LEONORE DE SIMONIE.
Napoleon's word was fulfilled! Scarcely two months had passed when he
avenged the battle of Aspern on Austria, and twined fresh laurels of
victory around his brow. On the 6th of July a conflict occurred which
completed Austria's misfortunes and wrested from her all the advantages
which the victory of Aspern had scarcely won.
The fight of Wagram gave Austria completely into the hands of the victor,
made Napoleon again master of the German empire, compelled the Emperor
Francis and his whole family to seek refuge in Hungary, and yielded Vienna
and its environs to the conqueror's will. The French imperial army, amid
the clash of military music, again entered Vienna, whose inhabitants were
forced to bow their heads to necessity in gloomy silence, and submit to
receiving and entertaining their victorious foes as guests in their homes.
The Emperor Napoleon selected Schönbrunn for his residence, and seemed
inclined to rest comfortably there after the fresh victory won at Wagram.
It had indeed been a victory, but it had cost great and bloody sacrifices.
Thrice a hundred thousand men had confronted each other on this memorable
6th of July, 1809; eight hundred cannon had shaken the earth all day
incessantly with their terrible thunder, and the course of their balls was
marked on both sides with heaps of corpses. Both armies had fought with
tremendous fury and animosity, for the Austrians wished to add fresh
laurels to the fame just won at Aspern, the French to regain what the days
of Esslingen at least rendered doubtful: the infallibility of success, the
conviction that victory would ever be associated with their banners.
It was the fury of the conflict which made the victory uncertain. The
Austrians showed themselves heroes on the day of Wagram, and for a long
time it seemed as if victory would fall to them. But Napoleon, who seemed
to be indefatigable and tireless, who all day long did not leave his horse,
directing and planning everything himself, perceived in time the danger of
his troops and brought speedy and effective reinforcements to the already
yielding left wing of the army. But more than twenty thousand men on both
sides had fallen victims on this terrible field. Though Napoleon, in his
bulletins of victory, exultingly announced to the world another magnificent
triumph, France did not join enthusiastically as usual in the rejoicing of
the commander-in-chief, for she had been obliged to pay for the new laurels
with the corpses of too many thousands of her sons, and the pæans of
victory were drowned by the sighs and lamentations of so many thousand
orphaned children, widowed wives, and betrothed maidens.
Napoleon seemed to pay little heed to this; he was enjoying at Schönbrunn
his victory and his triumph; he gathered his brilliant staff around him,
gave superb entertainments, and by parades and reviews lured the Viennese
to Schönbrunn to witness the brilliant spectacle.
In Vienna, also, the conquerors arranged magnificent festivals, seeking to
win the favor of the conquered people by the amusements offered them. The
French governor-general of Vienna, Count Andreossy, zealously endeavored to
collect around him the remains of the Austrian aristocracy, attract the
society of the capital by elegant dinners, balls, and receptions, and since
the armistice of Znaim, which occurred soon after the battle of Wagram had
put an end to hostilities the Viennese appeared disposed to accept the
truce and attend the brilliant entertainments and pleasant amusements
offered by Count Andreossy.
The latter was not the only person who opened his drawing-rooms to the
Viennese; others soon followed; fashionable Parisian society seemed for
the time to have transferred its gay circle from Paris to Vienna; to make
in the German imperial capital propaganda for the gay, intellectual, and
brilliant circle of the imperial capital of France.
Beautiful women, distinguished by illustrious names, by wealth and charm,
suddenly appeared in Vienna, opened their drawing-rooms, and seemed to make
it their object to reconcile the hostile elements of French and German
society, smooth away contrasts and bring them together.
Among these ladies whom the victory brought to Vienna, the beautiful Madame
de Simonie was conspicuous as a brilliant and unusual person. She was
young, lovely, endowed with rare intellectual gifts, understood how to do
the honors of her drawing-room with the most subtle tact, and was better
suited than any one to act as mediator between the Viennese and the French,
since she herself belonged to both nations. A German by birth, she had
married a Frenchman, lived several years in Paris with her husband, one of
the richest bankers in the capital, and now, being widowed, had come to
Vienna in order, as she said, to divert the minds of her countrymen from
the great grief which the loss of their beloved capital caused them.
Beautiful Leonore de Simonie certainly appeared to be thoroughly in earnest
in her purpose to divert their minds from their great grief. Every evening
her drawing-rooms were thrown open for the reception of guests; every
evening all the generals, French courtiers, and people who belonged to
good society in France were present; every evening more and more Germans
and Viennese went to Madame de Simonie's, until it seemed as if she
afforded Viennese and Parisian society a place of meeting where, forgetting
mutual aversion and hatred, they associated in love and harmony.
To be a visitor at Madame de Simonie's therefore soon became a synonym of
aristocracy in the new fashionable society of Vienna, which was composed of
so many different elements. The foreigners who had come to the Austrian
capital, attracted by the renown of the French emperor, or led by
selfishness, strove with special earnestness to obtain the _entrée_ to
Madame de Simonie's drawing-room, for there they were sure of meeting those
whose acquaintance was profitable; by whose meditation they might hope to
obtain access to the presence of the French emperor.
The day before Baroness Leonore had given a brilliant entertainment. Until
a late hour of the night all the windows of the story which she occupied in
one of the palaces on the Graben were brightly lighted; the curious,
characterless poor people had gathered in the street to watch the carriages
roll up and away, and gaze at the windows whence the candles blazing in the
chandeliers shone down upon them, and behind whose panes they saw in swift
alternation so many gold-embroidered uniforms, so many showy ball dresses.
As has been said, it was a brilliant entertainment and the Baroness de
Simonie might well be content with it; for though the hostess she had also
been its queen. Every one, French as well as Austrians, Russians and
Italians, Hungarians and Poles, had offered her enthusiastic homage; had
expressed in glowing encomiums their greatful thanks for the magnificent
festival she had given.
She had been radiant, too, in grace and beauty yesterday evening. The
gayest jests were throned upon her scarlet lips, the proudest light had
sparkled in her large black eyes, the most radiant roses of youth had
bloomed on her delicate cheeks, and the long black tresses which, with
wonderful luxuriance, encircled her high white brow, had been to many the
Armida nets in which their hearts were prisoned.
But to-day, on the morning after this festival, all that was left of the
brilliant queen of the ball was a pale, exhausted young woman, who lay on
the divan with a sorrowful expression in her eyes, while ever and anon deep
sighs of pain escaped from her breast.
She was in her boudoir, whose equipments displayed French luxury and taste.
Everything about her bore the appearance of wealth, happiness, and
pleasure, yet her face was sad--yet Leonore de Simonie sighed--yet her lips
sometimes murmured words of lamentation, satiety, even bitter suffering.
But suddenly a ray of delight flitted over her face; a happy smile
brightened her pale features; and this was when, among the many letters the
servant had just brought to her, she discovered the little note which she
had just read and then, with passionate impetuosity, pressed to her lips.
"He will come, oh, he will come; he will be with me in an hour!" she
whispered, again glancing over the note with beaming, happy eyes, and then
thrusting it into her bosom.
"This is mine," she said softly; "my property; no one shall dispute it with
me, and--"
A tremor ran through every limb, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, then
yielded to a deep pallor--she had heard steps approaching in the
drawing-room outside, recognized the voice which called her name.
"He is coming!" she murmured. "It is he! My executioner is approaching to
begin the tortures of the rack afresh."
At that moment the door which led into the apartment really did open, and a
little gentleman, daintily and fashionably attired, entered.
"May I venture to pay my respects to Baroness de Simonie?" he asked,
pausing at the door and bowing low, with a smiling face.
Leonore did not answer. She lay motionless on the divan, her beautiful
figure outstretched at full length, her face calm and indifferent, her
large eyes uplifted with a dreamy expression to the ceiling.
"Madame la Baronne does not seem to have heard me," said the gentleman,
shrugging his shoulders. "I ventured to ask the question whether I could
pay my respects to you."
Still she did not move, did not turn her eyes toward him, but said in a
loud, distinct voice: "You see. We are alone! What is the use of playing
this farce?"
"Well," he cried, laughing, "your answer shows that we are really alone and
need no mask. Good-day, then, Leonore, or rather good-morning, for, as I
see, you are still in your dressing-gown and probably have just risen from
your couch."
"It was four o'clock in the morning when the guests departed and I could go
to rest," she said, still retaining her recumbent attitude.
"It is true, the entertainment lasted a very long time," he cried, dropping
unceremoniously into the armchair which stood beside the divan. "Moreover,
it is true that you were an admirable hostess and understood how to do the
honors of your house most perfectly. The gentlemen were all completely
bewitched by you, and, in my character of your uncle and social guide, I
received more clasps of the hand and embraces than ever before in my whole
life."
"I can imagine how much it amused you," she said coldly and indifferently.
"Yes," he cried, laughing, "I admit that it amused me, especially when I
thought what horror and amazement would fill these haughty aristocrats who
yesterday offered me their friendship, if they knew who and what we both
really were."
"I wish they did know," she said quietly.
"Heaven forbid!" he cried, starting up. "What put such a mad, preposterous
wish into your head?"
"I am bored," she replied. "I am weary of perpetually playing a farce."
"But how are we playing a farce?" he asked in astonishment. "We are trying
to make our fortune, or as the French more correctly express it, _Nous
corrigous notre fortune_. Why do you call it playing a farce?"
"Because we pretend to be what we are not, honest aristocrats."
"My dear, you are combining what is rarely put together in life; for you
see aristocratic people are rarely honest, and honest folk are seldom
aristocrats."
"But we are neither," she said quietly.
"The more renown for us that we appear to be both," he cried, laughing,
"and that no one suspects us. My dear Leonore seems to have an attack of
melancholy to-day, which I have never witnessed in her before, and which
renders me suspicious."
"Suspicious?" she asked, and, for the first time, turned her head slightly,
fixing her eyes with a questioning glance upon the old man who sat beside
her, nodding and smiling. "Suspicious! I don't know what you mean."
"Well, I really did not intend to say anything definite," he replied,
smiling. "I only meant that it is strange to see you suddenly so depressed
by your position, which hitherto so greatly amused you. And, because this
seemed strange, I sought--searching you know is a trait of human nature--I
sought the cause of this new mood."
"Do you think you have found it?" she asked carelessly.
"Perhaps so," he said, smiling. "The most clever and experienced woman may
be deluded by love, and suffer her reason to be clouded by sweet, alluring
visions."
"You mean that I have done so?"
"Yes, that is what I mean; but it gives me no further anxiety, for I have
confidence that your reason will soon conquer your heart. So I do not
grudge you the rare satisfaction of enjoying the bliss of being loved. Only
I warn you not to take the matter seriously and strive to make the dream a
reality."
"And if that should happen, what would you do?"
"I would be inexorable," he answered sternly. "I would tell who and what
you are."
She lay motionless; her face still retained its calm, indifferent
expression, only for a moment an angry flash darted from her eyes at the
old gentleman, but she lowered her lids over them, as if they must not
betray the secrets of her soul.
A pause followed, interrupted only by the slow, regular ticking of the
great Rococo clock which stood on the marble mantelpiece.
"You will not find it necessary to make such disclosures," Leonore said at
last, slowly and wearily, "for you are perfectly right, I shall never grant
love the mastery over my future. I know who I am, and that says everything.
It will never be requisite to communicate it to others."
"I am sure of it," he said kindly. "And now, my dear Leonore, let us say
nothing about our private affairs and pass on to business."
"Yes, let us do so," she answered quietly. "I am waiting for your
questions."
"Then first: what did Count Andreossy want, when he begged for an interview
so urgently yesterday evening?"
"You were listening?" she asked calmly.
"I heard it. I would gladly have listened to your conversation, but you
were malicious enough to grant him the interview in the little corner
drawing-room, which has but a single entrance. So it was impossible to
enter it unnoticed. Well, what did the count want?"
"He wanted to tell me that he loved me unutterably. He wanted to implore
the favor of accepting from him the _coupé_ with the two dapple-grays, in
which he drove me yesterday, and which I had praised."
"I hope that you granted the favor."
"I did. The equipage will be sent to-day."
"The dapple-grays are remarkably beautiful," said the old gentleman,
rubbing his hands contentedly. "They are worth at least a thousand florins,
and the _coupé_ is a model of elegance and beauty. The count received it
from Paris a fortnight ago. But how did you repay Andreossy for his regal
gift?"
"I told him that I detested him, and that he need never hope for my love."
"Yet you accepted his gift?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes. I accepted it because he entreated it as the first and greatest
favor, and because, after the deep sorrow I had caused him, I could not
help granting so small a boon."
"Magnificent!" he cried, laughing; "you talk like a reigning queen,
accepting gifts from her vassal. Then the count loves you passionately,
does he not?"
"He loves nothing except himself and his ambition. He would like to obtain
the title of prince from Napoleon."
"And he believes that you could aid him?"
"Indirectly, yes. If I help him to discover an affair which is of great
importance to the emperor, and for whose disclosure he could not fail to
reward Count Andreossy."
"What kind of an affair?"
"A conspiracy," she said quietly.
"A conspiracy? Against whom?"
"Against the Emperor Napoleon. Andreossy naturally believes me to be an
enthusiastic admirer of his emperor, and therefore he imparted to me his
fears and conjectures. The point in question is a widespread conspiracy,
which is said to exist in the French army and have assistants among the
Austrians."
"And _you_? Do you believe in this conspiracy?"
"I am on the track and perhaps shall soon be able to give the particulars.
Only it requires time and great caution and secrecy. Let me say no more
now, but I promise that I will be active and watchful. Only I make one
condition."
"What is that?"
"If I succeed in discovering this conspiracy, delivering the leaders into
your hands, giving the emperor undeniable proofs of the existence of this
plot, perhaps even saving his life by the disclosure; if I succeed, as I
said, in doing all this, then you will release me and permit me to leave
Vienna."
"To go where?"
"Wherever I wish, only alone, only not--"
"Only not with you, you wanted to say," he added, completing the sentence.
"My child, you see that I was right in remarking that a change had taken
place in you. Formerly you were glad to be with me; you never felt a wish
to leave me; formerly it was your ardent desire to occupy a brilliant
position in society, to be rich, aristocratic, brilliant, influential; and
now, when you have attained all this, now you are still unsatisfied, now
you long to resign all this again. But you will reflect, Leonore; you will
listen to reason. You will consider what we have suffered from the
pettiness, the pitifulness, the arrogance, and the selfishness of men. You
will remember how often you vowed, with angry tears, to avenge yourself
some day for all that we have suffered. Remember, child, remember! Have you
forgotten how we starved and pined, when your mother died, because we were
so poor that, in her illness, we could not give her the necessary nursing,
could not pay a doctor. Have you forgotten how we both knelt beside her
corpse and, with tears of grief and anger, swore to avenge the death of the
poor sufferer upon cruel men, base society?"
"I know it, father, yes, I know it," she answered, panting for breath, as
she slowly raised her hands and pressed them on her bosom as if to force
down the anguish within. "Ah, yes, I shall never forget it! That was the
hour when we both sold ourselves to hell."
"Until that time I had been an honest man," he continued. "I had toiled in
honest ways to obtain support for my family and myself. I had earnestly
endeavored to make my knowledge profitable--humble enough to be willing to
teach for the lowest price, to offer my services everywhere. But I could
get no employment; people wanted no teacher of music; everywhere I was
pitilessly turned away. During the mournful years of war which had closed
in upon us, no one wanted to spend his money for a useless art, which
perhaps could be used only for dirges. A music-teacher was the most
unnecessary and useless of mortals, and the music-teacher felt this, and
was ready to become wood-cutter, laborer, street-sweeper, anything to
procure food for his sick wife, his only child, to brighten their
impoverished, sorrowful lives with a ray of comfort. But it was all in
vain; the poor music-teacher found employment nowhere; he might have
starved in the midst of the great city, surrounded by wealthy people who,
with arrogant bearing, daily drove in brilliant equipages past him and his
misery. For his part, he would gladly have died, for what value could his
wretched, pitiful life have to him! But he had a daughter, the only
creature whom he loved; she was his happiness, his hope, and his joy. His
daughter must not starve; must not suffer from the wretched needs of
existence; must not crawl in the dust, while others, less beautiful, less
good, less gifted, enjoyed life in luxury and splendor. Chance betrayed an
important secret to the poor musician. He knew that on the one side a large
sum would be paid for his silence, on the other for his speech. He went and
sold himself! He went to warn some, to save others if it were possible."
"I know," she said, panting for breath. "You are speaking of the
assassination of the ambassadors in Rastadt."
"Yes, Count Lehrbach's valet, in a drunken spree, betrayed his master's
secret, so I learned the fine business, and could warn the envoys, could
warn Lehrbach to take stronger precautions. It was my first trial, and it
was well paid."
"The poor envoys paid for it with their lives," she cried, shuddering.
"That was their own fault. Why didn't they listen to my warning? Why didn't
they delay their departure until the following morning? I knew that in the
evening a whole detachment of Hussars was stationed on the highway which
they must pass. I told them so, and warned them. But they did not believe
me; they were reckless enough to set out, and I only succeeded in
persuading them to burn their important papers and arm themselves. True,
this was useless. They were butchered by the Hussars. One alone, Jean
Dubarry, escaped, and I may say that I saved him; for I discovered him in
the tree up which he had climbed in his mortal terror, took him to a safe
hiding-place, and informed the French authorities in Rastadt. Yes, I saved
his life, and therefore I can say that I began my new life with a good
deed, and did not entirely sell myself to the devil. Since that time I have
led a changeful, stirring existence, often in danger of getting a bullet in
my head, or a rope around my neck. But what has given me courage to deride,
defy all these perils? The thought of my child, my beautiful, beloved
daughter Leonore. I had taken her to Paris, and placed her in one of the
most fashionable boarding schools. I wished to have her trained to be an
aristocratic lady. I had told her all my plans for the future, and as,
like me, she despised the world and human beings, she had approved those
plans and solemnly vowed by the memory of her mother, murdered by want,
famine, and grief, to avenge herself with me upon society--wrest from it
what formerly it had so cruelly denied: wealth, honor, and distinction."
"And I think I have kept my oath," she said earnestly. "I have entered into
all your plans; I have accepted the part which you imposed upon me, and for
three years have played it with success. Baroness von Vernon was as useful
to you in Berlin the last two years, as Baroness de Simonie is now in
Vienna. She aided you in all your plans, entered into your designs,
pitilessly betrayed all who trusted her and whose secrets she stole by
craft, falsehood, and hypocrisy."
"Why did they allow them to be stolen?" he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Why were they so reckless as to trust a beautiful woman, when experience
teaches that all women lie, deceive, and are incapable of keeping a secret?
They must bear the consequences of their own folly; we need not reproach
ourselves for it."
"I do not reproach myself," she said, "only life bores me. I long for rest,
for peace, for solitude around me, that I may not be so unutterably lonely
within."
"You wish to conceal the truth from me, Leonore," he cried, shrugging his
shoulders, "but I know it. You are in love, my child, and since, as I
suppose, this is your first love, it cannot fail to be very passionate and
transfigure all humanity with a roseate glow. But wait! that will pass away
and you will soon be disenchanted. Hush! do not answer; do not try to
contradict me; lovers' reasons have no convincing power. We will leave
everything to time and say no more about it. Let us rather talk about the
great affair, which you just mentioned, and which certainly might greatly
promote our prosperity. Then you really believe in a conspiracy?"
"I do. I know some of the accomplices and shall succeed in discovering
others. But I repeat, I will do nothing in regard to this matter until you
have granted my condition."
"Are you serious, Leonore?" he asked sorrowfully. "You would leave me, your
father? You wish to abandon the task which we imposed upon ourselves? For
you know that we had set ourselves the purpose of becoming rich in order to
trample under our feet those who scorned and ill-treated us when we were
poor. But there is still much to be done ere we attain our goal. It is true
that I am well paid; for I am always paid for my life, which is risked in
every one of my enterprises. You, too, are well paid; for a magnificently
furnished home with a monthly income of six thousand francs is a liberal
compensation. But my proud, aristocratic Leonore knows little about
economy, and she has arranged her housekeeping on so regal a scale that I
shall scarcely succeed in putting a trifle aside for her every month.
Besides, consider that the engagement is liable to be cancelled at any
moment, and that the least error, the most trivial suspicion of your
trustworthiness will suffice to hurl you back into oblivion. No, Leonore, I
must not enter into your ecstasy, and I will not. You must remain with me;
you must fulfill the vow you made and, holding my hand, pursue the path
into which despair and contempt for mankind has led us."
"And if I will not?" she asked, sitting erect, and, for the first time
during this whole conversation, permitting the passionate agitation of her
soul to be mirrored in her face. "If I will not? If I have resolved to fly
from this life of shameful splendor, gilded falsehood, whitewashed crime?"
"Then I shall hold you in it by force," he cried, grasping her arm
violently. "And do you know how? I will inform the man you love who you
are, and, believe me, he will turn from you with contempt and loathing; he
will not follow you into the paradise of solitude into which you would
fain escape with him. Listen, Leonore, and weigh my words. We have gone too
far for return ever to be possible, therefore we must press forward,
steadily forward! Whoever has once sold himself to the devil can never hope
to transform himself once more into an angel. Therefore he must be on his
guard against nothing so rigidly as repentance, moods of virtuous
atonement! You are now suffering from such a mood; it is my duty to cure
you of it, and I know the medicine which can heal. So listen. If you do not
swear, solemnly, swear, to continue, without wavering or delay, to play the
part which you perform with so much talent and success, I will await Baron
Kolbielsky here and tell him who you are."
"You will not do that," she shrieked, throwing herself from the divan upon
her knees; "no, father, you will not. You will have pity on me, for I will
confess it to you: I love him. He is my first, my only love, and for his
sake, oh! solely for his sake, I would fain again be good, pure, virtuous.
So have pity on me, do not betray me."
"Will you swear to remain Madame de Simonie? To make no change in your
present mode of life? To fulfill the duties which you have undertaken, and
pursue your task with zeal and cleverness?"
"If I do, will you then promise not to betray me?"
"If you do, I will devote all my craft, cunning, and boldness to the one
purpose of making us rich; will put all means in motion, in order, when we
are wealthy, to give you the happiness of living with your lover in some
secluded corner of the world."
"You do not say that you will not betray me. Swear it."
"I swear that I will betray to no human being who and what you are, as soon
as you swear to remain what you are and to fulfill your duties."
"Well then," she groaned faintly, "I swear it: I will remain what I am; I
will make no attempt to fly from this life of disgrace and crime."
"My dear Leonore," he said kindly, "now we have taken our mutual vows and
understand each other. All differences are settled, and we are once more
sure of each other."
"Yes, we are sure of each other," she repeated with a melancholy smile,
slowly rising from her knees and drawing her figure proudly to its full
height. "I will take up my part again and you shall hear no more complaints
from me, father. Have you any further questions to ask?"
"Really," he exclaimed, gazing at her with sparkling eyes, "really, you are
an admirable woman. Just now a despairing, penitent Magdalen, and once more
a Judith ready for battle or a Delilah who is joyfully ready to cut
Samson's locks and deliver him to the Philistines. Tell me, is there a
Samson whom you will deliver to us?"
"More than one," she cried; "for I tell you that there is a conspiracy, and
I already know three of the members. The object is to discover the others.
So give me time and trust me."
"May I speak of it to the emperor now?"
"You may warn him, throw out hints, fix your price. For as you have said,
we must be rich to be free and happy. Demand a high price of blood, that we
may be rich."
"Blood-money! Then it is a very serious matter. Blood will be shed! Ay,
blood will be shed! Heads will fall!" she cried with flashing eyes. "But
what do we care for that? We shall be paid for betraying the traitors, and,
when we have gained wealth, no one will ask from what bloody source it
came. Wealth reconciles, equalizes everything. So we will be rich, rich.
And now, uncle, listen. Baroness de Simonie will give another entertainment
to-morrow. She will invite all her friends and acquaintances, but
especially Count Andreossy's aids, Colonel Mariage, Captain de Guesniard,
Lieutenant-colonel Schweitzer, the two Counts von Poldring, and moreover a
number of French and Austrian officers, magistrates and ladies. It must be
a brilliant fête--all the rooms crowded with people, that some, without
attracting attention, may be able to retire and hold a familiar
conversation."
"Of course, of course, my beautiful Leonore, and as your uncle and
major-domo, I will do everything in my power for your honor! And now, my
child, farewell! I will go to Schönbrunn, to report to the emperor.
Farewell, and be brave, happy, and joyous. Believe me, men do not deserve
to be pitied, far less to be loved. The day will soon come when my Leonore
will perceive this and strip the enthusiasm of love from her heart as
calmly as the glove from her fair hand. Farewell, you lovely Baroness de
Simonie!"