Joseph II and His Court by L. MuhlbachA Historical Novel (page 8)

“Tell me the truth!” cried the emperor, sharply.

“Sire,” said Kaunitz, proudly, “there may be times when it is the part of wisdom to be silent; but it is never permitted to a man of honor to be untruthful. I know nothing of this girl’s disappearance. The most that I anticipated was a forced marriage. This, I knew, would occasion new differences between the empress and your majesty, and I had supposed that you were coming to me to call for my mediation.”

“I must believe you,” sighed the emperor. “But prove your integrity by helping me to find her. Oh, Kaunitz, I beseech of you, help me, and earn thereby my gratitude and undying regard!”

“Have I waited so long for your majesty’s regard, to earn it on account of a silly peasant?” said Kaunitz, with a bitter smile. “I hope that I shall have a niche in the temple of the world’s esteem, even if I do fail in finding the daughter of Conrad the boor. If your majesty has never esteemed me before, you will not begin to do so today; and, as regards your promised gratitude; the whole world knows, and your majesty also knows, that I am not to be bribed; but I am ready, from the depths of my own attachment to you, to do all that I can to help you.”

“Kaunitz,” said the emperor, offering him his hand, “you intend to force me to love you.”

“If I ever did force your majesty to love me,” replied Kaunitz, with animation, “I should count it the happiest day of my life. If I ever succeed in winning your confidence, then I may hope to complete the work I have begun–that of uniting your majesty’s dominions into one great whole, before which all Europe shall bow in reverence.”

“Let us speak of other things,” interrupted the emperor. “Help me to find Marianne.”

“Allow me one question, then–am I the only person to whom your majesty has spoken on this subject?”

“No, I have spoken to one other man. I have consulted the shrewdest detective in all Vienna, and have promised him a large reward if he will serve me. He came to me this morning. He had discovered nothing, but gave me to understand that it was you who had betrayed me to the empress.”

“What is his name, your majesty?”

“Eberhard. He has sworn to unravel the mystery for me.”

“Then it certainly will be unravelled, for he it is who has been tracking your majesty, and who has been the means of betraying you to the empress. I, too, have been giving him gold, with this difference, that your majesty trusted him, and I did not. He is at the bottom of the whole plot.”

The emperor sprang from his seat, and hastened to the door. Kaunitz followed, and ventured to detain him.

“I must go,” cried Joseph, impatiently. “I must force Eberhard to tell me what has been done with Marianne.”

“You will not find him. He, too, has disappeared.”

“Then I must go to the empress to beg her to be merciful to that poor child who is suffering on my account. I will exact it of her.”

“That will only make the matter worse.”

Joseph stamped his foot, and uttered a cry of fury. “What must I do, then?” exclaimed he.

“Be silent and affect indifference. As soon as the empress believes that you have grown careless on the girl’s account, she will begin to think that she has taken the matter too seriously to heart. Conrad must sell his farm, and remove far away from Vienna. Once settled, let him come and claim his daughter, and the empress will be very glad to be rid of her. Do this, and all will be right.”

Joseph frowned, and seemed reluctant to follow this advice.

Kaunitz saw his unwillingness, and continued “This is the only means of restoring the girl to peace of mind, and your majesty owes her this reparation. The poor thing has been rudely precipitated from the clouds; and as the comedy is over, the best thing we can do for her is to convince her that it as a comedy, and that the curtain has fallen. Your majesty, however, must not again lay your imperial hand upon the simple web of her destiny: leave it to your inferiors to gather up its broken threads. Go away from Vienna; travel, and seek recreation. Leave Marianne to me, and I swear to you that I will rescue and befriend her. When you have gone, I shall go to the empress and relate the whole story. I shall tell all the truth; Maria Theresa has a noble, generous heart; and she will not do any injury to the one who was instrumental in saving the life of her darling son. She will do any thing for her happiness, provided it do not compromise the honor of her imperial house. And she is right. But you must go, and once gone, Marianne shall be free.”

“Free not only from others, but from me also,” said the emperor, deeply affected. “I feel I have erred toward this innocent young girl. I have deeply sinned; for, regardless of her peace of mind, I have allowed myself to dream of a love that could bring naught and misery to both. For I will not conceal from you, my friend, how much it costs me to renounce this sweet creature, and to promise that I will see her no more. My intercourse with her was the last dying sigh of a love which has gone from my heart forevermore. But–it must be sacrificed. Rescue her, and try to make her happy, Kaunitz; try to efface from her heart the memory of my blasting love.”

“I promise to free her, but I cannot promise to rescue her from the memory of your majesty’s love. Who knows that from the ring which she has sworn to wear forever, she may not have inhaled a poison that will shorten her young life? To rescue her from such a fate lies not in the power of man. Time–the great comforter–may heal her wounds, but your majesty must promise never to ask whither she has gone. For you she must be dead.”

“I promise, on my imperial honor, never to see her again,” said Joseph, in a faltering voice. “I will leave to-morrow. Thank God, the world is wide; and, far away from Vienna, I, too, can seek for oblivion, and, perchance, for another ray of earthly happiness.” And so ended the pastoral of the emperor and the village maid.

CHAPTER LII.

COUNT FALKENSTEIN.

“Away with care and sorrow! Away with royalty and state!” cried the emperor, as the long train of wagons, which had accompanied him from Vienna, were disappearing in the distance.

The empress had caused preparation for her son’s journey to be made with imperial pomp. A brilliant cortege of nobles and gentleman had followed the emperor’s caleche, and behind them came twelve wagons with beds, cooking utensils, and provisions–the whole gotten up with true princely magnificence.

The emperor had said nothing, and had left Vienna amid the chiming of bells and the loud greetings of the people. For two days he submitted to the tedious pageants of public receptions, stupid addresses, girls in white, and flower-decked arches; but on the morning of the third day, two couriers announced not only to the discomfited gentlemen composing his suite, but to the conductors of the provision-train, that the emperor would excuse them from further attendance.

Everybody was astonished, and everybody was disappointed. The emperor, meanwhile, stood by laughing, until the last wagon was out of sight.

“Away with sorrow and care!” cried he, approaching his two carriage companions, Counts Rosenberg and Coronini. “Note, any friends,” exclaimed he, putting a hand upon the shoulder of each one, “now the world is ours! Let us enjoy our rich inheritance! But–bless me, how forlorn you both look! What is the matter? have I been mistaken in supposing you would relish my plan of travel?”

“No, your majesty,” replied Rosenberg, with a forced smile, “but I am afraid you will scarcely relish it yourself. You have parted with every convenience that snakes travelling endurable.”

“Your majesty will have to put up with many a sorry dinner and many an uncomfortable bed,” sighed Comnini.

“I am tired of comforts and conveniences,” rejoined the emperor, laughing, “and I long for the variety of privation. But, in my thoughtlessness, I had taken it for granted that you, too, were weary of grandeur, and would like to get a taste of ordinary life. If I am mistaken, you are free to return with my discharged cortege; I force no one to share my hardships. Speak quickly, for there is yet time for me to select other fellow-travellers.”

“No, no, your majesty,” said Rosenberg gayly, “I will go whither you go, and share your privations!”

“Here I stay, to live and die at your majesty’s side!” cried Coronini, with comic fervor.

The emperor nodded. “Thank you both, my friends; I had counted upon you, and would have regretted your refusal to go with me. Thank Heaven, we are no longer under the necessity of parading our rank about the world! I cannot express to you the joy I feel at the prospect of going about unnoticed, like any other man.”

“That joy will be denied your majesty,” said Rosenberg, with a slight inclination. “The Emperor Joseph can never go unnoticed, like ordinary men.”

“Do not hope it, your majesty!” cried Coronini. “Your majesty’s rank is stamped upon your brow, and you cannot hide it.”

The emperor looked down on the sandy hillock on which they stood, then upward at the bright-blue sky above their heads.

“Are we then under the gilded dome of my mother’s palace,” sail he, after a pause, “that I should still hear the language of courtly falsehood? Awake, my friends, for this is not Austria’s imperial capital! It is the world which God created, and here upon our mother earth we stand as man to mail. A little shining beetle is creeping on my boot as familiarly as it would on the sabot of a base-born laborer. If my divine right were written upon my brow, would not the insects acknowledge my sovereignty, as in Eden they its golden wings and leave me without a sign–Happy beetle! Would that I too had wings, that I might flee away and be at rest!”

The emperor heaved a sigh, and his thoughts evidently wandered faraway from the scene before him. But presently recalling himself, he spoke again. Pointing to the sky, he said:

“And now, friends, look above you where the heavens enthrone a Jehovah, in whose sight all men are equal: and so long as we dwell together under the open sky, remember him who has said, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me!”‘

“But, your majesty–“

“Majesty! Where is any majesty here? If I were a lion, to shake the forest with my roar I might pretend to majesty among the brutes; but you see that I am, in all things, like yourself–neither nobler nor greater than you. In Vienna I am your sovereign: so be it; but while we travel, I am simply Count Falkenstein. I beg you to respect this name and title, for the Falkensteins are an older race of nobles than the Hapsburgs, and the turreted castle of my ancestors, the counts, is one of the oldest in Germany. Away, then, with royalty! I ask for admittance into your own rank. Will you accept me, and promise that we shall be on terms of equality?”

He offered a hand to each of his friends, and would not permit them to do otherwise than press it, in token of assent.

“Now let me tell you my plans. We travel like three happy fellows, bent upon recreation alone. We go and stay as it best suits us; when we are hungry, we will dine; when we are tired, we will sleep. A little straw will make our beds, and our cloaks shall keep us warm. [Footnote: The emperor, during his tour as Count Falkenstein, repeatedly slept on straw, over which a leathern cover was spread. Hubner, i., p. 43.] In Florence I shall be forced to play the emperor, as the reigning duke is my brother; but he, too, will join us, and then we shall all go on travelling incognito. First we visit Rome, then Naples. We must find out whether our sister Caroline has taught her lazzaroni-king to read and write; and when we shall have learned something of her domestic life, we will turn our faces homeward. In Milan I roust again play the emperor, for Lombardy needs my protection, and I must give it. From Lombardy I return to Vienna. Does the route please you?”

“Exceedingly, count,” replied Rosenberg.

“It does, indeed, your highness,” added Coronini.

“And why, my highness?” asked Joseph, laughing.

“Because the Counts of Falkenstein were princes, and the title being appropriate, I hope your majesty will allow me to use it.” “I regret very much, most worthy master-of-ceremonies-itinerant, that I cannot do so. Pack up your court-manners, Coronini, and carry them in your trunk until we get back to Vienna. “

“So be it, then,” sighed Coronini, “since your m–, I mean my lord count, will have it so, we must be content to have you hidden under a cloud, like Jupiter, when he made acquaintance with Io.”

“By Jupiter, Coronini, you are ambitious in your similes,” replied the emperor, laughing. “You look very much like Io, do you not?”

“I hope we may be as lucky as the gods,” interrupted Rosenberg, “for every time they visited the earth they were sure to fall in with all the pretty women.”

“True; but mythology teaches that the women who aspired to love gods, forfeited both happiness and life,” replied the emperor, with a touch of sadness in his voice. “But pshaw!” continued he, suddenly, “what do I say? Away with retrospection! Let us come out of the clouds, and approach, both of you, while I intrust you with a great secret–I am hungry. “

The two counts started in breathless haste for the carriage, near which the emperor’s valet and the postilion were in earnest conversation; but they returned with very long faces.

“Count,” said Rosenberg, sadly, “we have nothing to eat.”

“The valet says that Count Falkentstein ordered every thing to be sent back to Vienna except our trunks,” sighed Coronini. “All the wine, bread, game, and delicacies remained in the wagons.”

“Very well,” cried the emperor, laughing heartily at the contretemps, “let us go and ask for dinner in yonder village behind the wood.”

“The postilion says that there is not a public house anywhere about,” continued Coronini, in great distress. “He says that we will find nothing to eat in the village.”

Instead of making a reply, the emperor walked to the hillock, and questioned the postilion himself.

“What is the name of the village beyond the forest?” asked he.

“Wichern, your majesty.”

“Do we change horses there?”

“No, your majesty, we harness up at Unterbergen.”

“Can we get any breakfast at Wichern, think you?”

“No, no, your majesty, not a morsel of any thing–none but peasants live in the village.”

“Well, my friend, do the peasants live without eating?”

“Oh, your majesty, they eat anything! They live on bread, bacon, eggs, and milk, with sometimes a mess of cabbage or beans.”

“And you call that having nothing to eat?” exclaimed Joseph, hastening joyfully back to his friends. “Come, come; we shall find dinner at Wichern, and if nobody will cook for us, we will cook for ourselves.”

Coronini opened his eyes like full moons.

“Why do you stare so, Coronini? Are not all soldiers cooks? I, at least, am resolved to learn, and I feel beforehand that I shall do honor to myself. Cook and butler, I shall fill both offices. Come, we are going to enjoy ourselves. Thomas, tell the postilion to drive as far as the entrance of the village. We will forage on foot.”

The emperor bounded into the carriage, the two noblemen followed, the postilion cracked his whip, and they were soon at Wichern.

CHAPTER LIII.

WHAT THEY FOUND AT WICHERN.

The carriage stopped, and before the valet had had time to open the door, the emperor leaped to the ground.

“Come,” said he, merrily, “come and seek your fortunes. Thomas, you remain with the carriage. Drive under the shade of that tree and wait for our return. Before all things, I forbid you to tell anybody who we are. From this day forward, my name is Count Falkenstein. Mark me! I expect you to preserve my incognito.”

“I will obey you, my lord count,” said the valet, with a bow.

The emperor with his two companions walked toward the village. Nothing very hopeful was to be seen as they looked up the dirty little streets. The wretched mud cottages stood each one apart, their yards separated by scraggy willow-hedges, upon which ragged old garments were hanging in the sun to dry. Between the hedges were muddy pools, over which the ducks were wrangling for the bits of weed that floated on the surface of the foul waters. On their borders, in the very midst of the rubbish and kitchen offal that lay about in heaps, dirty, half-naked children, with straw-colored hair, tumbled over one another, or paddled in the water. In the farm-yards around the dung-heaps, the youngest children of the cottagers kept company with the sow and her grunting pigs. Before the slovenly entrances of the huts here and there sat dirty, unseemly old men and women, who stared at the three strangers as they surveyed the uninviting picture before them.

“I congratulate the emperor that he is not obliged to look upon this shocking scene,” said Joseph. “I am glad that his people cannot cry out to him for help, since help for such squalor as this there is none on earth.”

“They are not as wretched as you suppose,” said Rosenberg. “These people are scarcely above the brute creation; and they know of nothing better than the existence which is so shocking to you. They were born and bred in squalor, and provided their pastures yield forage, their hens lay eggs and their cows give milk, they live and die contented.”

“If so, they are an enviable set of mortals,” replied Joseph, laughing, “and we, who require so much for our comfort, are poorer than they. But as there is no help for our poverty, let us think of dinner. Here are three streets; the village seems to have been divided for our especial accommodation. Each one shall take a street, and in one hour from now we meet at the carriage, each man with a dish of contribution. En avant! I take the street before me; you do the same. Look at your watches, and be punctual.”

So saying, he waved his hand and hastened forward. The same solitude and misery met his view as he walked on; the same ducks, hens, sows, and tumbling children; with now and then the shrill treble of a scolding woman, or the melancholy lowing of a sick cow.

“I am curious now,” thought the emperor, “to know how and where I am to find my dinner. But stay–here is a cottage less slovenly than its neighbors; I shall tempt my fortunes there.”

He opened the wicker gate and entered the yard. The lazy sow that lay on the dunghill grunted, but took no further notice of the imperial intruder. He stopped before the low cottage door and knocked, but no one came. The place seemed silent and deserted; not the faintest hum of life was to be heard from within.

“I shall take the liberty of going in without awaiting an invitation,” said the emperor, pushing open the door and entering the cottage. But he started at the unexpected sight that met his view as he looked around the room. It was a miserable place, cold and bare; not a chair or any other article of household furniture was to be seen; but in the centre of the room stood a small deal coffin, and in the coffin was the corpse of a child. Stiff and cold, beautiful and tranquil, lay the babe, a smile still lingering around its mouth, while its half-open eyes seemed fixed upon the white roses that were clasped in its little dimpled hands. The coffin lay in the midst of flowers, and within slept the dead child, transfigured and glorified.

The emperor advanced softly and bent over it. He looked with tender sympathy at the little marble image which yesterday was a poor, ragged peasant, to-day was a bright and winged angel. His thoughts flew back to the imperial palace, where his little motherless daughter was fading away from earth, and the father prayed for his only child. He took from the passive hands a rose, and softly as he came, he left the solitary cottage, wherein an angel was keeping watch.

He passed over to the neighboring yard. Here too, everything seemed to be at rest: but a savory odor saluted the nostrils of the noble adventurer which at least betokened the presence of beings who hungered and thirsted, and had some regard for the creature comforts of life.

“Ah!” said the emperor, drawing in the fragrant smell, “that savors of meat and greens,” and he hurried through the house to the kitchen. Sure enough, there blazed a roaring fire, and from the chimney-crane hung the steaming pot whence issued the delightful aroma of budding dinner. On the hearth stood a young woman of cleanly appearance, who was stirring the contents of the pot with a great wooden spoon.

“Good-morning, madame,” said the emperor, in a loud, cheerful voice. The woman started, gave a scream, and turned her glowing face to the door.

“What do you mean by coming into strange people’s houses and frightening them so?” cried she, angrily. “Nobody asked you in, I am sure.”

“Pardon me, madame,” said the emperor. “I was urgently invited.”

“I should like to know who invited you, for nobody is here but myself, and I don’t want you.”

“Yes, madame; but your steaming kettle, I do assure you, has given me a pressing invitation to dine here.”

“Oh! you are witty, are you? Well, carry your wits elsewhere; they won’t serve you here. My kettle calls nobody but those who are to eat of my dinner.”

“That is the very thing I want, madame. I want to eat of your dinner.” As he spoke, the emperor kept advancing until he came close upon the kettle and its tempting contents; but the peasant-woman pushed him rudely back, and thrusting her broad person between himself and the coveted pot, she looked defiance at him, and broke out into a torrent of abuse.

The emperor laughed aloud. “I don’t wish to rob you,” said he. “I will pay you handsomely if you will only let me have your dinner. What have you in that pot?”

“That is none of your business. With my bacon and beans you have no concern.”

“Bacon and beans! Oh, my craving stomach! Here, take this piece of gold and give the some directly.”

“Do you take me for a fool, to sell my dinner just as the men will be coming from the field!”

“By no means for a fool,” said the emperor, soothingly; “but if you show the men that golden ducat they will wait patiently until you cook them another dinner. Your husband can buy himself a fine holiday suit with this.”

“He has one, and don’t want two. Go your way; you shall not have a morsel of my dinner.”

“Not if I give you two gold pieces? Come, do be accommodating, and give me the bacon and beans.”

“I tell you yon shall not have them,” screamed the termagant. “I have no use for your gold, but I want my dinner. So be off with you. You will get nothing from me if you beg all day long.”

“Very well, madame; I bid you good-morning,” said Joseph, laughing, but inwardly chagrined at his fiasco. “I must go on, however,” thought he; and he entered the yard of the next house. Before the door sat a pale young woman, with a new-born infant in her arms. She looked up with a languid smile.

“I am hungry,” said Joseph, after greeting her with uncovered head. “Have you any thing good in your kitchen?”

She shook her head sadly. “I am a poor, weak creature, sir, and cannot get a meal for my husband,” replied she; “he will have to cook his own dinner when he comes home.”

“And what will he cook to-day, for instance?”

“I suppose he will make an omelet; for the hens have been cackling a great deal this morning, and an omelet is made in a few minutes.”

“Is it? So much the better, then; you can show me how to make one, and I will pay you well.”

“Go in the hen-coop, sir, and see if you find any eggs. My husband will want three of them; the rest are at your service.”

“Where is the hen-coop?” asked Joseph, much pleased.

“Go through the kitchen out into the yard, and you will see a little room with a wooden bolt; that is the hen-coop.”

“I go,” cried Joseph merrily. Presently great commotion was heard among the hens, and the emperor returned with a glowing face, his hair and coat well sprinkled with straw. He came forward with both hands full of eggs.

“Here are eight,” said he. “Three for your husband, and five for me. Now tell me how I must cook them.”

“You will have to go to the kitchen, sir. There you will find a flitch of bacon. Cut off some slices, put them in a pan you will see there, and set it on the fire. My neighbor has just now made some for poor John. Then look on the dresser and take some milk and a little flour. Make a batter of them with the eggs, pour it upon your bacon, and when the eggs are done, the omelet is made. It is the easiest thing in the world.”

“My dear good woman, it will be a desperately hard task for me,” said the emperor with a sigh. “I’m afraid I shall make a very poor omelet. Won’t you come into the kitchen and make it for me? Do, I will pay you well.”

“Dear gentleman,” said the young woman, blushing “do you think I am so idle as to sit here, if I could get up and help you? I was brought to bed yesterday of this baby; and I am such a poor, sickly thing that I shall not be able to get up before two days. As the day was bright, dear John brought me and the baby out here, because it was more cheerful on the door-sill than within. I am a weak, useless creature, sir.”

“Weak! useless!” cried the emperor, astounded; “and you expect to be up in three days after your confinement? Poor little thing! Have you no physician and no medicine?”

“The Lord is my physician, sir,” said the simple creature, “and my medicine is the fresh air. But let me think of your omelet. If you cannot make it yourself, just step to the cottage on the left, and call my neighbor. She is very good to me, and she will make your omelet for you with pleasure.”

“A thousand thanks,” said the emperor, hastening to follow the directions. He, returned in a few moments with a good-humored, healthy young woman, who went cheerfully to work, and the omelet was soon made.

One hour after he had parted from his friends, the emperor was seen coming along the street with a platter in his hand and a little bucket on his arm. He walked carefully, his eyes fixed upon his precious dish, all anxiety lest it should fall from his hands.

Thomas was thunderstruck. An emperor carrying an earthen platter in his hand! He darted forward to receive it, but Joseph motioned him away.

“Don’t touch me, Thomas,” said he, “or I shall let it fall. I intend to place it with my own hands. Go, now, and set the table. Pile up some of those flat stones, and bring the carriage cushions. We will dine under that wide-spreading oak. Make haste, I am very hungry.”

Off went Thomas, obedient, though bewildered; and he had soon improvised a, table, over which he laid a shining damask cloth. Luckily, the emperor’s camp-chest had not been put in the baggage-wagon, or his majesty would have had to eat with his fingers. But the golden service was soon forthcoming, with goblets of sparkling crystal, and three bottles of fine old Hungarian wine.

“Now,” said Joseph triumphantly, “let me place my dishes.” With these words he put on his platter and basket, with great ceremony and undisguised satisfaction.

A curious medley of wealth and poverty were these golden plates and forks, with the coarse red platter, that contained the hard-earned omelet. But the omelet was smoking and savory, and the strawberries were splendid.

While the emperor was enjoying the result of his foraging expedition, Rosenberg and Coronini were seen approaching, each with his earthen platter in his hand.

“The hour is up and we are here,” said Coronini. “I have the honor of laying my dish at your m–feet, count.”

“Potatoes! beautiful roasted potatoes!” cried Joseph. “Why, count, you have brought us a treat.”

“I rejoice to hear it, my lord count; for I was threatened with a broomstick when I tore it from the hands of the woman, who vowed I should not have a single potato. I dashed two ducats at her feet and made off with all speed; for the hour was almost up, and I had exhausted all my manners in the ten houses, which I had visited in vain, before my successful raid upon hers.”

“And will not my lord count cast an eye upon my dish?” asked Rosenberg.

“He has obtained that for which I sued in vain!” cried Joseph. “He has actually brought bacon and beans.”

“But I did not sue; I stormed and threatened. Neither did I waste my gold to obtain my end. I threw the woman a silver thaler and plenty of abuse in the bargain.”

“Let us be seated!” said the emperor, “and pray admire my omelet and my strawberries. Now, Coronini, the strawberries are tempting, but before you taste them, I must tell you that they are tainted with treason: treason toward my own sacred person. Reflect well before you decide to eat them. What I am going to relate is as terrible as it is true. While my omelet was cooking, I strolled out into the road to see if there was any thing else in Wichern besides poultry, pigs, and dirty children. Coming toward me I perceived a pretty little barefoot boy, with a basket full of red, luscious strawberries. I asked where he was going. He said to the neighboring village to sell his strawberries to the farmer’s wife, who had ordered them. I offered to buy them, but my gold could not tempt the child–he refused peremptorily to sell them to me at any price. I argued, pleaded, threatened; all to no purpose. At length, seeing there was no other alternative, I snatched his strawberries away, threw him a ducat, and walked off with the prize. He picked up the gold, but as he did so, he saluted my imperial ears with an epithet–such an epithet! Oh, you will shudder when you hear what language the little rascal used to his sovereign! You never will be able to bear it, Coronini: you, whose loyalty is offended every time you address me as Count Falkenstein. I only wonder that the sun did not hide its head, and the earth tremble at the sacrilege! What do you suppose he called me?–An ass! He did, I assure you. That little bare-legged boy called his emperor an ass! Now, Coronini, do you think you can taste of the strawberries that were gathered by those treacherous little hands?”

“If my lord count allows it, I will venture to eat,” replied Coronini, “for I really think there was no treason committed.”

“Why! not when he called me an–“

“Pray do not say it again,” entreated Coronini, raising his hands deprecatingly; “it cuts me to the heart. But Count Falkenstein had already proclaimed that no majesty was by, and when no majesty, was there, no majesty could be insulted.”

“Oh, you sophist! Did you not say that I wore my title upon my brow? Did you not tell me that I could not hide my majesty from the sons of men? But I forgive you, and the boy also. Let us drink his health while we enjoy his strawberries. Fill your glasses to the brim, and having done honor to those who furnished our repast, allow me to propose–ourselves: To the health of those who are about to eat a dinner which they have earned by the sweat of their brow.”

So saying, the emperor touched the glasses of his friends.

“Now, postilion,” cried he, before they drank, “blow us a blast on your horn–a right merry blast!”

The postilion put the horn to his lips, and while he blew the glasses clinked gayly; and the friends laughed, jested, and ate their dinner with a relish they had seldom known before. [Footnote: Hubner, “Life of Joseph II.,” vol. i., page 40.]

CHAPTER LIV.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

The policy instituted by Kaunitz, when he became sole minister of the empress, had now culminated in the alliance of Austria with France, through the solemn betrothal of the childish Marie Antoinette with the dauphin. The union was complete–it was to be cemented by the strong tie of intermarriage; and now, that success had crowned the schemes to which she had yielded such hearty consent, Maria Theresa was anxious, restless, and unhappy. Vainly she strove to thrust from her memory the prophecy which had been foretold in relation to the destinies of France. With anguish she remembered the cry of Marie Antoinette; with horror she recurred to the vision which had overcome Catherine de Medicis.

“It is sinful in me,” thought the empress, as one morning she left her pillow from inability to sleep. “God alone is Lord of futurity, and no human hand dare lift its black curtain! But stay,” cried she, suddenly springing up, and in her eager haste beginning to dress without assistance. “There is in Vienna a holy nun, who is said to be a prophetess, and Father Gassner, to whom I have extended protection, he, too, is said at times to enjoy the privilege of God’s prophets of old. Perhaps they have been sent in mercy to warn us, lest, in our ignorance of consequences, we stumble and sin.”

For some time the empress walked up and down her room, undecided whether to turn the sibylline leaves or not. It might be sinful to question, it might be fatal to remain ignorant. Was it, or was it not the will of God, that she should pry into the great mystery of futurity? Surely it could not be sinful, else why should He have given to His servants the gift of prophecy?

“I will go to the Ursuline nun,” concluded she, “and Father Gassner shall come to me.”

She rang, and ordered a carriage, with no attendant but her first lady of honor. “No footman, no outriders, but a simple court equipage; and inform Father Gassner that in one hour I shall await him in the palace.”

In less than half an hour the carriage of the empress was at the gate of the Ursuline Convent. Completely disguised in a long black cloak, with her face hidden under a thick veil, Maria Theresa leaped eagerly to the ground.

Her attendant was about to follow, but the empress motioned her to remain. “Await me here,” said she, “I do not wish to be known in the convent. I am about to imitate my son, and visit my subjects incognito.”

The porteress, who had recognized the imperial liveries, made no opposition to the entrance of the tall, veiled figure. She supposed her to be some lady of the empress’s household, and allowed her to pass at once into the hall, following her steps with undisguised curiosity.

She had already ascended the staircase, when she turned to the porteress.

“In which cell is the invalid nun?” asked she.

“Your highness means Sister Margaret, the somnambulist?” asked the porteress. “She has been taken to the parlor of the abbess, for the convenience of the many who visit her now.”

“Does she pretend to reveal the future?”

“It would make your highness’s hair stand on end to hear her! She has been asleep this morning, and do you know what she said in her sleep. She prophesied that the convent would be honored by a visit from the empress on this very day.”

“Did she, indeed?” faltered Maria Theresa. “When? How long ago?”

“About two hours ago, your highness. And as she is never mistaken, the abbess has prepared all things for her majesty’s reception. Doubtless your ladyship has been sent to announce her?”

“You really feel sure that she will come?”

“Certainly. Sister Margaret’s visions are prophetic–we cannot doubt them.”

The empress shuddered, and drew her cloak close around her. “Gracious Heaven!” thought she, “what if she should prophesy evil for my child?–It is well,” added she, aloud; “where shall I find her?”

“Your highness has only to turn to the left; the last door leads into the parlor of the abbess.”

A deep silence reigned throughout the convent. The empress went on through the dim, long corridor, now with hurried step and wildly-beating heart, now suddenly pausing faint and irresolute, to lean against a pillar, and gather courage for the interview. As she turned the corner of the corridor, a flood of light, streaming through an oriel window, revived and cheered her. She stepped forward and looked. The window opened upon the chapel, where the lights were burning upon the altar, and high mass was about to begin; for Sister Margaret had said that the empress was very near.

“It is true. They are waiting for me. Oh, she must be a prophetess, for, two hours ago, I had not dreamed of coming hither! I feel my courage fail me. I will go back. I dare not hear, for it is too late.”

The empress turned and retraced her steps; then once more calling up all her fortitude, she returned. “For,” thought she, “if God permits me to see, why should I remain blind? He it is who has sent me to this holy prophetess. I must listen for my Antoinette’s sake.”

A second time she went forward, reached the parlor, and opened the door. She had scarcely appeared on the threshold, cloaked and screened by her thick black veil, when a clear voice, whose tones were preterhuman in their melody, addressed her. “Hail, Empress of Austria! All hail to her who cometh hither!”

“She is indeed a prophetess!” murmured the empress. “She knows me through my disguise.”

She approached the bed and bent over it. The nun lay with closed eyes; but a heavenly smile was upon her lips, and a holy light seemed to play around her pale but beautiful face. Not the least tinge of color was on her cheeks; and but for the tint of carmine upon her lips–so unearthly, so seraphic was her beauty–that she might have been mistaken for a sculptor’s dream of Azrael, the pale angel of death.

While the empress gazed awe-stricken, the abbess and the nuns, who had been kneeling around the bed, arose to greet their sovereign.

“Is it indeed our gracious empress?” asked the abbess.

Maria Theresa withdrew her hat and veil, and revealed her pale, agitated face.

“I am the empress,” said she,, “But I implore you let there be no ceremony because of my visit. In this sacred habitation, God alone is great, and His creatures are all equal before Him. We are in the presence of the servant to whom He has condescended to speak, while to the sovereigns of earth He is silent. To Him alone belongs homage.”

“Gracious empress, Sister Margaret had announced your majesty’s visit, and we were to have greeted you as becomes Christian subjects. The chapel is prepared, the altar is decked.”

“I will repair later to the church, mother. At present, my visit is to Sister Margaret.”

“If so, your majesty must not delay. She sleeps but three hours at a time, and she will soon awake. She has the gift of prophecy in her sleep only.”

“Then go, holy mother, and leave me alone with her. Go and await me in the church.”

The abbess glanced at the clock on the wall. “She will awake in ten minutes,” said she, and with noiseless steps the nuns all left the room.

The empress waited until the door was closed and the sound of their light footfall had died away; then again approaching the bed, she called, “Sister Margaret.”

The nun trembled, and her brow grew troubled. “Oh,” said she, “the angels have flown! Why have you come with your sad notes of sorrow to silence the harmony of my heavenly dreams?”

“You know then that I am sad?” asked the empress.

“Yes, your heart is open to me. I see your anguish. The mother comes to me, not the empress.”

Maria Theresa feeling herself in the presence of a supernatural being, glided down upon her knees. “You are right,” said she, “it is indeed a sorrowing mother who kneels before you, imploring you, in the humility of my heart, to say what God hath revealed of her daughter s fate!”

“Oh!” cried the nun, in a voice of anguish.

But the empress went on. “My soul trembles for Marie Antoinette. Something seems to warn me not to trust my child to the foul atmosphere of that court of France, where Du Barry sits by the side of the king, and the nobles pay her homage as though she were a virtuous queen. Oh! tell me, holy sister, what will become of my Antoinette in France?”

“Oh! oh!” wailed the nun, and she writhed upon her bed.

“She is so sweet, so pure, so innocent!” continued the empress. “My spotless dove! Will she soil her wings? Oh, sister, speak to me!”

“Oh!” cried the nun, for the third time, and the empress trembled, while her face grew white as that of the prophetess.

“I am on my knees,” murmured she, “and I await your answer. Sister Margaret! Sister Margaret! in the name of God, who has endowed you with superhuman wisdom, tell me what is to be the fate of Marie Antoinette?”

“Thou hast called on the name of God,” said the nun, in a strange, clear voice, “and I am forced to answer thee. Thou wouldst know the fate of Marie Antoinette? Hear it: She will live through much evil, but will return to virtue.” [Footnote: Swinburne vol. i., p. 351.]

“She will then cease to be virtuous,” cried the empress, bursting into tears.

“She will learn much evil,” repeated the nun, turning uneasily on her bed. “She will endure–poor Marie Antoinette! Unhappy Queen of France! Woe! woe!”

“Woe unto me!” cried the wretched mother. “Woe unto her who leadeth her children into temptation!”

“She will return to virtue!” murmured the nun, indistinctly. “Poor Queen–of–France!”

With a loud cry she threw out her arms, and sat upright in the bed. Her eyes opened, and she looked around the room.

“Where is the reverend mother?” cried she. “Were are the sisters?”

Suddenly her eyes rested upon the black and veiled figure of the empress.

“Who are you?” exclaimed she. “Away with you, black shadow! I am not yet dead! Not yet! Oh, this pain! this pain!” and the nun fell back upon her pillow.

Maria Theresa rose from her knees, and, wild with terror, fled from the room. Away she sped through the long, dark corridor to the window that overlooked the chapel, where the nuns were awaiting her return–away down the wide stone staircase, through the hall, out into the open air. She hurried into the carriage, and, once seated, fell back upon the cushions and wept aloud.

CHAPTER LV.

THE PROPHECY.

The empress spoke not a word during the drive to the palace. She was so absorbed in her sorrow as to be unconscious of the presence of another person, and she wept without restraint until the carriage stopped. Then, stifling her sobs and hastily drying her tears, she dropped her veil and walked with her usual majestic gait through the palace halls. In her anteroom she met a gentleman in waiting coming toward her.

“Father Gassner, your majesty.”

“Where is he?”

“Here, so please your majesty.”

“Let him follow me into my cabinet,” said the empress, going forward, while the courtier and the priest came behind. When she reached the door of her cabinet she turned. “Wait here,” said she. “When I ring, I beg of you to enter, father. The count will await your return in this room.”

She entered her cabinet and closed the door. Once more alone, she gave vent to her sorrow. She wept aloud, and in her ears she seemed to hear the clear, metallic voice of the sick nun pealing out those dreadful words: “She will live through much evil, but will return to virtue.”

But Maria Theresa was no coward. She was determined to master her credulity.

“I am a simpleton,” thought she. “I must forget the dreams of a delirious nun. How could I be so weak as to imagine that God would permit an hysterical invalid to prophesy to a sound and strong woman like myself? I will speak with Father Gassner. Perhaps he may see the future differently. If he does, I shall know that they are both false prophets, and their prophecies I shall throw to the winds.”

Strengthened by these reflections, the empress touched her bell. The door opened, and Father Gassner entered the room. He bowed, and then drawing his tall, majestic figure to its full height, he remained standing by the door, with his large, dark-blue eyes fixed upon the face of the empress. She returned the glance. There seemed to be a strife between the eyes of the sovereign, who was accustomed to see others bend before her, and those of the inspired man, whose intercourse was with the Lord of lords and the King of kings. Each met the other with dignity and composure.

Suddenly the empress strode haughtily up to the priest and said in a tone that sounded almost defiant:

“Father Gassner, have you the courage to look me in the face and assert yourself to be a prophet?”

“It requires no courage to avow a gift, which God, in the superabundance of His goodness, has bestowed upon one who does not deserve it,” replied the father, gently. “If my eyes are opened to see, or my hand to heal, glory be to God who has blessed them! The light, the grace are not mine, why should I deny my Lord?” [Footnote: Father Gassner was one of the most remarkable thaumaturgists of the eighteenth century. He healed all sorts of diseases by the touch of his hand and multitudes flocked to him for cure. His extraordinary powers displeased the bishop of his diocese, and, to avoid censure, Father Gassner sought protection from the empress, who held him in great reverence. His prediction concerning the fate of Marie Antoinette was generally known long before its accomplishment. It was related to Madame Campan, by a son of Kaunitz, years before the Revolution.]

“Then, if I question you as to the future, you will answer?”

“If it is given to me to do so, I will answer.”

“Tell me, then, whether Antoinette will be happy in her marriage?” The priest turned pale, but he said nothing.

“Speak, speak; or I will denounce you as a false prophet!”

“Is this the only thing your majesty has to ask of me?”

“The only one.”

“Then denounce me–for I cannot answer your majesty.”

Gassner turned, and his hand was upon the lock of the door.

“Stay!” cried the empress, haughtily. “I command you, as your sovereign, to speak the truth.”

“The truth?” cried Gassner, in a voice of anguish, and his large eyes opened with an expression of horror.

What did he see with those eyes that seemed to look far out into the dim aisles of the terrible future?

“The truth!” echoed the unhappy mother. “Tell me, will my Antoinette be happy?”

Deep sighs convulsed the breast of the priest, and, with a look of inexpressible agony, he answered, solemnly:

“Empress of Austria, WE HAVE ALL OUR CROSS TO BEAR!” [Footnote: “Memoires de Madame Campan,” vol. ii., p. 14.]

The empress started back, with a cry.

“Again, again!” murmured she, burying her face in her hands. But suddenly coming forward, her eyes flaming like those of an angry lioness, she said:

“What mean these riddles? Speak out at once, and tell me, without equivocation–what is to be the fate of Antoinette?”

“WE HAVE ALL OUR CROSS TO BEAR,” repeated the priest, “and the Queen of France will surely have hers.”

With these words he turned and left the room.

Pale and rigid, the empress stood in the middle of the room, murmuring to herself the two fearful prophecies: “She will live through much evil, but will return to virtue.”–“We have all our cross to bear, and the Queen of France will surely have hers.”

For a while Maria Theresa was overwhelmed by the double blow she had received. But it was not in her nature to succumb to circumstances. She must overrule them.

She rang her bell, and a page entered the room.

“Let a messenger be dispatched to Prince Kaunitz, I wish to see his highness. He can come to me unannounced.”

Not long after the prince made his appearance. A short sharp glance at the agitated mien of the empress showed to the experienced diplomatist that to-day, as so often before, he must oppose the shield of indifference to the storm of passion with which he was about to contend.

“Your majesty,” said he, “has sent for me, just as I was about to request an audience. I am in receipt of letters from the emperor. He has spent a day with the King of Prussia.”

He attempted to give the letters into the hands of the empress, but she put them back with a gesture of impatience.

“Prince Kaunitz,” said she, “it is you who have done this-you must undo it. It cannot, shall not be.”

“What does your majesty mean?” asked Kaunitz, astonished. “I speak of that which lies nearest my heart,” said the empress, warmly.

“Of the meeting of the emperor with the King of Prussia,” returned Kaunitz, quietly. “Yesterday they met at Neisse. It was a glorious interview. The two monarchs embraced, and the emperor remarked-“

“Enough, enough!” cried Maria Theresa, impatiently. “You affect to misunderstand me. I speak of Antoinette’s engagement to the dauphin. It must be broken. My daughter shall not go to France.”

Kaunitz was so completely astounded, so sincerely astounded, that he was speechless. The paint upon his face could not conceal the angry flush that colored it, nor his pet locks cover the wrinkles that rose up to disfigure his forehead.

“Do not stare at me as if you thought I was parting with my senses,” cried the empress. “I know very well what I say. I will not turn my innocent Antoinette into that den of corruption. She shall not bear a cross from which it is in my power to save her.”

“Who speaks of crosses?” asked Kaunitz, bewildered. “The only thing of which I have heard is a royal crown wherewith her brow is to be decked.”

“She shall not wear that crown?” exclaimed Maria Theresa. “God himself has warned me through the lips of His prophets, and not unheeded shall the warning fall.”

Kaunitz breathed more freely, and his features resumed their wonted calmness.

“If that is all,” thought he, gayly, “I shall be victorious. An ebullition of superstition is easily quieted by a little good news.” “Your majesty has been following the new fashion,” said he, aloud; “you have been consulting the fortune-tellers. I presume you have visited the nun who is subject to pious hysterics; and Father Gassner, I see, has been visiting your majesty, for I met him as I was coming to the palace. I could not help laughing as I saw his absurd length of visage.”

Maria Theresa, in reply to this irony, related the answers which had been made to her questions.

Kaunitz listened with sublime indifference, and evinced not a spark of sympathy. When the empress had concluded her story, he merely said

“What else, your majesty?”

“What else?” echoed the empress, surprised “Yes, your majesty. Surely there must be something more than a pair of vague sentences, a pair of ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs;’ and a sick nun and a silly priest. These insignificant nothings are certainly not enough to overturn the structure which for ten years we have employed all our skill to build up.”

“I well know that you are an infidel and an unbeliever, Kaunitz,” cried the empress, vexed at the quiet sneers of her minister. “I know you believe that only which you can understand and explain.”

“No, your majesty, I believe all that is reasonable. What I cannot comprehend is unreasonable.”

The empress glanced angrily at his stony countenance. “God sometimes speaks to us through the mouths of His chosen ones,” cried she; “and, as I believe in the inspiration of Sister Margaret and Father Gassner, my daughter shall not go to France.”

“Is that your majesty’s unalterable resolution?”

“It is.”

“Then,” returned Kaunitz, bowing, “allow me to make a request for myself.”

“Speak on.”

“Allow me at once to retire from your majesty’s service.”

“Kaunitz!” exclaimed Maria Theresa, “is it possible that you would forsake me?”

“No, your majesty; it is you who forsake me. You are willing, for the sake of two crazy seers, to destroy the fabric which it has been the work of my life to construct. Your majesty desires that I should remain your minister, and with my own hand should undo the web that I have woven with such trouble to myself? All Europe knows that the French alliance is my work. To this end I have labored by day and lain awake by night; to this end I have flattered and bribed; to this end I have seen my friend De Choiseul disgraced, while I bowed low before his miserable successor, that I might win him and that wretched Du Barry to my purpose!”

“You are irretrievably bent upon this alliance?” asked the empress, thoughtfully. “It was then not to gratify me that you sought to place a crown upon my dear child’s head?”

“Your majesty’s wishes have always been sacred to me, but I should never have sought to gratify them, had they not been in accordance with my sense of duty to Austria. I have not sought to make a queen of the Archduchess Maria Antoinette. I have sought to unite Austria with France, and to strengthen the southwestern powers of Europe against the infidelity and barbarism of Prussia and Russia. In spite of all that is taking place at Neisse, Austria and Prussia are, and ever will be, enemies. The king and the emperor may flatter and smile, but neither believes what the other says. Frederick will never lose an opportunity of robbing. He ogles Russia, and would gladly see her our ‘neighbor,’ if by so doing he were to gain an insignificant province for Prussia. It is to ward off these dangerous accomplices that we seek alliance with France, and through France, with Spain, Portugal, and Italy. And now, when the goal is won, and the prize is ours, your majesty retracts her imperial word! You are the sovereign, and your will must be, done. But I cannot lend my hand to that which my reason condemns as unwise, and my conscience as dishonorable. I beg of your majesty, to-day and forever, to dismiss me from your service!”

The empress did not make any reply. She had risen, and was walking hastily up and down, murmuring low, inarticulate words and heaving deep, convulsive sighs. Kaunitz followed her with the eye of a cool physician, who watches the crisis of a brain-fever. He looked down, however, as the empress, stopping, raised her dark, glowing eyes to his. When he met her glance his expression had changed; it had become as usual.

“You have heard the pleadings of the mother,” said she, breathing hard, “and you have silenced them with your cold arguments. The empress has heard, and she it is who must decide against herself. She has no right to sacrifice her empire to her maternity. May God forgive me,” continued she, solemnly clasping her hands, “if I err in quelling the voice of my love which cries so loudly against this union. Let it be accomplished! Marie Antoinette shall be the bride of Louis XVI.”

“Spoken like the noble Empress of Austria!” cried Kaunitz, triumphantly.

“Do not praise me,” returned Maria Theresa sadly; “but hear what I have to say. You have spoken words so bold, that it would seem you fancy yourself to be Emperor of Austria. It was not you who sought alliance with France, but myself. You did nothing but follow out my intentions and obey my commands. The sin of my refusal, therefore, was nothing to you or your conscience–it rested on my head alone.”

“May God preserve your majesty to your country and your subjects! May you long be Austria’s head, and I–your right hand!” exclaimed Kaunitz.

“You do not then wish to retire?” asked she, with a languid smile.

“I beg of your majesty to forgive and retain me.”

“So be it, then,” returned the empress, with a light inclination of the head. “But I cannot hear any more to-day. You have no sympathy with my trials as a mother. I have sacrificed my child to Austria, but my heart is pierced with sorrow and apprehension. Leave me to my tears. I cannot feel for any one except my child–my poor, innocent child!”

She turned hastily away, that he might not see the tears that were already streaming down her face. Kaunitz bowed, and left the cabinet with his usual cold, proud step.

The minister once gone, Maria Theresa gave herself up to the wildest grief. No one saw her anguish but God; no one ever knew how the powerful empress writhed and wrung her hands in her powerless agony; no one but God and the dead emperor, whose mild eyes beamed compassion from the gilt frame in which his picture hung, upon the wall. To this picture Maria Theresa at last raised her eyes, and it seemed, to her excited imagination, that her husband smiled and whispered words of consolation.

“Yes, dear Franz, I hear you,” said she. “You would remind me that this is our wedding-day. Alas, I know it! Once a day of joy, and from this moment the anniversary of a great sorrow! Franz, it is OUR child that is the victim! The sweet Antoinette, whose eyes are so like her father’s! Oh, dear husband, my heart is heavy with grief; Why may I not go to rest too? But thou wilt not love me if my courage fail. I will be brave, Franz; I will work, and try to do my duty.”

She approached her writing-table, and began to overlook the heaps of papers that awaited her inspection and signature. Gradually her brow cleared and her face resumed its usual expression of deep thought and high resolve. The mother forgot her grief, and the empress was absorbed in the cares of state.

She felt so strongly the comfort and sustenance derived from labor, that on that day she dined alone, and returned immediately to her writing-desk. Twilight came on, and still the empress was at work. Finally the rolling of carriages toward the imperial theatre was heard, and presently the shouts of the applauding audience. The empress heard nothing. She had never attended the theatre since her husband’s death, and it was nothing to her that to-night Lessing’s beautiful drama, “Emilia Galotti,” was being represented for the first time in Vienna.

Twilight deepened into night, and the empress rang for lights. Then retiring to her dressing-room, she threw off her heavy court costume, and exchanged it for a simple peignoir, in which she returned to her cabinet and still wrote on.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by a knock, and a page entered with a golden salver, on which lay a letter.

“A courier from Florence, your majesty,” said he.

Maria Theresa took the letter, and dismissed the page. “From my Leopold,” said she, while she opened it. “It is an extra courier. It must announce the accouchement of his wife. Oh, my heart, how it beats!”

With trembling hands she held the missive and read it. But at once her face was lighted up with joy, and throwing herself upon her knees before the portrait of the emperor, she said, “Franz, Leopold has given us a grandson. Do you hear?”

No answer came in response to the joyful cry of the empress, and she could not bear the burden of her joy alone. Some one must rejoice with her. She craved sympathy, and she must go out to seek it.

She left her cabinet. Unmindful of her dress, she sped through the long corridors, farther and still farther, down the staircase and away to the extremest end of the palace, until she reached the imperial theatre.

That night it was crowded. The interest of the spectators had deepened as the play went on. They were absorbed in the scene between Emilia and her father, when a door was heard to open and to shut.

Suddenly, in the imperial box, which had so long been empty, a tall and noble figure bent forward, far over the railing, and a clear, musical voice cried out:

“Leopold has a son!”

The audience, as if electrified, rose with one accord from their seats. All turned toward the imperial box. Each one had recognized the voice of the adored Maria Theresa, and every heart over-flowed with the joy of the moment.

The empress repeated her words:

“Leopold has a son, and it is born on my wedding-day. Wish me joy, dear friends, of my grandson!”

Then arose such a storm of congratulations as never before had been heard within those theatre walls. The women wept, and the men waved their hats and cheered; while all, with one voice, cried out. “Long live Maria Theresa! Long live the imperial grandmother!”

CHAPTER LVI.

THE GIFT.

All prophecies defying, Maria Theresa had given her daughter to France. In the month of May, 1770, the Archduchess Marie Antoinette was married by proxy in Vienna; and amid the ringing of bells, the booming of cannon, and the shouts of the populace, the beautiful young dauphiness left Austria to meet her inevitable fate.

Meanwhile, in the imperial palace, too, one room was darkening under the shadow of approaching death. It was that in which Isabella’s daughter was passing from earth to heaven.

The emperor knew that his child was dying; and many an hour he spent at her solitary bedside, where, tranquil and smiling, she murmured words which her father knew were whispered to the angels.

The emperor sorrowed deeply for the severance of the last tie that bound him to the bright and beautiful dream of his early married life. But he was so accustomed to sorrow, that on the occasion of his sister’s marriage, he had gone through the forms required by etiquette, without any visible emotion.

But the festivities were at an end. The future Queen of France had bidden farewell to her native Vienna, and the marriage guests had departed; while darker and darker grew the chamber of the dying child, and sadder the face of the widowed father. The emperor kissed his daughter’s burning forehead, and held her little transparent hand in his. “Farewell, my angel,” whispered he; “since thy mother calls thee, go, my little Theresa. Tell her that she was my only love–my first and last. Go, beloved, and pray for thy unhappy father.”

Once more he kissed her, and when he raised his head, her face was moistened with his tears. He turned hastily away and left the room.

“And now,” thought he, “to my duty, I must forget my own sorrows that I may wipe away the tears of my sorrowing people. There is so much grief and want in Austria! Oh, my child, my little one! Amid the blessings of the suffering poor shalt thou stretch forth thy wings and take the flight to heaven!”

He was on his way to seek an audience of his mother. Maria Theresa was in her cabinet, and was somewhat surprised to see her son at this unusual hour of the day.

“I come to your majesty to beg a boon,” said Joseph, with a sad smile. “Yesterday you were distributing Antoinette’s wedding-gifts to your children; I alone received nothing. Is there nothing for me?”

“Nothing for you, my son!” exclaimed Maria Theresa, astonished. “Why, every thing is yours, and therefore I have nothing to give. Where your right is indisputable, my presents are superfluous.”

“Yes, mother; but it does not become one so generous as you, to let her eldest son wait for an inheritance, when she might make him a handsome present of her own free will. Be generous, then, and give me something, too. I wish to be on an equality with the other children.”

“Well, then, you grown-up child, what will you have?” asked the empress, laughing. “Of course you have already chosen your gift, and it is mere gallantry on your part to beg for what you might take without leave. But let us hear. What is it? You have only to ask and have.”

“Indeed! May I choose my wedding-gift?”

“Yes, you imperial beggar, you may.”

“Well, then, give me the government claims upon the four lower classes.”

The empress looked aghast. “Is it money you desire?” said she. “Say how much, and you shall have it from my private purse. But do not rob the poor! The claim that you covet is the tax levied upon all the working classes, and you know how numerous they are.”

“For that very reason, I want it. It is a princely gift. Shall I have it?”

The empress reflected for a few moments. “I know,” said she, looking up with one of her sweetest smiles, “I know that you will not misuse your power; for I remember the fate of your father’s legacy, the three millions of coupons. You shall have the claim, my son. It is yours.”

“Will your majesty draw out the deed of gift?”

“I will, my son. It is YOUR wedding-gift from our darling Antoinette. But you will acquaint me, from time to time, with the use you are making of your power over the poor classes?”

“I will render my account to your majesty. But first draw out the deed.”

The empress stepped to her escritoire and wrote a few lines, to which she affixed the imperial signature and seal.

“There it is,” said she. “I bestow upon my son, the emperor, all the government claims to the impost levied upon the four lower classes. Will that do?”

“It will, and from my heart I thank my dear mother for the gracious gift.”

He took the hand of the empress to kiss it, but she held his fast in her grasp, and looked at him with an expression of tenderness; and anxiety.

“You are pale, my son,” said she, affectionately. “I see that your heart is sad.”

“And yet,” replied Joseph, with quivering lip, “I should rejoice, for I am about to have an angel in heaven.”

“Poor little Theresa!” murmured the empress, while the tears rose to her eyes. “She has never been a healthy child. Isabella calls her hence.”

“Yes,” replied Joseph, bitterly; “she calls my child away, that, she may break the last link that bound her to me.”

“We must believe, my child, that it is for the best. The will of God, however painful its manifestations, is holy, wise and merciful. Isabella declared to us that she would call the child when it had reached its seventh year; she goes to her mother. And now that this bitter dream of your early love is past, perhaps your heart may awaken once more to love. There are many beautiful princesses in Europe, and not one of them would refuse the hand of the Emperor of Austria. It is for you to choose, and no one shall dictate your choice.”

“Would your majesty convert me into a bluebeard?” cried Joseph, coloring. “Do you not see that I murder my wives? Enough, that two of them are buried in the chapel of the Capuchins, and that to-morrow, perhaps, my child will join them. Leopold has given an heir to my throne, and I am satisfied.”

“Why do you talk of a successor, my son?” said the empress, “you who are so young?”

“Your majesty, I am old,” replied Joseph, mournfully–“so old that I have no hope of happiness on earth. You see that to-day, when you have been so gracious, I am too wretched to do aught but thank you for your splendid gift. Let me retire, then, to my unhappy solitude; I am not fit to look upon your sweet and honored countenance. I must exile myself until my trial is past.”

He left the room, and hastening to his cabinet, “Now,” exclaimed he, “now for my mother’s gift.”

He sat dozen and wrote as follows:

“MY DEAR PRINCE KALUITZ: By the enclosed, you will see that the empress, my mother, has presented me with all the government claims upon the working-classes. Will you make immediate arrangements to acquaint the collectors with the following:

“‘No tax shall be collected from the working-classes during the remainder of my life.’ “Joseph.” [Footnote: Historical. Hubner, vol. ii., p, 86.]

“Now,” thought he, as he laid aside his pen, “this document will gladden many a heart, and it will, perchance, win forgiveness for my own weakness. But, why should monarchs have hearts of flesh like other men, since they have no right to feel, to love, or to grieve? Be still, throbbing heart, that the emperor may forget himself, to remember his subjects! Yes, my subjects–my children –I will make you happy! I will–‘

There was a light tap at the door, and the governess of the little Archduchess Maria Theresa entered the room.

“I have come,” said she, in a faltering voice, “to announce to your majesty that the princess has breathed her last.”

The emperor made no reply. He motioned the lady to retire, and bowing his head, gave way to one long burst of grief.

For hours he sat there, solitary and broken-hearted. At length the paroxysm was over. He raised his head, and his eyes were tearless and bright.

“It is over!” exclaimed he, in clear and unfaltering tones. “The past is buried; and I am born anew to a life whereof the aim shall be Austria’s greatness and her people’s welfare. I am no more a husband, no more a father. Austria shall be my bride, and every Austrian my child.”

CHAPTER LVII.

THE CONFERENCE.

Great excitement prevailed at Neustadt. All work was suspended, all the shops were shut, and although it was not Sunday, the people, in their holiday attire, seemed to have cast away all thought of the wants, cares, and occupations of everyday life. For, although it was not Sunday, it was a holiday–a holiday for Neustadt, since this was the birthday of Neustadt’s fame. For hundreds of years the little village had existed in profound obscurity, its simple inhabitants dreaming away their lives far from the clamor of the world and its vicissitudes. Their slumbers had been disturbed by the Seven Years’ War, and many a father, son, husband, and lover had fought and fallen on its bloodthirsty battlefield. But with the return of peace came insignificance, and villagers of Neustadt went on dreaming as before.

Today, however, on the 3d of September, in the year 1770, they were awakened by an event which gave to Neustadt a place in history. The two greatest potentates in Germany were to meet there to bury their past enmity, and pledge to each other the right hand of fellowship.

These two potentates were the Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia. It was, therefore, not surprising that all Neustadt should be out of doors to witness the baptism of Neustadt’s celebrity.

The streets were thronged with well-dressed people, the houses were hung with garlands and wreaths, the church-bells were ringing, and all the dignitaries of the town had turned out to witness the pageant.

And now the moment had arrived. The thunder of cannon, the shouts of the people who thronged the avenue that led to the palace, and the clang of martial music, announced the approach of the emperor, whom his people were frantic to welcome.

He came, a young man, on a jet-black Arabian, who rode ahead of those glittering nobles–this was the Emperor Joseph, the hope of Austria.

A thousand voices rent the air with shouts, while Joseph smiled, and bowed, and raised his eyes to the balconies, whence showers of bouquets were falling around him.

He was inclining his head, when a wrest, of red roses and orange-flowers, aimed by some skilful hand, fell directly upon his saddle-bow. He smiled, and taking up the wreath, looked around to see whence it came. Suddenly his eye brightened, and his countenance expressed increased interest, while he reined in his horse that he might look again at a lady who was leaning over a balcony just above him. Her tall and elegant figure was clothed in a dress of black velvet, closed from her white throat to her round waist by buttons of large and magnificent diamonds, whose brilliancy was almost dazzling. Her youthful and beautiful face was colorless, with that exquisite and delicate pallor which has no affinity to ill-health, but resembles the spiritual beauty of a marble statue. Her glossy black hair defined the exquisite oval of that fair face, as a rich frame sets off a fine painting. On her head she wore a diadem of brilliants, which confined a rich black-lace veil, that fluttered like a dark cloud around her graceful figure. Her countenance wore an expression of profound sadness, and her large, lustrous eyes were riveted with an earnest gaze upon the emperor.

He bowed to his saddle-bow, but she did not seem to recognize the compliment, for her glance and her sadness were unchanged.

“The wreath is not from her,” thought Joseph, with a feeling of disappointment; but as he turned for one more look at her lovely face, he remarked a bouquet which she wore in her bosom. It was similar to the wreath which he held. The same white orange-blossoms and red roses, fastened together by the same white and red ribbon, whose long streamers were now fluttering in the wind.

A triumphant smile overspread the features of the emperor, as blushing, he bowed again and passed on. But his face no longer wore its expression of careless gratification. He grew absent and thoughtful; he forgot to return the greetings of the people; and vainly the ladies, who crowded window and balcony, threw flowers in his way, or waved their handkerchiefs in greeting. He saw nothing but the beautiful vision in the black veil, and wondered whence she came and what could be the hidden meaning of the red and white flowers which she wore and gave to him.

He was glad when the pageant of his entry into Neustadt was over, and, dismounting quickly, he entered the palace, followed by Field-Marshal Lacy and Count Rosenberg.

The people looked after them and shouted anew. But their attention was directed from the emperor to a carriage, drawn by four horses, which, advancing in the very centre of the brilliant cortege, seemed to contain some imperial personage, for the staff were around it, as though forming its escort. The curtains of the carriage were all drawn, so that nothing could be seen of its occupant.

Who could it be? A woman, of course; since no man would dare to be driven, while the Emperor of Austria rode. It could be no other than the Empress Maria Theresa, who had taken the journey to Neustadt, that she might look, face to face, upon her celebrated opponent, and offer him her own hand in pledge of future good understanding.

While the populace hoped and speculated, the mysterious equipage arrived before the palace gates. The rich-liveried footmen sprang from the rumble, and stationed themselves at the door of the coach. The two others, who were seated on the box, did likewise; bringing with them, as they alighted on the ground, a roll of rich Turkey carpeting, which they laid, with great precision, from the carriage to the palace steps.

Then the people were convinced that it was the empress. Who but the sovereign lady of Austria and Hungary would walk the streets upon a carpet of such magnificence? And they thronged nearer, eager to catch the first glance of their beloved and honored empress.

The carpet was laid without a wrinkle. One of the footmen opened the carriage door, while another approached the fore-wheel.

“She comes! she comes!” cried the populace, and they crowded around in eager delight.

One foot was put forward–not a foot encased in a satin slipper, but a foot in a buckled shoe, which, glistening though it was with diamonds, was not that of an empress. The occupant of the carriage was a man!

“A man!” exclaimed the bystanders, astounded. Yes. Here he came, wrapped up in a bearskin, which, on this warm summer day, was enough to dissolve an ordinary human being into vapor. Not content with his wrapping, his hands were encased in a huge muff, which he held close to his face, that he might not inhale one single breath of the air that was refreshing everybody else. His head was covered by a hood which concealed his face, of which nothing was visible save a pair of light-blue eyes.

When he had disappeared within the palace doors, the footmen rolled up the carpet and replaced it on the coach-box.

The populace, who had been looking on in speechless wonder, now began to laugh and whisper. Some said it was the King of the North Pole; others declared it was an Arctic bear; others again thought the gentleman had started for Siberia and had lost his way. Finally the desire to know who he was grew uncontrollable, and, thronging around his lackeys, the people shouted out:

“Who is he? Tell us, who is be?”

The lackeys, with the gravity of heralds-at-arms, shouted out in return:

“This is his highness Prince Kaunitz, prime minister of their majesties the Empress Maria Theresa and the Emperor Joseph of Austria!”

CHAPTER LVIII.

KAUNITZ.

“What an abominable idea!” exclaimed Prince Kaunitz, as, perfectly exhausted from his journey, he fell into an armchair in his own room. “What an abominable idea to undertake this journey! These German roads are as rough and uncouth as the Germans themselves, and I only wonder that we have arrived without breaking our ribs!”

“It would certainly have been more convenient,” said Baron Binder, “if the King of Prussia had visited us in Vienna.”

Kaunitz turned his large eyes full upon his friend.

“I suppose,” said he, “that you jest, Binder; for you MUST know that it is never safe to have your enemy under your own roof.”

“Your highness, then, has no confidence in the protestations of love that are going on between the emperor and the king?”

The prince made no reply. He was looking at himself in a mirror, criticising his toilet, which had just been completed by the expert Hippolyte. Apparently it was satisfactory, for he looked up and spoke:

“You are a grown-up child, Binder; you stare, and believe every thing. Have you not yet learned that statesmanship recognizes nothing but interests? To-day it is to the interest of Frederick to squeeze our hands and protest that he loves us; to-morrow (if he can), he will put another Silesia in his royal pocket. We, too, have found it convenient to write him a love-letter or two; but to-day, if we would, we would pluck off his crown, and make him a little margrave again! Our intimacy reminds me of a sight I once saw while we were in Paris. It was a cage, in which animals, naturally antagonistic, were living in a state of perfect concord. A dog and cat were dining sociably together from one plate, and, not far off, a turkey-hen was comfortably perched upon the back of a fox, who, so far from betraying any symptom of appetite for the turkey, looked quite oblivious of her proximity. I gave the keeper a louis d’or, and he told me his secret. The dog’s teeth were drawn, and the cat’s claws were pared off; this, of course, forced both to keep the peace. As for the turkey-hen, she was fastened to the back of the fox with fine wire, and this was the secret of her security.”

“Ah!” cried Binder, laughing, “this is the history of many a human alliance. How many foxes I have known who carried their hens upon their backs and made believe to love them, because they dared not do otherwise!”

“Peace, Binder, my story is not yet ended. One morning the dog and the cat were found dead in THEIR corner; and in the other, the fox lay bleeding and moaning; while of the hen, nothing remained save her feathers. Time–the despot that rules us all, had outwitted the keeper and asserted the laws of Nature. The cat’s claws had grown out, and so had the dog’s teeth. The fox, after much pondering over his misfortunes, had discovered the reason why he could not reach the hen; and this done, he worked at the wires until they broke. Of course he revenged himself on the spot by gobbling her up; but in his wrath at the wires, he had thrust them so deeply into his own flesh that the wounds they made upon his body caused his death. And so ended the compulsory alliance of four natural enemies.”

“Does your highness apply that anecdote to us?” asked Binder. “Are we to end like the cat and the dog?”

“For the present,” said Kaunitz, thoughtfully, “our teeth and claws are harmless. We must wait until they have grown out again!”

“Your highness, then, assigns us the role of the dog?”

“Certainly. I leave it to Prussia to play the cat–she has scratched us more than once, and even to-day, when she covers her paws with velvet, I feel the claws underneath. I came hither to watch her. I am curious to know what it is in Frederick that has so bewitched the young Emperor of Austria.”

“It would appear that his majesty of Prussia has extraordinary powers of fascination. No one can resist him.”

“I shall resist him,” said Kaunitz, “for against his fascinations I am defended by the talisman of our mutual hate.”

“Do not say so, your highness. The King of Prussia may fear, but he cannot hate you. And did he not make it a special request that you should accompany the emperor?”

“He did; and however disinclined I might be to accept his invitation, I have come lest he should suppose that I am afraid to encounter his eagle eyes. [Footnote: Ferrand, “History of the Dismemberment of Poland,” vol. i., p. 103.] I fear HIM! HE intimidate me! It is expedient for the present that Austria and Prussia should be quasi allies, for in this way peace has been secured to Europe. But my system of diplomacy, which the empress has made her own, forbids me to make any permanent alliance with a prince who lives politically from hand to mouth, and has no fixed line of policy. [Footnote: Kaunitz’s own words. See Ferrand. vol. i., v. 69.] No–I do not fear him; for I see through his hypocritical professions, and in spite of his usurped crown I feel myself to be more than his equal. If he has won thirteen victories on the battle-field, I have fought twice as many in the cabinet, where the fight is hand to hand, and the victor conquers without an army. On this field he will scarcely dare to encounter me. If he does, he will find his master for once!

“Yes,” repeated Kaunitz emphatically, “he will find his master in me. I have never failed to make other men subservient to my schemes, and the King of Prussia shall grace my triumph with the rest. He is the vassal of Austria, and I will be the one to force him back to his allegiance. It is scandalous that this petty king should have been suffered to play an important part in European affairs. I will drive him from his accidental grandeur, and he shall return to his duty. I will humble him if I can; for this King of Prussia is the only man in Europe who has denied me the honors and consideration due me as a politician and a prince.” [Footnote: Kaunitz’s own words. Ferrand, vol. i., p. 104]

While Kaunitz spoke, his marble face grew animated, and his eyes glowed with the fire of hate.

“Nay, prince!” exclaimed Binder, anxious to subdue the fiend that was rising in his friend’s heart, “everybody knows that you are the coachman of Europe, and that it is in the power of no man to wrest the reins from your hands.”

“May this Prussian ride behind as my footman!” cried Kaunitz, gnashing his teeth. “Oh, I know him! I know why he pays a million of subsidy annually to his accomplice, the virtuous Catherine, that she may continue her assaults upon Poland and Turkey! I know whither his longings travel; but when he stretches his hand out for the booty, we too will be there to claim our share, and he shall yield it.”

“Your highness speaks in riddles,” said Binder, shrugging his shoulders. “I am accustomed, as you know, to look through your political spectacles; and I beg you to explain, for I am perfectly at a loss to understand you.”

The countenance of Kaunitz had resumed its impassible look. He threw back his head, and fixed his cold, heartless blue eyes upon the baron.

“Do you know,” said he, “what William the Silent once said of himself? ‘If I knew that my night-cap had found out my thoughts I would throw it in the fire.’ Now, Binder, do not aim to be my night-cap, or I shall burn you to a cinder.–But enough of this. It would seem that the Emperor Joseph expects me to wait upon him. Well–if it please him that I should make the first visit, I will humor him. When a man feels that he is lord and master of another, he can afford to be condescending! I will indulge the emperor’s whim.”

He rang, and one of his valets entered the room.

“Is his majesty in the castle?”

“Yes, your highness. His majesty has been reviewing the troops.”

“Where is his majesty now?”

“He is with his suite in the parlor that overlooks the square.”

“Is it far from this room?”

“No, your highness. It is close by.”

“Then reach me a cloak and muff, and woe to you if I encounter a draught on my way!”

CHAPTER LIX.

SOUVENIR D’EPERIES.

The emperor stood in the centre of the room in lively conversation with the gentlemen of his suite. As Kaunitz entered, he stopped at once, and coming forward, received the prince with a cordial welcome.

Kaunitz replied by a low bow, and nodded slightly to Prince de Ligne and General Lacy.

“Your highness is just in time,” said the emperor. “These gentlemen need encouragement. They have been blushing and trembling like two young debutantes.”

“Before whom, your majesty?”

“Oh!–before the great Frederick, of course. And De Ligne, who is considered the most elegant man in Vienna, actually trembled more than anybody else.”

“Actors trembling before their manager!” said Kaunitz, with a slight shrug. “Compose yourselves, gentlemen; the King of Prussia is too much absorbed in his own role to take any notice of you.”

“That is right,” cried the emperor. “Encourage the debutantes, prince!”

“I scarcely think that the prince will succeed where your majesty has failed,” said General von Lacy proudly.

“And his highness will hardly have any time to devote to us, for doubtless he too is practising the role which he must play before the King of Prussia,” added De Ligne.

“I beg to impress upon the Prince de Ligne,” interrupted Kaunitz, “that the verb ‘must’ is one which I am well accustomed to conjugate for others but never allow others to conjugate for me.”

“I for one have had it conjugated for me by your highness,” said the emperor, laughing. “Nobody in Austria knows it in all its moods and tenses better than I. But I have always recognized you as my teacher, and hope always to remain your faithful pupil.”

The clouds which were gathering on Kaunitz’s brow now shifted to the faces of Lacy and De Ligne.

“I have nothing to teach your majesty,” replied Kaunitz, almost smiling; “but allow me as a faithful servant to offer you a suggestion. Present to the King of Prussia that beautiful wreath which you hold in your hand, as an emblem of the friendship which to-day we pledge to Prussia.”

“Not I,” cried Joseph, while he held up his wreath and admired its white and red roses. “I shall keep my bouquet, were it only for the sake of the beautiful donor. You, prince, who penetrate all things, have pity on me, and find out her name.”

“Your majesty saw her, then?”

“Saw her? Yes, by Aphrodite, I did; and never in my life did I see a lovelier woman. She stood there in her velvet dress and veil, looking for all the world like the queen of night, of starry night. You see how she has impressed me, since I, who am so prosaic, launch out into extravagance of speech to describe her.”

“She was in mourning?” asked Kaunitz thoughtfully.

“Clothed in black, except the diamonds that sparkled on her bodice, and the bouquet (a match to mine) which she wore in her bosom. Ah, your highness, how you look at my poor flowers, as if treason were lurking among their leaves!”

“It is a beautiful bouquet,” said Kaunitz, eying it critically, “and very peculiar. Will your majesty allow me to examine it?”

The emperor handed over the wreath. “Take it,” said he, “but be merciful to my pretty delinquents.”

Kaunitz took the flowers and looked at them as he would have done at any other thing that might be the links in a chain of evidence, and passed his slender, white fingers through the long ribbons that fastened them together.

“The lady who threw these flowers is a Pole,” said he, after a pause.

“How do you know that?” cried the emperor.

“It is certainly not accidental that the wreath should be composed of white and red roses, and tied with a knot of white and red ribbons. White and red, you remember, are the colors of the so-called Republic of Poland.”

“You are right!” exclaimed Joseph, “and she wears mourning because a noble woman must necessarily grieve for the sufferings of her bleeding country.”

“Look,” said Kaunitz, who, meanwhile, was opening the leaves and searching among them, “here is a paper. Does your majesty permit me to draw it out?”

“Certainly. I gave you the wreath to examine, and you shall have the benefit of all that you discover.”

Kaunitz bowed his thanks, and began to untwist the stems of the flowers. The emperor and the two courtiers looked on with interest. The prince drew forth a little folded paper, and reached it over to the emperor.

“Have the goodness, your majesty, to read it yourself. A declaration of love from a lady is not intended for my profane eyes.”

The emperor sighed. “No,” said he, “it is no declaration for me. I am not so happy. Read, your highness, read it aloud.”

Kaunitz unfolded the paper, and read. “Souvenir d’Eperies”

“Nothing more?” asked Joseph.

Kaunitz replied by handing him the note.

“How strange! Only these words, and no explanation. I cannot understand it.”

“These words prove my supposition, your majesty. The donor is a Polish lady and one of the Confederates.”

“You think so?”

“I am convinced of it. When your majesty was travelling in Hungary, did you not spend a day at Eperies, and honor the Confederates by receiving them both publicly and privately?”

“I did,” replied Joseph, warmly. “And it gladdened my heart to assure these brave, struggling patriots of my sympathy.”

“Did not your majesty go so far as to promise them mediation with Prussia and Russia?” [Footnote: Ferrand. vol. i., p. 79.]

“I did,” replied the emperor, with a faint blush.

“Well, then, this female confederate meant to remind you of your promise on the day when you are to hold a conference with Frederick,” said Kaunitz, allowing the wreath to slip through his fingers to the floor. “There, your majesty,” continued he, “your beautiful Pole is at your feet. Will you rescue her, or unite in crushing her to the earth?”

“Oh, I will rescue her,” replied Joseph, “that she may not fall into the hands of ambitious Catharine. It would give her great pleasure to deck her Muscovite head with these sweet Polish roses; but she shall not have them.”

With these words, and before his courtiers could anticipate his action, the emperor stooped and picked up the wreath.

“Have a care, your majesty,” said the wary Kaunitz, “how you espouse Polish quarrels. The Poles are unlucky. They can die like men, but they do not live like men. Beware of Polish roses, for their perfume is not wholesome.”

Just then a shout was heard in the distance, and the emperor hastened to the window.

“It is the King of Prussia!” cried he, joyfully, and he walked toward the door.

Prince Kaunitz took the liberty of going immediately up and interposing his tall person between Joseph and the doorway.

“Your majesty,” said he, reproachfully, “what are you about to do?”

“I am about to go forward to meet the King of Prussia. He is just descending from his carriage. Do not detain me,” replied Joseph, hastily.

“But has your majesty forgotten that at Neisse, when the King of Prussia was the host, he came no farther than the stairway to meet you? It is not seemly that Austria should condescend to Prussia.”

“My dear prince,” said the emperor, with a peculiar laugh, “it is your business to respect these conventions. It is mine to regulate them. As the LITTLE sovereign of Austria I hasten to do homage to the GREAT King of Prussia.”

And gently putting the minister aside: the emperor walked rapidly out, followed by his suite.

Kaunitz looked after him with stormy brow.

“Incorrigible fanatic!” said he to himself. “Will you never cease to butt your empty head against the wall? You will butt in vain as long as _I_ have power and life. Go. It befits such a little emperor as you to humble yourself before your great king; but Austria is represented in MY person, and I remain here!”

He looked around the room, and his eyes fell upon the wreath, which the emperor had laid by the side of his hat, on the table. A sneer overspread his countenance as he went toward it, and shook off some of the leaves which were already fading.

“How soon they fall!” said he. “I think that the glorious republic will be quite as short-lived as they. Meanwhile I shall see that the ‘Souvenir d’Eperies’ lives no longer than roses have a right to live.”

He left the room, resolved to find out who it was that had bestowed the wreath. “For,” thought he, “she may prove a useful instrument with which to operate on either side.”

CHAPTER LX.

FREDERICK THE GREAT.

With youthful ardor, unconscious that his head was uncovered, the emperor hurried down the staircase into the street. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, his eyes fixed upon the spot whence the king was advancing, the emperor rushed onward, for the first time in his life slighting the people who thronged around, full of joy at sight of his elegant and handsome person.

Frederick was coming with equal rapidity, and now, in the very centre of the square, the monarchs met.

At this moment all was quiet. The military, ranged in lines around, were glistening with gold lace and brightened arms. Behind them came the people, who far and near were seen flowing in one great stream toward the square, while on the balconies and through the open windows of the houses around richly-dressed matrons and beautiful maidens enclosed the scene, like one long wreath of variegated flowers.

They met; and in the joy of his youthful enthusiasm, the emperor threw himself into the arms of the King of Prussia, and embraced him with a tenderness that was almost filial. The king returned the caress, and pressed the young monarch to his heart.

While the King of Prussia had been advancing, the people in silence were revolving in their minds the blood, the treasure, the long years of