Diet had been buried, and the lid on its coffin had been closed.

The last night-owls of the deceased German empire hurried in mournful silence from the session-hall at Ratisbon, where the old portraits henceforth watched alone over the grave of the German empire.

When they stepped out into the market-place, a carriage just rolled past the city-hall, and the gentleman seated in it leaned smilingly out of the coach-door, and saluted kindly and affably the pale, grave, and sad men who came from the city-hall.

This gentleman was Count Clement Metternich, who was going to Paris as special envoy of the Emperor of Austria for the purpose of offering to the Emperor of France on his birthday the congratulations of the Emperor of Austria. [Footnote: Ibid., p. 168.]

On the 6th of August the German empire had died and was buried!

On the 15th of August the Emperor of the French celebrated his birthday; and the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine, the Emperor of Austria, the King of Prussia, and all the sovereigns who had been members of the late German empire, celebrated the great day in the most solemn manner.

Napoleon had a new victory--a victory which laid the whole of Germany at his feet. He had buried the German empire, but stood on the grave of the august corpse as its lord and master.

THE BATTLE OF JENA.

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LV. A GERMAN BOOKSELLER AND MARTYR

It was long after nightfall; in the narrow, gloomy streets of the ancient free city of Nuremberg all noise had long since died away, and all the windows of the high houses with the gable-ends were dark. Only on the ground-floor of the large house in the rear of St. Sebald’s church a lonely candle was burning, and the watchman, who was just walking past with his long horn and iron pike, looked inquisitively into the window, the shutters of which were not entirely closed.

“H’m!” he said to himself in a low voice, “the poor woman is kneeling and weeping and praying; I am sure it is for her husband. In her grief she did not notice, perhaps, that it is already midnight. I will remind her of it, so that she may go to bed.”

He placed himself on the street in front of the house, blew his horn noisily, and then sang in a ringing voice:

“Hort, Ihr Herren, und lasst euch sagen, Die Glock hat zwolf geschlagen; Ein Jeder bewahr sein Feuer und Licht, Dass dieser Stadt kein Harm geschicht!”

[Footnote: The ancient song of the German watchman.--“Listen, gentlemen, and let me tell you: the clock has struck twelve; every one must take care of his fire and light, that no harm may befall this city!”]

“So, now she knows it,” muttered the watchman; “now she will go to bed.”

And he sauntered down the long and tortuous street, to repeat his song on the next corner.

He had really accomplished his purpose; his song had interrupted the prayer of the young wife, and she had risen from her knees.

“Midnight already!” she murmured, in a low voice. “Another day of anguish is over, and a new one is beginning. Oh, would to God I could sleep, always sleep, so as to be at least unconscious of the dangers that are menacing HIM! Oh, my God, my God! protect my poor, beloved husband, preserve the father of my children! And now I will go to bed,” she added, after a pause. “God will have mercy on me, perhaps, and grant me a few hours of rest!”

She took the brass candlestick, on which a taper was burning, and went slowly and with bowed head to the adjoining room. When she had entered it, her face became calmer and more joyful, and a gentle smile lighted up her charming features when she now approached the small bed, in which her two little girls lay arm-in-arm, sweetly slumbering with rosy cheeks and half-opened crimson lips.

“God preserve to you your peace and innocence,” whispered the young mother, after contemplating her children long and tenderly. “God, I fondly trust, will cause this cloud to glide past without your hearing the thunder roll, and being shattered by the lightning. Good-night, my children!”

She nodded smilingly to the slumbering girls, and then glided noiselessly to her couch. She commenced undressing--slowly and sighing, but when she was just about to open the silver buckle of her sash, she paused and looked anxiously toward the window.

It seemed to her as though she had heard a soft rapping at this window, which opened upon the garden in the rear of the house, and as though a low voice has uttered her name.

Sure enough, the sound was repeated, and she now heard the voice say quite distinctly: “Open the window, Anna.”

She rushed toward the window and opened it, pale, breathless, and almost out of her wits.

“Is it you, Palm?” she cried.

“It is I,” said a low, male voice; and now an arm became visible, it encircled the crosswork of the window; in the next second the whole form of a gentleman appeared, and vaulted cautiously into the room.

“God be praised, I am with you again!” he said, drawing a deep breath; “it seems to me as if all danger were past when I am again in our quiet house with you and the children.”

“No, my beloved husband, it is just here that dangers are threatening you,” said the young wife, sinking into the open arms of her husband, and reposing her head on his breast. “My God, why did you return?”

“Because I was afraid when I was far from you, while I feel here with you courageous enough to brave the whole world,” said her husband, almost cheerfully, imprinting a glowing kiss on the forehead of his young wife. “Believe me, Anna, a husband always lacks the right kind of courage when he believes his wife and children to be in danger. For six days I have been separated from you; well, in these six days, which I have spent in perfect security at Erlangen, I have not passed a minute without feeling the painful palpitation of my heart, nor have I slept a minute. I always thought of and trembled for you.”

“But we are in no danger, while YOU are, my beloved,” said the young wife, sighing. “Our house is closely watched, you may depend upon it. I have seen French gens-d’armes hidden behind the pillars of the church, and staring for hours at our street-door. Oh, if they knew that you were here, they would arrest you this very night!”

“They would not dare to arrest me!” exclaimed Palm, loudly. “We do not yet belong to France, although the Emperor of France has assumed the right of giving the ancient free city of Nuremberg to Bavaria, as though she were nothing but a toy got up in our factories. We are still Germans, and no French gens-d’armes have any right to penetrate into our German houses. But look, the children are moving; little Sophy is opening her eyes. What a barbarian I am to speak so loudly, and not even to respect the slumber of our little ones!”

He hastened to the small bed, and bending over it, nodded smilingly a greeting to the little girl, who was staring at him, still half asleep. The child whispered, in a low voice: “Dear, dear father!” and fell quietly asleep again.

“Come, Anna,” whispered Palm, “let us go to your room, in order not to disturb the children.”

“But the spying eyes of our enemies might see you there,” said his wife, anxiously. “No, let us stay here, even though we should awaken the little girls. They will not cry, but be happy to see their beloved father, and what we are speaking to each other they cannot understand. Come, let us sit down here on the small sofa, and permit me to place the screen before it; then I am sure nobody will be able to see you.”

She conducted Palm to the small sofa in the corner of the room, and placed the screen as noiselessly as possible before it.

“So,” she said, nestling in his arms, “now we are here as if in a little cell, where only God’s eye can find us. So long as we are in this cell I shall not be afraid.”

“I believe it is unnecessary for you to be afraid at all,” said Palm, smiling. “We carry our apprehensions to too great a length, you may depend upon it, and because we see M. Bonaparte putting whole states into his pocket, we believe it would be easy for him likewise to put a respectable citizen and bookseller of Nuremberg into it. But, be it spoken between us, that is rather a haughty idea, and M. Bonaparte has to attend to other things than to take notice of a bookseller and his publications. Remember, my child, that he has just got up the Confederation of the Rhine, and, moreover, is said to be preparing for a war with Prussia. How should he, therefore, have time to think of a poor bookseller?”

“Do you think, when the lion is going to meet his adversary and to struggle with him, he will leave the wasp which he has met on his way, and which has stung him in the ear, unpunished, because he has more important things to attend to?”

“But I did not sting him at all,” said Palm, smiling. “Let us calmly consider the whole affair, dearest Anna, and you will see that I have in reality noting to fear, and that only the accursed terror which this M. Bonaparte has struck into the souls of all Germans has caused us this whole alarm. A few months ago I received by mail, from a person unknown to me, a large package of books, enclosing a letter, in which the stranger requested me to send the copies of the pamphlet contained in the package immediately to all German booksellers, and to give it as wide a circulation as possible. The letter contained also a draft for one thousand florins, drawn by a banker of Vienna, Baron Franke, on a wealthy banking-house of our city. This sum of one thousand florins, said the letter, was to be a compensation for my trouble and for the zeal with which, the writer stated, he felt convinced I would attend to the circulation of the pamphlet.”

“But the very mystery connected with the whole transaction ought to have aroused your suspicion, my beloved.”

“Why! Are not we Germans now under the unfortunate necessity of keeping secret our most sublime thoughts and our most sacred sentiments? And ought not, therefore, every one of us to take pains to honor and protect this secrecy, instead of suspecting it?”

“But the very title of this pamphlet was dangerous, ‘Germany in her Deepest Degradation.’ You might have guessed whom this accusation was aimed at.”

“At Germany, I thought, at our infamy and cowardice, at the perfidy of our princes, at the torpid, passive indifference of our people. It is high time that Germany, which is now tottering about like a somnambulist, should be aroused by a manful word from her slumber, so as to take heart again and draw the sword. The title told me that the pamphlet contained such words; hence, I was not at liberty to keep it out of circulation. It would have been a robbery perpetrated upon Germany, a theft perpetrated upon him who sent me the money, and to whom I could not return it, because I was not aware of his name.”

“You ought to have thought of your wife and your children,” murmured Anna, sighing.

“I thought of you,” he said, tenderly; “hence, I did not read the pamphlet, in order not to be shaken in what I thought my duty. First, I had to fulfil my duty as a citizen and man of honor; then only I was at liberty to think of you and my personal safety. I sent, therefore, in the first place, a certain number of copies of the pamphlet to M. Stage, the bookseller, and requested him to circulate them an speedily as possible among his customers.”

“And, God knows, he has done so,” sighed Anna, “and, like you, he was not deterred by the title.”

“He did his duty, like myself, and sent the pamphlets to lovers of books. In this manner it reached a preacher in the country, and unfortunately there were two French officers at his house; they understood German, read the pamphlet, and informed their colonel of its character. The latter paid a visit to the preacher, and learned from him that M. Stage, the bookseller of Augsburg, had sent him the pamphlet. The colonel thereupon repaired to Augsburg and saw M. Stage.”

“And Stage was cowardly and perfidious enough to betray your name and to denounce you as being the bookseller who had sent him the pamphlet,” exclaimed Anna, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Your friend, your colleague betrayed you!”

“I had not requested him not to mention my name,” said Palm, gravely; “he had a right to name it, and I do not reproach him with doing so. I was informed that the French minister in Munich had bitterly complained of me and demanded that I should be punished; and as we are Bavarians now, I hastened to Munich in order to defend myself.”

“And while you were there, four strangers came hither,” Anna interrupted him. “They asked for the pamphlet, penetrated in the most outrageous manner, in spite of my remonstrances, into your store, searched it, and left only when they had satisfied themselves that not a copy of the unfortunate pamphlet was there.”

“You wrote this to me while I was in Munich, and at the same time I heard that Stage had been arrested in Augsburg. Impelled by my first terror, I fled from the capital and hastened to Erlangen, which is situated on Prussian soil, and where neither the Bavarian police nor the French gens d’armes could lay hands on me. But in Erlangen I reflected on the matter, and I confess to you I was ashamed of having fled, instead of confronting an examination openly and freely. My love, my yearning attracted me toward you; I, therefore, took carriage last night and rode home to my beloved wife and to my children. This is a plain statement of the whole affair, and now tell me what should I be afraid of?”

“You may fear the worst,” exclaimed Anna, sadly; “for our French tyrants will not shrink from any thing.”

“But fortunately we do not live yet under the French sceptre,” replied Palm, vividly; “we are Germans, and only German laws are valid for us.”

“No,” said Anna, mournfully, “we are not Germans, but Bavarians, that is to say, the allies, the humble vassals of France. Not the King of Bavaria, but the Emperor of France, is ruling over us.”

“Well, even were it so, I could not see what crime I should be charged with. I neither wrote nor published this pamphlet; I merely circulated it, and cannot, therefore, be held responsible for its contents. Possibly, they may arrest me as they have arrested Stage, and may intend thereby to compel me to mention the name of him who sent me the pamphlet, as Stage mentioned my own name. Fortunately, however, I am able to prove that I know neither the author nor the publisher; for I have got the best proof, of it, viz., the letter which I received with the package. I shall lay this letter before the court, and the judges will then perceive that I am entirely innocent. What will remain for them but to caution me not to circulate henceforth books sent to me anonymously, and then to release me?”

“But if they should not release you, my beloved husband?” asked his wife, anxiously clasping him in her arms; “if in their rage at being unable to lay their hands on the real criminal, they should wreak their vengeance on you for having circulated the pamphlet first of all, and punish you as though you were its author?”

“Oh, you go too far,” exclaimed Palm, laughing; “your imagination calls up before you horrors which belong to the realm of fable. We still live in a well-regulated state, and however great the influence of France may be, German laws are still valid here; and as we live in a state of peace, I can be judged only in accordance with them. Fear not, therefore, dearest wife. The worst that can befall me will be a separation for a few days, at the most for a few weeks, if our authorities should really carry their fawning submission to Bonaparte to such a length as to call a German citizen to account for having, in his business as a bookseller, circulated a pamphlet--understand me well, a German pamphlet, destined only for Germany, and which does not flatter, perhaps, the Emperor of the French quite as much as is being done by our German princes and our German governments.”

“Oh my God, my God,” wailed Anna, in a low voice, “the pamphlet is directly aimed at Napoleon, then?”

“Yes, at him who has placed his heels on the neck of Germany and trampled her in the dust,” exclaimed Palm. “This pamphlet, called ‘Germany in her Deepest Degradation,’ must have been written against him alone. Oh, during the days of my sojourn in Erlangen, I have read this pamphlet, and whatever may befall me, I am glad it was I who circulated it, for a noble German spirit pervades the whole of it, and it is truth that raises the scourge in it to lash the guilty parties. It is a vigorous and glowing description of the condition to which all the German states have been reduced by Bonaparte’s arbitrary proceedings. Just listen to this one passage, and then you may judge whether the pamphlet tells the truth or not.”

He drew a few printed leaves from his side-pocket, and unfolded them.

“You have got a copy of the dreadful pamphlet with you?” asked Anna, in dismay. “Oh, how imprudent! If they should come now to arrest you, they would obtain a new proof of your guilt. I implore you, my friend, my beloved, if you love me, if your children are dear to you, be cautious and prudent! Burn those terrible leaves, so that they may not testify against you. Remember that I should die of grief if your life should be threatened; remember that our poor children then would be helpless orphans.”

“Oh, my poor, timid roe,” said Palm, deeply moved, encircling his weeping young wife with his arms. “How your faithful, innocent heart is fluttering, as if the cruel hunter were already aiming his murderous arm at us, and as if we were irretrievably doomed! Calm yourself, dearest, I pledge you my word that I will comply with your wishes. We will burn the pamphlet; but previously you shall learn, at least, the spirit in which this pamphlet, for which your poor husband will have to suffer, perhaps, a few days’ imprisonment, is written. Just listen to me! The author is speaking here of Bavaria, and of the oppressions to which she is a prey since we have concluded an alliance with France. He says: ‘Since that time the Bavarian states have become the winter quarters, and been treated in a manner unheard of since the Thirty Years’ War. At that time the Austrians, under Tilly and Wallenstein, were pursuing precisely the same course now followed by the French, and if their emperor draws no other lessons from that war, he has closely copied, at least, the system of obtaining supplies for an army which was then in use. Trustworthy men have assured us that the French ruler, when in Munich the most urgent remonstrances concerning the oppressions under which the people of Bavaria were groaning were made to him,” replied in cold blood: “My soldiers have not done so. These are times of war--let me alone, and do not disturb my plans.” Already in December last the treaty of Presburg was signed, and from that moment Austria had the prospect of getting rid of her enemies. Had Bavaria not an equal right to enjoy the advantages of this treaty? These advantages could be none other than that the French army left the Bavarian territories and relieved the people from further oppressions. But just the reverse took place. The French withdrew from the states of the German emperor to occupy Bavaria, and celebrate here, by the ruin of all the inhabitants, their victories in orgies and carousals continued for many months. If I refer to the ruin of the inhabitants, the words should be taken in their literal meaning, and not as an expression merely chosen to depict the misery the French have brought upon Bavaria. It is not yet five years since a hostile army of the same nation lorded it over that country. And nobody will venture to assert that the wounds then inflicted upon the inhabitants should have been healed in so short a time. The farmer, deprived of his animals, had scarcely commenced to provide himself again with horses and cattle, when the passage of the French, in every respect equal to an invasion, took from him again this important portion of his personal property. Fraud, cunning, and force were alternately resorted to for this purpose. Tears and the most humble supplications were rejected with sneers, and even blows. The French called themselves “preservers of Bavaria.” Forsooth a preservation similar to the fate of the patient whom one doctor would have sooner sent into the grave, and who is dying more slowly under the hands of another. If friendship ever was a mockery, it was so on this occasion. But it is part of Napoleon’s plans to exhaust Germany to such an extent as to render her incapable of becoming dangerous for him even in the most remote future. He selected several highly effective expedients for this purpose. Dynasties, the ancestors of which date back to the most remote ages, and one of which long since produced emperors and kings, were united with Bonaparte’s family by the closest ties of blood, and thus the ruler of France has already become the relative of the courts of Baden, Bavaria, Sweden, and Russia. Not content with this, he offered royal crowns to Bavaria and Wurtemberg, and the German emperor had to assent to this measure in the treaty of Presburg. Thus Germany has got two new kingdoms, and--’” [Footnote: From the celebrated pamphlet. “Germany in her Deepest Degradation.”]

“Oh, I implore you, do not read any further,” exclaimed Anna, suddenly interrupting her husband. “It frightens me to hear you repeat those threatening and angry words; they fall upon my heart like a terrible accusation against you! Believe me, my beloved, if that proud and ambitious Emperor Napoleon should hear of this terrible pamphlet--if its contents should be communicated to him, you would be lost: for, having no one else on whom to wreak his vengeance, he would revenge himself on you!”

“But he will not have me either,” said Palm, smiling, “for I shall take good care not to set foot on French territory; I shall not leave Nuremberg, and thank God, that is German territory.”

“But the French frontier is close to us, for wherever there are French troops there is France. Napoleon’s arm reaches far beyond her frontiers, and if he wants to seize you he will do so in spite of all boundary-posts, German laws, and your own citizenship.”

“There is really something so convincing in your fears that it might almost infect me!” said Palm, musingly. “It would have been better, perhaps, after all, for me not to have come back, but to remain in Prussian Erlangen!”

“Return thither,” exclaimed Anna, imploringly; “I beseech you by our love, by our children, and by our happiness, return to Erlangen!”

“To-morrow, dearest Anna!” said Palm, smiling, clasping his young wife in his arms--“to-morrow it will be time enough to think of another separation. Now let me take a few hours’ rest, and enjoy the unutterable happiness of being at home again!--at home with my wife and with my dear little ones!”

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LVI. THE ARREST

On the following morning the rumor spread all over Nuremberg, that Palm, the bookseller, had returned and was concealed in his house. The cook had stated this in the strictest confidence to some of her friends when she had appeared on the market-place to purchase some vegetables. The friends had communicated the news, of course, likewise in the strictest confidence, to other persons, and thus the whole city became very soon aware of the secret.

The friends of the family now hastened to go to Mrs. Palm for the purpose of ascertaining from herself whether the information were true. Anna denied it, however; she asserted she had received this very morning a letter written by her husband at Erlangen; but when one of the more importunate friends requested her to communicate the contents of the letter to him, or let him see it at least, she became embarrassed and made an evasive reply.

“He is here!” whispered the friends to each other, when they left Mrs. Anna Palm. “He is here, but conceals himself so that the French spies who have been sneaking around here for the last few days may not discover his whereabouts. It is prudent for him to do so, and we will not betray him, but faithfully keep his secret.”

But a secret of which a whole city is aware, and which is being talked of by all the gossips in town, is difficult to keep, and it is useless to make any effort for the purpose of preventing it from being betrayed to the enemy.

Palm did not suspect any thing whatever of what was going on. He deemed himself entirely safe in his wife’s peaceful, silent room, the windows of which, opening upon the garden, were inaccessible to spying eyes, while its only door led to the large store where his two clerks were attending to the business of the firm and waiting on the customers who ordered or purchased books of them.

Anna had just left the room to consult with her servants about the affairs of the household and kitchen; and Palm, who was comfortably stretched out on the sofa, was engaged in reading. The anxiety which had rendered him so restless during the previous days had left him again; he felt perfectly reassured, and smiled at his own fear which had flitted past him like a threatening cloud.

All at once he was startled from his comfortable repose by a loud conversation in the store, and rose from the divan in order to hear what was the matter.

“I tell you I am unable to assist you,” he heard his book-keeper say. “I am poor myself, and Mr. Palm is not at home.”

“Mr. Palm is at home, and I implore you let me see him,” said a strange, supplicating voice. “He has a generous heart and if I tell him of my distress he will pity me and lend me his assistance.”

“Come back in a few days, then,” exclaimed the book-keeper; “Mr. Palm will then be back, perhaps, from his journey.”

“In a few days!” ejaculated the strange voice--“in a few days my wife and child will be starved to death, for unless I am able to procure relief within this hour, my cruel creditor will have me taken to the debtors’ prison, and I shall be unable then to assist my sick wife and baby. Oh, have mercy on my distress! Let me see Mr. Palm, that I may implore his assistance!”

“Mr. Palm is not at home as I told you already,” exclaimed the book-keeper in an angry voice. “How am I to let you see him, then? Come back in a few days--that is the only advice I can give you. Go now, and do not disturb me any longer!”

“No, people shall never say that I turned a despairing man away from my door,” muttered Palm, rapidly crossing the room and opening the door of the store.

“Stay, poor man,” he said to the beggar, who had already turned around and was about to leave the store--“stay.”

The beggar turned around, and, on perceiving Palm, who stood on the threshold of the door, uttered a joyful cry.

“Do you see,” he said, triumphantly to the book-keeper--“do you see that I was right? Mr. Palm is at home, and will help me.”

“I will help you if I can,” said Palm, kindly. “What does your debt amount to?”

“Ah, Mr. Palm, I owe my landlord a quarter’s rent, amounting to twenty florins. But if you should be so generous as to give me half that sum, it would be enough, for the landlord has promised to wait three months, provided I paid him now ten florins.”

“You shall have the ten florins,” said Palm. “Mr. Bertram, pay this man ten florins, and charge them to me.”

“Oh, Mr. Palm, how kind you are!” exclaimed the beggar, joyfully. “How shall I ever be able to thank you for what you have done for me to-day?”

“Thank me by being industrious and making timely provision for your wife and child, in order not to be again reduced to such distress,” said Palm, nodding kindly to the stranger, and returning to the adjoining room.

With the ten florins which the book-keeper had paid to him, the beggar hastened into the street. No sooner had he left the threshold of Palm’s house than the melancholy and despairing air disappeared from his face, which now assumed a scornful and malicious mien. With hasty steps he hurried over to St. Sebald’s church, to the pillar yonder, behind which two men, wrapped in their cloaks, were to be seen.

“Mr. Palm is at home,” said the beggar, grinning. “Go into the store, cross it and enter the adjoining sitting-room--there you will find him. I have spied it out for you, and now give me my pay.”

“First we must know whether you have told us the truth,” said one of the men. “It may be all false.”

“But I tell you I have seen him with my own eyes,” replied the beggar. “I stood in the store, and cried and lamented in the most heart-rending manner, and protested solemnly that my wife and baby would be starved to death, unless Mr. Palm should assist me. The book-keeper refused my application, but then I cried only the louder, so as to be heard by Mr. Palm. And he did hear me; he came out of his hiding-place and gave me the ten florins I asked him for. Here they are.”

“Well, if you have got ten florins, that is abundant pay for your treachery,” said the two men. “It is Judas-money. To betray your benefactor, who has just made you a generous present; forsooth, only a German could do that.”

They turned their backs contemptuously on the beggar, and walked across the street toward Palm’s house.

There was nobody in the hall, and the two men entered the store without being hindered. Without replying to the book-keeper and second clerk, who came to meet them for the purpose of receiving their orders, they put off their cloaks.

“French gens d’armes,” muttered the book-keeper, turning pale, and he advanced a few steps toward the door of the sitting-room. One of the gens d’armes kept him back.

“Both of you will stay here,” he said, imperiously, “we are going to enter that room. Utter the faintest sound, the slightest warning, and we shall arrest both of you. Be silent, therefore, and let us do our duty.”

The two clerks dared not stir, and saw with silent dismay that the two gens d’armes approached the door of the sitting-room and hastily opened it.

Then they heard a few imperious words, followed by a loud cry of despair.

“Oh, the poor woman!” muttered the book-keeper, with quivering lips, but without moving from the spot.

The door of the sitting-room, which the gens d’armes had closed, opened again, and the two policemen stepped into the store; they led Palm into it. Each of them had seized one of his arms.

Palm looked pale, and his brow was clouded, but nevertheless he walked forward like a man who is determined not to be crushed by his misfortunes, but to bear them as manfully as possible. When he arrived in the middle of the store, near the table where his two clerks were standing, he stopped.

“Then you will not give me half an hour’s time to arrange my business affairs with my book-keeper, and to give him my orders?” he asked the policemen, who wanted to drag him forward.

“No, not a minute,” they said. “We have received stringent orders to take you at once to the general, and if you should refuse to follow us willingly, to iron you and remove you forcibly.”

“You see I offer no resistance whatever,” said Palm, contemptuously. “Let us go. Bertram, pray look after my wife--she has fainted. Remember me to her and to my children. Farewell!”

The two young men made no reply; their tears choked their voices. But when Palm had disappeared, they rushed into the sitting-room to assist the unhappy young wife.

She was lying on the floor, pale, rigid, and resembling a lily broken by the storm. Her eyes were half opened and dim; the long braids of her beautiful light-colored hair, which she had just been engaged in arranging when the gens d’armes entered, fell down dishevelled and like curling snakes on her face and shoulders, from which the small, transparent, gauze handkerchief had been removed. Her features, always so lovely and gentle, bore now an expression of anger and horror, which they had assumed when she fainted on hearing the French policemen tell her husband that they had come to arrest him, and that he must follow them.

They succeeded only after long efforts in bringing her back to consciousness. But she was not restored to life by the salts which her servant-girl rubbed on her forehead, nor by the imploring words of the book-keeper, but by the scalding tears of her little girls which melted and warmed her frozen blood again.

She raised herself with a deep sigh, and her wild, frightened glances wandered about the room, and fixed themselves searchingly on every form which she beheld in it. When she had satisfied her-self that he was not among them, he whom her glances had sought for so anxiously, she clasped her children with a loud cry of horror in her arms and pressing them convulsively against her bosom, sobbed piteously.

But she did not long give way to her grief and despair. She dried her tears hastily and rose.

“It is no time now for weeping and lamenting,” she said, drawing a deep breath; “I shall have time enough for that afterward, now I must act and see whether I cannot assist him. Do you know whither they have taken him?”

“To the headquarters of Colomb, the French general, who is stationed in this city,” said the book-keeper.

“I shall go to the general, and he will have to tell me at least if I cannot see my husband in his prison,” she said, resolutely. “Quick, Kate, assist me in dressing-; arrange my hair, for you see my hands are trembling violently; they are weaker than my heart.”

She rose to go to her dressing-room. But her feet refused to serve her; she turned dizzy, and sank down overcome by a fresh swoon.

It was only after hours of the most violent efforts that the poor young wife succeeded in recovering from the physical prostration caused by her sudden fright, and in becoming again able to act resolutely and energetically. Then, as bold and courageous as an angry lioness, she was determined to struggle with the whole world for the beloved husband who had been torn from her.

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LVII. A WIFE’S LOVE

Anna went in the first place to General Colomb, and begged him to grant her an interview.

About four hours had passed since Palm’s arrest when the general received her.

“Madame,” he said, “I know why you have come to me, you are looking for your husband, but he is no longer here at my headquarters.”

“No longer here?” she ejaculated in terror. “You have sent him to France? You intend to kill him, then?”

“The law will judge him, madame,” said the general, sternly. “I have myself examined him and requested him to give us the name of the author of this infamous libel which Mr. Palm has brought into general circulation. Had he done so, he would no longer be held responsible, and would have been at liberty to return to his house and to you. But he refused firmly to state the names of the author and printer of the pamphlet.”

“He does not know either!” exclaimed Anna; “oh, believe me, sir, Palm is innocent. That pamphlet was sent to him, together with an anonymous letter.”

“He ought to have taken care, then, not to circulate it,” replied the general. “It is contrary to law to circulate a printed book, the author and printer of which are unknown to him who circulates it.”

“No, general, it is not contrary to the laws of the German free city of Nuremberg. By an order of the Emperor of France, Nuremberg has been given to Bavaria, but the laws and privileges of our more liberal constitution were guaranteed to our ancient free city. Hence, Palm has done nothing contrary to law.”

“We judge according to our laws,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders; “wherever we are there is France, and wherever we are insulted we hold him who insults us responsible for it, and punish him according to our laws. Your husband has committed a great crime; he has circulated a pamphlet reviling France and the Emperor of the French in the most outrageous manner. He refused to mention the author of this pamphlet; so long as he persists in his refusal, we take him for the author, and shall punish him accordingly. As he declined confessing any thing to me, I have surrendered him to my superiors. Mr. Palm left Nuremberg two hours ago for Anspach, where Marshal Bernadotte is going to judge him.”

“Then I shall go to Anspach, to Marshal Bernadotte,” said Anna; and without deigning to cast another glance at the general, she turned around and left the room.

She intended to set out this very hour, but her endeavors to find a conveyance to take her to Anspach proved unavailing. All the horses of the postmaster had been retained for the suite and baggage-wagons of Marshal Berthier, who was about setting out for Munich, and the proprietors of the livery-stables, owing to the approaching darkness and insecurity of the roads, refused to let her have any of their carriages.

Anna had to wait, therefore, until morning, and improved the long hours of the night in drawing up a petition, which she intended to send to Marshal Bernadotte, in case he should refuse to grant her an interview.

Early next morning she at length started, but the roads were sandy and bad; the horses were lazy and weak, and she reached Anspach only late at night.

She had again to wait during a long, dreary night. No one could or would reply to her anxious inquiries whether Palm was really there, or whether he had been again sent to some other place. Trembling with inward fear and dismay, but firmly determined to dare every thing, and leave nothing untried that might lead to Palm’s preservation, Anna repaired in the morning to the residence of Marshal Bernadotte.

The marshal’s adjutant received her, and asked her what she wanted.

“I must see the marshal himself, for I shall read in his mien whether he will pardon or annihilate my husband,” said Anna. “I beseech you, sir, have mercy on the grief of a wife, trembling for the father of her children. Induce the marshal to grant me an audience.”

“I will see what can be done,” said the adjutant, touched by the despair depicted on the pale face of the poor lady. But he returned in a few minutes after he had left her.

“Madame,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I am sorry, but your wish cannot be fulfilled. The marshal will have nothing whatever to do with this affair, and declines interfering in it. For this reason, too, he did not admit Mr. Palm, who yesterday, like you, applied for an interview with the marshal, and I had to receive him in the place of the marshal, as I have now the honor to receive you.”

“Oh, you have seen my husband?” asked Anna, almost joyfully. “You have spoken to him?”

“I have told him in the name of the marshal what I am now telling you, madame. The marshal is unable to do any thing whatever for your husband. The order for his arrest came directly from Paris, from the emperor’s cabinet, and the marshal, therefore, has not the power to revoke it and to prevent the law from taking its course. Moreover, Mr. Palm is no longer in Anspach, as he was sent to another place last night.”

“Whither? Oh, sir, you will have mercy on me, and tell me whither my unfortunate husband has been sent.”

“Madame,” said the adjutant, timidly looking around as if he were afraid of being overheard by an eavesdropper, “he has been sent to Braunau.”

Anna uttered a cry of horror. “To Braunau!” she said, breathlessly. “To Braunau, that is to say, out of the country. You do not wish to try a citizen and subject of Bavaria, for a crime which he is said to have committed in his own country, according to the laws of Bavaria, but according to those of a foreign and hostile state? My husband has been sent to Austria!”

“Pardon me, madame,” said the adjutant, smiling, “the city of Braunau does not yet again belong to Austria; up to the present hour it is still French territory, for we took and occupied it during the war and have not yet given it back to Austria; hence, Mr. Palm will be tried in Braunau according to the laws of France.”

“Oh, then he is lost,” exclaimed Anna, in despair; “there is no more hope for him.”

“If he be guilty, madame, he has deserved punishment; if he be innocent, no harm can befall him, for the laws of France are impartial and just.”

“Oh, sir,” said Anna, almost haughtily, “there are things which may seem deserving of punishment, nay, criminal, according to the laws of your country, but which, according to the laws of a German state, would not deserve any punishment, but, on the contrary, praise and acknowledgment.”

“If what Mr. Palm has done is an offence of this description, I am sorry for him,” said the adjutant, shrugging his shoulders. “But,” he added, in a lower voice, “I will give you some good advice. Hasten to the French ambassador at Munich. If he should decline granting you an audience, send him a petition, stating the case of your husband truthfully and with full details, and asking for his intercession.”

“And if he should not reply to my petition; if he should refuse to intercede for me?”

“Then a last remedy will remain to you. In that case, apply to Marshal Berthier, who is now also at Munich. He has great power over the emperor, and will alone be able to help you. But lose no time.”

“I shall set out this very hour, sir, and I thank you for your advice and sympathy. I see very well that you cannot do any thing for me, but you have granted me your compassion, and I thank you for it. Farewell, sir.”

An hour later, Anna was on the road to Munich. After an exhausting journey of four days--for, at that time there were no turnpikes, much less railroads, in Bavaria--she reached Munich, where she stopped at a hotel.

She was utterly unacquainted in that capital; she had no friends, no protectors, no recommendations, and, as a matter of course, all doors were closed against her, and nobody would listen to her. Nobody felt pity for the poor, despairing lady; nobody would listen to her complaints, for her complaints were at the same time charged against the all-powerful man who now held his hand stretched out over Bavaria, and was able to crush her whenever he chose to do so.

Anna, therefore, met with no encouragement at the hands of the German authorities, who even refused to hear a statement of her application. She went to all the ministers, to all those on whom, according to their official position, it would have been incumbent to intercede for her. She even ventured to enter the royal palace, and stood for hours in the anteroom, always hoping that her supplications would be heeded, and that some door would be opened to her.

But all doors were closed against her, even that of the French ambassador. She had vainly applied to him for an audience; when her request had been refused, she had delivered to his attache a petition which an attorney had drawn up for her, and in which all the points for and against Palm were lucidly stated. For a week she waited for a reply; for a week she went every morning to the residence of the French ambassador and asked in the same gentle and imploring voice, whether there was any reply for her, and whether no answer had been returned to her application?

On the eighth day she was informed that no reply would be made to her petition, and that the French ambassador was unable to do any thing for her.

Anna did not weep and complain; she received this information with the gentle calmness of a martyr, and prayed instead of bursting into lamentations. She prayed to God that He might grant her strength not to despair, not to succumb to the stunning blow; she prayed to God that He might impart vigor to her body, so that it might not prevent her from doing her duty, and from seeking for further assistance for her beloved husband.

Strengthened and inwardly relieved by this prayer, Anna now repaired to the residence of Marshal Berthier; her step, however, was slower, a deep blush mantled her cheeks, which had hitherto been so pale, and her hands were no longer icy cold, but hot and red.

She did not apply for an audience on reaching the marshal’s residence, for she already knew that such an application would meet with a refusal; she only took thither another copy of the petition which she had delivered to the French ambassador, and begged urgently for an early reply.

Her supplications were this time not destined to be unsuccessful, and she received a reply on the third day.

But this reply was even more terrible than if none whatever had been made. Marshal Berthier sent word to her by his adjutant that Palm had been placed before a court-martial at Braunau, and that no intercession and prayers would be of any avail, the decision being exclusively left with the court-martial.

A single, piercing cry escaped from Anna’s breast when she received this information. Then she became again calm and composed. Without uttering another complaint, another prayer, she left the marshal’s residence and returned to her hotel.

With perfect equanimity and coolness, she requested the waiter to bring her the bill and get her a carriage, so that she might set out at once.

Fifteen minutes later, the landlady herself appeared to present to Madame Palm the bill she had called for. She found Anna sitting quietly at the window, her hands folded on her lap, her head leaning on the high back of the chair, and her dilated eyes staring vacantly at the sky. Her small travelling-trunk stood ready and locked in the middle of the room.

The landlady handed her the paper silently, and then turned aside in order not to show the tears which, at the sight of the pale, gentle young wife, had filled her eyes.

Anna rose and quietly placed the money on the table. “I thank you, madame, for all the attention and kindness I have met with at your house,” she said. “It only seems to me that my bill is much too moderate. You must have omitted many items, for it is impossible that I should not have used up any more than that during my prolonged sojourn in Munich.”

“Madame,” said the landlady, deeply moved, “I should be happy if you permitted me to take no money at all from you, but I know that that would offend you, and for that reason I brought you my bill. If you allow me to follow the promptings of my heart, I should say, grant me the honor of having afforded hospitality to so noble, brave, and faithful a lady, and, if you should consent, I should be courageous enough to utter a request which I dare not make now, because you would deem it egotistic.”

“Oh, tell me what it is,” said Anna, mildly; “for the last two weeks I have begged so much, and my requests were so often refused, that it would truly gratify me to hear from others a request which I might be able to fulfil.”

“Well, then, madame,” said the landlady, taking Anna’s hand and kissing it respectfully, “I request you to stay here and not to depart. Afford me the pleasure of keeping you here in my house, of taking care and nursing you as a mother would nurse her daughter. I am old enough to be your mother, and you, my poor, beloved child, you need nursing, for you are sick.”

“I feel no pain--I am not sick,” said Anna, with a smile which was more heart-rending than loud lamentations.

“You are sick,” replied the landlady; “your hands are burning with fever, and the roses blooming on your cheeks are not natural, but symptoms of your inward sufferings. During your whole sojourn in my house you have scarcely touched the food that was placed before you; frequently you have not gone to bed at night, and, instead of sleeping, restlessly paced your room. A fever is now raging in your delicate body, and if you do not take care of yourself, and use medicine, your body will succumb.”

“No, it will not succumb,” said Anna; “my heart will sustain it.”

“But your heart, too, will break, if you do not take care of yourself,” exclaimed the landlady, compassionately. “Stay here, I beseech you, do not depart. Stay as a guest at my house!”

Anna placed her burning hand on the shoulder of the landlady, and looked at her long and tenderly.

“You were married?” she asked. “You loved your husband?”

“Yes,” said the landlady, bursting into tears, “I was married, and God knows that I loved my husband. For twenty years we lived happy and peacefully together, and when he died last year, my whole happiness died with him.”

“He was sick, I suppose, and you nursed him?”

“He was sick for a month, and I did not leave his bedside either by day or by night.”

“Well, then, what would you have replied to him who would have tried to keep you back from your husband’s death-bed, and to persuade you to leave him in his agony, because it might have injured your health? Would you have listened to him?”

“No, I should have believed him, who had made such a proposition to me, to be my enemy, and should have replied to him: ‘It is my sacred right to stand at my husband’s death-bed, to kiss the last sigh from his lips, to close his eyes, and no one in the world shall prevent me from doing so!’”

“Well, then, dear mother, I say as you have said: it is my sacred right to stand at my husband’s death-bed and to close his eyes. My husband’s death-bed is in Braunau; I am not so happy as you have been; I cannot nurse him, nor be with him and comfort him in his agony; but I am able, at least, to see him in his last hour. My mother, will you still ask your daughter to stay here and take care of her health, instead of going to her husband’s death-bed in Braunau?”

“No, my daughter,” exclaimed the landlady, “no; I say to you, go! Take not a minute’s rest until you reach your husband. God will guide and protect you, for He is love, and has mercy on those whose heart are filled with love! Go, then, with God; but, for the sake of your husband, take some nourishing food; try to eat and sleep, so as to gain fresh strength, for you will need it.”

“Give me some nourishing food, mother, I will eat,” said Anna, placing her arms tenderly around the landlady’s neck; “I will try also to-night to sleep, for you are right: I shall need my whole strength! But after I have eaten, I may set out at once, may I not?”

“Yes, my poor, dear child, then you may set out. Now come to my room--your meal is already waiting for you.”

Half an hour later the landlady herself lifted Anna into the carriage, and said to her in a voice trembling with tearful emotion: “Farewell, my daughter. God bless you and grant you strength. When alone one day, and in need of a mother, then come to me! May the Lord have mercy on you!”

“Yes, may the Lord have mercy on me, and let me die with him!” whispered Anna, as the carriage rolled away with her.

At noon on the following day, August 30th, 1806, she arrived at Braunau.

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LVIII. THE WOMEN OF BRAUNAU

In the mean time Palm had constantly been in the French prison at Braunau. During the sixteen days since he had been in jail, he had only twice been taken out of it to be examined by the court-martial, which General St. Hilaire had specially convoked for his trial.

This court-martial consisted of French generals and staff-officers; it met at a time of peace in a German city, and declared its competence to try a German citizen who had committed no other crime than to circulate a pamphlet, in which the misfortunes of Germany, and the oppressions of German states by Napoleon and his armies, had been commented upon.

The whole proceedings had been carried on so hastily and secretly, that the German authorities of Braunau had scarcely heard of them at the time when the French court-martial was already about to sentence the prisoner.

The French, however, wanted to maintain some semblance of impartiality; and before Palm was called before the court-martial, it was left to him either to defend himself in person against the charges, or to provide himself with counsel.

Palm, who was ignorant of the French language, had preferred the latter, and selected as his counsel a resident lawyer of Braunau, with whom he was well acquainted, and even on terms of intimacy, and whom he knew to be familiar with the French language.

But this friend declined being a “friend in need.” He excused himself on the pretext of a serious indisposition which confined him to his bed, and rendered it impossible for him to make a speech.

Palm was informed of this excuse only at the moment when he entered the room in which the trial was to be held; hence he had to make up his mind to conduct his own defence, and to have his words translated by an interpreter to the members of the court.

And he felt convinced that his defence had been successful, and satisfied the men who had assumed to be his judges, of his entire innocence.

He had, therefore, no doubt of his speedy release; he was looking every day for the announcement that his innocence had been proved, and that he should be restored to liberty and to his family. This confident hope caused him to bear his solitary confinement with joyful courage, and to look, in this time of privations and pain, fondly for the golden days to come, when he would repose again, after all his trouble and toil, in the arms of love, gently guarded by the tender eyes of his affectionate young wife, and his heart gladdened by the sight of his sweet children.

From dreams so joyous and soul-stirring he was awakened on the morning of the 26th of August by the appearance of the jailer and of several soldiers who came to summon him before the court-martial which would communicate his sentence to him.

“God be praised!” exclaimed Palm, enthusiastically. “My sentence, that is to say, my release. Come, let us go; for, you see, it is hot and oppressive in my cell, and I long for God’s fresh air, of which I have been deprived so long. Let us go, then, that I may receive the sentence which I have so ardently yearned for.”

And with a kind smile he offered his hand to the jailer who stood at the door with a gloomy, sullen air. “Do not look so gloomy, Balthasar,” he said. “You always used to be so merry a companion and have often agreeably enlivened the long and dreary hours of my confinement by your entertaining conversation. Accept my thanks for your kindness and clemency; you might have tormented me a great deal, and you have not done so, but have always been accommodating and compassionate. I thank you for it, Balthasar, and beg you to accept this as a souvenir from me.”

He drew a golden breastpin richly set with precious stones from his cravat, and offered it to the jailer.

But Balthasar did not take it; on the contrary, he averted his head sullenly and gloomily. “I am not allowed to accept any presents from the prisoners,” he muttered.

“Well, then, I shall come and see you as soon as I am free, and from the free man, I suppose, you will accept a small souvenir?” asked Palm, kindly.

The jailer made no reply to this question, but exclaimed, impatiently: “Make haste, it is high time!”

Palm laughed, and, nodding a farewell to the jailer, left the prison in the midst of the soldiers.

“Poor man, he suspects nothing,” murmured the jailer to himself, and his features now became mild and gentle, and his eyes were filled with tears. “Poor man, he believes they will set him at liberty! Yes, they will do so, but it is not the sort of liberty he is looking and hoping for!”

Palm followed the soldiers gayly and courageously to the room where the members of the court-martial were assembled seated on high-backed arm-chairs which had been placed in a semicircle on one side of the room, awaiting the arrival of the prisoner.

He greeted them with an unclouded brow and frank and open bearing; not a tinge of fear and nervousness was to be seen in his features; he fixed his large and lustrous eyes on the lips of General St. Hilaire who presided over the court-martial and now rose from his seat. The secretary of the court immediately approached the general and handed him a paper.

The general took it, and, bending a stern glance on Palm, said: “The court-martial has agreed to-day unanimously on your sentence. I will now communicate it to you.”

The other officers rose from their seats to listen standing to the reading of the sentence. It is true, their faces were grave, and for the first time Palm was seized with a sinister foreboding, and asked himself whether his judges would assume so grave and solemn an air if they were merely to announce to him that he was innocent and consequently free.

A small pause ensued. The general then raised his voice, and read in a loud and ringing tone: “Whereas at all places where there is an army it is the first and most imperious duty of its chief to watch over its safety and preservation;”

“Whereas the circulation of writings instigating sedition and murder does not only threaten the safety of the army, but also that of the nation generally;”

“Whereas nothing is more urgent and necessary than the prevention of the propagation of such doctrines which are a crime against the rights of man and against the respect due to crowned heads--an insult to the people submissive to their government--and, in short, subversive of law, order, and subordination:”

“The military commission here assembled declares unanimously that all authors and printers of libellous books of the above-named description, as well as booksellers and other persons engaged in circulating them, shall be deemed guilty of high-treason.”

“In consideration whereof the defendant, John Frederick Palm, convicted of having circulated the pamphlet, ‘Germany in her Deepest Degradation,’ has been charged with the crime of high-treason, and the commission has unanimously found him guilty of the charge.”

“The penalty incurred by the traitor is death.”

“Consequently the traitor, John Frederick Palm, will suffer death, which sentence will be carried out this afternoon at two o’clock, when he will be shot.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. ix., p. 247.]

“John Frederick Palm,” added the general, “you have heard your sentence, prepare for death!”

The interpreter repeated to the unhappy prisoner the sentence of the court-martial slowly, impressively, and emphasizing every word; and every syllable fell like a cold tear on Palm’s heart and froze it. It was, however, not only cold with terror and dismay, but also with determination and calmness.

Before these strangers, with their cold, indifferent faces, he resolved at once not to betray any weakness. He did not want to afford his assassins the pleasure of seeing him tremble.

His bearing, therefore, only manifested firm determination and grave calmness. He cast a single flaming glance, full of proud disdain, on his judges.

“Very well,” he said, loudly and firmly, “I shall die; I shall go to God and accuse YOU before his throne,--you who trample on all state and international laws, and have not judged, but murdered me. My blood be on your heads!”

“Prisoner,” said General St. Hilaire, quietly, “if you desire any thing before your death, mention it now, and if able to comply with it, we shall grant it.”

“I have but one desire,” said Palm, and now his voice trembled a little, and a shadow passed across his forehead. “I only wish that my wife may be permitted to spend these last hours with me, and to take leave of me!”

“Your wife?” asked the general. “Is your wife here, then? And if she be here, who has dared to advise you of it?”

“Nobody has advised me of it,” replied Palm, “nor do I know whether she is here or not, but I believe it. Moreover, it would be but natural that she should have followed me hither. Permit me, then, to see her when she comes.”

“Your request is granted. Return to your prison. A preacher will be sent to you to prepare you for death. Soldiers, remand the prisoner.”

Palm saluted the gentlemen with a haughty nod, and slowly and solemnly raised his hand toward heaven. “I summon you to appear before the awful tribunal of God Almighty!” he said, in a loud and ringing voice. “Here you have assumed to judge me; there God will judge you!”

He turned around and left the room at the head of the soldiers.

“It only remains for us now to inform the municipal authorities of this city of what has to be done,” said the general, after a short pause. “They must be present at the execution, for this act of justice shall not take place under the veil of secrecy, but openly under the eyes of God and men. Let the authorities, let the whole city witness how France punishes and judges those who, in their traitorous impudence, have offended against her honor and glory!”

He adjourned the court, and returned to his rooms to repose from so exhausting a session, and to prepare, by partaking of an epicurean repast, for the unpleasant duty that awaited him, viz., to be present at an execution.

The general was just sipping a glass of malmsey with infinite relish, and eating a piece of the excellent pate de foie gras which had been ordered from Strasburg, when a strange and long-continued noise on the street suddenly disturbed him in his epicurean enjoyment.

He placed his glass angrily on the table, and turned his eyes and ears toward the windows opening on the market-place. The noise continued all the time; it sounded singular and extraordinary, as though immense swarms of bees were filling the air with their humming.

The general rose and hastened to the window.

A strange spectacle, indeed, presented itself to his eyes. The whole market-place was crowded with people, not with threatening, violent men, rushing forward with clinched fists and flashing eyes, but with persons whose eyes were filled with tears, and who raised their arms in an imploring manner.

They were women and children, who had marched in solemn procession to the market-place, and now entirely filled it. The news that the court-martial had agreed on a sentence, and that Palm was to be shot by virtue of it this afternoon at two o’clock in the large ditch of the fortress, had spread like wildfire through the whole city of Braunau.

The citizens had received the news with intense rage and silent horror; the authorities and members of the municipality had received orders to repair at the stated hour in their official robes to the place of execution for the purpose of witnessing the dreadful scene.

Too weak to offer any resistance, and well aware that they could not count on the assistance of their own German superiors, they had to submit to the order. Bowing to the stern law of necessity, they declared, therefore, their readiness to comply with the behests of the French general, and to appear at the place of execution.

But while all the men were giving way to cowardly fear; while they timidly swallowed their rage and humiliation, the women arose in the genuine and bold enthusiasm of their grief and compassion. They could not threaten, nor arm their hand with the sword, like men, but they could beseech and supplicate, and in the place of weapons in their hands they had tears in their eyes.

“If you will not go to demand justice for a German citizen, I shall do so,” said the wife of the burgomaster of Braunau to her husband. “You have to watch over the welfare of the city, but I shall save its honor. I will not permit this day to become an eternal disgrace to Braunau, and history to speak one day of the slavish fear with which we humbly submitted to the will of the French tyrant. You men refuse to intercede with the general for Palm; well, then, we women will do so, and God at least will hear our words, and history will preserve them.”

She turned her back to her husband and went to inform her friends of her determination, and to send messengers all over the city.

And from street to street, from house to house, there resounded the shouts: “Dress in mourning, women, and come out into the street. Let us go to General St. Hilaire and beg for the life of a German citizen!”

Not an ear had been closed against this sacred appeal; not a woman’s heart had disregarded it. They came forth from all the houses and from all the cabins, the countess as well as the beggar-woman, the old as well as the young; the mothers led their children by the hand, and the brides lent to their grandmothers their shoulders to lean upon.

The procession formed in front of the burgomaster’s house; then the women walked in pairs and slowly as the weak feet of the tottering old dames and the delicate children required it, through the long main street toward the market-place.

General St. Hilaire was still at the window, gazing in great astonishment on the strange spectacle, when the door opened and his adjutant entered.

“Come and look at this scene,” said the general to him, laughing. “The days of the great revolution seem to find an echo here, and the women rebel as they did at that time. Oh, well do I remember the day when the women went to Versailles in order to frighten the queen by their clamor and to beg bread of the king. But I am no Antoinette, and no corn-fields are growing in my hands. What do they want of me?”

“General, a deputation of the women has just entered the hotel, and beg your excellency to grant them an interview.”

“Are the members of the deputation pretty?” asked the general, laughing.

“The wife of the burgomaster and the first ladies of the city are among them,” said the adjutant, gravely.

“And what do they want?”

“General, they want to implore your excellency to delay the execution of the German bookseller, and grant him a reprieve so as to give them time to petition the emperor to pardon him.”

“Impossible,” exclaimed St. Hilaire, angrily. “It is time to bury and forget this unpleasant affair. No delay, no reprieve! State that to those women. I do not want to be disturbed any longer. Of what importance is this man Palm? Have not thousands of the most distinguished and excellent men been buried on our battle-fields, and has not the world quietly pursued its course? It will therefore do so, too, after Palm is dead. Truly, they are wailing and lamenting about the sentence of this German bookseller as if he were the only copy of such a description in this country so famous for writing and publishing books! Go and dismiss the women; I do not want to listen to them. But if the youngest and prettiest girl among them will come up to me and give me a kiss, she may do so.”

The adjutant withdrew, and the general returned to the window to look down on the surging crowd below. He saw that his adjutant had left the house and walked toward a group of women standing at some distance from the others and apparently looking for him. He saw that his adjutant spoke to them, and that the women then turned around and made a sign to the others.

All the women immediately knelt down, and, raising their folded hands to heaven, began to sing in loud and solemn notes a pious hymn, a hymn of mercy, addressed to God and the Holy Virgin.

The general crossed himself involuntarily, and, perhaps unwillingly, folded his hands as if for silent prayer.

The door opened and the adjutant reentered.

“What does this mean?” exclaimed the general. “I ordered you to send the women home, and instead of that, they remain here and sing a plaintive hymn.”

“General, the women persist in their request. They persist in their demand for an interview with your excellency in order to hear from your own lips whether it is really impossible for them to obtain a--reprieve--a pardon for Palm. They declare they will not leave the place until they have spoken to your excellency, even should you cause your cannon to be pointed against them.”

“Ah, bah! I shall not afford them the pleasure of becoming martyrs,” exclaimed St. Hilaire, sullenly. “Come, I will put an end to the whole affair. I will myself go down and send them home.”

He beckoned his adjutant to follow him, and went with hasty steps down into the market-place, and appeared in the midst of the women.

The hymn died away, but the women did not rise from their knees; they only turned their eyes, which had hitherto been raised to heaven, to the general, and extended their folded hands toward him.

At this moment a dusty travelling-coach drove through the dense crowd on the main street, and entered the market-place to stop in front of the large hotel situated there. A pale young woman leaned out of the carriage, and looked wonderingly at the strange spectacle presented to her eyes.

The kneeling women, who filled the whole market-place, took no notice of the carriage; they did not think of opening their ranks to let it pass; it was, therefore, compelled to halt and wait.

The pale young woman, as if feeling that what had caused all the women here to kneel down must concern her, too, hastily alighted from the carriage and approached the kneeling women.

All at once she heard a loud and imperious voice asking: “What do these ladies want to see me for? You applied for an interview with me: here I am! What do you want?”

“Mercy!” shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices. “Delay of the execution! Mercy for Palm!”

A piercing, terrible cry resounded from the lips of the pale young traveller; she hurried toward the general as if she had wings on her feet.

A murmur of surprise arose from the ranks of the women; they perceived instinctively that something extraordinary was about to occur; their hearts comprehended that this pale young woman, who now stood before the general with flaming eyes and panting breast, must be closely connected with the poor prisoner. Every one of them held her breath in order to hear her voice and understand her words.

“They ask for mercy for Palm?” she asked, in a voice in which her whole soul was vibrating. “They speak of execution? Then you are going to murder him? You have sentenced him infamously and wickedly?”

And while putting these questions to the general, her eyes pierced his face as though they were two daggers.

“Pray choose your words more carefully,” said the general, harshly; “the court-martial has sentenced the traitor; hence, he will not be murdered, but punished for the crime he has committed. And for this reason,” he added, in a louder voice, turning to the women, “for this reason I am unable to grant your request. The court-martial has pronounced the sentence, and it is not in my power to annul it. The Emperor Napoleon alone could do so if he were here. But as he is in Paris, and consequently cannot be reached, the law must take its course. Palm will be shot at two o’clock this afternoon!”

“Shot!” ejaculated the young woman; for a moment she tottered as if she were about to faint, but then she courageously overcame her emotion, and stretching out her arms to the women, exclaimed: “Pray with me, my sisters, that I may be permitted to see Palm and bid him farewell! I am his wife, and have come to die with him!”

And like a broken lily she sank down at the general’s feet. The mass of the women was surging as if a sudden gust of wind had moved the waves; murmurs and sighs, sobs and groans, filled the air, and were the only language, the only prayer the deeply-moved women were capable of.

The general bent down to Anna and raised her. “Madame,” he said, so loudly as to be heard by the other women, “madame, your prayer is granted. The only favor for which the prisoner asked was to see YOU before his death, and we granted it to him. Follow, therefore, my adjutant: he will bring you to him. Palm is waiting for you!”

“Ah, I knew very well that he was waiting for me, and that God would lead me to him in time!” exclaimed Anna, raising her radiant eyes toward heaven.

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LIX. THE LAST HOUR

Palm had returned to his cell without uttering a complaint, a reproach. Nothing in his bearing betrayed his profound grief, his intense indignation. He knew that neither his complaints nor his reproaches were able to change his fate, and consequently he wanted to bear it like a man.

He greeted Balthasar with a touching smile; the jailer received him at the door of his cell, and concealed no longer the tears which filled his eyes.

“My poor friend,” said Palm, kindly, “then you already knew what was in store for me, and it cut you to the quick to see me so merry and unconcerned! Well, now you may accept my gift, for now I shall be free, so free that no shackles and chains will ever be able to hold me again. And you promised me not to reject my gift when I should be restored to liberty. I have got it, my friend,--take my present, therefore!”

He took the breastpin from the table and handed it to the jailer. The latter received it with a scarcely suppressed groan, and when he bent down to kiss the hand which had given it to him, a scalding tear fell from his eyes on Palm’s hand.

“Oh,” said Palm, feelingly, “I gave you only a small trinket, and you return to me a diamond for it! I thank you, my friend; I know you will pray for me in my last moments. Now leave me alone for an hour, for I must collect my thoughts and consult with God about what is in store for me. Are you allowed to give me pen and ink?”

“I have already placed writing-materials in the drawer of your table,” said Balthasar, in a low voice, “for all prisoners like you have the right to draw up their last will for their family, and I solemnly swear to you that I will forward what you are going to write to its address.”

“I thank you, my friend; leave me alone, then, so that I may write. But listen! Do not go too far away; remain in the corridor so that you can open the door to her as soon as SHE comes.”

“SHE!” asked the jailer. “Who is it?”

Palm hesitated; he was unable to utter the word at once, for the tears arose from his heart and paralyzed his tongue. “My wife!” he said, painfully, at last. “Go and await her, for I am sure she will come!”

He motioned Balthasar to withdraw, and then sat down, weary and exhausted, in his cane-chair. For a moment he was overwhelmed by the whole misery of his position, and his grief rolled like an avalanche on his poor heart. He dropped his head on his breast; his arms hung down heavy and powerless, and a few tears, as large as those of children, and burning like fire, rolled over his cheeks. But this did not last long, for these scalding drops aroused him from the stupor of his grief.

He raised his head again and dried the tears on his cheeks. “I have no time to spare for weeping,” he said to himself in a low voice; “my hours are numbered, and I must write to my poor Anna my will for her and my children!”

He took from the drawer the writing-materials which Balthasar had kindly placed there, and took a seat at the table in order to write. He placed his chair, however, in such a manner that he was able to see the door of his cell, and frequently, while writing, raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them anxiously on the door.

Now he really heard approaching steps, and the key was put into the lock.

Palm laid his pen aside and rose.

The door opened--Anna entered. She glided toward him with a heavenly smile; he clasped her in his arms, and, kissing her head which she had laid on his breast, whispered: “God bless you for having come to me! I knew that I should not look for you in vain!”

The jailer stood at the open door and wept. His sobs reminded Palm of his presence.

“Balthasar,” he said, imploringly, and pointing his hand at Anna who was still reposing on his breast, “Balthasar, I am sure you will leave me alone with her, my friend?”

“I have received stringent orders never to leave prisoners under sentence of death alone with others,” murmured Balthasar. “They might easily furnish arms or poison to them; that is what my superiors told me.”

Palm placed his hand on his wife’s head as if going to take a solemn oath. “Balthasar,” he said, “by this sacred and beloved head I swear to you that I shall not commit suicide. Let my murderers take my life. Will you now leave me alone with her?”

“I will, for it would be cruel not to do so,” said Balthasar. “God alone ought to hear what you have to say to each other! I give you half an hour; then the officers and the priest will come, and it will no longer be in my power to keep this door locked. But until then nobody shall disturb you.”

He left the cell and locked the door.

Man and wife were alone now; they had half an hour for their last interview, their last farewell.

There are sacred moments which, like the wings of the butterfly, are injured by the slightest touch of the human hand, and which, therefore, must not be approached; there are words which no human ear ought to listen to, and tears which God alone ought to count.

Half an hour later the jailer opened the door and reentered. Palm and his wife stood in the middle of the cell, and, encircling each other with one arm, looked calmly, serenely, and smilingly at each other like two spirits removed from earth.

The paper on which Palm had written was no longer on the table; it reposed now on Anna’s heart; the golden wedding-ring which Palm had worn on his finger had disappeared, and glittered now on Anna’s hand near her own wedding-ring.

“The priest is there,” said the jailer, “and the soldiers, too, are already in the corridor. It is high time.”

“Go, then, Anna,” said Palm, withdrawing his arm from her neck.

But she clung with a long scream of despair to his breast. “You want me to live, then?” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “You want to sever our paths? Oh, be merciful, my beloved; remember that we have sworn at the altar to share life and death with each other! Let me die with you, therefore!”

“No,” he said, tenderly and firmly. “No, Anna, you shall live with me! My children are my life and my heart; they will live with you. Every morning I shall greet you from the eyes of our children, and when they embrace you, think it were my arms encircling you. Live for our children, Anna; teach them to love their father who, it is true, will be no longer with them, but whose soul will ever surround you and them! Swear to me that you will live and bear your fate firmly and courageously!”

“I swear it,” she said in a low voice.

“And now, beloved Anna, leave me! My last moments belong to God!”

He kissed her lips, which were as cold as marble, and led her gently to the door.

Anna now raised her head in order to fix a long, last look on him.

“You want me to live,” she said; “I shall do so long as it pleases God. I bid you, therefore, farewell, but not forever, nor even for a very long while. All of us are nothing but poor wanderers whom God has sent on earth to perform their pilgrimage. But at length He opens to us again the doors of our paternal house and calls us home! I long for my return home, my beloved! Farewell, then, until we meet again!”

“Farewell until we meet again!”

They shook hands once more, and gazed at each other with a smile which lighted up their faces like the last beam of the setting sun.

Then Anna, walking backward in order to see him still, and to engrave his image deeply on her heart, crossed the threshold as the jailer hastily closed the door behind her.

Palm heard a heart-rending cry outside; then every thing was silent.

A few minutes later the door opened again, and a Catholic priest entered.

“My wife has fainted, I suppose?” asked Palm.

“No, a sudden vertigo seemed to seize her when the door closed, but she overcame her weakness and hurried away. May the Lord God have mercy on her!”

“He will,” said Palm, confidently.

“May He have mercy on you, too, my son,” said the priest. “Let us pray; open to me your soul and your heart.”

“My soul and my heart lie open before God; He will see and judge them,” said Palm. “I do not belong to your church, my father; I am a Protestant. But if you will pray with me, do so; if you will give me your blessing, I shall thankfully accept it, for a dying man always likes to feel a blessing-hand on his forehead.”

The clock struck two, and now the drums commenced rolling, and the death-knell resounded from the church-steeple. An awful silence reigned in the whole city of Braunau. All the houses were closed; all the windows were covered.

Nobody wanted to witness the dreadful spectacle which the despotism of the foreign tyrant was preparing for the citizens of Braunau. The women and children had returned to their houses, and were kneeling and praying in their darkened rooms. The men concealed themselves in order not to show their shame and rage.

Nobody was, therefore, on the street when the terrible procession approached. A miserable cart rumbled along in the midst of soldiers and gens-d’armes, Palm was seated in this cart, backward, and his hands tied on his back; opposite him sat the priest, holding the crucifix in his hand and muttering prayers.

The German inhabitants of Braunau had done well to close their doors and cover their windows, for the disgrace and humiliation of Germany were at this hour rumbling through their streets.

But not all of them had been so happy as to be permitted to stay at home. The will of the foreign despot had forbidden it, and the members of the municipality and other authorities, in their full official robes, had repaired to the place of execution.

There they stood, dumb with shame, astonishment, and horror, with downcast eyes, like slaves passing under the yoke.

About a hundred spectators stood behind them, but not persons to whom executions are merely a piquant spectacle, a rare amusement, but men with sombre, angry eyes--men who had come to swear secretly in their hearts, on this spot where the last remnant of German honor was to bleed to death, a terrible oath of vengeance to the foreign despot. The blood of the martyr was to stir up their enthusiasm for the long-deferred, sacred deed of atonement.

Palm had alighted from the cart, and walked with rapid, resolute steps to the spot which was indicated to him, and behind which an open grave was yawning.

Refusing the assistance of the provost, he himself took off his coat and threw it into the open grave. He then turned his eyes to the side where the authorities of Braunau and his German brethren were standing.

“Friends,” he said, aloud, “may my death be a blessing to you; may my blood not be shed in vain, but make you--”

A loud roll of the drum drowned his words.

The general waved his hand; six guns were discharged.

Palm sank to the ground, but he rose again. Only one bullet had struck him; the blood was gushing from his heart, but he still lived.

Another file of soldiers stepped forward, and once more six guns were discharged at him.

But the soldiers, who were accustomed to aim steadily in battle, had here, where they were to be executioners, averted their eyes, and their hands, which never had trembled in battle, were trembling now.

Palm rose again from the ground, a panting, bleeding victim, and seemed, with his uplifted and blood-stained hands, to implore Heaven to avenge him on his murderers.

A third volley resounded.

This time Palm did not rise again. He was dead! God had received his soul. His bleeding remains lay on the German soil, as if to fertilize it for the day of retribution.

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LX. PRUSSIA’S DECLARATION OF WAR

King Frederick William III. had not yet left his cabinet to-day. He had retired thither early in the morning in order to work. Maps, plans of battles, and open books lay on the tables, and the king sat in their midst with a musing, careworn air.

A gentle rap at the door aroused him from his meditations. The king raised his head and listened. The rap was repeated.

“It is Louisa,” he said to himself, and a smile overspread his features as he hastened to the door and opened it.

He had not been mistaken. It was the queen who stood before the door. Smiling, graceful, and merry as ever, she entered the cabinet and gave her hand to her husband.

“Are you angry with me, my dear friend, because I have disturbed you?” she asked, tenderly. “But, it seemed to me, you had worked enough for the state to-day and might devote a quarter of an hour to your Louisa. You know whenever I do not see you in the morning, my day lacks its genuine sunshine, and is gray and gloomy. For this reason, as you have not yet come to me to-day, I come to you. Good-morning, my king and husband!”

“Good-morning, my queen!” said the king, imprinting a kiss on the white, transparent forehead of the queen. “Add to it, good-day, my dear Louisa, for a wish from so beautiful and noble lips I hope will exorcise all evil spirits, and cause this day to become a really good one. I hope much from it.”

The king’s forehead, which the queen’s appearance had smoothed a little, became clouded again, and he assumed a grave and sombre air.

The queen saw it, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You are downcast, my friend,” she said, affectionately. “Will you not let me have my share of your grief? Is not your wife entitled to it? Or will you cruelly deprive me of what is my right? Speak to me, my husband. Let me share your grief. Confide to me what is the meaning of those clouds on your noble brow, and what absorbs your soul to such an extent that you even forgot me and your children, and deprived us of your kind morning greeting.”

But even these tender words of the queen were unable to light up the king’s forehead; he avoided meeting her beautiful, lustrous eyes, which were fixed on him inquiringly, and averted his head.

“Government affairs,” he said, gravely. “Nothing interesting and worthy of being communicated to my queen. Let us not embitter thereby the happy minutes of your presence. Let us sit down.”

The queen knew her husband’s peculiarities to perfection. She knew that no one was allowed to contradict him whenever he assumed this forbidding tone, and that it was best then not to take any notice of his moroseness, or, if possible, to dispel it.

She, therefore, followed him silently to the sofa and sat down, inviting him, with a charming smile, to take a seat by her side.

The king did so, and Louisa leaned her head tenderly against his shoulder. “How sweet it is to lean one’s weak head against the breast of a strong man!” she said. “It seems to me, as long as I am near you, no misfortune can befall me, and I cling to you trustingly and happily, like the ivy covering the strong oak.”

“The comparison is not correct,” said the king. “Ivy does not bloom, nor is it fragrant. But you are a peerless rose, the queen of flowers!”

“What! my king condescends to flatter me?” said the queen, laughing merrily, while she raised her head from the king’s shoulder and looked archly at him. “But, my king, your comparison is not correct either. Roses have thorns, and wound whosoever touches them. But I would not pain and wound you for all the riches of the world! Were I a rose, I should shake off all my fragrant leaves to make of them a pillow on which your noble head should repose from the toils and vexations of the day, and on which you should find dreams of a happy future.”

“Only DREAMS of a happy future,” said Frederick William, musingly. “You may be right; our hopes for a happy future may be but a dream.”

“No,” exclaimed the queen, raising her radiant eyes toward heaven, “I firmly believe in the happiness of our future; I believe and know that God has selected you, the most generous and guiltless of princes, to break the arrogance of that daring tyrant, who would like to chain the whole world to his despotic yoke, and who, in his ambitious thirst after conquest, raises his hands against the crowns of all the sovereigns. YOUR crown he shall not touch! It is the rock on which his power will be wrecked, and at the feet of which his proud waves will be broken. Prussia will avenge the disgrace of Germany; I am sure of it, and for this reason I am so happy and confident since you, my king and husband, have cast off the mask of that false friendship for the tyrant, and have shown him your open, angry, and hostile face. A heavy cloud weighed down my heart so long as we still continued mediating, occupying neutral ground, trying to maintain peace, and hoping to derive advantages from that man so devoid of honesty, sincerity, and fidelity.”

“Still, who knows whether I was right, after all, in taking such a course!” sighed the king. “Peace is a very precious thing, and the people need it for their prosperity.”

“But your people do not want peace!” exclaimed the queen. “They are enthusiastic and clamorous for war, and long for nothing so much as to see an end put to this deplorable incertitude. You have now caused your army to be placed on the war footing, and all faces have already brightened up, and all hearts feel encouraged; announce to your people that you will declare war against the usurper, and all Prussia will rise jubilantly and hasten to the battlefield, as if it were a festival of victory.”

“You refer to the army, but not to the people,” said the king. “It is true, the army is ready for the fray, and it is satisfied also that it will conquer. But who can tell whether it may not be mistaken? It is long since we have waged war, while the armies of Napoleon are experienced and skilled, and ready to take the field at any moment.”

“The army of Frederick the Great, the army of my king has nothing to fear from the hordes of the barbarian!” exclaimed the queen, with flaming eyes.

The king shrugged his shoulders. “I stand in need of allies,” he said; “alone I am not able to sustain such a struggle. If the courts of Northern Germany should comply with my invitation, if they should ally themselves with me, finally, if Austria should accept my proposition and unite with me, in that case I should hope for success. All this will be decided to-day, for I am now looking for the return of two important envoys--for the return of Hardenberg, who has delivered my propositions in Vienna, and for the return of Lombard, whom I have sent to the smaller German courts to offer them an offensive and defensive alliance in opposition to Napoleon’s Confederation of the Rhine. I confess to you, Louisa, I await their replies tremblingly; I cannot think of any thing else; this feeling has haunted me all day, and now you know why I even forgot to greet you this morning. I intended not to betray the uneasiness filling my heart, but who is able to withstand such an enchantress as you? Now you know every thing!”

“And do you know already the new misdeed which the tyrant has committed?” asked the queen. “Do you know that he is ruling and commanding on German soil as if Germany were nothing but a French province, and all princes nothing but his vassals? In a time of peace he has caused a German citizen to be dragged from his house; in a German state he has ordered a court-martial to meet, and this court-martial has dared to pass sentence of death upon a German citizen merely because he, a German bookseller, had circulated a pamphlet deploring Germany’s degradation!”

“I have already known it for three days,” said the king, gloomily. “I concealed it from you in order not to grieve you.”

“But public opinion now-a-days conceals nothing,” exclaimed Louisa, ardently, “and public opinion throughout Germany cries for vengeance against the tyrant who is murdering German honor and German laws in this manner! In every city subscriptions have been opened for Palm’s family, for his young wife and his little girls. The poor as well as the rich hasten to offer, according to their means, gifts of love to the widow and orphans of the martyr; and believe me, the money which Germany is now collecting for Palm’s family will be dragon’s seeds from which armed warriors will spring one day, and Germany’s vengeance will blossom from this blood so unjustly shed. Permit me, my friend, to contribute my share to these seeds of love and vengeance. They brought to me this morning a list on which the most distinguished families had subscribed considerable sums for Palm’s family, and I was asked whether my ladies of honor and the members of my household would be allowed to subscribe for the same purpose. I should like to allow it and do even more--I should like to contribute my mite, too, to the subscriptions. Will you permit me to do so?”

“They will take that again for a demonstration,” said the king, uneasily; “they will say we were stirring up strife and discontent among the Germans. I believe it would be prudent not to make a public demonstration prematurely, but to wait and keep quiet till the right time has come.”

“And when will the right time come, if it has not come now?” exclaimed the queen, mournfully. “Remember, my beloved husband, all the mortifications and humiliations which you have received of late at the hands of this despot, and which, in your noble and generous resignation, did not resent in order to preserve peace to your people. Remember that he alone prevailed on you to occupy Hanover, that he warranted its possession to you, and then when your troops had occupied it, applied secretly, and without saying a word to you, to England, offering to make peace with her by proposing to restore Hanover to her.”

“It was a grievous insult,” exclaimed the king, with unusual vivacity; “I replied to it by placing my army on the war footing.”

“But our armies remain inactive,” said the queen, sadly, “while General Knobelsdorf is negotiating for peace with Bonaparte in Paris.”

“He is to negotiate until I am fully prepared,” said Frederick William--“until I know what German princes will be for and against me. Above all, it is necessary to know our forces in order to mature our plans. Hence, I must know who is on my side.”

“God is on your side, and so is Germany’s honor,” exclaimed the queen; “moreover, you may safely rely at least on one faithful friend.”

“You refer to the Emperor of Russia?” asked the king. “True, I received yesterday a letter from the emperor, in which he announced ‘that he would come to my assistance with an army of seventy thousand men under his personal command, as a faithful friend and neighbor, and appear in time on the battle-field, no matter whether it be on the Rhine or beyond it.’”

“Oh, the noble and faithful friend!” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

“Yes,” said the king, thoughtfully, “he promises a great deal, but Russian promises march more rapidly than Russian armies. I am afraid events will carry us along so resistlessly that we cannot wait until the Emperor of Russia has arrived with his army. As soon as Napoleon suspects that my preparations are meant for him, he will himself declare war against me. He is always prepared; his army is always ready for war. Whatever he may be, we cannot deny that he is a brave and great general; and I do not know,” added the king, in a low voice, “I do not know whether we have got a general able to cope with him. Oh, Louisa, I envy your courage, your reliance on our cause. Do you feel then, no uneasiness whatever?”

“Uneasiness?” exclaimed the queen, with a proud smile. “I believe and feel convinced that now only one thing remains to be done. We must struggle with the monster, we must crush it, and then only will we be allowed to speak of uneasiness! [Footnote: The queen’s own words--Vide Gentz’s “Writings,” vol. iv., p. 169.] I believe, besides, in divine Providence--I believe in you, my noble, high-minded, and brave king and husband, and I believe in your splendid army, which is eager for war! I believe in the lucky star of Prussia!”

“Oh, it seems to me that many clouds are veiling that star,” said the king, mournfully.

“The thunder of battle will dispel them!” exclaimed Louisa, enthusiastically. “The smoke of powder purifies the air and destroys its noxious vapors.”

Just then the door opened, and the king’s valet de chambre entered.

“Your majesty,” he said, “his excellency, Minister Baron von Hardenberg, requests you to grant him an audience.”

“You see the decision is drawing near,” said the king, turning to his wife. “I shall request the minister to come in directly.”

The valet de chambre withdrew. The king paced the room several times, his hands folded on his back, and without uttering a word. Louisa dared not disturb him, but her radiant eyes followed him with an expression of tender anxiety and affectionate sympathy.

All at once, the king stopped in the middle of the room and drew a deep breath. “I do not know,” he said, “I feel almost joyful and happy now that the decisive moment is at hand. Francis von Sickingen was right in saying, ‘Better an end with terror, than a terror without end!’” [Footnote: The motto of the celebrated knight, Francis von Sickingen: “Besser ein Ende mit Schrecken, als ein Schrecken ohne Ende!”]

“Oh,” exclaimed the queen, joyfully, “now I recognize my noble and brave husband. When no longer able to avert terrors by mild words and gentle prudence, he raises his chivalrous arm and crushes them. But as we must not keep your minister waiting, I will withdraw. One word more. Will you permit me to add my subscription to the list of contributions for Palm’s widow? I do not wish to do so as Queen of Prussia, but as a woman sympathizing with the misfortunes of one of her German sisters, and anxious to comfort her in her distress. I shall not mention my name, but cause our dear mistress of ceremonies to subscribe for me. Will you permit it, my friend?”

“Follow your noble and generous heart, Louisa,” said the king, “contribute for the relief of the poor woman!”

“Thanks, my friend, a thousand thanks,” exclaimed Louisa, offering her hand to her husband. He kissed it tenderly, and then accompanied the queen to the door.

Louisa wanted here to withdraw her hand from him and open the door, in order to go out, but her husband kept her back, and his features assumed an air of embarrassment.

“I want you to do me a favor,” he said, hastily. “When you have caused the mistress of ceremonies to subscribe in your name, please order your grand-marshal to contribute the same sum. I will return it to him from my privy purse.” [Footnote: Palm’s widow received large sums of money, which were subscribed for her everywhere in Germany, England, and Russia. In St. Petersburg the emperor and empress headed the list.--Vide “Biography of John Philip Palm,” Munich, 1842.]

The queen made no reply; she encircled the king’s neck with her beautiful white arms, and imprinted a glowing kiss on his lips; she then hastily turned around and left the room, perhaps, in order not to let her husband see the tears that filled her eyes.

The king, who had gazed after her with a long and tender look, said in a low voice to himself: “Oh, she is the sunshine of my life. How dreary and cold it would be without her! But now I will see the minister.”

He hastened to the opposite door and opened it. “Request Minister von Hardenberg to come in,” he said to the valet de chambre, waiting in the anteroom.

After a few minutes Hardenberg entered. The king went forward to meet him, and looked at him inquiringly.

“Good news?” he asked.

“Your majesty, ‘good’ has a very relative meaning,” replied Hardenberg, shrugging his shoulders. “I believe an open and categorical reply to be good.”

“Then you are the bearer of such a reply,” said the king, quietly; “first tell me the result of your mission. You may afterward add the particulars of the negotiations.”

“I shall comply with your majesty’s order. The result is that Austria wants to remain neutral, and will, for the present, engage in no further wars. Her finances are exhausted, and her many defeats have demoralized and discouraged her armies. Napoleon has vanquished Austria, not only militarily, but also morally. The Austrian soldiers look on the Emperor of the French and his victorious armies with an almost superstitious terror; the emperor is discouraged and downcast, and his ministers long for nothing more ardently than a lasting peace with France. His generals, on the other hand, are filled with so glowing an admiration for Napoleon’s military genius, that the Archduke Charles himself has said: ‘he would deem it a crime to continue the war against Napoleon, instead of courting his friendship.’” [Footnote: Vide “Libensbilder aus dem Befreiungskriege,” vol. iii.]

“He may be right,” said the king, “but he ought to have called it an imprudence instead of a crime. I know very well that we are unable to retrace our steps, and that the logic of events will compel us to draw the sword and risk a war, but I do not close my eyes against the serious dangers and misfortunes in which Prussia might be involved by taking up arms without efficient and active allies. I have taken pains for years to save Prussia from the horrors and evils of war, but circumstances are more powerful than I, and I shall have to submit to them.”

“On the contrary, circumstances will have to submit to your majesty and fate.”

“Fate!” the king interrupted him, hastily. “Fate is no courtier, and never flattered me much.”

“Your majesty, I was going to imitate fate,--I did not want to flatter you, either,” said Hardenberg. “I was merely going to say that fate seems to favor us suddenly. I have received letters from Mr. Fox, the English minister. King George the Third, now that he sees that Prussia is in earnest, and is preparing for war, is more inclined to form an alliance with Prussia. The first favorable symptom of this change of views is the fact that England has raised the blockade of the rivers of northern Germany; a British envoy will soon be here to make peace with Prussia, and to conclude an alliance, by virtue of which England will furnish us troops and money.”

“Would to God the envoy would arrive speedily,” sighed the king, “for we need both, auxiliaries as well as money.” [Footnote: The British envoy, Lord Morpeth, unfortunately arrived too late; it was only on the 19th of October that he reached the king’s headquarters at Weimar. But the French party, Minister Haugwitz, Lombard, and Lucchesini, managed to prevent him from obtaining an interview with the king; and dismissed him with the reply, that the results of the negotiations would depend on the issue of the battle which was about to be fought.--Vide Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 766.]

When Minister von Hardenberg left the king’s cabinet, his face was radiant with inward satisfaction, and he hastened with rapid steps to his carriage.

“To Prince Louis Ferdinand,” he said to the coachman. “As fast as the horses will run!”

Prince Louis Ferdinand was in the midst of his friends in his music-room when Minister Hardenberg entered. He was sitting at the piano and playing a voluntary. His fancy must have taken a bold flight to-day, for in the music he evoked from the keys there was more ardor, vigor, and enthusiasm than generally, and the noble features of the prince were radiant with delight. Close to him, her head leaning gently on his shoulder, sat Pauline Wiesel, the prince’s beautiful and accomplished friend, and listened with a smile on her crimson lips, and tears in her eyes, to the charming and soul-stirring melodies. In the middle of the room there stood a table loaded down with fiery wines and tropical fruits, and twelve gentlemen, most of them army officers, were seated around it. They were the military and learned friends of the prince, his daily companions, who, like Hardenberg, were always allowed to enter his rooms without being announced.

The minister hastily beckoned the gentlemen who were going to rise and salute him, to keep their seats, and hurried quickly and softly across the room toward the prince, whose back was turned to the door, and who consequently had not noticed his arrival.

“Prince,” he said, gently placing his hand on his shoulder, “it is settled now: we shall have war!”

“War!” shouted the prince, jubilantly, and rose impetuously to embrace the minister and imprint a kiss on the lips which had uttered the precious word.

“War!” exclaimed the gentlemen at the table, and emptied their glasses in honor of the news.

“War!” sighed fair Pauline Wiesel, and clinging closely to the prince’s shoulder, she whispered: “War, that is to say, I shall lose you!”

“No, it is to say that I shall gain every thing,” exclaimed the prince, with flashing eyes. “I beseech you, Pauline, no weakness now, no sentimentality, no tears. The great moment is come. Let us appreciate it. At length, at length we shall avenge our disgrace, at length we shall be able to raise our humiliated heads again, and need not feel ashamed any longer of saying, ‘I am a German!’”

“Your royal highness will now be able to say, ‘I am a German hero!’” said Hardenberg.

“Would to God you were right!” exclaimed the prince. “May He grant me an opportunity to earn a small laurel-wreath, even had I to atone for it with my blood, nay, with my life! To die for the fatherland is a sublime death; and should I fall thus, Pauline, you ought not to weep, but sing jubilant hymns and envy my happy fate. Tell me, friend Hardenberg, when is the war to commence?”

“As soon as the various army corps can be concentrated,” replied Hardenberg. “We know positively that Napoleon is arming for the purpose of attacking us, and that he intends to declare war against us. We shall hasten and try to outstrip him. Prussia has been insulted too often and too grievously; hence, the challenge ought to come from her.”

“And we will take revenge on M. Bonaparte,” exclaimed the prince, with flaming eyes. “It shall be an American duel, and only the death of either of the duellists shall put an end to it! Friends, take your glasses and fill them to overflowing. Hardenberg, take this glass; Pauline shall present it to you. Now, let us drink to the honor of Prussia and shout with me, three cheers for the war, for an heroic victory, for an heroic death!”

“Three cheers for the war, for an heroic victory, for an heroic death!” shouted the friends. They emptied their glasses; the eyes of the men were radiant, but Pauline’s eyes were filled with tears. [Prince Louis Ferdinand was killed in the first battle of the war, at Saalfeld, on the 10th of October, 1806.]

On the evening of that day the king went, as usual, to the queen to take a cup of tea which she herself served up to him. Notwithstanding the objections of the mistress of ceremonies, they paid at this hour no attention to the rules of etiquette, and their intercourse was as cordial and unceremonious as that of a common citizen’s family.

The queen, therefore, was alone when her husband entered the room. None of her ladies of honor were allowed to disturb the enjoyment of this pleasant tea-hour; only when the king wished it, the royal children were sent for to chat with their parents and to receive their supper at the hands of their beautiful mother.

The queen went to meet her husband with a pleasant salutation, and offered him her hands. “Well,” she asked, tenderly, “your brow is clouded still? Come, let me kiss those clouds away.”

She raised herself on tip-toe, and smiled when she still was unable to reach up to her husband’s forehead.

“You must bend down to me,” she said, “I am too small for you.”

“No, you are great and sublime, and must bend down to me as angels bend down to the poor mortals,” said the king. “Ah, Louisa, I am afraid, however, your kiss will no longer be able to drive the clouds from my brow.”

“Have you received bad news?” asked the queen. “Have your ambassadors returned?”

“They have. No assistance from Austria! That is the news brought by Hardenberg. No league of the princes of Northern Germany! That is the news brought by Lombard. Every one of them pursues his separate interests, and thinks only of himself. The Elector of Saxony would like to be at the head of a Saxon league; the Elector of Hesse promises to ally himself with us if, above all, we secure to him a considerable enlargement of his territory; Oldenburg is going to wait and see what the other states will do; Waldeck and Lippe desire to join the Confederation of the Rhine, because they might derive greater advantages from it; and the Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin replied, quite haughtily, he would remain neutral: if he were in danger, he would gratefully accept the protection of Prussia, but he would have to reject any application for supplies in the most decided manner.” [Hausser’s “History of Germany,” vol. ii., p. 770.]

“Oh, those narrow-minded, egotistic men,” exclaimed the queen, indignantly. “They dare to call themselves princes, and yet there is not a single exalted thought, not a trace of the spirit of majesty in their minds. Bad seeds are being sown by the cowardly spirit of the princes. Woe unto Germany if these seeds should ripen one day in the hearts of the people! But you did not say any thing about my father; what did Mecklenburg-Strelitz reply?”

“She is on our side; your father is faithful to us.”

“But, ah, he is able only to give us his great, true heart and brave, friendly advice!” sighed the queen. “His state is too small to furnish us any other aid. Oh, my husband, I could now give my heart’s blood if I only were the daughter of a mighty king, and if my father could hasten to your assistance with an army.”

“A single drop of your heart’s blood would be too high a price for the armies of the whole world,” said the king. “Your father has given to me the most precious and priceless treasure earth contains: a noble, beautiful wife, a high-minded queen! Your father was the richest prince when he still had his daughter, and I am the richest man since you are mine.”

He clasped the queen in his arms, and she clung to him with a blissful smile.

“For the rest,” said the king, after a pause, “there is at least one German prince who stands faithfully by us, and that is the Duke of Saxe-Weimar.”

“The friend of Goethe and Schiller!” exclaimed the queen.

“The duke places his battalion of riflemen at our disposal, and will accept a command in the war.”

“There will be war, then?” asked the queen, joyfully.

“Yes, there will be war,” said the king, sadly.

“You say so and sigh,” exclaimed Louisa.

“Yes, I sigh,” replied the king. “I am not as happy as you and those who are in favor of war. I do not believe in the invincibility of my army. I feel that we cannot be successful. There is an indescribable confusion in the affairs of the war department; the gentlemen at the head of it, it is true, will not believe it, and pretend that I am still too young and do not understand enough about it. Ah, I wish from the bottom of my heart I were mistaken. The future will soon show it.” [Footnote: The king’s own words.--Vide Henchel von Donnersmark.]

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