Next morning's rayless sun found Louis passing from his hardly pressed
pillow, to the prosecution of his appointed task for the day. Ignatius
had laid before him new papers, of a totally different character from
the former, and much more difficult to transcribe.
As he continued to write, he heard the furious beating of a snow-storm
against the windows, which, in this apartment, were not only grated
but too high in the wall to allow of outward view. The heat of a
well-filled stove excluded the encreased cold of the season; and the
fierceness of the elements made him the less regret the exercise he
must relinquish, or lose all hope of reducing the immense piles before
him.
The Sieur appeared at his former nocturnal hour, to receive what had
been finished, and to leave other manuscripts to which he desired
duplicates. Day after day Louis was kept close to his desk, and every
night delivered to his unrelenting task-master the labour of the day.
At the expiration of a week, the Sieur told him he should not see
him again till the first of the ensuing month; but that he had a
correspondence to leave with him, which he must completely transcribe
into a regular series, by the time of his return. Louis received
his orders in respectful silence, and when he was again left to his
solitary toil, he found that his voluminous task was in the Sclavonian
and Turkish characters. Neither of these languages had been parts of
his studies; so he pursued his monotonous employment each succeeding
day, from morning until midnight, without the accession of one new
idea, or a moment's leisure for retrospection on former acquirements.
The sun rose, and the sun set; the weather, foul or fair; gloomy in
storm, or gay with the scintillation of exhilarating frost, all found
Louis de Montemar close at his desk. The iron-bound windows had never
opened to the air; and the charcoal fumes which warmed the apartment,
having no egress, hung in narcotic vapours on the vaulted roof. A heavy
languor fell on its lonely inhabitant, and grew on him from day to
day, till it left him hardly any other consciousness of being, than
the faculty of moving, his now habituated hand, perpetually over the
infinite reams of paper which lay before him.
On the night of the 1st of February, according to his promise, Ignatius
entered the prison-room of his unrelaxing secretary. The piles which
were completed, at last extorted from his unbending loftiness, an
exclamation of admiration at such faultless execution and indefatigable
perseverance. Louis's face no longer lighted up, as it was wont, at the
voice of praise; but he bowed, though in silence. Had Ignatius spared
a glance from the laborious heap to its unrepining artificer, that
face would have told the tale his tongue had not uttered. The bloomy
crimson of his cheek had perished under the withering breath of stoved
confinement; and his eyes, before so luminous in health, so bright in
youthful enjoyment, were sunk in languor under his darkening brows.
So thoroughly was the Sieur absorbed in the business of his visit, he
might not have observed these changes, had he not accidentally come in
contact with the hand of his pupil in taking one of the packets. He
started, as the touch seemed to scorch him.
"How is this?" cried he, eyeing Louis from head to foot, "you are ill."
"Perhaps the confinement, Sir," returned he, "may discompose me a
little. But custom will enure me to it, and meanwhile it is of no
consequence."
"No," said Ignatius, "your diligence has been too severe; you must have
air and exercise. To-morrow you shall try their efficacy. I will send a
respectable servant of my own, to attend you over the city."
Louis thankfully embraced the proposal.
The morrow's sun rose brilliant, as on the first morning he had hailed
its beams from his chamber at Vienna. Louis dismissed a breakfast, for
which he had no appetite; and with a spring of joy, he could not have
conceived it possible to have experienced by merely stepping forth into
the open air, he followed Martini, (the promised attendant from the
Sieur,) out of the great gates of the Chateau.
The man was an Italian, and possessed none of the taciturnity of
his mysterious master. With the respect due to a superior, but the
garrulous gaiety of his country, he freely remarked to his companion
on every object of sight, as he conducted him along the hoar-frosted
avenue to the extensive glacis before the fortified walls of Vienna.
Martini led the way through the Leopoldstadt-gate. Louis followed, but
paid no attention to street nor square, palace nor cathedral; he was
all occupied by the reviving aspirations he drew at every breath from
an atmosphere whose ethereal quality seemed to penetrate every pore,
and by an enchanting inebriation to restore him at once to his wonted
elasticity of spirits.
Martini conducted him through the finest squares of the city, and along
the most magnificent part of the suburbs towards the frozen Danube.
It was now the hour of high gala. The noise and bustle of a countless
multitude, passing and re-passing in a thousand different directions,
soon summoned the concentrated senses of Louis to regard outward
objects. The beams of the sun played over the landscape; hues of light
blue, intermingled with bloomy purple deepening into shade, checquered
the hills on the horizon. A waving line of shining snow marked the
heights of Calemberg, and a sky of the purest azure canopied the scene.
At the distance of his windows from the river, he could only view a
various and interminable mass of human beings moving on its surface;
but now he could distinguish the peculiar dress and aspect of each
individual of all the nations assembled on that universal theatre.
Turks, Tartars, Greeks, Muscovites, Swedes, and Italians, English and
French, all appeared as if travelling to some vast senate of mankind;
or rather, so gay were their habits, so gorgeous their equipages, it
might be taken for a pageantry in fairy-land.
Delighted to see the attention of his charge at last arouzed, Martini
allowed him, for some time, to gaze around in pleased amazement;
then, resuming his office of _Cicerone_ with augmented eloquence,
he particularized the objects most worthy observation, and explained
them with the accuracy of an itinerary. The Asiatic structure, raising
its gilded domes over the cedars of the island, and which Louis had
noticed from his window, Martini informed him was the _Favorita_; the
favorite palace of the imperial family. It was now their temporary
residence; and in that direction he saw numerous carriages, of strange
shapes and capricious magnificence, shoot along the ice. Fancy seemed
to have exhausted all her varieties of form in the construction of
these whimsical vehicles. Some were fashioned like triumphal cars,
others like the fabled shells of marine deities, and many of shapes
so fantastical and grotesque, that the incumbent seemed lying in the
grasp of some sea or land monster. All were garnished with gilding,
emblazoned arms, or gallant devices; while the master, wrapped in
ermines, guided with silken reins the flying horses, who, caparisoned
in glittering housings, flashed by the spectator like the steeds of the
sun. In some of the gayest _traineaux_, formed like scallop-shells and
bedded with fur, beautiful women were seen reclining, while gentlemen
sat on the sledge behind, managing the horses, and conversing with the
ladies.
Louis was particularly struck with the singular beauty of the animals
which drew these carriages. They were evidently of the Arabian breed,
slight of limb, and carrying their branching necks with the grace of
an antelope. The peculiar airiness and freedom of their pace, suited
well with the Eastern magnificence of their trappings. An equipage with
four of these fine creatures had just engaged his attention, when he
found himself hurried forward by a crowd of foot-passengers, rushing
to meet a cavalcade which preceded the Empress. At the moment of
general clamour, he thought he heard his own name suddenly ejaculated.
He listened,--it was repeated, and in the voice of Duke Wharton.
Louis's heart leaped to the sound. He turned towards it, and saw the
Duke standing behind the car of one of the Arch-duchesses. Another
gentleman shared his post of honour, and guided the reins, while the
Duke's eyes met the eager recognition and out-stretched arms of his
friend. The carriage shot swiftly onward, but Wharton also extended his
arms to Louis, and, as he was snatched from his sight, pointed to the
_Favorita_. Louis understood that it was there he must seek him; and
thither he determined to go, when he should walk out the following day.
The sight of the Duke, not merely recalled the enthusiastic feeling
with which he originally regarded him, but presented to Louis the image
of England, and all that it contained dear to his habits and to his
heart! Tears rushed into his eyes: they seemed to overflow his soul,
as he clasped his hands and inwardly exclaimed, "England! beloved land
of liberty and tenderness! renown may be sought in other countries, but
happiness is to be found in thee!"
For the first time since his arrival at Vienna, did he allow his heart
to speak even to himself, to acknowledge that he was unhappy! That he
had exchanged the generous freedom of the home of his youth, for harsh
imprisonment in a foreign land. That he had parted with relations, who
loved and honoured him, to become dependent on a stranger, and bound to
the toil of a slave!
"Is such to be the purpose of my life?" said he to himself, as, with
eyes blinded by emotion, he turned from the gay scene; "is such to be
the oblivion of all that I took so much pains to acquire? Such, the
grave of talents, my too partial relations cherished with so many
hopes? My boasting ambition! Where has it led me? Oh, Wharton, what
will you see me now? Crushed in spirit, and bowed with servitude;
cheated into vassalage; and chained to an employment, that any hireling
might perform as honourably! For, what trust is confided in me? I copy
an unknown character; from whom, and to whom, I am completely ignorant.
No, it cannot be the will of my father, thus to degrade and sacrifice
his son!"
With these thoughts goading his fevered nerves, un-noting the way he
went, he hurried from the Danube. By accident he took the path to
the Chateau, and his guide, marvelling at the fitful humours of the
young secretary, followed in silence. With a pulse in every vein, and
feelings exasperated at the present, from immediate comparison with
the past, and yearning for the moment of throwing himself into the
arms of Wharton; as if that one embrace would restore to him at once,
his liberty, his country, and his friends; Louis did not recover his
attention to visible objects, till he found himself again within the
dreary walls of the Chateau. He locked himself into the room of his
labour, and throwing himself on the floor, gave way to the regrets that
overwhelmed him in restrainless floods of bitter tears. In Lindisfarne,
he had wept in tenderness and in sorrow. He had known the pangs of
parting, and given the tribute of his tears to the racking moment. But
he had never felt completely unmanned until now.
Hour passed over hour; Gerard knocked at the door, to announce that
his solitary meal was prepared, but he knocked unheeded. At last, the
deepening glooms of evening enclosing him in darkness, reminded him
the day was past, and that his demanded task of the morning was yet
to begin. Aware that the man, whom he was required to revere as a
guardian, but whom the pangs of recollection made him now abhor as
a tyrant, would exact it from him at midnight; he started from the
ground. At that moment of self-recall to labour, the yoke of bondage
pressed with insupportable weight upon his soul.
"I will not endure it!" cried he, "why should I immure myself like
a condemned wretch? Shut up in solitude, fastened to the duty of a
machine; Without sound of human voice, but that of my hard task-master!
Without breathing the free air of Heaven; unless accompanied with
lackies! Is this a fate, chosen by the Baron de Ripperda for his son,
his only son? It is mockery, and I will not endure it."
The fever in his blood exaggerated to his perturbed mind every
mysterious circumstance in his situation. He might be now the
unconscious instrument of treason, or the cheated agent of political
treachery. His father's confidence might be abused by the impenetrable
Ignatius, and he be ignorant, alike of his son's being at Vienna, and
of the illiterate drudgery to which he was consigned.
All this seemed the strange effect of Louis having seen Duke Wharton.
But much sprung from a distempered imagination, and disordered nerves;
the consequence of loneliness, want of exercise, and long confinement
in a deleterious atmosphere. However, the sudden appearance of
Wharton was certainly the circumstance which at once awoke all his
sensibilities to the perception of his changed state; of the liberty
he had been persuaded to relinquish, of the liberty he might, perhaps,
regain by the Duke's interference. The last idea was a vague one, but
still it was visible; it had a shadowy existence between hope and
despair, and Louis clasped at the delusive shade.
A prey to these confused imaginations, he could not command either the
desire or the power to resume his labours. Leaning his throbbing head
upon the table, he allowed the gloom of black night to surround him;
without even the wish to dispel it, by going into the adjoining room
for one of the candles which had been for so many hours burning to
waste.
As the old clock of the mansion struck ten, he was aroused from his
moody position by a gleam of light. He looked up, and saw the Sieur
Ignatius standing before him, with a lamp in his hand.
Louis started, disordered, from his chair.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked the Sieur, in a kindly voice; "I
fear you are seriously ill."
Louis, in attempting to speak, was agitated to suffocation. Ignatius
fixed his eyes on his haggard countenance.
"Your zeal has over-wrought your strength. Health is as necessary as
will, to the completion of your duty. In these respects you must learn
to be an economical, as well as a generous servant to your country; for
that is the only way to be an efficient one. I see you have been too
ill to prepare this night's papers."
The unusual interest in his feelings, which this address intimated; and
the perfect confidence in his will to perform, what he had not done,
smote on the heart of Louis; and, embarrassed and miserable, he bowed
in silence.
"Sit down," continued the Sieur, evidently struck with the changed
appearance of his charge; "I was improvident not to calculate on the
ardour of your character, and give you orders to make pauses in your
work, and take daily exercise in the garden. I ought to have thought
on the garden before; for your walk of to-day without the walls, has
already been productive of vexation. You have been seen, and to my
great embarrassment, recognised. Have you any idea by whom?"
"By the Duke of Wharton," returned Louis, with all the recollections of
that moment flushing his cheek; "I saw him on the Danube."
"And you saluted him first?" demanded Ignatius.
"No;" answered Louis, "but I turned to a voice calling on my name
through the crowd, and met the eyes of my friend."
"And he recognised you, and you him?"
"We did."
"Mischief upon mischief!" ejaculated the Sieur, starting from his
chair, and striding across the room in extraordinary discomposure. He
turned suddenly upon Louis.--"So thoroughly did I believe you incapable
of conduct so inconsistent with your awful engagements, that I have
absolutely contradicted the mutual recognition. On being told of it
to night by the Emperor's confessor, and the inferences drawn from
the fact; I empowered him to affirm that he knew from an authority he
could not dispute, that Louis de Montemar _was not in Vienna_; and that
whoever had occasioned the report, must have mistaken some other person
for the son of the Baron de Ripperda. Think then, faithless boy, into
what a dilemma your recognition of Duke Wharton has brought the friend
of your father! Into what a danger you have precipitated the cause, in
which that father has embarked his fortunes and his life!"
"Sir," said Louis, with the dignity of conscious probity answering a
man who had so lately put his affirmation to a falsehood; "my office
here is inconsistent with my awful engagements. I bound myself to
the dedication of all my talents, all the energies of my mind and
heart, to the service of my father's country, now become mine; and
to be obedient to him, as its agent. But I find myself, and all
these talents, few or many, which have been the labour of my life to
cultivate, chained down to the one mechanical act of writing on this
table, in a character unknown to me, and on subjects concerning which
I am as ignorant as the messenger that carries them to and fro! I am
not treated with the confidence of a son, but the suspicion of a slave;
and I have my doubts that I am really so degraded by the commands of my
father."
"This is new language Louis de Montemar! You have spoken with the Duke
of Wharton. He knows all that you know: and he has put this complexion
on the affair! well he knows how to sap and to overturn--and a fit
agent for a father's ruin, he has found in the son of the Baron de
Ripperda."
As the terrible Ignatius delivered this, he approached close to Louis,
and seizing his arm, fixed on him his powerful eyes, as if to look
into his soul.
"I can bear your scrutiny, Sir," said he, "were you to rip open my
breast with the poniard your hand rests upon. It is not in me to betray
any man. I have not spoken with Duke Wharton."
"And you must not," returned the Sieur, recovering his presence of
mind, and dropping his hand from the dagger's hilt he had unconsciously
grasped; "you must avoid, avoid even the chance of his seeing you
again. You are ill, and you are moody. You require air and action; and
you shall have them: but henceforth they must be found in the garden
of the Chateau. Be obedient to this necessity; and I will forget
the phrenzied language, which, if not Wharton, some demon must have
conjured, to betray your reason and your duty."
"Sir," replied Louis, in great emotion; "I do not wish you to forget
it. I wish you to answer me to all its points. I wish to know at once,
whether I am a trusted servant, or an abused slave? Trust me, and
that labour will be happiness--distinction!--which is now misery, and
degradation insupportable!"
For some time the lofty Ignatius regarded his pupil's almost convulsed
features with a steady perusal of their varying expressions.--At last,
putting his hand on the shoulder of Louis, he said in a calm voice;
"Compose yourself; and listen to me. Hear from my lips, truths that
must be your future guide in the destiny you have chosen; but to combat
with the evils of which, you come totally unprovided. You have educated
yourself for the service of your country.--You are full of ardour to
engage in it. But how? Not as she directs; but as yourself chuses. You
would fight her battles in the field of blood; you would fill her cars
of triumph! But you disdain to watch for her in secret, to labour in
obscurity for her ultimate peace. This last, is virtue in her purest
simplicity; and, therefore, your father awarded to the virgin honour of
his son, the unblemished sacrifice."
Louis believed that he now, indeed, listened to truth. But why did he,
who could impress it so powerfully, why did he utter so mean a denial
of the fact, as to affirm that the son of Baron de Ripperda was not in
Vienna?
The prompt intelligence of the Sieur's rapid glance, had seen the
effect of this assertion on the mind of his pupil; and while he pursued
his remarks on what had passed, he noticed the equivocation he had
made, as a common style in diplomacy: "your being in the suburbs,
and not in Vienna," said he, "afforded me the advantage of this
ambiguity. Always hold in mind, that no advantage, however trivial, is
contemptible to a negotiator. The smallest causes often produce the
greatest effects. Alberoni's mysterious policy, which held Europe in
awe for five years, was revealed and destroyed in one moment by the
dropping of his courier's cloak-bag into a river!"
While Louis sighed to think, that subterfuge could ever be a duty,
he was filled with ingenuous shame at the suspicions he had dared
to proclaim; at the reproaches with which his impatient doubts, and
personal feelings, had provoked him to insult the trusted friend
of his father. The forbearance of the Sieur Ignatius, under this
unexpected flood of impassioned violence, augmented the contrition of
the disordered offender; and when he rose to withdraw, Louis could only
say, "bear with me this night. I am incapable of speaking--almost of
thinking--but bear with me! and to-morrow, you shall find that I have
not listened in vain."