Joseph II and His Court by L. MuhlbachA Historical Novel (page 15)

No one was there excepting Madame de Campan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXI.

THE ADOPTED SON OF THE QUEEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your majesty, a child has just run across the road, and has been snatched from under the horses’ feet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Adieu, my little one,” said the grandmother. “Don’t forget your–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXII.

“CHANTONS, CELEBRONS NOTRE REINE.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, gentlemen, listen!”

And with a loud voice, Riquelmont began to read:

“MANSORIO.–Grand miracle. Pasquin. Le soleil dans une lanterne!

PASQUIN.–Allons done, to me Hernes!

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

“Good, good!” cried the listeners, “the emperor is indeed a wonderful–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chantons, celebrons notre reine!”

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

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

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

“Chantons, celebrons notre reine!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXIII.

THE HOTEL TURENNE.

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

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

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

“May I have the honor of speaking with Count Falkenstein?”

“Certainly,” said the count. “What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do the ladies require supper?” inquired the host.

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

“Will madame be served in this room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lady’s maid smiled derisively and replied, “Count, I await my lady’s orders.”

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXIV.

THE DENOUEMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do not go, Count Schulenberg?” said she.

“No–and what is more, I do not intend to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXV.

THE PARTING.

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

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

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

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

“Mercy, sire, mercy,” faltered the count. “Mercy for a fault which–“

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

“The punishment of death,” murmured the count inaudibly.

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

“Mercy, mercy!” prayed the wretch.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was no dream, Countess Esterhazy,” said Joseph softly.

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

“You were there, sire, and heard all–all?” stammered she, pointing with her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sire,” replied she, firmly. “Farewell!”

He echoed “farewell,” and hastily left the room.

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

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

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

“Alone?” asked the maid, looking around.

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

“But dear lady, whither do we journey?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXVI.

JOSEPH AND LOUIS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The king is about to take a walk!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You wish to go without attendants?” asked Louis.

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXVII.

THE PROMENADE AND THE EPIGRAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My brother,” exclaimed Louis, “who has dared–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” was the curt reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the other is the king!” exclaimed another voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here it is,” returned the voice.

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

CHAPTER CXVIII.

THE DINNER EN FAMILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon me, your highness,” said the queen, coloring, “Jacques is no longer a peasant–he is my child.”

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

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

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

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

“They are the work of Leonard.”

“Who is Leonard?”

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

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

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

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

“Sire, I was by, when De Guemenee on the part of De Lauzun, requested the queen’s acceptance of the feathers.”

“And the queen?” said Louis, with irritation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whither did you go, count?” asked Louis, appeased and flattered by the emperor’s words.

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

“I have never visited the Invalides,” said the king, coloring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are these treasures, then? Enlighten me, count.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXIX.

A VISIT TO JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.

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

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

“Yes, my husband lives here,” said the woman, sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, madame, I come merely to visit monsieur.”

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

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

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

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

“Be at ease–I shall not say a word to him.”

“Then, sir, go in and mount the stairs, but take care not to stumble, for the railing is down. Knock at the door above, and there you will find Jean Jacques. While you talk to him I will go out and spend this money all for his comfort. Let me see–he needs a pair of shoes and a cravat–and–well,” continued she, nodding her head, “farewell, don’t break your neck.”

“Yes,” muttered she, as she went back to the street, “he wants shoes and cravats, and coats, too, for that matter, but I am not the fool to waste my money upon him. I shall spend it on myself for a new neckerchief; and if there is any thing left, I shall treat myself to a couple of bottles of wine and some fish.”

While Therese stalked through the streets to spend her money, the stranger had obtained entrance into the little dark room where sat Jean Jacques Rousseau.

It was close and mouldy like the rest of the house, and a few straw chairs with one deal table was the only furniture there. On the wall hung several bird-cages, whose inmates were twittering and warbling one to another. Before the small window, which looked out upon a noble walnut-tree, stood several glass globes, in which various worms and fishes were leading an uneasy existence.

Rousseau himself was seated at the table writing. He wore a coat of coarse gray cloth, like that of a laborer, the collar of his rough linen shirt was turned down over a bright cotton scarf, which was carelessly tied around his neck. His face was pale, sad, and weary; and his scant gray hairs, as well as the deep wrinkles upon his forehead, were the scroll whereon time had written sixty years of strife and struggle with life. Imagination, however, still looked out from the depths of his dark eyes, and the corners of his mouth were still graceful with the pencillinga of many a good-humored smile.

“Pardon me, air,” said the stranger, “that I enter unannounced. I found no one to precede me hither.”

“We are too poor to keep a servant, sir,” replied Rousseau, “and I presume that my good Therese has gone out on some errand. How can I serve you!”

“I came to visit Jean Jacques Rousseau, the poet and philosopher.”

“I am the one, but scarcely the other two. Life has gone so roughly with me, that poetry has vanished long ago from my domicile, and men have deceived me so often, that have fled from the world in disgust. You see, then, that I have no claim to the title of philosopher.”

“And thus speaks Jean Jacques Rousseau, who once taught that mankind were naturally good?”

“I still believe in my own teachings, sir,” cried Rousseau warmly. “Man is the vinculum that connects the Creator with His creation, and light from heaven illumes his birth and infancy. But the world, sir, is evil, and is swayed by two demons–selfishness and falsehood. [Footnote: This is not very philosophical. If the fraction man be intrinsically good, how is it that the whole (the world which is made up of nothing but men) is so evil? Is there a demiurge responsible for the introduction of these two demons?] These demons poison the heart of man, and influence him to actions whose sole object is to advance himself and prejudice his neighbor.”

“I fear that your two demons were coeval with the creation of the world,” said the stranger, with a smile.

“No, no; they were not in Paradise. And what is Paradise but the primitive condition of man–that happy state when in sweet harmony with Nature, he lay upon the bosom of his mother earth, and inhaled health and peace from her life-giving breath? Let us return to a state of nature, and we shall find that the gates of Paradise have reopened.”

“Never! We have tasted of the tree of knowledge, and are for ever exiled from Eden.”

“Woe to us all, if what you say is true; for then the world is but a vale of misery, and the wise man has but one resource– self-destruction! But pardon me, I have not offered you a chair.”

The stranger accepted a seat, and glanced at the heaps of papers that covered the rickety old table.

“You were writing?” asked he. “Are we soon to receive another great work from Rousseau’s hands?”

“No, sir,” replied Rousseau, sadly, “I am too unhappy to write.”

“But surely this is writing,” and the stranger pointed to the papers around.

“Yes, sir, but I copy music, and God knows that in the notes I write, there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give them a chance to sing, and they sing.” [Footnote: This is Rousseau’s own language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]

“It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge correctly.”

“You are right,” replied Rousseau. “The dissonance increases with every hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before.”

“But who denies their rights to the people?”

“The property-holders, the priests, the nobles, and the king.”

“The king! what has he done?”

“He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the disgrace save an ocean of royal blood.”

“Terrible!” exclaimed the visitor, with a shudder. “Are you a prophet, that you allow yourself such anticipations of evil?”

“No, sir, I predict what is to come, from my knowledge of that which has gone by.”

“What do you mean?”

Rousseau slowly shook his head. “Fate has threatened this unhappy king from the day of his birth. Warning after warning has been sent and disregarded. Truly, the man was a wise one who said, ‘Whom the gods destroy, they first blind!'”

“I implore you, speak further. What evil omens have you seen that lead you to apprehend misfortune to Louis XVI.?”

“Have you never heard of them? They are generally known.”

“No, indeed, I beseech you, enlighten me, for I have good reason for my curiosity.”

“Louis was not born like his predecessors, and it is generally believed that he will not die a natural death. Not a single member of the royal family was present at his birth. When, overtaken by the pangs of childbirth, his mother was accidentally alone in the palace of Versailles; and the heir of France, upon his entrance into life, was received by some insignificant stranger. The courier who was sent to announce his birth fell from his horse and was killed on the spot. The Abbe de Saujon, who was called in to christen the infant, was struck by apoplexy while entering the chapel door, and his arm and tongue were paralyzed. [Footnote: “Memoires de Madame de Creque,” vol. iii., p. 179.] From hundreds of healthy women the physician of the dauphiness chose three nurses for the prince. At the end of a week two of them were dead, and the third one, Madame Guillotine, after nursing him for six weeks, was carried of by small-pox. Even the frivolous grandfather was terrified by such an accumulation of evil omens, and he was heard to regret that he had given to his grandson the title of Duke de Berry, ‘For,’ said he the ‘name has always brought ill-luck to its possessors.'” [Footnote: Creque, vol. iii., p. 180.]

“But the king has long since outlived the name, and has triumphed over all the uncomfortable circumstances attending his birth, for he is now King of France.”

“And do you know what he said when the crown was placed upon his head?”

“No, I have never heard.”

“He was crowned at Rheims. When the hand of the archbishop was withdrawn from the crown, the king moaned, and turning deadly pale, murmured, ‘Oh, how it pains me!’ [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 115.] Once before him, a King of France had made the same exclamation, and that king was Henry III.”

“Strange!” said the visitor. “All this seems very absurd, and yet it fills me with horror. Have you any thing more of the same sort to point out?”

“Remember all that occurred when the dauphin was married to the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. When she put her foot upon French ground, a tent had been erected, according to custom, where she was to lay aside her clothing and be attired in garments of French manufacture. The walls of the tent were hung with costly Gobelin tapestry, all of which represented scenes of bloodshed. On one side was the massacre of the innocents, on the other the execution of the Maccabees. The archduchess herself was horror-stricken at the omen. On that night, two of the ladies in waiting, who had assisted the queen in her toilet, died suddenly. Think of the terrible storm that raged on the dauphin’s wedding night; and of the dreadful accident which accompanied his entrance into Paris; and then tell me whether death is not around, perchance before this unhappy king?”

“But to what end are these omens, since they cannot help us to avert evil?”

“To what end?” asked Rousseau, as with a smile he contemplated the agitated countenance of his guest. “To this end–that the emperor Joseph may warn his brother and sister of the fate which threatens, and which will surely engulf them, if they do not heed the signs of the coming tempest.”

“How, Rousseau! you know me?”

“If I had not known you, sire, I would not have spoken so freely of the king. I saw you in Paris at the theatre; and I am rejoiced to be able to speak to your majesty as man to man, and friend to friend.”

“Then let me be as frank as my friend has been to me,” said Joseph extending his hand. “You are not situated as becomes a man of your genius and fame. What can I do to better your condition?”

“Better my condition?” repeated Rousseau absently. “Nothing. I am an old man whose every illusion has fled. My only wants are a ray of sunshine to warm my old limbs, and a crust of bread to appease my hunger.”

At this moment a shrill voice was heard without: “Put down the money and I will fetch the music, for we are sadly pressed for every thing.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Rousseau, anxiously. “I am not ready, and I had promised the music to Therese for this very hour. How shall I excuse myself?” Here the unhappy philosopher turned to the emperor. “Sire, you asked what you could do for me–I implore you leave this room before Therese enters it. She will be justly displeased if she finds you here; and when my dear good Therese is angry, she speaks so loud that my nerves are discomposed for hours afterward. Here, sire, through this other door. It leads to my bedroom, and thence by a staircase to the street.”

Trembling with excitement, Rousseau hurried the emperor into the next room. The latter waved his hand, and the door closed upon him. As he reached the street Joseph heard the sharp, discordant tones of Therese Levasseur’s voice, heaping abuse upon the head of her philosopher, because he had not completed his task, and they would not have a sou wherewith to buy dinner.

CHAPTER CXX.

THE PARTING.

The visit of the emperor was drawing to a close. He had tasted to its utmost of the enjoyments of the peerless city. He had become acquainted with its great national institutions, its industrial resources, its treasures of art and of science. The Parisians were enthusiastic in his praise; from the nobleman to the artisan, every man had something to say in favor of the gracious and affable brother of the queen. Even the fish-wives, those formidable dames de la haile, had walked in procession to pay their respects, and present him a bouquet of gigantic proportions. [Footnote: On this occasion Madame Trigodin, one of the most prominent of the poissurdes, made an address on behalf of the sisterhood. Hubner, i., p. 151.]

The emperor was popular everywhere except at court. His candor was unacceptable, and his occasional sarcasms had stung the pride of the royal family. The king never pardoned him the unpalatable advice he had bestowed relative to the hospitals, the Invalides, and the military schools. The queen, too, was irritated to see that whereas her brother might have expressed his disapprobation of her acts in private, he never failed to do so in presence of the court. The consequence was, that, like the king and the rest of the royal family, Marie Antoinette was relieved when this long-wished-for visit of the emperor was over. This did not prevent her from clinging to his neck, and shedding abundant tears as she felt his warm and loving embrace.

The emperor drew her close to his heart, whispering meanwhile, “Remember that we must see each other in private. Send some one to me to conduct me to the room in the palace which you call your ‘asylum.'”

“How!” said the queen with surprise, “you have heard of my asylum? Who told you of it?”

“Hush, Antoinette, you will awaken the king’s suspicion, for all eyes are upon us! Will you admit me?”

“Yes, I will send Louis to conduct you this afternoon.” And withdrawing herself from her brother’s arms, the queen and the royal family took leave of Count Falkenstein.

His carriages and suite had all left Paris, and Joseph, too, was supposed to have gone long before the hour when he was conducted to the queen’s “asylum” by her faithful servant Louis. This “asylum” was in an obscure corner of the Tuileries, and to reach it the emperor was introduced into the palace by a side door. He was led through dark passages and up narrow staircases until they reached a small door that Louis opened with a key which he took from his pocket. He clapped his hand three times, and the signal being answered, he made a profound inclination to the emperor.

“Your majesty can enter. The queen is there.”

Joseph found himself in a small, simple apartment, of which the furniture was of white wood covered with chintz. On the wall was a hanging etagere with books; opposite, an open harpsichord, and in the recess of the window, a table covered with papers. The emperor hastily surveyed this room, and no one coming forward, he passed into another.

Here he found his sister, no longer the magnificent queen whose rich toilets were as proverbial as her beauty; but a lovely, unpretending woman, without rouge, without jewels, clad in a dress of India muslin, which was confined at the waist by a simple sash of pale lilac ribbon.

Marie Antoinette came forward with both hands outstretched. “I am dressed as is my custom,” said she, “when the few friends I possess come to visit me here–here in my asylum, where sometimes I am able to forget that I am Queen of France.”

“You have no right ever to forget it, Antoinette, and it was expressly to remind you of this that I asked for a private interview with my sister.”

“You wished to see this asylum of which you had heard, did you not?” asked the queen with a shade of bitterness. “I have been calumniated to you, as I have been to the king and to the French people. I know how my