Joseph II. and His Court: An Historical Novel
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Title: Joseph II. and His Court: An Historical Novel
Author: L. Mühlbach
Translator: A. de V. Chaudron
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3793]
Most recently updated: January 9, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3793
Credits: This etext was produced by Charles Franks, Jim Tinsley and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT
An Historical Novel
by L. MUHLBACH
AUTHOR OF
FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT,
THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI,
FREDERICK THE GREAT AMD HIS FAMILY,
STORY OF A MILLIONAIRE,
TWO LIFE PATHS, ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY ADELAIDE DEV. CHAUDRON
AKRON, OHIO
MARIA THERESA
I. The Conference.
II. The Letter.
III. The Toilet of the Empress.
IV. Husband and Wife.
V. The Archduke Joseph.
VI. Kaunitz.
VII. The Toilet.
VIII. The Red Stockings.
IX. New Austria.
ISABELLA
X. The Young Soldier.
XI. The Empress and her Son.
XII. An Italian Night.
XIII. Isabella of Parma.
XIV. The Ambassador Extraordinary.
XV. The Dream of Love.
XVI. Gluck.
XVII. The New Opera.
XVIII. Ranier Von Calzabigi.
XIX. The Birthday.
XX. Orpheus and Eurydice.
XXI. "In Three Years, We Meet Again."
XXII. Che Faro Senza Eurydice.
KING OF ROME
XXIII. Father Porhammer and Count Kaunitz.
XXIV. Matrimonial Plans.
XXV. Josepha of Bavaria.
XXVI. The Marriage Night.
XXVII. An Unhappy Marriage.
XXVIII. A Statesman'S Hours of Dalliance.
XXIX. Prince Kaunitz and Ritter Gluck.
XXX. An Unfortunate Meeting.
XXXI. Mourning.
XXXII. The Imperial Abbess.
XXXIII. The Co-Regent.
XXXIV. Haroun Al Raschid.
XXXV. The Disguise Removed.
XXXVI. Rosary and Sceptre.
XXXVII. The Difference Between an Abbess and an Empress.
XXXVIII. The Reigning Empress.
XXXIX. The Co-Regent Deposed.
XL Mother and Son.
XLI. Death the Liberator.
XLII. The Mirror.
XLIII. The Interview with Kaunitz.
XLIV. The Archduchess Josepha.
XLV. The Departure.
XLVI. Inoculation.
XLVII. An Adventure.
XLVIII. The Judgment of Solomon.
XLIX. Two Affianced Queens.
EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA
L. The Dinner at the French Ambassador's.
LI. Marianne's Disappearance.
LII. Count Falkenstein.
LIII. What they found at Wichern.
LIV. The Somnambulist.
LV. The Prophecy.
LVI. The Gift.
LVII. The Conference.
LVIII. Kaunitz.
LIX. Souvenir d'Eperies.
LX. Frederick The Great.
LXI. The Prima Donna.
LXII. Frederick the Great and Prince Kaunitz.
LXIII. Russia a Foe to all Europe.
LXIV. The Map of Poland.
LXV. The Countess Wielopolska.
LXYI. The Emperor and The Countess.
LXVII. Maria Theresa.
LXVIII. Marie Antoinette and Court Etiquette.
LXIX. The Triumph of Diplomacy.
LXX. Gossip.
LXXI. An Explanation.
LXXII Famine in Bohemia.
LXXIII. The Black Broth.
LXXIV. The Extortioners of Quality.
LXXV. Diplomatic Esoterics.
LXXVI. Russia Speaks.
LXXVII. The Last Petition.
LXXVIII. Finis Polonie.
LXXIX. The Mad Countess.
LXXX. The Betrothal.
LXXXI. Franz Antony Mesmer.
LXXXII. Therese Von Paradies.
LXXXIII. The First Day of Light.
LXXXIV. Diplomatic Strategy.
LXXXV. Dominus ac Redemptor Noster.
LXXXVI. Heart-Struggles.
LXXXVII. The Forced Bridal.
LXXXVIII. Prince Louis de Rohan.
LXXXIX. The Poles at Vienna.
XC. The Last Farewell.
XCI. The Concert.
XCII. The Catastrophe.
MARIE ANTOINETTE
XCIII. Le Roi ist Mort, Vive Le Roi!
XCIV. The Memoranda.
XCV. France and Austria.
XCVI. The King's List.
XCVII. The First Pasquinade.
XCVIII. The New Fashions.
XCIX The Temple of Etiquette.
C. The New Fashions and their Unhappy Results.
CI. Sunrise.
CII. The Following Day.
CIII. The Last Appeal.
CIV. The Flight.
CV. Joseph in France.
CVI. The Godfather.
CVII. The Godfather.
CVIII. The Arrival at Versailles.
CIX. Count Falkenstein In Paris.
CX. The Queen and The "Dames de la Halle."
CXI. The Adopted Son of the Queen.
CXII. "Chantons, Celebrons Notre Reine."
CXIII. The Hotel Turenne.
CXIV. The Denouement.
CXV. The Parting.
CXVI. Joseph and Louis.
CXVII. The Promenade and the Epigram.
CXVIII. The Dinner en Famille.
CXIX. A Visit to Jean Jacques Rousseau.
CXX. The Parting.
CXXI. Death of the Elector of Bavaria.
CXXII. A Page From History.
CXXIII. The Emperor as Commander-In-Chief.
CXXIV. Secret Negotiations for Peace.
CXXV. Fraternal Discord.
CXXVI. The Defeat.
CXXVII. The Revenge.
CXXVIII. A Letter to the Empress of Russia.
CXXIX. The Gratitude of Princes.
CXXX. Frederick The Great.
CXXXI, "The Darkest Hour is Before Day."
CXXXII. The Emperor and his Mother.
CXXXIII. Prince Potemkin.
CXXXIV. The Prussian Ambassador.
CXXXV. The Austrian Ambassador.
CXXXVI. The Empress Catharine.
CXXXVII. The Czarina and her Master.
CXXXVIII A Diplomatic Defeat.
CXXXIX. The Czarina and the Kaiser.
THE REIGN OF JOSEPH
CXL. The Oath.
CXLI. Prince Kaunitz.
CXLII. The Banker and his Daughter.
CXLIII. The Countess Baillou,
CXLIV. The Expulsion of the Clarisserines.
CXLV. Count Podstadsky'S Escort.
CXLVI. The Lampoon.
CXLVII. The Petitioners.
CXLVIII. The Petitioners.
CXLIX. The Lady Patroness.
CL. Mother and Son.
CLI. The Two Oaths.
CLII. New-Fashioned Obsequies.
CLIII. The Pope in Vienna.
CLIV. The Flight.
CLV. The Marriage before God.
CLVI. The Park.
CLVII. The Parting.
CLVIII. Colonel Szekuly.
CLIX. The Pope's Departure.
CLX. The Repulse.
CLXI. The Count in the Pillory.
CLXII. The Nemesis.
CLXIII. Horja and the Rebellion In Hungary.
CLXIV. The Jew's Revenge.
CLXV. The Favor of Princes.
CLXVI. The Deputation from Hungary.
CLXVII. The Recompense.
CLXVIII. The Rebellion in the Netherlands.
CLXIX. The Imperial Suitor.
CLXX. The Last Dream of Love.
CLXXI. The Turkish War.
CLXXII. Marriage and Separation.
CLXXIII. The Last Dream of Glory.
CLXXIV. The Hungarians Again.
CLXXV. The Revocation.
CLXXVI. The Death of The Martyr.
JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT
MARIA THERESA.
CHAPTER I.
THE CONFERENCE.
In the council-chamber of the Empress Maria Theresa, the six lords, who
composed her cabinet council, awaited the entrance of their imperial
mistress to open the sitting.
At this sitting, a great political question was to be discussed and its
gravity seemed to be reflected in the faces of the lords, as, in low
tones, they whispered together in the dim, spacious apartment, whose
antiquated furniture of dark velvet tapestry corresponded well with the
anxious looks of its occupants.
In the centre of the room stood the Baron von Bartenstein and the Count
von Uhlefeld, the two powerful statesmen who for thirteen years had been
honored by the confidence of the empress. Together they stood, their
consequence acknowledged by all, while with proud and lofty mien, they
whispered of state secrets.
Upon the fair, smooth face of Bartenstein appeared an expression of
haughty triumph, which he was at no pains to conceal; and over the
delicate mouth of Von Uhlefeld fluttered a smile of ineffable
complacency.
"I feel perfectly secure," whispered Von Bartenstein. "The empress will
certainly renew the treaties, and continue the policy which we have
hitherto pursued with such brilliant results to Austria."
"The empress is wise," returned Uhlefeld. "She can reckon upon our
stanch support, and so long as she pursues this policy, we will sustain
her."
While he spoke, there shot from his eyes such a glance of conscious
power, that the two lords who, from the recess of a neighboring window,
were watching the imperial favorites, were completely dazzled.
"See, count" murmured one to the other, "see how Count Uhlefeld smiles
to-day. Doubtless he knows already what the decision of the empress is
to be; and that it is in accordance with his wishes, no one can doubt
who looks upon him now."
"It will be well for us," replied Count Colloredo, "if we subscribe
unconditionally to the opinions of the lord chancellor. I, for my part,
will do so all the more readily, that I confess to you my utter
ignorance of the question which is to come before us to-day. I was
really so preoccupied at our last sitting that I--I failed exactly to
comprehend its nature. I think, therefore, that it will be well for us
to vote with Count von Uhlefeld--that is, if the president of the Aulic
Council, Count Harrach, does not entertain other opinions."
Count Harrach bowed. "As for me," sighed he, "I must, as usual, vote
with Count Bartenstein. His will be, as it ever is, the decisive voice
of the day; and its echo will be heard from the lips of the empress. Let
us echo them both, and so be the means of helping to crush the
presumption of yonder crafty and arrogant courtier."
As he spoke he glanced toward the massive table of carved oak, around
which were arranged the leathern arm-chairs of the members of the Aulic
Council. Count Colloredo followed the glance of his friend, which, with
a supercilious expression, rested upon the person to whom he alluded.
This person was seated in one of the chairs, deeply absorbed in the
perusal of the papers that lay before him upon the table. He was a man
of slight and elegant proportions, whose youthful face contrasted
singularly with the dark, manly, and weather-beaten countenances of the
other members of the council. Not a fault marred the beauty of this fair
face; not the shadow of a wrinkle ruffled the polish of the brow; even
the lovely mouth itself was free from those lines by which thought and
care are wont to mark the passage of man through life. One thing,
however, was wanting to this beautiful mask. It was devoid of
expression. Those delicate features were immobile and stony, No trace of
emotion stirred the compressed lips; no shadow of thought flickered over
the high, marble brow; and the glance of those clear, light-blue eyes
was as calm, cold, and unfeeling as that of a statue. This young man,
with Medusa-like beauty, was Anthony Wenzel von Kaunitz, whom Maria
Theresa had lately recalled from Paris to take his seat in her cabinet
council.
The looks of Harrach and Colloredo were directed toward him, but he
appeared not to observe them, and went on quietly with his examination
of the state papers.
"You think, then, count," whispered Colloredo, thoughtfully, "that young
Kaunitz cherishes the absurd hope of an alliance with France?"
"I am sure of it. I know that a few days ago the French ambassador
delivered to him a most affectionate missive from his friend the
Marquise de Pompadour; and I know too that yesterday he replied to it in
a similar strain: It is his fixed idea, and that of La Pompadour also,
to drive Austria into a new line of policy, by making her the ally of
France."
Count Colloredo laughed. "The best cure that I know of for fixed ideas
is the madhouse," replied he, "and thither we will send little Kaunitz
if--"
He ceased suddenly, for Kaunitz had slowly raised his eyes from the
table, and they now rested with such an icy gaze upon the smiling face
of Colloredo, that the frightened statesman shivered.
"If he should have heard me!" murmured he. "If he--" but the poor count
had no further time for reflection; for at that moment the folding-doors
leading to the private apartments of the empress were thrown open, and
the lord high steward announced the approach of her majesty.
The councillors advanced to the table, and in respectful silence awaited
the imperial entrance.
The rustling of silk was heard; and then the quick step of the Countess
Fuchs, whose duty it was to accompany the empress to the threshold of
her council-chamber, and to close the door behind her.
And now appeared the majestic figure of the empress. The lords laid
their hands upon their swords, and inclined their heads in reverence
before the imperial lady, who with light, elastic step advanced to the
table, while the Countess Fuchs noiselessly closed the door and
returned.
The empress smilingly acknowledged the salutation, though her smile was
lost to her respectful subjects, who, in obedience to the strict Spanish
etiquette which prevailed at the Austrian court, remained with their
heads bent until the sovereign had taken her seat upon the throne.
One of these subjects had bent his head with the rest, but he had
ventured to raise it again, and he at least met the glance of royalty.
This bold subject was Kaunitz, the youngest of the councillors.
He gazed at the advancing empress, and for the first time a smile
flitted over his stony features. And well might the sight of his
sovereign lady stir the marble heart of Kaunitz; for Maria Theresa was
one of the loveliest women of her day. Though thirty-six years of age,
and the mother of thirteen children, she was still beautiful, and the
Austrians were proud to excess of her beauty. Her high, thoughtful
forehead was shaded by a profusion of blond hair, which lightly powdered
and gathered up behind in one rich mass, was there confined by a golden
net. Her large, starry eyes were of that peculiar gray which changes
with every emotion of the soul; at one time seeming to be heavenly-blue,
at another the darkest and most flashing brown. Her bold profile
betokened great pride; but every look of haughtiness was softened away
by the enchanting expression of a mouth in whose exquisite beauty no
trace of the so-called "Austrian lip" could be seen. Her figure, loftier
than is usual with women, was of faultless symmetry, while her graceful
bust would have seemed to the eyes of Praxiteles the waking to life of
his own dreams of Juno.
Those who looked upon this beautiful empress could well realize the
emotions which thirteen years before had stirred the hearts of the
Hungarian nobles as she stood before them; and had wrought them up to
that height of enthusiasm which culminated in the well-known shout of
"MORIAMUR PRO REGE NOSTRO!"
"Our king!" cried the Hungarians, and they were right. For Maria
Theresa, who with her husband, was the tender wife; toward her children,
the loving mother; was in all that related to her empire, her people,
and her sovereignty, a man both in the scope of her comprehension and
the strength of her will. She was capable of sketching bold lines of
policy, and of following them out without reference to personal
predilections or prejudices, both of which she was fully competent to
stifle, wherever they threatened interference with the good of her
realm, or her sense of duty as a sovereign.
The energy and determination of her character were written upon the
lofty brow of Maria Theresa; and now, as she approached her councillors,
these characteristics beamed forth from her countenance with such power
and such beauty, that Kaunitz himself was overawed, and for one moment a
smile lit up his cold features.
No one saw this smile except the imperial lady, who had woke the Memnon
into life; and as she took her seat upon the throne, she slightly bent
her head in return.
Now, with her clear and sonorous voice, she invited her councillors also
to be seated, and at once reached out her hand for the memoranda which
Count Bartenstein had prepared for her examination.
She glanced quickly over the papers, and laid them aside. "My lords of
the Aulic Council," said she, in tones of deep earnestness, "we have
to-day a question of gravest import to discuss. I crave thereunto your
attention and advice. We are at this sitting to deliberate upon the
future policy of Austria, and deeply significant will be the result of
this day's deliberations to Austria's welfare. Some of our old treaties
are about to expire. Time, which has somewhat moderated the bitterness
of our enemies, seems also to have weakened the amity of our friends.
Both are dying away; and the question now before us is, whether we shall
extinguish enmity, or rekindle friendship? For seventy years past
England, Holland, and Sardinia have been our allies. For three hundred
years France has been our hereditary enemy. Shall we renew our alliance
with the former powers, or seek new relations with the latter? Let me
have your views, my lords."
With these concluding words, Maria Theresa waved her hand, and pointed
to Count Uhlefeld. The lord chancellor arose, and with a dignified
inclination of the head, responded to the appeal.
"Since your majesty permits me to speak, I vote without hesitation for
the renewal of our treaty with the maritime powers. For seventy years
our relations with these powers have been amicable and honorable. In our
days of greatest extremity--when Louis XIV. took Alsatia and the city of
Strasburg, and his ally, the Turkish Sultan, besieged Vienna--when two
powerful enemies threatened Austria with destruction, it was this
alliance with the maritime powers and with Sardinia, which, next to the
succor of the generous King of Poland, saved our capital, and Savoy held
Lombardy in check, while England and Holland guarded the Netherlands,
which, since the days of Philip II., have ever been the nest of
rebellion and revolt. To this alliance, therefore, we owe it that your
majesty still reigns over those seditious provinces. To Savoy we are
indebted for Lombardy; while France, perfidious France, has not only
robbed us of our territory, but to this day asserts her right to its
possession! No, your majesty--so long as France retains that which
belongs to Austria, Austria will neither forgive her enmity nor forget
it. See, on the contrary, how the maritime powers have befriended us! It
was THEIR gold which enabled us first to withstand France, and afterward
Prussia--THEIR gold that filled your majesty's coffers--THEIR gold that
sustained and confirmed the prosperity of your majesty's dominions. This
is the alliance that I advocate, and with all my heart I vote for its
renewal. It is but just that the princes and rulers of the earth should
give example to the world of good faith in their dealings; for the
integrity of the sovereign is a pledge to all nations of the integrity
of his people."
Count Uhlefeld resumed his seat, and after him rose the powerful
favorite of the empress, Count Bartenstein, who, in a long and animated
address, came vehemently to the support of Uhlefeld.
Then came Counts Colloredo and Harrach, and the lord high steward, Count
Khevenhuller--all unanimous for a renewal of the old treaty. Not one of
these rich, proud nobles would have dared to breathe a sentiment in
opposition to the two powerful statesmen that had spoken before them.
Bartenstein and Uhlefeld had passed the word. The alliance must continue
with those maritime powers, from whose subsidies such unexampled wealth
had flowed into the coffers of Austria, and--those of the lords of the
exchequer! For, up to the times of which we write, it was a fundamental
doctrine of court faith, that the task of inquiry into the accounts of
the imperial treasury was one far beneath the dignity of the sovereign.
The lords of the exchequer, therefore, were responsible to nobody for
their administration of the funds arising from the Dutch and English
subsidies.
It was natural, then, that the majority of the Aulic Council should vote
for the old alliance. While they argued and voted, Kaunitz, the least
important personage of them all, sat perfectly unconcerned, paying not
the slightest attention to the wise deductions of his colleagues. He
seemed much occupied in straightening loose papers, mending his pen, and
removing with his finger-tips the tiny, specks that flecked the lustre
of his velvet coat. Once, while Bartenstein was delivering his long
address, Kaunitz carried his indifference so far as to draw out his
repeater (on which was painted a portrait of La Pompadour, set in
diamonds) and strike the hour! The musical ring of the little bell
sounded a fairy accompaniment to the deep and earnest tones of
Bartenstein's voice; while Kaunitz, seeming to hear nothing else, held
the watch up to his ear and counted its strokes. [Footnote: Vide
Kormayr, "Austrian Plutarch," vol. xii., p.352.] The empress, who was
accustomed to visit the least manifestation of such inattention on the
part of her councillors with open censure--the empress, so observant of
form, and so exacting of its observance in others--seemed singularly
indulgent to-day; for while Kaunitz was listening to the music of his
watch, his imperial mistress looked on with half a smile. At last, when
the fifth orator had spoken, and it became the turn of Kaunitz to vote,
Maria Theresa turned her flashing eyes upon him with a glance of anxious
and appealing expectation.
As her look met his, how had all coldness and unconcern vanished from
his face! How glowed his eyes with the lustre of great and world-swaying
thoughts, as, rising from his chair, he returned the gaze of his
sovereign with one that seemed to crave forbearance!
But Kaunitz had almost preternatural control over his emotions, and he
recovered himself at once.
"I cannot vote for a renewal of our worn-out alliance with the maritime
powers," said he, in a clear and determined voice. As he uttered these
words, looks of astonishment and disapprobation were, visible upon the
faces of his colleagues. The lord chancellor contented himself with a
contemptuous shrug and a supercilious smile. Kaunitz perceived it, and
met both shrug and smile with undisturbed composure, while calmly and
slowly he repeated his offending words. For a moment he paused, as if to
give time to his hearers to test the flavor of his new and startling
language. Then, firm and collected, he went on:
"Our alliance with England and Holland has long been a yoke and a
humiliation to Austria. If, in its earlier days, this alliance ever
afforded us protection, dearly have we paid for that protection, and we
have been forced to buy it with fearful sacrifices to our national
pride. Never for one moment have these two powers allowed us to forget
that we have been dependent upon their bounty for money and defence.
Jealous of the growing power and influence of Austria, before whose
youthful and vigorous career lies the glory of future greatness--jealous
of our increasing wealth--jealous of the splendor of Maria Theresa's
reign--these powers, whose faded laurels are buried in the grave of the
past, have compassed sea and land to stop the flow of our prosperity,
and sting the pride of our nationality. With their tyrannical commercial
edicts, they have dealt injury to friends as well as foes. The closing
of the Scheldt and Rhine, the Barrier treaty, and all the other
restrictions upon trade devised by those crafty English to damage the
traffic of other nations, all these compacts have been made as binding
upon Austria as upon every other European power. Unmindful of their
alliance with us, the maritime powers have closed their ports against
our ships; and while affecting to watch the Netherlands in our behalf,
they have been nothing better than spies, seeking to discover whether
our flag transcended in the least the limits of our own blockaded
frontiers; and whether to any but to themselves accrued the profits of
trade with the Baltic and North Seas. Vraiment, such friendship lies
heavily upon us, and its weight feels almost like that of enmity. At
Aix-la-Chapelle I had to remind the English ambassador that his
unknightly and arrogant bearing toward Austria was unseemly both to the
sex and majesty of Austria's empress. And our august sovereign herself,
not long since, saw fit to reprove the insolence of this same British
envoy, who in her very presence spoke of the Netherlands as though they
had been a boon to Austria from England's clemency. Incensed at the tone
of this representative of our friends, the empress exclaimed: 'Am I not
ruler in the Netherlands as well as in Vienna? Do I hold my right of
empire from England and Holland?'" [Footnote: Coxe, "History of the
House of Austria," vol. v., p. 51.]
"Yes," interrupted Maria Theresa, impetuously, "yes, it is true. The
arrogance of these royal traders has provoked me beyond all bearing. I
will no longer permit them to insinuate of my own imperial rights that I
hold them as favors from the hand of any earthly power. It chafes the
pride of an empress-queen to be CALLED a friend and TREATED as a vassal;
and I intend that these proud allies shall feel that I resent their
affronts!"
It was wonderful to see the effect of these impassioned words upon the
auditors of the empress. They quaked as they thought how they had voted,
and their awe-stricken faces were pallid with fright. Uhlefeld and
Bartenstein exchanged glances of amazement and dismay; while the other
nobles, like adroit courtiers, fixed their looks, with awakening
admiration, upon Kaunitz, in whom their experienced eyes were just
discovering the rising luminary of a new political firmament.
He, meanwhile, had inclined his head and smiled when the empress had
interrupted him. She ceased, and after a short pause, Kaunitz resumed,
with unaltered equanimity: "Your majesty has been graciously pleased to
testify, in your own sovereign person, to the tyranny of our two
northern allies. It remains, therefore, to speak of Sardinia
alone--Sardinia, who HELD LOMBARDY IN CHECK. No sooner had Victor
Amadeus put his royal signature to the treaty made by him with Austria,
than he turned to his confidants and said (loud enough for us to hear
him in Vienna): 'Lombardy is mine. I will take it, but I shall eat it
up, leaf by leaf, like an artichoke.' And methinks his majesty of
Sardinia has proved himself to be a good trencherman. He has already
swallowed several leaves of his artichoke, in that he is master of
several of the fairest provinces of Lombardy. It is true that this royal
gourmand has laid aside his crown; and that in his place reigns Victor
Emanuel, of whom Lord Chesterfield, in a burst of enthusiasm, has said,
that `he never did and never will commit an act of injustice.' Concede
that Victor Emanuel is the soul of honor; still," added Kaunitz with a
shake of the head, and an incredulous smile "still--the Italian princes
are abominable geographers--and they are inordinately fond of
artichokes. [Footnote: Kaunitz's own words. Kotmayr, "Austrian
Plutarch," vol. xi.] Now their fondness for this vegetable is as
dangerous to Austria as the too loving grasp of her northern allies, who
with their friendly hands not only close their ports against us, but lay
the weight of their favors so heavily upon our heads as to force us
down upon our knees before them. What have we from England and Holland
but their subsidies? And Austria can now afford to relinquish them--
Austria is rich, powerful, prosperous enough to be allowed to proffer
her friendship where it will be honorably returned. Austria, then, must
be freed from her oppressive alliance with the maritime powers. She has
youth and vitality enough to shake off this bondage, and strike for the
new path which shall lead her to greatness and glory. There is a moral
and intangible greatness, of whose existence these trading Englishmen
have no conception, but which the refined and elevated people of France
are fully competent to appreciate. France extends to us her hand, and
offers us alliance on terms of equality. Cooperating with France, we
shall defy the enmity of all Europe. With our two-edged sword we shall
turn the scales of future European strife, and make peace or war for
other nations. France, too, is our natural ally, for she is our
neighbor. And she is more than this, for she is our ally by the sacred
unity of one faith. The Holy Father at Rome, who blesses the arms of
Austria, will no longer look sorrowfully upon Austria's league with
heresy. When apostolic France and we are one, the blessings of the
Church will descend upon our alliance. Religion, therefore, as well as
honest statesmanship, call for the treaty with France."
"And I," cried Maria Theresa, rising quickly from her seat, her eyes
glowing with enthusiastic fire, "I vote joyfully with Count Kaunitz. I,
too, vote for alliance with France. The count has spoken as it stirs my
heart to hear an Austrian speak. He loves his fatherland, and in his
devotion he casts far from him all thought of worldly profit or
advancement. I tender him my warmest thanks, and I will take his words
to heart."
Overcome with the excitement of the moment, the empress reached her hand
to Kaunitz, who eagerly seized and pressed it to his lips.
Count Uhlefeld watched this extraordinary scene with astonishment and
consternation. Bartenstein, so long the favorite minister of Maria
Theresa, was deadly pale, and his lips were compressed as though he were
trying to suppress a burst of rage. Harrach, Colloredo, and Khevenhuller
hung their heads, while they turned over in their little minds how best
to curry favor with the new minister.
The empress saw nothing of the dismayed faces around her. Her soul was
filled with high emotions, and her countenance beamed gloriously with
the fervor of her boundless patriotism.
"Everything for Austria! My heart, my soul, my life, all are for my
fatherland," said Maria Theresa, with her beautiful eyes raised to
heaven. "And now, my lords," added she, after a pause, "I must retire,
to beg light and counsel from the Almighty. I have learned your
different views on the great question of this day; and when Heaven shall
have taught me what to do, I will decide."
She waved her hand in parting salutation, and with her loftiest imperial
bearing left the room.
Until the doors were closed, the lords of the council remained standing
with inclined heads. Then they looked from one to another with faces of
wonder and inquiry. Kaunitz alone seemed unembarrassed; and gathering up
his papers with as much unconcern as if nothing had happened, he
slightly bent his head and left the room.
Never before had any member of the Aulic Council dared to leave that
room until the lord chancellor had given the signal of departure. It was
a case of unparalleled violation of court etiquette. Count Uhlefeld was
aghast, and Bartenstein seemed crushed. Without exchanging a word, the
two friends rose, and with eyes cast down, and faces pale with the
anguish of that hour, together they left the council-chamber toward
which they had repaired with hearts and bearing so triumphant.
Colloredo and Harrach followed silently to the anteroom, and bowed
deferentially as their late masters passed through. But no sooner had
the door closed, than the two courtiers exchanged malicious smiles.
"Fallen favorites," laughed Harrach. "Quenched lights which yesterday
shone like suns, and to-day are burnt to ashes! There is to be a soiree
to-night at Bartenstein's. For the first time in eleven years I shall
stay away from Bartenstein's soirees."
"And I," replied Colloredo, laughing, "had invited Ulhlefeld for
to-morrow. But, as the entertainment was all in his honor, I shall be
taken with a sudden indisposition, and countermand my supper."
"That will be a most summary proceeding," said Harrach. "I see that you
believe the sun of Uhlefeld and Bartenstein has set forever."
"I am convinced of it. They have their death-blow."
"And the rising sun? You think it will be called Kaunitz?"
"Will be? It is called Kaunitz: so take my advice. Kaunitz I know, is
not a man to be bribed; but he has two weaknesses--women and horses.
You are, for the present, the favorite of La Fortina; and yesterday you
won from Count Esterhazy an Arabian, which Kaunitz says is the finest
horse in Vienna. If I were you, I would present to him both my mistress
and my horse. Who knows but what these courtesies may induce him to
adopt you as a PROTEGE?"
CHAPTER II.
THE LETTER.
From her cabinet council the empress passed at once to her private
apartments. When business was over for the, day, she loved to cast the
cares of sovereignty behind, and become a woman--chatting with her
ladies of honor over the "on dits" of the court and city. During the
hours devoted to her toilet, Maria Theresa gave herself up unreservedly
to enjoyment. But she was so impetuous, that her ladies of honor were
never quite secure that some little annoyance would not ruffle the
serenity of her temper. The young girl whose duty it was to read aloud
to the empress and dress her hair, used to declare that she would sooner
wade through three hours' worth of Latin dispatches from Hungary, than
spend one half hour as imperial hair-dresser.
But today, as she entered her dressing-room, the eyes of the empress
beamed with pleasure, and her mouth was wreathed with sunny smiles. The
little hair-dresser was delighted, and with a responsive smile took her
place, and prepared for her important duties. Maria Theresa glided into
the chair, and with her own hands began to unfasten the golden net that
confined her hair. She then leaned forward, and, with a pleased
expression, contemplated the beautiful face that looked out from the
silver-framed Venetian glass before which she sat.
"Make me very charming today, Charlotte," said she. [Footnote: Charlotte
von Hieronymus was the mother of Caroline Pichler.]
"Your majesty needs no help from me to look charming," said the gentle
voice of the little tire-woman. "No hair-dresser had lent you her aid on
that day when your Magyar nobles swore to die for you, and yet the world
says that never were eyes of loyal subjects dazzled by such beauty and
such grace."
"Ah, yes, child, but that was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years! How
many cares have lain upon my heart since that day! If my face is
wrinkled and my hair grown gray, I may thank that hateful King of
Prussia, for he is the cause of it all."
"If he has no greater sins to repent of than those two," replied
Charlotte, with an admiring smile, "he may sleep soundly. Your majesty's
forehead is unruffled by a wrinkle, and your hair is as glossy and as
brown as ever it was."
Brighter still was the smile of the empress, as she turned quickly round
and exclaimed: "Then you think I have still beauty enough to please the
emperor? If you do, make good use of it today, for I have something of
importance to ask of him, and I long to find favor in his eyes. To work,
then, Charlotte, and be quick, for--"
At that moment, the silken hangings before the door of the dressing-room
were drawn hastily aside, and the Countess Fuchs stepped forward.
"Ah, countess," continued the empress, "you are just in time for a
cabinet toilet council."
But the lady of honor showed no disposition to respond to the gay
greeting of her sovereign. With stiffest Spanish ceremony, she
courtesied deeply. "Pardon me, your majesty, if I interrupt you," said
she, solemnly, "but I have something to communicate to yourself alone."
"Oh, countess!" exclaimed Maria Theresa, anxiously, "you look as if you
bare me sad tidings. But speak out-Charlotte knows as many state secrets
as you do; you need not be reserved before her."
"Pardon me," again replied the ceremonious lady, with another deep
courtesy, "I bring no news of state--I must speak with your majesty
alone."'
The eyes of the empress dilated with fear. "No state secret," murmured
she; "oh, what can it be, then? Go, Charlotte, go, child, and remain
until I recall you."
The door closed behind the tired woman, and the empress cried out: "Now
we are alone, be quick, and speak out what you have to say. You have
come to give me pain, I feel it."
"Your majesty ordered me, some time since," began the countess in her
low, unsympathizing tones, "to watch the imperial household, so that
nothing might transpire within it that came not to the knowledge of your
majesty. I have lately watched the movements of the emperor's valet."
"Ah!" cried the empress, clasping her hands convulsively together, "you
watched him, and"
"Yes, your majesty, I watched him, and I was informed this morning that
he had left the emperor's apartments with a sealed note in his hands,
and had gone into the city."
"No more just yet," said the empress, with trembling lip.
"Give me air! I cannot breathe." With wild emotion she tore open her
velvet bodice, and heaving a deep sigh, signed to the countess to go on.
"My spy awaited Gaspardi's return, and stopped him. He was forbidden, in
the name of your majesty, to go farther. "
"Go on."
"He was brought to me, your majesty, and now awaits your orders."
"So that if there is an answer to the note, he has it," said Maria
Theresa, sharply. The countess bowed.
"Where is he?"
"In the antechamber, your majesty."
The empress bounded from her seat, and walked across the room. Her face
was flushed with anger, and she trembled in every limb. She seemed
undecided what to do; but at last she stopped suddenly, and blushing
deeply, without looking at the countess, she said in a low voice, "Bring
him hither."
The countess disappeared and returned, followed by Gaspardi. Maria
Theresa strode impetuously forward, and bent her threatening eyes upon
the valet. But the shrewd Italian knew better than to meet the lightning
glance of an angry empress. With downcast looks and reverential
obeisance he awaited her commands. "Look at me, Gaspardi," said she, in
tones that sounded in the valet's ears like distant thunder. "Answer my
questions, sir"
Gaspardi raised his eyes.
"To whom was the note addressed that was given you by the emperor this
morning?"
"Your majesty, I did not presume to look at it," replied Gaspardi,
quietly. "His imperial majesty was pleased to tell me where to take it,
and that sufficed me."
"And whither did you take it?"
"Imperial majesty, I have forgotten the house."
"What street, then?"
"Pardon me, imperial majesty; these dreadful German names are too hard
for my Italian tongue. As soon as I had obeyed his majesty's commands, I
forgot the name of the street."
"So that you are resolved not to tell me where you went with the
emperor's note?"
"Indeed, imperial majesty, I have totally forgotten."
The empress looked as if she longed to annihilate a menial who defied
her so successfully.
"I see," exclaimed she, "that you are crafty and deceitful, but you
shall not escape me. I command you, as your sovereign, to give up the
note you bear about you for the emperor. I myself will deliver it to his
majesty."
Gaspardi gave a start, and unconsciously his hand sought the place where
the note was concealed. He turned very pale and stammered, "Imperial
majesty, I have no letter for the emperor."
"You have it there!" thundered the infuriated empress, as with
threatening hand she pointed to the valet's breast. "Deliver it at once,
or I will call my lackeys to search you."
"Your majesty forces me then to betray my lord and emperor?" asked
Gaspardi, trembling.
"You serve him more faithfully by relinquishing the letter than by
retaining it," returned Maria Theresa, hastily. "Once more I command you
to give it up."
Gaspardi heaved a sigh of anguish, and looked imploringly at the
empress. But in the trembling lips, the flashing eyes, the flushed
cheeks that met his entreating glance, he saw no symptoms of relenting,
and he dared the strife no longer. His hand shook as he drew forth the
letter.
The empress uttered a cry, and with the fury of a lioness snatched the
paper and crushed it in her hand.
"Your majesty," whispered the countess, "dismiss the valet before
he learns too much. He might--"
"Woe to him if he breathes a word to one human being!" cried the
empress, with menacing gesture. "Woe to him if he dare breathe one word
to his master!"
"Heaven forbid that I should betray the secrets of my sovereign!" cried
the affrighted Gaspardi. "But, imperial majesty, what am I to say to my
lord the emperor?"
"You will tell your lord that you brought no answer, and it will not be
the first lie with which you have befooled his imperial ears," replied
Maria Theresa coutemptuously, while she waved her hand as a signal of
dismissal. The unhappy Mercury retired, and as he disappeared, the
pent-up anguish of the empress burst forth.
"Ah, Margaretta," cried she, in accents of wildest grief, "what an
unfortunate woman I am! In all my life I have loved but one man! My
heart, my soul, my every thought are his, and he robs me, the mother of
his children, of his love, and bestows it upon another!"
"Perhaps the inconstancy is but momentary," replied the countess, who
burned to know the contents of the letter. "Perhaps there is no
inconstancy at all. This may be nothing but an effort on the part of
some frivolous coquette to draw our handsome emperor within the net of
her guilty attractions. The note would show--" The empress scarcely
heeded the words of her confidante. She had opened her hand, and was
gazing upon the crumpled paper that held her husband's secret.
"Oh!" murmured she, plaintively. "Oh, it seems to me that a thousand
daggers have sprung from this little paper, to make my heart's blood
flow. Who is the foolhardy woman that would entice my husband from his
loyalty to me? Woe, woe to her when I shall have learned her name! And I
will learn it!" cried the unhappy wife. "I myself will take this letter
to the emperor, and he shall open it in my presence. I will have
justice! Adultery is a fearful crime, and fearful shall be its
punishment in my realms. The name! the name! Oh, that I knew the name of
the execrable woman who has dared to lift her treasonable eyes toward my
husband!"
"Nothing is easier than to learn it, your majesty," whispered the
countess, "squat like a toad, close to the ear of Eve"--"the letter will
reveal it."
The empress frowned. Oh, for Ithuriel then!
"Dost mean that I shall open a letter which was never intended to be
read by me?"
The countess pointed to the paper. "Your majesty has already broken the
seal. You crushed it unintentionally. There remains but to unfold the
paper, and every thing is explained. I will wage that it comes from the
beautiful dancer Riccardo, whom the emperor admired so much last night
in the ballet, and whom he declared to be the most bewitching creature
he had ever seen."
The eyes of the empress dropped burning tears, and, covering her face
with her hands, she sobbed aloud. Then she seemed ashamed of her
emotion, and raised her beautiful head again.
"It is contemptible so to mourn for one who is faithless," said she. "It
is for me to judge and to punish, and that will I! It is my duty as
ruler of Austria to bring crime to light. I will soon learn who it is
that dares to exchange letters with the husband of the reigning empress.
And after all, the speediest, the simplest way to do this, lies before
me. I must open the letter, for justice sake; but I swear that I will
not read one word contained within its stages. I will see the name of
the writer alone; and then I can be sure that curiosity and personal
interest have not prompted me."
And so Maria Theresa silenced her scruples, and persuaded herself that
she was compelled to do as the tempter had suggested. She tore open the
note; but true to her self-imposed vow, she paused on the threshold of
dishonor, and read nothing but the writer's name.
"Riccardo!" cried she, wildly. "You were right, Margaretta: an intrigue
with the Riccardo. The emperor has written to her--the emperor, my
husband!"
She folded the fatal letter, and oh, how her white hands trembled as she
laid it upon the table I and how deadly pale were the cheeks that had
flushed with anger when Gaspardi had been by!
The countess was not deceived by this phase of the empress's grief. She
knew that the storm would burst, and she thought it better to divide its
wrath. She stepped lightly out to call the confessor of her victim.
Maria Theresa was unconscious of being alone. She stood before the table
staring at the letter. Gradually her paleness vanished, and the hue of
anger once more deepened on her cheeks. Her eyes, which had just been
drooping with tears, flamed again with indignation; and her expanded
nostrils, her twitching mouth, and her heaving chest, betrayed the fury
of the storm that was raging within.
"Oh, I will trample her under foot!" muttered she between her teeth,
while she raised her hand as if she would fain have dealt a
leach-stroke. "I will prove to the court--to the empire--to the world,
how Maria Theresa hates vice, and how she punishes crime, without
respect of persons. Both criminals shall feel the lash of justice. If my
woman's heart break, the empress shall do her duty. It shall not be said
that lust holds its revels in Vienna, as at the obscene courts of
Versailles and St. Petersburg. No! Nor shall the libertines of Vienna
point to the Austrian emperor as their model, nor shall their weeping
wives be taunted with reports of the indulgence of the Austrian empress.
Morality and decorum shall prevail in Vienna. The fire of my royal
vengeance shall consume that bold harlot, and then--then for the
emperor!"
"Your majesty will never consent to bring disgrace upon the father of
your imperial children," said a gentle voice close by, and, turning at
the sound, the empress beheld her confessor.
She advanced hastily toward Father Porhammer. "How!" exclaimed she
angrily, "how!--you venture to plead for the emperor? You come hither to
stay the hand of justice?"
"I do indeed," replied the father, "for to-day at least, her hand, if
uplifted against the emperor, must recoil upon the empress. The honor of
my august sovereigns cannot be divided. Your majesty must throw the
shield of your love over the fault of your imperial husband."
"Oh, I cannot! I cannot suffer this mortal blow in silence," sobbed the
empress.
"Nay," said the father, smiling, "the wife may be severe, though the
empress be clement."
"But she, father--must she also be pardoned? she who has enticed my
husband from his conjugal faith?"
"As for the Riccardo," replied Father Porhammer, "I have heard that she
is a sinful woman, whose beauty has led many men astray. If your majesty
deem her dangerous, she can be made to leave Vienna; but let retribution
go no further."
"Well, be it so," sighed the empress, whose heart was already softening.
"You are right, reverend father, but La Riccardo shall leave Vienna
forever."
So saying, she hastened to her escritoire, and wrote and signed the
order for the banishment of the danseuse.
"There." cried she, handing the order to the priest. "I pray you, dear
father, remit this to Count Bartenstein, and let him see that she goes
hence this very day. And when I shall have laid this evil spirit,
perchance I may find peace once more. But, no, no!" continued she, her
eyes filling with tears; "when she has gone, some other enchantress will
come in her place to charm my husband's love away. Oh, father, if
chastity is not in the heart, sin will always find entrance there."
"Yes, your majesty; and therefore should the portals of the heart be
ever guarded against the enemy. As watchmen are appointed to guard the
property, so are the servants of God sent on earth to extend the
protection of Heaven to the hearts of your people."
"And why may I not aid them in their holy labors?" exclaimed the
empress, glowing suddenly with a new interest. "Why may I not appoint a
committee of good and wise men to watch over the morals of my subjects,
and to warn them from temptation, ere it has time to become sin? Come,
father, you must aid me in this good work. Help me to be the earthly, as
the Blessed Virgin is the heavenly mother of the Austrian people. Sketch
me some plan whereby I may organize my scheme. I feel sure that your
suggestions will be dictated by that Heaven to which you have devoted
your whole life."
"May the spirit of counsel and the spirit of wisdom enlighten my
understanding," said the father, with solemn fervor, "that I may
worthily accomplish the mission with which my empress has intrusted me!"
"But, your majesty," whispered the Countess Fuchs, "in your magnanimous
projects for your people, you are losing sight of yourself. The Riccardo
has not yet been banished; and the emperor, seeing that no answer is
coming to his note, may seek an interview: Who can guess the
consequences of a meeting?"
The empress shivered, as the countess probed the wounds herself had made
in that poor, jealous heart.
"True, true," returned she, in an unsteady voice. "Go, father, and begin
my work of reform, by casting out that wicked woman from among the
unhappy wives of Vienna. I myself will announce her departure to the
emperor. And now, dear friends, leave me. You, father, to Count
Bartenstein. Countess, recall Charlotte, and send me my tire-women. Let
the princes and princesses be regally attired to-day. I will meet the
emperor in their midst."
The confessor bowed and retired, and the countess opening the door of
the inner dressing-room, beckoned to Charlotte, who, in the recess of a
deep bay-window, sat wearily awaiting the summons to return.
CHAPTER III.
THE TOILET OF THE EMPRESS.
SO dark and gloomy was the face of the empress, that poor Charlotte's
heart misgave her, as with a suppressed sigh she resumed her place, and
once more took down the rich masses of her sovereign lady's hair. Maria
Theresa looked sternly at the reflection of her little maid of honor's
face in the glass. She saw how Charlotte's hands trembled and this
increased her ill-humor. Again she raised her eyes to her own image, and
saw plainly that anger was unbecoming to her. The flush on her face was
not rosy, but purple; and the scowl upon her brow was fast deepening
into a wrinkle. Her bosom heaved with a heavy, heavy sigh.
"Ah," thought she, "if I am ever again to find favor in his eyes, I must
always smile; for smiles are the last glowing tints of beauty's sunset.
And yet, how can I smile, when my heart is breaking? He said that the
Riccardo was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Alas! I remember the
day when he knelt at my feet, and spoke thus of me. Oh, my Franz! Am I
indeed old, and no longer lovable?"
In her anxiety to scrutinize her own features, the empress bent suddenly
forward, and the heavy mass of puffs and braids that formed the coiffure
she had selected for the day, gave way. She felt the sharp points of the
hair-pins in her head, and, miserable and nervous as she was, they
seemed to wound her cruelly. Starting from her chair, she poured forth a
torrent of reproaches upon Charlotte's head, who, pale and trembling
more than ever, repaired the damage, and placed among the braids a
bouquet of white roses. These white roses deepened the unbecoming
redness of the empress's face. She perceived this at once, and losing
all self-control, tore the flowers from her hair, and dashed them on the
floor.
"You are all leagued against me." cried she, indignantly. "You are
trying your best to disfigure me, and to make me look old before my
time. Who ever saw such a ridiculous structure as this headdress, that
makes me look like a perambulating castle on a chessboard? Come, another
coiffure, and let it not be such a ridiculous one as this."
Charlotte, of course, did not remind her mistress that the coiffure and
roses had been her own selection. She had nothing to do but to obey in
silence, and begin her work again.
At last the painful task was at an end. The empress looked keenly at
herself in the glass, and convinced that she really looked well, she
called imperatively for her tire-women. In came the procession, bearing
pooped-skirt rich-embroidered train, golden-flowered petticoat, and
bodice flashing with diamonds. But the empress, usually so affable at
her toilet, surveyed both maids and apparel with gloomy indifference. In
moody silence she reached out her feet, while her slippers were
exchanged for high-heeled shoes. Not a look had she to bestow upon the
magnificent dress which enhanced a thousandfold her mature beauty.
Without a word she dismissed the maids of honor, all except Charlotte,
whose crowning labor it was to give the last touch to the imperial head
when the rest of the toilet had been declared to be complete.
Again Maria Theresa stood before that high Venetian glass, and certainly
it did give back the image of a regal beauty. For a while she examined
her costume from head to foot; and at last---at last, her beautiful blue
eyes beamed bright with satisfaction, and a smile rippled the corners of
her mouth.
"No," said she, aloud. "No, it is not so. I am neither old nor ugly. The
light of youth has not yet fled from my brow. My beauty's sun has not
yet set forever. My Franz will love me still; and however charming
younger women may be, he will remember the beloved of his boyhood, and
we will yet be happy in reciprocal affection, come what may to us as
emperor and empress. I do not believe that he said he had never seen so
lovely a woman as Riccardo. Poor, dear Franz! He has a tedious life as
husband of the reigning sovereign. From sheer ennui he sometimes wanders
from his wife's heart, but oh! he must, he must return to me; for if I
were to lose him, earthly splendor would be valueless to me forever!"
Charlotte, who stood behind her mistress with the comb in her hand, was
dismayed at all that she heard; and the plaintive tones of this
magnificent empress, at whose feet lay a world of might, touched her
heart's core. But she sickened as she thought that her presence had been
unheeded, and that the empress had fancied herself alone, while the
secrets of her heart were thus struggling into words. The ample train
completely screened little Charlotte from view, and a deadly paleness
overspread her countenance as she awaited discovery.
Suddenly the empress turned, and putting her hand tenderly on
Charlotte's head, she said, in a voice of indescribable melancholy "Be
warned, Charlotte, and if you marry, never marry a man who has nothing
to do. Men will grow inconstant from sheer ennui." [Footnote: Maria
Theresa's words. See Caroline Pichler. "Memoirs of My Life."]
"I never expect to marry, beloved mistress," said the young girl, deeply
touched by this confidence. "I wish to live and die in your majesty's
service."
"Do you? And can you bear for a lifetime with my impatience, dear
child?" asked the empress, kissing the little devotee on the forehead.
"You know now, my little Charlotte, why I have been so unkind to-day;
you know that my heart was bleeding with such anguish, that had I not
broken out in anger, I must have stifled with agony. You have seen into
the depths of my heart, and why should I not confide in you, who know
every secret of my state-council? No one suspects what misery lies under
the regal mantle. And I care not to exhibit myself to the world's pity.
When Maria Theresa weeps, let her God and those who love her be the
witnesses of her sorrow. Go, now, good little Charlotte, and forget
every thing except your sovereign's love for you. Tell the governess of
the Archduke Ferdinand to bring him hither. Let the other imperial
children await me in my reception-room; and tell the page in the
anteroom to announce to his majesty that I request the honor of a visit
from him."
Charlotte, once more happy, left the room, her heart filled with joy for
herself, and gentle sorrow for her sovereign.
Meanwhile the empress thought over the coming interview. "I will try to
recall him to me by love," murmured she, softly. "I will not reproach
him, and although as his empress I have a double claim upon his loyalty,
I will not appeal to any thing but his own dear heart; and when he hears
how he has made his poor Theresa suffer, I know--"
Here her voice failed her, and tears filled her eyes. But she dashed
them quickly away, for steps approached, and the governess entered, with
the infant prince in her arms.
CHAPTER IV.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
A half an hour later, the princes and princesses of Austria were all
assembled in their mother's private parlor. They were a beautiful group.
The empress, in their midst, held little Ferdinand in her arms.
Close-peeping through the folds of their mother's rich dress, were three
other little ones; and a few steps farther were the Archduchesses
Christine and Amelia. Near the open harpsichord stood the graceful form
of the empress's eldest child, the Princess Elizabeth, who now and then
ran her fingers lightly over the instrument, while she awaited the
arrival of her father.
In the pride of her maternity and beauty stood the empress-queen; but
her heart throbbed painfully, though she smiled upon her children.
The page announced the coming of the emperor, and then left the room.
The empress made a sign to her eldest daughter, who seated herself
before the harpsichord. The door opened, and on the threshold appeared
the tall, elegant form of the Emperor Francis. Elizabeth began a
brilliant "Welcome," and all the young voices joined in one loud chorus,
"Long live our emperor, our sovereign, and our father!" sang the
children; but clear above them all were heard the sonorous tones of the
mother, exclaiming in the fulness of her love, "Long live my emperor,
and my husband!" As if every tender chord of Maria Theresa's heart had
been struck, she broke forth into one of Metastasio's most passionate
songs; while Elizabeth, catching the inspiration, accompanied her mother
with sweetest melody. The empress, her little babe in her arms, was
wrapped up in the ecstasy of the moment. Never had she looked more
enchanting than she did as she ceased, and gave one look of love to her
admiring husband.
The emperor contemplated for a moment the lovely group before him, and
then, full of emotion, came forward, and bending over his wife, he
kissed the round white arm that held the baby, and whispered to the
mother a few words of rapture at her surpassing beauty.
"But tell me, gracious empress," said he, aloud, "to what am I indebted
for this charming surprise?"
The eyes of the empress shot fire, but instead of a reply, she bent down
to the little Archduchess Josepha, who was just old enough to lisp her
father's name, and said:
"Josepha, tell the emperor what festival we celebrate to-day" the little
one, turning to her father, said, "To-day is imperial mamma's
wedding-day."
"Our wedding-day!" murmured the emperor, "and I could forget it!"
"Oh, no! my dear husband," said the empress, "I am sure that you cannot
have forgotten this joyous anniversary. Its remembrance is burned in
your heart, and the presence of your children here, my trust, has
awakened that remembrance, and carried you back with me to the happy,
happy days of our early love."
The voice of the wife was almost tearful, as she spoke those tender
words; and the emperor, touched and humbled at the thought of his own
oversight, sought to change the subject. "But why," asked he, looking
around, "why, if all our other children are here to greet their father,
is Joseph absent from this happy family gathering?"
"He has been disobedient and obstinate again," said the empress, with a
shrug of her shoulders, "and his preceptor, to punish him, kept him
away"
The emperor walked to the door. "Surely," exclaimed he, "on such a day
as this, when all my dear children are around me, my son and the future
emperor should be the first to bid me welcome."
"Stay, my husband," cried the empress, who had no intention of allowing
the emperor to escape so easily from his embarrassment.
"You must be content to remain with us, without the future emperor of
Germany, whose reign, I hope I may be allowed to pray, is yet for some
years postponed. Or is this a happy device of the future emperor's
father to remind me, on my wedding-day, that I am growing old enough to
begin to think of the day of my decease?"
The emperor was perfectly amazed. Although he was accustomed to such
outbursts on the part of his wife, he searched vainly in his heart for
the cause of her intense bitterness to-day. He looked his astonishment;
and the empress, mindful of her resolve not to reproach him, tried her
best to smile. The emperor shook his head thoughtfully as he watched her
face, and said half aloud: "All is not right with thee, Theresa; thou
smilest like a lioness, not like a woman."
"Very well, then," said she sharply, "the lioness has called you to look
upon her whelps. One day they will be lions and lionesses too, and in
that day they will avenge the injuries of their mother."
The empress, as she spoke, felt that her smothered jealousy was bursting
forth. She hastily dismissed her children, and going herself to the
door, she called for the governess of the baby, and almost threw him in
her arms.
"I foresee the coming of a storm," thought the emperor, as the door
being closed, Maria Theresa came quickly back, and stood before him.
"And is it indeed true," said she bitterly, "that you had forgotten your
wedding-day? Not a throb of your heart to remind you of the past!"
"My memory does not cling to dates, Theresa," replied the emperor.
"What, if to-day be accidentally the anniversary of our marriage? With
every beating of my heart, I celebrate the hour itself, when I won the
proud and beautiful heiress of Austria; and when I remember that she
deigned to love ME, the poor Archduke of Lorraine, my happiness
overwhelms me. Come, then, my beautiful, my beloved Theresa; come to my
heart, that I may thank you for all the blessings that I owe to your
love. See, dearest, we are alone; let us forget royalty for to-day, and
be happy together in all the fulness of mutual confidence and
affection."
So saying, he would have pressed her to his heart, but the empress drew
coldly back, and turned deadly pale. This unembarrassed and confident
tenderness irritated her beyond expression. That her faithless spouse
should, without the slightest remorse, act the part of the devoted
lover, outraged her very sense of decency.
"Really, my husband, it becomes you well to prate of confidence and
affection, who have ceased to think of your own wife, and have eyes
alone for the wife of another!"
"Again jealous?" sighed the emperor wearily. "Will you never cease to
cloud our domestic sky by these absurd and groundless suspicions?"
"Groundless!" cried the empress, tearing the letter violently from her
bosom. "With this proof of your guilt confronting you, you will not dare
to say that I am jealous without cause!"
"Allow me to inquire of your majesty, what this letter is to prove?"
"It proves that to-day you have written a letter to a woman, of whom
yesterday you said that she was the most beautiful woman in the world."
"I have no recollection of saying such a thing of any woman; and I am
surprised that your majesty should encourage your attendants to repeat
such contemptible tales," replied the emperor, with some bitterness.
"Were I like you, the reigning sovereign of a great empire, I should
really find no time to indulge in gossip and scandal."
"Your majesty will oblige me by refraining from any comment upon affairs
which do not concern you. I alone am reigning empress here, and it is
for my people to judge whether I do my duty to them; certainly not for
you, who, while I am with my ministers of state, employ your leisure
hours in writing love-letters to my subjects."
"I? I write a love-letter?" said the emperor.
"How dare you deny it? "cried the outraged empress. "Have you also
forgotten that this morning you sent Gaspardi out of the palace on an
errand?"
"No, I have not forgotten it," replied the emperor, with growing
astonishment. But Maria Theresa remarked that he looked confused, and
avoided her eye.
"You confess, then, that you sent the letter, and requested an answer?"
"Yes, but I received no answer," said the emperor, with embarrassment.
"There is your answer," thundered the enraged wife. "I took it from
Gaspardi myself."
"And is it possible, Theresa, that you have read a letter addressed to
me?" asked the emperor, in a severe voice.
The empress blushed, and her eyes sought the ground.
"No," said she, "I have not read it, Franz."
"But it is open," persisted he, taking it from his wife's hand. "Who,
then, has dared to break the seal of a letter addressed to me?"
And the emperor, usually so mild toward his wife, stood erect, with
stormy brow and eyes flashing with anger.
Maria Theresa in her turn was surprised. She looked earnestly at him,
and confessed inwardly that never had she seen him look so handsome; and
she felt an inexplicable and secret pleasure that her Franz, for once in
his life, was really angry with her.
"I broke the seal of the letter, but I swear to you that I did not read
one word of it," replied she. "I wished to see the signature only, and
that signature was enough to convince me that I had a faithless husband,
who outrages an empress by giving her a dancer as her rival!"
"The signature convinced you of this?" asked the emperor.
"It did!"
"And you read nothing else?"
"Nothing, I tell you."
"Then, madam," returned he, seriously, handing the letter back to her,
"do me the favor to read the whole of it. After breaking the seal, you
need not hesitate. I exact it of you."
The empress looked overwhelmed. "You exact of me to read a love-letter
addressed to you?"
"Certainly I do. You took it from my valet, you broke it open, and now I
beg you will be so good as to read it aloud, for I have not yet read it
myself."
"I will read it, then," cried the empress, scornfully. "And I promise
you that I shall not suppress a word of its contents."
"Read on," said the emperor, quietly.
The empress, with loud and angry tone, began:
"To his Gracious Majesty, the Emperor:
"Your majesty has honored me by asking my advice upon a subject of the
highest importance. But your majesty is much nearer the goal than I. It
is true that my gracious master, the count, led me to the vestibule of
the temple of science, but further I have not penetrated. What I know I
will joyfully impart to your majesty; and joyfully will I aid you in
your search after that which the whole world is seeking. I will come at
the appointed hour.
"Your majesty's loyal servant,
"RICCARDO."
"I do not understand a word," said the mystified empress.
"But I do," returned the emperor, with a meaning smile. "Since your
majesty has thrust yourself into the portals of my confidence, I must
e'en take you with me into the penetralia, and confess at once that I
have a passion, which has cost me many a sleepless night, and has
preoccupied my thoughts, even when I was by your majesty's side."
"But I see nothing of love or passion in this letter," replied Maria
Theresa, glancing once more at its singular contents.
"And yet it speaks of nothing else. I may just as well confess, too,
that in pursuit of the object of my love, I have spent three hundred
thousand guilders, and thrown away at least one hundred thousand
guilders' worth of diamonds."
"Your mistress must be either very coy or very grasping," said Maria
Theresa, almost convulsed with jealousy.
"She is very coy," said the emperor. "All my gold and diamonds have won
me not a smile--she will not yield up her secret. But I believe that she
has responded to the love of one happy mortal, Count Saint-Germain."
"Count Saint-Germain!" exclaimed the empress, amazed.
"Himself, your majesty. He is one of the fortunate few, to whom the coy
beauty has succumbed; and to take his place I would give millions. Now,
I heard yesterday that the confidant of the count was in Vienna; and,
hoping to learn something from him, I invited him hither. Signor
Riccardo--"
"SIGNOR Riccardo! Was this letter written by a man?"
"By the husband of the dancer."
"And your letter was addressed to him?"
"Even so, madame."
"Then this passion of which you speak is your old passion--alchemy."
"Yes, it is. I had promised you to give it up, but it proves stronger
than I. Not to annoy you, I have ever since worked secretly in my
laboratory. I have just conceived a new idea. I am about to try the
experiment of consolidating small diamonds into one large one, by means
of a burning-glass."
The empress answered this with a hearty, happy laugh, and went up to her
husband with outstretched hands.
"Franz," said she, "I am a simpleton; and all that has been for
tormenting in my heart is sheer nonsense. My crown does not prevent me
from being a silly woman. But, my heart's love, forgive my folly for the
sake of my affection."
Instead of responding to this appeal, the emperor stood perfectly still,
and gazed earnestly and seriously at his wife.
"Your jealousy," said he, after a moment's silence, "I freely forgive,
for it is a source of more misery to you than to me. But this jealousy
has attacked my honor as a man, and that I cannot forgive. As reigning
empress, I render you homage, and am content to occupy the second pace
in Austria's realms. I will not deny that such a rule is irksome to me,
for I, like you, have lofty dreams of ambition; and I could have wished
that, in giving me the TITLE, you had allowed me sometimes the
privileges of a co-regent. But I have seen that my co-regency irritated
and annoyed you; I have, therefore, renounced all thought of governing
empires. I have done this, not only because I love you, Theresa, but
because you are worthy by your intellect to govern your people without
my help. In the world, therefore, I am known as the husband of the
reigning empress; but at home I am lord of my own household, and here I
reign supreme. The emperor may be subordinate to his sovereign, but the
man will acknowledge no superior; and the dignity of his manhood shall
be respected, even by yourself."
"Heaven forbid that I should ever seek to wound it!" exclaimed Maria
Theresa, while she gazed with rapture upon her husband's noble
countenance, and thought that never had he looked so handsome as at this
moment, when, for the first time, he asserted his authority against
herself.
"You HAVE wounded it, your majesty," replied the emperor, with emphasis.
"You have dogged my steps with spies; you have suffered my character to
be discussed by your attendants. You have gone so far as to compromise
me with my own servants; forcing them to disobey me by virtue of your
rights as sovereign exercised in opposition to mine as your husband. I
gave Gaspardi orders to deliver Riccardo's note to me alone. I forbade
him to tell any one whither he went. YOU took my note from him by force,
and committed the grave wrong of compelling a servant, hitherto
faithful, to disobey and betray his master."
"I did indeed wrong you, dear Franz," said the empress, already
penitent. "In Gaspardi's presence I will ask your pardon for my
indelicate intrusion, and before him I will bear witness to his
fidelity. I alone was to blame. I promise you, too, to sin no more
against you, my beloved, for your love is the brightest jewel in my
crown. Without it, no happiness would grandeur give to me. Forgive me,
then, my own Franz--forgive your unhappy Theresa!"
As she spoke, she inclined her head toward her husband, and looked up to
him with such eyes of love, that he could but gaze enraptured upon her
bewitching beauty.
"Come, Franz, come!" said she tenderly; "surely, that wicked jest of
yours has amply revenged you. Be satisfied with having given me a
heartache for jealousy of the coy mistress upon whom you have wasted
your diamonds, and be magnanimous."
"And you, Theresa?--will you be magnanimous also? Will you leave my
servants and my letters alone, and set no more spies to dog my steps?"
"Indeed, Franz, I will never behave as I have done to-day, while we both
live. Now, if you will sign my pardon, I will tell you a piece of news
with which I intend shortly to surprise all Austria."
"Out with it, then, and if it is good news I sign the pardon," said the
emperor, with a smile.
"It is excellent news," cried the empress, "for it will give new life to
Austria. It will bring down revenge upon our enemies, and revenge upon
that wicked infidel who took my beautiful Silesia from me, and who,
boasting of his impiety, calls it enlightenment."
"Have you not yet forgiven Frederick for that little bit of Silesia that
he stole from you?" asked the emperor, laughing.
"No, I have not yet forgiven him, nor do I ever expect to do so. I owe
it to him, that, years ago, I came like a beggar before the Magyars to
whimper for help and defence. I have never yet forgotten the humiliation
of that day, Franz."
"And yet, Theresa, we must confess that Frederick is a great man, and it
were well for Austria if we were allies; for such an alliance would
secure the blessings of a stable peace to Europe."
"It cannot be," cried the empress. "There is no sympathy between Austria
and Prussia, and peace will never come to Europe until one succumbs to
the other. No dependence is to be placed upon alliances between
incongruous nations. In spite of our allies, the English, the Dutch, and
the Russians, the King of Prussia has robbed me of my province; and all
the help I have ever got from them was empty condolence. For this reason
I have sought for alliance with another power--a power which will
cordially unite with me in crushing that hateful infidel, to whom
nothing in life is sacred. This is the news that I promised you. Our
treaty with England and Holland is about to expire, and the new ally I
have found for Austria is France."
"An alliance with France is not a natural one for Austria, and can never
be enduring," exclaimed the emperor. [Footnote: The emperor's own words.
Coxe, "History of the House of Austria," vol. v., p. 67.]
"It WILL be enduring," cried Maria Theresa, proudly, "for it is equally
desired by both nations. Not only Louis XV., but the Marquise de
Pompadour is impatient to have the treaty signed."
"That means that Kaunitz has been flattering the marquise, and the
marquise, Kaunitz. But words are not treaties, and the marquise's
promises are of no consequence whatever."
"But, Franz, I tell you that we have gone further than words. Of this,
however, no one knows, except the King of France, myself, Kaunitz, and
the marquise."
"How in the world did you manage to buy the good-will of the marquise?
How many millions did you pay for the precious boon?"
"Not a kreutzer, dear husband, only a letter."
"Letter! Letter from whom?"
"A letter from me to the marquise."
"What!" cried the emperor, laughing. "You write to La Pompadour--YOU,
Theresa?"
"With my own hand, I have written to her, and more than once," returned
Maria Theresa, joining in the laugh. "And what do you suppose I did, to
save my honor in the matter? I pretended to think that she was the wife
of the king, and addressed her as 'Madame, ma soeur et cousine.'"
Here the emperor laughed immoderately. "Well, well!" exclaimed he. "So
the Empress-Queen of Austria and Hungary writes with her own hand to her
beloved cousin La Pompadour!"
"And do you know what she calls me?" laughed the empress in return.
"Yesterday I had a letter from her in which she calls me, sportively,
'Ma chere reine.'"
The emperor broke out into such a volley of laughter, that he threw
himself back upon a chair, which broke under him, and the empress had to
come to his assistance, for he was too convulsed to get up alone.
[Footnote: Historical.]
"Oh dear! oh dear!" groaned the emperor, still continuing to laugh. "I
shall die of this intelligence. Maria Theresa in correspondence with
Madame d'Etoiles!"
"Well, what of it, Franz?" asked Maria Theresa. "Did I not write to the
prima donna Farinelli when we were seeking alliance with Spain? and is
the marquise not as good as a soprano singer?" [Footnote: The empress's
own words. Coxe, vol. v., p. 69.]
The emperor looked at her with such a droll expression that she gave up
all idea of defending herself from ridicule, and laughed as heartily as
he did.
At this moment a page knocked, and announced the Archduke Joseph and his
preceptor.
"Poor lad!" said the emperor; "I suppose he comes, as usual, accompanied
by an accuser."
CHAPTER V.
THE ARCHDUKE JOSEPH.
The emperor was right; Father Francis came in with complaints of his
highness. While the father with great pathos set forth the reason of the
archduke's absence from the family circle, the culprit stood by,
apparently indifferent to all that was being said. But, to any one
observing him closely, his tremulous mouth, and the short, convulsive
sighs, which he vainly strove to repress, showed the real anxiety of his
fast-beating heart. He thrust back his rising tears, for the little
prince teas too proud to crave sympathy; and he had already learned how
to hide emotion by a cold and haughty bearing. From his childhood he had
borne a secret sorrow in his heart--the sorrow of seeing his young
brother Carl preferred to himself. Not only was Carl the darling of his
parents, but he was the pet and plaything of the whole palace. True, the
poor little archduke was not gifted with the grace and charming naivete
of his brother. He was awkward, serious, and his countenance wore an
expression of discontent, which was thought to betray an evil
disposition, but which, in reality, was but the reflection of the heavy
sorrow which clouded his young heart. No one seemed to understand--no
one seemed to love him. Alone in the midst of that gay and splendid
court, he was never noticed except to be chided. [Footnote: Hubner,
"Life of Joseph II.," page 15.] The buds of his poor young heart were
blighted by the mildew of neglect, so that outwardly he was cold,
sarcastic, and sullen, while inwardly he glowed with a thousand
emotions, which he dared reveal to no one, for no one seemed to dream
that he was capable of feeling them.
To-day, as usual, he was brought before his parents as a culprit; and
without daring to utter a word in his own defence, he stood by, while
Father Francis told how many times he had yawned over the "Lives of the
Martyrs;" and how he had refused to read, longer than one hour, a most
edifying commentary of the Fathers on the Holy Scriptures.
The empress heard with displeasure of her son's lack of piety; and she
looked severely at him, while he gazed sullenly at a portrait that hung
opposite.
"And can it be, my son," exclaimed she, "that you close your heart
against the word of God, and refuse to read religious books?"
The boy gave her a glance of defiance. "I do not know," said he,
carelessly, "whether the books are religious or not; but I know that
they are tiresome, and teach me nothing."
"Gracious Heaven!" cried the empress, with horror, "hear the impious
child!"
"Rather, your majesty," said Father Francis, "let us pray Heaven to
soften his heart." The emperor alone said nothing; but he looked at the
boy with a friendly and sympathizing glance. The child saw the look, and
for one moment a flush of pleasure passed over his face. He raised his
eyes with an appealing expression toward his father, who could no longer
resist the temptation of coming to his relief.
"Perhaps," suggested he, "the books may be dull to a child of Joseph's
years."
"No book," returned the empress, "should be dull that treats of God and
of His holy Church."
"And the work, your majesty, which we were reading, was a most learned
and celebrated treatise," said Father Francis; "one highly calculated to
edify and instruct youth."
Joseph turned away from the father, and spoke to the emperor.
"We have already gone through five volumes of it, your majesty, and I am
tired to death of it. Moreover, I don't believe half that I read in his
stupid books."
The empress, as she heard this, uttered a cry of pain. She felt an icy
coldness benumb her heart, as she remembered that this unbelieving boy
was one day to succeed her on the throne of Austria. The emperor, too,
was pained. By the deadly paleness of her face, he guessed the pane that
was rending his wife's heart, and he dared say no more in defence of his
son.
"Your majesty sees," continued Father Francis, "how far is the heart of
his highness from God and the Church. His instructors are grieved at his
precocious unbelief, and they are this day to confer together upon the
painful subject. The hour of the conference is at hand, and I crave your
majesty's leave to repair thither."
"No," said the empress, with a deprecating gesture; "no. Remain, good
father. Let this conference he held in the presence of the emperor and
myself. It is fitting that we both know the worst in regard to our
child."
The emperor bowed acquiescence, and crossing the room, took a seat by
the side of the empress.
He rang a little golden bell; and the page who came at the summons, was
ordered to request the attendance of the preceptors of his highness the
Crown Prince of Austria.
Maria Theresa leaned her head upon her hand, and with a sad and
perplexed countenance watched the open door. The emperor, with his arm
thrown over the gilded back of the divan, looked earnestly at the young
culprit, who, pale, and with a beating heart, was trying his best to
suppress his increasing emotion.
"I will not cry," thought he, scarcely able to restrain his tears; "for
that would be a triumph for my detestable teachers. I am not going to
give them the pleasure of knowing that I am miserable."
And, by dint of great exertion, he mastered his agitation. He was so
successful, that he did not move a muscle nor turn his head when the
solemn procession of his accusers entered the room.
First, at the head, came Father Porhammer, who gave him lessons in logic
and physic; after him walked the engineer Briguen, professor of
mathematics; then Herr von Leporini, who instructed him in general
history; Herrvson Bartenstein, who expounded the political history of
the house of Austria; Baron von Beck, who was his instructor in
judicature; and finally, his governor, Count Bathiany, the only one
toward whom the young prince felt a grain of good-will.
The empress greeted them with grave courtesy, and exhorted them to say
without reserve before his parents what they thought of the progress and
disposition of the archduke.
Count Bathiany, with an encouraging smile directed toward his pupil,
assured their majesties that the archduke was anxious to do right--not
because he was told so to do by others, but because he followed the
dictates of his own conscience. True, his highness would not see through
the eyes of any other person; but this, though it might be a defect in a
child, would be the reverse in a man--above all, in a sovereign. "In
proof of the archduke's sincere desire to do right," continued Count
Bathiany, "allow me to repeat to your majesties something which he said
to me yesterday. We were reading together Bellegarde on knowledge of
self and of human nature. The beautiful thoughts of the author so
touched the heart of his highness, that, stopping suddenly, he exclaimed
to me, 'We must read this again; for when I come to the throne I shall
need to know, not only myself, but other men also.'"
"Well said, my son!" exclaimed the emperor.
"I cannot agree with your majesty," said the empress, coldly. "_I_ do
not think it praiseworthy for a child of his age to look forward with
complacency to the day when his mother's death will confer upon him a
throne. To rile it would seem more natural if Joseph thought more of his
present duties and less of his future honors."
A breathless silence followed these bitter words. The emperor, in
confusion, withdrew behind the harpsichord. The archduke looked
perfectly indifferent. While Count Bathiany had been repeating his
words, his face had slightly flushed; but when he heard the sharp
reproof of his mother, he raised his head, and gave her back another
defiant look. With the same sullen haughtiness, he stared first at one
accuser, and then at another, while each one in his turn gave judgment
against him. First, and most vehement in his denunciations, was Count
Bartenstein. He denounced the archduke as idle and inattentive. He never
would have any political sagacity whatever. Why, even the great work, in
fifteen folios, which he (Count Bartenstein) had compiled from the
imperial archives for the especial instruction of the prince, even THAT
failed to interest him! [Footnote: Hormayer says that this book was
heavy and filled with tiresome details. (No wonder! In fifteen
folios.--Trane.)]
Then followed the rest of their professorships. One complained of
disrespect; another of carelessness; a third of disobedience; a fourth
of irreligion. All concurred in declaring the archduke to be obstinate,
unfeeling, and intractable.
His face, meanwhile, grew paler and harder, until it seemed almost to
stiffen into marble. Although every censorious word went like a dagger
to his sensitive heart, he still kept on murmuring to himself, "I will
not cry, I will not cry."
His mother divined nothing of the agony which, like a wild tornado, was
desolating the fair face of her child's whole being. She saw nothing
beyond the portals of that cold and sullen aspect, and the sight filled
her with sorrow and anger.
"Alas," cried she bitterly, "you are right! He is a refractory and
unfeeling boy."
At this moment, like the voice of a conciliatory angel, were heard the
soft tones of the melody with which the empress had greeted her husband
that morning. It was the emperor, whose hands seemed unconsciously to
wander over the keys of the harpsichord, while every head bent entranced
to listen.
When the first tones of the heavenly melody fell upon his ear, the young
prince began to tremble. His features softened; his lips, so scornfully
compressed, now parted, as if to drink in every sound; his eyes filled
with tears, and every angry feeling of his heart was hushed by the magic
of music. With a voice of love it seemed to call him, and unable to
resist its power and its pathos, he burst into a flood of tears, and
with one bound reached his father's arms, sobbing--
"Father, dear father, pity me!"
The emperor drew the poor boy close to his heart. He kissed his blond
curls, and whispering, said: "Dear child, I knew that you were not
heartless. I was sure that you would come when your father called."
The empress had started from her seat, and she now stood in the centre
of the room, earnestly gazing upon her husband and her child. Her
mother's heart beat wildly, and tears of tenderness suffused her eyes.
She longed to speak some word of pardon to her son; but before all
things, Maria Theresa honored court ceremony. She would not, for the
world, that her subjects had seen her otherwise than self-possessed and
regal in her bearing.
With one great effort she mastered her emotions; and before the strength
of her will, the mighty flood rolled back upon her heart. Not a tear
that glistened in her eyelids fell; not a tone of her clear, silvery
voice was heard to falter.
"Count Bathiany," said she, "I perceive that in the education of the
archduke, the humanizing influences of music have been overlooked. Music
to-day has been more powerful with him than filial love or moral
obligation. Select for him, then, a skilful teacher, who will make use
of his art to lead my son back to duty and religion." [Footnote: Maria
Theresa's own words. Coxe, "House of Austria," vol. v.]
CHAPTER VI.
KAUNITZ.
Three weeks had elapsed since the memorable sitting at which Maria
Theresa had declared in favor of a new line of policy. Three long weeks
had gone by, and still no message came for Kaunitz; and still
Bartenstein and Uhlefeld held the reins of power.
With hasty steps, Kaunitz paced the floor of his study. Gone was all
coldness and impassibility from his face. His eyes glowed with restless
fire, and his features twitched nervously.
His secretary, who sat before the writing-table, had been gazing
anxiously at the count for sometime. He shook his head gloomily, as he
contemplated the strange sight of Kaunitz, agitated and disturbed.
Kaunitz caught the eye of his confidant, and coming hastily toward the
table, he stood for a few moments without speaking a word. Suddenly he
burst into a loud, harsh laugh--a laugh so bitter, so sardonic, that
Baron Binder turned pale as he heard the sound.
"Why are you so pale, Binder?" asked Kaunitz, still laughing. "Why do
you start as if you had received an electric shock?"
"Your laughing is like an electric shock to my heart," replied the
baron. "Its sound was enough to make a man pale. Why, for ten years I
have lived under your roof, and never have I heard you laugh before."
"Perhaps you are right, Binder, for in sooth my laugh echoes gloomily
within the walls of my own heart. But I could not help it--you had such
a droll, censorious expression on your face."
"No wonder," returned Baron Binder. "It vexes me to see a statesman so
irresolute and unmanned."
"Statesman!" exclaimed Kaunitz, bitterly. "Who knows whether my role of
statesman is not played out already?"
He resumed his walk in moody silence, while Binder followed him with his
eyes. Suddenly Kaunitz stopped again before the table. "Baron," said he,
"you have known me intimately for ten years. In all my embassies you
have been with me as attache. Since we have lived together, have you
ever known me to be faint-hearted?"
"Never!" cried the baron, "never! I have seen you brave the anger of
monarchs, the hatred of enemies, the treachery of friends and
mistresses. I have stood by your side in more than one duel, and never
before have I seen you otherwise than calm and resolute."
"Judge, then, how sickening to me is this suspense, since, for the first
time in my life, I falter. Oh! I tremble lest--"
"Lest what?" asked the baron, with interest.
"Binder, I fear that Maria Theresa may prove less an empress than a
woman. I fear that the persuasions of the handsome Francis of Lorraine
may outweigh her own convictions of right. What if her husband's
caresses, her confessor's counsel, or her own feminine caprice, should
blind her to the welfare of her subjects and the interest of her empire?
Oh, what a giant structure will fall to the earth, if, at this crisis,
the empress should fail me! Think what a triumph it would be to dash
aside my rivals and seize the helm of state to gather, upon the deck of
one stout ship, all the paltry principalities that call themselves
'Austria;' to band them into one consolidated nation; and then to steer
this noble ship into a haven of greatness and glorious peace! Binder, to
this end alone I live. I have outlived all human illusions. I have no
faith in love--it is bought and sold. No faith in the tears of men; none
in their smiles. Society, to me, is one vast mad house. If, in its
frenzied walls, I show that I am sane, the delirious throng will shout
out, 'Seize the lunatic!' Therefore must I seem as mad as they, and
therefore it is that, outside of this study, I commit a thousand
follies. In such a world I have no faith; but, Binder, I believe in
divine ambition. It is the only passion that has ever stirred my
heart--the only passion worthy to fill the soul of a MAN! My only love,
then, ambition. My only dream is of power. Oh! that I might eclipse and
outlive the names of my rivals! But alas! alas! I fear that the
greatness of Kaunitz will be wrecked upon the shoals of Maria Theresa's
shallowness!"
"No, no," said the baron vehemently. "Fear nothing, Kaunitz; you are the
man who is destined to make Austria great, and to disperse the clouds of
ignorance that darken the minds of her people."
"You may be sure that if ever I attain power, Binder, nor church nor
churchman shall have a voice in Austria. Kaunitz alone shall reign. But
will Maria Theresa consent? Will she ever have strength of mind to burst
the shackles with which silly love and silly devotion have bound her? I
fear not. Religion--"
Here the door opened, and the count's valet handed a card to the
secretary.
"A visit from Count Bartenstein!" exclaimed the baron triumphantly. "Ah!
I knew--"
"Will you receive him here, in the study?"
"I will receive him nowhere," replied Kaunitz coldly. "Say to the
count," added he to the valet, "that I am engaged, and beg to be
excused."
"What! You deny yourself to the prime minister?" cried Binder,
terrified.
Kaunitz motioned to the servant to withdraw.
"Binder," said he exultingly, "do you not see from this visit that MY
day is about to dawn, and that Bartenstein is the first lark to greet
the rising sun? His visit proves that he feels a presentiment of his
fall and my rebuff shall verify it. The whole world will understand that
when Bartenstein was turned away from my door, I gave old Austria, as
well as himself, a parting kick. Away with anxiety and fear! The deluge
is over, and old Bartenstein has brought me the olive-branch that
announces dry land and safety."
"My dear count!"
"Yes, Binder, dry land and safety. Now we will be merry, and lift our
head high up into clouds of Olympic revel! Away with your deeds and your
parchments! We are no longer bookworms, but butterflies. Let us sport
among the roses!"
While Kaunitz spoke, he seized a hand-bell from the table, and rang
vehemently.
"Make ready for me in my dressing-room," said he to the valet. "Let the
cook prepare a costly dinner for twenty persons. Let the steward select
the rarest wines in the cellar. Tell him to see that the Champagne is
not too warm, nor the Johannisberg to cold; the Sillery too dry, nor the
Lachryma Christi too acid. Order two carriages, and send one for Signora
Ferlina, and the other for Signora Sacco. Send two footmen to Counts
Harrach and Colloredo, with my compliments. Stay--here is a list of the
other guests. Send a messenger to the apartments of my sister, the
countess. Tell her, with my respects, to oblige me by dining to-day in
her own private rooms. I will not need her to preside over my
dinner-table to-day."
"But, my lord," stammered the valet, "the countess--"
"Well--what of her?"
"The countess has been de--gone for a week."
"Gone, without taking leave? Where?"
"There, my lord," replied the valet in a low voice, pointing upward
toward heaven.
"What does he mean, Binder?" asked Kaunitz, with a shrug.
Binder shrugged responsive.
"The good countess," said he, "had been ill for some time, but did not
wish to disturb you. You must have been partially prepared for the
melancholy event, for the countess has not appeared at table for three
weeks."
"Me? Not at all. Do you suppose that during these last three weeks I
have had time to think of her? I never remarked her absence. When did
the--the--ceremony take place?"
"Day before yesterday. I attended to every thing."
"My dear friend, how I thank you for sparing me the sight of these
hideous rites! Your arrangements must have been exquisite, for I never
so much as suspected the thing. Fortunately, it is all over, and we can
enjoy ourselves as usual. Here, Philip. Let the house look festive:
flowers on the staircases and in the entrance-hall; oranges and roses in
the dining-room; vanilla-sticks in the coffee-cups instead of teaspoons.
Away with you!"
The valet bowed, and when he was out of hearing Kaunitz renewed his
thanks to the baron.
"Once more, thank you for speeding my sister on her journey, and for
saving me all knowledge of this unpleasant affair. How glad the signoras
will be to hear that the countess has positively gone, never to return!
Whom shall I get to replace her? Well, never mind now; some other time
we'll settle that little matter. Now to my toilet."
He bent his head to the baron, and with light, elastic step passed into
his dressing-room.
CHAPTER VII.
THE TOILET.
When Kaunitz entered his dressing-room, his features had resumed their
usual immobility. He walked in, without seeming to be aware of the
presence of his attendants, who, ranged on either side of the apartment,
awaited his commands.
He went up to his large Venetian mirror, and there surveyed himself at
full length. With anxious glance his keen eyes sought out every faint
line that told of the four-and-thirty years of his life. The picture
seemed deeply interesting, for he stood a long time before the glass.
Alt last the scrutiny was ended, and he turned slightly toward the
hair-dresser.
"Is the peruke ready?"
The hair-dresser fluttered off to a bandbox, that lay on the
toilet-table; and lifted out a fantastic-looking blond peruke,
constructed after "his excellency's own design." Kaunitz was not aware
of it, but this wig of his, with its droll mixture of flowing locks
before, and prim purse behind, was an exact counterpart of the life and
character of its inventor. He had had no intention of being symbolic in
his contrivance; it had been solely designed to conceal the little
tell-tale lines that were just about to indent the smooth surface of his
white forehead. He bent his proud head, while the hair-dresser placed
the wonderful wig, and then fell to studying its effect. Here he drew a
curl forward, there he gently removed another; placing each one in its
position over his eyebrows, so that no treacherous side-light should
reveal any thing he chose to hide. Finally the work was done.
"Hippolyte," said he, to the hair-dresser, who stood breathlessly by,
"this is the way in which my wig is to be dressed from this day
forward." [Footnote: From this time Kaunitz wore his wig in this
eccentric fashion. It was adopted by the exquisites of Vienna, and
called "the Kaunitz peruke."]
Hippolyte bowed low, and stepped back to give place to the valets who
came in with the count's costume. One bore a rich habit embroidered with
gold, and the other a pair of velvet-shorts, red stockings, and
diamond-buckled shoes.
"A simpler habit--Spanish, without embroidery, and white stockings."
White stockings! The valets were astounded at such high treason against
the court regulations of Vienna. But Kaunitz, with a slight and
contemptuous shrug, ordered them a second time to bring him white
stockings, and never to presume to bring any other.
"Now, go and await me in the puderkammer." [Footnote: Literally,
"powder-room."]
The valets backed out as if in the presence of royalty, and the
eccentric statesman was left with his chief valet. The toilet was
completed in solemn silence. Then, the count walked to the mirror to
take another look at his adored person. He gave a complaisant stroke to
his ruff of richest Alencon, smoothed the folds of his habit, carefully
arranged the lace frills that fell over his white hands, and then
turning to his valet he said, "Powder-mantle."
The valet unfolded a little package, and, with preter-careful hands,
dropped a long white mantle over the shoulders of the ministerial
coxcomb. Is light folds closed around him, and, with an Olympian nod, he
turned toward the door, while the valet flew to open it. As soon as the
count appeared, the other valets, who, with the hair-dresser, stood on
either side of the room, raised each one a long brush dipped in
hair-powder, and waved it to and fro. Clouds of white dust filled the
room; while through the mist, with grave and deliberate gait, walked
Kaunitz, every now and then halting, when the brushes all stopped; then
giving the word of command, they all fell vigorously to work again. Four
times he went through the farce, and then, grave as a ghost, walked back
to his dressing-room, followed by the hair-dresser.
At the door, the chief valet carefully removed the powder-mantle, and
for the third time Raunitz turned to the mirror. Then he carefully wiped
the powder from his eyes, and, with a smile of extreme satisfaction he
turned to the hair-dresser.
"Confess, Hippolyte, that nothing is more beautifying than powder. See
how exquisitely it lies on the front ringlets, and how airily it is
distributed over the entire peruke. Vraiment, I am proud of my
invention."
Hippolyte protested that it was worthy of the godlike intellect of his
excellency, and was destined to make an era in the annals of
hair-dressing.
"The annals of hair-dressing," replied his excellency, "are not to be
enriched with any account of my method of using powder. If ever I hear a
word of this discovery breathed outside of these rooms, I dismiss the
whole pack of you. Do you hear?"
Down went the obsequious heads, while Kaunitz continued, with his fine
cambric handkerchief, to remove the last specks of powder from his
eyelids. When he had sufficiently caressed and admired himself, he went
to the door. It opened, and two valets, who stood outside, presented
him, one with a jewelled snuff-box, the other with an embroidered
handkerchief. A large brown dog, that lay couchant in the hall, rose and
followed him, and the last act of the daily farce was over.
The count passed into his study, and going at once to the table, he
turned over the papers. "No message yet from the empress," said he,
chagrined. "What if Bartenstein's visit was NOT a politic, but a
triumphant one? What a--"
Here the door opened, and Baron Binder entered. "Your excellency," said
he, smiling, "I have taken upon myself to bear you a message which your
servants declined to bring. It is to announce a visitor. The hour for
reception has gone by, but he was so urgent, that I really could not
refuse his entreaties that you might be told of his presence. Pardon my
officiousness, but you know how soft-hearted I am. I never could resist
importunity."
"Who is your suppliant friend?"
"Count Bartenstein, my lord."
"Bartenstein! Bartenstein back already!" exclaimed Kaunitz, exultingly.
"And he begged--he begged for an interview, you say?"
"Begged! the word is faint to express his supplications."
"Then I am not mistaken!" cried Kaunitz, with a loud, triumphant voice:
"if Bartenstein begs, it is all over with him. Twice in my anteroom in
one day! That is equivalent to a message from the empress." And Kaunitz,
not caring to dissimulate with Binder, gave vent to his exceeding joy.
"And you will be magnanimous--you will see him, will you not?" asked
Binder, imploringly.
"What for?" asked the heartless statesman. "If he means business, the
council-chamber is the place for THAT; if he comes to visit ME--'I beg
to be excused.'"
"But when I beg you, for MY sake, count," persisted the good-natured
baron; "the sight of fallen greatness is such a painful one! How can any
one add to it a feather's weight of anguish?"
Kaunitz laid his hands upon the broad shoulders of his friend, and in
his eye there kindled something like a ray of affection.
"Grown-up child, your heart is as soft as if it had never been breathed
upon by the airs of this wicked world. Say no more about Bartenstein,
and I will reward your interest in his misfortune by making you his
successor. You shall be state referendarius yourself. Come along, you
chicken-hearted statesman, and let us play a game of billiards."
"First," said Binder, sadly, "I must deliver my painful message to Count
Bartenstein."
"Bah! the page can be sent to dismiss him."
"But there is no reason why we should keep the poor man waiting."
"Him, the poor man, say you? I remember the day when I waited in HIS
anteroom, and as I am an honest man, I shall pay him with interest, Come
along, my dear future state referendarius."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RED STOCKINGS.
At Kaunitz's dinner-table on that day revelry reigned triumphant. No
jest was too bold for the lips of the men; and if perchance upon the
cheeks of their beautiful companions there rose the slightest flush of
womanly shame, the knights of the revel shouted applause, and pealed
forth their praises in wildest dithyrambics. With glowing faces and eyes
of flame they ate their highly-spiced viands, and drank their fiery
wines, until all restraint was flung aside, and madness ruled the hour.
The lovely Ferlina, whom Kaunitz had placed next to himself, was
beautiful as Grecian Phryne; and Sacco, who was between her adorers,
Harrach and Colloredo, was bold and bewitching as Lais.
The odor of flowers--the sound of distant music, every thing that could
intoxicate the senses, was there. It was one of those orgies which
Kaunitz alone knew how to devise, and into which all the lesser
libertines of Vienna longed to be initiated; for once admitted there,
they were graduates in the school of vice.
The guests were excited beyond control, but not so the host. He who
invoked the demon that possessed the rest, sat perfectly collected. With
the coolness of a helmsman he steered the flower-laden bark of
voluptuousness toward the breakers, while he befooled its passengers
with visions of fatal beauty.
The feast was at an end, and as Kaunitz reviewed the faces of the
company and saw that for the day their passions were weary from
indulgence, he said to himself, with diabolical calmness: "Now that they
have exhausted every other pleasure, we will sharpen the blunted edge of
desire with gambling! When the life of the heart is burnt to ashes, it
will still revive at the chink of gold."
"To the gaming-table, friends, to the gaming-table!" cried he. And the
dull eyes grew bright, while the guests followed him to the
green-covered table, which stood at the farther end of the dining-room.
Kaunitz took from a casket a heap of gold, while La Ferlina gazed upon
it with longing sighs. Harrach and Colloredo poured showers from their
purses, and Sacco looked from one to the other with her most ineffable
smiles. Kaunitz saw it all, and as he threw the dice into the golden
dice-box, he muttered, "Miserable worms, ye think yourselves gods, and
are the slaves of a little fiend, whose name is GOLD."
As he raised the dice-box, the door opened, and his first valet appeared
on the threshold.
"Pardon me, your excellency, that I presume to enter the room. But there
is a messenger from the empress, and she begs your excellency's
immediate attendance."
With an air of consummate indifference, Kaunitz replaced the dice on the
table. "My carriage," was his reply to the valet; and to his guests,
with a graceful inclination, he said, "Do not let this interrupt you.
Count Harrach will be my banker. In this casket are ten thousand
florins--I go halves with the charming Ferlina."
Signora Ferlina could not contain herself for joy, and in the exuberance
of her gratitude, she disturbed some of the folds of Kaunitz's lace
ruff. Kaunitz was furious; but, without changing a muscle, he went on.
"Farewell, my lords--farewell, ladies! I must away to the post of duty."
Another bend of the head, and he disappeared. The valets and
hair-dresser were already buzzing around his dressing-room with
court-dress and red stocking, but Kaunitz waved them all away, and
called Hippolyte to arrange a curl of his hair that was displaced.
The chief valet, who had been petrified with astonishment, now came to
life; and advanced, holding in his hand the rich court-dress.
"Pardon, your excellency; but my lord the count is about to have an
audience with her imperial majesty?"
"I am," was the curt reply.
"Then your excellency must comply with the etiquette of the empress's
court, which requires the full Spanish dress, dagger, and red
stockings."
"MUST?" said Kaunitz contemptuously. "Fool! From this day, no one shall
say to Count Kaunitz, 'Must.' Bear that in mind. Hand me my muff."
"Muff, my lord?" echoed the valet.
"Yes, fool, my hands are cold."
The valet looked out of the window, where flamed the radiance of a June
sun, and with a deep sigh for the waywardness of his master, handed the
muff.
Kaunitz thrust in his hands, and slowly left the room, followed by the
dog, the valets, and the hair-dresser. Every time his excellency went
out, this procession came as far as the carriage door, to see that
nothing remained imperfect in this toilet. With the muff held close to
his mouth, for fear a breath of air should enter it, Kaunitz passed
through the lofty corridors of his house to his state-carriage. The dog
wished to get in, but he waved her gently back, saying:
"No, Phaedra, not to-day. I dare not take you there."
The carriage rolled off, and the servants looked after in dumb
consternation. At last the first valet, with a malicious smile, said to
the others:
"I stick to my opinion--he is crazy. Who but a madman would hope to be
admitted to her imperial majesty's presence without red stockings and a
dagger?"
Hippolyte shook his head. "No, no, he is no madman; he is only a
singular genius, who knows the world, and snaps his fingers at it."
The valet was not far from right. The simple dress, white stockings, and
the absence of the dagger, raised a commotion in the palace.
The page in the entrance-hall was afraid to announce the count, and he
rushed into the anteroom to consult the marshal of the imperial
household. The latter, with his sweetest smile, hastened to meet the
indignant count.
"Have the goodness, my lord," said Kaunitz imperiously, "not to detain
me any longer. The empress has called me to her presence; say that I am
here."
"But, count," cried the horror-stricken marshal, "you cannot seriously
mean to present yourself in such a garb. Doubtless you have forgotten,
from absence of mind, to array yourself as court etiquette exacts of her
majesty's servants. If you will do me the favor to accompany me to my
own apartments, I will with great pleasure supply the red stockings and
dagger."
Count Kaunitz shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "Her majesty sent for
ME, not for my red stockings; therefore, please to announce me."
The marshal retreated, in his surprise, several steps. "Never," cried he
indignantly, "never would I presume to do so unheard-of a thing! Such a
transgression of her majesty's orders is inadmissible."
"Very well," replied Kaunitz coolly, "I shall then have the pleasure of
announcing myself."
He passed by the marshal and dismayed page, and was advancing to the
door that led to the imperial apartments.
"Hold! hold!" groaned the marshal, whose consternation was now at its
height. "That were too presuming! Since her majesty has commanded your
attendance, I will do my duty. I leave it to yourself, my lord, to
excuse your own boldness, if you can carry it so far as to attempt a
justification of your conduct."
He bowed, and passed into the next room; then into the cabinet of the
empress, whence he returned with word for Count Kaunitz to enter.
CHAPTER IX.
NEW AUSTRIA.
The empress received the count with a most gracious smile. "You are
late," she said, reaching out her hand for him to kiss.
"I came very near not reaching your majesty's presence at all, for those
two wiseacres in the anteroom refused me entrance, because I had neither
red stockings nor a dagger."
The empress then perceived the omission, and she frowned. "Why did you
present yourself here, without them?" asked she.
"Because, your majesty, I detest red stockings; and I really cannot see
why I should be compelled to wear any thing that is so distasteful to
me."
Maria Theresa was so surprised, that she scarcely knew what reply to
make to the argument; so Kaunitz continued:
"And as for the dagger, that is no emblem of my craft. I am not a
soldier, but a statesman; my implement is the crowquill."
"And the tongue," replied the empress, "for you certainly know how to
use it. Let us dismiss the dagger and red stockings, then, and speak of
your pen and your tongue, for I need them both. I have well weighed the
matters under consideration, and have taken counsel of Heaven and of my
own conscience. I hope that my decision will be for the best."
Count Kaunitz, courtier though he was, could not repress a slight
shiver, nor could he master the paleness that overspread his anxious
face.
The empress went on: "I have irrevocably decided. I abide by what I said
in council. A new day shall dawn upon Austria--God grant that it prove a
happy one! Away, then, with the old alliance! we offer our hand to
France, and you shall conduct the negotiations. I appoint you lord high
chancellor in the place of Count Uhlefeld. And you owe me some thanks,
for I assure you that, to carry out my opposition to my ministers, I
have striven with countless difficulties."
"I thank your majesty for resolving upon an alliance with France," said
Kaunitz, earnestly; "for I do believe that it will conduce to Austria's
welfare."
"And do you not thank me for making you prime minister, or is the
appointment unwelcome?"
"I shall be the happiest of mortals if I can accept; but that question
is for your majesty to decide."
The empress colored, and looked displeased, while Kaunitz, "himself
again," stood composed and collected before her.
"Ah," said she, quickly, "you wish me to beg you to accept the highest
office in Austria! Do you think it a favor you do me to become my prime
minister, Kaunitz?"
"Your majesty," replied Kaunitz in his soft, calm tones, "I think not of
myself, but of Austria that I love, and of you, my honored empress, whom
I would die to serve. But I must know whether it will be allowed me to
serve my empress and my fatherland as I can and will serve them both."
"What do you mean? Explain yourself."
"If I am to labor in your behalf, my empress, I must have free hands,
without colleagues by my side, to discuss my plans and plot against
them."
"Ah!" said the empress, smiling, "I understand. You mean Bartenstein and
Counts Harrach and Colloredo. True, they are your rivals."
"Oh, your majesty, not my rivals, I hope."
"Well, then, your enemies, if you like that better," said the empress.
"I shall not chain you together, then. I will find other places
wherewith to compensate them for their past services, and you may find
other colleagues."
"I desire no colleagues, your majesty," replied Kaunitz, "I wish to be
prime and only minister. Then together we will weld Austria's many
dependencies into one great empire, and unite its governments under one
head."
"Yours, count?" asked Maria Theresa, in a slight tone of irony.
"Yours, my sovereign. Whatever you may think, up to this moment you have
not reigned supreme in Austria. By your side have Bartenstein and
Uhlefeld reigned like lesser emperors. Is not Lombardy governed by its
own princes, and does not the Viceroy of Hungary make laws and edicts,
which are brought to you for signature?"
"Yes, I am truly hemmed in on every side. But I see no remedy for the
evil--I cannot govern everywhere. Hungary and Lombardy have their own
constitutions, and must have their own separate governments."
"So long as that state of things lasts, neither Hungary nor Lombardy
will be portions of the Austrian empire," said Kaunitz.
"There is no remedy, Kaunitz," returned Maria Theresa; "I have thought
these difficulties over and over. My arm is too short to reach to the
farthest ends of my realms, and I must be content to delegate some of my
power. One hand cannot navigate the ship of state."
"But one head can steer it, your majesty, and one head can direct the
hands that work it."
"And will the count be one of my hands?"
"Yes, indeed, your majesty. But the fingers must be subject to this
hand, and the hand will then carry out, in all security, the plans of
its august head, the empress."
"You mean to say that you wish to be alone as my minister?"
"If I am truly to serve your majesty, it must be so. Let not the
sovereignty of Austria be frittered away in multitudinous rivulets;
gather it all in one full, fertilizing stream. One head and one hand
over Austria's destiny, and then will she grow independent and
all-powerful."
"But, man," cried the empress, "you cannot sustain the burden you
covet!"
"I will have ample help, your majesty. I will seek ready hands and
willing hearts that believe in me, and will do my behests. These must
not be my coadjutors, but my subalterns, who think through me, and work
for me. If your majesty will grant me this privilege, then I can serve
Austria. I know that I am asking for high prerogatives; but for
Austria's sake, Maria Theresa will dare every thing; and together we
will accomplish the consolidation of her disjecta membra into one great
empire. The policy which conducts our financial affairs must emanate
from yourself, and our foreign policy must be bold and frank, that
friends and foes may both know what we mean. We must coffin and bury old
Austria with the dead that sleep on the battle-grounds of lost Silesia;
and from her ashes we must build a new empire, of which Hungary and
Lombardy shall be integral parts. Hand in hand with France, we will be
the lawgivers of all Europe; and when, thanks to our thrift and the rich
tribute of our provinces, we pay our national debt, then we may laugh at
English subsidies and Dutch commerce. And lastly, we will cast our eyes
once more upon Silesia, and methinks if France and Austria together
should demand restitution of King Frederick, he will scarcely be so rash
as to say nay. The ministers of Louis XV., who were adverse to our
alliance, are about to retire, and the Duke de Choiseul, our firm friend
and the favorite of Mme. de Pompadour, will replace Richelieu. Choiseul
seeks our friendship, and the day of our triumph is dawning. Such, your
majesty, are my dreams for Austria; it rests with you to make them
realities!"
The empress had listened with increasing interest to every word that
Kaunitz had spoken. She had risen from her seat and was pacing the room
in a state of high excitement. As he ceased she stopped in front of him,
and her large, sparkling orbs of blue glowed with an expression of
happiness and hope.
"I believe that you are the man for Austria," said she. "I believe that
together we can carry out our plans and projects. God grant that they be
righteous and just in His sight! You have read my heart, and you know
that I can never reconcile myself to the loss of Silesia. You know that
between me and Frederick no harmony can ever exist; no treaty can ever
be signed to which he is a party. [Footnote: Maria Theresa's own words.]
I will take the hand of France, not so much for love of herself as for
her enmity to Prussia. Will you work with me to make war on Frederick if
I appoint you sole minister, Kaunitz? For I tell you that I burn to
renew my strife with the King of Prussia, and I would rather give him
battle to-day than to-morrow." [Footnote: Maria Theresa's own words.
Coxe.]
"I comprehend your majesty's feelings, and fully share them. As soon as
France and ourselves understand one another, we will make a league
against Frederick, and may easily make him strike the first blow; for
even now he is longing to appropriate another Silesia."
"And I am longing to cross swords with him for the one he has stolen. I
cannot bear to think of going to my fathers with a diminished
inheritance; I cannot brook the thought that my woman's hands have not
been strong enough to preserve my rights; for I feel that if I have the
heart of a woman, I have the head of a man. To see Austria great and
powerful, to see her men noble and her women virtuous--that is my dream,
my hope, my aim in life. You are the one to perfect what I have
conceived, Kaunitz; will you give me your hand to this great work?"
"I will, your majesty, so help me God!"
"Will you have Austria's good alone in view, in all that you counsel as
my minister?"
"I will, so help me God!"
"Will you take counsel with me how we may justly and righteously govern
Austria, without prejudice, without self-love, without thought of
worldly fame, not from love or fear of man, but for the sake of God from
whose hands we hold our empire?"
"I will, so help me God!"
"Then," said Maria Theresa, after a pause, "you are my sole minister,
and I empower you to preside over the affairs of state, in the manner
you may judge fittest for the welfare of the Austrian people."
Kaunitz was as self-possessed a worldling as ever sought to hide his
emotions; but he could not suppress an exclamation of rapture, nor an
expression of triumph, which lit up his face as nothing had ever
illumined it before.
"Your majesty," said he, when he found words, "I accept the trust, and
as there is a God above to judge me, I will hold it faithfully. My days
and nights, my youth and age, with their thoughts, their will, their
every faculty, shall be laid upon the shrine of Austria's greatness; and
if for one moment I ever sacrifice your majesty to any interest of mine,
may I die a death of torture and disgrace!"
"I believe you; your countenance reflects your heart, and Almighty God
has heard your words. One thing remember--that Maria Theresa suffers no
minister to dictate to her. She is the reigning sovereign of her people,
and will not suffer a finger to be laid upon her imperial rights. Were
he a thousand times prime minister, the man that presumed too far with
me I would hurl from his eminence to the lowest depths of disgrace. And
now that we understand one another, we will clasp hands like men, who
are pledged before God to do their duty."
She extended her hand to Kaunitz, who grasped it in his own. "I swear,"
said he, solemnly, "to do my duty; and never can I forget this hour. I
swear to my SOVEREIGN, Maria Theresa, loyalty unto death; and before my
EMPRESS I bow my knee, and so do homage to the greatest woman of her
age."
The empress smiled, while Kaunitz knelt and kissed her fair, jewelled
hand. "May God grant that you speak truth, Kaunitz, and may my posterity
not have to blush for me! 'Every thing for Austria,' shall be your motto
and mine; and this flaming device shall light us on our way through
life. Now go, lord high chancellor, and see that the world finds a
phoenix in the ashes of the old regime which to-day we have consigned to
the dust!" [Footnote: From this time, Kaunitz was the sole minister of
the empress; and he kept his promise to Binder, who became state
referendarius, in the place of the once-powerful Bartenstein.]
ISABELLA
CHAPTER X.
THE YOUNG SOLDIER.
Kaunitz's prophecy had been fulfilled. No sooner was it known that
Austria and France were allies, than Frederick of Prussia, with all
haste, made treaties with England. These opposite alliances were the
signal for war. For seven years this war held its blood-stained lash
over Austria, and every nation in Europe suffered more or less from its
effects. Maria Theresa began it with sharp words, to which Frederick had
responded with his sharper sword.
The king, through his ambassador, asked the meaning of her extensive
military preparations throughout Austria, to which the empress, nettled
by the arrogance of the demand, had replied that she believed she had a
right to mass troops for the protection of herself and her allies,
without rendering account of her acts to foreign kings. Upon the receipt
of this reply, Frederick marched his troops into Saxony, and so began
the "Seven Years' War," a war that was prosecuted on both sides with
bitter vindictiveness.
Throughout Austria the wildest enthusiasm prevailed. Rich and poor,
young and old, all rushed to the fight. The warlike spirit that pervaded
her people made its way to the heart of the empress's eldest son. The
Archduke Joseph had for some time been entreating his mother to allow
him to join the army; and, at last, though much against her will, she
had yielded to his urgent desire. The day on which news of a victory,
near Kunnersdorf, over Frederick, reached the palace, the empress had
given her consent, and her son was to be allowed to go in search of
laurel-wreaths wherewith to deck his imperial brow.
This permission to enter the army was the first great joy of Joseph's
life. His heart, at last freed from its weight of conventional duties,
and forced submission to the requirements of court etiquette, soared
high into regions of exultant happiness. His countenance, once so cold
and impassible, was now full of joyous changes; his eyes, once so dull
and weary, glowed with the fire of awakened enthusiasm, and they looked
so brilliant a blue, that it seemed as if some little ray from heaven
had found its way into their clear, bright depths. The poor boy was an
altered creature. He was frolicsome with his friends; and as for those
whom he considered his enemies, he cared nothing for their likes or
dislikes. He had nothing to lose or gain from them; he was to leave the
court, leave Vienna, leave every troublesome remembrance behind, and go,
far from all tormentors, to the army.
The preparations were at an end; the archduke bad taken formal leave of
his mother's court; this evening he was to spend in the imperial family
circle; and early on the next morning his journey would begin. He had
just written a last note of farewell to a friend. Alone in his room, he
stood before a mirror, contemplating with a smile his own image. He was
not looking at his handsome face, though happiness was lending it
exquisite beauty; the object of his rapturous admiration was the white
uniform, which, for the first time, he wore in place of his court-dress.
He was no longer the descendant of Charles the Fifth, no longer the son
of the empress, he was a soldier--a free, self-sustaining man, whose
destiny lay in his own hands, and whose future deeds would prove him
worthy to be the son of his great ancestor.
As, almost intoxicated with excess of joy, he stood before the glass,
the door opened gently, and a youth of about his own age entered the
room.
"Pardon me, your highness," said the youth, bowing, "if I enter without
permission. Doubtless your highness did not hear me knock, and I found
no one in your anteroom to announce me."
The prince turned around, and reached out his hand, saying, with a
laugh: "No, no, you found nobody. I have discharged old Dame Etiquette
from my service, and you see before you not his imperial highness, the
Archduke Joseph, crown prince of Austria, but a young soldier, brimful
of happiness, master of nothing but his own sword, with which he means
to carve out his fortunes on the battlefield. Oh, Dominick! I have
dropped the rosary, and taken up the sabre; and I mean to twist such a
forest of laurels about my head, that it will be impossible for me ever
to wear a night-cap again, were it even sent me as a present from the
pope himself."
"Do not talk so loud, your highness; you will frighten the proprieties
out of their wits."
Joseph laughed. "Dominick Kaunitz" said he, "you are the son of your
respected father, no doubt of it; for you behave prettily before the
bare walls themselves. But fear not, son of the mighty minister, MY walls
are dumb, and nobody is near to tell tales. We are alone, for I have
dismissed all my attendants; and here I may give loud vent to my
hallelujahs, which I now proceed to do by singing you a song which I
learned not long ago from an invalid soldier in the street."
And the prince began, in a sonorous bass voice, to sing:
"Oh! the young cannon is my bride! Her orange-wreath is twined with bay,
And on the blood-red battle-field We'll celebrate our wedding-day.
Trara! trara! No priest is there To bless the rites, No--"
Here young Kaunitz, all etiquette despising, put his hands before the
mouth of the prince; and, while the latter strove, in spite of him, to
go on with his song, he said, in low but anxious tones:
"For Heavens sake, your highness, listen to me. You plunge yourself
wantonly into danger. Do you suppose that your powerful voice does not
resound through the corridors of the palace?"
"Well, if it is heard, Dominick, what of it? I bid farewell to my
enemies, and this is my 'Hosanna.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself
to stop me. My tormentors, you think, have heard the beginning of my
song; well, the devil take it, but they shall have the end!"
Once more the archduke began to sing; but Dominick caught his arm. "Do
you wish," said he, "to have the empress revoke her permission?"
The archduke laughed, "Why, Dominick, you are crazed with grief for my
loss, I do believe; the empress revoke her imperial word, now, when all
my preparations are made, and I go to-morrow?"
"Empresses do revoke their words, and preparations are often made, to be
followed by--nothing," replied Dominick.
The prince looked in consternation at his young friend. "Are you in
earnest, dear Dominick?" asked he. "Do you indeed think it possible that
I could be hindered from going to the army, on the very eve of my
departure?"
"I do, your highness."
The archduke grew pale, and in a tremulous voice said, "Upon what do you
found your supposition, my friend?"
"Oh, my dear lord," replied Dominick, "it is no supposition, I fear it
is a fact; and I fear, too, that it is your own fault if this
disappointment awaits you."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the prince, in tones of anguish, "what can I
have done to deserve such fearful chastisement?"
"You have displeased the empress by neglect of your religious duties.
For more than two weeks you have not entered a place of worship; and,
yesterday, when the Countess Fuchs remonstrated with your highness, you
replied with an unseemly jest. You said, 'Dearest countess, I hope to
prove to you that, although I neglect my mass, I can be pious on the
battle-field. There, on the altar of my country, I mean to sacrifice
countless enemies, and that will be an offering quite as pleasing in the
sight of God.' Were those not your words, prince?"
"Yes, yes, they were--but I meant no impiety. My heart was so full of
joy that it effervesced in wild words; but surely my mother cannot mean,
for such a harmless jest, to dash my every hope to the earth!"
"Oh, your highness, this is only one offence out of many of which you
are accused. I have no time to repeat them now, for my errand here is
important and pressing."
"Where learned you all this?" asked the poor archduke.
"Bend down your ear, and I will tell you. My father told me every word
of it."
"The lord high chancellor? Impossible!"
"Yes, it would seem impossible that he should repeat any thing, and
therefore you may know how seriously the matter affects your highness
when I tell you that he sent me to warn you."
A quick, loud knock at the door interrupted him, and before the archduke
could say "Come in," the Emperor Francis was in the room. His face
looked careworn, and he cast a glance of tender compassion upon his son.
"My child," said he, "I come to speak to you in private a thing I cannot
compass in my own apartments."
Dominick bowed to take leave, but the emperor withheld him. "Stay," said
he, "for you may serve us, Dominick. I know you to be Joseph's best
friend, and you will not betray him. But I have no time for words. Tell
me quickly, Joseph, is there any secret outlet to these apartments? Do
you know of any hidden stairway by which you could escape from the
palace?"
"I, father! I have secret doors in my apartments? Is this some new
device of my enemies to injure me in the eyes of the empress?"
"Hush, hush, Joseph!--How like he is in temperament to his
mother!--Answer me at once; there is no question of enemies, but of
yourself."
"What would you have me do with secret doors and stairways?" asked
Joseph.
The emperor came close to his son, and, in low, cautious tones,
whispered, "I would have you, this very hour, leave the palace
privately, mount your horse, and speed away from Vienna."
"Fly, my dear father?" cried Joseph. "Has it come to this, that the son
must fly from the face of his own mother? Am I a criminal, who must not
be told of what crime I am accused? No, your majesty; if death, or
imprisonment for life, were here to threaten me, I would not fly."
"Nor would I counsel flight, my son, were you accused of wrong; but this
is not a question of crime, of poisoned beaker, or of castle dungeon--it
is simply this: Do you wish to join the army, or are you ready to give
up your commission and stay at home?"
"Oh, my dear father," cried Joseph, "you well know that I have but one
desire on earth--and that is, to go."
"Then, hear me. It has been represented to the empress that your lust
for war has made you so reckless, so bloodthirsty, and so impious, that
camp-life will prove your ruin. In her excess of maternal love, she has
taken the alarm, and has resolved to shield you from danger by
withdrawing her consent to your departure."
The archduke's eyes filled with tears. The emperor laid his hand
sympathizingly upon his shoulder.
"Do not despair, dear child," said he, tenderly; "perhaps all is not
lost, and I may be able to assist you. I can comprehend the nature of
your sorrow, for I have suffered the same bitter disappointment. If,
instead of leading a useless life, a mere appanage of the empress, I had
been permitted to follow the dictates of my heart, and command her
armies, I might have--but why speak of my waning career? You are young,
and I do not wish to see your life darkened by such early
disappointment. Therefore, listen to me. You know nothing of the change
in your prospects--you have not as yet, received no orders to remain.
Write to your mother, that, preferring to go without the grief of taking
leave, you have presumed to start tonight without her knowledge, hoping
soon to embrace her again, and lay your first-earned laurels at her
feet."
The archduke hastened to obey his father, and sat down to write. The
emperor, meanwhile, signed to young Kaunitz, who had kept himself
respectfully aloof.
"Have you a courser," asked he, "to sell to Joseph, and two good
servants that can accompany him until his own attendants can be sent
after him?"
"I came hither, your majesty, prepared to make the same proposition,
with the fleetest horse in my father's stables, and two trusty servants,
well mounted, all of which await his highness at the postern gate."
"Your father's best horse? Then he knows of this affair?" "It was he who
sent me to the archduke's assistance. He told me, in case of necessity,
to propose flight, and to be ready for it."
"The letter is ready," said the archduke, coming forward.
"I myself will hand it to the empress," said his father, taking it, "and
I will tell her that I counselled you to go as you did."
"But dear father, the empress will be angry."
"Well, my son," said the emperor, with a peculiar smile, "I have
survived so many little passing storms, that I shall doubtless survive
this one. The empress has the best and noblest heart in the world, and
its sunshine is always brightest after a storm. Go, then, my child, I
will answer for your sin and mine. The empress has said nothing to me of
her change of purpose; she looks upon it as a state affair, and with her
state affairs I am never made acquainted. Since accident has betrayed it
to me, I have a right to use my knowledge in your behalf, and I
undertake to appease your mother. Here is a purse with two thousand
louis d'ors; it is enough for a few days of incognito. Throw your
military cloak about you, and away!"
Young Kaunitz laid the cloak upon the shoulders of the archduke, whose
eyes beamed forth the gratitude that filled his heart.
"Oh my father and my sovereign," said he in a voice that trembled with
emotion, "my whole life will not be long enough to thank you for what
yon are doing for me in this critical hour. Till now I have loved you
indeed as my father, but henceforth I must look upon you as my
benefactor also, as my dearest and best friend. My heart and my soul are
yours, dear father; may I be worthy of your love and of the sacrifice
you are making for me to-day!"
The emperor folded his son to his heart, and kissed his fair forehead.
"Farewell, dear boy," whispered he; "return to me a victor and a hero.
May you earn for your father on the battle-field the laurels which he
has seen in dreams! God bless you!"
They then left the room, Count Kaunitz leading the way, to see if the
passage was clear.
"I will go with you as far as the staircase," continued the emperor,
"and then--"
At that moment Dominick, who had gone forward into the corridor, rushed
back into the room pale and trembling, "It is too late!" exclaimed he in
a stifled voice; "there comes a messenger from the empress!"
CHAPTER XI.
THE EMPRESS AND HER SON.
The young count was not mistaken. It was indeed a message from the
empress. It was the marshal of the household, followed by four pages who
came to command the presence of the archduke, to whom her majesty wished
to impart something of importance.
A deadly paleness overspread the face of the young prince, and his whole
frame shivered. The emperor felt the shudder, and drew his son's arm
closer to his heart. "Courage, my son, courage!" whispered he: then
turning toward the imperial embassy, he said aloud, "Announce to her
majesty that I will accompany the arch-duke in a few moments." And as
the marshal stood irresolute and confused, the emperor, smiling, said:
"Oh, I see that you have been ordered to accompany the prince
yourselves. Come, then, my son, we will e'en go along with the
messengers."
Maria Theresa was pacing the floor of her apartment in great excitement.
Her large, flashing eyes now and then turned toward the door; and
whenever she fancied that footsteps approached, she stopped, and seemed
almost to gasp with anxiety.
Suddenly she turned toward Father Porhaminer, who, with the Countess
Fuchs, stood by the side of the sofa from which she had risen. "Father,"
said she, in a tremulous voice, "I cannot tell why it is that, as I
await my son's presence here, my heart is overwhelmed with anguish. I
feel as if I were about to do him an injustice, and for all the kingdoms
of the world I would not do him wrong."
"Nay," replied the father, "your majesty is about to rescue that beloved
son from destruction; but as your majesty is a loving mother, it
afflicts you to disappoint your child. Still, our Lord has commanded if
the right eye offend, to pluck it out; and so is it your majesty's duty
to pluck from your son's heart the evil growing there, even were his
heart's blood to follow. The wounds you may inflict upon your dear
child, for God's sake, will soon be healed by His Almighty hand."
"He was so happy to become a soldier!" murmured the empress, who had
resumed her agitated walk; "his eyes were so bright, and his bearing was
so full of joy and pride! My boy is so handsome, so like his dear
father, that my heart throbs when I see him, as it did in the days when
we were young lovers! A laurel-wreath would well become his fair brow,
and I--how proudly I should have welcomed my young hero to my heart once
more! Dear, dear boy, must I then wake you so rudely from your first
dream of ambition?--I must. He would come to evil in the lawless life of
the camp; God forgive him, but he is as mad for the fight as Don John of
Austria! I should never see him again; he would seek death in his first
battle.. Oh, I could not survive it; my heart would break if I should
have to give up my first-born! Four of my children lie in the vaults of
St. Stephen's--I cannot part with my Joseph! Countess," she said,
turning suddenly to her lady of Honor, "is it not true that Joseph told
you he thought that the altar of the battle-field and the sacrifice, of
his enemies was--"
"His majesty the emperor and his imperial highness, the Archduke
Joseph!" said the marshal of the household; and the door was flung open
for their entrance.
Maria Theresa advanced, and bowed slightly to the emperor. "Your
majesty's visit at this unusual hour surprises me," said she with
emphasis.
"I am aware," replied the emperor graciously, "that I was not expected;
but as this is the last day of our son's residence under the parental
roof, I am sure that my wife will see nothing strange in my visit. I was
with the archduke when your majesty's message reached him, and knowing
that you could have no secrets with the son which the father might not
hear, I followed the impulse of my affection, and came with him."
"And what signifies this singular and unseemly dress in which my son
presents himself before his sovereign?" asked Maria Theresa, angrily
surveying the uniform which, nevertheless, she acknowledged in her heart
was beyond expression becoming to him.
"Pardon me, your majesty," replied the son, "I had tried on one uniform,
and if I was to obey your summons at once, there was no time for a
change in my dress."
"And, indeed," said the emperor, "I think the dress becoming. Our boy
will make a fine-looking soldier."
The empress being precisely of that opinion herself, was so much the
more vexed at her husband for giving it expression. She bit her lip, and
her brow contracted, as was usual with her when she was growing angry.
"You held it then as a fact, my son, that you were a soldier?" said she,
catching her breath with anxiety.
Joseph raised his fine eyes, with an imploring expression, to the face
of his mother. "Your majesty had promised me that I should be a
soldier," replied he firmly, "and I have never yet known my mother to
break her imperial word to the least of her subjects."
"Hear him!" cried the empress, with a laugh of derision, "he almost
threatens me! This young sir will try to make it a point of honor with
me to keep my word."
"Pardon me, your majesty," replied Joseph calmly, "I have never allowed
myself to doubt your imperial word for one moment of my life."
"Well, then, your highness has my imperial permission to doubt it now,"
cried the empress, severely humiliated by the implied rebuke; "I allow
you to doubt whether I will ever hold promises that have been rashly and
injudiciously made."
"Why, your majesty," cried the emperor, "surely you will not retract
your word in the face of the whole world, that knows of Joseph's
appointment!"
"What to me is the opinion of the world?" returned the haughty empress.
"To God and my conscience alone I am responsible for my acts, and to
them I will answer it that I take back my promise, and declare that
Joseph shall not go into the army!"
Joseph uttered a cry of anguish. "Mother! mother!" sobbed the unhappy
boy, "it cannot be!"
"Why can it not be?" said the empress, haughtily.
"Because it would be a cruel and heartless deed," cried the archduke,
losing all control over himself, "so to make sport of my holiest and
purest hopes in life; and because I never, never can believe that my own
mother would seek to break my heart."
The empress was about to return a scathing reply, when the emperor laid
his gentle hand upon her shoulder, and the words died upon her lips.
"I beseech of you, my wife," said he, "to remember that we are not
alone. Joseph is no child; and it ill becomes any but his parents to
witness his humiliation. Have the goodness, then, to dismiss your
attendants, and let us deal with our son alone."
"Why shall I dismiss them?" cried the empress, "they are my trusty
confidants; and they have a right to hear all that the future Emperor of
Austria presumes to say to his mother!"
"Pardon me," replied the emperor, "I differ with you, and desire that
they should not hear our family discussions. In these things I too have
my right; and if your majesty does not command them to leave the room, I
do."
Maria Theresa looked at the countenance of her husband, which was firm
and resolved in its expression. In her confusion she could find no
retort. The emperor waited awhile, and seeing that she did not speak, he
turned toward the two followers, who stood, without moving, at their
posts.
"I request the Countess Fuchs and Father Porhammer to leave the room,"
said he, with dignity. "Family concerns are discussed in private."
The pair did not go. Father Porhammer interrogated the face of the
empress; and the countess, indignant that her curiosity was to be
frustrated, looked defiant.
This bold disregard of her husband's command was irritating to the
feelings of the empress. She thought that his orders should have
outweighed her mere remonstrance, and she now felt it her duty to
signify as much.
"Countess Fuchs," said she, "doubtless the emperor has not spoken loud
enough for you to hear the command he has just given you. You have not
understood his words, and I will take the trouble to repeat them. The
emperor said, 'I request the Countess Fuchs and Father Porhammer to
leave the room. Our family concerns we will discuss in private.'"
The lady of honor colored, and, with deep inclinations, Father Porhammer
and herself left the room.
Maria Theresa looked after them until the door was shut, then she
smilingly reached her hand to the emperor, who thanked her with a
pressure and a look of deepest affection. The archduke had retired to
the embrasure of a window, perhaps to seek composure, perhaps to hide
his tears.
"Now," said Maria Theresa, sternly, while her fiery eyes sought the
figure of her son, "now we are alone, and Joseph is at liberty to speak.
I beg him to remember, that in the person of his mother, he also sees
his sovereign, and that the empress will resent every word of disloyalty
spoken to the parent. And I hold it to be highly disloyal for my son to
accuse me of making sport of his hopes. I have not come to my latest
determination from cruelty or caprice; I have made it in the strength of
my maternal love to shield my child from sin, and in the rectitude of my
imperial responsibility to my people, who have a right to claim from me
that I bestow upon them a monarch who is worthy to reign over Austria.
Therefore, my son, as empress and mother, I say that you shall remain.
That is now my unalterable will. If this decision grieves you, be humble
and submissive; and remember that it is your duty, as son and subject,
to obey without demurring. Then shall we be good friends, and greet one
another heartily, as though you had at this moment returned from the
victorious battle-field. There is my hand. Be welcome, my dear and
much-beloved child."
The heart of the empress had gradually softened, and as she smiled and
extended her hand, her beautiful eyes were filled to overflowing with
tears. But Joseph, deathly pale, crossed his arms, and returned her
glances of love with a haughty, defiant look, that almost approached to
dislike.
"My son," said the emperor, "do you not see your dear mother's hand
extended to meet yours?"
"I see it, I see it," cried Joseph, passionately, "but I cannot take
it--I cannot play my part in this mockery of a return. No, mother, no, I
cannot kiss the hand that has so cruelly dashed my hopes to earth. And
you wish to carry your tyranny so far as to exact that I receive it with
a smile? Oh, mother, my heart is breaking! Have pity on me, and take
back those cruel words; let me go, let me go. Do not make me a byword
for the world, that hereafter will refuse me its respect. Let me go, if
but for a few weeks, and on the day that you command my return, I will
come home. Oh, my heart was too small to hold the love I bore you for
your consent to my departure. It seemed to me that I had lust begun to
live; the world was full of beauty, and I forgot all the trials of my
childhood. For one week I have been young, dear mother; hurl me not back
again into that dark dungeon of solitude where so much of my short life
has been spent. Do not condemn me to live as I have hitherto lived; give
me freedom, give me my manhood's rights!"
"No, no! a thousand times no!" cried the exasperated empress; "I see now
that I am right to keep such an unfeeling and ungrateful son at home. He
talks of his sufferings forsooth! What has he ever suffered at my
hands?"
"What have I suffered?" exclaimed Joseph, whose teeth chattered as if he
were having a chill, and who was no longer in a state to suppress the
terrible eruption of his heart's agony. "What have I suffered, ask you?
I will tell you, empress-mother, what I have suffered since first I
could love, or think, or endure. As a child I have felt that my mother
loved another son more than she loved me. When my longing eyes sought
hers, they were riveted upon another face. When my brother and I have
sinned together, he has been forgiven, when I have been punished. Sorrow
and jealousy were in my heart, and no one cared enough for me to ask why
I wept. I was left to suffer without one word of kindness--and you
wondered that I was taciturn, and mocked at my slighted longings for
love, and called them by hard names. And then you pointed to my caressed
and indulged brother, and bade me be gay like him!"
"My son, my son!" cried the emperor, "control yourself; you know not
what you say."
"Let him go on, Francis," said the pale mother, "it is well that I
should know his heart at last."
"Yes," continued the maddened archduke, "let me go on, for in my heart
there is nothing but misery and slighted affection. Oh, mother, mother!"
exclaimed he, suddenly changing from defiance to the most pathetic
entreaty, "on my knees I implore you to let me go; have mercy, have
mercy upon your wretched son!"
And the young prince, with outstretched hands, threw himself upon his
knees before his mother. The long-suppressed tears gushed forth, and the
wild tempest of his ungovernable fury was spent, and now he sobbed as if
indeed his young heart was breaking.
The emperor could scarcely restrain the impulse he felt to weep with his
son; but he came and laid his hand upon the poor boy's head, and looked
with passionate entreaty at the empress.
"Dear Theresa," said he, "be compassionate and forgiving. Pardon him,
beloved, the hard and unjust words which, in the bitterness of a first
sorrow, he has spoken to the best of mothers. Raise him up from the
depths of his despair, and grant the boon, for which, I am sure, he will
love you beyond bounds."
"I wish that I dared to grant it to yourself, Francis," replied the
empress, sadly and tearfully; "but you see that he has made it
impossible. I dare not do it. The mother has no right to plead with the
empress for her rebellious son. What he has said I freely forgive--God
grant that I may forget it! Well do I know how stormy is youth, and I
remember that Joseph is my son. It is the wild Spanish blood of my
ancestry that boils in his veins, and, therefore, I forgive him with all
my heart. But revoke my last sentence--that I cannot do. To do so would
be to confirm him in wrong. Rise, my son Joseph--I forgive all your
cruel words; but what I have said, I have said. You remain at home."
Joseph rose slowly from his knees. The tears in his eyes were dried; his
lips were compressed, and once more he wore the old look of cold and
sullen indifference. He made a profound inclination before his mother.
"I have heard the empress's commands," said he, in a hoarse and
unnatural voice; "it is my duty to obey. Allow me to go to my prison,
that I may doff this manly garb, which is no longer suitable to my
blasted career."
Without awaiting the answer, he turned away, and with hasty strides left
the room.
The empress watched him in speechless anxiety. As the door closed upon
him, her features assumed an expression of tenderness and she said: "Go
quickly, Franz--go after him. Try to comfort and sustain him. I do not
know why, but I feel uneasy--"
At that moment a cry was heard in the anteroom, and the fall of a heavy
body to the floor.
"God help me--it is Joseph!" shrieked the empress; and, forgetting all
ceremony, she darted from the room, and rushed by her dismayed
attendants through the anteroom, out into the corridor. Stretched on the
floor, insensible and lifeless, lay her son.
Without a word the empress waved off the crowd that was assembled around
his body. The might of her love gave her supernatural strength, and
folding her arms around her child, she covered his pale face with
kisses, and from the very midst of the frightened attendants she bore
him herself to her room, where she laid him softly upon her own bed.
No one except the emperor had ventured to follow. He stood near, and
reached the salts, to which the empress had silently pointed. She rubbed
her son's temples, held the salts to his nostrils, and at last, when he
gave signs of life, she turned to the emperor and burst into tears.
"Oh, Franz," said she, "I almost wish that he were sick, that day and
night I might watch by his bedside, and his poor heart might feel the
full extent of a mother's love for her first-born child."
Perhaps God granted her prayer, that these two noble hearts might no
longer be estranged, but that each might at last meet the other in the
fullest confidence of mutual love.
A violent attack of fever followed the swoon of the archduke. The
empress never left his side. He slept in her own room, and she watched
over him with gentlest and most affectionate care.
Whenever Joseph awaked from his fever-dreams and unclosed his eyes
there, close to his bedside he saw the empress, who greeted him with
loving words and softest caresses. Whenever, in his fever-thirst, he
called for drink, her hand held the cup to his parched lips; and
whenever that soft, cool hand was laid upon his hot brow, he felt as if
its touch chased away all pain and soothed all sorrow.
When he recovered enough to sit up, still his mother would not consent
for him to leave her room for his own. As long as he was an invalid, he
should be hers alone. In her room, and through her loving care, should
he find returning health. His sisters and brothers assembled there to
cheer him with their childish mirth, and his young friend, Dominick
Kaunitz, came daily to entertain him with his lively gossip. Altogether,
the archduke was happy. If he had lost fame, he had found love.
One day, when, cushioned in his great soft arm-chair, he was chatting
with his favorite tutor, Count Bathiany, the empress entered the room,
her face lit up with a happy smile, while in her hands she held an etui
of red morocco.
"What think you I have in this etui, dear?" she said, coming forward,
and bending over her son to bestow a kiss.
"I do not know; but I guess it is some new gift of love from my mother's
dear hand."
"Yes--rightly guessed. It is a genuine gift of love and, with God's
grace, it may prove the brightest gift in your future crown. Since I
would not let you leave my house, my son, I feel it my duty, at least,
to do my best to make your home a happy one. I also wish to show you
that, in my sight, you are no longer a boy, but a man worthy to govern
your own household. Look at the picture in this case, and if it pleases
you, my darling son, I give you, not only the portrait but the ORIGINAL
also."
She handed him the case, in which lay the miniature of a young girl of
surpassing beauty, whose large, dark eyes seemed to gaze upon him with a
look of melancholy entreaty.
The archduke contemplated the picture for some time, and gradually over
his pale face there stole a flush of vague delight.
"Well!" asked the empress, "does the maiden please you?"
"Please me!" echoed the archduke, without withdrawing his eyes from the
picture. "'Tis the image of an angel! There is something in her look so
beseeching, something in her smile so sad, that I feel as if I would
fall at her feet and weep; and yet, mother--"
"Hear him, Franz," cried Maria Theresa to the emperor, who, unobserved
by his son, had entered the room. "Hear our own child! love in his heart
will be a sentiment as holy, as faithful, and as profound as it has been
with us for many happy years! Will you have the angel for your wife,
Joseph?"
The archduke raised his expressive eyes to the face of his mother. "If I
will have her!" murmured he, sadly. "Dear mother, would she deign to
look upon me? Will she not rather turn away from him to whom the whole
world is indifferent?"
"My precious child, she will love and honor you, as the world will do,
when it comes to know your noble heart." And once more the empress bent
over her son and imprinted a kiss upon his pale brow. "It is settled
then, my son, that you shall offer your hand to this beautiful girl. In
one week you will have attained your nineteenth birthday, and you shall
give a good example to your sisters. Do you like the prospect?"
"Yes, dear mother, I am perfectly satisfied."
"And you do not ask her name or rank?"
"You have chosen her for me; and I take her from your hand without name
or rank."
"Well," cried the delighted empress, "Count Bathiany, you have ever been
the favorite preceptor of the archduke. Upon you, then, shall this
honorable mission devolve. To-morrow, as ambassador extraordinary from
our court, you shall go in state to ask of Don Philip of Parma the hand
of his daughter Isabella for his imperial highness, the crown prince of
Austria."
CHAPTER XII.
AN ITALIAN NIGHT.
The moon is up, but she is hidden behind heavy masses of clouds
--welcome clouds that shelter lovers' secrets. The fountains, whose
silvery showers keep such sweet time to the murmurings of love, plash
gently on, hushing the sound of lovers' voices; on the bosom of yonder
marble-tinctured lake, two snow-white swans are floating silently; and,
far amid groves of myrtle and olive, the nightingale warbles her notes
of love. Not a step echoes through the long avenues of the ducal park,
not a light glimmers from the windows of the ducal palace. 'Tis the hour
of midnight, and gentle sleep hath come to all.
To all, save two. Stay yet awhile behind the cloud, O tell-tale moon!
for there--there are the lovers. See where fair Juliet leans from the
marble balcony; while Romeo, below, whispers of plighted vows that
naught shall cancel save--death!
"To-morrow, beloved, to-morrow, thou wilt be mine forever?"
"I will be thine in the face of the whole world."
"And wilt thou never repent? Hast thou strength to brave the world's
scorn for my sake?"
"Do I need strength to stretch forth my hand for that which is dearer to
me than all the world beside? Oh, there is selfishness in my love,
Riccardo, for it loses sight of the dangers that will threaten thee on
the day when thou callest me wife!"
"There is but one danger, dearest--that of losing thee! I know no
other."
"Still, be cautious, for my sake. Remember, we live on Spanish soil,
though Italy's skies are overhead; and Spanish vengeance is sharp and
swift. Betray not thy hopes by smile or glance--in a few davs we will be
far away in the paradise where our happiness shall be hidden from all
eyes, save those of angels. Be guarded therefore, dear one--for see!
Even now the moon is forth again in all her splendor; and were my
father's spies to track thee!--Gracious Heaven, go! Think of Spanish
daggers, and let us part for a few short hours."
"Well, I will go, strengthened to turn my eyes from thy beauty, by
thoughts of to-morrow's bliss! In the chapel I await thee."
"I will be there. The priest will not betray us?"
"He was the friend of my childhood--we may trust him, Isabella."
"Then, Heaven bless thee! good-night. Hark!--did I not hear something
rustle in the thicket?"
"The wind sighing through the pine-trees, love."
"Then, adieu, till morning."
"Adieu, sweet one!"
The moon burst forth in full radiance, and revealed the manly form that
hurried through the avenue; while clear as in noonday could be seen the
slender white figure that watched his retreating steps.
He is hidden now, but she still lingers, listening enraptured to the
fountain's murmur and the nightingale's song; looking upward at the moon
as she wandered through heaven's pathless way, and thinking that never
had earth or sky seemed so lovely before--
But hark! What sounds are those? A cry, a fearful cry rends the air; and
it comes from the thicket where, a moment before, he disappeared from
her sight.
She started--then, breathless as a statue, she listened in deadly
suspense. Again that cry, that dreadful cry, pierces through the
stillness of the night, freezing her young heart with horror! "His
death-wail!" cried the wretched girl; and careless of danger, scarce
knowing what she did, heeding nothing but the sound of her lover's
voice, she sprang from the balcony, and as though moonbeams had drawn
her thither, she swung herself to the ground. For one moment her slight
form wavered, then she darted forward and flew through the avenue to the
thicket. Away she sped, though the moon shone so bright that she could
be distinctly seen, her own shadow following like a dusky phantom
behind.
Be friendly, now, fair moon, and light her to her lover, that she may
look into his eyes once more before they close forever!
She has reached the spot, and, with a low cry, she throws herself by the
side of the tall figure that lies stretched at its length upon the green
sward.
Yes, it is he; he whom she loves; the soul of her soul, the life of her
life! And he lies cold and motionless, his eyes staring blindly upon the
heavens, his purple lips unclosing to exhale his last sighs, while from
two hideous wounds in his side the blood streams over the white dress of
his betrothed. But he is not dead; his blood is still warm.
She bends over and kisses his cold lips; she tears her lace mantle from
her shoulders, and, pressing it to his wounds, tries to stanch the
life-blood welling from his side. The mantle grows scarlet with his
gore, but the lips are whiter and colder with each kiss. She knows,
alas! that there is one nearer to him now than she--Azrael is between
her and her lover. He grows colder, stiffer; and--O God!--the
death-rattle!
"Take me with thee, take me, take me!" screamed the despairing girl; and
her arms clasped frantically around the body, until they seemed as if
they were indeed stiffening into one eternal embrace.
"Have pity, Riccardo! My life, my soul, leave me not here without thee!
One word--one look, beloved!"
She stared at him in wild despair, and seeing that he made no sign of
response to her passionate appeal, she raised her hands to heaven, and
kneeling by his side, she prayed.
"O God, merciful God, take not his fleeting life until he has given me
one last word--until he has told me how long we shall be parted!"
Her arms sank heavily down, and she sought the face of the dying man,
whispering--oh, how tenderly!--"Hear me, my own; tell me when I shall
follow thee to heaven!"
She ceased, for suddenly she felt him tremble; his eyes moved until they
met hers, and once more a smile flitted across those blanched lips. He
raised his head, and slowly his body moved, until, supported in HER
arms, he sat erect. Enraptured, he laid her cheek to his, and waited;
for love had called him back to life, and he would speak.
"We shall meet again in three--"
He fell back, and with a last cry expired. Love had struggled hard with
death; but death had won the victory.
Isabel shed no tears. She closed her lover's eyes; gave him one long,
last kiss; and, as she bent over him, her hair was soaked in his blood.
She took the mantle, wet with gore, and pressed it to her heart.
"Precious mantle," said she, "we need not part; in three days--or
perchance he said three hours--we shall lie together in the coffin!
Until then, Riccardo, farewell!"
Slowly she turned and left the horrible place. Without faltering she
came up the long moonlit avenue, her head thrown back, and her large,
lustrous eyes fixed upon heaven, as though she sought to find her
lover's soul somewhere among the floating clouds.
The moon flung its radiance around her path; and ever, as she walked, it
grew brighter, until the poor, stricken child of earth looked like a
glorified saint. "God grant that it be three hours!" murmured she;
"three days were an eternity!"
She reached the palace, without having thought that there was no door
open by which she could enter, when suddenly a form emerged from the
shadowed wall, and a woman's voice whispered:
"Quick, for Heaven's sake! the side-door is open, and all in the palace
sleep!"
"I, too, in three hours shall sleep!" cried Isabella, triumphantly, and
with these words she fell to the ground in a swoon. [Footnote: Caroline
Pichler, "Memoirs of My Life." Part I. page 139.]
CHAPTER XIII.
ISABELLA OF PARMA.
The Princess Isabella slept unusually late the next morning. Her little
bell, that summoned the ladies of honor, had not yet rung, and the day
was far advanced. The first cameriera seemed troubled, and whispered her
apprehensions that the princess was sick; for she had observed, for some
days, she said, that her highness had looked pale.
"But we must go into her room, ladies," added she; "for it is almost
time for her highness to visit the duke, and he never forgives an
omission of ceremonial. Follow me, then; _I_ will undertake to awaken
the princess."
She opened the door softly, and entered the sleeping-room of the
princess, followed by the other maids of honor.
"She sleeps yet," said the cameriera; "but I MUST waken her," murmured
she to herself, "it is my duty."
She advanced, and drew aside the heavy folds of the pink silk curtains
that hung around the bed.
"Pardon me, your highness," she whispered; "but--"
She stopped; for, to her great surprise, the princess was awake. She lay
in her long white night-dress, with her hands crossed over her breast,
and her head cushioned on the rose-colored pillow that contrasted
painfully with the pallor of her marble-white face. Her large eyes were
distended, and fixed upon a picture of the blessed Virgin that hung at
the foot of the bed. Slowly her looks turned upon her attendants, who,
breathless and frightened, gazed upon the rosy pillow, and the pallid
face that lay in its midst, dazzling their eyes with its whiteness.
"Pardon me," again whispered the cameriera, "it is almost noonday."
"What hour?" murmured the princess.
"It is ten o'clock, your highness."
The princess shivered, and exclaimed, "For three days, then!" And
turning away, she began to pray in a low voice, and none but God knew
the meaning of that whispered prayer.
Her prayer over, she passed her little white hand over the dark locks
that fell around her face and made an effort to rise.
Her maids of honor saw that she was ill, and hastened to assist her. The
hour of the princess's toilet was to her attendants the most delightful
hour of the day. From her bedchamber all ceremonial was banished; and
there, with her young companions, Isabella was accustomed to laugh,
jest, sing, and be as merry and as free from care as the least of her
father's subjects.
Philip of Parma was by birth a Spaniard, one of the sons of Philip the
Fifth. After the vicissitudes of war which wrested Naples and Parma from
the hands of Austria, Don Carlos of Spain became king of Naples, and Don
Philip, duke of Parma. Isabella, then a child of seven years, had been
allowed the privilege of taking with her to Italy her young playmates,
who, for form's sake, as she grew older, became her maids of honor. But
they were her dear and chosen friends, and with them she was accustomed
to speak the Spanish language only.
Her mother, daughter of Louis XV., had introduced French customs into
the court of Parma, and during her life the gayety and grace of French
manners had rendered that court one of the most attractive in Europe.
But the lovely Duchess of Parma died, and with her died all that made
court life endurable. The French language was forbidden, and French
customs were banished. Some said that the duke had loved his wife so
deeply, that in his grief he had excluded from his court every thing
suggestive of his past happiness. Others contended that he had made her
life so wretched by his jealous and tyrannical conduct, that remorse had
driven him to banish, if possible, every reminder of the woman whom he
had almost murdered.
In the hearts of her children the mother's memory was enshrined; and the
brother and sister were accustomed for her sake, in their private
intercourse, to speak HER language altogether.
At court they spoke the language of the country; and Isabella--who with
her friends sang boleros and danced the cachuca; with her brother, read
Racine and Corneille--was equally happy while she hung enraptured upon
the strains of Pergolese's music, or gazed entranced upon the pictures
of Correggio and the Veronese. The princess herself was both a painter
and musician, and no one, more than she, loved Italy and Italian art.
Such, until this wretched morning, had been the life of young Isabella.
What was she now? A cold, white image, in whose staring eyes the light
was quenched--from whose blanched lips the smile had fled forever!
Her grieved attendants could scarcely suppress their tears, as sadly and
silently they arrayed her in her rich robes; while she, not seeming to
know where she was, gazed at her own reflected image with a look of
stupid horror. They dressed her beautiful hair, and bound it up in massy
braids. They smoothed it over her death-cold forehead, and shuddered to
see how like a corpse she looked. At last the task was at an end, and
the cameriera coming toward her, offered the cup of chocolate which she
was accustomed to drink at that hour. Tenderly she besought the unhappy
girl to partake of it, but Isabella waved away the cup, saying:
"Dear friend, offer me no earthly food. I pine for the banquet of
angels. Let the chaplain be called to bring the viaticum. I wish to
receive the last sacraments of the dying."
A cry of horror burst from the lips of the maids of honor.
"The chaplain! The last sacraments! For you, my beloved child?" asked
the sobbing cameriera.
"For me," replied Isabella.
"Heavenly Father!" exclaimed the aja. "Have you then presumed to
anticipate the will of God, and to go before His presence, uncalled?"
"No, no, death will come to me, I will not seek it. I will endure life
as long as God wills, but, in three days, I shall be called hence."
The young girls crowded around her, weeping, and imploring her not to
leave them.
Isabella's white lips parted with a strange smile. "You tell me not to
die, dear friends; do you not see that I am already dead? My heart is
bleeding."
The hand of the cameriera was laid upon her arm, and she whispered: "My
child, be silent; you know not what you say."
Isabella bowed her head, and then looking tenderly around at her
kneeling companions, she said: "Rise and sit by me, my dear girls, and
listen to what I am about to say, for we speak together for the last
time on earth. "
The maidens arose, and obeyed, while Isabella leaned her head for a few
moments upon the bosom of her mother's friend, the cameriera. There was
a pause, during which the poor girl seemed to have received some comfort
in those friendly arms; for she finally sighed, and, raising her head
again, she spoke solemnly, but not unnaturally.
"I had last night a singular vision," she said. "The spirit of my mother
appeared to me, and said that in three days I was to die. I believe in
this vision. Do not weep, dear sisters; I go to eternal rest. Life is
bitter, death is sweet. Pray for me, that my mother's prophetic words be
verified; and you, beloved friend of that mother," added she, kissing
the cameriera's cheek, "you who know the depths of my heart, and its
secret, silent agony, pray for your child, and praying, ask of her
heavenly Father--death."
The aja made no reply, she was weeping with the others.
Isabella contemplated the group for a moment, while a ray of life lit up
her eyes, showing that, even now, it was sad to part from her friends
forever. But the expression was momentary. Her face returned to its
deadly paleness, as gasping for breath, she stammered:
"Now--now--for--my father! Estrella, go to the apartments of the duke,
and say that I desire an interview with his royal highness."
The young girl returned in a few moments with an answer. His royal
highness had that morning gone some distance in the country on a hunting
excursion, and would be absent for several days.
Isabella looked at the cameriera, who still stood beside her, and her
pale lips quivered. "Did I not know it?" whispered she; "I told you
truly, HE did it! God forgive him, I cannot.--And now," continued she,
aloud, "now to my last earthly affairs."
So saying, she called for her caskets of jewels and divided them between
the young maids of honor; and cutting from her hair one rich, massy
lock, she placed it in Estrella's hand, saying, "Share it among you
all."
To the cameriera she gave a sealed packet, and then bade them leave her
to herself; for the ringing of the chapel bell announced the departure
of the priest thence, with the blessed sacrament.
The sacred rites were ended. On her knees the Princess Isabella had made
her confession, and had revealed to the shuddering priest the horrible
secrets of the preceding night. She had received absolution, and had
partaken of the holy communion.
"Now, my child," said the priest, in a voice tremulous with sympathy,
"you have received the blessing of God, and you are prepared for His
coming. May He be merciful to you, and grant your prayer for release
from this earth! I, too, will pray that your martyrdom be short."
"Amen!" softly murmured Isabella.
"But the ways of the Lord are inscrutable, and it may be that He wills
it otherwise. If, in His incomprehensible wisdom, He should declare that
your days shall be long on this earth, promise me to endure your lot
with resignation, nor seek to hasten what He has deemed it best to
delay?"
"I promise, holy father."
"Make a vow, then, to the Lord, that by the memory of your mother you
will fulfil every duty that presents itself to you in life, until God
has spoken the word that will call you to Himself."
"I swear, by the memory of my mother, that I will live a life of
resignation and of usefulness until God in His mercy, shall free me from
my prison."
"Right, dear unhappy child," said the father, smoothing, with his
trembling hands, the soft hair that lay on either side of her forehead.
"May God reward thee, and in His infinite mercy shorten thy sufferings!"
He stooped, and kissing her pale brow, made the sign of the cross above
her kneeling figure. Then, with eyes blinded by tears, he slowly
retreated to his own room, where he threw himself upon his knees and
prayed that God would give strength to them both to bear the cross of
that dreadful secret.
Isabella, too, remained alone. In feverish longing for death, she sat,
neither hearing the voices of her friends who begged for admission, nor
the pleadings of her brother, who besought her to see him and give him
one last embrace. Through the long night that followed, still kneeling,
she prayed. When the sun rose, she murmured, "To-morrow!" and through
the day her fancy wandered to the verge of madness. Sometimes visions of
beckoning angels swarmed around her; then they fled, and in their places
stood a hideous skeleton, that, with ghastly smile, held out his
fleshless hand, and strove to clasp hers.
Again the night set in, and the next morning at break of day, Isabella
rose from her knees, and, hailing the rising sun, cried exultingly,
"To-day!"
Exhausted from fasting and such long vigils, her head reeled, and she
staggered to her couch. A cold shudder crept over her limbs; all was
dark as night about her; she tried to clasp her hands in prayer and
could not, for they were numb and powerless. "This is welcome death!"
thought she, and her lips parted with a happy smile. Her head fell
backward on the pillow, and her senses fled.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE AMBASSADOR EXTRAORDINARY.
The Princess Isabella opened her eyes, and in their dark and lustrous
depths shone returning reason; they glared no more with fever-madness,
but were sadder and sweeter than ever.
She gazed at the forms that surrounded her bedside; at the priest, who,
with folded hands, was praying at her head; at the cameriera, who knelt
beside him; at the young girls, who, gathered in a lovely group at her
feet, smiled and wept by turns as she looked upon them; and lastly, she
felt a kiss upon her hand, and, looking there, she beheld her brother,
who wept with joy.
"Where am I?" asked she, feebly.
"You are with those who love you best, darling," said Fernando,
joyfully. "With us, who have prayed so long, that the good God has heard
and restored you to life."
"I still live, then," said she, sadly. "And how long have I lain here,
friends?"
The priest advanced, and blessing her, took her by the hand. "For four
weeks, daughter, you have been unconscious of every thing that passed
around you. You see, therefore, that your heavenly Father bids you
live."
"Four weeks?" whispered the poor girl. "Then, in three months we shall
meet again."
She closed her eyes, and lay silent for a while. At length, the priest,
bending close to her ear, whispered, "Think, daughter, of the vows,
which, by the memory of your mother, you have made to God!"
"I will remember them," murmured she, sadly.
And from this day she mended, until life and strength were restored to
her even as before. She thought of her vow, and made no resistance to
the will of Heaven; but she hoped for death, and awaited her three
months.
Sustained by these hopes, she recovered. But her heart was wounded past
all cure; gone were her smiles and her songs. Quietly, sadly, and
solemnly glided away the new life to which she had been born through
death.
The first day on which she felt able to leave her room, she sent to
crave an audience of her father. She had been told that, during her
delirium, he had often visited her chamber; but, since her
convalescence, he had not sent so much as an inquiry after her health.
He did not, however, deny the interview she sought. He awaited his
daughter, said the messenger, in his own apartments.
The princess shuddered, and a deadly faintness came over her.
"My God! my God! will I ever be able to go through this bitter hour?
Must I, indeed, look upon him who--"
She closed her eyes to shut out the frightful remembrance. Then,
gathering all her strength for the trial, she rose to seek her father,
and make one last request of him.
With her head thrown proudly back, and her dark eyes flashing with
resolve, she entered his cabinet.
The duke was entirely alone. He had dismissed his attendants, and now
stood in the centre of the room, awaiting his daughter in gloomy
silence. His cold, stern features had grown more repulsive than ever to
the unhappy girl; his piercing eyes more revengeful; his thin, pale lips
more cruel. He seemed to her a pitiless stranger, and she could not
advance to meet him. Powerless and faint, she stood at the door; all her
strength gone.
A few moments of anguish went by, and then the duke, extending his hand,
said, in a tone of command, "Come hither, Isabella."
She stepped forward, and almost touched his hand, when, shuddering, her
arm dropped heavily down, and forgetting all caution, she murmured, in
tones of deepest agony, "I cannot! I cannot!"
The duke's eyes shot fire, as he, too, dropped his extended hand, and
deep, angry folds wrinkled his forehead.
"Why have you desired this interview?" asked he.
"I have a request to prefer, my father," replied Isabella.
He bent his head. "Speak," said he.
"I come to entreat of my father the permission to take the veil."
"And wherefore, I should like to know?" said the duke, carelessly.
"That I may dedicate my few remaining days to the service of the Lord."
"Girlish folly!" said he, with a contemptuous laugh, while he paced up
and down the room.
Isabella made no reply, but stood awaiting a more direct answer to her
petition. Suddenly, he came up to her, and spoke:
"I cannot grant your request," said he. "I have other plans for you. The
grandchild of the King of Spain cannot be permitted to die a penitent in
a cloister; if she has atonement to make for crime, let her make it, not
under the serge of the nun, but under the purple of the empress."
"I have no ambition," said Isabella, trembling. "Allow me, I entreat
you, to enter a convent."
"I repeat that I have other plans for you. I, too, have no ambition for
YOU," said the father, coldly, "but I am ambitious for my house, and
through you I shall attain my end. One of the greatest monarchs of
Europe has sought your hand for the heir of her throne, and I have
resolved that you shall become his wife."
"Fate will refuse it to him--Fate, more merciful than my father. I have
but a few weeks to live--before a month has elapsed, I shall be in my
grave."
"Go there, if it pleases you," cried the duke, "but die with royal robes
about you. You shall not die a nun."
"No one on earth, my father, has a right to detain me. If your highness
refuse your consent. I will fly to a convent without your permission.
And princely though you be, you shall not drag from the altar the bride
of the Lord."
"Ah, you rebel against my authority!" cried the duke, with a look that
sent a deadly pang to the heart of his daughter. "Know, that I have
power to judge you for such treason, and lay your defiant head upon the
block!"
"I do not fear death," replied Isabella; "I await it with impatience."
"Ah! you are possessed with a lovesick desire to die! But hear what I
have to say, and mark it well. I will relate to you an affair that took
place--whilst you were ill. The only son of one of the noblest families
in Parma, the pride of his race, and the idol of his parents, conceived
a plot against my house, whose treason was equal to parricide. I learned
his designs; and with my own eyes and my own ears, I verified his guilt.
He was an archtraitor; he had deserved to die on the scaffold. But I had
pity on his family, and spared them the disgrace of a public execution.
I took his life secretly, and his parents are spared the shame of
knowing how he died. Shall I tell you the name of this dead traitor?"
Isabella raised her hand, and parting her blanched lips, she said
hoarsely, "No no! in mercy, no!"
"Very well, then I proceed. This traitor, whom I judged, and to whom I
deat his death-stab, had an accomplice. Do you listen?"
Like a broken lily, Isabella's head sank down upon her breast.
"Ah! you listen. The accomplice is placed in a position which makes it
inexpedient for me to punish her in her own person. But should she
thwart me, should she not fully and cheerfully comply with my demands
upon her loyalty, I will see that she suffers more than death in the
family of her accomplice. I shall publish the guilt of the dead criminal
to the whole world; I will disgrace and dishonor his whole race, and his
young sister, with her parents, shall be driven penniless from my
realms, to beg or starve in a stranger land."
"Father!" cried the wretched girl, while her every limb quivered with
the torture he inflicted, "I am ready to do your will. I will marry whom
you choose, and so long as God condemns me to earth, I will obey you in
all things. But you shall promise me on your princely honor to shield
from all shame or harm the family of--of--the deceased; to befriend his
sister, and if she should ever wish to marry, to honor and favor her
choice. Promise me this, and as long as I live I submit to your will."
"I promise, on my honor, to do all this, and to forget for their sakes
the crime of their son."
"I promise also, on my sacred honor, to accept the husband you have
chosen for me. But I will not suffer long, for my life is almost spent."
The duke shrugged his shoulders.
"Your highness," continued his daughter, "will inform me on what day I
am to be affianced. I await your commands, and beg your highness's
permission to withdraw to my apartments."
"Have you nothing more to say to your father, Isabella?" asked he in a
faltering voice.
"Nothing more to say to your royal highness." She courtesied deeply,
and, without a glance at her father, left the room.
The duke looked after her with an expression of sorrow. "I have lost her
forever!" said he. "When I struck him, I pierced her heart also. Well,
so let it be! Better a dead child than a dishonored house!"
He then rang a little golden bell, and ordered preparations to be made
for another grand hunt on the morrow.
Isabella accepted her destiny nobly. She resolved to fulfil her promises
strictly; but she hoped that God would be satisfied with the sacrifice,
and release her before the day of her nuptials.
Finally came the day on which, for the third time, she had hoped to die.
She felt a solemn joy steal over her heart, and she desired her maids of
honor to deck her in bridal white. Her dark hair was wreathed with
orange-blossoms, and in her bosom she wore an orange-bud. She was lovely
beyond expression, and her attendants whispered among themselves, though
Isabella neither saw nor heard them. She who awaited death took no heed
of what was going on around her in the palace.
And yet her stake in that palace was great. On the day before the
embassy had arrived, which was to change her fate, and open to her a new
life at the court of the Austrian empress.
The duke had received his guests with royal courtesy. But he had
besought the count to postpone his interview with the princess until the
morrow; for with cruel mockery of his child's sorrow, Philip of Parma
had contrived that the day on which she had hoped to meet her dead
lover, should be the day of her betrothal to the Archduke of Austria.
Isabella was the only person in the palace who had not heard of the
arrival. She had withdrawn into her private cabinet, and there she
counted every pulsation of her heart. She dared not hope to die a
natural death; she was looking forward to some accident that was to
release her from life; something direct from the hand of God she thought
would, on that day, make good the prophecy of her lover.
She hoped, watched, prayed. She was startled from her solitude by a
knocking at the door, and her father's voice called for admission.
The princess, obedient to her promise, rose and opened the door. Her
father surveyed her with a smile of derision. "You have done well," said
he, "to deck yourself as a bride; not as the bride of Death, but as the
affianced wife of the LIVING lover who will one day make you empress of
Austria. His ambassador awaits us now in the great hall of state. Follow
me into the next room, where your maids of honor are assembled to attend
you. Mark me, Isabella! When we arrive in the hall, the ambassador will
advance, and in terms befitting the honor conferred, he will request
your acceptance of the archduke's hand. I leave it to your tact and
discretion to answer him as becomes the princess of a great and royal
house."
"And will your highness perform your promise to ME?" asked Isabella
calmly. "Shall his parents live secure in possession of their noble name
and estates; and shall his sister be the special object of your
highness's protection and favor?"
"I will do all this, provided you give me satisfaction as relates to
your marriage."
Isabella bowed. "Then I am ready to accompany your royal highness to the
hall of state, and to accept with courtesy the offer of the Austrian
ambassador."
Forth went the beautiful martyr and her train through the gorgeous
apartments of the palace, until they reached the hall of the throne.
In the centre of the hall the duke left his daughter and her attendants,
while he mounted the throne and took his seat upon the ducal chair.
And now advanced Count Bathiany. With all the fervor which her matchless
beauty inspired, he begged of the princess her fair hand for his future
sovereign the Archduke of Austria. As the count ceased, every eye turned
toward the infanta. She had listened with calm dignity to the words of
the ambassador, and her large, melancholy eyes had been riveted upon his
face while he delivered his errand. There was a pause--a few moments
were needed by that broken heart to hush its moanings, and bare itself
for the sacrifice. The brow of the duke darkened, and he was about to
interpose, when he saw his daughter bow her head. Then she spoke, and
every one bent forward to listen to the silvery tones of her voice.
"I feel deeply honored," said she, "by the preference of her imperial
majesty of Austria; an alliance with her eldest son is above my deserts;
but since it is their desire, I accept the great honor conferred upon
me. I regret, however, that their majesties should have directed their
choice toward me; for I am convinced that I shall not live long enough
to fulfil the destiny to which this marriage calls me." [Footnote: The
infanta's own words; as veritably historical as is this whole relation
of her death-prophecy and its unhappy fulfilment. See Wraxall, "Memoirs
of the Courts," etc., and Caroline Pichler.]
When at last the ceremonies of this day of agony were ended; when the
infanta had dismissed her ladies of honor, and was once more
alone--alone with God and with the past, she threw herself upon her
couch, and, with her hands meekly folded across her breast, she lay,
looking up, far beyond the palace dome to heaven.
There she prayed until midnight, and when the clock had told the hour,
she arose to the new life that awaited her, with its new promises, new
expectations, new ties--but no new hopes.
"Heavenly Father," exclaimed she, "it has begun, and I will bear it to
the bitter end! I am now the betrothed, and soon will be the wife of
another. If I have sinned in my consent to marry one whom I can never
love, pardon me, O Lord! and hear me vow that I will faithfully fulfil
my duty toward him. I am the affianced of another! Farewell, my beloved,
farewell, FOR THREE LONG YEARS!"
CHAPTER XV.
THE DREAM OF LOVE.
The wedding-festival was over, and Vienna was resting from the fatigue
of the brilliant entertainments by which the marriage of the archduke
had been followed, both in court and city. And indeed the rejoicings had
been conducted with imperial magnificence. For eight days, the people of
Vienna, without respect of rank, had been admitted to the palace, to
witness the court festivities; while in the city and at Schonbrunn,
nightly balls were given at the expense of the empress, where the happy
Viennese danced and feasted to their hearts' content.
They had returned the bounty of their sovereign by erecting triumphal
arches, strewing the ground with flowers, and rending the air with
shouts, whenever the young archduchess had appeared in the streets.
The great maestro Gluck had composed an opera for the occasion; and
when, on the night of its representation, the empress made her
appearance in the imperial loge, followed by the archduke and his bride,
the enthusiasm of the people was so great that Gluck waited a quarter of
an hour, baton in hand, before he could begin his overture.
But now the jubilee was over, the shouts were hushed, the people had
returned to their accustomed routine of life, and the exchequer of the
empress was minus--one million of florins.
The court had withdrawn to the palace of Schonbrunn, there to enjoy in
privacy the last golden days of autumn, as well as to afford to the
newly-married pair a taste of that retirement so congenial to lovers.
Maria Theresa, always munificent, had devoted one wing of the palace to
the exclusive use of her young daughter-in-law; and her apartments were
fitted up with the last degree of splendor. Elegant mirrors, buhl and
gilded furniture, costly turkey carpets and exquisite paintings adorned
this princely home; and as the princess was known to be skilled both as
a painter and musician, one room was fitted up for her as a studio, and
another as a music-hall.
From the music-room, a glass door led to a balcony filled with rare and
beautiful flowers. This balcony overlooked the park, and beyond was seen
the city, made lovely by the soft gray veil of distance, which lends
such beauty to a landscape.
On this perfumed balcony sat the youthful pair. Isabella reclined in an
arm-chair; and at her feet on a low ottoman sat Joseph, looking up into
her face, his eyes beaming with happiness. It was a lovely sight--that
of these two young creatures, who, in the sweet, still evening, sat
together, unveiling to one another the secrets of two blameless hearts,
and forgetting rank, station, and the world, were tasting the pure joys
of happily wedded love.
The evening breeze whispered Nature's soft low greeting to them both;
and through the myrtle-branches that, hanging over the balcony,
clustered around Isabella's head, the setting sun flung showers of gold
that lit up her face with the glory of an angel. Bright as an angel
seemed she to her husband, who, sitting at her feet, gazed enraptured
upon her. How graceful he thought the contour of her oval face; how rich
the scarlet of her lovely mouth; what noble thoughts were written on her
pale and lofty brow, and how glossy were the masses of her raven black
hair! And those wondrous eyes! Dark and light, lustrous and dim, at one
moment they flashed with intellect, at another they glistened with
unshed tears. Her form, too, was slender and graceful, for Nature had
denied her nothing; and the charm of her appearance (above all, to an
eve weary of splendor) was made complete by the vapory muslin dress that
fell around her perfect figure like a silver-white cloud. The only
ornament that flecked its snow was a bunch of pink roses, which the
archduke with his own hand had culled for his wife that morning. She
wore them in her bosom, and they were the crowning beauty of that
simple, elegant dress.
Isabella's head rested amongst the myrtle-branches; her eyes were fixed
upon the heavens, with a look of ineffable sadness, and gradually the
smile had died from her lips. Her countenance contrasted singularly with
that of the archduke. Since his marriage, he had grown handsomer than
ever; and from his bright expressive face beamed the silent eloquence of
a young and joyful existence.
In his joy he did not see the painful shadows that were darkening his
wife's pale beauty. For a while, a deep stillness was about them.
Flooded by the gold of the setting sun, lay the park at their feet;
farther off glimmered the domes of St. Stephen at Vienna, and faint over
the evening air came the soothing tones of the vesper-bell.
"How beautiful is the world!" said Joseph, at length; and, at the sound
of his voice, suddenly breaking the stillness that had been so congenial
to her reveries, Isabella started. A slight shiver ran through her
frame, and her eyes unwillingly came back to earth. He did not see it.
"Oh, how lovely is life, my Isabella, now that the music of thy heart
replies to mine! Never has earth seemed to me so full of beauty, as it
does now that I call thee wife."
Isabella laid her soft hand upon her husband's head, and looked at him
for a while. At length she stifled a sigh, and said, "Are you then
happy, my husband?"
He drew down the little hand that was resting on his blonde curls and
kissed it fervently. "A boon, my beloved. When we are alone, let us
banish Spanish formality from our intercourse. Be the future empress
before the world, but to me be my wife, and call me 'thou.'"
"I will," replied she, blushing. "And I repeat my question, art thou
happy, my husband?"
"I will tell thee, dearest. There seems within me such a flood of melody
seeking voice, that sometimes, for very ecstasy, I feel as if I must
shout aloud all the pent-up joy that other men have frittered away from
boyhood, and I have garnered up for this hour. Again I feel intoxicated
with happiness, and fear that I am dreaming. I tremble lest some rude
hand awake me, and I look around for proof of my sober, waking bliss. I
find it, and then breaks forth my soul in hosannas to God. And when,
mingling among men, I see a face that looks sad or pale, I feel such
sympathy for him who is less happy than I, that I make vows, when I am
emperor, to heal all sorrow, and wipe away all tears. Then come great
and noble aspirations, and I long to give back to my people the
blessings with which they greeted thee, my own Isabella. This is not one
feeling, but the meeting of many. Is it happiness, dearest?"
"I cannot tell," replied she; "for happiness is a thing so heavenly in
its nature, that one hardly dares to give it a name, lest it take
flight, and soar back to its home above the skies. Let us not press it
too closely, lest we seek it and it be gone."
"We shall do as it pleases thee," said Joseph, snatching her two hands,
and pressing them to his heart. "I know that when thou art by, Happiness
is here, and she cannot go back to heaven, unless she take thee too."
And again he looked at his wife, as if he would fair have blended their
dual being into one.
"I wish to make thee a confession, Isabel," resumed he. "It is a great
crime, dearest, but thou wilt give me absolution, I know. As I look
back, I can scarce believe it myself, but--hear. When the empress gave
me thy miniature, beautiful though it was, I gave my consent to marry,
but my heart was untouched. When Count Bathiany departed on his mission,
I prayed that every obstacle might encumber his advance: and oh, my
beloved! when I heard that thou wert coming, I almost wished thee buried
under Alpine avalanches. When I was told of thy arrival, I longed to fly
away from Vienna, from rank and royalty, to some far country, some
secluded spot, where no reasons of state policy would force me to give
my hand to an unknown bride. Was I not a barbarian, sweetest, was I not
an arch-traitor?"
"No, thou wert only a boy-prince, writhing under the heavy load of thy
royalty."
"No, I was a criminal; but oh, how I have expiated my sin! When I saw
thee my heart leaped into life; and now it trembles lest thou love not
me! But thou wilt love me, wilt thou not? thou who hast made me so happy
that I wish I had a hundred hearts; for one is not enough to contain the
love I feel for thee!" [Footnote: These are his own words. Caroccioli
"Life of Joseph II."]
Isabella was gazing at him with a melancholy smile. "Dreamer!" said she,
in a low trembling tone, that sounded to Joseph like heavenly music--"
dreamer! the heart that through God's goodness is filled with love is of
itself supernaturally magnified; for love is a revelation from heaven."
"Sweet priestess of love! how truly thou art the interpreter of our
passion! For it is OURS, my Isabella, is it not? It is our love of which
we speak, not mine alone. I have confessed to thee; now do the same by
me. Tell me, my wife, didst thou hate the man to whom thy passive hand
was given, without one thought of thee or of thy heart's predilections?"
How little he guessed the torture he inflicted! He looked into her eyes
with such trusting faith, with such calm security of happiness, that her
sweet face beamed with tender pity, while her cheeks deepened into
scarlet blushes, as she listened to his passionate declarations of love.
Poor Isabella!
"No," said she, "no, I never hated thee, Joseph. I had already heard
enough to feel esteem for my future husband; and, therefore, I did not
hate, I pitied him."
"Pity him, my own, and wherefore?"
"Because without consulting HIS heart, he was affianced to an unknown
girl, unworthy to be the partner of his brilliant destiny. Poor Isabella
of Parma was never made to be an empress, Joseph."
"She was, she was! She is fit to be empress of the world, for all
poetry, all goodness, all intellect and beauty look out from the de
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