avenge her wrongs!"
"Your highness is much moved at the recital," continued the doctor,
"and no wonder, for it is a fact much stranger than fiction. But I
will defer the conclusion of my story to some other day. You are too
much excited to hear it now."
"Oh no, indeed! I am strong--well. Look at me, doctor; and believe
me when I say that your conversation is more healing than all the
medicines you have ever administered."
"In truth, your highness seems quite invigorated within the last
half hour. Do you not perceive the change, Sister Angelica?"
She bowed her head, and approached the couch.
"Then, in mercy, let me hear the rest," cried Eugene, his eyes
flashing with eagerness.
"Be it so, then. In spite of bolts, bars, and her miserable
husband's spies, the marchioness has managed to escape."
"Escape!" exclaimed Eugene, starting from his couch, and standing
upright upon the floor. In a moment the nun was behind him, ready to
support him in case of need; but he walked hurriedly to the window,
threw it wide open, and inhaled the fresh morning air. For a while,
not a word was spoken. The prince looked upward at the blue and
silver clouds that were floating silently by; his large, dark eyes
wandered lovingly over the beautiful landscape that lay below, and
then, bowing his head, he lifted his heart to heaven, and thanked
God.
"Doctor," said he, at last, "whither fled the marchioness?"
"No one knows, your highness. But you must excuse me if I take my
leave. I must attend a consultation of--"
"Doctor," cried the prince, grasping him by the arm, "you cannot go:
I must know all that you have to tell."
The doctor smiled. "Upon my word, your highness speaks as if you
were ordering a charge against the Turks. But I cannot obey: Sister
Angelica has heard the story from beginning to end, and she will
relate the rest of it. Adieu."
So saying, Doctor Franzi left the room.
"Oh, dear sister," cried Eugene, "can you tell me whether she fell
into his hands again?"
"She did not," replied the nun, in a low, tremulous voice; "but the
shock of her disappearance was so terrible in its effects upon the
marquis, that he is now a maniac in the very apartments wherein he
had confined his wretched wife."
Eugene had listened in breathless amazement to these low, fluttering
words; and when they ceased he seemed still to listen. His face had
become excessively pale; his lips were slightly parted, and his eyes
riveted upon some imaginary object at a distance, which seemed to
obliterate from his mind the presence of his companion. She
meanwhile became so terrified that she clasped her hands, and knelt
at his feet.
He saw--he understood it all, and, raising her in his arms, he
pressed her rapturously to his heart. The veil had fallen, and she
was there! His Laura! his long-lost Laura!
CHAPTER II.
LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH.
The morning service was at an end, and King Louis XIV., attended by
his courtiers, left the royal chapel. His countenance was troubled,
and it followed, as a matter of course, that everybody else wore a
woe-begone expression. The fact is, that things were very dull and
solemn at the French court. Feasts and festivals were forbidden, and
nobody was allowed to look cheerful. La Valliere, in a Carmelite
convent, was doing penance for the sin of her love for Louis; while
De Montespan, in the world, was expiating hers within sight of the
king's indifference. He had tired of her long ago, but had permitted
her to remain at court, where her saloons were as stupid, as silent,
and as empty, as they had once been bright and crowded.
The reigning favorite was De Maintenon, who might have had followers
innumerable, had she desired them. But she appeared to be perfectly
unconscious of her own power; going about, now as ever, with modest
mien and simple dress, with folded hands and downcast eyes,
apparently unaware of the existence of any mortal whatsoever, save
that of her well-beloved Louis. And her course, of action had been
triumphantly successful, for by many she was believed to be the
legitimate spouse of the King of France.
From the chapel, Louis betook himself to the boudoir of the
marquise, and greeted her with a slight inclination of his royal
head.
"Why were you not at mass to-day, madame?" inquired he, curtly, as,
hastily crossing the room, he flung open the window, and admitted
the sharp air of a raw autumn morning.
De Maintenon stifled a sigh, and compelled herself to smile. "You
know, sire," replied she, gently, "that I am indisposed. My
physician has forbidden me to breathe the air, and for this reason I
dared not follow the impulse of my heart, and join my prayers to
those of your majesty this morning. The autumn winds are too keen
for me."
The king paid no attention to De Maintenon's allusion to the "autumn
winds." The window remained open, and she was obliged to stand
directly in front of it as long as Louis was pleased to enjoy the
breeze.
"You are becoming sickly, madame," observed he, coldly.
"True, sire, I suffer of late," sighed she.
"You are getting old," replied he, tartly. "Old age is a sorry
companion; it makes people peevish and disagreeable."
The marquise grew as pale as ashes, and the sharp glance of her
black eyes was turned quickly upon the countenance of the king, who,
instead of looking at her, was staring out of the window at the
marble Naiads, over whose white limbs the waters of a fountain were
foaming and plashing, in myriads of pearly drops. He appeared to be
quite unconscious of having wounded the feelings of his sensitive
companion.
She, on her part, felt that a crisis was at hand, and that, to waken
the king from his apathy, desperate measures must be adopted. She
plunged into her remedy at once.
"I see," sighed she, "that my presence is irksome to your majesty.
It is better, therefore, that I gather up my strength, and sacrifice
my happiness to yours. I will retire to St. Cyr."
Louis raised his shoulders. "I think not. People often say such
things, but never mean what they say."
"Sire, Madame de la Valliere is a proof of the contrary, and I--
although (as you remarked just now)--I am old, possess a heart over
whose emotions time and age have no power. I love as I have ever
loved, passionately, profoundly; but my love is disinterested, and
soars high above all self-gratification. Now that it has become
obtrusive, its current shall be turned to heaven, and in the sacred
walls of a cloister I will spend the remainder of my days in prayer
for him whose image I shall cherish unto death. Sire, I respectfully
request permission to enter the convent of St. Cyr."
Louis began to be uneasy. He knew very well that De Maintenon had a
vigorous and resolute soul, quite capable of carrying out any
purpose dictated by her head; and, if once she appealed from her
affections to her pride, he felt that no ulterior persuasions of his
would avail to deter her from the step she meditated.
"Are you serious, madame?" said he, reproachfully. "Would you,
indeed, forsake me?"
"Sire, I am so earnest in my intention to free you from the presence
of an infirm old woman, that I repeat my request to be allowed to
depart now--this very hour."
The king hated nothing on earth like surprises; he disliked to have
the sluggish waters of his every-day life stirred by unaccustomed
occurrences. He turned around at once to remonstrate, and, instead
of the pallid face he had encountered just a few minutes ago, he saw
a pair of glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, from whose lustrous
depths there darted a light that warmed up his tepid old heart, and
set it to beating as it had been wont to do, when La Valliere smiled
and De Montespan coquetted.
"Surely," said he, "you would not set a bad example to the wives of
my courtiers, Francoise! You would not teach them that when they
tire of their husbands they may desert them, and bury their ennui in
a convent!"
"Sire, I cannot accept the responsibility of other women's
derelictions. My duty points out to me a convent as the proper
refuge for a woman who has outlived her husband's love."
"I will not release you from your marriage-tie, madame; and, should
you brave my displeasure, and attempt to leave me, I would follow
you to St. Cyr, and drag you from the altar, were you in the very
act of making your vows!"
The marquise dropped on her knees. "Oh, sire, do I hear aright! I am
not odious to you!--You will not drive me away from my earthly
heaven! I may yet be happy, yet be loved!"
The king bent over her, and raised her tenderly in his arms. "Rise,
madame," said he, "it does not become the wife of the King of France
to bend the knee to any man. You know full well, Francoise,"
continued he, affectionately, "that without you my life would be an
aimless, burdensome one. Who could replace you, my wife, my
counsellor, my prime minister?"
"Ah, sire, what words! They thrill me to the depths of my heart, and
restore me to bliss unspeakable!"
"Then the cloud of your discontent has passed away, has it not?"
"Oh, sire, it is day, bright day, and my soul is flooded with
sunshine!"
"Then let us sit down on yonder divan, and talk of the affairs of
France. Do you know that I have bad news from Germany?"
"I feared as much, sire, when you entered the room with such a
troubled aspect."
"These German princes will not come to a decision as to my claims.
For four years my envoys have been before the imperial Diet, vainly
urging them to define our boundaries."
"They are procrastinating in the hope of receiving succor from the
emperor, who, as soon as he has sufficiently humbled the Porte, will
make an attempt to humble France. With Leopold to sustain them, the
Diet will claim Strasburg and Alsatia, and exact of your majesty the
withdrawal of the French troops from all the Rhenish provinces."
"They shall not be withdrawn," returned Louis. "When France has her
grasp upon a province, she never relaxes her hold. And so far am I
from any intention to temporize, that, if the Diet decides against
me, I will not scruple to break the twenty years' truce, and appeal
to arms. This I have long ago decided to do, so we need not discuss
the question any longer. I have other matters to confide to you,
which harass me."
"Has the emperor refused to recognize the new Elector of Cologne?"
asked the marquise, indignantly.
"Yes, he has had the assurance to reject the lawful election of Egon
of Furstenberg; and to appoint, in his stead, Joseph Clemens, the
brother of the Elector of Bavaria, Out of four-and-twenty
prebendaries of the archbishopric of Cologne, fourteen votes were
given to Egon, while Joseph received but ten. And what, do you
suppose, is the ground of the emperor's insolent rejection of my
nominee? He pretends that the fourteen voters were bribed by France,
and that the candidate himself is disaffected, and under French
influence. This is tantamount to a declaration of war; and, what is
worse than all, Pope Innocent sustains the emperor."
The marquise folded her hands in pious resignation. "That is a sad
proof of the unfriendliness of his holiness toward France," murmured
she. "But that is the fault of the Minister Louvois. He has deserved
the displeasure of his holiness by the forcible occupation of
Avignon (so long the residence of the successors of St. Peter), and
by the arrest of the papal nuncio."
"He could not help it." cried Louis, impatiently; "it was an act of
reprisal. Our ambassador at Rome had been affronted; the spies of
the pope had forced themselves into the hotel of the embassy and had
arrested two men that had sought protection from the French flag."
"Sire," said the marquise with determination, "they were papal
subjects and criminals, who had no right to the protection of the
French flag. It should never be said that Louis of France shields
from justice the thieves and murderers whom the Vicar of Christ
would punish. You know, sire, that these men had committed
sacrilege. They had plundered the altar of St. Peter's of its golden
pyx and candlesticks, and had poniarded the sacristan that had them
in charge."
"It was a crime--that I cannot deny," said Louis with a deprecating
sigh, "but the right of asylum is sacred, and we were forced to
defend it."
"Sire, do you, an earthly monarch, pretend to believe that you can
shield a criminal from the all-seeing vengeance of the Lord? Had the
sinner the wings of the morning, wherewith he might fly to the
uttermost limits of the earth, the arm of God would overtake and
arrest him in his flight! How, then, do you pretend to cover his
crimes with the folds of the French flag?"
The king was cowed by the bold and uncompromising voice of truth. He
folded his hands and bowed his head.
"Alas, alas! you are right and we were wrong! We should not have
given refuge to these murderers and plunderers. I am truly
repentant, Franchise, and will do my best to expiate the sin."
"Sire, you are right to bewail the sin, but it lies not on your
conscience; it is the fault of your arrogant minister, who, without
consulting you, demanded satisfaction of his holiness; and, when it
was righteously refused, took possession of Avignon, and imprisoned
the papal nuncio. Then, when the deed was done, and not until then,
he dispatched a courier to Paris, to inform you of what had taken
place."
"That is true, dear Francoise," said Louis, mildly; "but, after all,
Louvois had no alternative. Had he consulted me, I might have felt
myself bound to temporize; whereas, by his assumption of the act, he
renders apology on my part possible. The thing is done; the honor of
France is satisfied, and I can now release the nuncio, and make all
necessary excuses to his holiness."
The marquise gazed searchingly at the countenance of the royal
casuist, who bore her scrutiny without flinching, and, with a slight
clearing of his throat, went on:
"I am not yet at the end of my chapter of vexations. A courier has
arrived to-day from the Marquis de Villars. In spite of all his
petty intrigues, and the millions with which he bribed the mistress
of the elector, Max Emmanuel has never been estranged from Austria.
So far from it, he has assumed the chief command of the imperial
armies, and is about to lay siege to Belgrade."
"He will come to grief, sire," cried the marquise. "The Turks and
Hungarians greatly outnumber the imperialists, and--"
The king raised his hand and shook his head. "I would you were
right; but, Francoise, you are a false prophet--my last and worst
tale is told--Belgrade has fallen!"
"The will of God be done!" cried the marquise. "Christianity has
triumphed, and the unbelieving Moslem has bitten the dust!"
"Pray," interrupted Louis, fretfully, "put aside your piety for a
while and look at the thing through the medium of good sense and
earthly foresight. The Emperor of Germany is victorious; he is
gradually weakening the Sultan, so that it is within the range of
possibilities that he overturn the Ottoman power, and consolidate
the Germanic confederations into one great empire. This done, he
will turn his attention to France--of that you may be sure."
"My beloved sovereign speaks of events that will never come to
pass," replied the marquise, with one of her most enticing smiles.
"Long before the Emperor Leopold will have exterminated the Turks,
we will force him to defend his own territories from the invading
armies of France."
"You approve me, then, and think that it is time I began to be
aggressive in my warfare," exclaimed Louis, eagerly.
"I am always of the opinion of my lord and sovereign," was the
courteous reply of the marquise, who had already forgotten the
discussion relating to Avignon. "It remains to be seen if Louvois
acquiesces."
"Louvois will do as he is bid," said Louis, frowning.
"Remember, sire, that he said publicly, yesterday, that the French
army was not in a condition to open a campaign, and that it could
not be equipped before spring."
"Before spring!" echoed the king. "While the generals of Leopold
carry every thing before them!--for he has distinguished generals in
his service, madame; one of whom is that same Eugene of Savoy whom
you pronounced unworthy of a bishopric. Whatever he might have done
as a churchman, I would he were an archbishop rather than what he is
to-day!"
"Oh, sire!" said the marquise, reproachfully. "True--I never thought
Prince Eugene had any vocation for the priesthood; and, knowing his
disinclination to the church, I myself advised him to ask for a
commission in the army. He did ask it--a mere captaincy--and your
majesty well remembers who it was that influenced you to refuse him
so small a boon. To Louvois France owes the loss of this great
military genius."
"Right, right, you are always right, and I have unwittingly given
you another pretext for blaming him."
"Although he is my bitter foe, I would not blame him, sire, were he
not culpable."
"Your bitter foe, Francoise? How?"
"Ah, sire, was it not he that opposed our marriage?"
"Forgive him, dear Francoise, he acted according to his own notions
of duty. But you see that my love was mightier than his objections,
and you are, before God, my own beloved spouse."
"Before God, sire, I am; but the world doubts my right to the name.
In the eyes of the court, I am but the mistress of the king; a
humiliation which I owe to Louvois, who bound your majesty by an
oath never to recognize me as Queen of France."
"I rejoice to think that he did so," was the king's reply, "for the
tie that binds us is sacred in the sight of Heaven, while in the
eyes of the world I am spared the ridicule of placing Scarron's
widow upon the throne of Charlemagne the Great. In your own
reception-room you act as queen, and I am perfectly willing that you
should do so, for it proves that you are the wife of the king, and
not his mistress. Be magnanimous, then, and forgive Louvois if,
above the ambition of Madame de Mainterion, he valued the dignity
and honor of the French throne. But the hour of my interview with
you is at an end: I hold a levee this morning, and must leave you."
Kissing the hand of the marquise, Louis bowed and left the room.
CHAPTER III.
THE KING AND THE PETITIONERS.
When the king entered the audience-chamber, the courtiers, dispersed
in groups about the room, were all in eager conversation. So
absorbed were they in the subject under discussion, that those who
stood at the opposite end of the room were not aware of the royal
presence until the grande tournee forced it upon their attention.
The king joined one of these groups. "Gentlemen," said he, "what
interests you so deeply to-day? Have you received any important
news?"
"Yes, sire," replied the Prince de Conti. "We are speaking of my
cousin Eugene. He has been severely wounded, but not until he had
materially assisted the Elector of Bavaria to capture Belgrade."
"Ah! you have heard of the fall of Belgrade!" said the king,
frowning, as he perceived that Louvois was approaching. "Is it you,"
asked he, curtly, "that has been in such hot haste to spread the
news of the successes of the imperial army?"
"Pardon me, sire," replied Louvois, "I am no gossip; nor do the
successes of the Emperor of Austria interest me sufficiently for me
to deem them worthy of announcement here."
"Nevertheless, they are for you a cause of no little humiliation;
for they remind the world that you were once guilty of a blunder in
your statesmanship. If I am not mistaken, it was you who caused me
to refuse Prince Eugene a commission in my army--that same Prince
Eugene who has turned out to be one of the greatest military
geniuses of the age."
"Sire," returned Louvois, reddening with auger, "you yourself were
of the opinion that Prince Eugene of Savoy--" "Sir," interrupted the
king, haughtily, "I am of opinion that when you scorned Prince
Eugene, you were lamentably deficient in judgment; and that, if he
is now shedding lustre upon the arms of Austria, it is because you
repulsed him when he would have entered the service of France."
And the king, whose wounded vanity was greatly comforted by a thrust
at that of his prime minister, turned on his heel, and addressed
himself again to the Prince de Conti:
"Whence came your news of the taking of Belgrade?"
"From the Duke de Luynes, your majesty, who, you may remember, has
joined the imperial armies. But Eugene is not the only Frenchman who
has distinguished himself at the siege; the Prince de Commercy
behaved in a manner worthy of all admiration."
"Yes, indeed," added the young Duke of Maine (the royal son of De
Montespan). "It is such deeds as his that have earned for Frenchmen
the title of the 'Knightly Nation.'"
And the little hobbling duke, who had never drawn a sword from its
scabbard, struck himself on the breast, as if he had represented in
his own person the united chivalry of all France.
"I am curious to hear of the valiant deeds of the Prince de
Commercy," said the king, carelessly. "Pray relate them to us,
prince." The prince bowed: "Sire, as the Prince de Commercy was
charging a body of Janizaries stationed at one of the gates of
Belgrade, a Turk made a sudden dash at his standard-bearer, and
captured the regimental flag. The men were disheartened at their
loss, when the prince, crying out, 'Wait a moment, boys, and you
shall have another,' galloped right into the enemy's midst, and
raised his pistol to bring down the standard-bearer of the Turks.
The latter, taking immediate advantage of the position of the
prince, thrust a lance into his right side. Without giving the least
attention to his wound, Commercy grasped the spear with his left
hand and held it fast, while with his right he drew out his sabre,
killed the standard-bearer and bore away his flag. Then, withdrawing
the lance from his side, he gave the blood-besprinkled banner into
the hands of the German ensign, saying, as he did so, 'Pray be more
careful of this one than you were of the other.'"
The king slightly bowed his head. "Indeed, the Prince de Commercy
does honor to the country that gave him birth. I will take care that
he is suitably rewarded."
"Sire," replied the Prince de Conti, "the Emperor of Germany has
already done so. He has been promoted; and the flag which was
stained with his blood now hangs within the cathedral walls of St.
Stephen's; while, with her own hands, the empress is embroidering a
new one for the regiment, which, in honor of the prince, is called
the Commercy regiment."
"The Emperor of Germany knows how to reward valor," exclaimed the
Duke de la Roche Guyon, "for Eugene of Savoy is only five-and-twenty
years of age, and yet he has been created a field-marshal."
The king affected not to have heard this remark, and passed on. His
courtiers saw, with consternation, that he was annoyed at something,
and every face in the audience-chamber gave back a reflection of the
royal discontent. Louis sauntered along, occasionally addressing a
word or two to such as he "delighted to honor," until the grande
tournee had been made.
When the two Princes de Conti saw that he was disengaged, they
advanced with a mien so respectful, that Louis knew perfectly well
the nature of their errand, although he little guessed its purport.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, "for what new escapade have you come to
crave our royal indulgence? I see, by your demeanor, that you are
about to ask a favor of your sovereign."
"Yes, my liege," replied the elder of the two; "we have come to ask
a favor, but not such a one as your majesty supposes. We have grown
melancholy, and your royal hand can heal us."
"Grown melancholy! You, the boldest, gayest cavalier in Paris!"
"Yes, sire," sighed De Conti. "We cannot sleep for thinking of the
laurels of our kinsman of Savoy, and we humbly crave your royal
permission to join the imperial crusade against the Turks."
Louis frowned, but quickly recovered himself. "Of course--of
course," replied he, condescendingly; "if the laurels of the little
prince disturb your slumbers, you have my full consent to go after
him. 'Twere a pity to deny you so small a boon."
And, without giving opportunity to the two princes to thank him, the
king turned around and addressed Marshal Crequi:
"Who knows," said he, raising his voice, "whether these two silly
boys have not chosen the wiser part? Though they may never earn any
laurels, they may fight away some of their folly--which loss would
be to them great gain."
"Sire, it is perfectly natural for youth to desire glory," returned
the old marshal. "I think that thirst for fame is honorable to a
young nobleman, and for this reason I have consented that my son,
the Marquis do Blanchefort, should join the imperial crusade,
provided he obtains your majesty's consent. I venture to hope that
your majesty will not refuse to him what you have conceded to the
Princes de Conti."
Louis looked with amazement at the smiling countenance of the old
marshal, but he answered as before:
"I certainly will not do less for your soil than for the De Contis.
He has my consent to accompany them on their journey after glory."
The young Marquis de Blanchefort, who was near at hand, would have
expressed his gratitude for the royal permission to leave France,
but the king turned coldly away, and darted a peremptory glance at
Louvois.
The minister understood, and came forward at once.
De Blanchefort, meanwhile, hurried off to join the De Contis, who,
surrounded by a group of young noblemen, were engaged in a low, but
earnest conversation.
"I have my discharge," whispered he.
"Then you are the third one upon whom fortune has smiled to-day,"
sighed the young Duke de Brienne. "I wish I were as far advanced as
you."
"Allow me to give the three lucky knights a bit of advice,"
whispered the Duke de la Roche Guyon, Louvois's son-in-law. "Make
use of the king's permission without delay. Who knows, but when the
rest of us prefer our petitions, he may not withdraw his consent
from you?"
"My dear friend," said the younger De Conti, "our trunks are packed,
and our travelling-carriage awaits us at the corner of the Rue St.
Honore. Nobody knows what may happen; so that we are about to depart
without parade, bidding adieu to our friends by notes of farewell."
"You have acted with foresight," replied the duke. "And you, De
Blanchefort, when do you start?"
"My father is a soldier, and admires punctuality," answered the
marquis. "Yesterday afternoon he presented me with a new travelling-
chariot, and this morning he ordered it to be ready for my
departure, at the corner of the Garde Meubles. That is even nearer
than the Rue St. Honore, and if you will allow me, I fly to see if
it is still there."
"Do so," returned the duke, "and our dear princes would do well to
follow your example."
"We were about to take our leave, and now--" began young De Conti.
"Away with you!" was the reply; and the three young men, murmuring,
"Au revoir," disappeared behind the portiere which led to the
antechamber, and sped away from the Louvre to their carriages.
"Messieurs," said the Duke de la Roche Guyon, taking out his watch,
"we must give them a quarter of an hour, before we irritate his
majesty by preferring our own petitions."
When the quarter of an hour had elapsed, the duke replaced his
watch, and resumed: "Now let us go and try our luck."
"Shall we go together, or one by one?" inquired the Duke de
Liancourt.
"We are four, and the king's good-nature is soon exhausted. The last
two petitioners would indubitably be rebuffed, so I think we had
better go in a body."
"With yourself as spokesman," said De Brienne.
"Right!" echoed the others, and they are all approached the king. He
was engaged in conversation with Louvois, and interrupted himself to
stare at the four young men, as if he had been greatly astonished to
see them.
"Here is your son-in-law," observed he to Louvois. "What can he
want?"
"Indeed, sire, nobody knows his wants less than I. He is my
daughter's husband, but no friend of mine."
"Here are De Turenne, De Brienne. and De Liancourt at his heels,"
replied the king, trying to stare them out of countenance, while the
poor young men waited in vain for the royal permission to speak.
At last the Duke de la Roche Guyon gathered courage to begin.
"Your majesty, we come with all respect--"
"We!" echoed the king. "Then you represent four petitioners."
"Yes, your majesty, the three here present and myself. May I be
permitted to state the nature of our petition?"
The king bowed, and De la Roche Guyon resumed: "Sire, we, are all,
like the Princes de Conti and the Marquis de Blanchefort, envious of
the laurels of Eugene of Savoy. We are athirst for glory."
"And you come to ask if I will not make war to gratify your greed
for fame?" asked the king, eagerly.
"Sire!" exclaimed the duke, "can you imagine such assurance on the
part of your subjects? No--we merely ask permission to join the
imperial army."
"The army of the Emperor of Germany!" cried Louis, in a voice so
loud and angry that his courtiers grew pale, and almost forgot to
breathe. But the Duke de la Roche Guyon had steeled himself against
the bolts of this Jupiter Tonans.
"Yes, sire," replied he, courteously, "the army of the emperor who
represents Christendom doing battle with Mohammedanism. It is a holy
cause, and we hope that it has your majesty's sympathy and
approbation."
"It would appear that the youth of my court are drifting into
imbecility," replied the king, with a contemptuous shrug. "They need
a physician; and it will be time enough to listen to any request
they may have to make, when they shall have returned to their
senses."
"Your majesty refuses us!" said the duke, bitterly.
"When the king has spoken, sir," replied Louis, haughtily, "it
becomes his subjects to obey and be silent. The court is dismissed!
Monsieur de Louvois, you will go with me to Trianon, to inspect the
new palace. The court are at liberty to accompany us."
This "at liberty" being a command which nobody dared resist, the
king had no sooner left the room than the courtiers hastened to
their carriages and gave orders to their various coachmen to join
the royal cortege.
CHAPTER IV.
THE WINDOW THAT WAS TOO LARGE.
Meanwhile the king had made his way to the boudoir of his marquise,
who advanced joyfully to meet him.
"Madame," said he, "I am about to drive to Trianon; will you
accompany me? Decide according to your own judgment; do not
inconvenience yourself on my account."
"Your majesty knows that I live in your presence," sighed the
marquise, "but--"
"But you dare not leave your room. Well--I am sorry; you would have
enjoyed the drive."
"The drive to Trianon," replied the marquise, "where, as an
architect, Louvois will he the theme of your majesty's encomiums."
The king's lip curled. "Scarcely"--said he. "I do not think that
Louvois will enjoy his visit to-day. I am not at all pleased with
his plans, nor will I be at pains to conceal my displeasure."
The marquise looked inquiringly into the face of the king. It was
smiling and significant.
"Sire," said the marquise, "are you in earnest? May I indeed be
permitted to accompany you to Trianon?"
"Indeed, you cannot conceive how much I regret your inability to
go," returned Louis.
"Oh, sire, my love is mightier than my infirmities; it shall lend me
strength, and I shall have the unspeakable bliss of accompanying
you."
"I counted upon you," returned Louis. "So let us go at once; the
court waits, and punctuality is the politeness of kings."
Without paying the least attention to Louvois, who, as
superintendent of the royal edifices, stood close at hand, the king
entered his coach, and assisted Madame de Maintenon, as she took her
place at his side. Louvois had expected to be invited to ride with
the king, and this oversight, he knew, betokened something sinister
for him.
And what could it be? "The old bigot has been sowing her tares
again," said he to himself. "There is some mortification in store
for me, or she would not have exposed herself to this sharp autumn
blast to-day." And he ran over all the late occurrences of the
court, that he might disentangle the knotted thread of the king's
ill-humor. "It must be that accursed business of the Prince of
Savoy, and the king is no better than these silly lads; the laurels
of the little abbe keep him awake at night, and he vents his spleen
upon me. What an oversight it was of mine, to let that Eugene
escape! Had I caused him to disappear from this wicked world and
given him an asylum in the Bastile, he never would have troubled us
with his doings in Germany. THERE was my blunder--my unpardonable
blunder. But it cannot be recalled, and the king's vanity is so
insatiable, that there is no knowing how it is ever to be appeased.
I must succumb for the present, and--Ah!" cried he, interrupting the
current of his despondency, "I think I can repair my error. We must
allow his envious majesty to gather a handful of these laurels for
which he has such a longing. We must put the Emperor of Germany in
check, and--"
Just then the iron gates of Trianon opened to admit the carriage,
and the superintendent of the royal edifices made haste to alight
and wait the arrival of the king.
For the first time, his majesty condescended to seem aware of
Louvois' presence. "Monsieur," said he, to the tottering favorite,
"I have come to inspect this chateau. Madame la marquise, it being
intended as a pleasure-house for yourself, you will oblige me by
speaking frankly on the subject."
So saying, he gave his arm to madame, and the court, with heads
uncovered, came submissively behind.
"Follow us," said the king.
This "us" delighted the marquise, for it was an informal
acknowledgment of her right to be considered as the king's consort.
With her large eyes beaming with joy, and her face radiant with
triumph, she went, hanging on Louis' arm, over the chateau which his
munificence had prepared for her occupation in summer. Immediately
behind them walked Louvois; and after him a long procession of
nobles, not one of whom dared to utter a word. The central building
was pronounced satisfactory; its front and marble colonnade received
their due meed of praise, and the king ended by these words: "I am
perfectly satisfied with Mansard; he is really a distinguished
architect."
"Sire," returned Louvois, to whom this eulogium had been addressed,
"Mansard will be overjoyed to hear of his sovereign's approbation.
But your majesty will pardon me if I appropriate some portion of
your praise; the ground-plan of the building is mine. I furnished it
to Mansard."
The king made no reply to this attempt to extort a word of approval;
he merely nodded, and went on his way. They had now reached a point
whence the right facade of the building was brought to view.
"Monsieur," said Louis, pointing to the central window, "this window
is out of proportion."
"Pardon me, sire," returned Louvois, submissively, "it is exactly of
the size of the central window in front, and only appears larger
because of the absence of a colonnade."
"Sir," said the king, indignantly, "I tell you that this window is
much too large, and unless it be reduced the entire palace is a
failure."
"I must, nevertheless, abide by my judgment, sire," replied Louvois,
respectfully. "The two windows are exactly alike; this one being
more conspicuous than the other, but not one inch higher."
"Then you have been guilty of some great oversight by allowing it to
appear higher than the other," returned the king, rudely. "Your plan
is ridiculous, and the sooner you set about mending it the better."
"Sire," said Louvois, bitterly, "when praise was to be awarded, the
credit of the plan was Mansard's--"
"But as you did not choose to concede it, you must accept the blame
of your blunder. Your vision is not acute, sir, a defect that is as
unbecoming in an architect as in a war minister. You have been
equally blind to the monstrous size of yonder window, and to the
great genius of my kinsman, Eugene of Savoy. Unhappily, your want of
judgment, as regards the man, is irreparable; the defect in your
window you will be so good as to correct."
"Sire," said Louvois, trembling with anger, "I beg to be discharged
from my duties as architect to your majesty. Under the
circumstances. I feel myself inadequate to perform its duties."
"You are quite right," replied the king. "You will then have more
leisure to devote to the war department, and to devise some means
for gratifying the national love of glory, without driving my French
nobles to foreign courts for distinction.--Come, madame," added the
king, to the marquise, who, all this time, had been standing with
eyes cast down; the very personification of humility.--"Let us
proceed to Versailles; for this ungainly window has taken away my
breath. I must have change of scene for the remainder of the day."
As they took their seat in the coach, the marquise whispered: "Oh,
sire! how overwhelming, yet how noble, is your anger! I should die
under it, were it directed toward me; and, in spite of all Louvois'
ill-will toward me, I pitied him so sincerely that I could scarcely
restrain my impulse to intercede for him."
"You are an angel," was the stereotyped reply.
Meanwhile, the court were preparing to follow the royal equipage.
Louvois stood by, but not one of the nobles seemed aware of his
presence; he was out of favor, and thereby invisible to courtly
eyes.
On the afternoon of the same day the minister of war, with brow
serene and countenance unruffled, entered the council-chamber of the
king. He had found a remedy for his annoyances at Trianon, and he
pretended not to see the marquise, who, as usual, sat embroidering
in the deep embrasure of a window, almost concealed from view by its
velvet curtains.
"Sire," said Louvois, "I come before your majesty with proposals of
great moment, and I await with much anxiety your decision."
"Let us hear your proposals," said the king, languidly. "Have more
couriers arrived with news of Austrian successes?"
"No, sire, we have had enough of Austrian victories, and I am of
opinion that the emperor must receive his check from the powerful
hand of France. It is time that your majesty interposed to change
his fortunes."
The king was startled out of his indifference. He raised his head to
listen, while the marquise dropped her work, and applied her ear to
the opening in the curtains.
"Your majesty has acted toward this arrogant Austrian with a
forbearance that is more than human. Well I know that your humane
aversion to bloodshed has been in part the cause of your
unparalleled magnanimity; but you have been thwarted in your choice
of an Elector of Cologne; your claims to Alsatia and Lorraine have
been set aside; the dower of her royal highness the Duchess of
Orleans has been refused you; and patience under so many affronts
has ceased to be a virtue. The honor of France must be sustained,
and we must evoke, as a last resort, the demon of war."
"Gracious Heaven!" said the marquise, behind her curtain, "if he
rouses the king's ambition, I shall occupy but a secondary position
at the court of France, and he will be more influential than ever!
Louis has already forgotten me, else he would call me to his side
before he decides so weighty a matter."
The marquise was shrewd, and did not err in her speculations: Louis
had indeed forgotten her presence. His heart was full of
covetousness and resentment at the opposition of that presuming
Leopold, who penetrated his designs upon the Rhenish provinces of
the empire, and he thirsted for vengeance.
"Yes," replied he, "I have given an example of forbearance which
must have astonished all Europe. I would have been glad to settle
our differences in a Christian-like manner; but Leopold is deaf to
all reason and justice--"
At this moment the king's voice was rendered inaudible by a loud
cough which proceeded from the window wherein the marquise had
retired from observation.
"My dear Francoise," exclaimed Louis, "come and take your part in
this important council of war."
The hangings were parted, and out she stepped; slightly
acknowledging the salute of the minister, she passed him by, and
took an arm-chair at the side of the king.
"You have heard us discussing, have you not?" asked Louis.
"Yes, sire," sighed she, "I have heard every thing."
"Then you understand that it concerns my honor to make war upon
Germany?"
The marquise turned her flashing eyes upon the one that held this
royal honor in his keeping. "Sire," said she, "I am slow of
comprehension; for it has just occurred to me that your majesty's
criticism upon a window at Trianon is to be productive of results
most disastrous to the French nation."
"This criticism concerns nobody but Mansard," observed Louvois,
carelessly. "I am no longer superintendent of the royal edifices."
"I do not understand you, madame," interposed the king. "What has a
window at Trianon to do with the affairs of the nation? Pray let us
be serious, and come to a determination."
"Sire," asked the marquise, "is not this matter already determined?"
The king kissed her hand. "It is--and your inquiry is a new proof of
your penetration. How truly you sympathize with my emotions! How
clearly you read the pages of my heart! Yes, dear marquise, war is
inevitable."
"Then our days of happiness are at an end," returned she, sadly;
"and your majesty's heart will descend from the contemplation of
heavenly things, to thoughts of strife and cruel bloodshed."
"The war is a holy one," interrupted Louvois, "and God Himself holds
a monarch responsible for the honor of his people."
"Well spoken, Louvois," replied the king, approvingly. "The cause is
just, and the Lord of hosts will battle for us. You, marquise, will
be our intercessor with Heaven."
"But your majesty will not be nigh to pray with me," said the
marquise, in regretful tones.
The king made no reply to this affectionate challenge; he continued
to speak with Louvois, enjoining upon him to hasten his
preparations.
"Sire, my plans are laid," replied Louvois.
"Already!" cried Louis, joyfully.
"Already!" echoed De Maintenon, affrighted.
"Sire," continued Louvois, "as soon as your majesty has approved my
plan, the couriers, who are waiting without, will transfer your
royal commands to the army. It is my design to march at once upon
the Rhenish provinces, and to take possession of the Palatinate."
"Good! but will our army be strong enough to fight the emperor and
the Germanic confederation at once?"
"Sire, the emperor shall have occupation elsewhere, and the princes
of the empire must be terrified into submission."
"But how, now?"
"Both ends may be reached by one stroke. The Rhenish provinces,
Alsatia, and the Palatinate, must be transformed into a waste. We
must wage against Germany a war of destruction, whose fearful
consequences will be felt there for a century to come."
"Oh, sire," exclaimed De Maintenon, "such a war is contrary to the
laws of God and man! Shall France, the most refined country on the
globe, set to civilized Europe an example of barbarity only to be
equalled by the atrocities of the Huns and Vandals?"
"My dear marquise," cried Louis, fretfully, "do be silent.--Go on,
Louvois, and let me hear your plans."
"Sire, they are very simple. We have only to march on the German
towns, sack and burn them, and put to the sword all those that
presume to defy the power of France. We must spread consternation
throughout all Germany, that your majesty's name may cause every
cheek to pale, and every heart to sink with fear. The enemy shall
provision our army, and forage our horses. We will take possession
of their magazines, stores, and shambles; and to every house that
refuses us gold, we will apply the devouring torch. Thus we will
make it impossible for the emperor to advance to Lorraine; and the
wide desert that intervenes between us will become French
territory."
"I approve your mode of warfare, Louvois; it is good. If the emperor
had ratified my choice of an Elector of Cologne, and had sustained
my claims to Lorraine and Alsatia, I would have conceded him as many
triumphs as he chose in Transylvania. As he opposes me, let him take
the consequence--war with all its horrors!"
"Your majesty empowers me, then, to dispatch my couriers?" said
Louvois.
"I do, my dear marquis," was the gracious reply, while the royal
hand was held out to be kissed.
Louvois pressed it to his lips, as a lover does the rosy fingers of
his mistress, and, hastening away with the agility of a young man,
sprang into his carriage, and drove off. "'My dear marquis,'"
murmured he, with a smile of complacency. "He called me his dear
marquis, and the storm of his displeasure has passed away. I came
very near being struck by its lightning, nevertheless. That De
Maintenon is a shrewd woman, and found me out at once. Yes!--yes,
your majesty! Had you admired my window at Trianon, I should not
have been obliged to involve you in a war with Germany."
CHAPTER V.
THE IMPERIAL DIET AT REGENSBURG.
In 1687 the imperial Diet assembled at Regensburg, to examine the
claims of the King of France to Alsatia, Lorraine, the Palatinate,
and other possessions, which his majesty longed to appropriate out
of the domains of his neighbors.
On the 2d of October, 1689, a travelling-carriage might have been
seen standing in front of the large, antiquated building occupied by
Count Spaur, the envoy of the Emperor Leopold.
The postilion sounded his horn, and cracked his whip with such
vehemence, that here and there an inquiring and angry face might be
seen at the neighboring windows, peering out upon the untimely
intruders, who were making dawn hideous by their clattering arrival.
The footman sprang from his board, and thundered with all his might
at the door, while, between each interval of knocking, the postilion
accompanied him by a fanfare that stirred up the sleeping echoes of
that dull old town in a manner that was astonishing to hear.
Finally, their zeal was rewarded by the appearance of a man's head
at the window on the ground floor, and the sound of his voice
inquiring who it was that was making all this uproar.
"Who we are?" echoed the footman. "We are individuals entitled to
make an uproar, and shall continue to make it until we obtain
admission to the presence of Count Spaur for his excellency Count
von Crenneville, who comes on important business from his imperial
majesty the emperor."
This pompous announcement had the desired effect; it awed the porter
into civility, and he hastened to inform the footman of his
excellency, that Count Spaur being in bed, he would inform the
valet, and have the Austrian ambassador apprised of the visit of
Count von Crenneville.
"Open your door before you go, and admit his excellency into the
house," cried the footman, imperiously.
"I dare not," replied the porter, shaking his head. "I am not at
liberty to admit anybody, until I have orders to do so from the
valet of Count Spaur."
"Not admit the emperor's envoy?" exclaimed the indignant lackey.
"That is an affront to his excellency."
"I do not know the person of his excellency," persisted the porter,
"and how do I know but some petty ducal envoy may not be playing a
trick on me, and so obtain fraudulent entrance to the house of the
Austrian ambassador?"
"You presume to apply such language to Count von Crenneville!" cried
the footman, "I shall--"
"Peace, Caspar!" said a voice from the carriage; "the honest fellow
is quite right, and deserves no blame for his prudence.
Nevertheless, as we are no impostors, hasten, my good friend, to the
valet, and let me have entrance, for I am very tired."
At this moment the porter was put aside, and a man in rich livery
came forward.
"Count Spaur has risen, and will be happy to receive his excellency
Count von Crenneville," said he. At these magical words the heavy
doors were opened, and the envoy sprang lightly from his carriage,
and entered the house. At the head of the staircase he was met by
Count Spaur, who apologized for being compelled to receive his guest
in a dressing-gown.
"It would not be the first time that I have seen you in a
deshabille, my dear comrade," replied Von Crenneville, "for you
cannot have forgotten the old days when we were quartered together
in Hungary. As I presume you have not breakfasted, I will take the
liberty of inviting myself to breakfast, for I am hungry and
exhausted by travelling all night."
Count Spaur offered his arm, and conducted his guest to the dining-
room, where breakfast was about to be served.
Count von Crenneville threw aside his military cloak, unfastened a
few buttons of his uniform, and took his seat at the table.
"I am delighted to see you," said Count Spaur, handing a cup of
chocolate. "Your arrival is a delicious interruption to the stupid
life I had in Regensburg."
When they had breakfasted, Count Spaur led the way to his cabinet,
and the conference began by Count von Crenneville handing a packet
to his friend from the emperor.
The latter received it with a profound inclination, and carefully
cutting it, so as to avoid breaking the seal, he opened it, and
prepared to make himself master of its contents.
He shook his head dolefully. "His majesty asks impossibilities of
me," sighed he. "Do you know what this letter contains?"
"Be so kind as to read it to me."
So Count Spaur began: "My dear Count,--It is time this imperial Diet
end their petty quarrels, and go seriously to work; for these are no
days wherein important interests may be neglected for the sake of
etiquette. Announce to the Diet that I require of them to be
serious, and to come to the assistance of their fatherland. Count
von Crenneville, who will deliver this to you, is empowered to
declare the same to the assembled representatives of the Germanic
Confederation."
(Signed) "LEOPOLD, Emperor."
"It seems to me that the demand is a reasonable one," remarked Count
von Crenneville.
"But impossible of compliance. Do you know how long the Diet has
been sitting at Regensburg?"
"Two years, I believe."
"Well: do you know what they have been doing for these two years?"
"No, count; it is precisely to learn this that his majesty has sent
me here," said Von Crenneville.
"I will tell you then. They have been profoundly engaged in settling
questions of diplomatic etiquette. You may laugh, if you like; but
for one that has been obliged to hear it all, it is wearisome beyond
expression. The first trouble arose from the etiquette of visiting.
As imperial envoy, I received the first visit from them all, I
returned my calls, and so far all was well. But when the other
envoys were to visit among themselves, the dissensions began. Each
man wrote to his sovereign, and each sovereign upheld his man;
couriers came and went, and for a time Regensburg was alive with
arrivals and departures."
"And meanwhile the King of France was allowed to build his bridges
across the Rhine," observed Count von Crenneville.
"My dear friend, the King of France might have dethroned the
emperor, meanwhile, without a protest. Nothing under heaven could be
attended to, while this visiting question was on the tapis."
"Is it decided?"
"After three months of daily conferences, during which I exhausted
more statesmanship than would overturn an empire, it was decided
that the envoys of the princes would call on the envoys of the
electors, provided the latter would come half way down the staircase
to meet the former."
"God be thanked! They could then proceed to business!"
Count Spaur replied by a melancholy shake of the head.
"You are not aware that, before the Diet assemble, a banquet is
given, at which all are expected to be present. You are furthermore
not cognizant of the fact that every concomitant of this banquet has
been made a subject of strife, from the day on which the visiting
question was arranged, until the present time."
"My dear count, I pity you."
"You may well do so. The electoral envoys claimed the right of using
gold knives and forks, while they exacted that the ducal
representatives should be content with silver. These latter resented
the indignity, and of course the banquet had to be postponed."
"This is pitiful indeed; but go on."
"Then came the question of the color of the arm-chairs around the
table. The electoral envoys claimed the right of having their seats
covered in red; and contended that the others were obliged by
etiquette to cover theirs with green. The others would not accept
the green, and so arose the third point of discussion. The fourth
disagreement was about the carpets. The electorals would have the
four legs of their chairs on the carpet (which is narrow), and the
others should have but the FORE-legs of theirs. The fifth regarded
the May-boughs. On May-day, the electorate exacted that the
superintendent of public festivities should put six boughs over
their front doors, while the others must content themselves with
five. Now, my dear count, you are made acquainted with the subjects
of discussion which for two years have detained the imperial Diet in
Regensburg; which have imbittered my days, and made sleepless my
nights; which have nigh lost the cause of German nationality, and
have made us the laughing-stock of all Europe."
"My friend, I sympathize with you.--But are these five questions not
decided?"
"No, they are not. The ducal envoys indignantly refused to yield to
the pretensions of their colleagues, and no banquet could be given.
After much exertion on my part to bring about an understanding, the
banquet was set aside, and a compromise was effected. ALL the arm-
chairs were covered with green--this was a concession to the ducal
envoys; while they, on their part, consented that the hind-legs of
their chairs should rest on the bare floor!" [Footnote: Putter,
"Historical Notes on the Constitution of the German Empire."]
"What a victory! I congratulate you from my heart; for I would much
rather have charged a regiment of Janizaries."
"And at least have earned some glory thereby," returned Spaur,
grimly. "But the only reward I shall ever reap will be the
unpleasant notoriety I shall have acquired as a member of this
stultified assembly."
"My dear friend, be under no uneasiness as to that. The King of
France has crossed our frontiers, and you are about to throw aside
diplomacy and take up the sword. This is the message with which the
emperor has charged me, both to yourself and to the imperial Diet."
"I am happy to tell you that to-day the Diet opens its sitting.
Hark! the bells are ringing! This announces to Regensburg that the
envoys are about to proceed to the hall of conference. Excuse me
while I retire to change my dress."
"I will betake myself to the nearest hotel to follow your example,"
replied Von Crenneville.
"By no means. Your room is prepared, and I will conduct you thither
at once, if you wish."
Fifteen or twenty minutes elapsed, when the two imperial envoys met
again, and drove, in the state-carriage of Count Spaur, to the hall
of conference. The other envoys were all assembled, and, scattered
in groups, seemed to be earnestly engaged in discussing some weighty
matter.
Count Spaur remarked this, and whispered to his colleague: "I am
afraid there is trouble brewing; the electoral envoys are all on one
side of the hall--the ducal on the other."
"The electorals are those with the red cloaks--are they not?"
"Yes, they are; and I fear that these red cloaks signify war."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean war with--but, pardon me, I see that they are waiting for me
to open the council."
With an inclination of the head, Count Spaur passed down the hall,
and took his seat under the red canopy appropriated to the imperial
ambassador. A deep silence reigned throughout the assembly, broken
by the sweet chime of the bells that still continued to convey far
and wide the intelligence of the opening of the conference.
Count Spaur took off his Spanish hat, and, bowing right and left,
addressed the envoys:
"My lords ambassadors of the electors, princes, and imperial cities
of the German empire, in the name of his majesty Leopold I greet
you, and announce that the imperial Diet is opened. Long live the
emperor!"
"Long live the emperor!" echoed the ambassadors.
"The Diet is opened," resumed he, "and I have the honor to introduce
an envoy of his imperial majesty, who has this day arrived from
Vienna."
At this, Count von Crenneville advanced, and the master of
ceremonies placed an arm-chair for him under the canopy, at the side
of Count Spaur.
At a signal from the latter, the other envoys took their seats, and
Count von Crenneville addressed the assembly:
"My lords ambassadors of the electors, princes, and imperial cities
of the German empire, his majesty greets you all. But he is deeply
wounded at the indifference manifested by the Diet to the dearest
interests of Germany, and he implores you, as you value your
nationality and liberty, to lay aside your petty dissensions, and to
unite with him in defence of your fatherland. The King of France has
marched his armies into Germany--and disunion to Germans is defeat
and ruin."
This prelude appeared to cause considerable emotion. There was
visible agitation throughout the assembly.
Count von Crenneville felt encouraged, and was about to continue his
appeal, when one of the electorals started from his seat and spoke:
"I beg pardon of the imperial envoy; but I must ask permission of
the imperial representative-resident to make a personal remark."
"The permission is granted," replied Count Spaur, solemnly.
The envoy then continued, in loud and agitated tones: "I must, then,
call the attention of this august assembly to a flagrant violation
of the compact agreed between the first and second class of these
ambassadors, by the latter. They have advanced their arm-chairs
until the four legs of the same are now resting upon the carpet."
"We merely advanced our seats, to hear what his excellency had to
say," remarked the envoy from Bremen.
"Nevertheless," replied Count Spaur, "I must request these gentlemen
to recede. The understanding was, that their chairs were to rest
partly on the carpet, partly on the floor."
Back went all the chairs, but their occupants looked daggers at the
envoy from Mentz.
Count von Crenneville then resumed the broken thread of his
discourse: "I earnestly request the assembly to come to a decision
this very day. The country is in imminent danger, and can only be
saved by unanimity and promptitude of action."
Here he was interrupted by the envoy from Bremen, who rose and
begged to be allowed to make his personal remark.
Count Spaur gave the required permission, and Bremen began to
protest against Mentz & Co.
"I beg to remark, that the electoral envoys have spread out their
red cloaks over the backs of the chairs, in such a way as to conceal
the green covering entirely from view."
"It is exceedingly warm in the hall," replied electoral Cologne; "we
were compelled to throw off our cloaks."
"Why, then, did the electoral envoys wear their cloaks?" was the
inquiry of the other side.
"Because we had a right to wear them hither, and violate no compact
by throwing them over our chairs."
"But the electoral envoys had no right to use them as upholstery,"
objected Bremen, in tragic tones. "They have now the appearance of
being seated on red arm-chairs."
"So much the better," replied Cologne. "If accident has re-
established our rights of precedence, nobody has any business to
complain." [Footnote: Historical. See Putter.]
This declaration was received with a burst of indignation, and the
princely envoys rose simultaneously from their seats. A noisy and
angry debate ensued, at the conclusion of which the offended party
declared that they would rest every leg of their chairs upon the
carpet; and, as if at the word of command, every man dragged his
arm-chair most unequivocally forward, and surveyed the enemy with
dogged defiance.
There was now a commotion on the side of the electorals, in the
midst of which Count Spaur, in perfect despair, cried out at the top
of his voice:
"In the name of the emperor, I demand, on both sides, the literal
fulfilment of your conditions. The electoral ambassadors must
withdraw their red cloaks from the backs of their chairs, and throw
them over the arms, and the other envoys must draw back their chairs
until the hind-legs thereof are on the floor."
"My lords," added Count von Crenneville, "I demand also, in the name
of the emperor, that all personalities be cast aside, and that we
give our hearts to our country's cause. France is upon us. She knows
how disunited are the princes of Germany, and their discord is her
sheet-anchor. She knows that you are unprepared to meet her, and the
emperor, being at present too far to come to your rescue, she will
attack you before you have time to defend yourselves. Is it possible
that you have sunk all patriotism in contemptible jealousies of one
another? I cannot believe it! Away with petty rivalry and family
dissensions: clasp hands and make ready to defend our fatherland!"
At this moment there was a knock at the main entrance of the hall,
and two masters of ceremonies appeared.
"I announce to the imperial commissaries, and the envoys of the
German empire here assembled, that a messenger, with important
tidings, requests admission to this illustrious company."
"Whence comes he?" asked Count Spaur.
"He announces himself as Count de Crecy. ambassador extraordinary of
the King of France to the imperial Diet."
This communication was received in profound silence. Dismay was
pictured on many a face, and every eye was turned upon the presiding
envoy, the representative of the emperor.
"I lay it before the imperial Diet," said he, at last, "whether the
French ambassador shall be allowed entrance into the hall during the
sitting of its members."
"Ay, ay, let him enter," was the reply--the first instance of
unanimity among the envoys since the day they had arrived at
Regensburg two years before!
The masters of ceremonies retired, and Count Spaur, putting on his
hat, said: "I declare this sitting suspended. My lords, cover your
heads!"
The French ambassador, followed by a numerous retinue, now entered
the hall. He advanced to the canopy where the imperial envoys were
seated, and inclined his head. Not a word was spoken in return for
his salutation; and, after a short pause, he raised his voice, and
delivered his message:
"In the name of his most Christian majesty, Louis XIV., King of
France, I announce to the Diet of the German empire that he has
taken possession of Bonn, Kaiserswerth, and other strongholds of the
archbishopric of Cologne; that Mentz has opened her doors to his
victorious armies, and that war is declared between France and
Germany. The sword is drawn, nor shall it return to its scabbard
until the inheritance of the Duchess of Orleans is given up to
France, and the King of France is recognized as lord and sovereign
of Lorraine, Alsatia, and the Netherlands! War is declared!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE JUDITH OF ESSLINGEN.
It was a clear, bright morning in March. The snow had long since
melted from the mountain-tops, flowers had begun to peep out of the
earth's bosom, and the trees that, grew upon the heights around
Esslingen were decked with buds of tender green.
But the inhabitants of Esslingen had no pleasure in contemplating
those verdant hills; for the castle that crowned their summit was in
possession of the French. Within its walls the enemy were feasting
and drinking, while the owners of the soil, plundered of all they
possessed, had naught left to them on earth save the cold, bare
boards of their homes, wherein, a few weeks before, peace and plenty
had reigned.
On the 2d of March, 1689, the French reduced the castle of
Heidelberg to a heap of ashes, and for more than a century its bleak
ruins kept alive the hatred of Germany toward their relentless
enemies.
God had permitted them to spread desolation over the land. He had
withdrawn His help from the innocent, and had suffered the wicked to
triumph. After plundering their houses of every necessary of life,
General Melac now required of them tribute in the shape of twenty
thousand florins. To raise one-fourth of the sum was an
impossibility in Esslingen; and the burghers of the town had gone in
a body to the castle to beg for mercy.
Two hours had elapsed since they had departed on their dangerous
mission, and the people, with throbbing hearts, awaited their
return. Up to this day, they had mourned and wept in the solitude of
their plundered homes; but in this hour of mortal suspense, they had
instinctively sought companionship; and now the market-place, in
whose centre was the ancient town-hall, was thronged with men,
women, and children, of every degree. Misfortune had levelled all
distinctions of rank, and the common danger had cemented thousands
of human beings into one stricken and terrified family.
They stood, their anxious looks fixed upon the winding path which
led to the castle, while all around at the open windows pale-faced
women hoped and feared by turns, as they saw light or shadow upon
the faces of the multitude below.
Just opposite the council-hall was a house of dark-gray stone, with
a bow-window and a richly-fretted gable. At the window stood two
persons; one a woman whose head was enveloped in a black veil which
set off the extreme paleness of her face, and fell in long folds
around her person. Near her stood a young girl similarly attired;
but, instead of the hair just tinged with gray, which lay in smooth
bands across the forehead of her companion, her golden curls,
stirred by the breeze, encircled her young head like a halo, and the
veil that fluttered lightly around her graceful person lay like a
misty cloud about a face as beautiful in color as it was in feature.
Spite of suffering and privation, the brow was smooth and fair, the
cheeks were tinged with rose, and the lips were scarlet as autumn
berries. She, like the rest, had endured hunger and cold; but youth
is warmed and nourished by Hope, and the tears that dim a maiden's
eyes are but dew-drops glittering upon a beautiful rose.
Her face was serious and anxious, but her large black eyes flashed
with expectation, and the parted lips showed that hope was stronger
than fear in her young heart. Marie was the only child of the chief
burgomaster of Esslingen, and the lady at her side was his honored
wife.
"Do you see nothing, my child?" said the mother. "Great God! this
suspense is worse than death! Your father expected to be back within
an hour, and more than two hours have gone by!"
The young girl strained her eyes, and looked up the castle-road,
which was just opposite the house. "Mother," said she, "I see
something dark issuing from the gates."
"Oh, look again! Is it they?"
"Yes; I think so, dear mother. I see them advancing: it must be
father and the deputies. Now I begin to distinguish one from the
other. There are one--two--three. Great God, mother! were there not
seven? I see but six!"
"Yes--seven. Your father, two burgomasters, and four senators. Are
you sure? Look--count once more."
"I see them distinctly now: there are six. They will be hidden
presently by the winding of the road; but I see them each one as he
turns aside."
"And there are but six! One of them is missing! Oh, merciful Father,
which of them can it be?"
"I see them no longer. Alas! they are too far for recognition, and
we must wait. Oh, mother, how my heart pains me!"
"Let us pray, my darling," returned the mother, clasping her
daughter's trembling hands.
"Dear mother, I cannot! I am too miserable to pray. If Caspar were
but here, I should feel less wretched."
"And yet, as a soldier of the imperial army, he is in less danger
than he would be, as a civilian of Esslingen. I thank Heaven, dear
Marie, that your betrothed is not here. At least he fights face to
face, with arms in hand; while we--oh, what weapon can avail against
midnight murder and incendiarism?"
"And yet," sighed Marie. "I would he were here to protect me!"
"He would not be allowed to protect you, for, had he seen the
familiarity of that despot yesterday, he would in all probability
have lost his life in your defence."
"I had not thought of that, I had only yearned for his protecting
arm. Yes, mother, he would have done some desperate deed had he seen
the blood-stained hand of that accursed Frenchman when it touched my
cheek, and heard his insolent tones as he asked whether its roses
were colored by nature or art. Oh, mother, what a misfortune for us
that we were on the street when he arrived!"
Mother and daughter now relapsed into silence, for the deputies,
their heads despondingly held down, were to be seen making their way
through the crowd. Frau Wengelin could not articulate the words she
longed to speak; hut Marie, clasping her hands in agony, cried out:
"He is not there! My father is missing!"
With one faint shriek, her mother fell senseless to the floor, while
Marie, darting out of the house, made her way through the throng to
the market-place, and overtook the deputies as they were ascending
the steps that led to the hall of council. Grasping the arm of the
first she encountered, she looked wildly into his eyes, while her
quivering lips vainly tried to murmur, "Where is my father?"
The old man understood those pleading looks, and answered them with
tears.
"Where is my father?" cried Marie, with the strength of her growing
agony; and, as the deputy was still silent, the multitude around
took up the young girl's words and shouted: "Where is her father?
Tell us where is the Burgomaster Wengelin?"
"Is he dead?" murmured Marie, her teeth chattering with fear.
"No, Marie," replied the senator, "he is not dead, hut if no help is
vouchsafed from above, he will die to-day, and we must all die with
him."
The people broke into a long wail, and Marie fell upon her knees to
pray. She could frame no words wherewith to cry for mercy, but her
soul was with God; and for a few moments she was rapt in an ecstasy
that bore her far, far away from the weeping multitude around. She
was recalled from her pious transport by the voice of her uncle, one
of the deputies, who was addressing the people.
General Melac had mocked at their petition. They had humbled
themselves on their knees for the sake of their suffering fellow-
citizens, but the heartless Frenchman had laughed, and, laughing,
reiterated his command.
If before sunset the five hundred thousand francs were not
forthcoming, the French soldiery would be there with fire and sword.
The inhabitants should be exterminated, and Esslingen laid in ashes.
This horrible disclosure was received with another burst of woe,
except from the unfortunate Marie, who stood like a pale and rigid
Niobe--her grief too deep for tears or sighs.
When the tumult had somewhat subsided, the senator resumed his sad
recital. At sound of the Frenchman's cruel mandate, the Burgomaster
Wengelin had risen from his knees, and raising his head proudly, had
cried out: "Give us back that of which you have robbed us, and we
can pay you ten times the sum you ask. We were a peaceful and
prosperous community until your plundering hordes reduced us to
beggary. Be content with the booty you have already; and be not
twice a barbarian, first stealing our property, and then, like a
fiend, requiring us to reproduce and lay it at your feet."
The noble indignation of the burgomaster excited nothing but mirth
on the part of the Frenchman. He laughed.
"Well, it makes no great difference, after all. Your lives will do
quite as well as the ransom you cannot afford to pay for them. My
soldiery like fire and blood and pretty women almost as well as they
do gold, and I shall enjoy the spectacle from the castle-walls. As
for you, burgomaster, you have something that I covet for my own
use--your beautiful daughter."
"My daughter!" shrieked Wengelin, defiantly, "before she should be
delivered to you, monster! I would take her life as Virginius took
that of his well-beloved child!"
The general said not a word. For a time the two men eyed each other
like two enraged tigers; but General Melac wasted no time in vain
indignation. He signed to his guards, and ordered them to take away
the prisoner, and retain him as a hostage until sunset.
"When our well-beloved citizens of Esslingen shall hear the report
of the musketry that ends HIS life,--they will know that the signal
for pillage has been given. The execution will take place at
sunset."
Then, addressing himself to the six remaining deputies: "Go," said
he, "and relate what you have seen and heard to your fellow-
citizens; and tell them that my Frenchmen are skilful both with
sabre and torch; they have been practising for several weeks past in
Heidelberg, Mannheim, and other German cities. Do not forget to
communicate all this to the fair daughter of the burgomaster."
This time there was no outburst of grief from the people; they felt
that all hope was vain, and they were nerving themselves for
martyrdom. Presently there was a sound of voices, and the fugitives
from Wurtemberg and the Palatinate were heard relating their
frightful experience of the warfare of a monarch who styled himself
"Most Christian King."
One of them mounted the steps of the council-hall, and described the
entrance of the French into his native town. The people were driven
with bayonets from their beds into the snow, children were tossed
into the flames; old men were butchered like cattle; maidens were
torn from the arms of their parents, and given over to the soldiery;
and the narrator, who had escaped, had been for days without food--
for weeks without covering or shelter!
As the man concluded this frightful picture of carnage, a voice from
among the crowd was heard in clear, loud, ringing tones:
"There is rescue at hand--we must make use of it!"
At the same moment, Marie felt a grasp upon her arm, and turning
beheld herself in the custody of a tall, pale man, who continued to
cry out:
"She can rescue us! I saw the French general stroke her cheeks
yesterday, and look at her with eyes of love. Did he not demand her
of her father? And were his last words not a message to her? I hint
that she might ransom us if she would!"
"Ay, ay," responded one of the crowd. "Ay!" echoed another and
another; and now the chorus gathered strength, and swelled into a
shout that penetrated the walls of Esslingen Castle, and reached the
ears of Marie's unconscious father.
Marie covered her face with her hands, and sank upon her knees. "Oh,
Caspar!" was the unspoken thought of her affectionate soul.
"Friends!" exclaimed her uncle, "you are drunk with cowardly fright.
Know ye that ye ask of this maiden her own ruin for your lives--?"
"But if Melac's soldiery are set upon us," replied a young woman in
the throng; "we shall all he ruined--mothers, wives, and maidens.
And is it not better," continued she, raising her voice, and
addressing the mob, "is it not better that one woman should suffer
dishonor than a thousand?"
"Marie Wengelin will have her father's life to answer for, as well
as the lives of her fellow-citizens," cried another voice. "It is
her duty to sacrifice herself."
At this moment the loud, shrill tones of an affrighted voice were
heard calling out, "Marie! Marie! my child!" and the figure of Frau
Wengelin, with outstretched arms, was now seen at the window, whence
the mother and daughter had watched the return of the deputies.
Marie would have responded to that pathetic appeal, but as she rose
from her knees, and attempted to move, she was forced and held back
by the crowd. They were lost to all sense of humanity for the one
segregated being by whose immolation the safety of the aggregate
might be effected.
"Have pity! have pity!" cried the poor girl. "Do you not hear my
mother calling me? Think of your own children, and hinder me not, I
implore ye!"
"We think of our children, and therefore you shall not go! You shall
sacrifice yourself for the suffering many!"
And they lifted her back to the peristyle, where she stood alone,
confronting the pitiless crowd that demanded her honor wherewith to
buy their lives. What was the fate of the daughter of Jephthah,
compared to that which threatened poor Marie of Esslingen?
Suddenly a cloud seemed to pass over the sky, and the faces of her
enemies were no longer distinct. Marie raise her arms wildly over
her head, and screamed, for too well she understood the shadow that
rested upon the market-place. The sun had sunk behind the heights of
Esslingen, and one half hour remained ere her father lost his life.
The crowd renewed their cries, entreaties, and threats. Some
appealed to her patriotism, some to her filial love, some called her
a murderess,--the meanest among the multitude attempted to terrify
her--as if any doom could equal the horror of the one they were
forcing upon an innocent, pure-hearted, and loving girl!
She raised her hand to obtain a hearing.
"You shall not perish if my prayers can save you! I will go to our
oppressor, and try to move his heart to pity."
She heard neither their shouts of joy nor their thanks. She was
hardly conscious of the blessings that were being poured on her
head, the kisses that were imprinted on her rigid, clammy hands. She
stood for a while, her teeth clinched, her eyes distended, her
figure dilated to its utmost; then suddenly she shivered, thrust
away the women that were clustering about her, and began her via
crucis.
At the gate of the city she encountered the pastor that had baptized
and received her into the church. He had placed himself there that
he might pour what consolation he could into that bruised and
bleeding heart. The old man laid his hand upon her golden curls, and
she fell at his feet. The multitude that had followed their victim
simultaneously bent the knee and bowed their heads; for, although
they were too far to overhear his words, they knew that the pastor
was blessing her.
"As Abraham blessed Isaac, and as the Israelites blessed Judith, so
do I bless thee, thou deliverer of thy people! May God inspire thy
tongue, and so soften the heart of the tyrant, that he may hearken
to thy prayers, and, looking upon thy pure and virgin brow, he may
respect that honor which is dearer to woman than life. God bless
thee, Marie! God bless thee!" He bowed his head close to her ear.
"Marie you are a Christian. Swear to me that you will not stain your
hands with blood."
Marie's eyes flashed fire. "Did not the Israelite kill Holofernes?"
"Yes, my child; but Israel's heroine was called Judith, and ours
bears the blessed name of Mary! 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;
I will repay.'"
Marie's eye was still unsubdued, and she looked more like Judith
than like Mary. The old pastor was agitated and alarmed.
"Marie, Marie, you are in the hands of God. Come weal, come wo, can
you not trust yourself to Him? See, the sun goes lower and lower;
but before I release your hand you must swear that it shall shed no
blood."
Alas! Yes--the sun was rapidly sinking, and she must hasten, or her
father's life would be lost. "I promise," said she, "and now,
father, pray--pray for--"
She could say no more; hut rising she went alone up the steps that
led to Esslingen Castle. The people, still on their knees, followed
her lithe figure till it was hidden for a time by the fir-trees that
grew along the heights; then, as she emerged again and appeared at
the hill-top, the multitude gave vent to their feelings in prayer.
Higher and higher she mounted, until they saw that she had reached
the gates, and disappeared.
CHAPTER VII.
HER RETURN.
Hours went by and darkness set in. It was a cold night in March; the
wind howled in fitful gusts along the streets, but the people could
not disperse. They sat shivering together in the market-place; for
how was it possible for sleep to visit their eyes, when every moment
might hurl destruction upon their heads. The old priest went from
one to another, encouraging the desponding, and comforting the
afflicted; praying with the mothers, and covering their shivering
children, who, stretched at the feet of their parents, or resting
within their arms, were the only ones there to whom sleep brought
oblivion of sorrow.
At last that fearful night of suspense went by. A rosy flush tinged
the eastern sky, it deepened to gold, and the sun rose. The people
raised a hymn of thanksgiving, and, as they were rising from their
devotions, the roll of a drum was heard, and a file of soldiers were
seen issuing from the castle-gates. They came nearer and nearer,
until they reached the city; but by the time they had neared the
market-place, not a human being was there to confront them: the
people had all fled to their houses.
They stopped before the residence of the burgomaster, and from an
opening made in the ranks there issued two persons; the one a man,
the other a woman. The latter was veiled, and her head rested
languidly upon the shoulders of her companion.
A group of French officers escorted them to the door, where they
took off their hats, and, bowing low, retired. The father and
daughter were lost to view, the drum beat anew, and the men, without
exchanging a word with the inhabitants, returned to their quarters
at Esslingen Castle.
The people were no sooner reassured as to the intentions of the
soldiers, than they poured in streams from their homes, and took
their way to the burgomaster's house. Congratulations were exchanged
between friends, parents embraced their children, husbands pressed
their wives to their bosoms; every heart overflowed with gratitude
to Marie, every voice was lifted in her praise.
But she! Scarcely enduring her mother's caresses, she had torn
herself from that mother's embrace, and, hastening away to the
solitude of her own room, had bolted herself within.
Two hours went by, and the house of the burgomaster could scarcely
contain the friends that flocked thither to welcome his daughter.
Without, a band of music was playing martial airs, while within,
halls, parlors, and staircases, were crowded with magistrates in
their robes of office, churchmen in their clerical gowns, and women
and maidens in gay and festive apparel.
A deputation of citizens now requested to be permitted to pay homage
to the heroine that had rescued her townsmen from death; and Frau
Wengelin ventured to knock at the door of her daughter's chamber.
She was so earnest in her pleadings, that at last the bolt was
withdrawn, and Marie, with bloodshot eyes, and mouth convulsed,
appeared upon the threshold.
"Come, my child," said the poor mother, "the citizens will not leave
the house until they have seen you." And compelling her forward,
Frau Wengelin, with some difficulty, brought her as far as the foot
of the staircase.
She was greeted with loud and repeated cheerings, which scarcely
appeared to reach her ear, while her eyes, fixed upon the throng
before her, seemed to ask what meant this turmoil.
Suddenly she heard her name whispered, and, with a fearful shriek,
she recoiled from the outstretched hand of a young man, who had just
rushed forward to clasp her in his arms.
"What ails my Marie on this festive day, where all is joy around?"
said he. "I have just this moment arrived, to say that help is nigh,
my countrymen," added he, addressing the crowd. "Our army is at
hand, and the French shall suffer for their deeds of violence in
Germany. But what means this large and gay assemblage? And who are
these?" asked he, as a group of young maidens came forward with a
crown of laurel, and some of the principal burgomasters, leading the
bewildered Marie to a throne decked with flowers, seated her on a
chair under its green and fragrant canopy.
No answer was made to his inquiry, for one of the deputies began an
address, in which Marie was hailed as the heroine that had rescued
her fellow-citizens from death, and her native place from
destruction. Her portrait was to grace the council-hall of
Esslingen, and such honors as it lay in the power of its magistrates
to confer, were to be hers forever.
At this moment Marie rose suddenly from her seat, gasped for breath,
and fell as suddenly back, for the first time lifting her face,
which, as she lay against the wall of flowers that concealed her
chair, was marble-white, and strangely convulsed.
Her mother started forward, and Caspar, catching her in his arms,
covered her face with kisses.
"What ails thee, my beloved? Oh, do not look so wildly at thy
Caspar! Marie, my own one, what is it?"
"It is over," murmured she, almost inaudibly.
"What is over?" cried the frightened mother, bending over her
child's writhing form.
"Life!" sighed the girl, and her eyes closed wearily.
The frightful stillness was unbroken by a sound. Frau Wengelin
suppressed her sobs, that she might gaze upon her dying child; while
her father stood by, the picture of dumb despair. Caspar held her to
his heart, dimly apprehending the fearful tragedy of the hour, and
the guests pressed noiselessly around, vainly striving to catch a
glimpse of their victim's face.
The crowd opened to allow passage to the priest, who, approaching
the throne, came and knelt beside Caspar.
"Marie," said he, in a loud, distinct voice, that reached the
portals of her soul, and aroused her departing senses.
Marie slowly opened her eyes, and gazed upon the speaker. "I have
kept my oath," said she, hoarsely. "No blood was shed, but I have
returned to die."
"Wherefore to die?" cried several voices at once.
"Ask my Caspar," murmured she, looking fondly into the face of her
betrothed, and, with her eyes fixed upon his, Marie's soul took its
flight to heaven.
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I.
THE ISLAND OF BLISS.
They were together in the little pavilion of the garden at
Schonbrunn. With clasped hands, and eyes that sparkled with
happiness, they sat in that sweet silence which to lovers is more
eloquent than words. The door that led to the park was open, and the
balmy breath of May wafted toward them the perfume of the flowers
and trees without.
The park, too, was undisturbed by a sound. The laborers had gone to
their mid-day meal, and the birds had hidden themselves away from
the sunbeams. The great heart of Nature was pulsating with a joy
like that of the lovers, too great for utterance. There was
something in the appearance of this youthful pair which would have
convinced a looker-on that there was a mystery of some sort
surrounding the romance of their love. For the one was in the garb
of a nun, her head concealed by a coif, and her person enveloped in
a long white veil; while the other was attired in a splendid Spanish
dress. Over it hung a heavy gold chain, to which was attached the
order of the Golden Fleece. His soft black hair lay on a forehead
white as snow, and made a pleasant contrast with a face which was
pale, not with sickness or suffering, but with that suppressed
sensibility which leaves the cheek colorless because its fires are
concentrated within the heart. No! It was not for sorrow that Eugene
of Savoy was pale; it was from excess of joy; for SHE was at his
side, and the world had nothing more to bestow!
So thought he, as, with caressing hand, he lifted her long veil from
her shoulders and threw it behind, in imitation of the drapery that
hangs around Raphael's Madonnas.
"Oh, how I love you, Sister Angelica!" murmured he; "and, in my
feverish visions, how often I have mistaken that white veil for the
snowy sail of a ship of which I used to dream in my delirium--a ship
that was bearing me onward to an island of bliss, where my Laura
stood with outstretched arms, and welcomed me home! But what were
imagination's brightest picturings to the reality of the deep joy
that flooded my being, when the veil was flung back, and my love
stood revealed! Oh, Laura--my life will be all too short to reward
you for your fidelity."
"You love me, Eugene, and therein is my unspeakable reward."
"And will you never leave me, dearest?"
She laid her small hand upon his head, smoothed his hair fondly, and
gazed passionately into his eyes. "You ask, as if you required an
answer," said she, in tones that were tremulous with love.
"I do require an answer, for I am continually fearing that this is a
blissful dream; and that some morn I shall awake to find thee flown,
and Angelica the nun all that is left of thee! When thou art absent
from my sight, I shiver with dread lest I should see thee never
more."
She laughed, and oh, how musical was her laugh! "Is this the hero of
Belgrade, that talks of shivering with dread?"
"Yes; and when he thinks that he might lose you, he is no hero, but
a poor coward. And in truth, my Laura, I am tired of a soldier's
life--it is too exciting for my health; and I am tired of the world
and its frivolities, too. If you love me as I do you, you will be
happy in our mutual love, without other companionship than mine."
"Over castle-roof, and through the dangerous descent of that castle-
chimney, came I to meet you, Eugene; how then should I pine for
other companionship?"
"When I think how mysterious was your escape, I dread lest you
should disappear from me as mysteriously. The very thought presses
on my brain like the first horrid symptoms of madness; then my body
begins to suffer, my wounds seem to open, and bleed anew. Laura,
prove to me your love by going with me into solitude. I am tired of
being a courtier, and have asked the emperor for my discharge."
"Did he grant it, Eugene?" asked she, fixing her large, penetrating
eyes upon his, with an earnestness that forbade him to avoid her
glance.
"He will grant it to-morrow. To-morrow for the last time, I go to
the imperial palace as a field-marshal; I shall return thence nobody
but Eugene of Savoy, your lover, who lives but to serve you, and
repay if he can all that he owes to your courageous and heroic
affection."
"The emperor has refused," replied Laura. "He gave you time for
reflection," added she, looking intently again into her lover's
eyes.
"Perhaps he may have wished me to reflect," replied he, smiling, and
trying to endure her scrutiny, "But my resolve is not to be shaken.
I shall retire to the estate presented me by the emperor in Hungary,
there to live with my darling on an island of bliss, upheaved so far
above the tempestuous ocean of the world's vicissitudes, that no
lashing of its waves will ever reach our home. Will you go with me
into this island, where you shall not fear the world's censorious
comments on our reunion--where you may throw aside that false vestal
garb, and be my own untrammelled bride?"
Laura said nothing; a deep glow suffused her cheeks, and her eyes
filled with tears. Gliding from her seat to her knees, she took her
lover's hand and covered it with kisses.
"Laura!" exclaimed he, "what can this signify?"
Laura wept on for a time in silence; then, when she had recovered
herself sufficiently to speak, she replied:
"It signifies that I bow down before the magnanimity of him who, to
shield me from the world's contumely, would relinquish that which he
holds most dear on earth, his hopes of glory."
"Laura, give me an answer to my prayer. Will you go with me to my
estates in Hungary?"
Laura smiled, but said nothing.
"Answer me, Laura, answer me, my own love."
"The emperor gave you a day to reflect upon your sudden desire for
retirement. Give me but one hour for my decision."
"You hesitate!"
"Only ONE hour, Eugene; but during that hour I must be alone with my
Maker. Await me here."
Drawing the veil over her face, Laura bounded lightly down the
pavilion stops, and walked hurriedly toward the palace. Eugene
looked after her with eyes that beamed with love ineffable, sighing
as he did so: "She is worthy of the sacrifice; I owe it to her."
The hour seemed interminable. At first, he fixed his eyes upon the
walk by which she must return; then he turned away, that he might
wait until he heard her dear voice.
At last a light step approached the pavilion; he heard it coming up
the steps, and a beloved voice spoke:
"The Marchioness de Bonaletta."
Eugene turned, and there, instead of Sister Angelica, stood his
beautiful Laura in rich attire-so beautiful that he thought he had
never sufficiently admired her before.
He started forward, and, dropping on one knee, took her little hand,
and covered it with kisses. Then, rising, he flung his arm around
her waist, and drew her to a seat.
"Now read me the riddle," said he.
"My beloved, do you think me so blind as not to have comprehended
the immeasurable sacrifice you would have made to my womanly pride?
Oh, how I thank you, my own, peerless Eugene! But I will not accept
it. I may not bear your name, but God knows that I am your wife, as
Eve was the spouse of Adam; and it is for me to show that our bond
is holy, by enduring courageously the stigma of being considered as
your mistress. Enough for me to feel that to you I shall be an
honored and beloved wife, incapable of sharing your fame, but oh,
how proud of my hero! Gird on your sword, my Eugene, and fulfil your
glorious destiny. Go once more into the world, and let me share your
fate."
"Let her share my fate! She asks me to let her share my fate." cried
Eugene, pressing her to his heart. And God and Stature blessed the
union that man refused to acknowledge.
CHAPTER II.
THE FRENCH IN SPEIER.
General Melac and his murderous hordes were in the old city of
Speier, squandering the goods and money of which they had robbed the
unfortunate inhabitants. Scarcely two months had elapsed since the
departure of the French from Esslingen, and in that short interval
they had laid more than one hundred towns in ashes.
But Melac was insatiable; his eyes feasted on the scarlet hue of
German blood, his ears were ravished with the sounds of German
groans and sighs; and oftentimes, when the poor hunted fugitives
were flying from his presence, he made a pastime of their misery for
himself, by aiming at them with his own musket, to see how many he
could bring down before they passed out of sight.
He was holding a council of war with his generals; but, while he
made merry over his cruelties of the day before, and projected
others for the morrow, his officers frowned and averted their eyes.
His thick, sensual lips expanded with a hideous smile. "It would
seem that my orders are not agreeable," said he. "Pray, gentlemen,
am I so unlucky as to have earned your disapproval?"
There was no answer to this inquiry, but neither was there any
change in the aspect of the officers.
"General Feuquiere," cried Melac, "you are not usually reticent;
pray, let us hear your opinion of my mode of warfare."
"I cannot approve of cruelty," replied Feuquiere, bluntly. "Our men
act much less like the brave soldiers of a Christian king, than like
demons that have been let loose from hell."
"You do not flatter us," replied Melac. "And I am curious to know
whether anybody else here present shares your opinion."
"We are all of one mind," was the unanimous reply.
"We are assassins and incendiaries, but we have never yet fought a
battle like men," resumed De Feuquiere.
"No," added Montclas. "We have longed in vain for honorable warfare;
for a fair combat before the light of heaven, face to face with men
armed like ourselves; and we are sick at heart of midnight torches
and midnight murders."
"No doubt; you are a sentimental personage, I hear: one who shed
tears when the order was given to sack Mannheim."
"I am not ashamed of those tears," returned Montclas. "For three
months these much enduring people have exerted themselves to do our
bidding, treating us like guests who had come to them as foes. And
when, in return for their kindness, our soldiery were ordered to
sack their beautiful city, I wept while I was forced to obey the
inhuman command of my superior officer. May Almighty God not hold me
responsible as a creature for what I have been forced to do as a
soldier!"
"You can justify yourself by referring the Almighty to me, as I
shall certainly justify myself by referring Him to Monsieur Louvois.
It is true that I do not weep when I carry out his orders; but you
may judge for yourselves whether I transcend them,--General
Montclas, be so good as to read aloud this dispatch."
General Montclas took the paper, and read in an audible voice:
"'It is now two weeks since I have seen a courier from the army.
What are you about that I receive no more accounts of the
destruction of German cities wherewith to entertain the idle hours
of his majesty? You have been ordered to devastate the entire German
frontier. You began bravely, but you are not keeping the promise of
your opening. The Germans are full of sentiment, and you must wound
them through their affections and associations. Burn their houses,
sack their fine churches, deface and destroy their monuments and
public buildings. When next you write, let me hear that Speier with
its magnificent cathedral is a thing of the past; and be
expeditious, that Worms and Trier may share the same fate.'"
"'LOUVOIS.'"
"You see, then," observed Melac, "that I do but obey orders."
"That may be," sighed De Feuquiere, "but all Europe will rise in one
indignant protest against our inhumanity."
"Let them protest; we will have raised such a barrier of desolation
between themselves and France, that we can afford to laugh at their
indignation. I for my part approve of the method of warfare traced
out for us by the minister of war, and I shall carry it out from
Basle to Coblentz. The time we allowed to the people of Speier for
reflection, expires to-day. To horse, then! The burgomasters are
waiting for us in the market-place by the cathedral."
Yes! The burghers, the clergy, the women, and the children, were on
their knees in the market-place, crying for mercy. Melac, laughing
at their wretchedness, spurred his horse onward, and plunged into
their midst, scattering them right and left like a flock of
frightened sheep; and the clang of his horse's hoofs on the stone
pavement sounded to his unhappy victims like the riveting of nails
in the great coffin wherein their beautiful city was shortly to be
buried.
But they were not noisy in their grief. Here and there might be
heard a slight sob, and, with this exception, there was silence in
that thronged market-place.
Suddenly the great bell of the cathedral began to toll, and after it
all the bells in Speier. General Melac slackened his pace, and rode
deliberately along the market-place, as if to give that weeping
multitude the opportunity of looking upon his cruel face, and
reading there that from him no mercy was to be expected.
The bells ceased, and their tones were yet trembling on the air,
when the women and children lifted up their voices and began to
chant: "In my trouble I called on the Lord!"
The strain was taken up by the musicians who stood at the open
windows of the council-hall, and now the burghers, the magistrates,
and the clergy, joined in the holy song. The French uncovered their
heads and listened reverentially, while many an eye was dimmed with
tears, and many a heart bled for the fate of those whom they could
not rescue.
Every man there felt the influence of the blessed words except one.
General Melac was neither awed nor touched; his pale eye was as
cold, his sardonic mouth as cruel as ever.
"He is perfectly hardened," murmured a monk, who was leaning against
one of the columns of the cathedral. This monk was a young man, of
tall, muscular build. His wide shoulders and fine, erect figure,
seemed much more suitable to a soldier than to a brother of the
order of mercy. Even his sun-burnt face had a proud, martial look;
and as his dark, glowing eyes rested on Melac, they kindled with a
glance that was not very expressive of brotherly love.
"He is without pity," thought he, "and perhaps 'tis well; for I
might have been touched to grant him a death more merciful."
He moved away that he might distinguish the words that were now
being poured forth from the quivering lips of the white-haired
prebendary of the cathedral; but the poor old priest's voice was
tremulous with tears, and the monk could not hear. He then made a
passage for himself through the crowd and approached General Melac.
The prebendary had ceased to speak, and there was a solemn stillness
in the market-place, for every sigh was hushed to catch the words
that were to follow.
Melac looked around that he might sec how many thousand human beings
were acknowledging his power, then he drew in his rein and smiled--
that deadly smile!
"My orders must be carried out," said he, in a loud and distinct
voice. "Speier must be razed to the ground, and I am sorry that its
inhabitants were unwilling to profit by the permission I gave them
to emigrate to France. They would have been kindly received there."
"We hope for mercy," was the reply of the prebendary. "Oh, general,
let us not hope in vain!"
"No mercy shall be given you," said Melac, who, turning to General
Montelas, remarked, "What an advantage I have over you! I know their
language, and can understand all their expressions of grief! It is a
comic litany!"
"Demon, I will repay thee!" muttered the monk. And, coming close to
the general's horse, he laid his hand upon the rein.
"What do you mean, sirrah?" cried Melac. "Withdraw your hand."
"Your excellency," replied the man in pure French, "allow me to
station myself at your horse's head, for you may need my help to-
day."
"Your help? Wherefore?"
"The work in which you are engaged is apt to provoke personal
hostility. I dreamed last night that I saw you weltering in your
blood, enveloped in flames. I am superstitiouns--very; particularly
as regards dreams, and I left the hospital where I was engaged in
nursing the sick, on purpose to protect your excellency from secret
foes."
"Protect me! Who do you suppose would he so bold as to attack me?
Not this whining multitude around us."
"Nobody knows to what acts despair may drive the meekest of men,"
was the monk's reply.
"Very well; I believe you are right," said Melac, a little
disturbed. "Station yourself at my rein, then."
At that moment there was a general wail, and many a voice was lifted
up in one last effort to soften the heart of their persecutor.
"Speier must be destroyed," was his answer, "but to show you the
extent of my clemency, I will now announce to you that without the
gates are four hundred forage-wagons, which I have provided for the
removal of your valuables (if you have any) to any point you may
select within the boundaries of France. Those who prefer to remain,
are allowed to deposit their effects in the cathedral, and to guard
them in person. The temple of Almighty God is sacred, and the hand
of man shall not profane its sanctity by deeds of violence. Take
your choice of the cathedral or the army-wagons: I give you four
hours' grace. If, after that time, I find a German on the streets,
man, woman, or child, the offender shall be scourged or put to the
sword."
In a few moments the market-place was empty, and the people,
exhausted and cowed though they were, by two months of oppression,
had flown to take advantage of this last act of grace.
"Now, my excellent brother," said Melac to the monk, "you see that I
am quite safe, and can dispense with your protection."
"The day is not yet at an end," said the monk, solemnly.
"You are right." cried the butcher, "it has scarcely begun; but by
and-by we shall see a comedy that will raise your spirits for a
month to come. The actors thereof are to be the people of Speier,
and the entertainment will close with an exhibition of fireworks on
a magnificent scale. Send me two ordnance officers!" cried he to his
staff.
Two lancers approached and saluted their commander.