PARDON.
Four days had elapsed since the execution at Schönbrunn. Baron von
Kolbielsky had been forced to attend it and was then conveyed to Vienna to
spend dreary, lonely days at the police station in the Krebsgasse.
He had vainly asked at least to be led before his judges to receive his
sentence. The jailer, to whom Kolbielsky uttered these requests whenever he
entered, always replied merely with a silent shrug of the shoulders, and
went away as mute as he had come.
But yesterday, late in the evening, he had entered, accompanied by the
Chief Commissioner Göhausen, two magistrates, and a clergyman. With a
solemn, immovable official countenance Commissioner Göhausen opened the
document which his subordinate handed to him, and, in a loud voice, read
its contents. It was a sentence of death. The death-sentence of Baron
Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky "on account of sympathy and complicity
in a murderous assault upon the sacred life of his annointed imperial ally
and friend, Napoleon, emperor of the French."[F] Early the following
morning, at dawn, Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky must be shot at
Schönbrunn.
Kolbielsky had listened to this death-warrant with immovable composure--no
word, no entreaty for pardon escaped his lips. But he requested the
priest, who desired to remain to pray with him and receive his confession,
to leave him.
"What I have to confess, only God must know," he said, smiling proudly. "In
our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer
sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of
my friends. God sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on
me. I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request."
So he was left alone--alone during this long bitter night before his doom!
Yet he was not solitary! His thoughts were with him, and his love--his love
for Leonore!
Never had he so ardently worshipped her as on this night of anguish. Never
had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as
on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave
of her. Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his
feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her
dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his
eyes. He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last
thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he
loved. All his desires turned to her. Oh, to see her once more! What
rapture thrilled him at the thought! And he knew that she would come if he
sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring
him her last love-greeting. He need only call the jailer and say to him:
"Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottengasse. Tell her that I beg her
to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell. She is
my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me."
He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for
the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred,
and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.
But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his
heart, for such a message would have compromised _her_. Perhaps she, too,
might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal,
though she was innocent.
No, he dared not send to her! His Leonore, the beloved, worshipped idol of
his heart, should not suffer a moment's anxiety through him. He loved her
so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for
her. Let her think of him as one who had vanished! Let her never learn that
Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man
whom she loved. He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave
her hope! Hope of a meeting--not yonder, but here on earth! She would
expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and
gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of
seeing him no more. Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless,
would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was
destiny which severed them--that if he did not return to her, he had gone
to the place whence there is no return.
"Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one! Never to see you again, never again to hear
from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look
into your eyes, those eyes which shine more brightly than all the stars in
heaven."
It was already growing lighter. Dawn was approaching. Yonder, in the dark
night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day. The sun was
rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the
condemned man, death.
Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation,
support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all
nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it
shielded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the
martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death. And though fate had
not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant
Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust,
trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and
the liberties of the nations.
There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy.
The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across
the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.
No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The
bolts on the outer door were already rattling.
"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous
face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are
coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart,
farewell!"
The inner door was opened--Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners
with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither
executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a
cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.
Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the
strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment,
utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then
rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer
who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and
whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor,
closed the door behind him and locked it.
The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did
this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be
his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for
years.
Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.
"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"
The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?"
he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."
A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's
slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.
The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young
man's face.
Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou
bringest love.
"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my--"
He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head
upon her shoulder and wept--wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight,
of ecstasy--tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express
their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.
Yet no. He would not weep, for tears will dim her image. He wished to see
her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live
there while he died.
He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with
a happy smile.
"Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars? Do you shine on me once
more, ere I enter eternal night?"
Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.
"Why do your lips quiver? Why do they utter no word of love? Oh, let me
break the seal of silence which closes them."
Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the
lips.
"Speak, my Leonore, speak! Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will
always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you."
"No, no," she cried exultingly, "no, you will not leave me, you will stay
with me."
Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flashing eyes she
repeated:
"You will stay with me."
"Oh, my sweet love, I cannot! They have sentenced me to death. They will
soon come to summon me."
"No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death. They will
not kill you. I bring you life! I bring you pardon!"
"Pardon!" he cried, almost shrieked. "Pardon! But from whom?"
"Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!"
"God be praised. I can accept it from _him_," cried Kolbielsky jubilantly.
"So I am free? Speak, dearest, I am free?"
She shook her head slowly and sadly. "I have been able only to save you
from death," she said mournfully. "I have been able only to obtain your
life, but alas! not your liberty."
"Then I remain a prisoner?"
"Yes, a prisoner."
"For how long?"
"For life," she murmured in a voice barely audible.
But Kolbielsky--laughed.
"For life! That means--so long as Napoleon lives and is powerful. But he
will die; he will fall, and then my emperor will release me; then I shall
belong to life, to the world; then I shall again be yours! I will accept my
emperor's pardon, for it is you who bring it to me--you have obtained it.
You say so, and I know it. You hastened to Totis, you threw yourself at the
emperor's feet, pleaded for mercy, and he could not resist your fiery zeal,
your bewitching personality. But how did you know that I was arrested? Who
told you that I was Baron von Moudenfels?"
"My uncle," she replied with downcast eyes, "my uncle brought me the
tidings; he told me that Napoleon, through Count Bubna, had sent a courier
to Totis, to the Emperor Francis, and asked your condemnation. I hastened
to Schönbrunn; I succeeded in overcoming all obstacles and reaching the
emperor. I threw myself at his feet, confessed amid my tears that I loved
you, begged for your life. And he granted it; he became your intercessor to
the Emperor Francis. He wrote a few lines, which I was to convey to Totis
myself. I did so, hastening thither with post-horses. I spoke to the
emperor. He was deeply moved, but he had not the courage to take any
decisive step; he still dreaded offending his new ally. The Emperor
Napoleon begs me to grant Kolbielsky's life, he said. 'I will do so, but
can do nothing more for the present. I will grant him life, but I cannot
give him liberty. He must be taken to the Hungarian fortress Leopoldstadt.
There he must remain so long as he lives.'"
"To Leopoldstadt! In an open grave," cried Kolbielsky gloomily. "Cut off
from the world, in joyless solitude, far from you. Oh, death, speedy death
would be better and--"
"No," she interrupted, "not far from me! I will remain with you. The
emperor at my fervent entreaty, permitted your servant, your faithful
servant, to accompany you, share your imprisonment. Now look at me,
beloved, look at me. I wear your livery, I am the faithful servant who has
the right to go with you. Oh! no, no, we will be parted no longer. I shall
stay with you."
Clasping both arms around his neck, she pressed a glowing kiss upon his
lips.
But Kolbielsky released himself from the sweet embrace and gently pushed
her back. "That can never be--never will I accept such a sacrifice from
you. No, you shall not bury your beauty, your youthful bloom in a living
tomb. Your tender foot is not made to tread the rough paths of life. The
proud Baroness de Simonie, accustomed to the splendor, luxury, and comfort
of existence must not drag out her life in unworthy humiliation. I thank
you, love, for the sacrifice you wish to make, but nothing will induce me
to accept it. Return to the world, my worshipped one! Keep your love, your
fidelity! Wait for me. Even though years may pass, the hour of liberty will
at last strike and then I will return to you!"
"No, no!" she impetuously exclaimed. "I will not leave you; I will cling to
you. You must not repulse me. The emperor has given your servant the right
to stay with you. I am your servant. I shall stay!"
"Leonore, I entreat you, do not ask what is impossible. There are
sacrifices which a man can never accept from the woman he loves--which
humiliate him as they ennoble her. I should blush before your nobility; it
would bow me into the dust. Leonore de Simonie must not leave the pure,
proud sphere in which she lives; she must remain what she is, the queen of
the drawing-room."
"Is this your final answer?" she asked, turning deadly pale.
"My final one."
"Well, then, hear me! You shall know who I am; you shall at least learn
that you might accept every sacrifice from me without ever being obliged to
blush in my presence. You thrust me from you, that is, you thrust me into
death! Yes, I will die, I wish to die, but first you shall hear from my
lips the truth, that you may not grieve, may not shed a single tear for me.
So hear me, Carl, hear me! I am not what you believe. My foot is not
accustomed to the soft paths of life--the world of splendor and honor is
not mine. From my earliest childhood I have walked in obscurity and
humiliation, in disgrace and shame, a dishonored, ignominious creature."
As if crushed by her own words she sank down at his feet, and raised her
clasped hands beseechingly, while her head drooped low on her breast.
Kolbielsky gazed at her with an expression of unspeakable horror, then a
smile flitted over his face.
"You are speaking falsely," he cried, "you are speaking falsely out of
generosity."
"Oh, would to heaven it were so!" she lamented. "No, believe me, I am
telling the truth; I am not what I seem; I am not the Baroness de Simonie."
"Not Baroness de Simonie? Then who are you?" he shrieked frantically.
"I am a paid spy of the Emperor Napoleon, and the spy Schulmeister is my
father."
Kolbielsky uttered a cry of fury and raised his clenched fist as if he
intended to let it fall upon her head. But he repressed his rage and turned
away. Despair and grief now overpowered him. He tottered to a chair and,
sinking into it, covered his face and wept aloud.
Leonore was still kneeling, but when she heard him sob she started up,
rushed to him, and again throwing herself at his feet, she embraced his
knees.
"Do not weep--curse me! Thrust me from you, but do not weep. Alas! yet I
have deserved your tears. I am a poor, lost creature. Yes, do not weep. I
have suffered much, sinned much, but also atoned heavily. Yes, weep for me!
My life lies bare as a torn wreath of roses in the dust--not a blossom
remains, nothing save the pathway of thorns, grief, and torture. Yes, weep
for me--weep for a lost existence. I was innocent and pure, but I was
poor--that was my misfortune. Poverty drove my father to despair, drove us
both to disgrace and crime. Oh, God! I was so young, and I wanted to live;
I did not wish to die of starvation, and the tempter came to me in my
father's form, whispering, 'Have money and you will have honor! Help
yourself, for men and women will not aid you. They turn contemptuously
away because you are poor. To-morrow, if you are rich, they will pay court
to you, honor, and love you. I offer you the means to become rich. Give me
your hand, Leonore, despise the people who leave us to die, and follow me.'
I gave him my hand, I followed him, I became Napoleon's spy. I had money, I
had a name, I saw people throng around me, I learned to despise them, and
therefore I could betray them. But, in the midst of my brilliant life, I
was unhappy, for the consciousness of my shame constantly haunted me,
constantly cast its shadow upon me. And one day, one day I saw and loved
you! From that day I was the victim of anguish and despair. On my knees I
besought my father to release me, to permit me to escape from the world. He
threatened to betray my past, my disgrace to you. And I--oh, God, I loved
you--I yielded, I remained. My father vowed that, if I made him rich, he
would set me free. I discovered a conspiracy. You were not among the
accomplices--I betrayed it. I wanted to serve _you_ by the treachery and I
plunged you into ruin."
Tears gushed from her eyes; the sobs so long repressed burst forth and
stifled the words on her lips. Kolbielsky no longer wept. He had let his
hands fall from his face, and was listening to her in deep thought, in
breathless suspense. Now, when she paused sobbing, he stretched out his
hand as if he wished to raise Leonore, then he seemed to hesitate and
withdrew it.
She did not see it; she did not venture to look at him; she gazed only into
her tortured heart. "I have betrayed you," she continued, after an
anxious, sorrowful pause. "Oh, when I learned it, a sword pierced my soul
and severed it from every joy of life. I knew, in that hour, that I had
fallen a prey to despair, but I wished at least to rescue you. I have saved
you, that is the sole merit of my life. Napoleon could not resist my
despair, my tears, my wrath--he pitied me. He gave your life to me. All the
blood-money which I had gained, all the splendor which surrounded me, I
flung at my father's feet. I released myself from him forever, and, that my
penance might be complete, I called all my servants and revealed my
ignominy to them. Then I left the palace where I had lived so long in
gilded shame. I took nothing with me. I call nothing mine except these
clothes and the name of Leonore. Now you know all, and you will no longer
be able to say that I can make a sacrifice for you. Decide whether I must
die, or whether you will pardon me. Let me atone; let me live--live as your
slave, your thrall. I desire nothing save to see you, serve you, live for
you. You need never speak to me, never deem me worthy of a word. I will
divine your orders without them. I will sleep on your threshold like a
faithful dog, that loves you though you thrust him from you--who caresses
the hand that strikes him. I have deserved the blows; I will not murmur,
only let me, let me live."
She gazed imploringly at him, with a face beaming with enthusiasm and love.
And he?
A ray of enthusiasm illumined his face also. He bent over the kneeling
figure, laid his hands on her shoulders, and gazed into her face while
something akin to a divine smile illumined his features.
"When I bade you farewell," he said softly, "I said that if I returned, I
would ask you a momentous question. Do you know what it was?"
She shrank and a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but she did not
venture to reply, only gazed breathlessly at him with fixed eyes.
He bent close to her and, smiling, whispered:
"Leonore, will you be my wife?"
With a cry of joy she sprang into his arms, laughing and weeping in her
ecstasy.
Kolbielsky pressed her closely to his heart and laid his hand upon her head
as if in benediction.
"You have atoned," he said solemnly. "You shall be forgiven, for you have
suffered heavily! You have come to me homeless. Henceforth my heart shall
be your home. You have cast aside your name--I offer you mine in exchange.
Will you be my wife?"
She whispered a low, happy "yes."
An hour later an officer of justice arrived to announce to Kolbielsky his
change of sentence to perpetual imprisonment and inform him that the
carriage was waiting to convey him to Leopoldstadt.
Kolbielsky now desired to see the priest whose ministration he had formerly
refused, and when, half an hour later, he entered the carriage, Leonore was
his wife. She accompanied him, disguised as his servant, for the permission
to attend the prisoner to Leopoldstadt was given in that name. But the
priest promised to go to the emperor himself and obtain for the wife the
favor which had been granted to the servant.
He kept his word, and, a few weeks later, the governor of Leopoldstadt
received the imperial command to allow the wife of the imprisoned Baron von
Kolbielsky to share his captivity.
But Kolbielsky's hope of a speedy release was not to be fulfilled. Napoleon
had become the emperor of Austria's son-in-law, and thereby Kolbielsky's
position was aggravated. He knew too many of the Emperor Francis' secrets,
could betray too much concerning the emperor's hate, and secret intrigues
of which Francis himself had been aware. He was dangerous and therefore
must be kept in captivity.
In his wrath he wrote vehement, insulting letters to the Emperor Francis,
made himself guilty of high-treason. So they were well satisfied to find
him worthy of punishment, and render the troublesome fault-finder forever
harmless.
So he remained a prisoner long after Napoleon had been overthrown. His wife
died many years before him, leaving one daughter, who, when a girl of
eighteen, married a distinguished Austrian officer. Her entreaties and her
husband's influence finally succeeded in securing Kolbielsky's liberation.
In the year 1829 he was permitted to leave Leopoldstadt, to live with his
daughter at Ofen, where he died in 1831.
THE END.
NEELY'S PRISMATIC LIBRARY.
GILT TOP, 75 CENTS.
"I know of nothing in the book line that equals Neely's Prismatic Library
for elegance and careful selection. It sets a pace that others will not
easily equal and none surpass."--E.A. ROBINSON.
* * * * *
SOAP BUBBLES. MAX NORDAU. Brilliant, fascinating, intensely
interesting.
BIJOU'S COURTSHIPS. "Gyp." From the French, by Katherine di Zerega.
Illustrated.
NOBLE BLOOD. By CAPT. CHARLES KING.
TRUMPETER FRED. CAPT. CHARLES KING, U.S.A. Author of "Fort
Frayne," "An Army Wife," etc., with full-page illustrations.
A startling story involving the circumstantial evidence of murder
against a boy in the Regular Army.
THE KING IN YELLOW. By the Author of "In the Quarter." It is a
masterpiece.... I have read many portions several times, captivated by the
unapproachable tints of the painting. None but a genius of the highest
order could do such work.--_Edward Ellis_.
IN THE QUARTER. By the Author of "The King in Yellow." "Well written,
bright, vivid; the ending is highly dramatic."--_Boston Times_.
FATHER STAFFORD. ANTHONY HOPE. Author of "The Prisoner of
Zenda."
"'Father Stafford' is quite the best thing Hope has done so far,
if I except one or two scenes from the 'Dolly Dialogues.'"--JOHN
OLIVER HOBBES.
AN ART FAILURE. JOHN W. HARDING. A story of the Latin Quarter as
it is. More than fifty illustrations.
* * * * *
_For sale everywhere or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
publisher._
F. TENNYSON NEELY,
114 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
NEELY'S LATEST BOOKS.
_Captain Charles King, U.S.A._
TRUMPETER FRED. A startling story of the plains. Full page
illustrations. Buckram, 75 cents.
AN ARMY WIFE. Suspicion and intrigue at headquarters. 12mo. Price
$1.25.
FORT FRAYNE. 7th edition. 12mo. $1.25.
_Max Nordau._
HOW WOMEN LOVE. Study and story, brilliant and energetic. 12mo.
$1.25.
THE RIGHT TO LOVE. 12mo. $1.50.
THE COMEDY OF SENTIMENT. 12mo. $1.50.
THE AILMENT OF THE CENTURY. 12mo. $1.50.
_Robert W. Chambers._
THE KING IN YELLOW. Neely's Prismatic Library. 75 cents.
_John W. Harding._
AN ART FAILURE. A story of the Latin Quarter as it is. Profusely
illustrated. Neely's Prismatic Library. 75 cents.
_Robert Buchanan and Henry Murray._
THE CHARLATAN. 12mo. $1.25.
_Anthony Hope._
FATHER STAFFORD. The author's best story. Neely's Prismatic
Library. Buckram, 75 cents.
_Ethan Allen's_
WASHINGTON, OR THE REVOLUTION. In two parts. Each part, cloth,
$1.50.
THE BACHELOR AND THE CHAFING DISH. 2nd Edition. $1.00.
CHEIRO'S LANGUAGE OF THE HAND. 5th Edition. $2.50.
IF WE ONLY KNEW and other poems by Cheiro. 50 cents.
_Paul Bourget._
THE DISCIPLE. 12mo. $1.25.
THE LAND OF PROMISE. 16 page illustrations. 12mo. $1.50.
F. Tennyson Neely.
New York, Chicago,
114 Fifth Avenue. 254 Franklin Street.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Napoleon's own words. See Hormayr, "Universal History of Modern Times,"
part III., p. 136.
[B] Historical. See Hormayr's "Universal History."
[C] Historical. "Anemones from the Diary of an Old Pilgrim," Part II., p.
99.
[D] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II., p. 90.
[E] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II,. p. 90.
[F] "Anemones," Part II., p. 93.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Conspiracy of the Carbonari, by Louise Mühlbach