struggle which Austrians had owed to this warlike Frederick. But when they saw how Joseph greeted him, they forgot every thing, and he now seemed to their excited imaginations to come like a resplendent sun of peace, whose rays streamed far into the distance of a happy and prosperous futurity.
It was peace! peace!–the hopes of peace that filled every eye with tears, and bowed every unconscious knee in prayer to Almighty God.
From the midst of the kneeling multitude, a voice was heard to cry out, “Long live peace!” A thousand other voices echoed the words, “Long live peace!”
“Long live the emperor and the king!” cried the same voice; and now the air was rent with shouts, while from street and square, and from every house, the cry went up to heaven, “Long live the emperor! Long live the king!”
Frederick withdrew from Joseph’s embrace, and bowed to the multitude with that bright and fascinating smile which no one was ever known to resist.
He then turned to the emperor, and presenting the young Prince of Prussia and the two Princes of Brunswick, he pointed to the white uniforms which they wore, and said: “Sire, I bring you some new recruits. [Footnote: The king wore the Austrian uniform, embroided with silver. The princes and the king’s suite also wore it.] We are all desirous of serving under your banner. And we feel that it would be an honor,” continued he, looking around the square, “to be the companions-in-arms of your majesty’s soldiers, for each man looks like a true son of Mars.”
“If so,” replied the emperor, “they have reason to rejoice, since to-day they are permitted, for the first time, to do homage to their father.”
Frederick smiled, and taking Joseph’s arm, they walked together to the palace. The king was conducted at once to the apartments prepared for his occupation, whence he shortly emerged to join the noble company assembled in the hall that led into the dining-room.
The brilliant suite of the emperor were awaiting the princely pair, and when they entered the hall together, followed by the cortege of Prussia, every head bowed with deferential awe, and every eye sought the ground. One head only bent slightly, and one pair of eyes looked boldly into the face of Frederick the Great.
The eagle eye of the king remarked him at once, and with an affable smile he approached the haughty minister.
“I rejoice, at last, to meet Prince Kaunitz face to face,” said he, in his soft and musical voice. “We need no introduction to one another. I am not such a barbarian as to require that he should be pointed out to me whom all Europe knows, admires, and respects.”
Something happened to which Kaunitz was totally unaccustomed–he blushed. In spite of himself, he smiled and bowed very, very low; but he found no words wherewith to reply to Frederick’s flattering address.
“Sire,” said the emperor, coming to the rescue, “you are making the most self-possessed men in Austria grow speechless with ecstasy. Even Kaunitz is at a loss to answer you; and as for poor De Ligne, he is completely dazzled. But by an by, he will get accustomed to the sun’s splendor, and then he will recover his accustomed address.” [Footnote: The emperor’s words. “Conversations with Frederick the Great,” by Prince de Ligne, p. 11.]
“I know him well,” said Frederick, with another bewitching smile. “I have read your letter to Jean Jacques Rousseau, prince; and I know it to be genuine, for it is too beautiful to be a forgery.”
“Ah, sire!” replied De Ligne, “I am not of such renown that obscure writers should seek to forge my name.” [Footnote: Not long before this, a letter had been written to Jean Jacques, and signed with the king’s name. The writer of this letter was Horace Walpole.]
The king bowed, and turned to Field-Marshal von Lacy.
“Your majesty need not present this man either,” said he, laying his hand upon Lacy’s shoulder, “he has given me entirely too much trouble for me not to be familiar with his features. I have good reason to remember Von Lacy, and to rejoice that he is not quartermaster-general to-day; for in that capacity, I and my soldiers have suffered enough from him.”
“But where is Loudon?” asked the emperor. “He is very late to-day.”
“That is not his habit,” replied Frederick, quickly, “I have seldom been able to come upon the field as soon as he. But, sire, we have done him injustice, for he is here, punctual as though he waited his enemies, not his friends.”
Crossing over to Loudon, and disregarding his stiff demeanor, Frederick took his hand, and greeted him with the most cordial expressions of regard.
“If it be agreeable to your majesty,” said the emperor, as the doors were flung open, “we will proceed to dinner.” And he offered his arm.
Frederick took it, but he still kept his eyes upon Loudon.
“Sire,” said he to Joseph, “if I am to have the honor of sitting beside your majesty at the table, pray, let me have Loudon on the other side. I would much rather have him there than opposite–I feel safer.”
So saying, the king walked on, and the company passed into the dining-room.
“If he turns the heads of all the court with his flattery,” muttered Kaunitz, following just after the princely pair, “he shall not succeed with me. What fine things, to be sure! But flattery indiscriminately bestowed leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. He wishes Loudon for his neighbor, forsooth, as if a man could have any rational intercourse with such an ignorant, ill-bred, awkward dolt as he is.”
And Kaunitz, who was secretly chagrined at the choice of the king, took the seat which bad been assigned to him by the emperor. It was at Joseph’s own table, directly opposite the two sovereigns
“Ah!” exclaimed Frederick, laughing and nodding to Kaunitz, “now I am satisfied. If I would rather have Loudon beside me, I would rather have the greatest statesman in Europe before me, for it is only when I can see him that I feel quite safe from his diplomatic grasp. I take shelter under your highness’s eye. Be indulgent to an old soldier, whose sword has so often been struck from his hands by your magic pen.”
“Your majesty’s pen is as sharp as your sword,” replied Kaunitz, “and the world has learned to fear and admire the one as much as the other. We offer resistance to neither; but pay willing homage to the prince who is at once a statesman, an author, and a warrior.”
The emperor whispered to Frederick: “Sire, a compliment from Kaunitz is like the flower upon the aloe-it blooms once in a century.”
CHAPTER LXI.
THE PRIMA DONNA.
The festivities of the first day were concluded with a ballet. Great preparations had been made for the reception of the King of Prussia. Noverre with his dancers, and Florian Gassman with his opera corps had been summoned to Neustadt. They came in twenty wagons laden with scenery, coulisses, machinery, and costumes, all of which was intended to prove to Frederick that, although the court of Berlin was the acknowledged seat of literature and the fine arts, Vienna was not altogether forsaken by the Muses.
“Your majesty must be indulgent to our theatrical efforts,” said the emperor, as they took their seats in the box which had been prepared for their occupation. “We all know that in Berlin the Muses and Graces have their home; they seldom visit Vienna, for they are loyal and love to sit at the feet of their master.”
“Ah, sire, you speak of the past. Time was when the Muses were not unpropitious; but now that I am an old man, they have proved inconstant, and have fled from Sans-Souci forever. The Muses themselves are young, and it is but natural that they should seek your majesty’s protection. I am thankful through your intervention, to be admitted once more to Parnassus.”
Just as the king was about to seat himself he remarked Kaunitz, who, with his usual grave indifference, was advancing to a chair not far off.
Frederick turned smilingly to Joseph. “Your majesty and I,” said he, “might stand to-night as representatives of youthful and aged sovereignty. We both need wisdom in our councils. Let us invite Prince Kaunitz to sit between us.”
The emperor bowed, and beckoned to the prince, who, having heard distinctly what had been intended for his ears, could not suppress a momentary expression of exultation. Never in his life bad lie made a bow so profound as that with which he took the seat which a king had resigned to him. He was so exultant that in the course of the evening he was actually heard to laugh. The ballet began. Gods and goddesses fluttered about the stage, Muses and Graces grouped themselves together in attitudes of surpassing beauty; and finally, with one grand tableau, composed of all the dancers, the curtain fell.
After the ballet came a concert. It was to open with an air from Gluck’s opera of “Alceste,” sung in costume by the celebrated Bernasconi.
The orchestra played the introduction, and the curtain rose but the prima donna did not appear. The leader looked toward the coulisses, but in vain; and the audience began to express their impatience in audible murmurs.
The curtain fell slowly, and the marshal of the emperor’s household, coming forward, spoke a few words to Joseph, in a low voice.
He turned to the king. “Sire, I have to apologize to you for this unlucky contretemps. Signora Bernasconi has been taken suddenly sick.”
“Oh!” replied Frederick, laughing, “I am quite au fait to the sudden illness of prima donnas. But since I have ordered a half month’s salary to be withdrawn from every singer who falls sick on a night of representation, my cantatrices at Berlin enjoy unprecedented health.”
“Bernasconi must have been made sick by her anxiety to appear well in your majesty’s critical eyes.”
“Do not believe it. These princesses of the stage are more capricious than veritable princesses. Above all, the Italians.”
“But Bernasconi,” said Kaunitz, “is not an Italian. She belongs to a noble Polish family.”
“So much the worse,” laughed Frederick. “That Polish blood is forever boiling over. I am surprised that your highness should permit your director to give to a Polish woman a role of importance. Wherever the Poles go, they bring trouble and strife.”
“Perhaps so, sire,” replied Kaunitz; “but they are excellent actors, and no people understand better how to represent heroes.”
As he said this, Kaunitz drew out his jewelled snuff-box, enriched with a medallion portrait of his imperial mistress, Maria Theresa.
“To represent heroes, I grant you; but just as we are beginning to feel an interest in the spectacle of their heroism, To the stage-armor falls off, the tin sword rattles, and we find that we were wasting our sympathies upon a band of play-actors.”
“Perhaps,” said Kaunitz, as he dipped his long, white fingers into the snuff-box, “perhaps we may live to see the stage break under them, and then they may cease to be actors, and become lunatics.”
Frederick’s eagle eyes were fixed upon Kaunitz while he spoke, but the minister still continued to play with his snuff-box.
“Prince,” said he, laughing, “we have been antagonists for so many years that we must celebrate our first meeting by a pledge of future good-will. The Indians are accustomed at such times to smoke the calumet of peace. Here we have tobacco under another form. Will you allow me a pinch from your snuff-box?”
This was a token of such great condescension that even the haughty Kaunitz was seen to blush with gratified vanity. With unusual eagerness, he presented his snuff-box to the king.
The king took the snuff and as he did so, remarked, “This is the first time I have ever taken snuff from another man’s box.”
“Pardon me, your majesty,” replied Kaunitz, quickly. “Silesia was a pinch from our snuff-box.”
“True,” said Frederick, laughing, “but the tobacco was so strong that it has cost me many an uncomfortable sneeze; and nobody as ever been civil enough to say, `Heaven bless you.'”
While the king and Kaunitz jested together, Signor Tobaldi had been singing his aria; and now that he ceased, Frederick, for the first time, became aware that any music had been going on.
“Your majesty,” said the emperor, “has done injustice, for once, to a prima donna. Bernasconi is really sick, but she has sent a substitute.”
“These substitutes,” said Frederick, “are always on the look-out for such opportunities of sliding into notice; but unhappily they are not often equal to the tasks they are so eager to perform.”
“This substitute,” said Joseph, “is no rival opera-singer. She is a dear friend of Bernasconi’s, who speaks of her singing with enthusiasm.”
“Is that possible? Does one singer go into raptures over another? By all means let us hear the phoenix.”
The king looked toward the stage, and his countenance assumed at once an expression of genuine interest.
Once more the orchestra began the introduction to Gluck’s beautiful aria. Meanwhile a tall and elegant person was seen to advance toward the foot-lights. Her pure Grecian robe, half covered with a mantle of purple velvet, richly embroidered in gold, fell in graceful folds froth her snowy shoulders. Her dark hair, worn in the Grecian style, was confined by a diadem of brilliants; and the short, white tunic which she wore under her mantle, was fastened by a girdle blazing with jewels.
She was so transcendently beautiful that Frederick could not resist the temptation of joining in the applause which greeted her entrance. She seemed unconscious of the effect she produced, so earnestly and anxiously were her large, lustrous eyes fixed upon the spot where Frederick and Joseph were sitting together. She raised her graceful arms as she began the prayer of Alceste; but her looks were riveted upon the sovereigns, who represent divinity on earth. When she sang, the tones of her glorious voice sank deep into the hearts of all who listened. Now it was clear, pure, and vibrating, wooing the air like a clarionet–now it caressed the ear like a speaking violin–and upon it poured forth volumes of harmony that filled all space, as the the booming organ fills the aisles of a vast and lofty cathedral. Gluck, the hypercritical Gluck, would have been ravished to hear his music as she sang it; and Frederick, who, up to this hour, had refused to acknowledge the genius of the great German, now sat breathless with rapture, as he listened to such music and such interpretation of music as never had been heard before.
The Emperor Joseph was unmindful of it all. He had a vague idea of celestial sounds that seemed to drown him in an ocean of melody; but he heard not a note of Alceste’s prayer. Every sense was stunned save one–and that one was sight.
“It is she,” murmured he, as the siren ceased to sing: “it is she, the beautiful Pole. How resplendent she is to-night!” Then turning to Kaunitz, whose observing eyes bad been watching his face and whose sharp ears had caught his words, he whispered:
“Do you remember the bouquet that was thrown to me this morning?”
“I forget nothing your majesty deigns to communicate to me,” replied Kaunitz.
“This is she. Who can she be?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Kaunitz, slightly elevating his eyebrows. “The ‘Souvenir d’Eperies.’ Now I comprehend Bernasconi’s illness. She felt ill through patriotism, that this adroit countrywoman of hers might have the opportunity of being remarked by your majesty. I would not be at all surprised if she went out of the way of prima donnas to attract your majesty’s attention. These Polish women are fanatics in their love of country.”
The emperor said nothing in reply. He scarcely listened. His eyes were still upon the descending curtain that hid the mysterious beauty from his sight. If her object had been to attract him, she had certainly succeeded.
The audience were waiting for some signal from either Joseph or Frederick that they might give vent to their admiration. The king understood the general feeling, and began to applaud with his hands. In a moment the applause became vociferous, and it did not cease until the curtain drew up a second time, and the prima donna came forward to receive her ovation.
For one moment they surveyed the enchanting singer, and then broke out into another wild storm, in which the emperor joined so heartily that his voice was heard above the din, crying out, “Brava! bravissima!”
The singer sought his glance, and meeting it, blushed deeply. Then, coming forward a few steps, she began once more to sing.
Her song was a passionate appeal to the two princes, whom she addressed openly, in behalf of Poland.
It was over, and not a sound was heard in the theatre. The audience hung, in breathless anxiety, upon the verdict that must come from those who had been addressed. They were so intent upon Frederick and Joseph that they did not see the singer leave the stage. They were not destined, however, to be enlightened or relieved, for no demonstration was made in the imperial box.
But Joseph, rising from his seat, signed to the marshal of the household to approach.
“Go, count,” said he, “go quickly, and ask her name. Tell her it is the emperor who desires to know her.”
“Her name is Poland,” said Kaunitz, in an absent tone. Then, addressing Joseph, he continued: “Did I not tell your majesty that your adventure was not to end with the throwing of a bouquet? I know these Polish women; they coquette with every thing–above all, with the throes of their dying fatherland.”
The emperor smiled, but said nothing. He was watching the return of the marshal of the household.
“Well, count, what is her name?” cried he earnestly.
“Sire, I am unable to find it out. The lady has left the theatre, and no one here, not even the director, knows her name.”
“Strange,” said the emperor. “Let a messenger, then, be sent to Bernasconi: she, of course, must know.”
“Pardon me, your majesty, I have been to Bernasconi. She is here, preparing to sing her second air. She has suddenly recovered and will have the honor of appearing before your majesties in a few moments.”
“But what said Bernasconi of the Polish singer?”
“She does not know her name, your majesty. She showed me a letter from Colonel Dumourriez, the French plenipotentiary to the Polish Republic. He designates her only as a Polish lady of noble birth, whose remarkable vocal powers were worthy of your majesty’s admiration.”
“Do you hear that?” said Frederick to Kaunitz. “Do you hear that? The French plenipotentiary sends this prima donna to sing before the emperor. Vraiment, it seems that France is disgusted with war, and intends to try her hand at sentiment. Petticoat-government is so securely established there, that I suppose the French are about to throw a petticoat over the heads of their allies. France and Poland are two fevimes galantes.”
“Yes, sire,” replied Kaunitz, “but one of them is old and ugly. Lindaine La Pologne is an old coquette, who puts on youthful airs, and thinks she hides her wrinkles with paint.”
“Does your highness, then, believe that her youth is forever past? Can she never be rejuvenated?” asked Frederick, with a searching look at Kaunitz’s marble features.
“Sire, people who waste their youth in dissipation and rioting, have no strength when the day of real warfare dawns.”
“And it would seem that the Empress of Russia has some intention of making a serious attack upon the poor old lady,” said Frederick, while for the second time he took a pinch from the snuff-box of the crafty Austrian.
Meanwhile the concert was going on. Bernasconi, completely restored, sang the beautiful air from “Orpheus and Eurydice,” and Frederick applauded as before. But the emperor sat silent and abstracted. His thoughts were with that Polish woman, whose love of country had brought her to Neustadt to remind him of the promises he had made to the Confederates at Eperies.
“How enthusiastically she loves Poland!” said he to himself. “She will of course find means to cross my path again, for she seeks to interest me in the fate of her fatherland. The next time she comes, I will do like the prince in the fairy-tale, I will strew pitch upon the threshold, that she may not be able to escape from me again.”
Kaunitz, too, was preoccupied with thoughts of the bewitching Confederate, but the fact that she would be sure to come again was not quite so consoling to him as to Joseph.
As soon as he returned home, he called for his private secretary, who was one of the most dexterous detectives in Vienna.
“You will make inquiries at once as to the whereabout of the prima donna who sang before me and their majesties to-night. Tomorrow at nine o’clock I must know who she is, where she lodges, and what is her business here.”
CHAPTER, LXII.
FREDERICK THE GREAT AND PRINCE KAUNITZ.
The great review, which had been gotten up in honor of the King of Prussia, was over. In this review Frederick had become acquainted with the strength of the Austrian army, the superiority of its cavalry, and the military capacity of the emperor who was its commander-in-chief.
The king had been loud in his praises of all three, and had embraced the emperor in presence of the whole army.
Immediately after the review, Frederick sent a page to announce to Prince Kaunitz that he woud be glad to see him in his own private apartments.
Kaunitz at once declared his readiness to wait upon the king, and to the unspeakable astonishment of his valet, had actually shortened his toilet and had betrayed some indifference to the arrangement of his peruke. As he left the room, his gait was elastic and active, and his countenance bore visible marks of the excitement with which he was looking forward to the coming interview.
But Kaunitz himself became suddenly aware of all this, and he set to work to force back his emotion. The nearer he came to the king’s suite of rooms, the slower became his step and the calmer his mien. At last it was tranquillized, and the minister looked almost as cold and indifferent as ever.
Arrived at the door of the antechamber, he looked around, and having convinced himself that no one was in sight, he drew from his breast-pocket a small mirror which he always wore about his person. Sharply he viewed himself therein, until gradually, as he looked, his face resumed the stony aspect which like a thickening haze concealed his emotions from other men’s eyes.
“It is really not worth my while,” thought he, “to get up an excitement because I am about to have a conference with that small bit of royalty, Frederick. If he should discover it, he might suppose that I, like the rest of the world, am abashed in the presence of a king because he has some military fame. No–no–what excites me is the fact that I am about to write a bit of history; for this interview between Prussia and Austria will be historical. It is the fate of Europe–that fate which I hold in my hands, that stirs me with such unwonted emotion. This King of Prussia has nothing to do with it. No doubt he hopes to hoodwink me with flattery, but I shall work him to my ends, and force him to that line of policy which I have long ago laid down for Austria’s welfare.”
Here the mirror was returned to his pocket, and he opened the door of the anteroom. The sweet sounds of a flute broke in upon his ear as he entered. The king’s aide-de-camp came up and whispered that his sovereign was accustomed to play on the flute daily, and that he never failed even when in camp to solace his solitude with music.
Prince Kaunitz answered with a shrug, and pointing to the door, said, “Announce me to his majesty.”
The aide-de-camp opened the door and announced his highness Prince Kaunitz.
The flute ceased, and the rich, musical voice of Frederick was heard to say, “He can enter.”
Kaunitz was not much pleased to receive a permission where he fancied himself entitled to an invitation; but he had no alternative, so he walked languidly forward while the officer held the door open.
“Shut the door, and admit no one during the visit of Prince Kaunitz,” said the king. Then turning to the prince, he pointed to his flute. “I suspect you are amused to see such an old fellow as I coquetting with the fine arts; but I assure you that my flute is one of my trustiest friends. She has never deceived me, and keeps my secrets faithfully. My alliance with her is for life. Ask her, and she will tell you that we live on terms of truest friendship.”
“Unhappily, I do not understand the language of your lady-love. Your majesty will perhaps allow me to turn my attention to another one of your feminine allies, toward whom I shall venture to question your majesty’s good faith.”
“Of what lady do you speak?” cried Frederick, eagerly.
“Of the Empress Catharine,” replied Kaunitz, slightly inclining his head.
“Oh!” said the king, laughing, “you dart like an arrow to the point, and transfix me at once upon the barb of politics. Let us sit down, then. The arm-chair which you are taking now, may boast hereater that it is the courser which has carried the greatest statesman in Europe to a field where he is sure to win new victories.”
Kaunitz was careful to seat himself at the same time as the king, and they both sat before a table covered with charts, papers, and books.
A short pause ensued. Both were collecting their energies for the strife. The king, with his eagle eye, gazed upon the face of the astute diplomatist while he, pretending not to see it, looked perfectly oblivious of kings or emperors.
“So you will ask of Catharine whether I am a loyal ally or not’!” asked the king at last.
“Yes, sire, for unluckily the Empress of Russia is the one who can give me information.”
“Why unluckily?”
“Because I grieve to see that a German prince is willing to form alliances with her, who, if she could, would bring all Europe under her yoke, and make every European sovereign her vassal. Russia grows hourly more dangerous and more grasping. She foments discord and incites wars, for she finds her fortune in the dissensions of other nations, and at every misunderstanding between other powers, she makes a step toward the goal whither she travels.”
“And what is that goal?”
“The subjugation of all Europe,” cried Kaunitz, with unusual warmth.” Russia’s policy is that of unprincipled ambition; and if so far she has not progressed in her lust of dominion, it is Austria, or rather the policy which I dictate to Austria, that has checked her advance. It is I who have restored the balance of power, by conquering Austria’s antipathy to France, by isolating haughty England, and hunting all Europe against rapacious Russia. But Russia never loses sight of the policy initiated by Peter the Great; and as I have stemmed the tide of her aggression toward the west, it is overflowing toward the south and the east. All, justice disregarding. Russian armies occupy Poland; and before long the ships of Russia will swarm in the Black Sea and threaten Constantinople. Russia is perforce a robber, for she is internally exhausted, and unless she seeks new ports for her commerce, and new sources of revenue, she is ruined.”
“You err, I assure you,” cried Frederick, eagerly. “Russia is in a condition to sustain any burden; her revenues this year show an increase over the last of five hundred thousand rubles.”
“Then this increase comes probably from the million of subsidy which your majesty has agreed to pay to Russia,” said Kaunitz, bowing. [Footnote: Ferrand, “History of the Dismemberment of Poland,” vol. i., p. 84.] “Such rich tribute may well give her strength to attempt any thing; but every thaler which your majesty pays into her treasury is a firebrand which will one day consume all Europe. If indeed, as you say, Russia is strong and formidable, it is for your majesty to hold her in check; if she is exhausted, her alliance is not worth having.” [Footnote: Kaunitz’s own words. Ferrand, vol. i., p. 108.]
“Your highness seems eager to have me break off my connection with Russia,” said the king, while a cloud passed over his face. “You wish to prove that Russia is a power whose friendship is worthless and whose enmity is to be despised. And yet it is well known to me how zealously the Austrian ambassador was intriguing not long ago to induce Russia to cast me aside and enter into an alliance with you. Your highness must excuse me if I throw aside the double-edged blade of courtly dissimulation. I am an old soldier and my tongue refuses to utter any thing but unvarnished truth.”
“If your majesty permits,” replied Kaunitz with some warmth, “I, too, will speak the unvarnished truth. You are pleased to charge me with seeking to alienate Russia from Prussia while striving to promote an alliance of the former with Austria. Will your majesty allow me to reply to this accusation in full without interruption?”
“I will,” replied Frederick, nodding his head. “Speak on, I shall not put in a word.”
CHAPTER LXIII.
RUSSIA A FOE TO ALL EUROPE.
Prince Kaunitz remained silent for a time, as though he were turning over in his mind what he should say to the king. Then slowly raising his head, he met the scrutinizing glance of Frederick with perfect composure, and spoke as follows:
“At the conclusion of the unhappy war which desolated both Austria and Prussia, I had to consider what course for the future was likely to recuperate the prostrate energies of Austria. I resolved in my mind various schemes, and laid them before her imperial majesty. The one which I advocated and which was adopted by the empress, had mainly for its object the pacification of all European broils, and the restoration of the various Austrian dependencies to order and prosperity. For some time I waited to see whether your majesty would not seek to conciliate France, and renew your old league of friendship with her king. But the policy pursued by your majesty at the court of Russia convinced me that you were thinking exclusively of securing your provinces in the east. This once understood, it became the interest of Austria to rivet the links which bound her to France; for an alliance with her offered the same advantages to us as that of Russia did to Prussia. Moreover, it was Austria’s opinion that Prussia was now too closely bound to Russia for her ever to seek an alliance with France. It therefore appeared that our good understanding with the latter would conduce to preserve the balance of power among European nations, and that it would meet with the favor of all those potentates who were anxious for peace. It follows thence that the court of Vienna is perfectly content with her relations toward France; and I expressly and distinctly declare to your majesty that we never will seek to alienate Russia from Prussia, that we never will encourage any advances from Russia, and that your majesty may rest assured that we never will deviate from our present line of policy. This was what I desired to explain, and I thank your majesty for the courtesy with which You have listened to me.” [Footnote: This discourse of Kannitz is historical. It is found in Ferrand’s “Histoire des Trois Demembrements de la Pologue,” vol. i., p. 112.]
The face of the king, which at first had looked distrustful, was now entirely free from suspicion. He rose from his chair, and giving his hand to Kaunitz, said with a cordial smile
“This is what I call noble and candid statesmanship. You have not spoken as a diplomatist, but as a great minister, who, feeling his strength, has no reason to conceal his actions. I will answer in the same spirit. Sit down again and hear me. You fear Russia, and think that if she gains too great an ascendency among nations, she will use it to the detriment of all Europe. I agree with you, and I myself would view the aggrandizement of Russia under Catharine with disapprobation and distrust. You are right, and I feel the embarrassment of my present political condition. At the commencement of this Turkish war, I would have used my honest endeavors to check the usurping advances of Russia, not only in Turkey but also in Poland. But I myself was in a critical position. You, who had been represented to me as the most rapacious of diplomatists, you had prejudiced all Europe against me, so that for seven long years my only allies were my rights and my good sword. The only hand reached out to me was that of Russia; policy constrained me to grasp and retain it. It is both to my honor and my interest that I keep faith with Russia,, and eschew all shifts and tergiversations in my dealings with her. Her alliance is advantageous to Prussia, and therefore I pay her large subsidies, give her advice, allow my officers to enlist in her armies, and finally I have promised the empress that should Austria interfere in behalf of the Turks, I will use all my influence to mediate between you.” [Footnote: Dolan. “Memoirs of My Times,” vol. i., p. 458.]
“Does that mean that if Russia and Austria should go to war, your majesty will stand by the former?”
“It means that I will make every effort to prevent a war between Russia and Austria. If, in spite of all that I could do, there should be war between you, it would not be possible for Prussia to remain neutral. Were she to do so, she would deserve the contempt both of friend and foe. I would fulfil my obligations to Russia, that I might secure the duration of our alliance. But I sincerely hope that it may be my good fortune to mediate with such results as will spare me the espousal of either party’s quarrel.”
“If so, Russia must abandon her ambitious projects in Turkey, and she must speedily consent to secure peace to Poland,” replied Kaunitz warmly.
The king smiled, and taking from the table a sealed packet, he presented it to Kaunitz.
“A letter for me!” exclaimed the minister, surprised.
“Yes, your highness. A few moments before you came hither, a courier arrived from Constantinople with dispatches for you and for me.”
“Does your majesty allow me to open them?”
“I request you to read them while I read mine, Which are, as yet, unopened. I have only read the report of my ambassador at Constantinople. Let us see what news we have.”
The king, with a smiling inclination of the head, settled himself in his arm-chair, and began to read.
A long pause ensued. Both tried to seem absorbed in the dispatches from Turkey, yet each one gave now and then a hasty, furtive glance at the other. If their eyes met, they were quickly cast, down again, and so they continued to watch and read; until there was no more excuse for silence.
“Bad news from Turkey,” said Frederick, speaking first, and putting down his letters.
“The Porte has been unfortunate,” said Kaunitz, shrugging his shoulders and looking perfectly indifferent. “Russia has not only gained a great victory on land, but has defeated him at sea, and has burnt his fleet.”
“The consequence of all this is, that Turkey now turns to Austria and Prussia for help, “replied the king.” Upon our intervention now, hangs the peace of all Europe. We have a most important mission to perform.”
“Your majesty intends to undertake it?” asked Kaunitz carelessly.
“I am resolved to do all that I can to prevent war. It is such a terrible scourge, that no nation has a right to fold her hands and see its horrors, if by any step of hers it can be averted or stopped. Turkey asks for intervention, that she may be restored to the blessings of peace. Shall we refuse her?”
“Austria cannot mediate in this affair unless Russia first proposes it,” said Kaunitz, in a listless tone. “The court of Vienna cannot make propositions to Russia. It therefore rests with your majesty to induce the Empress Catharine to make the same request of Austria, as Turkey has made of us both.”
“I will propose it to the empress,” said the king eagerly; “and I feel sure that she will agree to do so.”
Kaunitz bowed loftily. “Then,” replied he, “Austria will mediate; but let it be understood that the peace is to be an honorable one for Turkey, and that Russia ceases any further aggression in that quarter.”
“The Porte will be under the necessity of making some concessions,” said the king, “since he it is whose arms have sustained reverses. But Turkey may still remain a second-rate power, for I think that Russia will be satisfied with the Crimea and the Black Sea for herself and a guaranty of independent sovereigns for Wallachia and Moldavia.”
“Independent princes appointed by Russia!” cried Kaunitz.
“My imperial sovereign will never consent to have a Russian province contiguous to Austria; and should Moldavia and Wallachia be governed by hospodars and petty despots, their pretended independence would soon melt away into a Russian dependency. Austria, too, would esteem it a great misfortune if Russia should come into possession of the Crimea and the Black Sea. Her dominion over the Black Sea would be more dangerous to Europe than an extension of her territory. Nothing, in short, would be so fatal to that independence which is dear to all nations, as the cession of this important outlet to Russia.” [Footnote: The prince’s own words. Ferrand, i., p. 112.
“Your highness may be right,” said the king; “and Austria has more to fear from this dominion than Prussia; for the Danube is a finger of the Black Sea, which might be used to seize some of your fairest provinces. We will keep this in view when we enter upon our negotiations with Russia.”
“Before we begin them at all, we must exact of Russia to restore peace to Poland.”
“Ali, you wish to draw Poland info the circle of intervention?” said Frederick, laughing.
“The court of Vienna cannot suffer Russia to oppress this unfortunate people as she has hitherto done. Not only has she forced Stan islaus Augustus upon them, but she has also compelled them to alter their constitution, and, in the face of all justice, her armies occupy Poland, devastating the country, and oppressing both royalists and republicans.”
“You are resolved to speak of Poland,” said Frederick, again taking so large a pinch of snuff that it bedaubed not only his face, but his white Austrian uniform. He brushed it off with his fingers, and shaking his head, said: “I am not neat enough to wear this elegant dress. I am not worthy of wearing the Austrian livery.” He then resumed: “You interest yourself in Poland. I thought that Polish independence had been thrown to the winds. I thought, also, that your highness was of the same opinion on this question as the Empress Catharine, who says that she neither knows where Polish territory begins nor where it ends. Now I am equally at a loss to know what is and what is not Poland, for in Warsaw a Russian army seems to be perfectly at home, and in the south of Poland an Austrian regiment affirms that they occupy Polish ground by command of the Austrian government.”
“Your majesty is pleased to speak of the county of Zips. Zips has always belonged to Hungary. It was mortgaged by the Emperor Sigismund to his brother-in-law ZVladislaw Jagello for a sum of money. Hungary has never parted with her right to this country; and, as we have been compelled to send troops to our frontier to watch Russia, the opportunity presents itself for us to demonstrate to Poland that Austria can never consent to regard a mortgaged province as one either given or sold. Zips belongs to Austria, and we will pay back to the King of Poland the sum for which it was mortgaged. That is all.”
“Yes, but it will be difficult not only for Poland, but for all Europe, which is accustomed to consider Zips as Polish territory, to remember your highness’s new boundaries. I, for my part, do not understand it, and I will be much obliged to you if, according to your new order of things, you will show the where Hungary ends and Poland begins.” [Footnote: The kng’s own words. Ferrand, P. 112.]
“Where the county of Zips ends, and where the boundaries of Hungary began in olden times, there the line that separates Austria from Poland should be drawn.”
“Ah!” sighed the king, “you speak of the olden time. But we must settle all these things now with regard to the present. I happen, by chance, to have a rnah of Poland on my table. Oblige me now by showing me Poland as your highness understands its boundaries.”
The king stood up, and unfolding a map, laid it on the table. Kaunitz also rose, and stood on the opposite side. “Now,” said Frederick, “let me see the county of Zips.”
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE MAP OF POLAND.
“HERE, your majesty, is Zips,” said Kaunitz, as he passed his delicate white finger over the lower part of the map.
The king leaned over, and looked thoughtfully at the moving finger. For some time he kept silence. Then he raised his head, and suet the gaze of the prince.
“A very pretty piece of land which Austria takes from her neighbor,” said he, with a piercing glance at Kaunitz. “Austria takes nothing from her neighbor, sire, except that which belongs to her,” replied Kaunitz, quietly.
“How very fortunate it is that this particular piece of land should belong to Austria!” said the king; with a slight sneer. “You see that Poland, who for so many centuries had supposed herself to be the rightful owner of the Zips, has, in virtue of such ownership, projected beyond the Carpathian Mountains quite to the interior of Hungary. Now a wedge of that sort is inconvenient, perhaps dangerous, and it is lucky for Austria that she has found out her right of possession in that quarter. It not only contracts her neighbor’s domains, but essentially increases her own. It now concerns Austria to prove to Europe her right to this annexation, for Europe is somewhat astonished to hear of it. “
“In the court-chancery, at Vienna, are the documents to prove that the Zips was mortgaged by the Emperor Sigismund to his brother-in-law Wladislaw, in the year 1412, for the sum of thirty-seven thousand groschen.”
“Since 1412!” cried Frederick. “Three hundred and fifty-five years’ possession on the part of Poland has not invalidated the title of Austria to the Zips! My lawful claim to Silesia was of more modern date than this, and yet Austria would have made it appear that it was superannuated.”
“Your majesty has proved, conclusively, that it was not so,” replied Kaunitz, with a slight inclination of the head.
“Will Austria take the course which I pursued to vindicate my right?” asked the king, quickly.
“Stanislaus will not allow us to proceed to extremities,” replied the Prince. “True, he complained at first, and wrote to the empress-queen to demand what he called justice.”
“And will your highness inform me what the empress-queen replied in answer to these demands?”
“She wrote to the King of Poland that the time had arrived when it became incumbent upon her to derive the boundaries of her empire. That, in her annexation of the Zips to Austria, she was actuated, not by any lust of territorial aggrandizement, but by a conviction of her just and inalienable rights. She was prepared, not only to assert, but to defend them; and she took this opportunity to define the lines of her frontier, for the reason that Poland was in a state of internal warfare, the end of which no man could foresee.” [Footnote: Ferrand, i., p. 94.]
“If I were King of Poland, such plain language as this would put me on my guard.”
“Sire, if you were King of Poland, no foreign power would employ such language toward you,” said Kaunitz, with a half smile.
“That is true,” replied the king, shaking his head. “The King of Poland is a weak, good-natured fellow. He cannot forget that he has been the lover of Catharine of Russia, and I verily believe, that if she were to make a sign, he would lay, not only himself, but all Poland, at her feet.”
“Austria would never suffer her to accept it,” cried Kauuitz.
The king shrugged his shoulders. “And yet, it would appear that when Zips lay at her feet, the Empress of Austria was ready to embrace it. But everybody grows eccentric when Poland is in question. My brother Henry, who is in St. Petersburg, was one day discussing this matter of the annexation of Zips with the empress. As Catharine, like myself, has never had the privilege of examining the records in the court of chancery at Vienna, she expressed some doubt as to the justice of Austria’s appropriation in that quarter. ‘It seems,’ said she, ‘as if one had noting to do but stoop down to pick up something in Poland.'[Footnote: Ruthfore’s “History of Poland,” vol. iv., p. 210.] Now, when proud Austria and her lofty Kaunitz condescend to stoop and pick up, why shall not other people follow their example? I, too, shall be obliged to march my troops into Poland, for every misfortune seems about to visit this unhappy land. Who knows that in the archives at Berlin there may not be some document to prove that I, also, have a right to extend the lines of my frontier?”
While Frederick spoke, he kept his eyes fixed upon the face of Prince Kaunitz, as though he would have read to the very bottom of his soul. The latter pretended not to be aware of it; he looked perfectly blank, while he affected to be still interested in examining the map.
“It would be fortunate if your majesty could discover such documents in YOUR archives,” replied he, coolly. “I have been told that you have, heretofore, sought for them in Warsaw; unhappily, without being able to find any.”
The king could not repress a slight start as he heard this revelation of his own machinations. Kaunitz again affected to see nothing, although he was looking directly in the king’s eyes.
“I say,” continued Kaunitz, “that it would be most fortunate if, JUST AT THIS TIME, your majesty could recover your titles to that portion of Poland which lies contiguous to Russia. Austria, I assure you, will place no difficulties in the way.”
“Really,” replied the king, “I must say that these lines form a better natural frontier than my present boundaries.” Here he passed his hand somewhere through the north-western provinces of Poland, while he continued: “Would my word suffice if I were to say to Austria that the documents, proving my right to this territory, are to be found in the archives at Berlin?”
“Your majesty’s word, as regards this question, is worth more than the documents,” said Kaunitz, deliberately.
“But what would Catharine say?–she who looks upon Poland as her own?”
“If she says any thing, it is high time she were undeceived in that respect,” said Kaunitz, hastily. “She must be satisfied to share equally with others. Your majesty was pleased to relate to me a portion of the conversation between the empress and Prince Henry. The empress said, ‘It seems as if one had nothing to do but stoop down to pick up something in Poland.’ But you forgot the sequel. She added these words: ‘If the court of Vienna begins the dismemberment of Poland I think that her neighbors have a right to continue it.'” [Footnote: La Roche Aymon “Vie du Prince Henry” p. 171.]
“Vraiment, your highness has trusty reporters, and your agents serve you admirably!” exclaimed the king.
Kaunitz bowed haughtily.
“We are your majesty’s imitators,” replied he. “First during the Silesian war, then at the court of Dresden, we learned from you the value of secret information. [Footnote: Through his ambassador at Dresden, Frederick had bribed the keeper of the Saxon archives to send him copies of the secret treaties between Austria and Saxony. He did even worse, for the attache of the Austrian embassy at Berlin was in his pay, and he sent the king copies of all the Austrian dispatches.–L. Muhlbach, “Life of Frederick the Great.”] Having been apprised of the remarkable words of the empress, I began to fear that she might encroach upon Poland without regard to the claims of Austria. Your majesty is aware that the Russian army occupy Warsaw, and that a cordon of Russian troops extend as far as the frontiers of Turkey.”
“And if I draw my cordon beyond the district of Netz,” cried the king, drawing his finger across the map as if it had been a sword, “and Austria extends her frontier beyond Galicia and the Zips, the republic of Poland will occupy but a small space on the map of Europe.”
“The smaller the better; the fewer Poles there are in the world the less strife there will be. The cradle of the Poles is that apple of discord which Eris once threw upon the table of the gods; they were born of its seeds, and dissension is their native element. As long as there lives a Pole on the earth, that Pole will breed trouble among his neighbors.”
“Ah!” said the king, taking a pinch of snuff, “and yet your highness was indignant at Catharine because she would force the Poles to keep the peace. She appears to ME to be entirely of one mind with yourself. She, too, looks upon Poland as the apple of Eris, and she has found it so over-ripe that it is in danger of falling from the tree. She has stationed her gardener, Stanislaus, to guard it. Let him watch over it. It belongs to him, and if it come to the ground, he has nobody to blame but himself. Meanwhile, should it burst, we will find means to prevent it from soiling US. Now let us speak of Turkey. That unlucky Porte must have something done for him, and while we mediate in his behalf, I hope to bring about a good understanding between Austria and Russia. Let us do our best to promote a general peace. Europe is bleeding at every pore; let us bind up her wounds, and restore her to health.”
“Austria is willing to promote the general welfare,” replied Kaunitz, following the king’s example and rising from his chair, “but first Russia must conclude an honorable peace with Turkey, and she must abandon her rapacious designs upon the rest of Europe. But should the Empress of Russia compel us to war with her on this question we will not have recourse to arms until we have found means to alienate from her the most formidable of her allies.”
The king laughed. “I approve your policy,” said he, “but I am curious to know how you would manage to prevent me from keeping my word. I am certainly pledged to Russia, but I hope that the negotiations into which we are about to enter will end in peace. I shall send a resume of our conference to the empress, and use every effort to establish friendly relations between you.”
“Will your majesty communicate her reply to me?” asked Kaunitz.
“I certainly will; for I am a soldier, not a diplomatist, and I am so much in love with truth that I shall be her devotee until the last moment of my life.”
“Ah, sire, a man must be a hero like yourself to have the courage to love so dangerous a mistress. Truth is a rose with a thousand thorns. He who plucks it will be wounded, and woe to the head of him who wears it in his crown!”
“You and I have fought and bled too often on the field of diplomacy to be tender about our heads. Let us, then, wear the crown of truth, and bear with its thorns.”
So saying, the king reached out his hand, and Kaunitz took his leave.
After the prince had left the room, Frederick remained for a few minutes listening, until he heard the door of the farther anteroom closed.
“Now, Hertzberg,” cried he, “come out–the coast is clear.”
A gigantic screen, which divided the room in two, began to move, and forth came Count Herizberg, the king’s prime minister.
“Did you hear it all?” asked Frederick, laughing.
“I did, so please your majesty.”
“Did you write it down, so that I can send its resume to the Empress Catharine?”
“Yes, your majesty, as far as it was possible to do so, I have written down every word of your conference,” said Hertzberg, with a dissatisfied expression of countenance.
The king raised his large eyes with an inquiring look at the face of his trusty minister. “Are you not satisfied, Hertzberg? Why do you shake your head? You have three wrinkles in your forehead, and the corners of your mouth turn down as they always do when something has displeased you. Speak out, man. Of what do you complain?”
“First, I complain that your majesty has allowed the old fox to perceive that you, as well as himself, entertain designs upon Poland, and that in a manner you are willing to guarantee to Austria her theft of the Zips. I also complain that you have consented to induce Russia, through the intervention of Austria, to make peace with Turkey.”
“Is that all?” asked the king.
“Yes, your majesty; that is all.”
“Well, then, hear my defence. As regards your first complaint, I allowed the old fox (as you call him) to scent my desire for Polish game, because I wished to find out exactly how far I could venture to go in the matter.”
“Yes, sire, and the consequences will be, that Austria, who has already appropriated the Zips, will stoop down to pick up something else. She has already had her share of the booty, why should she divide with your majesty?”
“Let Austria have her second share,” cried the king, laughing. “It will earn for her a double amount of the world’s censure. [Footnote: The king’s own words. Coxe, “History of Austria,” vol. v., p. 20.] As regards your second complaint, let me tell you, that at this moment peace is indispensable to us all, and for this reason I desire to bring Russia and Austria into friendly relations with one another. I think it not only wiser but more honorable to pacify Europe than to light the torch of war a second time. It is not an easy matter to secure a general peace, and we must all make some concessions to achieve a result so desirable. Do you suppose that it is as easy to conciliate unfriendly powers as it is to write bad verses? I assure you, Hertzberg, that I would rather sit down to render the whole Jewish history into madrigals, than undertake to fuse into unanimity the conflicting interests of three sovereigns, when two out of the three are women! But I will do my best. When your neighbor’s house is on fire, help to put it out, or it may communicate and burn down your own.” [Footnote: The king’s own words. “Ceuvres Posthumes,” vol. ii., p. 187]
CHAPTER LXV.
THE COUNTESS WIELOPOLSKA.
“You really think that he will come, Matuschka?” asked the Countess Wielopolska of her waiting-woman, who, standing behind the chair, was fastening a string of pearls in her lady’s dusky hair.
“I know he will come, your ladyship,” replied Matuschka.
“And you have seen the emperor and spoken to him!” exclaimed the countess, pressing her delicate white hands upon her heart, as though she strove to imprison its wild emotions.
“Indeed I have, my lady.”
“Oh, tell me of it again, Matuschka; tell me, that I may not fancy it a dream!” cried the countess, eagerly.
“Well, then, my lady, I took your note to the palace, where the emperor has given positive orders that every one who wishes it shall be admitted to his presence. The guard before the door let me pass into the antechamber. One of the lords in waiting told me that the emperor would be there before a quarter of an hour. I had not waited so long when the door opened and a handsome young man in a plain white uniform walked in. I should never have taken him for the emperor, except that the lord stood up so straight when he saw him. Then I knelt down and gave the letter. The emperor took it and said: ‘Tell your lady that I am not prepared to receive ladies in my palace; but since she wishes to see me, I will go to her. If she will be at home this evening, I will find time to call upon her myself.'”
“Ah!” cried the countess, “he will soon be here. I shall see him–speak to him–pour out the longings of my bursting heart! Oh, Matuschka, as the moment approaches, I feel as if I could fly away and plunge into the wild waters of the Vistula that bear my husband’s corpse, or sink lifeless upon the battle-field that is reddened with the blood of my brothers.”
“Do not think of these dreadful things, dear lady,” said Matuschka, trying to keep back her tears; “it is twilight, and the emperor will soon be here. Look cheerful–for you are as beautiful as an angel when you smile, and the emperor will be much more apt to be moved by your smiles than by your tears.”
“You are right, Matuschka,” cried the countess, rising hastily from her seat. “I will not weep, for I must try to find favor in the emperor’s eyes.”
She crossed the room and stood before a Psyche, where for some time she scrutinized her own features; not with the self-complacency of a vain woman, but with the critical acuteness of an artist who contemplates a fine picture. Gradually her eyes grew soft and her mouth rippled with a smile. Like a mourning Juno she stood in the long black velvet dress that sharply defined the outlines of her faultless bust and fell in graceful folds around her stately figure. Her bodice was clasped by an agrafe of richest pearls; and the white throat and the jewel lay together, pearl beside pearl, each rivalling the snowy lustre of the other. Had it not been for those starry eyes that looked out so full of mournful splendor, her face might have seemed too statuesque in its beauty; but from their dark depths all the enthusiasm of a nature that had concentrated its every emotion into one master-passion, lit up her face with flashes that came and went like summer lightning.
“Yes, I am beautiful,” whispered she, while a sad smile played around her exquisite month. “My beauty is the last weapon left me wherewith to battle for Poland. I must take advantage of it. Life and honor, wealth and blood, every thing for my country!”
She turned to her waiting-woman as a queen would have done who was dismissing her subjects.
“Go, Matuschka,” said she, “and take some rest. You have been laboring for me all day, and I cannot bear to think that the only friend left me in this world should be overtasked for me. Sometimes you look at me as my mother once did; and then I dream that I feel her hand laid lovingly upon my head, and hear her dear voice exhorting me to pray that God would bless me with strength to do my duty to my bleeding country.” Matuschka fell upon her knees and kissed the hem of her mistress’s robe.
“Do not give way,” sobbed she, “do not grieve now.”
The countess did not hear. She had thrown back her head and was gazing absently above. “Oh, yes, I am mindful of my duty,” murmured she. “I have not forgotten the vow I made to my mother and sealed upon her dying lips with my last kiss! I have been a faithful daughter of my fatherland. I have given every thing–there remains nothing but myself, and oh, how gladly would I give my life for Poland! But God has forsaken us; His eyes are turned away!”
“Accuse not the Lord, dear lady,” prayed Matuschka. “Put your trust in Him, and take courage.”
“It is true. I have no right to accuse my Maker,” sighed the countess. “When the last drop of Polish blood is spent and the last Polish heart is crushed beneath the tramp of the enemy’s hosts, then it will be time to cry to Heaven! Rise, Matuschka, and weep no more. All is not yet lost. Let us hope, and labor that hope may become reality, and Poland may be free!”
She reached her hand to Matuschka and passed into an adjoining room. It was the state apartment of the inn, and was always reserved for distinguished guests. It had been richly furnished, but the teeth of time had nibbled many a rent in the old-fashioned furniture, the faded curtains, and the well-worn carpet. Matuschka, however, had given an air of some elegance to the place. On the carved oak table in the centre stood a vase of flowers; and, that her dear mistress might have something to remind her of home, Matuschka had procured a piano, to which the countess, when weary of her thoughts, might confide the hopes and fears that were surging in her storm-tossed heart.
The piano was open, and a sheet of music lay on the desk. As the countess perceived it, she walked rapidly toward the instrument and sat down before it.
“I will sing,” said she. “The emperor loves music, above all things the music of Gluck.”
She turned over the leaves, and then said, softly:
“`Orpheus and Eurydice!’ La, Bernasconi told me that this was his favorite opera. Oh, that I knew which aria he loved the best?”
She struck a few chords, and in a low voice began to sing. Gradually her beautiful features lost their sadness, she seemed to forget herself and her sorrows, and to yield up her soul to the influence of Gluck’s heavenly music. And now, with all the power, the melody, the pathos of her matchless voice, she sang, “Che faro senza Eurydice!”
The more she sang, the brighter grew her lovely face. Forgetful of all things around, she gave herself wholly up to the inspiration of the hour, and from its fountains of harmony she drew sweetest draughts of consolation and of hope.
The door had opened, and she had not beard it. On the threshold stood the emperor, followed by Matuschka, while the countess, all unmindful, filled the air with strains so divine, that they might have been the marriage-hymns of Love wedded to Song.
The emperor had stopped for a moment to listen. His face, which at first had worn an expression of smiling flippancy, now changed its aspect. He recognized the music, and felt his heart heat wildly. With a commanding gesture, he motioned Matuschka to withdraw, and noiselessly closed the door.
CHAPTER LXYI.
THE EMPEROR AND THE COUNTESS.
The countess continued to sing, although Joseph had advanced as far as the centre of the room. The thickness of the carpet made his footfall inaudible. He stood with his right hand resting upon the oak table, while he leaned forward to listen, and one by one the dead memories of his youthful love came thronging around his heart, and filling it with an ecstasy that was half joy and half sorrow.
More and more impassioned grew the music, while the air was tremulous with melody. It softened and softened, until it melted away in sobs. The hands of the enchantress fell from the keys; she bowed her head, and leaning against the music, burst into tears. The emperor, too, felt the tear-drops gather in his eyes; he dashed them away, and went rapidly up to the piano.
“Countess,” said he, in his soft, mellow tones, “I felt it no indiscretion to listen unseen to your heavenly music, but no one save God has a right to witness your grief.”
She started, and rising quickly, the emperor saw the face of the lady who had thrown him the wreath.
“It is she!” cried he, “the beautiful Confederate! I thank you from my heart for the favor you have done me, for I have sought you for some days in vain.”
“Your majesty sought me?” said she, smiling. “Then I am sure that you are ready to sympathize with misfortune.”
“Do you need sympathy?” asked he, eagerly.
“Sire, I am a daughter of Poland,” replied she.
“And the Wielopolskas are among the noblest and richest of Poland’s noble families.”
“Noble! Rich! Our castles have been burned by the Russians, our fields have been laid waste, our vassals have been massacred, and of our kinsmen, some have died under the knout, while others drag out a life of martyrdom in Siberia.”
“One of the Counts Wielopolska was a favorite of the king, was he not?” asked Joseph, much moved.
“He was my husband,” replied she, bitterly. “Heedless of his countrymen’s warnings, he believed in the patriotism of Stanislaus. When he saw his error, he felt that he merited death, and expiated his fault by self-destruction. His grave is in the Vistula.”
“Unhappy wife!” exclaimed the emperor. “And had you no other kinsman?”
“I had a father and three brothers.”
“You had them?”
“Yes, sire, but I have them no longer. My brothers died on the field of battle; my father, oh, my father!–God grant that he be no more among the living, FOR HE IS IN SIBERIA!”
The emperor raised his hands in horror; then extending them to the countess, he took hers, and said in a voice of deepest sympathy “I thank you for coming to me. Tell me your plans for the future, that I may learn how best I may serve you.”
“Sire, I have none,” sighed she. “Life is so mournful, that I long to close my eyes forever upon its tragedies, but–“
“But what?”
“I should then be robbed of the sight of him who has promised succor to my fatherland,” cried she, passionately, while she sank upon her knees and clasped her hands convulsively together.
Joseph bent over, and would have raised her from the floor. “It ill becomes such beauty to kneel before me,” said he, softly.
“Let me kneel, let me kneel!” exclaimed she, while her beautiful eyes suffused with tears. “Here, at your feet, let me implore your protection for Poland! Have mercy, sire, upon the Confederates, whose only crime is their resistance to foreign oppression. Reach out your imperial band to THEM, and bid them be free, for they must either be slaves, or die by their own hands. Emperor of Austria, save the children of Sobieski from barbarous Russia!”
“Do not fear,” replied Joseph, kindly. “I promised the Confederates that Austria would recognize their envoy, and I will redeem my word. Rise, countess, I implore you, rise, and may the day not be distant when I shall extend my hand to Poland as I now do to you. You have a pledge of my sincerity, in the fact that we have both a common enemy, and it will not be my fault if I do not oppose her, sword in hand. Still, although men call me emperor, I am the puppet of another will. The crown of Austria is on my mother’s head; its shadow, alone, is upon mine. I speak frankly to you; but our acquaintance is peculiar, and, by its nature, has broken down the ordinary barriers of conventional life. Your songs and your tears have spoken directly to my heart recalling the oniy happy days that I have ever known on earth. But I am growing sentimental. You will pardon me, I know, for you are a woman, and have known what it is to love.”
She slowly shook her head. “No, sire,” replied she, “I have never known what it was to love.”
The emperor looked directly in her eyes. SHE! Beautiful and majestic as Hera,–SHE, not know what it was to love! “And your husband–” asked he.
“I was married to him as Poland was given to Stanislaus. I never saw him until he became my husband.”
“And your heart refused allegiance?”
“Sire, I have never yet seen the man who was destined to reign over my heart.”
“Ah, you are proud! I envy him who is destined to conquer that enchanting domain.”
She looked for one moment at the emperor, and then said, blushing: “Sire, my heart will succumb to him who rescues Poland. With rapture it will acknowledge him as lord and sovereign of my being.”
The emperor made no reply. He gazed with a significant smile at the lovely enthusiast, until she blushed again, and her eyes sought the ground.
“Ah, countess,” said Joseph, after a pause, “if all the women of Poland were of your mind, a multitudinous army would soon flock to her standard.”
“Every Polish woman is of one mind with me. We are all the daughters of one mother, and our love for her is stronger than death.”
The emperor shook his lead. “Were this true,” replied he, “Poland would never have fallen as she has done. But far be it from me to heap reproaches upon the unfortunate. I will do what it lies in my power to do for the Poles, provided they are willing to second my efforts for themselves. If they would have peace, however, with other nations, they must show strength and unity of purpose among themselves. Until they can stand before the world in the serried ranks of a national unanimity, they must expect to be assailed by their rapacious neighbors. But let us forget politics for a moment. I long to speak to you of yourself. What are your plans? How can I serve you?”
“Sire, I have no plans. I ask nothing of the world but a place of refuge, where I can sorrow unseen.”
“You are too young, and, pardon me, if I add, too beautiful, to fly from the world. Come to Vienna, and learn from me how easy it is to live without happiness.”
“Your majesty will allow me to go to Vienna?” cried the countess, joyfully. “Ever since I have felt that I could do nothing for Poland, I have longed to live in Vienna, that I might breathe the same atmosphere with your majesty and the Empress Maria Theresa. You are the only sovereigns in Europe who have shown any compassion for the misfortunes of my country, and before your generous sympathy my heart bows down in gratitude and admiration.”
“Say you so, proud heart, that has never bowed before?” exclaimed the emperor, smiling, and taking the countess’s white hand in his. “Come, then, to Vienna, not to do homage, but to receive it, for nothing becomes your beauty more than pride. Come to Vienna., and I will see that new friends and new ties awaken your heart to love and happiness.”
“I have one relative in Vienna, sire, the Countess von Salmour.”
“Ah! one of the empress’s ladies of honor. Then you will not need my protection there, for the countess is in high favor with the empress; and I may say, that she has more influence at court than I have.”
“Sire,” said the countess, raising her large eyes with an appealing look, “I shall go to Vienna, if I go under your majesty’s protection and with your sanction.”
“You shall have both,” replied Joseph, warmly. “I will write to my mother to-day, and you shall present my letter. When will you leave? I dare not ask you to tarry here, for this is no place for lovely and unprotected women. Moreover, the King of Prussia has no sympathy with Poland, and he will like you the less for the touching appeal you made in her behalf when you sang at the concert. Greet the empress for me, and let me hope that you will stir her heart as you have stirred mine. And now farewell. My time has expired: the King of Prussia expects me to supper. I must part from you, but I leave comforted, since I am enabled to say in parting, ‘Au revoir.'”
He bowed, and turned to quit the room. But at the door he spoke again.
“If I ever win the right to claim any thing of you, will you sing for me the aria that I found you singing to-night?”
“Oh! your majesty,” said the countess, coming eagerly forward. “you have already earned the right to claim whatsoever you desire of me. I can never speak my gratitude for your condescension; perhaps music will speak for me. How gladly, then, will I sing when you command me!”
“I shall claim the promise in Vienna,” said he, as he left the room.
The countess remained standing just where he had met her, breathlessly listening to his voice, which for a while she heard in the anteroom, and then to the last echoes of his retreating steps.
Suddenly the door was opened, and Matuschka, with joyful mien, came forward with a purse in her hand.
“Oh, my lady,” exclaimed she, “the emperor has given me this purse to defray our expenses to Vienna!”
The countess started, and her pale face suffused with crimson shame.
“Alms!” said she, bitterly. “He treats me like a beggar!”
“No, lady,” said Matuschka abashed; “the emperor told me that he had begged you to go to Vienna for business of state, and that he had a right to provide the expenses of our journey there. He said–“
The countess waved her hand impatiently. “Go back to the emperor,” said she haughtily. “Tell him that you dare not offer this purse to your lady, for you know that she would rather die than receive alms, even from an emperor.”
Matuschka cast down her eyes, and turned away. But she hesitated, and looked timidly at her mistress, whose great, glowing eyes were fixed upon her in unmistakable displeasure.
“My lady,” said she, with embarrassment, “I will do your bidding, but you who have been so rich and great, know nothing of the troubles of poverty. Your money is exhausted. I would rather melt my own heart’s blood into gold than tell you so; but indeed, dear lady, if you refuse the emperor’s gift you wilt be without a kreutzer in your purse.”
The countess raised her hands to her hair and unfastened the pearl wreath with which Matuschka had decorated it in anticipation of the emperor’s visit.
“There–take this and sell it. You will readily find a jeweller who understands its value, and if he pays us but the half, it will be twice the sum which you hold in the emperor’s purse.”
“My lady, would you sell your family jewels? Have you forgotten that your family are pledged not to sell their heirlooms?”
“God will forgive me if I break my vow. It is more honorable to part with my ancestral jewels than to receive alms. I have no heirs, and no one will be wronged by the act. I have but my mother–Poland. For her I am ready to sacrifice the little I possess, and when nothing else remains, I shall yield my life. Go, Matuschka, go!”
Matuschka took the wreath and wept. “I go, lady,” sobbed she. “This will last you for half a year, and then the armlets, then the diadem of brilliants, the bracelets, and the necklace, must all go. God grant you may live so long on these family treasures, that old Matuschka may be spared the humiliation of selling the rest! I have lived too long, since I must chaffer with a base-born tradesman for the jewels that were the royal gift of John Sobieski to my lady’s noble ancestors.”
She raised the countess’s robe to her lips, and left the room. Her mistress looked after her, but her thoughts were wandering elsewhere. Slowly sinking on her knees, she began to pray, and the burden of her prayer was this:
“Oh, my God, grant that I may win his love!”
CHAPTER LXVII.
MARIA THERESA.
The pearls were sold, the countess had arrived in Vienna; and she was in the presence of the empress, whom, although they had never met before, she had so long regarded with affectionate admiration.
“I rejoice to see you,” said Maria Theresa, graciously extending her hand. “It gives me pleasure to receive a relative of the Countess von Salmour. But you have another claim upon my sympathy, for you are a Polish woman, and I can never forget that, but for John Sobieski, Vienna would have been a prey to the infidel.”
“Upon your majesty’s generous remembrance of Sobieski’s alliance rests the last hope of Poland!” exclaimed the countess, kneeling and kissing the hand of the empress. “God has inclined to her redemption the heart of the noblest woman in Europe, and through her magnanimity will the wicked Empress of Russia receive her check. Oh, your majesty, that woman, in the height of her arrogance, believes to-day that you are only too willing to further her rapacity and participate in her crimes!”
“Never shall it be said that she and I have one thought or one object in common!” cried Maria Theresa, her face glowing with indignation. “Let her cease her oppression of Poland, or the Austrian eagle will seize the Russian vulture!”
The face of the countess grew radiant with joy. Raising her beautiful arms to heaven, she cried out exultingly: “King of kings, Thou hast heard! Maria Theresa comes to our help! Oh, your majesty, how many thousand hearts, from this day, will bow down in homage before your throne! Hereafter, not God, but Maria Theresa, will be our refuge!”
“Do not blaspheme,” cried the empress, crossing herself. “I am but the servant of the Lord, and I do His divine will on earth. God is our refuge and our strength, and He will nerve my arm to overcome evil and work out good. I will countenance and uphold the Confederates, because it is my honest conviction that their cause is just, and that they are the only party in Poland who act in honor and good faith.” [Foonote: The empress’s own words. See Ferrand, i., p. 72.]
“Hitherto, they would have died to vindicate that honor and that faith; now they will live to defend it from their oppressors. Oh, your majesty, pardon me, if, in my rapture at your goodness, I forget what is due to your exalted station. My heart will burst if I may not give utterance to my joy. I am a lonely creature, with no tie but that which binds me to my unhappy mother, Polonia!”
“So young, and without home or kindred!” said the empress, kindly. “I have already heard of your misfortunes, poor child, from my son the emperor.”
At the name of the emperor, the countess’s pale face was tinged with a faint rosy color. The empress did not remark it, for she was already thinking what a pity it was that such a surpassingly beautiful woman should be a widow; that such an enchanting creature should be unloved and unwedded.
“You are too handsome,” said she, “to remain single. Woman was made for love and marriage. Happy is she who can devote her whole heart to the sweet responsibilities of domestic life, and who is not called upon to assume the duties that weigh down the head of royalty.”
While the empress spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the portrait of the Emperor Francis, which still hung between the windows in the place of the mirror, which had been removed from its frame. The Countess Wielopolska had been admitted to the gay sitting-room.
“Earthly grandeur,” continued she, “is beset with pains and cares; but the happy wife, whose subjects are her own dear children, is one degree removed from the bliss of angels. You must marry, my dear, and I will find for you a brilliant parti.”
“I am poor, your majesty, and am too proud to enter a rich man’s palace without a dowry. “
“You shall have your dowry. I shall instruct my ambassador at St. Petersburg to demand the return of your estates. It will be one good deed by which that woman [Footnote: The words by which Maria Theresa always designated Catharine.] may expiate some of her many crimes. Your estates once restored, you will be an equal match for any nobleman in Europe. “
“If I should receive my estates through your majesty’s intercession,” replied the countess, “my home would be an asylum for all the unfortunate Poles. I should think it treason to dream of personal happiness, while Poland lies shackled and bleeding.”
“But Poland shall be free!” cried the empress, with enthusiasm. “With the cooperation of France, the voice of Austria will be so loud that Russia will hear, and withdraw her unjust claims. We will strike off the fetters of Poland, while we forge a gentle chain for the Countess Wielopolska: a chain that falls so lightly upon woman, that its burden is sweeter than freedom.”
“Your majesty must forgive me,” reiterated the countess; “I have sworn on my mother’s grave, that as long as I can be useful, I will live for Poland. Should she regain her freedom, I will retire to a convent, where every breath I draw shall be a thanksgiving to God. Should she be doomed to slavery, she will need her sons and daughters no more, and then I will die. Your majesty sees that I am already betrothed. I shall soon be the bride of Heaven, or the bride of Death.”
“The bride of Heaven!” repeated the empress, her eyes swimming with tears. “Then be it so; it is not I who would entice Mary from her Master’s feet. The world is full of Marthas, troubled about many things. Go, choose the better part, sweet enthusiast, and I will see that you have cause for thanksgiving. “
She reached her hand to the countess, who kissed it and withdrew. As she opened the door, she felt the bolt turn from the outside.
“His highness Prince Kaunitz,” cried a page; and as the countess was making one last inclination of the head, the tall, slender form of Kaunitz filled the space behind her.
“Have I permission to enter, your majesty?” said the minister.
“You are always welcome, prince,” replied the empress.
Kaunitz bowed slightly, and as he raised his cold eye to the face of the countess, a faint smile flitted over his features, but it was followed by a sneer. Without acknowledging her presence by the smallest courtesy, he advanced to the empress, and the door closed upon Poland forever.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
MARIE ANTOINETTE AND COURT ETIQUETTE.
“Letters from France, your majesty,” said Kaunitz, and the face of the empress grew bright as she recognized the handwriting of her daughter.
“The dauphiness is well?” said she. “Next to her dear self, I love to see her writing. Ah, I have grown very lonely since my little Antoinette has left me! One by one my children go; one dear face alone remains,” continued she, pointing to the portrait of the emperor. Then looking at the letters in the hands of the prince, she said:
“Have you good news?”
“Yes, your majesty. The dauphiness is adored by the French people. They repeat her bon mots, write odes and madrigals to her beauty, and hang up her portrait in their houses. When she drives out in her caleche they impede its progress with their welcomes; and when she appears at the theatre, the prima donnas are forgotten. Half a year ago, when she made her entry into Paris and more than a hundred thousand people went out to meet her, the Duke de Brissac said, ‘Madame, you have one hundred thousand lovers, and yet the dauphin will never be jealous of them.’ [Footnote: “Memoirs of Madame de Campan,” vol. i., p. 60.] The dear old Duke! He little knew what literal truth he spoke of the dauphin on that occasion.”
“What do you mean?” asked the empress, hastily. “I know by the expression of your face that you have something unpleasant to tell.”
“I mean to say the dauphin is not jealous, because he is the only man in France who is not in love with the dauphiness.”
The empress turned scarlet. “This is a serious charge which you presume to make against the dauphin,” said she, frowning.
“It is unhappily true,” replied Kaunitz, coolly,
“The dauphiness makes no mention of such a state of things in her letter. It does not breathe a word of complaint.”
“Perhaps the dauphiness, in the innocence of her heart, has no idea of the grounds which she has for complaint.”
The empress looked displeased. “Do you know that your language is offensive?” said she. “You assert that the dauphin is insensible to the charms of his beautiful young wife.”
“Your majesty well knows that I never assert a falsehood. The dauphin is not in love with his wife, and I do not believe that she has an advocate at the court of Louis XV. Since the shameless partisans of Du Barry have triumphed over the noble Duke of Choiseul, the dauphiness is without a friend. The Duke d’Arguillon is anti-Austrian, and your majesty knows what an enemy to Austria was the father of the dauphin.”
“Why do you seek to torture me, Kaunitz?” said the empress, impatiently. “You are not telling me all this for nothing. Say at once what you have to say.”
“Your majesty has not yet read the letter which I had the honor of handing to you just now, I believe,” said Kaunitz.
Maria Theresa took up the letter from the gueridon on which she had laid it, and began to look it over.
“It is true,” sighed she. “The dauphiness complains of solitude. ‘Since the Duke de Choiseul has left,’ writes she, ‘I am alone, and without a friend.’ You are right. The dauphiness is in danger. She writes that her enemies are intriguing to part her from the dauphin. They attempted in Fontainebleau to assign her a suite of apartments remote from those of her husband.”
“Yes, the anti-Austrian party, seeing that he is indifferent to her, are doing their best to convert this indifference into dislike. But the dauphiness saw through the affair, and complained to the king.”
“That was right and bold!” cried the empress, joyfully.
“Yes, it was bold, for it gained another enemy for the dauphiness. She should have spoken to the king through the Duke d’Arguillon, instead of which she applied to his majesty herself. The duke will never forgive her; and when the Duchess de Noailles reproved the dauphiness, she replied that she would never take counsel of etiquette where her family affairs were concerned. The consequence is that the duchess also has gone over to the enemy.”
“To the enemy?” exclaimed the empress, anxiously. “Has she, then, other enemies?”
“Madame de Marsan, the governess of the sisters of the dauphin, will never forgive her for having interfered in the education of the young princesses.”
“But surely the daughters of the king will be kind to my poor Marie Antoinette!” exclaimed the empress, ready to burst into tears. “They promised to love her; and it is but natural and womanly that they should shun the party which upholds the profligate woman who rules the King of France!”
Prince Kaunitz slightly elevated his shoulders. “Madame Adelaide, the eldest, until the marriage of the dauphin, held the first place at court. Now, the daupbiness has precedence of her, and the court card-parties are held in her apartments. Madaine Adelaide, therefore, has refused to be present, and retires to her own rooms, where she holds rival card-parties which are attended by the anti-Austrians, who are opposed to Du Barry. This is the second party who intrigue against the dauphiness.–Madame Sophie perchance remembers her in her prayers; but she is too pious to be of use to anybody. Madame Victoire, who really loves the dauphiness, is so sickly, that she scarcely ever leaves her room. For a while she held little reunions there, which, being very pleasant, were for a while attended by the dauphiness; but Madame de Noailles objected, and court etiquette required that they should be discontinued.”
The empress had risen and was acing the floor in great agitation. “So young, so lovely, and slighted by her husband!” murmured she, bitterly, while large tear-drops stood in her eyes. “The daughter of the Caesars in strife with a king’s base-born mistress and a vile faction who hate her without cause! And I–her mother –an empress, am powerless to help her!”
“No, your majesty,” said Kaunitz, “not altogether powerless. You cannot help her with armies, but you can do so with good advice, and no one can advise her as effectually as her mother.”
“Advise her? What advice can I give?” cried the empress, angrily. “Shall I counsel her to attend the petits soupers of the king, and truckle to his mistress? Never! never! My daughter may be unhappy, but she shall not be dishonored!”
“I should not presume to make any such proposition to the dauphiness,” said Kaunitz, quietly. “One cannot condescend to Du Barry as we did to La Pompadour. The latter was at least a woman of mind, the former is nothing more than a vulgar beauty. But there is another lady whose influence at court is without limit–one whom Du Barry contemns, but whom the dauphiness would do well to conciliate.”
“Of what lady do you speak, Kaunitz?”
“I speak of Madame Etiquette, your majesty. She is a stiff and tiresome old dame, I grant you, but in France she presides over every thing. Without her the royal family can neither sleep nor wake; they can neither take a meal if they be in health, nor a purge if they be indisposed, without her everlasting surveillance. She directs their dress, amusements, associates, and behavior; she presides over their pleasures, their weariness, their social hours, and their hours of solitude. This may be uncomfortable, but royalty cannot escape it, and it must he endured.”
“It is the business of Madame de Noailles to attend to the requisitions of court etiquette,” said the empress, impatiently. “And of the dauphiness to attend to her representations,” added Kaunitz.
“She will certainly have enough discretion to conform herself to such obligations!”
“Your majesty, a girl of fifteen who has a hundred thousand lovers is not apt to be troubled with discretion. The dauphiness is bored to death by Madame de Noailles’s eternal sermons, and therein she may be right. But she turns the mistress of ceremonies into ridicule, and therein she is wrong. In an outburst of her vexation the dauphiness one day called her ‘old Madame Etiquette,’ and, as the bon mots of a future queen are apt to be repeated, Madame de Noailles goes by no other name at court. Again–not long ago the dauphiness gave a party of pleasure at Versailles. The company were mounted on donkeys.”
“On donkeys!” cried the empress with horror.
“On donkeys,” repeated Kaunitz, with composure. “The donkey on which the dauphiness rode was unworthy of the honor conferred upon it. It threw its royal rider.”
“And Antoinette fell off?”
“She fell, your majesty–and fell without exercising any particular discretion in the matter. The Count d’Artois came forward to her assistance, but she waved him off, saying with comic earnestness, ‘Do not touch me for your life! Send a courier for Madame Etiquette and wait until she has prescribed the important ceremonies with which a dauphiness is to be remounted upon the back of her donkey.’ Every one laughed of course, and the next day when the thing was repeated, everybody in Paris was heartily amused–except Madame de Noailles. She did not laugh.”
Neither could the empress vouchsafe a smile, although the affair was ludicrous enough. She was still walking to and fro, her face scarlet with mortification. She stopped directly in front of her unsympathizing minister, and said: “You are right. I must warn Antoinette that she is going too far. Oh, my heart bleeds when I think of my dear, inexperienced child cast friendless upon the reef, of that dangerous and corrupt court of France! My God! my God! why did I not heed the warning I received? Why did I consent to let her go?”
“Because your majesty was too wise to be guided by lunatics and impostors, and because you recognized, not only the imperative necessity which placed Marie Antoinette upon the throne of France, but also the value and the blessing of a close alliance with the French.”
“God grant it may prove a blessing!” sighed the empress. “I will write to-day, and implore her to call to aid all her discretion–for Heaven knows it is needed at the court of France!”
“It is not an easy thing to call up discretion whenever discretion is needed,” said Kaunitz, thoughtfully. “Has not your majesty, with that goodness which does so much honor to your heart, gone so far as to promise help to the quarrelsome Poles?”
“Yes,” said the empress, warmly, “and I intend to keep my promise.”
“Promises, your majesty, are sometimes made which it is impossible to keep.”
“But I make no such promises, and therefore honor requires that I fulfil my imperial pledge. Yes, we have promised help and comfort to the patriotic Confederates, the defenders of liberty and of the true faith, and God forbid that we should ever deceive those who trust to us for protection!”
Kaunitz bowed. “Then your majesty will have the goodness to apprise the emperor that the army must be put upon a war footing; our magazines must be replenished, and Austria must prepare herself to suffer all the horrors of a long war.”
“A war? With whom?” exclaimed the astounded empress.
“With Russia, Prussia, Sweden, perchance with all Europe. Does your majesty suppose that the great powers will suffer the establishment of a republic here, under the protection of Austria?–a republic upon the body politic of a continent of monarchies, which, like a scirrhous sore, will spread disease that must end in death to all?”
“Of what republic do you speak?”
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE TRIUMPH OF DIPLOMACY.
“I speak of Poland,” said Kaunitz, with his accustomed indifference. “I speak of those insolent Confederates, who, emboldened by the condescension of your majesty and the emperor, are ready to dare every thing for the propagation of their pernicious political doctrines. They have been pleased to declare Stanislaus deposed, and the throne of Poland vacant. This declaration has been committed to writing, and with the signatures of the leading Confederates attached to it, has been actually placed in the king’s hands, in his own palace at Warsaw. Not content with this, they have distributed thousands of these documents throughout Poland, so that the question to-day, in that miserable hornets’ nest, is not whether the right of the Confederates are to be guaranteed to them, but whether the kingdom of Poland shall remain a monarchy or be converted into a republic.”
“If this be true, then Poland is lost, and there is no hope for the Confederates,” replied the empress. “I promised them protection against foreign aggression, but with their internal quarrels I will not interfere.”
“It would be a dangerous precedent if Austria should justify those who lay sacrilegious hands upon the crown of their lawful sovereign; and, for my part, my principles forbid me to uphold a band of rebels, who are engaged in an insolent conspiracy to dethrone their king.”
“You are right, prince; it will never do for us to uphold them. As I have openly declared my sympathy with the Confederates, so I must openly express to them my entire disapprobation of their republican proclivities.”
“If your majesty does that, a war with France will be the consequence of your frankness. France has promised succor to the Confederates, and has already sent Dumouriez with troops, arms, and gold. France is longing to have a voice in the differences between Russia and Turkey, and she only awaits cooperation from Austria to declare openly against Russia. She will declare against ourselves, if, after your majesty’s promises, we suddenly change front and take part against the seditious Poles.”
“What can we do, then, to avert war?” cried the empress, anxiously. “Ah, prince, you see that the days of my youth and my valor are past! I shudder when I look back upon the blood that has been shed under my reign, and nothing but the direst necessity will ever compel me to be the cause of spilling another drop of Austrian blood. [Footnote: The empress’s own words. F. V. Raumor, “Contributions to Modern History.” vol. iv., p. 419.] How, then, shall we shape our course so as to avoid war?”
“Our policy,” said Kaunitz, “is to do nothing. We must look on and be watchful, while we carefully keep our own counsel. We propitiate France by allowing her to believe in the continuance of our sympathy with the Poles, while we pacify Russia and Prussia by remaining actually neutral.”
“But while we temporize and equivocate,” cried the empress, with fervor, “Russia will annihilate the Poles, who, if they have gone too far in their thirst for freedom, have valiantly contended for their just rights, and are now about to lose them through the evils of disunion. It grieves me to think that we are about to abandon an unhappy nation to the oppression of that woman, who stops at nothing to compass her wicked designs. She who did not shrink from the murder of her own husband, do you imagine that she will stop short of the annexation of Poland to Russia?”
“We will not suffer her to annex Poland,” said Kaunitz, slowly nodding his head. “As long as we are at peace with Russia, she will do nothing to provoke our enmity; for France is at our side, and even Prussia would remonstrate, if Catharine should be so bold as to appropriate Poland to herself alone.”
“You are mistaken. The King of Prussia, who is so covetous of that which belongs to others, will gladly share the booty with Russia,.”
“Austria could never suffer the copartnership. If such an emergency should arise, we would have to make up our minds to declare war against them both, or–“
“Or?” asked the empress, holding her breath, as he paused.
“Or,” said Kaunitz, fixing his cold blue eye directly upon her face, “or we would have to share with them.”
“Share what?”
“The apple of discord. Anarchy is a three-headed monster; if it is to be destroyed, every head must fall. It is now devouring Poland; and I think that the three great powers are strong enough to slay the monster once for all.”
“This is all very plausible,” said Maria Theresa, shaking her head, “but it is not just. You will never convince me that good can be born of evil. What you propose is neither more nor less than to smite the suppliant that lies helpless at your feet. I will have nothing in common with the Messalina who desecrates her sovereignty by the commission of every unwomanly crime; and as for Frederick of Prussia, I mistrust him. He has been my enemy for too many years for me ever to believe that he can be sincerely my friend.”
“France was our enemy for three hundred years, and yet we are allied by more than ordinary ties.”
“Our alliance will soon come to naught if we walk in the path to which you would lead us, prince. France will not be dear to the misery of Poland. She will hear the death-cry, and come to the rescue.”
“No, your majesty, France will wait to see what we propose to do until it is too late, and she will perceive that a resort to arms will in no wise affect a fait accompli. I, therefore, repeat that the only way to prevent the Polish conflagration from spreading to other nations is for us to preserve a strict neutrality, taking part with neither disputant.”
“War must be averted,” exclaimed Maria Theresa, warmly. “My first duty is to Austria, and Austria must have peace. To preserve this blessing to my subjects, I will do any thing that is consistent with my honor and the dictates of my conscience.”
“Ah, your majesty, diplomacy has no conscience; it can have but one rule–that of expediency.”
“You concede, then, that the policy you advocate is not a conscientious one?”
“Yes, your majesty; but it is one which it is imperative for us to