Our readers may, ere this, have surmised that Frank Dalton's career as
a soldier was neither very adventurous nor exciting, since otherwise
we should scarcely have so nearly forgotten him. When he parted with
Hanserl to pursue his journey, his heart was full of warring and
conflicting emotions, love of home and hope of future distinction
alternately swaying him; so that while his affections drew him ever
backwards, his ambitious urged him to go on.
“I could have been so happy to have lived with them,” thought he, “even
as a peasant lives, a life of daily toil. I would have asked for no
higher fortune than that peaceful home we had made for ourselves by
our own affections, the happy fireside, that sufficed us for all
the blandishments of wealth and riches. Still there would have been
something ignoble in this humility, something that would ill become
my blood as a Dalton. It was not thus my ancestors understood their
station, it was not with such lowly ambitions their hearts were stirred.
Count Stephen himself might at this hour have been in obscurity and
poverty as great, perhaps, as our own had he been thus minded; and now
he is a field-marshal, with a 'Maria Teresa' cross on his breast! and
this without one friend to counsel or to aid him! What a noble service
is that where merit can win its way self-sustained and independent,
where, without the indignity of a patron, the path of honorable
enterprise lies free and open to all! What generous promptings, what
bold aspirations such a career engenders! He shall not be ashamed of
me, he shall not have to blush for the Dalton blood,” said the boy,
enthusiastically; and he revelled in a dream of the old Count's ecstasy
on finding a nephew so worthy of their name, and in his fancy he saw
pictures of future scenes in which he figured. All of these had the
same rose tint; for while in some he imagined himself winning the
high rewards of great achievements, in others he was the caressed and
flattered guest of rank and beauty. “To think that I should once have
been thus!” cried he, laughing at the conceit, “trudging along
the high-road with a knapsack on my shoulder, like a Bursch in his
'Wander-jahre;'” and then he vowed to himself that “he would have a
picture taken of his humble guise as first he started in life, to hang
up at some future day beside the decorated soldier he was yet to be.”
Selfishness can wear many a mask. Sometimes it can array itself in
features almost noble, more often its traits are of the very meanest.
Frank's egotism was of the former kind. He wanted to attain distinction
by an honorable path, he would not have stooped to any other. He was
ready to do or dare all for greatness. No peril could deter, no danger
could daunt him; but yet was he totally deficient in that greatest
element of success, that patient discipline of the mind which, made
up of humility and confidence, can wait and bide its time, earning the
prizes of life before it claim them. His pride of family, however, was
his greatest blemish, since it suggested a false notion of distinction,
a pretension so groundless that, like a forged banknote, it was sure to
involve even the bearer in disgrace.
So full was he of himself and his own future, that he took but little
note of the way as he went. Avoiding, from a sense of pride, to
associate with the “Travelling Youths,” as they are called, he walked
along from early morning to late evening, alone and companionless. It
was mostly a dreary and uninteresting road, either leading through dark
and gloomy pine forests or over great plains of swampy surface, where
the stubble of the tall maize, or the stunted vines, were the only
traces of vegetation. As he drew near the Tyrol, however, the great
mountains came in sight, while the continual ascent told that he was
gradually reaching the land of glaciers and snow-peaks. Day by day he
found the road less and less frequented: these lonely districts were
little resorted to by the wandering apprentices, so that frequently
Frank did not meet a single traveller from day-dawn till night. Perhaps
he felt little regret at this, leaving him, as it did, more time for
those daydreams in which he loved to revel. Now and then some giant
mountain glittering in the sun, or some dark gorge thousands of feet
below him, would chase away his revery, and leave him for a time in
a half-bewildered and wondering astonishment; but his thoughts soon
resumed their old track, and he would plod along, staff in hand, as
before.
Walking from before daybreak to a late hour of the evening, Frank
frequently accomplished in his day's journey as many miles as the
traveller who, by post, only spent the few hours of mid-day on the road;
in fact, he might have thus measured his speed, had he been less wrapped
up in his own fancies, since, for several days, a caleche, drawn by
three post-horses, had regularly passed him on the road, and always
about the same hour.
Frank saw nothing of this; and when on a bright and frosty day he began
the ascent of the Arlberg, he little knew that the carriage, about half
a mile in front, had been his travelling companion for the past week.
Disdaining to follow the winding high-road, Frank ascended by those
foot-tracks which gain upon the zig-zags, and thus soon was miles in
advance of the caleche. At last he reached the half-way point of ascent,
and was glad to rest himself for a few minutes on one of the benches
which German thoughtfulness for the wayfarer never neglects to place
in suitable spots. A low parapet of a couple of feet separated the road
from a deep and almost perpendicular precipice, at the foot of which,
above two thousand feet beneath, stood the village of Stuben. There was
the little chapel in which he had his morning's mass, there the
little Platz, where he had seen the post-horses getting ready for the
travellers; there, too, the little fountain, covered with a shed of
straw, and glistening with many an icicle in the bright sun. The very
voices of the people reached him where he sat; and the sounds of a
street-organ floated upwards through the still atmosphere. It was a
scene of peaceful isolation such as would have pleased Nelly's fancy. It
was like one of those “Dorf s” she herself had often carved to amuse a
winter's evening, and Frank's eyes filled up as he thought of her and of
home.
The sound of feet upon the snow suddenly roused him, and, on looking
round, Frank saw a traveller slowly coming up the pass. His dress at
once proclaimed that he was not a pedestrian, save from choice, and was
merely sauntering along in advance of his carriage. In the mere cursory
glance Frank bestowed upon him he could see that he was a young and
handsome man, with a certain soldierlike bearing in his air that well
suited his bold but somewhat stern features.
“You journey well, young fellow,” said he, addressing Frank familiarly.
“This is the fifth day we have been fellow-travellers; and although I
have post-horses, you have always kept up with me on your feet.”
Frank touched his cap with a somewhat stiff courtesy at this
unceremonious address; and, without deigning a reply, employed himself
in arranging the straps of his knapsack.
“Are you a soldier?” asked the stranger.
“A cadet!” replied Frank as bluntly.
“In what regiment, may I ask?”
“The Franz Carl.”
“Ah! my own old corps,” said the other, gayly. “I served four years with
them in the Banat. From what part of the Empire are you you have n't the
accent of an Austrian?”
“I am an Irishman.”
“Oh! that explains it. And your name?”
“Dalton. And now, sir, what may be yours, for I don't see why this
curiosity is to be one-sided,” said Frank, with an air even more
insolent than the words.
“I am Count Ernest of Walstein,” said the other, without a touch of
irritation.
[Illustration: 356]
“What rank do you hold in the service?” asked Frank, boldly.
“That of lieutenant-colonel, boy.”
“And your age may be about thirty?” said Frank, half in question and
half in sarcasm.
“I was twenty-eight last August,” was the calm reply.
“By Jove! that is a service!” exclaimed Frank, “where a man scarcely ten
years my senior may command a regiment!”
The other laughed, and after a brief pause, said, “People are in the
habit of calling me fortunate, so that you must not suppose my case to
be the rule.”
“Be it so: even as an exception, the example is a bright one. Another
may do what you have done.”
“If you mean that I have earned my rank by services, boy,” said the
Count, smiling, “you would make a grave mistake. My promotion had
another source.”
Frank looked as though he were curious to hear the explanation, but the
other gave none.
“How do you call yourself?” asked he of Frank, after a pause.
“Dalton,” replied the boy, more respectfully than before.
“We have a field-marshal of that name in the service, a most gallant old
soldier, too.”
“My grand-uncle!” cried Frank, with enthusiasm.
“Indeed! So you are a grand-nephew to the Graf von Auersberg,” said the
Count, taking a more deliberate view than he had yet bestowed upon him.
“Then how comes it you are travelling in this fashion, and on foot?”
“I have not asked you why you journey in a caleche with three horses,”
said Frank, insolently.
“It's my habit to do so.”
“This, then, may be mine, sir,” said Frank, throwing his knapsack on his
shoulder, and preparing to depart.
“Is not the Franz Carl at Vienna?” said the Count, not seeming to notice
the irritation of his manner.
“I believe so.”
“Well, then, as I am going thither, perhaps you will accept of a seat in
my caleche?”
There was a frankness in the way this offer was made that suddenly
routed the ill-temper Frank had fallen into. No one was less disposed
than himself to accept of a favor from a perfect stranger; but the tone
and manner of the proffer had, somehow, disarmed it of all appearance of
such; and as he stood uncertain what answer to make, the Count added:
“I 'm always lucky. I was just wishing for a travelling companion, and
fortune has thrown us into acquaintanceship.”
“I don't know I can scarcely tell,” said Frank, hesitating, “how or what
to answer.”
“You forget that we are comrades, Dalton or shall be, at least, in
another day or two,” said the Count, familiarly; “so step in, and no
more about it.”
The caleche had drawn up as he spoke, and the courier stood, cap in
hand, beside the door, so that Frank had no time for any but an abrupt
refusal, and that he could not give; he therefore bowed his head, and
sprang in. The door was slammed sharply to, and the next moment the
horses were rattling along over the snow, the merry bells of the harness
jingling pleasantly as they went.
Probably no two beings could present a much stronger contrast than the
two who now journeyed along side by side. The one, rich, highly placed,
and distinguished with every gift of fortune at his command, and yet
pleasure-sick, weary, and discontented; the other, poor, and almost
friendless, full of hope, and ardent with all the buoyancy of youth. The
Count was as jaded and tired of life as the cadet was eager to enjoy it.
Notwithstanding perhaps we should rather say in virtue of these strong
contrarieties, they made admirable travelling companions, and the road
slipped away unconsciously to each.
At Innspruck they halted for a day or two, and Frank accompanied his new
friend to the cafes and theatres, mingling in the throng of those whose
life is a round of easy dissipation. It is true that, to conform by
dress and demeanor with these, Frank was obliged to spend the golden
coins of Nelly's purse; louis after louis went in some one extravagance
or another, sacrifices that cost him many a pang, but which, from pride,
he bore up against with seeming indifference. Walstein presented him
everywhere as the nephew of the old field-marshal Von Auersberg; and as
nothing was more common than to see a young cadet dispensing the
most lavish sums, with equipages, liveries, and servants, none seemed
surprised that the youth should indulge in these habits and tastes of
extravagance. His very enjoyment seemed like an earnest of being long
habituated to these modes of life, for whether he played or drank, or in
whatever excesses he mingled, there was ever the same joyous spirit; and
Frank Dalton had all the outward signs of a youth rich in every accident
of fortune. At first, thoughts of his humble home and of those by whose
sacrifices he was enabled to indulge in such costly pleasures would
cross his mind, and, what between shame and sorrow, he felt degraded and
debased before himself; but, by degrees, the levity of action induced,
as it ever will do, the levity of thinking; and he suffered himself to
believe that “he was no worse than others.” A more fatal philosophy than
this, youth never adopted, and he who seeks a low standard rarely stops
till he falls beneath even that. Frank's pride of family made him vain,
and his vanity made him credulous; he therefore implicitly believed
all that his new companions told him, the familiar “thee and thou” of
camaraderie giving an air of friendship to all the flatteries.
“Were I a nephew of a field-marshal like thee, I'd not serve in an
infantry corps. I 'd be in the Lichtenstein Hussars or the Lancers of
the Kaiser,” said one.
“So he will,” cried another. “Dalton only joined the Franz Carl to get
his promotion quickly. Once at Vienna, he will be an officer, and ready
to exchange his regiment.”
“Old Auersberg can make thee what he will, lad,” said a third. “He might
have been Minister of War himself, if he had liked it. The Emperor Franz
loved him as a brother.”
“And he is rich, too, no one knows how rich,” broke in a fourth. “He
commanded for many years on the Turkish frontier, in those good days
when our Grenzers used to make forays upon the villages, and every
Pashalic paid its blackmail for peace' sake.”
“Thou are a lucky dog, Dalton, to find thy promotion and an inheritance
thus secured to thee.”
“When thou has a regiment, lad, don't forget us poor devils here, that
have no uncles in the 'Maria Teresa' category.”
“I 'll lay my life on't, that he is a colonel before I become
Rittmeister,” said a young lieutenant of dragoons, “and I have had five
years' hard service in Galicia and Servia.”
“And why not?” broke in Count Walstein, who sat silently up to
this smoking his meerschaum in a corner. “Has the empire lost its
aristocratic character? Are not birth and blood to have their claims, as
of old?”
This speech met a ready acceptance, for the company consisted of those
who either were, or affected to be, of noble extraction.
“How our fathers deceive themselves in trying to deceive us!” said a
young Hungarian cadet. “I, too, was sent off to join my regiment on
foot. Just fancy to walk from Arad to Presburg! I, that never went
twenty miles in my life save on the saddle. They fitted me with my
knapsack, just such a thing as Dalton's. I suppose about as many florins
jingled in my purse as in his. They gave me their blessing and a map of
the road, with each day's journey marked out upon it. And how far did
I go afoot, think'st thou? Two miles and a half. There I took an 'Eil
Bauer,' with four good horses and a wicker caleche, and we drove our
sixty, sometimes seventy miles a day. Each night we put up at some good
country house or other Honyadi's Ctzyscheny's Palfi's; all lay on the
road, and I found out about fifty cousins I never knew of before, and
made a capital acquaintance, too, the Prince Paul of Ettlingen, who,
owning a regiment of Light Dragoons, took me into his corps, and, when
I joined them at Leutmeritz, I was already an officer. What stuff it
is they preach about economy and thrift! Are we the sons of peasants
or petty shopkeepers? It comes well, too, from them in their princely
chateaux to tell us that we must live like common soldiers. So that,
while yesterday, as it were, I sat at a table covered with silver, and
drank my Tokay from a Venetian glass, tomorrow I must put up with sour
Melniker, or, mayhap, Bavarian beer, with black bread, and a sausage
to help it down! Our worthy progenitors knew better in their own young
days, or we should not have so many debts and mortgages on our estates
eh, Walstein?”
“I suppose the world is pretty much alike, in every age,” said the
Count, laughing. “It now and then takes a virtuous fit, and affects
to be better than it used to be; but I shrewdly suspect that the only
difference is in the hypocritical pretension. When I entered the service
and it is not so many years ago that I cannot recollect it the cant was,
to resemble that rough school of the days of old Frederick and Maria
Teresa. Trenck's 'Pandours,' with their scarlet breeches stuffed into
their wide boot-tops, were the mode; and to wear your moustache to your
shoulders to cry 'Bey'm Henker!' and 'Alle Blitzen!' every moment, were
the veritable types of the soldier. Now we have changed all that.
We have the Anglomania of English grooms and equipages, top-boots,
curricles, hurdle-races, champagne suppers. Dalton will be the ton in
his regiment, and any extravagance he likes to launch into certain to
have its followers.”
The youth blushed deeply; partly in conscious pride at the flattery,
partly in the heartfelt shame at its inappropriateness to himself; and
even the sincerity with which his comrades drank his health, could not
drown the self-reproaches he was suffering under.
“Thou art an only son, too, Dalton!” said another. “What favors fortune
will shower upon one happy fellow! Here I am, one of seven; and although
my father is a count of the empire, four of us have to take service in
the infantry.”
“What of that?” said a dark-complexioned fellow, whose high cheek-bones
and sharp under-jaw bespoke a Pole. “I am a second lieutenant in the
regiment that my grandfather raised and equipped at his own cost; and
if I were to lose a thousand florins at lansquenet to-morrow, I 'd be
broke, like the meanest 'bursch' in the corps.”
“It's better to be a rich Englander,” cried one.
“And with a field-marshal for a grand-uncle!” chimed in another.
“And a 'Maria Teresa' to ask for thy grade as officer,” said a third.
“It's a jolly service to all of us,” said a young Bohemian, who,
although but a cadet, was a prince, with a princely fortune. “I ask for
nothing but a war to make it the best life going.”
“A war with whom?” cried several together.
“What care I with whom or where? With Prussia, if you will, to fight out
our old scores about Frauconia; with Russia, if you like better, for the
Danubian provinces, and her Servian supremacy; with France she 's
always ready, with a cause or without one; with Italy to round off our
frontier, and push our limits to the Apennines; I'd say with England,
only Dalton might n't like it.”
“And where would you pick your quarrel with England?” said Frank,
laughing.
“Easily enough, through our ambassador at the Porte, or some outlying
station, where Russia is her rival.”
“Hang your politics!” broke in a Hungarian. “Let us fight when the time
comes, but not bother our heads about the cause. I 'd rather take
my chance of a sabre-cut any day than addle my brains with too much
thought. Here 's to you, Dalton, mayst soon be a Rittmeister of Hussars,
lad; a prouder thing thou needst not ask for.”
“Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the 'Schwan,' Dalton, when we meet
at Vienna,” said another.
“And we'll pledge those fair sisters of thine and they 're both
handsome, I 'll be sworn in the best Tokay Palfi's vineyard can yield.”
“My regiment will be in garrison, in the Leopoldstadt, next month, and
I'll remind thee of this pledge.”
“And we shall be at Lintz,” broke in another; “and thou mayst reckon on
me, if I have to suffer an arrest for it afterwards.”
“So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. For what day shall it be?”
“Ay, let us name the day,” cried several together.
“When he is named an officer,” said Walstein, “that will be time
enough.”
“Nay, nay the day month after he arrives at Vienna,” cried the Bohemian.
“I have given three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion of my
promotion, and the promotion has never come yet.”
“The day month after I arrive, then, be it,” said Dalton. “We meet at
where is it?”
“The 'Schwan,' lad, the first restaurant of Europe. Let men talk as they
will of the Cadran Bleu and the Trois Freres, I'd back Hetziuger's cook
against the world; and as for wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins
the flask! And we'll drink it, too, eh, Dalton? and we'll give a 'Hoch
Lebe' to that old grandfather or grand-uncle of thine. We'll add ten
years to his life.”
“A poor service to Dalton,” said another; “but here comes Walstein's
horses, and now for the last glass together before we part.”
The parting seemed, indeed, to be “sweet sorrow,” for each leave-taking
led to one flask more, friendship itself appearing to make wondrous
progress as the bottle went round. The third call of the postilion's
bugle a summons that even German loyalty could scarcely have courage
to resist at last cut short the festivities, and Frank once more found
himself in the caleche, where at least a dozen hands contested for the
last shake of his, and a shower of good wishes mingled with the sounds
of the crashing wheels.
“Glorious fellows!” cried Dalton, in an ecstasy of delight; “such
comrades are like brothers.”
Walstein smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, and lighted his meerschaum in
silence; and thus they journeyed, each too full of his own thoughts to
care for converse. It was not at such a moment that Dalton could give
way to dark or serious reflections; the blandishments and caresses of
his new friends were too powerful to admit of any rivalry in his mind;
and even when he did revert to thoughts of home, it was to picture
to himself his father's pride at seeing him in the society of these
high-born youths; of Kate's delight at the degree of notice he
attracted; and even Nelly poor Nelly! he fancied yielding a gentle,
half-reluctant assent to a companionship which, if costly and expensive,
was sure to be honorable and high-minded.
“What would Hanserl say, too,” thought he, “if he saw me seated at the
table with those whose high-sounding names are the pride of Austrian
chivalry, the Thuns, the Lichtensteins, the Schwartenschilds, and the
Walsteins, families old as the Hapsburgs themselves? Little Hanserl, to
whom these glorious families were the great lights of history, oh, if he
could have set eyes on me this last evening! when, with arms around my
neck, they called me comrade!” From this he wandered on to thoughts
of his uncle, investing the old field-marshal with every noble and
soldierlike attribute, and, above all, fancying him as overflowing with
affection and kindness. What hosts of questions did he ask about his
father and his sisters; how often had he to repeat their names and
paint their resemblances, going over the most minute details of family
history, and recounting the simplest incidents of their daily life, for
“Uncle Stephen would know all.”
In such pleasant fancies he fell fast asleep, even in his dreams to
carry out those imaginings that, waking, had no control of reason.
Frank Dalton was awaked from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream of home
by the hoarse voice of a mounted dragoon, ordering the postilion to
halt; and, on looking out, he saw that they were drawn up close beside
the angle of the great wooden bridge that crosses the Danube, under the
walls of Vienna. The whole scene was one of wonderment and surprise to
him. At his feet, as it were, rolled the stream of the rapid Danube; its
impetuous flood splashing and foaming amid the fragments of ice floated
down from the mountain regions, and which every moment were shivered
against the stone breakwaters with the crash of thunder. Beyond the
river rose the fortified walls of the city, covered with a dense
multitude of people, eager spectators of a grand military display,
which, with all the pomp of war, poured forth beneath the dark archway
of the entrance-gate, and, winding over the “glacis,” crossed the
bridge, and held on its course towards the Prater.
It was a clear, bright day of winter; the blue sky almost cloudless, and
the sharp outline of every object stood out, crisp and well defined, in
the thin atmosphere. Nothing could be more favorable for the effect of
such a spectacle. The bright weapons glanced and glittered like silver,
the gay trappings and brilliant uniforms showed in all their splendor,
the scarlet Lancers, the blue-clad Hussars, the Cuirassiers, with their
towering helmets, vied with each other in soldierlike bearing; while the
dense mass of infantry moved along with a surging, waving motion, like
a vast sea heaving with a ground-swell. It was an army complete in every
detail; for, even to the “ambulances” for the wounded, everything was
there.
“A review by the Emperor!” said Walstein; “and see, there comes his
staff.” And he pointed to a group of horsemen, whose waving plumes and
floating dolmans were seen at a little distance off in the plain.
“Oh, let us follow them!” cried Frank, enthusiastically. “Such a
glorious sight as this I never even imagined.”
“You 'll see enough, perhaps too many such,” said the Count, languidly.
“It's a favorite pastime of our old General's to drag us out of quarters
in the very depth of winter, and spend a day in the snow of the Prater.”
“Who could have a thought for weather or hardship when engaged in such a
scene?” said Frank.
“So, evidently, think those worthy field-marshals and generals of
division, who, well mounted, and swathed in furs, canter down to the
ground, an hour after we have reached it, and ride back again when they
have 'taken the salute,' leaving us to plod wearily home, through wet
roads and sloppy streets, to our cold barracks. But just the reverse
is the opinion of those poor fellows yonder, with blue faces and
frostbitten knuckles, and who have neither pride in this display, nor
sympathy with the success of what is called 'a fine manoeuvre.'”
Frank shook his head distrustfully. He wished not to credit the opinion,
but knew not how to refute it, and was silent.
“That is the 'Franz Carl,' Dalton,” said Walstein, pointing to a column
of infantry, who, in their dark gray overcoats, seemed a sad-looking,
gloomy mass. “They've got the best band and the most savage colonel in
the service.”
Frank gazed at the regiment with a strange sensation of awe and fear.
“There lies my destiny!” thought he. “Who knows what friendships or
enmities await me yonder? What hearts in that dark mass will beat
responsively with my own; what sources of sorrow or affliction may I
meet with amongst them!”
“I wish thou hadst a better regiment, Dalton,” said Walstein.
“How a better? Is it not a brave and distinguished corps?”
“Brave enough,” said the other, laughing; “and as for distinction, an
Archduke owns and commands it. But that is not what I mean. The regiment
is a poor one; the officers are from Upper Austria, with little or
no fortune, fellows who dine for a zwanziger, play dominos for two
kreutzers, waltz at the wine-gardens, and fight duels with sabres.”
Frank laughed at the description; but his laugh had more of gloom
than mirth about it, for he felt at every moment the false position
be occupied, and how inextricably complicated his circumstances were
becoming. Every allusion to others showed him in what light he was
himself regarded. “Was his deception honorable? was it possible to
continue it?” were the questions that would obtrude upon him, and for
which no ingenuity could find answer.
“There 's the corps for you, Dalton,” said Walstein, drawing his
attention to the “Hungarian Guard,” all glittering with gold embroidery,
and mounted upon the most beautiful white chargers, at once the most
perfect riders and the best mounted cavalry in Europe. “In that regiment
you are certain of being quartered either here or in Prague. Those laced
jackets are too costly wear to send down to the Banat, or among the
wilds of Wallachia. Besides, the Empress likes to see these gaudy
fellows on their 'schimmels' beneath the Palace windows. Your uncle
will, of course, grumble a little about the cost. Perhaps your father,
too, will look a little grave when he hears of six thousand florins for
a 'dolman,' and four for a 'schabrach;' while ten or twelve horses the
very least you could keep would scarcely sound like a moderate stable.
Still, depend upon it, the corps is as good for service as it is costly,
and Creptowitz, their Colonel, is a true hussar.”
For a moment Dalton hesitated whether he should not make the honest
avowal of his narrow fortune, and tell that he had no pretension to such
habits of cost and expense; but shame was too powerful to permit the
acknowledgment. He had already gone too far to retract, and he felt
that any candor now would be the confession of a cheat. If these were
harassing and torturing reflections, one flickering ray of hope still
glimmered through the gloom; and this was, what he might expect from his
uncle. “If he be really rich, as they say,” thought Frank, “if his favor
be so great with the Emperor, even such a career as this may not be
above my prospects.” As he revolved these thoughts, he sat with his head
buried between his hands, forgetful of where he was and all around him.
“You 're losing everything, Dalton,” said Walstein. “See, there go
the 'Kaiser Jagers,' with their bugles, the finest in the service; and
yonder are the Lichtenstein 'Light Horse,' mounted on thorough-bred
cattle; and there, to the left, those savage-looking fellows with long
beards, they are the 'Croat Grenadiers.' But here comes the Emperor!”
And, as he spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along the line, and
was echoed back from the walls of Vienna; while every band struck up
the national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes of “God preserve the
Emperor!” floated through the air.
A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of the service accompanied
“the Kaiser;” and Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, many of
whom were among the first nobility of the Empire. Some were the war-worn
veterans of the great campaigns; some the young hopes of Austrian
chivalry; but, conspicuous above all, was a figure whose stature, as
well as the singularity of his uniform, attracted Frank's notice. He was
a very tall old man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet slashed with
gold, and actually covered with the crosses and decorations of various
orders. His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, from which a long,
straight scarlet plume floated, and beneath which his gray hair was
fastened in a queue, that hung half-way down his back. Yellow buskins
ornamented with massive gold spurs completed a costume which seemed
almost a compromise between the present and some bygone age.
The figure of the wearer, too, suited well this impression. There was
a stern rigidity of look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle,
which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an old courtier as often as
the Emperor addressed him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, he
seemed the very type of courtesy; while, as he retired his horse, there
was all the address and ease of a practised rider.
“There, to the left of Walmoden, on the powerful black horse, do you see
that handsome old man in the purple tunic?” said Waldstein.
“I have been watching him for several minutes back,” replied Frank.
“What a singular uniform!”
“Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of the Imperial Guard in the
days of Wagram and Lobau; and he is permitted to retain it, by a special
leave of the Emperor, a favor he only avails himself of on occasions
like the present.”
“What a mass of orders he wears!”
“He has all that the Empire can bestow, from the 'Iron Cross' to the
'Maria Teresa.' He has the 'Legion of Honor,' too, sent him by Napoleon
himself! It was that officer who at Elchingen rode up to the head of a
French column, and told them that the wagons they were pursuing were the
'ammunition of the rear-guard!' 'If you advance,' said he, 'we 'll fire
them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms!' The coolness and heroism of
the daring were well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The French halted,
and our train proceeded on its way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote
before?”
“Never,” said Frank, still gazing with admiration at the old soldier.
“Then I may as well tell you that he is the Count Dalton von Auersberg,”
said Walstein, lying back to enjoy the youth's amazement.
“What! Uncle Stephen? Is that our uncle?” burst out Frank, in delight.
“I wish I could call him 'ours,' with all my heart,” said Walstein,
laughing. “Any man might well be proud of such a relative.”
But Frank never heard or heeded the remark; his whole soul was wrapped
up in the contemplation of the old field marshal, on whom he gazed as a
devotee might have done upon his saint.
“He 's like my father,” muttered Frank, half aloud; “but
haughtier-looking, and older. A true Dalton in every feature! How I long
to speak to him, to tell him who I am.”
“Not here, though, not here!” said Walstein, laying his hand on the
youth's arm; for he almost feared lest he should give way to the sudden
impulse. “Were you even the Colonel of your regiment, you could not
approach him now.”
Frank stared with some surprise at a remark which seemed to treat so
slightingly the ties of blood and kindred; while Walstein, by no means
easy on the score of his companion's prudence, gave the word to the
postilion to drive on; and they entered the city of Vienna.