enemies are trying to make my subjects hate me! I know that about these very rooms, lewd songs are sung on the Pont-Neuf which make the Count de Provence hold his sides with laughter.”
“Yes, Antoinette, I have heard these things, and I came hither expressly to visit this ‘asylum.'”
“Well, Joseph, it is before you. The room through which you passed, and this one, form my suite. The door yonder leads to the apartments of the Princess de Lamballe, and I have never opened it to enter my retreat except in her company.”
“You had never the right to enter it at all. A retreat of this kind is improper for you; and woe to you, Antoinette, if ever another man beside myself should cross its threshold! It would give a coloring of truth to the evil reports of your powerful enemies.”
“Gracious God of Heaven!” cried the queen, pale with horror, “what do they say of me?”
“It would avail you nothing to repeat their calumnies, poor child. I have come hither to warn you that some dark cloud hangs over the destiny of France. You must seek means to disperse it, or it will burst and destroy both you and your husband.”
“I have already felt a presentiment of evil, dear brother, and for that very reason I come to these little simple rooms that I may for a few hours forget the destiny that awaits me, the court which hates and vilifies me, and in short–my supremest, my greatest sorrow–the indifference of my husband.”
“Dear sister, you are wrong. You should never have sought to forget these things. You have too lightly broken down the barriers which etiquette, hundreds of years ago, had built around the Queens of France.”
“This from YOU, Joseph, you who despise all etiquette!”
“Nay, Antoinette, I am a man, and that justifies me in many an indiscretion. I have a right to attend an opera-ball unmasked, but you have not.”
“I had the king’s permission, and was attended by my ladies of honor, and the princes of the royal family.”
“An emperor may ride in a hackney-coach or walk, if the whim strike him, but not a queen, Antoinette. “
“That was an accident, Joseph. I was returning from a ball with the Duchess de Duras, when our carriage broke, and Louis was obliged to seek a hackney-coach or we would have returned to the palace on foot.”
“Let it pass, then. An emperor or a king, were he very young, might indulge himself in a game of blind man’s buff without impropriety; but when a queen ventures to do as much, she loses her dignity. Nevertheless, you have been known to romp with the other ladies of the court, when your husband had gone to his room and was sound asleep.”
“But who ever went to bed as early as the king?” said Marie Antoinette deprecatingly.
“Does he go to bed too early, Antoinette? Then it is strange that on one evening when you were waiting for him to retire so that you and your ladies might visit the Duchess de Duras, you should have advanced the clock by half an hour, and sent your husband to bed at half-past ten, when of course he found no one in his apartments to wait upon him. [Footnote: Campan. 129.] All Paris has laughed at this mischievous prank of the queen. Can you deny this, my thoughtless sister?”
“I never tell an untruth, Joseph; but I confess that I am astounded to see with what police-like dexterity you have ferreted out every little occurrence of my private life;.”
“A queen has no private life. She is doomed to live in public, and woe to her if she cannot account to the world for every hour of her existence! If she undertake to have secrets, her very lackeys misrepresent her innocence and make it crime.”
“Good Heaven, Joseph!” cried the queen, “you talk as if I were a criminal before my accusers.”
“You are a criminal, my poor young sister. Public opinion has accused you; and accusation there is synonymous with guilt. But I, who give you so much pain, come as your friend and brother, speaking hard truths to you, dearest, by virtue of the tie which binds us to our mother. In the name of that incomparable mother, I implore you to be discreet, and to give no cause to your enemies for misconstruction of your youthful follies. Take up the load of your royalty with fortitude; and, when it weighs heavily upon your poor young heart, remember that you were not made a queen to pursue your own happiness, but to strive for that of your subjects, whose hearts are still with you in spite of all that your enemies have done or said. Give up all egotism, Antoinette–set aside your personal hopes; live for the good of the French nation; and one of these days you will believe with me, that we may be happy without individual happiness.”
The queen shook her head, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “No, no, dear Joseph, a woman cannot be happy when she is unloved. My heart is sick with solitude, brother. I love my husband and he does not return my love. If I am frivolous, it is because I am unhappy. Believe me when I tell you that all would be well if the king would but love me.”
“Then, Antoinette, all shall be well,” said a voice behind them; and, starting with a cry of surprise and shame, the queen beheld the king.
“I have heard all,” said Louis, closing the door and advancing toward Joseph. With a bright, affectionate smile, he held out his hand, saying as he did, “Pardon me, my brother, if I am here without your consent, and let me have a share in this sacred and happy hour.”
“Brother!” repeated Joseph, sternly. “You say that you have overheard us. If so, you know that my sister is solitary and unhappy. Since you have no love for her, you are no brother to me; for she, poor child, is the tie that unites us! Look at her, sire; look at her sweet, innocent, tear-stricken face! What has she done that you should thrust her from your heart, and doom her to confront, alone, the sneers and hatred of your cruel relatives? She is pure, and her heart is without a stain. I tell you so–I, who in unspeakable anxiety have watched her through hired spies. Had I found her guilty I would have been the first to condemn her; but Antoinette is good, pure, virtuous, and she has but one defect–want of thought. It was your duty to guide her, for you received her from her mother’s hands a child–a young, harmless, unsuspecting child. What has she ever done that you should refuse her your love?”
“Ask, rather, what have I done, that my relatives should have kept us so far asunder?” replied Louis, with emotion. “Ask those who have poisoned my ears with calumnies of my wife, why they should have sought to deny me the only compensation which life can offer to my royal station–the inestimable blessing of loving and being loved. But away with gloomy retrospection! I shall say but one word more of the past. Your majesty has been watched, and your visit here discovered. I was told that you were seeking to identify the queen with her mother’s empire–using your influence to make her forget France, and plot dishonor to her husband’s crown. I resolved to prove the truth or falsehood of these accusations myself. I thank Heaven that I did so; for from this hour I shall honor and regard you as a brother.”
“I shall reciprocate, sire, if you will promise to be kind to my sister?”
The king looked at Marie Antoinette, who, seated on the sofa whence her brother had risen, was weeping bitterly. Louis went toward her, and, taking both her hands in his, pressed them passionately to his lips. “Antoinette,” said he, tenderly, “you say that I do not love you. You have not then read my heart, which, filled to bursting with love for my beautiful wife, dared not ask for response, because I had been told that you–you–but no–I will not pain you with repetition of the calumny. Enough that I am blessed with your love, and may at last be permitted to pour out the torrent of mine! Antoinette, will you be my wife?”
He held open his arms, and looked–as lovers alone can look. The queen well knew the meaning of that glance, and, with a cry of joy, she rose and was pressed to his heart. He held her for some moments there, and then, for the first time in their lives, the lips of husband and wife met in one long, burning kiss of love.
“My beloved, my own,” whispered Louis. “Mine forever–nothing on earth shall part us now.”
Marie Antoinette was speechless with happiness. She leaned her head upon her husband’s breast and wept for joy, while he fondly stroked and kissed tier shining hair, and left the trace of a tear with every kiss.
Presently he turned an imploring look upon the emperor, who stood by, contemplating the lovers with an ecstasy to which he had long been a stranger.
“My brother,” said Louis, “for I may call you so now–seven years ago, our hands were joined together by the priest; but, the policy that would have wounded Austria through me, has kept us asunder. This is our wedding-day, this is the union of love with love. Be you the priest to bless the rites that make us one till death.”
The emperor came forward, and, solemnly laying his hands upon the heads of the king and queen, spoke in broken accents “God bless you, beloved brother and sister–God give you grace to be true to each other through good and evil report. Be gentle and indulgent one toward the other, that, from this day forward, your two hearts may become as one! Farewell! I shall take with me to Austria the joyful news of your happiness. Oh, how Maria Theresa will rejoice to know it, and how often will the thought of this day brighten my own desolate hearth at Vienna! Farewell!”
CHAPTER CXXI.
DEATH OF THE ELECTOR OF BAVARIA.
A large and brilliant assemblage thronged the state apartments of the imperial palace at Vienna. The aristocracy not only of the capital, but of all Austria, had gathered there to congratulate the emperor upon his safe return.
It was the first of January, 1778, and as New Year’s day was the only festival which Joseph’s new ordinance allowed, the court took occasion to celebrate it with all the pomp of embroidery, orders, stars, and blazing jewels.
The empress had never thrown off her mourning, so that her dark gray dress with its long train was in striking contrast with the rich, elegant costumes, the flowers and diamonds of the other ladies present. Still, there was something in this tall, noble form which distinguished it above the rest, and spoke to all beholders of the sovereign will that resided there. Maria Theresa was still the majestic empress–but she was now an old woman.
Time as well as disease had marred her beauty, and the cares, anxieties, and afflictions of sixty years had written their inexorable record upon the tablet of her once fair brow. Not only these, but accident also had destroyed the last lingering traces of Maria Theresa’s youthful comeliness. Returning from Presburg, she had been thrown from her carriage, and dashed with such force against the stones on the road, that she had been taken up bloody, and, to all appearances, lifeless. Her face had suffered severely, and to her death she bore the deep-red scars which had been left by her wounds. Her figure, too, had lost its grace, and was now so corpulent that she moved slowly and heavily through the rooms, where, in former years, she had stood by the side of her “Francis,” the most beautiful woman of her own or of any European court.
Her magnificent eyes, however, had defied time, they were large, flashing, expressive as ever–as quick to interpret anger, enthusiasm, or tenderness as in the days of her youth.
On the evening of which we speak, the empress was at the card-table. But those great, glowing eyes were roving from one side of the room to the other in restless anxiety. Sometimes, for a moment, they rested upon the emperor who was standing near the table in conversation with some provincial nobleman. The cheerful and unconcerned demeanor of her son seemed to reassure the empress, who turned to her cards, and tried to become interested in the game. Not far off, the archduchesses, too, were at cards, and the hum of conversation subsided almost to a whisper, that the imperial party might not be disturbed. Gradually the empress became absorbed in her cards, so that she was unobservant of the entrance of one of the emperor’s lords in waiting who whispered something in Joseph’s ear, whereupon the latter left the room in haste.
Not very long after the emperor returned pale and excited, and approached the card-tables. Maria Theresa, at that moment, had just requested Count Dietrichstein to deal for her, and she was leaning back in her chair, awaiting the end of the deal.
The emperor bent over and whispered something in her ear, when she started, and the cards, which she was just gathering, fell from her hands. With unusual agility she rose, and taking the emperor’s arm, turned away without a word of apology, and left the room.
The archduchesses had not yet perceived their mother’s absence, when Count Dietrichstein, on the part of the emperor, came forward, and whispered a few words to each one of them. Precisely as their mother had done the princesses rose, and without apology retired together.
The company started, and whispered and wondered what could have happened to discompose the imperial family; but no one present was competent to solve the mystery.
Meanwhile Maria Theresa had retired to her cabinet, where she met Prince Kaunitz, furred like a polar bear, by way of protection from the temperature of the palace, which was always many degrees below zero, as indicated by the thermometer of his thin, bloodless veins. The minister was shaking with cold, although he had buried his face in a muff large enough to have been one of his own cubs. The empress returned his greeting with an agitated wave of her hand, and seated herself in an arm-chair at the large round table that always stood there.
Exhausted by the unusual haste with which she had walked as well as by the excitement, which, in her old age, she was physically inadequate to bear, she leaned back to recover her breath. Opposite stood the emperor, who, with a wave of his hand, motioned to Kaunitz to enter also.
Maria Theresa’s large eyes were fixed upon him at once.
“Is it true.” said she. “that the Elector of Bavaria is dead?”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Kaunitz. “Maximilian reigns no longer in Bavaria. Here are the dispatches from our ambassador at Munich.”
He held them out, but the empress put them back, saying:
“I am not sufficiently composed to read them. Give them to my son, and have the goodness to communicate their contents to me verbally.”
The face of Kaunitz grew pale, as he turned with the dispatches to the emperor. The latter at once comprehended the prince’s agitation, and smiled.
“I beg of your majesty,” said he, “to excuse the prince, and to allow me to read to you the particulars of Maximilian’s demise. His highness must be fatigued, and, doubtless, your majesty will allow him to retire within the embrasure of yonder window, until I have concluded the perusal of the dispatches.”
Kaunitz brightened at once as the empress gave her consent, and he gladly withdrew to the window which was far enough from the table to be out of reach of the emperor’s voice.
Joseph could not restrain another smile as he watched the tall, stiff form of the old prince, and saw how carefully he drew the window curtains around him, lest a word of what was going on should reach his ears.
“Pardon me, your majesty,” said Joseph, in a low voice, “but you know what a horror Kaunitz has of death and the small-pox. As both these words form the subject of our dispatches, I was glad to relieve the prince from the necessity of repeating their contents.”
“That you should have remembered his weakness does honor to your heart, my son,” replied Maria Theresa. “In my agitation I had forgotten it. Maximilian, then, must have died of small-pox.”
“He did, your majesty, like his sister, my unhappy wife.”
“Strange!” said Maria Theresa, thoughtfully. “Josepha has often spoken to me of the presentiment which her brother had that he would die of the small-pox.”
“It proves to us that man cannot fly from his destiny. The elector foresaw that he would die of small-pox, and took every precaution to avert his fate. Nevertheless, it overtook him.”
The empress sighed and slowly shook her head. “Where did he take the infection’?” asked she.
“From the daughter of the marshal of his household, who lived at the palace, and took the small-pox there. Every attempt was made to conceal the fact from the elector, and indeed he remained in total ignorance of it. One day while he was playing billiards, the marshal, who had just left his daughter’s bedside, entered the room. The elector, shuddering, laid down his cue, and turning deathly pale, murmured these words: ‘Some one here has the small-pox. I feel it.’ He then fell insensible on the floor. He recovered his consciousness, but died a few days afterward. [Footnote: Wraxall, “Memoirs of the Courts of Berlin, Vienna, etc.,” vol. i., p. 306.] This is the substance of the dispatches. Shall I now read them?”
“No, no, my son,” said the empress, gloomily. “Enough that the son of my enemy is dead, and his house without an heir.”
“Yes; he is dead,” replied Joseph, sternly. “The brother of my enemy–of that wife with whom for two years I lived the martyrdom of an abhorred union! He has gone to his sister, gone to his father, both our bitter, bitter foes. I hated Josepha for the humiliation I endured as the husband of such a repulsive woman; but to-day I forgive her, for ’tis she who from the grave holds out to me the rich inheritance which is the fruit of our marriage.”
The empress raised her eyes with an expression of alarm.
“What!” exclaimed she, “another robbery! Lies not the weight of one injustice upon my conscience, that you would seek to burden my soul with another! Think you that I have forgotten Poland!–No! The remembrance of our common crime will follow me to the bitter end, and it shall not be aggravated by repetition. I am empress of Austria, and while I live, Joseph, you must restrain your ambition within the bounds of justice and princely honor.”
The emperor bowed. “Your majesty must confess that I have never struggled against your imperial will. I have bowed before it, sorely though it has humiliated me. But as there is no longer any question of death before us, allow me to recall Prince Kaunitz, that he may take part in our discussion.”
Maria Theresa bowed in silence, and the emperor drew the minister from his retreat behind the curtains.
“Come, your highness,” whispered Joseph. “Come and convince the empress that Bavaria must be ours. We are about to have a struggle.”
“But I shall come out victor,” replied Kaunitz, as he rose and returned to the table.
Maria Theresa surveyed them both with looks of disapprobation and apprehension. “I see,” said she, in a tremulous voice, “that you are two against one. I do not think it honorable in Kaunitz to uphold my son against his sovereign. Tell me, prince, do you come hither to break your faith, and overthrow your empress?”
“There lives not man or woman in the world who can accuse Kaunitz of bad faith,” replied the prince. “I swore years ago to dedicate myself to Austria, and I shall keep my word until your majesty releases me.”
“I suppose that is one of your numerous threats to resign,” said the empress, with irritation. “If there is difference of opinion between us, I must yield, or you will not remain my minister. But be sure that to the last day of my life I shall retain my sovereignty, nor share it with son or minister; and this conceded, we may confer together. Let the emperor sit by my side, and you, prince, be opposite to us, for I wish to look into your face that I may judge how far your tongue expresses the convictions of your conscience. And now I desire the emperor to explain his words, and tell me how it is that the succession of Bavaria concerns the house of Hapsburg.”
“Frankly, then,” cried Joseph, with some asperity, “I mean that our troops must be marched into Bavaria at once; for by the extinction of the finale line of Wittelsbach, the electorate is open to us as an imperial thief, and–“
“Austria, then, has pretensions to the electorate of Bavaria,” interrupted Maria Theresa, with constrained calmness.
The emperor in his turn looked at his mother with astonishment. “Has your majesty, then, not read the documents which were drawn up for your inspection by the court historiographer?”
“I have seen them all,” replied the empress, sadly. “I have read all the documents by which you have sought to prove that Austria has claims upon Lower Bavaria, because, in 1410, the Emperor Sigismund enfeoffed his son-in-law, Albert of Austria, with this province. I have read further that in 1614 the Emperor Matthias gave to the archducal house the reversion of the Suabian estate of Mindelheim, which subsequently, in 1706, when the Elector of Bavaria fell under the ban of the empire, was actually claimed by the Emperor of Austria. I have also learned that the Upper Palatinate, with all its counties, by the extinction of the Wittelsbach dynasty, becomes an open feoff, to which the Emperor of Austria thinks that he may assert his claims.”
“And your majesty is not convinced of the validity of my claims?” exclaimed the emperor.
Maria Theresa shook her head. “I cannot believe that we are justifies in annexing to Austria an electorate which, not being ours by indisputable right of inheritance, may be the cause of involving us in a bloody war.”
“But which, nevertheless, is the finest province in all Germany,” cried Joseph impatiently; “and its acquisition the first step toward consolidation of all the German principalities into one great empire. When the Palatinate, Suabia, and Lower Bavaria are ours, the Danube will flow through Austrian territory alone; the trade of the Levant becomes ours; our ships cover the Black Sea, and finally Constantinople will be compelled to open its harbor to Austrian shipping and become a mart for the disposal of Austrian merchandise. Once possessed of Bavaria, South Germany, too, lies open to Austria, which like a magnet will draw toward one centre all its petty provinces and counties. After that, we approach Prussia, and ask whether she alone will stand apart from the great federation, or whether she has patriotism and magnanimity enough to merge her name and nationality in ours. Oh, your majesty, I implore you do not hesitate to pluck the golden fruit, for it is ours! Think, too, how anxiously the Bavarians look to us for protection against the pretensions of Charles Theodore, the only heir of the deceased elector.
“The people of Bavaria well know what is to be their fate if they fall into the hands of the elector palatine. Surrounded by mistresses with swarms of natural children, his sole object in life will be to plunder his subjects that he may enrich a progeny to whom he can lave neither name nor crown. Oh, your majesty, be generous, and rescue the Bavarians from a war of succession; for the elector palatine has no heir, and his death will be the signal for new strife.”
“Nay, it seems to me that the Duke of Zweibrucken [Footnote: Called in English history, Duke of Deux-ponts.–Trans.] is the natural heir of Charles Theodore, and I suppose he will be found as willing to possess his inheritance as you or I, or any other pretender, replied Maria Theresa. “But if, as you say, the Bavarians are sighing to become Austrian subjects, it seems to me that they might have character enough to give us some indication of their predilections; for I declare to you both that I will not imitate the treachery of Frederick. I will not bring up mouldy documents from our imperial archives to prove that I have a right to lands which for hundreds of years have been the property of another race; nor will I, for mad ambition’s sake, spill one drop of honest Austrian blood.”
“And so will Austria lose her birthright,” returned Joseph angrily. “And so shall I be doomed to idle insignificance, while history ignores the only man who really loves Germany, and who has spirit to defy the malice of his contemporaries, and in the face of their disapproval, to do that which is best for Germany’s welfare. Is it possible that your majesty will put upon me this new humiliation? Do you really bid me renounce the brightest dream of my life?”
“My dear son,” said the empress, “I cannot view this undertaking with your eyes; I am old and timid, and I shudder with apprehension of the demon that follows in the wake of ambition. I would not descend to my grave amid the wails and curses of my people–I would not be depicted in history as an ambitious and unscrupulous sovereign. Let me go to my Franz blessed by the tears and regrets of my subjects–let me appear before posterity as an upright and peace-loving empress. But I have said that I am old–so old that I mistrust my own judgment. It may be that I mistake pusillanimity for disinterestedness. Speak, Kaunitz–so far you have been silent. What says your conscience to this claim? Is it consistent with justice and honor?”
“Your majesty knows that I will speak my honest convictions even though they might be unacceptable to the ear of my sovereign,” replied Kaunitz.
“I understand,” said the empress, disconsolately. “You are of one mind with the emperor.”
“Yes,” replied Kaunitz, “I am. It is the duty of Austria to assert her right to an inheritance which her ancestors foresaw, hundreds of years ago, would be indispensable to her future stability. Not only your majesty’s forefathers, but the force of circumstances signify to us that the acquisition is natural and easy. It would be a great political error to overlook it; and believe me that in no science is an error so fatal to him who commits it as in the science of government. Bavaria is necessary to Austria, and your majesty may become its ruler without so much as one stroke of the sword.”
“Without a stroke of the sword!” exclaimed Maria Theresa, impetuously. “Does your highness suppose that such a stupendous acquisition as that, is not to provoke the opposition of our enemies?”
“Who is to oppose us?” asked Kaunitz. “Not France, certainly; she is too closely our relative and ally.”
“I do not rely much upon the friendship of France,” interrupted the empress. Marie Antoinette is mistress of the king’s affections; but his ministers guide his policy, and they would gladly see our friendly relations ruptured.”
“But France is not in a condition to oppose us,” continued Kaunitz. “Her finances are disordered, and at this very moment she is equipping an army to aid the American rebellion. We have nothing to fear from Russia, provided we overlook her doings in Turkey, and look away while she absorbs the little that remains of Poland. England is too far away to be interested in the matter, and Frederick knows by dear-bought experience that her alliance, in case of war, is perfectly worthless. Besides, George has quite enough on his hands with his troubles in North America. Who, then, is to prevent us from marching to Bavaria and taking peaceable possession of our lawful inheritance?”
“Who?” exclaimed the empress. “Our greatest and bitterest enemy–the wicked and unprincipled parvenu who has cost me so many tears, my people so many lives, and who has robbed me of one of the fairest jewels in my imperial crown.”
Kaunitz shrugged his shoulders. “Your majesty is very magnanimous to speak of the Margrave of Brandenburg as a dangerous foe.”
“And if he were a dangerous foe,” cried Joseph vehemently, “so much the more glory to me if I vanquish him in battle and pluck the laurels from his bead!”
Kaunitz looked at the emperor and slightly raised his finger by way of warning. “The King of Prussia,” said he, “is no longer the hero that he was in years gone by; he dare not risk his fame by giving battle to the emperor. He rests upon his laurels, plays on the flute, writes bad verses, and listens to the adulation of his fawning philosophical friends. Then why should he molest us in Bavaria. We have documents to prove that the heritage is ours, and if we recognize his right to Bayreuth and Anspach, he will admit ours to whatever we choose to claim.”
Maria Theresa was unconvinced. “You make light of Frederick, prince; but he is as dangerous as ever, and after all I think it much safer to fear our enemies than to despise them.”
“Frederick of Prussia is a hero, a philosopher, and a legislator,” cried Joseph. “Let me give him battle, your majesty, that I may win honor by vanquishing the victor.”
“Never will I give my consent to such measures, unless we are forced to adopt them in defence of right.”
“Our right here is indisputable,” interposed Kaunitz. “Copies of our documents have already been circulated throughout Germany; and I have received from Herr von Ritter, the commissioner of Charles Theodore, the assurance that the latter is ready to resign his pretensions in consideration of the advantages we offer.”
“What are these advantages?” asked Maria Theresa.
“We offer him our provinces in the Netherlands, and the privilege of establishing a kingdom in Burgundy,” replied Joseph. “We also bestow upon his multitudinous children titles, orders, and a million of florins.”
“And shame all virtue and decency!” cried the empress, coloring violently.
“The elector loves his progeny, and cares little or nothing for Bavaria,” continued Joseph. “We shall win him over, and Bavaria will certainly be ours.”
“Without the shedding of one drop of blood,” added Kaunitz, drawing from his coat-pocket a paper which he unfolded and laid upon the table.
“Here is a map of Bavaria, your majesty,” said Kaunitz, “and here is that portion of the electorate which we claim, through its cession to Albert of Austria by the Emperor Sigismund.”
“We must take possession of it at once,” cried Joseph; “at once, before any other claimant has time to interpose.”
The empress heaved a sigh. “Yes,” said she, as if communing with herself, “it all looks smooth and fair on paper. It is very easy to draw boundary lines with your finger, prince. You have traced out mountains and rivers, but you have not won the hearts of the Bavarians; and without their hearts it is worse than useless to occupy their country.”
“We shall win their hearts by kindness,” exclaimed the emperor. “True, we take their insignificant fatherland, but we give them instead, the rich inheritance of our own nationality; and future history will record it to their honor that theirs was the initiatory step which subsequently made one nation of all the little nationalities of Germany.”
The empress answered with another sigh, and looked absently at the outspread map, across which Kaunitz was drawing his finger in another direction.
“Here,” said he, “are the estates which the extinct house held in fief from the German emperor.”
“And which I, as Emperor of Germany, have a right to reannex to my empire,” cried Joseph.
“And here, finally,” pursued Kaunitz, still tracing with his finger, “here is the lordship of Mindelheim, of which the reversion was not only ceded to Austria by the Emperor Matthias, but actually fell to us and was relinquished to the Elector of Bavaria by the too great magnanimity of an Austrian sovereign. Surely, your majesty is not willing to abandon your inheritance to the first comer?”
Maria Theresa’s head was bent so low that it rested upon the map whereon her minister had been drawing lines of such significance to Austria. Close by, stood the emperor in breathless anxiety; while opposite sat Kaunitz, impassable as ever.
Again a deep sigh betokened the anguish that was rending the honest heart of the empress; and she raised her head.
“Alas for me and my declining energies!” said she, bitterly. “Two against one, and that one a woman advanced in years! I am not convinced, but my spirit is unequal to strife. Should we fail, we will be made to feel the odium of our proceedings; should we triumph, I suppose that the justice of our pretensions will never be questioned. Perhaps, as the world has never blamed Frederick for the robbery of Silesia, it may forgive us the acquisition of Bavaria. In the name of God, then, do both of you what you deem it right to do; but in mercy, take nothing that is not ours. We shall be involved in war; I feel it, and I would so gladly have ended my life in the calm, moon-like radiance of gentle peace.” [Footnote: The empress’s own sentiments. Wraxall, i, p. 311.]
“Your majesty shall end your life in peace and prosperity; but far in the future be the day of your departure!” cried Joseph, kissing the hand of the empress. “May you live to see Austria expand into a great empire, and Germany rescued from the misrule of its legions of feeble princes! The first impulse has been given to-day. Bavaria is rescued from its miserable fate, and becomes an integral portion of one of the most powerful nations in Europe.”
“May God be merciful, and bless the union!” sighed the empress. “I shall be wretched until I know how it is to terminate, and day and night I shall pray to the Lord that He preserve my people from the horrors of war.”
“Meanwhile Kaunitz and I will seek a blessing on our enterprise by taking earthly precautions to secure its success. You, prince, will use the quill of diplomacy, and I shall make ready to defend my right with a hundred thousand trusty Austrians to back me. To-night I march a portion of my men into Lower Bavaria.”
“Oh,” murmured the unhappy empress, “there will be war and bloodshed!”
“Before your majesty marches to Bavaria,” said Kaunitz inclining his bead, “her majesty, the empress, must sign the edict which shall apprise her subjects and the world of the step we meditate. I haves drawn it up, and it awaits her majesty’s approbation and signature.”
The prince then drew from his muff a paper, which he presented to the empress. Maria Theresa perused it with sorrowful eyes.
“It is nothing but a resume of our just claims to Bavaria,” said Joseph, hastily.
“It is very easy to prove the justice of a thing on paper,” replied Maria Theresa; “may God grant that it prove to be so in deed as well as in word. I will do your bidding, and sign your edict, but upon your head be all the blood that follows my act!”
She wrote her name, and Joseph, in an outburst of triumph, shouted, “Bavaria is ours!”
CHAPTER CXXII.
A PAGE FROM HISTORY.
Maria Theresa’s worst apprehensions were realized, and the marching of the Austrian troops into Bavaria was the signal for war. While all the petty sovereigns of Germany clamored over the usurpation of Austria, pamphlet upon pamphlet issued from the hands of Austrian jurists to justify the act. These were replied to by the advocates of every other German state, who proved conclusively that Austria was rapacious and unscrupulous, and had not a shadow of right to the Bavarian succession. A terrible paper war ensued, during which three hundred books were launched by the belligerents at each other’s heads. [Footnote: Schlosser’s History of the Eighteenth Century, vol. iv., p. 363.] This strife was productive of one good result; it warmed up the frozen patriotism of all the German races. Bavarians, Hessians, Wurtembergers, and Hanoveriana, forgot their bickerings to join the outcry against Austria; and the Church, to which Joseph was such an implacable enemy, encouraged them in their resistance to the “innovator,” as he was called by his enemies.
Of all the malcontents, the noisiest were the Bavarians. The elector palatine, whose advent all had dreaded, was greeted upon his entrance into Munich with glowing enthusiasm; and the people forgot his extravagance and profligacy to remember that upon him devolved the preservation of their independence as a nation.
But Charles Theodore was very little edified by the sentiments which were attributed to him by the Bavarians. He longed for nothing better than to relieve himself of Bavaria and the weight of Austrian displeasure, to return to the palatinate, and come into possession of the flesh-pots that awaited his children in the form of titles, orders, and florins. He lent a willing ear to Joseph’s propositions, and a few days after his triumphant entrance into Munich, he signed a contract relinquishing in favor of Austria two-thirds of his Bavarian inheritance. Maria Theresa, in the joy of her heart, bestowed upon him the order of the Golden Fleece, and on January 3, 1778, entered into possession of her newly acquired territory.
Meanwhile, in Bavaria, arose a voice which, with the fire of genuine patriotism, protested against the cowardly compliance of the elector palatine. It was that of the Duchess Clemens, of Bavaria. She hastened to give information of his pusillanimity to the next heir, the Dune of Zweibrucken, and dispatched a courier to Berlin asking succor and protection from the crown of Prussia.
The energy of this Bavarian patriot decided the fate of the Austrian claim. The Duke of Zweibrucken protested against the cession of the smallest portion of his future inheritance, and declared that he would never relinquish it to any power on earth. Frederick pronounced himself ready to sustain the duke, and threatened a declaration of war unless the Austrian troops were removed. In vain Maria Theresa sought to indemnify the duke by offers of orders, florins, and titles, which had been so successful with Charles Theodore–in vain she offered to make him King of Burgundy–he remained incorruptible. He coveted nothing she could bestow, but was firm in his purpose, to preserve the integrity of Bavaria, and called loudly for Frederick to come to the rescue.
Frederick responded: “He was ready to defend the rights of the elector palatine against the unjust pretensions of the court of Vienna,” [Footnote: Dohm’s Memoirs, vol. i.] and removed his troops from Upper Silesia to the confines of Bohemia and Saxony. This was the signal for the advance of the Austrian army; and despite her repugnance to the act, Maria Theresa was compelled to suffer it. She was also forced to allow Joseph to take command in person. This time her representations and entreaties had been vain; Joseph was thirsting for military glory, and he bounded like a war-horse to the trumpet’s call. The empress felt that her hands were now powerless to restrain him, and she was so much the feebler, that Kaunitz openly espoused the side of the ambitious emperor.
With convulsive weeping Maria Theresa saw her son assume his command, and when Joseph bade her farewell, she sank insensible from his arms to the floor.
CHAPTER CXXIII.
THE EMPEROR AS COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF.
The Emperor Joseph was pacing the floor of his cabinet. Sometimes he paused before a window, and with absent looks surveyed the plain where his troops were encamped, and their stacked arms glistened to the sun; then he returned to the table where Field-Marshal Lacy was deep in plans and charts.
Occasionally the silence was broken by the blast of a trumpet or the shouts of the soldiery who were arriving at headquarters.
“Lacy,” said the emperor, after a long, dreary pause, “put by your charts, and give me a word of consolation.”
The field-marshal laid aside his papers and rose from the table. “Your majesty had ordered me to specify upon the chart the exact spot which Frederick occupies by Welsdorf, and Prince Henry by Nienberg.”
“I know, I know,” answered Joseph impatiently. “But what avails their encampment to-day, when to-morrow they are sure to advance?”
“Your majesty thinks that he will make an attack?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And I doubt it. It is my opinion that he will avoid a collision.”
“Why then should he have commenced hostilities?” cried Joseph angrily. “Have you forgotten that although the elector palatine is ready to renounce Bavaria, Frederick opposes our claims in the name of Germany and of the next heir?”
“No, sire; but Frederick has spies in Vienna, who have taken care to inform him that Maria Theresa is disinclined to war. He has, therefore, declared against us, because he hopes that the blast of his coming will suffice to scatter the armies of Austria to the winds.”
“The time has gone by when the terror of his name could appal us,” cried Joseph, proudly throwing back his head. “I hope to convince him ere long that I am more than willing to confront him in battle, Oh, how weary is the inactivity to which my mother’s womanish fears condemn me! Why did I heed her tears, and promise that I would not make the attack? Now I must wait, nor dare to strike a blow, while my whole soul yearns for the fight, and I long either to lead my troops to victory or perish on the field of battle.”
“And yet, sire, it is fortunate that you have been forced to inactivity. To us time is every thing, for Frederick’s army outnumbers ours. He has seventy thousand men with him near the Elbe, and fifty thousand under Prince Henry near Nienberg.”
“Yes, but I shall oppose his hundred and twenty thousand men with twice their number,” cried Joseph impatiently.
“Provided we have time to assemble our men. But we must have several days to accomplish this. At the end of a week our army will be complete in numbers, and we can then await the enemy behind our intrenchments, and the natural defences afforded us by the steep banks of the Elbe.”
“Await–nothing but await,” said Joseph scornfully. “Forever condemned to delay.”
“In war, delay is often the best strategy, sire. The great Maurice, of Saxony, has said that fighting is an expedient by which incompetent commanders are accustomed to draw themselves out of difficult positions. When they are perplexed as to their next move, they are apt to stumble into a battle. I coincide with the great captain, although I well know that I shall incur your majesty’s displeasure thereby. Our policy is to remain upon the defensive, and await an attack. Frederick has been accustomed to win his laurels by bold and rapid moves, but we have now for us an ally who will do better service in the field against him than our expertest generalship.”
“Who is that?” asked Joseph, who was listening in no amiable mood to Lacy’s dissertation on strategy.
“It is old age, sire, which hourly reminds Frederick that his hand is too feeble to wield a sword or pluck new laurels. Frederick accompanied his army in a close carriage; and yesterday, as he attempted to mount his horse, he was so weak that he had to be helped into the saddle; in consequence of which he reviewed his troops in an ill-humor, cursed the war, and wished Austria to the devil.”
“And this is the end of a great military chieftain,” said Joseph sadly; “the close of a magnificent career! May God preserve me from such a fate! Sooner would I pass from exuberant life to sudden death, than drag my effete manhood through years of weariness to gradual and ignominious extinction!
“But,” continued the emperor, after a pause, “these are idle musings, Lacy. Your picture of the great Frederick has made me melancholy; I cannot but hope that it is overdrawn. It cannot be that such a warrior has grown vacillating; he will surely awake, and then the old lion will shake his mane, and his roar–“
At this moment a horseman at full speed was seen coming toward the house. He stopped immediately before the window. A little behind came another, and both dismounting, spoke several words to the soldiery around, which evidently produced a sensation.
“Lacy,” said Joseph, “something has happened; and from the countenances of the men, I fear that these messengers have brought evil tidings. Let us go out and see what has occurred.”
As the emperor was about to lay his hand upon the door, it opened, and one of his adjutants appeared.
“Sire,” said he, almost breathless, “a courier has arrived from the borders of Bohemia, and he brings startling intelligence.”
“Tell us at once what it is,” said the emperor.
“The King of Prussia has left the county of Glatz and has marched into Bohemia.”
The emperor’s face brightened instantaneously. “That is glorious news!” cried he.
“Glorious news, sire?” exclaimed the astounded adjutant. “The courier who brings the intelligence has no words strong enough to depict the terror of the inhabitants. They were gathering their effects and flying to the interior, while the Prussian troops occupied the villages without opposition.”
“The count is correct,” said Lacy, who just then reentered the room. “I have spoken with the man who brought the tidings. He is the mayor of his village, and he fled as the staff of the king entered the place.”
“I must speak with him myself,” cried Joseph quickly; and the adjutant opening the door, the villager was introduced into the room.
“Did you see the King of Prussia?” asked the emperor.
“Yes, sire, I saw him,” replied the man, gloomily. “I heard him order his men to forage their horses from our barns, and to strip our gardens of their fruit and vegetables. I heard him give orders to spare nothing; for, said he, ‘the people must be made to feel that the enemy is in their midst.'” [Footnote: Frederick’s own words. Dohm’s Memoirs, vol. i., p. 130.]
“I shall remember the king’s words,” said Joseph, while his eyes flashed with anger. “How did he look?”
“Like the devil in the likeness of an old man,” said the peasant. “His voice is as soft as that of a bridegroom; but his words are the words of a hangman, and his eyes dart fire like those of an evil spirit. Even his own men have nothing good to say of him. His generals call him a selfish old man, who wants to do every thing, and knows nothing. He has not even appointed a general staff, and has no one to attend to the wants of his army.” [Footnote: Historical. See Dohm, vol. i., p. 183.]
“Further, further!” cried Joseph, as the man paused.
“I have nothing further to tell, sire. As the king and his people left my house, it was growing dark, so I slipped out. The curates were in the churches with the women and children, and we men ran to the next village, where the people gave us horses; and I have come to entreat the emperor not to let the King of Prussia take us, as he did Silesia.”
“I give you my word that you shall not be given over to Prussia. Remain true to your country, and oppose the enemy whenever and wherever you can. Go back to your village, greet your friends for me, and promise them my protection. Count, be so good as to see that these men get some refreshment before they start.”
The adjutant bowed, and, followed by the villager, left the room.
“Lacy,” cried the emperor, “the time for deliberation has gone by. The hour for decision has struck, and I am free to give battle. It is Frederick who has thrown down the glove, and I too, shall emerge from obscurity, and prove to the world that others besides the King of Prussia are worthy to lead their men to victory. It would be dishonorable to refuse the challenge he has sent through his invasion of Bohemia. Let orders be given to march to Jaromirs. We shall await the enemy there; and there at last I shall measure swords with the greatest captain of the age!”
CHAPTER CXXIV.
SECRET NEGOTIATIONS FOR PEACE.
After the departure of the emperor for the seat of war, the court of Vienna became supremely dull. All the state apartments were closed, the gentlemen and ladies in waiting went about silent as ghosts, the archduchesses were pale and sad, and the empress, disconsolate, spent all her days in the solitude of her own apartments.
Not only at court, but in the city were all sounds of joy hushed into speechless anxiety. Above all, since it had become known that Frederick had invaded Bohemia, the Viennese were in a state of painful excitement, convinced as they were that the warlike king would never stop his marches until they brought him to the gates of Vienna.
Finally the panic reached the palace. The rich were conveying their treasures to places of security, and the archduchesses and ladies of honor were importuning the empress to leave Vienna, and remove the court to Presburg. [Footnote: Dohm’s Memoirs, vol. i., p. 187.]
Maria Theresa turned a deaf ear to these entreaties. Her eyes, which had grown dull through weeping, flashed with defiant courage as she replied: “I remain here in Vienna, and if the King of Prussia lays siege to my capital, I shall die like an empress in imperial panoply. I have never known what it was to fear for my life, and if now my heart throbs with uneasiness, it is for my people, it is not for myself. I mourn for my subjects, should Heaven, in its wrath, permit Frederick to prevail. For this it is that my life is spent in seclusion and prayer. Come, my daughters, come, ladies all, let us betake ourselves to the house of God.”
And leaning upon the arms of the Archduchesses Elizabeth and Christina, the empress proceeded to the chapel. Behind them, with downcast eyes and reluctant steps, came the ladies of the court, all of one mind as to the weariness of too much godliness and too much praying.
“When will the empress’s private chapel be completed?” whispered one of the ladies to another. “When will this daily martyrdom cease? Is it not too bad to be forced to church five times a day?”
“You may thank fortune for your headache yesterday. It was my turn to accompany the empress to the chapel, and we stayed so long that the Archduchess Elizabeth told me that toward the end her senses began to fail her, and she was scarcely able to utter the responses. How is the Archduchess Marianna to-day?”
“Her highness,” whispered the first lady, “is too sensible to recover in a hurry. The wound in her cheek has reopened, and she really suffers a great deal at present. But she bears her pain with great fortitude. Yesterday the English ambassador was paying her a visit of condolence, and as he was expressing his sympathy, the archduchess interrupted him with a laugh. ‘Believe me,’ said she, ‘for a princess of forty, who is an old maid, even a hole in her own cheek is a godsend. Nothing that varies the dull uniformity of my life comes amiss.'” [Footnote: The archduchess’s own words. See “Courts of Europe at the Close of the Last Century,” by Henry Swinburne, vol. i., p. 342.]
Both ladies tittered, but perceiving that the empress was turning her head, they resumed their sanctimonious faces, and folded their hands.
“Was it you, ladies,” said Maria, Theresa, with severity, “who were interrupting our solemn silence by frivolous whisperings?”
“Yes, your majesty,” replied the first lady of honor. “We were preparing ourselves for prayer by edifying conversation.”
The empress smiled kindly upon the speaker. “I know that you are inclined to religion,” said she, “and I am glad that you have had so good an influence over the Countess Julia, for she is not wont to be too zealous at prayer. I will remember you both for your piety, dear children and will see that you are both well married. There is the young Baron of Palmoden and Count–“,
But the empress, who, in her darling schemes of marriage, had forgotten for a moment whither they were going, suddenly crossed herself, saying, “Forgive me, ladies; let us hasten our steps.”
On this day the empress remained for three hours in the chapel, and while her attendants, worn out by ennui, were some sleeping, or others whispering to keep themselves awake, Maria Theresa, before the altar, was on her knees, praying with all the fervor of her honest and believing soul. As she prayed, she heaved many a sigh, and many a tear fell unheeded from her eyes upon her tightly-clasped hands.
Certainly her prayers proved consolatory, for when they were ended, she rose from her knees, calm and resolved. As she reached the door of her own room, she turned to her favorite daughter. “Is your heart still disconsolate, Christina`?” said she, with a look of supreme tenderness.
“How can it be otherwise, my mother?” said Christina, sobbing. “Has not my cruel and avaricious brother forced my husband into this wicked war? Oh, dearest mother, if you would but speak the word, Albert might be relieved from the disgraceful contingency of appearing in arms against his native land! He has no alternative, he must either become a traitor to his own country, or perjure himself by deserting his colors. Oh, your majesty, have mercy upon your subjects, and force the rapacious emperor to forego his unjust claims, and obey your imperial commands!”
“Dry your tears, my daughter,” replied the empress, kissing her tenderly; “I have prayed so fervently for wisdom in this matter, that I feel as if my prayers had been answered. What He has commanded I will do, and may His grace strengthen and guide me! Hope for the best, my child, and do not speak so unkindly of your brother. He is not as cruel as you represent him; he has always been a dear, obedient son, and I trust, I may find him so to the end. Go, now, Christina, and remember that God directs all things.”
The empress dismissed her daughters and entered her room, passing rapidly to the place where hung the portrait of the Emperor Francis. For a long, long while she looked at it without any thing but a vague yearning to be united to her adored husband. Finally, as was her custom, she began to speak to it.
“Franz, I have prayed from my soul for light. It seems to me that God has spoken, but, oh, my darling, if what I am about to do is unwise, whisper me one word of warning, and I shall be passive. Sometimes I think that you visit me, beloved, and whisper words of angelic sweetness in my ear. Speak now, my Franz, speak if I am wrong–I will obey your voice.”
She clasped her hands, and looked imploringly at the picture. Finally she sighed. “Your dear face still smiles upon me,” murmured she, “and I must believe that I have decided for the best. I will act.”
So saying, she rang her bell, and a page answered the summons.
“Send hither my private secretary, and let a carriage be dispatched for Baron Thugut. I wish to see him immediately.”
A few moments afterward, Koch made his appearance, and in half an hour after a page announced Baron Thugut.
“Baron,” said the empress, “I wish to put a serious question to you. Remember that God hears you, and answer me without reservation.”
“Your majesty has forgotten,” replied Thugut, “that I have been so long in the kingdom of unbelief that I am an unbeliever myself. I do not know whether God hears me or not; but as I know that your majesty exacts of me to be candid, I shall obey your commands.”
“Then, tell me what is your opinion of the war of the Bavarian succession. Do you think it an equitable one?”
The baron’s small black eyes turned from the empress to the secretary. Maria Theresa understood the glance.
“Speak without reserve; Baron Koch is loyal, and knows all my secrets. Do you think, then, that our claims to Bavaria are just?”
“Just, your majesty?” repeated Thugut, in his sharp, cutting tones. “Their success or their failure must decide that question. He who wins will have proved his right. If we succeed in holding Bavaria, Germany will uphold us–for Germany never raises her voice against a fait accompli. Should Frederick unhappily defeat us, not only Germany, but all Europe will cry out against the greed and injustice of ambitious Austria.”
“I do not wish to expose myself to this contingency,” replied the empress. “I must have peace with God, the world, and my conscience, and you must come to my assistance, Thugut.”
An ironical smile played over Thugut’s face. “With God and your majesty’s conscience, I would be a poor mediator,” said he, “but toward the world I am ready to serve your majesty in any shape or form.”
“Then you shall mediate between myself and Frederick.”
“Between your majesty and the King of Prussia!” said Thugut, astonished.
The empress nodded her head, and, just then, the door opened, admitting a page who handed two letters on a golden plate. “The answer of Prince Gallitzin,” said he, bowing and retiring.
Maria Theresa opened the letters, which were unsealed, saving
“Now we have every thing requisite. Here is a passport for you as private secretary to the Russian ambassador; and here is a letter which you are to bear from Gallitzin to the king. This is the pretext of your visit to Frederick.”
“And the real motive is–“
“You will find it in the letter which I shall intrust to you for him. Read my letter aloud, Koch.”
The secretary read as follows
“From the recall of Baron von Reidsel and the marching of your majesty’s troops into Bohemia, I perceive with profoundest sorrow that we are on the eve of another war. My age, and sincere love of peace, are known to all the world, and I can give no greater proof of this love than I do by writing to your majesty. My maternal heart, too, is sorely grieved with the thought that I have two sons and a beloved son-in-law in the army. I have taken this step without the knowledge of the emperor, and whatever its result, I exact that it shall remain a secret between us. It is my desire to resume the negotiations which were broken off by my son. Baron Thugut, who will deliver this into your majesty’s hands, has received my instructions, and is empowered to treat with you. I trust that your majesty may deem it consistent with our common dignity to meet my wishes in this matter, and hope that you also correspond to the earnest desire which I cherish for a continuation of friendly relations with your majesty. With this hope I remain, “Your majesty’s affectionate sister and cousin, “MARIA THERESA.” [Footnote: This letter was written in the French language, and is to be found in Cross-Hoffinger’s “Life and History of the Reign of Joseph II.,” vol. iv., p. 89.]
“Your majesty wishes me to bring about a peace. But what sort of peace?” asked Thugut. “A conditional one, or peace at any price?”
Maria Theresa’s eyes flashed fire.
“Is Austria so weak that she should crave peace at any price?” cried she, proudly.
“No, indeed, your majesty. She seems, on the contrary, so powerful that she undertakes war at any price. But Bavaria is well worth a war with Prussia. Allow me one more question. What is the emperor to do with his army, while we negotiate?”
“They must await the result. I have written to Leopold to use all his influence to reconcile Joseph, for he will be indignant when he hears what I have done. But until it becomes evident that we cannot treat with Frederick, the emperor and his generals must remain passive. Should I fail, my son may then give battle, while his mother intercedes for him. If the medicine of diplomacy fails this time, we shall have to resort to the knife to heal our political wounds.”
“Your majesty is right,” said Thugut, with a heartless laugh. “When medicine fails we use the cold steel; and if that is not enough, fire is the last resort. What are your majesty’s conditions with Prussia, medicine, iron, or fire?” [Footnote: Thugut’s own application of the old-fashioned method of cure. See Hormayer’s “Contributions to the History of my Fatherland.”]
“Balsam, I trust,” replied the empress. “Koch has drawn out my propositions. And now go and make your preparations to depart, for I long for peace with the whole world.”
CHAPTER CXXV.
FRATERNAL DISCORD.
Very different were the preparations making by the empress’s warlike son. In company with Lacy and his staff, he had reviewed his troops for the last time, and had ridden from one end of their encampment to the other, that he might personally inspect the condition of his army. He had found it cheerful, spirited, and eager for the fray, the officers assuring him that their men were impatient to meet the enemy, and end the campaign by one decisive blow.
Even Lacy himself ceased to preach caution. He saw in the triumphant smile and flashing eyes of Joseph that counsel would be worse than useless, and warning would only drive him to some deed of mad daring, which might peril his life, or the safety of his army. The emperor himself had planned the attack, and his generals had approved his strategy.
On the other side of the Elbe was the King of Prussia, afraid to cross, lest the Austrian army, from their secure heights on the opposite shore, should annihilate his troops as they attempted the passage.
But what Frederick hesitated to undertake, Joseph was resolved to accomplish. He had determined to cross the Elbe, and force the king to give him battle. His columns were to move under cover of night, to ford the river below, and, by rapid marches, to reach the Prussian army at break of day.
“We shall be victorious, I feel it,” said the emperor to Lacy, on their return from the encampment. “I have a joy within my heart that is the forerunner either of victory or of death.”
“Of death!” echoed Lacy, with surprise. “Does your majesty mean to say that man can encounter death joyfully?”
“Why not?” said the emperor. “When a man dies, has he not won the long and bloody battle of life?”
“These are disconsolate words to fall from YOUR lips, sire. To you life must present a bright array of hopes and useful deeds. None but an old and decrepit man should take such gloomy views of the world.”
“I have suffered as much as older men, Lacy,” returned the emperor, laying his hand upon his friend’s shoulder “But all my sufferings are forgotten in the anticipated joy of the morrow. Let the dead past bury its dead the birth of my happiness is at hand. I shall no mote rest my title to the world’s homage upon the station to which I was born. It shall know at last that I am worthy to be the friend of Lacy and of Loudon. All the years that have intervened have never yet sufficed to blot out the remembrance of that fearful day on which the empress recalled the consent she had given for me to meet Frederick in the field. I have never looked upon my mother since without feeling the wound reopen. But to-day I can forgive her. I can even forgive the hated priests who were the cause of my misfortune. Lacy, I love the whole world. I–“
The emperor interrupted himself to stare with astonishment at the figure of a man, who just then had opened the door.
“The Grand Duke of Tuscany!” exclaimed Lacy.
“My brother Leopold,” murmured Joseph, in a low, tremulous voice, but without rising from his seat, or offering his hand. A cloud passed over the pale, sickly face of the grand duke, and the smile vanished from his lips.
“Your majesty does not invite me to enter?” asked he, reproachfully. “You do not bid me welcome?”
The emperor gazed upon his brother in silence, and Leopold shrank from the keen and searching glances of Joseph’s inquiring eyes.
“My brother,” cried the emperor, suddenly, “you have come hither to bring me some evil tidings.”
“I have come to greet your majesty, and to enjoy a few hours of family intercourse with you,” replied the grand duke, while, without awaiting the courtesy which Joseph would not extend, be closed the door, and advanced into the room.
“No, no,” cried the emperor, “that is false. We are not such a pair of loving brothers that you should seek me for affection’s sake.”
And approaching Leopold as he spoke, he stopped just before him, and continued:
“I implore of you be generous and tell me what you want. You have letters from the empress, have you not?”
“I have. I have not only letters from our imperial mother to deliver to your majesty, I am also the bearer of verbal messages, but-“
“But what?” cried Joseph, as Leopold paused.
“But I must request of your majesty to grant me a private interview.”
“With his majesty’s permission, I shall withdraw,” said Lacy. Joseph inclined his head, and, as Lacy disappeared, he turned his eyes once more upon the pale, embarrassed countenance of his unwelcome relative.
“Now we are alone,” said he, breathing fast. “Now–but no. Give me one moment to collect my strength. My God! what evil has the empress in store for me now, that she should select you as the messenger of her cruelty? Peace–I do not wish to hear your voice until I am ready to listen to its discordant sounds.”
“I await your commands,” replied Leopold, with a respectful inclination.
The emperor crossed the room several times forth and back. His cheeks were blanched, his mouth quivered, while quick and gasping came the breath from his heaving chest.
“Air, air!” said he in a stifled voice. “I shall suffocate!” He approached the window, and leaning far out, inhaled the cold winter blast, whose icy breath was welcome to his hot and fevered head. After a while, he closed the window and turned to his brother, who, with folded arms, still stood near the door.
“Now,” said Joseph, gloomily, “I am ready to hear. Speak out, your infernal errand!”
“I must first beg pardon of your majesty if the intelligence which I am compelled to communicate is unwelcome,” began Leopold, in a deprecating voice.
Joseph cast a rapid, searching look athwart the perplexed face of his brother. “You are forgiven,” replied he, contemptuously. “Your message seems to be punishment enough of itself, if I judge by your countenance. Let us be quick, then, and be done with one another. Give me the letter, and say at once what you have to say.”
The grand duke took from his coat-pocket a sealed dispatch which he delivered to the emperor.
“Here are the letters of the empress, but she ordered me to accompany them with a few words explanatory of her motives. She commissioned me to tell what she found it difficult to write.”
“She was afraid,” muttered Joseph.
“Yes, she was afraid to commit an injustice,” returned Leopold. “She was afraid to offend her Maker by continuing a war whose object was to break one of His holy commandments–“
“Oh, my brother!” interrupted Joseph, sarcastically, “you are yourself again–I recognize the dutiful son of the priests who denounce me because I would disturb them in their comfortable Bavarian nest. I see plainly that if I should be so unfortunate as to fall to-morrow on the battle-field, you will throw yourself into the arms of Frederick and of that frantic amazon, the Duchess Clemens, beg pardon for my sins, and hand over the fairest portion of Germany to pope and Jesuits. Oh, what a favorite you would become with the black-coats! Doubtless they would give you absolution for all the sins you are accustomed to commit against your wife, but, my virtuous brother, I shall outlive the morrow, that I promise you, and shall gain such a victory over Frederick as will astound you and the whole popedom.”
“You were about to give battle to Frederick?”
“I am about to do so,” replied Joseph, defiantly.
“Then it was time for me to come!” exclaimed Leopold, solemnly.
“The mercy of God has sent me to stop the carnage! My brother, the empress earnestly entreats you, by the tears she has shed for your sake, to desist from fighting! As your empress she commands you to sheathe your sword until you hear the result of the negotiations now pending between herself and the King of Prussia.”
The emperor uttered a cry of rage, and the angry blood darted to his very brow. “The empress has opened negotiations without my consent!” cried he, in a voice of mingled indignation and incredulity.
“The empress requires the consent of no one to regulate her state policy. In the supremacy of her own power, she has reopened negotiations with the King of Prussia, and hopes to terminate the war honorably without bloodshed.”
“It is false, I will not believe it!” again cried Joseph. “My mother would not offer me such indignity, when she herself placed in my hand the sword with which I seek to defend my rights. It is a priest’s lie, and you have been commissioned to be its interpreter. But this time your pious frauds will come to naught. Take back your packet. It is not the empress’s handwriting.”
“It is that of her private secretary.”
“I am not bound to respect his writing, and I have no time to listen to your stupid remonstrances. Wait till day after to-morrow. When a man is flushed with victory, he is generous and ready to pardon. When I have beaten Frederick, I shall have leisure to inquire into the authenticity of your papers. Remain with me, not as the emissary of priests and Jesuits, but as the brother of the emperor, who to-morrow is to win his first victory and his first budding laurels. Give me your hand. On the eve of a battle, I am willing to remember that we are brothers.”
“But this is not the eve of a battle, your majesty. The empress commands you to await the result of her efforts to end the war.”
“I have already told you that I see through your intrigues.”
“But I have the proofs of my veracity in these papers. You will not read them?”
“No, I will not!”
“Then I shall read them myself,” returned Leopold, breaking the seal. “The empress commands you, and it is your duty as her subject to obey.”
“I shall obey when I am convinced that the empress commands. But in this case I am convinced that it is not my mother, the high-spirited Maria Theresa, who intrusts you with such an abject commission.”
“You surely will not deny her handwriting?” returned Leopold, extending an open letter to his brother.
Joseph looked imploringly at his brother’s calm face.
“You are resolved to show me no mercy,” said he. “You will not understand my refusal to believe. Listen to me, Leopold. Show that you love me for once in your life. Think of my joyless youth, my sorrowing manhood, my life of perpetual humiliation, and give me one day of independent action.”
“What does your majesty mean’?” asked the grand duke.
The emperor came up to him, and putting both his hands upon Leopold’s shoulder, he said in a voice of deep emotion; “Majesty asks nothing of you, but your brother entreats you to serve him this day. See, Leopold, it is too late, I cannot retract upon the very eve of battle. The army knows that we are about to engage the enemy, and my men are wild with enthusiasm. The presence of Frederick upon Austrian soil is an indignity which I am pledged as a man to avenge. If I allow him to retreat from his present disadvantageous position, my name is gone forever, and all Europe will cry out upon my incapacity to command. Remember, Leopold, that it concerns not my honor alone, but the honor of Austria, that this battle should be fought. Rescue us both by a magnanimous falsehood. Go back to the empress. Tell her that you lost her letters and that I would not take your word. Meanwhile, I shall have humiliated the enemy, and Maria Theresa will have been forced to submit to an event which she cannot recall. Let us burn these papers, Leopold,” continued Joseph, passionately clasping his hands, “and God will forgive you the innocent deception by which your brother shall have won fame and glory.”
“God will never pardon me for sinning so deeply against my conscience,” replied Leopold, unmoved. “You require of me to burn those papers and consign thousands of your own subjects to death and worse than death–the lingering agonies of the battle-field. Never! Oh, my dear brother, have pity on yourself, and bethink you that you peril your own salvation by such thirst of blood–“
“Peace!–and answer my question,” cried Joseph, stamping his foot. “Will you do what I ask of you?”
“No, Joseph, I will not do it. The empress desires to spare the blood of her people, and we must obey her just demands.”
“I will not obey!” cried Joseph with such violence that his face was empurpled with passion. “I am co-regent, and as a man and a commander, it is my right to defend the honor of the crown. I will not read those letters, and I choose to assert the superiority of my manhood by doing that which they forbid. In your eyes and those of the empress, I may be a rebel, but the world will acquit me, and I shall be honored for my just resistance. You will not destroy the papers as I implored you to do?–then give them to me, and so satisfy your tender conscience.”
“No,” replied Leopold, who had replaced the dispatches in his pocket, “for I see that you intend to destroy them.”
“That need not concern you. Give me the letters.”
“No, Joseph, I will not give them.”
The emperor uttered a hoarse cry, and darted toward his brother with uplifted arm.
“Give me the papers!” said he, with his teeth set.
“What! you would strike me!” said Leopold retreating.
“Give me the papers!” thundered the emperor, “or I fell you to the earth as I would a beast!” and he came yet nearer.
Pale and panting, their eyes flashing with anger, the brothers stood for a moment confronting each other.
“Refuse me once again,” hissed Joseph in a low, unnatural voice, “refuse me once again, and my hand shall smite your cowardly face and disgrace you forever; for, as God hears me, you shall never have satisfaction for the affront.”
Leopold was silent, but with his eyes fixed upon Joseph, he retreated, farther and still farther, followed by the emperor, who, still with uplifted hand, threatened his brother’s face. Suddenly Leopold reached the door and, bursting it open, rushed into the anteroom. With a tiger-bound he sprang forward to Lacy who had remained there in obedience to the emperor’s orders.
CHAPTER CXXVI.
THE DEFEAT.
“Field-Marshal Lacy,” said the grand duke, “I claim your protection–the protection of a man whom the empress has honored, and who has sworn to obey her as his lawful sovereign.”
“Even unto death,” added Lacy solemnly.
The emperor groaned aloud, and his upraised arm fell powerless to his side. A triumphant smile flickered over the pale features of Leopold. He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth the dispatches of the empress.
“The empress charged me,” said he, “in case the emperor refused to read these letters, to deliver them to you, Marshal Lacy, and to bid you, in my presence, read them to him. Come, then, your excellency, let us obey the commands of our sovereign.”
Lacy bowed, and followed the grand duke in silence. The emperor retreated to his cabinet, and, sinking upon a sofa, buried his face in his hands. Nothing interrupted the stillness save the measured footsteps of Lacy and the grand duke, who entered and closed the door behind them. A long pause ensued. The grand duke retired to a window, where, with his arms folded, he awaited the development of affairs with recovered composure. Joseph still sat with his face hidden by his hands, while Lacy with military decorum stood at the door with his letters, silent until the emperor should signify that he might read. Finding that Joseph would not speak, Lacy took a few steps forward. “Does your majesty allow me to read the letters which, in the name of the empress, his imperial highness, the grand duke, has delivered to me?”
“Read,” said Joseph hoarsely, but without removing his hands. Lacy approached the table, and from the various documents which he unfolded and examined, selected the letter which was in the empress’s own hand–
“My Dearest Emperor and Son: As co-regent and heir to my throne, I hasten to advise you of the negotiations which have just been renewed between the King of Prussia and myself. I have every hope that they will terminate to our satisfaction, and thus not only save the lives of many of our subjects, but relieve my heart of the pangs it has endured during the absence of my beloved son. The King of Prussia has promised that, pending our diplomatic correspondence, he will not attack our armies. I therefore hope that you, my son, will concede as much, and scrupulously avoid all collision that might interrupt our negotiations. I send you copies of our correspondence, and will continue to do so regularly. Hoping that God in His goodness will restore to me my imperial son, I remain now as ever, your affectionate mother and empress, “MARIA THERESA.”
A deep sign that was almost a sob was heaved by the emperor. Slowly his hands fell from his face, while with tearful eyes he turned to Lacy, and said, “Is it really so? Are my hopes of glory all frustrated?”
Lacy answered with another sigh and a slight raising of the shoulder.
“Read on, Lacy,” continued the emperor, mildly; “my eyes are dim and I cannot see.”
Lacy continued reading the correspondence: first the letter of the empress; then the reply of the king, in which he promised that Maria Theresa should have nothing to fear for the life of her beloved son.
When the emperor heard this he started; the color mounted to his face, then faded away and left it pale as before. His lips moved, but with a convulsive twitch he closed them again, and listened in silence. Two more letters followed, full of mutual and distinguished consideration; then came the propositions of the empress and the comments of the king.
Maria Theresa pledged herself, from that portion of Bavaria of which Austria had possession, to retain only so much as would yield a revenue of one million, offering to cede the remainder to the elector palatine, or to exchange with him for territory situated elsewhere.
Then followed Frederick’s conditions. He stipulated that Austria should renounce all pretensions to Bavaria, contenting herself with a small portion of Upper Bavaria, and recognizing and upholding the claims of Charles Theodore, as well as those of his heir, the Duke of Zweibrucken.
“Further, further!” exclaimed Joseph, as Lacy paused.
“There is nothing further, sire; the correspondence ceases there.”
“And to these disgraceful propositions we are not permitted to make the only answer of which they are deserving–that is, to wipe them out with blood! Oh, Lacy, Lacy, is it not fearful to be compelled like a schoolboy to submit to the punishment which my tormentor judges fit to inflict?”
“It is a painful duty, sire; but it is a duty, and your majesty must submit.”
“I must not submit!” exclaimed Joseph in bitter anguish, while he sprang from the sofa. But suddenly his eager, fluttering glances were turned toward the window where stood the grand duke quietly surveying his movements.
“Have you not gone?” asked the, emperor. “I thought that your mission being fulfilled, your imperial highness had nothing more to do here.”
“I await your majesty’s answer,” replied the grand duke. “Oh, you wish to mock me, do you?” cried Joseph, trembling with passion, “for well you know there is but one answer to the empress’s commands, and that is–obedience. But since you are anxious to take a message, here is one, and mark it well. Say to the empress that I submit as becomes her subject, and so long as it suits her without my knowledge and behind my back to hold conferences with the enemy, I will abstain from engaging him in battle, although by so doing I shall ruin my reputation forever. Tell her furthermore that should she accept the dishonorable proposals made by Frederick and conclude a peace upon the basis of his conditions, she need never expect to see me again in Vienna. I never shall go near her so long as I live, but shall take up my abode in Aix la Chapelle, or in some other free city, as it was once the custom of the Emperors of Germany to do.”‘ [Footnote: Joseph’s own words. See Dohm’s Memoirs vol. i., p. 143.]
“Oh, sire!” exclaimed Lacy, shocked, “retract those words, I implore of you!”
“I will not retract them,” replied Joseph, imperatively; “I order the envoy of the empress to repeat them faithfully.”
“I shall obey your majesty, the co-regent of the empress,” said the Grand Duke of Tuscany. “Has your majesty any other commands?”
“Yes!” shouted the emperor, fiercely. “When you shall have accomplished your mission in Vienna, go home to your priests in Tuscany, and bid them say a mass for the repose of your brother’s soul, for from this day you have lost him who was called Joseph. He is dead to you forever.”
The grand duke returned his brother’s look with one of equal hatred. “I can scarcely lose that which I have never possessed,” replied he with composure. “Had the affront which your majesty has put upon me to-day come from a brother, we should have measured swords together before the sun had set upon the insult. But he who stands before me is my emperor, and of him I am prohibited from demanding satisfaction.”
“Our paths in life lie apart, and I trust that we shall never be forced to look upon each other again,” said Joseph in reply.
“Since we can never meet as brothers, I am compelled to echo the wish,” returned Leopold. “Farewell!”
“Farewell–and let it be farewell forever!”
The grand duke crossed the room and opened the door, while Joseph watched his disappearance with glaring eyes and stormy brow, and Lacy in anguish of heart looked first at one brother, then at the other. The door closed, and the jar it made caused Lacy of start. He recovered himself and hastened to the emperor’s side.
“Call him back, sire,” implored he. “Call him back. He is your brother and the son of your mother. He is also the hope of those who tremble with apprehension of your majesty’s reign.”
“Oh, yes–he is the leader of my enemies, the head of the pious conspirators who have cursed my life by their diabolical opposition. But a day will come when I shall crush the whole brood in their owl’s nest, and put my house in order. In that day I shall remember this interview with the Grand Duke of Tuscany.” [Footnote: The two brothers never met again. Although Leopold was next heir to the crown, Joseph would not allow him to receive the title of King of Rome, but bestowed it upon Leopold’s son and heir, Francis. Even upon his death-bed the emperor refused to see his brother. By his explicit commands, it was only when his death had taken place, that a courier was sent to inform Leoold of his accession to the throne.]
“Sire,” insisted Lacy, “I entreat of you, recall him–if not as your brother, as the envoy of your sovereign. Before it is too late, retract those fearful words, which in a moment of–“
“Lacy!” interrupted the emperor, in a loud, angry voice, “I have this day lost a brother and a battle. Am I also to lose a friend?”
The tears rose to Lacy’s eyes. “Sire,” said he in a voice of emotion, “forgive your truest friend if he has presumed to oppose you. I have no kindred to love: my heart is bound to you, and if I lose your regard, I am desolate and alone in the world!”
“You shall not lose it, my dear, dear friend,” exclaimed Joseph, throwing his arms around Lacy’s neck. “O God, you do not know how I suffer I I feel as if I had lost some beloved friend. And is it not so? Have I not buried to-day the hopes of a whole life? The hopes which from my youth I had cherished of winning glory and fame through Frederick’s humiliation!–I would give years of my life to have measured swords with him, for–let me tell you a secret, Lacy–I hate that man as much as I once fancied that I loved him. He is the cause of every misfortune that has befallen our house for forty years past. His fame is our shame, his splendor our obscuration. I might forgive him his robbery of Silesia, but that he has reduced me to the role of an imitator, I can never forgive! Every thing on earth that I imagine, he executes before me. If I desire to free my people from the dominion of the clergy, he has already liberated his; if I seek to advance art, literature, or manufactures, he has just afforded them protection in Prussia; if I recommend toleration, lo! he has removed the disabilities of the Jews, and has pronounced all sects equal before the law. Would I excel in music, or yearn for military glory, the world has long since pronounced him a hero, and his flute was heard before I learned the violoncello. Oh, I hate him, I hate him, for his greatness is the rock upon which my originality is fated to split; and his shadow projects forever before me and my unborn deeds. He forces me to pass for a counterfeit of his true coin, and yet I feel that my individuality is as marked as his! He is the evil genius of my destiny, vanquishing me even in that which I would have done for the good of my subjects and the advancement of the world!”
“Your majesty goes too far,” said Lacy, smiling. “There is one thing which Frederick has never dreamed of doing, and it is precisely there that you are destined to eclipse him. He has never sought to do any thing for Germany. A German prince, the ruler of a German people, he is the patron of foreign industry, literature, and art. The most insignificant writer in France is better known to him than Lessing or Winklemann; and while he is perfectly familiar with the composers of Italy, be has blundered into depreciation of Gluck’s inspired music. There is the great and glorious contrast which your majesty presents to Frederick of Prussia; and the German people, whom he has despised, will look up to you, sire, as to the Messiah of their decaying greatness.”
“He will foil me there as in all else,” replied Joseph, disconsolately. “Has he not already guessed my plans in Germany, and has he not torn my banner from my hand to flaunt it above his own head, as the defender of German liberties! And Maria Theresa, too, is deceived by his infernal logic. Oh, Lacy! I hate him beyond expression. I hate him for the letter wherein he promises to spare her son, a man whom he loves, although he differs with him on the subject of German nationality. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, “Records of the Life of Joseph II.,” p. 41.] The cowardly remnant of a warrior! He takes refuge under my mother’s hooped petticoat, and whispers in her credulous ear that this war is a great sin. Do you really think that I am bound to sheathe my sword at the ipse dixit of my mother?”
“Your mother is the reigning empress, sire, and it is for you to give to her other subjects an example of loyalty and obedience.”
“Ah,” sighed Joseph, “I must still the throbbings of my bursting heart, and suffer in silence!”
For a while he paced the room with hasty, uncertain steps, murmuring inaudible words, and darting despairing looks toward the window, whence gay throngs of soldiery were to be seen preparing to leave the encampment, while they sang their martial songs, and speculated together upon the events of the morrow. Suddenly the emperor turned his head toward Lacy, and said:
“Field-marshal, I withdraw my plans of battle. The empress-queen has spoken, it is for us to obey. Apprise the army of the change. We remain where we are.”
“Sire,” exclaimed Lacy enthusiastically, “your victory has been won to-day. A victory over self!”
The emperor raised his eyes with a sad, weary expression, and shook his head: “It was harder to win than could have been that which I contemplated for to-morrow. Go, Lacy, go, we must still hope and pray–pray God to grant that at some future day we may be revenged.”
CHAPTER CXXVII.
THE REVENGE.
Lacy had assembled the generals and the staff-officers to communicate the decision of the emperor; while the latter, overcome by this supreme disappointment, was pacing his cabinet with heavy and measured step. Then he stood at the window, and watched the movements of his soldiers.
“They have heard it now,” thought he, “and the word has gone forth, ‘The emperor is afraid to meet the old hero.’ Yes, my brave soldiers, I know full well that you despise me! Your songs have ceased–your spirit is crushed, and, ah, mine also! This unfought battle is worth a victory to Frederick; for the army will think that my courage failed me, and the King of Prussia will still remain in their estimation the invincible foe of Austria! Oh, when will the hour of retribution sound?”
At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and an adjutant announced to the emperor that a hussar, belonging to a Galician regiment stationed directly opposite to the Prussian encampment, wished to communicate something of importance.
“Admit him,” said Joseph, wearily.
The adjutant bowed, and returned, accompanied by a stalwart figure, attired in the fanciful and becoming costume of a Galician hussar. The emperor returned his salute with a slight bend of the head, and motioned him to approach. The adjutant withdrew, and Joseph was alone with the man.
“Now speak,” said the emperor, “and if you have important tidings, let me hear them.”
The soldier raised his head, and spoke. “I have come to do your majesty a service, but first you must promise to reward me as becomes an emperor.”
“If your service is great, your reward shall be in proportion.”
The soldier bowed. “I am on picket duty immediately on the bank, of the Elbe. As I have lain among the bushes, I have more than once seen the King of Prussia just opposite to me, taking a survey of our strength. Little thinks he, as he reins in his horse, that a sharpshooter’s ball is not too far off to bring him down. But I have thought of it.”
“You have thought of WHAT?” exclaimed Joseph, shocked.
“I have thought that my ball has never yet missed its man, and what a rich man I might become if I were to free Austria from its worst enemy. I was turning this over in my mind yesterday, when here comes the king on his gray horse, and halts directly in front of me. He held a cane in his hand, and pointed with it toward our encampment, and beat the air with it, as though he were showing his officers how he was going to thrash the Austrian army. When I saw this, my blood began to boil, and I rose half up, and cocked my gun. Many a Bosnian have I brought down with it.”
“Go on,” said the emperor, as the soldier paused, and threw an admiring glance upon his musket.
“Yes, sire, I raised my gun, and took aim, when I began to reflect that–“
“That what?” exclaimed Joseph, upon whose forehead great drops of sweat had begun to gather.
“That it would be better first to ask the emperor’s permission, and get the promise of a reward,” said the hussar, with a salute.
“Ah!” cried the emperor, breathing freely, “that was a lucky thought of yours.”
The soldier bowed low. “I put down my musket, and when the hour came round for me to be relieved, I asked leave of my captain to come here to see an old acquaintance. And, indeed, your majesty, I was not telling a lie, for you once slept under my father’s roof, and paid him so well for the night’s lodging, that he was able to buy some land to settle me upon it, and thereupon I married my sweetheart. So that I did come to see an old acquaintance; and now, your majesty, I have a firm hand and a sharp eye, and if you say so, Frederick shall bite the dust before this day week.”
“What said your captain to such a proposal?”
“Does your majesty suppose that I am such a fool as to give another man the chance of stepping in my shoes?”
“It follows thence that I am the only person in your confidence,” said Joseph, much relieved.
“The only one, sire, and I believe that you will not misuse it.”
“No, I will not, and as a reward for your trust in me, here are two gold pieces.”
At first the soldier smiled as he received the gold, but presently his brow darkened, and casting a dissatisfied look at the emperor from behind his busby eyebrows, he said, “Is the life of the King of Prussia worth but two ducats?”
“It is worth more than all the gold in my imperial treasury,” replied the emperor, with energy; “and no man on earth is rich enough to pay for it. I gave you these ducats to repay what you spent in coming from your camp hither. But I shall reward you still further if you will promise not to divulge what you have confided to me. Not only that, but I will also give you your discharge from the army, send you home, and give you a situation as imperial huntsman. If you break your promise, I will punish you with death.”
“Sire, I promise, and I shall never break my word.”
“Swear it in the name of God and of the Blessed Virgin.”
“I swear,” said the soldier, raising his right hand to heaven. “And now, your majesty, that no one is to know it except us two, when shall I shoot the King of Prussia, and return to my home?”
The emperor looked sternly upon the unconscious hussar. “Soldier,” said he, in loud and solemn tones, “keep the gold I have given you in remembrance of the warning which your good angel whispered, when you forbore to murder the King of Prussia. I hope and believe that every man among you would risk his life in battle to take him prisoner, but God forbid that any one of you should stoop so low as to become his murderer!”
The man stared at the emperor in utter bewilderment, and not a word of reply was be able to make to this incomprehensible harangue.
The emperor continued: “I pardon your evil thought because it did not germinate into an evil deed. But had you followed your impulse to murder the king, I would have hung you without giving you time to see a priest. Thank God for your escape, and let us dismiss the disgraceful subject forever. You can remain here for the night.”
“But I have only six hours’ leave of absence, sire.”
The emperor looked distrustfully at the soldier. “I have discharged you from the service, and will see that you are not molested. “
“And I am really to go home?” cried the man, overjoyed. “And the emperor really means to fulfil his promise in spite of the dreadful reprimand I have received?”
“Yes, I mean to fulfil my promise. But you also must swear to live a peaceful life, and never try to kill another man save in open fight, were he even a Bosnian.”
“From my heart, I swear,” replied the soldier, solemnly.
“Now you can go.”
The emperor then rang his bell, when the door opened, and Gunther entered the room.
“Gunther,” said he, “give this man his supper and a bed in your room, and, while he remains here, see that his wants are attended to.”
Gunther bowed, and retired with the hussar. The emperor followed the gigantic figure of the soldier until the door closed upon him, then he raised his eyes to heaven with a look of unspeakable gratitude.
“Lord,” said he, “I have suffered cruelly since the sun rose to-day, but oh! how I thank Thee that Thou hast preserved my name from eternal infamy! How would the world have spurned me, if, refusing to give him battle, I had taken the life of my enemy through the hands of an Austrian soldier! My God! my God! the life of Frederick has become more precious to me than my own–for HIS life is one with MY honor.
“But what, if another should execute what this Galician has conceived?” continued the emperor, shuddering. “What if, in his ignorance, another one of these wild huntsmen should deem it his duty to take the life of Frederick?” The emperor grew pale with the thought, and his hand was lifted as if to protest against the crime. “I must find means to shield myself from such disgrace, for his safety and my honor are cast on the same die.”
Far into the night Gunther heard the tread of his Imperial master, and he waited in vain to be called in to attend him. He watched until the dawn of day, and when, at last, unable to contain his anxiety, he opened the door of the cabinet, he saw the emperor asleep in an arm-chair. He was in full uniform, and the rays of the rising sun lit up his pale face, which, even in sleep, wore an anxious and painful expression.
Gunther approached, and touched him lightly.
“Sire,” said he, in a voice of tender entreaty, “let me assist you to undress. This is the fourth night that your majesty has slept in your uniform. You must lie down, indeed you must.”
Joseph opened his eyes, and looked at Gunther.
“Ah!” sighed he, “during three of these nights I might just as well have slept in my bed as any respectable burgher who has nothing to trouble him but his growing corpulence. But last night I dared not undress, for I have much to do this morning. Good Heaven! Gunther,” continued the emperor, suddenly remembering the hussar, “what has become of the man whom I gave into your custody last evening?”
“Your majesty’s second valet is in the same bed with him, and they are both asleep. The door between our sleeping-room and the anteroom has been open all night, so that, while I sat there awaiting your majesty’s call, I had the hussar directly under my eyes. He seems to have pleasant dreams, if I judge by his smiles and snatches of songs.”
“Let him sleep, Gunther, and when he awakes, allow no one to hold any conversation with him. Now give me a glass of fresh water for my breakfast.”
Gunther hastened to obey, and returned in a very few minutes. The emperor emptied the glass at a draught.
“Oh!” exclaimed he, refreshed, “how delightful it is! I have not a cook in my palace capable of brewing me such a beverage.”
“And yet the meanest of your subjects, sire, would grumble if he had nothing better than a glass of water for breakfast.”
“No doubt of it, Gunther. Men set no value upon that which is easily obtained. If I were to close up the fountains, and forbid them to drink water for breakfast, they would raise a howl, and protest that they could drink nothing else. And if I desired to give them a taste for assafoetida, I would have nothing to do but forbid its use. Once forbidden to the multitude, the multitude would go mad for it. But see, the sun has sent a ray through the window to bid us good-morning, and to warn me that it is time to depart. Order my horse to be saddled: Tell some of the staff to prepare to accompany me, and then go to Field-Marshal Lacy, and request him to go with me this morning on a tour of inspection.”
“Lacy,” said the emperor, as they galloped off together, “you must prepare yourself for a long ride. We had anticipated an early start to-day, and we are punctual. To be sure, we are minus an army, and neither our hearts nor our trumpets are sounding triumphant blasts of victory. Ah, friend, what miserable puppets we are in the hands of Almighty God! Yesterday I was gazing exultingly upon the heaven of the future, so clear, so blue, so silver-bright–when lo! the rustling of a woman’s dress is heard, and the sky of my destiny grows black as night. Yesterday I fancied myself a man–to-day I am a schoolboy in disgrace upon my knees. Oh, Lacy, those weary knees ache me so, that I could sob for pain, were it not laughable for a commander-in-chief to put his handkerchief to his eyes.
“Good God! Lacy,” shouted the emperor, suddenly, while he reined in his horse until the animal almost fell upon his haunches, “why do you not laugh? You see that I am doing my best to divert you.”
“I cannot laugh, sire, when you yourself are suffering almost to madness!”
The emperor made no reply, but rode cu, relaxing his speed until his horse ambled gently over the road. “Lacy,” said he, finally, “I am unreasonable when I murmur against destiny, for yesterday Providence was most benign toward me. Some other time, you shall hear in what manner. Let us quicken our pace, for to-day I must visit all the outposts. I have an order to promulgate to the pickets, of which I shall explain to you the reason when we return.”
Shortly after the emperor had spoken, they reached the front. Joseph sprang forward to the very edge of the river-bank, and looked earnestly toward the opposite shore. Nothing was to be seen, save far away on the horizon, a few black specks which showed the outposts of the enemy. The emperor signed to the officer on duty to approach.
“Do the Prussians ever venture any nearer?” asked he.