There are people like Sulkowski, who do not wish, to see or to believe
when there is danger. Neither what his wife told him, about her very
cool reception by the Queen, nor what Ludovici communicated to him,
took one iota from the assurance the Count had in himself or from his
faith in the future.
It seemed to him that the King was so fond of him, that he could not
get along without him, and he was perfectly confident. His wife, a
timid and modest lady, well knowing the life of the court and the value
of that which is called the King's favour, was very much afraid
although she did not show it. She was aware that disgrace in Saxony,
especially when it was trumped up by one's antagonists, did not end in
a simple dismissal and banishment. It was usually followed by the
confiscation of the estates and very often by imprisonment for life
without trial. Sulkowski, in disgrace, could be threatening to his
enemies through his connections with the courts of France, Austria, and
Prussia; what then could be more natural than to imprison him for
safety?
The Countess spent the night in fear, hiding her tears from her
husband, for she did not wish to discourage him.
Her husband, on the contrary, was in high spirits, repeating to his
wife what he had said to the King, and what impression it made on him.
He flattered himself, that he had broken the snares which his foes had
set for him; that everything would be as it was before, that he would
overthrow the whole of that clique, and so surround the Queen, as to
render her harmless for the future.
The next morning, the fifth of February, the Count was up very early,
dressed, and, according to his old habit, went to the castle.
Had he possessed more penetration and less confidence in himself, he
would easily have noticed that everyone in the court, on perceiving
him, became grave; some of the courtiers drew aside and those, who
could not avoid meeting him, were very cold and spoke but little.
Sulkowski being privileged to see the King at any time he liked, went
straight to his room, but the Baron von Lowendhal barred his way and
told him very politely, that the King being very busy had given orders
that no one was to be admitted, without any exception.
'But this order cannot apply to me,' said Sulkowski smiling.
'I do not know about that,' answered Lowendhal, 'perchance it may be
cancelled later, but for the present you must excuse me for executing
my orders.'
Sulkowski not wishing to condescend to a quarrel, sure that later he
would be able to avenge such improper behaviour, saluted, turned and
went off.
He determined to come again at eleven o'clock, when the King used to
receive everybody. Coming down from the stairs, he perceived Bruehl's
_porte-chaise_ and it angered him.
'Patience,' he said to himself, 'these are their last efforts, for they
would not dare to shut the door in my face. We shall see--'
He went to Ludovici's office and found him pale and confused.
'The papers? Have you the papers?' asked the Count.
'I have not got them up to the present; there is something mysterious
about the way the officials treat me--it does not portend anything good
to us.'
'I understand,' said the Count laughing, 'they see their near downfall
and lose their heads. I have not yet seen the King; they told me he was
very busy. They must hold council what to do with Sulkowski, who ruins
all their plans.'
He laughed; Ludovici sighed but did not dare to tell him that he was
mistaken.
The Count hesitated as to whether or not he should call on Bruehl, who
ought to have already paid a visit to him. That was also a kind of a
declaration of war.
'His conscience is not clear,' he said to himself, 'he does not dare to
see me, he is packing his baggage, sure of dismissal.'
Ludovici that day was not communicative, he sighed, became pensive,
paced the room and moaned. It made Sulkowski laugh.
As he had nothing to do he determined to pay a visit to the Countess
Moszynski in order to see whether he would be received, and to enjoy
the Countess's fright.
Accordingly he went to the Countess, but she begged to be excused, as
the hour was early and she not dressed. He returned home where he found
his wife very uneasy.
Joking at her useless fears, he told her that he was going again to the
King. It was a quarter to eleven when Sulkowski went again to the
castle. There were very few people in the ante-room.
As Sulkowski approached the door leading to the King's apartments, a
page rushed out and told him that the King was in the Queen's
apartments. He had no desire to go to the Queen, for there he would not
be received without being first announced. Not knowing what to do with
himself, he went to his _porte-chaise_. His first idea was to return
home, but thinking that such an early return would frighten his wife,
he preferred to go elsewhere.
The second failure to see the King made him thoughtful; naturally there
was some intrigue but he did not believe it could have any result. He
determined to overcome all difficulties by patience and constancy, not
to show any impatience; and he was sure that he would conquer.
Faustina's house was on his way, and he determined to call on her. He
knew how much the King admired the singer and he hoped to be able to
learn something from her.
Already in the ante-room he heard such a noise that he thought of
withdrawing, not wishing to find himself in improper company. All at
once the door opened and out came Amorevoli, Monticelli, Abbuzzi,
Puttini, Pilagia and a few Frenchmen, talking very loud and
quarrelling. Catching sight of Sulkowski, they became silent, giving
way to him and bowing humbly.
Faustina, who drove them out, stood on the threshold; she became
confused at sight of the Count, but smiling she asked him to come in.
'When did your Excellency return?' she exclaimed, 'for I did not know
you were back.'
'Well, up to the present I am half incognito,' said the Count smiling.
'Just imagine, my beautiful lady, that since yesterday I have not seen
the King. I!' said he pointing to himself. 'Twice they would not admit
me to his Majesty. I began to believe that my absence made me forget
the customs of the court, and I came to beg you for some explanation.'
'The Count is kind enough to joke with me,' the singer replied, looking
at him with a mixture of commiseration and fear. 'I only know the stage
court. On the stage I am either a Queen or a goddess, but when I am off
the stage I know nothing of what is going on in the world.'
'But,' said Sulkowski in a low voice, 'tell me, have you heard
anything? Am I really threatened by your friend Guarini?'
'I do not know anything,' said Faustina, shaking her head. 'I have
enough of my own theatrical sorrows. It is very probably that they are
plotting against you, but you, Count, you need not be afraid.'
'Neither am I afraid, but I would like to _tirer au clair_ and to know
what it is.'
'It is jealousy and competition,' Faustina rejoined, 'In theatres they
are very common, we are well acquainted with them.'
'And the remedy?'
Faustina shrugged her shoulders.
'Some people would withdraw; those who wish to fight it out, must stick
to their guns, for they will never find peace.'
Sulkowski did not dare to remind her of the warning she had given him;
her speech and manner were now quite different; she was afraid.
Seeing that he would not learn much from her, the Count asked about the
new opera, about Hasse, and took leave of her.
He determined to go straight home. Notwithstanding the confidence which
had not yet left him, he was depressed and obliged to keep a close
watch on himself, lest the impatience which was taking hold of him
should show itself.
In front of his palace he found a court carriage. The Baroness von
Lowendhal, daughter of the Grand Master of Ceremonies was with his
wife. Sulkowski entered the drawing-room.
The two ladies were sitting on the sofa and chatting with vivacity. The
Baroness von Lowendhal, a very lively though not very young person, and
always the best informed about everything, sprang from the sofa and
greeted the Count as he entered. On her face one might discern much
distraction and nervousness.
'Count, you will be able to tell us the latest news, she said shaking
hands with him, 'what is going on at the court? Some changes are
expected, and we do not know what they may be.'
'But where does such a supposition come from?' asked the Count.
'An hour ago,' said the lady animated, 'the King sent for old General
Bandissin, who is suffering with gout and commanded him to come to the
castle. The general who could hardly walk across the room with a stick,
begged to be excused, giving his illness as his reason; notwithstanding
that they sent again for him and I saw him going to the castle.'
'I do not know what that means,' answered Sulkowski quietly. 'I went
twice to the castle and could not see the King; it's extremely
amusing.'
He began to laugh, while the Baroness prattled on.
'They say that Bandissin, who has already asked several times to be
pensioned, will get his release at last. He needs rest. But the worst
thing is, it seems that my father is going to be dismissed.'
'I do not believe it,' said Sulkowski, 'but as I was absent from
Dresden for several months, I am not _au courant_ of affairs just now.'
The Baroness looked at him.
'It is very easy to guess. The positions are required for others.'
'Better not talk of these things,' said the Countess 'I am afraid to
say a word.'
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
'Vain fears,' he said, 'all that will soon be changed.'
A lackey rushed in.
'His Excellency the Grand Master of Ceremonies, Baron von Lowendhal and
His Excellency General Bandissin,' he announced.
All looked at each other, the Countess grew pale.
'Show them in,' said the Count advancing towards the door.
The guests entered, and Lowendhal, having noticed his daughter, looked
at her as though in reproach at finding her there.
The greeting was stiff, Sulkowski received them coldly, not being able
to explain their visit. He motioned to them to be seated, when
Bandissin said:
'Count, we wish to speak to you without witnesses, we are sent by the
King.'
Sulkowski's face did not change, he pointed to the next room.
The ladies, who could not hear the conversation, remained seated,
frightened and curious.
The Countess trembled, feeling that this boded no good.
The Baroness wished to leave, but the Countess retained her by force,
and she had not the strength to resist.
When the men entered the other room, Bandissin, an old and obedient
soldier, took from his pocket and with evident pain a warrant signed by
the King.
He handed it in silence to Sulkowski, who, in passing the threshold of
that room, seemed to have strayed into another world, and stood pale
and as though thunderstruck.
He took the paper with trembling hands, read it, but did not
understand.
Lowendhal, who pitied him and wished to get it over as soon as
possible, seeing that the Count did not understand what it was all
about, passed behind him and read the warrant aloud.
It was very short and ran as follows:
'His Majesty the King, having noticed that the Count Sulkowski has
several times, and especially at the last interview forgotten himself
and lacked the respect due to His Majesty, has determined to take from
him all the appointments the Count has held at the court, and dismiss
him from all duties. In consideration of his long service, however, His
Majesty leaves him the pension of a general.'
Sulkowski expected something worse from the fate which other men had
met; therefore as he now understood the meaning of the warrant, he
recovered.
'His Majesty's will,' he said, 'is sacred to me. Although I feel
unjustly hurt, evidently by the machinations of my rivals, I shall bear
my lot. If I have ever forgotten myself towards his Majesty, it was
because of the love I have for my King, and not from any lack of
respect.'
Neither Bandissin nor Lowendhal replied. Sulkowski, before whom not
long ago they had almost kneeled, noticed the effect of his disgrace
first upon them.
Their former affability was gone. Bandissin looked at him as on an
inferior. In the faces of both gentlemen one could see that all they
desired was to get rid of him as soon as possible.
Both bowed coolly, and distantly. Sulkowski returned their bow and
conducted them back to the drawing-room. Here they saluted the ladies
from a distance and went out as soon as they could. The Count politely
escorted them to the ante-room and returned so serene, that his wife
could not read in his face what had happened.
The Baroness Lowendhal waited hoping to be enlightened, and dared not
ask him.
Sulkowski looked at his wife whose face betrayed anxious curiosity.
'Thank God,' said he, in a voice which trembled slightly, 'we are free.
His Majesty has pleased to dismiss me from my duties. Although I regret
to be obliged to leave my beloved lord, I do not feel at all hurt. It
would be difficult for an honest man to remain at the court under
existing circumstances.'
His wife covered her face.
'My dear,' said the Count, 'be calm, pray. The reason for my dismissal
is this. It seems that I forgot myself in the respect due to his
Majesty, in that I spoke the unadvisable and unpleasant truth; the King
is kind enough to leave me the pension of a general and give me
precious liberty--we shall go to Vienna.'
The Baroness Lowendhal looked at the Count with admiration. She could
not understand the equanimity with which he received the news of his
downfall from his former high position. The fact was that Sulkowski's
pride permitted him neither to feel nor to show that he was hurt. After
the first shock he pulled himself together and accepted his fate in a
truly lordly way.
It was possible that he still had hope.
The Countess cried.
The Baroness understood that her presence was superfluous, for she
could not offer consolation and her presence prevented them from
consoling each other; she silently pressed her friend's hand and
slipped from the room.
The Countess continued to weep.
'My dearest,' exclaimed the Count, 'I pray you to be brave. It is not
advisable to show that we are hurt. We have to be thankful to the King
that I was not sent to Koenigstein, and that instead of confiscating my
estates they leave me a pension. The banishment to Nebigan is not very
dreadful and does not exclude all hope--of overthrowing all that
scaffolding built by my honest, sweet, faithful friend, Bruehl! Pray, be
calm--'
But the woman was not easily consoled.
Sulkowski looked at his watch, offered his wife his arm and whispering
gently, conducted her to her room.