“And must your Eminence really leave us to-morrow?” said the Emperor
Franz Jozef I., with polite regret, as Cardinal d’Orsay, Papal Nuncio
accredited to the court of Vienna, prepared to rise for the final
leave-taking.
“Indeed, your Majesty, did not most imperative duty call me away, I
would never of my own accord have left this charming and hospitable
city. As it is----” The Cardinal sighed, and a resigned expression
crossed the aristocratic features of this martyr to his duty.
“I am glad, indeed, to think your Eminence has found Vienna so
attractive.”
“Not so much Vienna, your Majesty, though the city is delightful in
itself, but the Viennese----!” The Cardinal paused, for once in his
diplomatic career, words failed him with which to convey his thoughts
of this interesting subject.
“You will find in the _grandes dames_ of St. Petersburg formidable
rivals to those of Vienna,” said the Emperor pensively.
His Eminence did not reply. He recollected one or two little perfumed
breaths of scandal that had reached his ears, of how one of those
_grandes dames_ of St. Petersburg had, last winter, found in Franz
Jozef’s large and inflammable heart an undisputed if somewhat
temporary place. There was silence for a few moments. The Emperor was
evidently ill at ease, his hand was toying nervously with the trifling
knick-knacks that adorned his writing-table, whilst once or twice he
seemed as if about to speak, then checked himself abruptly.
The Cardinal, whose long diplomatic career had taught him the science
of quiet patience, leant back in his chair and waited for what, he
knew, the Emperor still wished to say to him.
“Your Eminence will be seeing many of my old friends at St.
Petersburg,” said the Emperor at last, with evasive irrelevance.
“I will make a point of seeing _all_ those your Majesty would wish me
to see,” replied the Cardinal with pointed courtesy.
“Your Eminence is most kind, and I feel sure will convey my friendly
greetings to the Tsar and Tsaritsa in a far worthier manner than my
poor pen could express. I would also wish to be kept in the _bons
souvenirs_ of the Grand Duchess Xenia and the Grand Duke, of whose
last visit to Vienna I have such agreeable recollections.”
The Cardinal smiled imperceptibly, and his eyes rested for an
infinitesimal space of time on a dainty miniature, set in old paste,
which no doubt portrayed one of those agreeable recollections.
Swift as had been the Cardinal’s glance, Franz Jozef evidently had
caught it, for he added somewhat nervously--
“And do not forget to lay my humble respects at the feet of the
Princess Marïonoff, who, I trust, will soon visit Vienna again, the
scene of her last carnival’s triumphs.”
“Any written or verbal message your Majesty designs to entrust me with
will be safely delivered,” once more assented Cardinal d’Orsay.
“Take care,” said the Emperor, with a nervous laugh, “I may take your
Eminence at your word, and send such voluminous messages as will
encumber your overladen trunk.”
“My services are at your Majesty’s command.”
The Emperor looked keenly for a moment or two longer at his Eminence’s
astute, diplomatic face, then, as if obeying a sudden impulse, he took
a small key from his pocket and, opening one of the larger drawers of
his writing-table, he carefully pulled out a voluminous parcel and
placed it before Cardinal d’Orsay’s astonished gaze.
“And if I were to ask your Eminence to let my message take this form?”
said Franz Jozef at last.
Throughout his career his Eminence had never once been taken wholly by
surprise, but this time, just for the space of a second, his deep-set
eyes seemed to open a trifle wider than usual with astonishment.
“The message, in fact, is a souvenir,” continued the Emperor, “a mere
trifle, that will make the recipient remember Vienna and the Viennese,
in a way I would wish her to do.”
“Her?”
“Yes!”
“Ah! I understand! the Grand Duchess Xenia,” said his Eminence, with a
thought of malice.
“No! not the Grand Duchess; she would not value works of art such as
these.”
“They are works of art?”
“Of the rarest kind, and intended for a connoisseur who will know how
to appreciate them.”
“Will your Majesty deign to name that connoisseur?”
“The Princess Marïonoff.”
“Oh!”
“She has often admired these _bibelots_, and it is not always in our
power to completely gratify a beautiful woman’s whim. I am anxious to
show your Eminence the humble gift that I will ask you to lay at the
princess’ feet.”
With infinite care and patience the Emperor, with his own hands,
proceeded to unfold the parcel from its numerous papers and wrappings,
and presently displayed before his Eminence’s admiring gaze a pair of
the most dainty, most valuable china candlesticks that ever adorned a
marquise’s boudoir.
Each candlestick represented a Cupid, in that rarest of all wares
known as _vieux Vienne_, with arms outstretched, shooting a golden
arrow from a gigantic bow at an imaginary target. The feet were firmly
planted upon a basis of exquisitely chased gold, the figure slightly
leaning against the trunk of a tree, which was pure gold, and the
branches of which formed the receptacle for the candles.
“Truly a charming, an appropriate gift,” said the Cardinal in
admiration, though with a touch of sarcasm.
Ever since he had realised the nature of the message the Emperor
wished to convey to his _chère amie_, his Eminence had seemed
decidedly less eager to place his services at Franz Jozef’s disposal.
The candlesticks seemed so fragile, and yet would be so cumbersome,
that Cardinal d’Orsay almost shuddered at the grave responsibility of
taking about so much brittle ware with him, across some two thousand
miles of country.
But the Emperor appeared wholly unconscious of the Cardinal’s lack of
enthusiasm. With the eagerness of a connoisseur he pointed out the
exquisite modelling of the china, and the dainty chasing of the gold.
“And to add to the charm and rarity of the _bibelots_,” he added,
“these candlesticks contain a thought of mystery. Will your Eminence
press very lightly on this small leaf that stands apart from the rest
on this little gold twig?”
The Cardinal obeyed good-humouredly, and, to his astonishment, saw
that the leaf concealed a tiny spring, which, when touched, displayed
a hidden receptacle, velvet lined, in the hollow of the tree-trunk.
“This secret spring is the most interesting feature of these
candlesticks,” explained the Emperor; “my great-aunt, the unfortunate
Marie Antoinette, succeeded in sending a most important message to her
brother through the medium of these innocent-looking _bibelots_ and
the help of M. de Neuperg.”
The Cardinal had often heard the story of the secret means M. de
Neuperg found, of taking the unhappy queen’s messages safely across
the French frontier. Surely these candlesticks then were an heirloom,
almost a relic; they had--he had heard--stood in the Hofburg chapel
since the unfortunate queen’s death, until the day when a pair of
beautiful Russian eyes had looked at them longingly; and now the
treasures were gaily passing out of the martyr’s family for ever.
The Cardinal was silent; he would have given a good deal had he found
some remotely plausible excuse for not executing the Emperor’s
commission. He foresaw all kinds of eventualities, resulting in
fractures to the dainty china limbs or even to the gold branches and
leaves, and saw terrible visions of arriving at St. Petersburg with
half a Cupid and a leafless trunk.
“I need not add, I feel sure,” said his Majesty, breaking a silence
that threatened to become awkward, “that I entirely rely on your
Eminence’s discretion in the matter. You see, both the Queen Regent of
Spain and the Comtesse de Paris have perhaps a right in thinking that
these candlesticks should not pass out of my hands into any but
theirs; and I would prefer that my subjects should know nothing of
this delicate mission, which I beg of your Eminence to accept for me.”
“Your Majesty may quite rely upon me; my discretion has, I think, been
often tried, and never been found wanting.”
There was a want of cordiality about his Eminence’s manner now, but
the Emperor was too intent on once more packing up his treasures to
notice a trifling detail of that sort. He had secured an emissary--the
most discreet in Europe--for the conveying of his gift, and he was
determined not to give him a chance of taking back his half-given
word.
The candlesticks were once more safely packed up, and the Emperor
seemed eager not to prolong the interview, now that he had his wish
and Cardinal d’Orsay’s final promise.
“I shall never cease to be grateful to your Eminence for this friendly
service,” he said finally, and stretched out a cordial hand towards
the Cardinal with that happy mixture of dignity and _bonhomie_ that is
the characteristic feature of the Hapsburgs, and that no one yet has
been able to resist.
The Cardinal bowed low over the Imperial hand, and, though his face
wore the resigned expression of a martyr to duty, he contrived to take
a final farewell of Franz Jozef that left a cheering impression on
that much-harassed monarch’s mind.
A few minutes later Cardinal d’Orsay was in his carriage on his way
home, a voluminous parcel on the seat in front of him, and a look of
suppressed annoyance on his usually impassive face.