The little village of Valeggio, near the Lago di Guarda, was fixed upon
as the spot where the commissaries of both armies should meet to arrange
on the exchange of prisoners. It stood at about an equal distance from
their headquarters, and, although a poor and insignificant hamlet, was
conveniently situated for the purpose in hand. Soon after daybreak,
the stirring sounds of marching troops awoke the inhabitants, and a
half-squadron of Piedmontese lancers were seen to ride up the narrow
street, and, dismounting, to picket their horses in the little Piazza
of the market. Shortly after these came an equal number of Hungarian
hussars, “Radetzky's Own,” who drew up in the square before the church;
each party seeming carefully to avoid even a momentary contact with the
other. Several country carts and wagons lined the street, for a number
of prisoners had arrived the preceding evening, and taken up their
quarters in the village, who might now be seen projecting their pale
faces and bandaged heads from many a casement, and watching with eager
curiosity all that was going forward. About an hour later, an Austrian
General, with his staff, rode in from the Peschiera road, while, almost
at the very instant, a calèche with four horses dashed up from the
opposite direction, conveying the Piedmontese “Commissary.”
So accurately timed was the arrival, that they both drew up at the
door of the little inn together, and as the one dismounted, the other
alighted from his carriage.
The etiquette of precedence, so easily settled in the ordinary course of
events, becomes a matter of some difficulty at certain moments, and
so the two Generals seemed to feel it, as, while desirous of showing
courtesy, each scrupled at what might seem a compromise of his country's
dignity.
The Austrian officer was a very old man, whose soldierlike air and
dignified deportment recalled the warriors of a past century. The other,
who was slighter and younger, exhibited an air of easy unconcern, rather
smacking of courts than camps, and vouching for a greater familiarity
with _salons_ than with soldier life.
They uncovered and bowed respectfully to each other, and then stood,
each waiting, as it were, for the initiative of the other.
“After you, General,” said the younger, at length, and with a manner
which most courteously expressed the deference he felt for age.
“I must beg _you_ to go first, sir,” replied the Austrian. “I stand here
on the territory of my master, and I see in you all that demands the
deference due to a guest.”
The other smiled slightly, but obeyed without a word; and, ascending the
stairs, was followed by the old General into the little chamber destined
for their conference. Slight and trivial as this incident was, it is
worth mention, as indicating the whole tone of the interview,--one
characterized by a proud insistence on one side, and a certain plastic
deference on the other. The Austrian spoke like one who felt authorized
to dictate his terms; while the Piedmontese seemed ready to acquiesce in
and accept whatever was proffered. The letters which accredited them to
each other lay open on the table; but as this preliminary conversation
had not assumed the formal tone of business, neither seemed to know
the name or title of the other. In fact, it appeared like a part of
the necessary etiquette that they were simply to regard each other as
representatives of two powers, neither caring to know or recognize any
personal claims.
Lists of names were produced on both sides. Master-rolls of regiments,
showing the precise ranks of individuals, and their standing in the
service, all arranged with such care and accuracy as to show that
the conference itself was little more than a formality. A case of
brevet-rank, or the accident of a staff appointment, might now and then
call for a remark or an explanation, but, except at these times, the
matter went on in a mere routine fashion; a mark of a pencil sufficing
to break a captivity, and change the whole fate of a fellow-man!
“Our task is soon ended, sir,” said the Austrian, rising at last. “It
would seem that officers on both sides prefer death to captivity in this
war.”
“The loss has been very great indeed,” said the other. “The peculiar
uniform of your officers, so distinct from their men, has much exposed
them.”
“They met their fate honorably, at least, sir; they wore the colors of
their Emperor.”
“Very true, General,” replied the other, “and I will own to you our
surprise at the fact that there have been no desertions, except from
the ranks. The popular impression was, that many of the Hungarians would
have joined the Italian cause. It was even said whole regiments would
have gone over.”
“It was a base calumny upon a faithful people and a brave soldiery,”
said the other. “I will not say that such a falsehood may not have
blinded their eyes against their truth in their national struggle,--the
love of country might easily have been used to a base and treacherous
purpose,--but here, in this conflict, not a man will desert the cause of
the Emperor!” The emotion in which he spoke these words was such that he
was obliged to turn away his face to conceal it.
“Your words have found an illustration amongst the number of our wounded
prisoners, General,” said the other--“a young fellow who, it was said,
broke his arrest to join the struggle at Goito, but whose name or rank
we never could find out, for, before being taken, he had torn every mark
of his grade from cuff and collar!”
“You know his regiment, perhaps?”
“It is said to be Prince Paul of Würtemberg's.”
“What is he like,--what may be his age?” asked the General, hastily.
“To pronounce from appearance, he is a mere boy,--brown-haired and
blue-eyed, and wears no moustache.”
“Where is he, sir?” asked the old man, with a suppressed emotion.
“In this very village. He was forwarded here last night by a special
order of the Duke of Savoy, who has taken a deep interest in his fate,
and requested that I should take measures, while restoring him, without
exchange, to mention the signal bravery of his conduct.”
“The Duke's conduct is worthy of a soldier Prince!” said the General,
with feeling, “and, in my master's name, I beg to thank him.”
“The youth is at the temporary hospital, but knows nothing of these
arrangements for his release. Perhaps the tidings will come more
gratefully to his ears from his own countryman.”
“It is kindly spoken, sir. May I have the honor of knowing the name of
one who has made this interview so agreeable by his courtesy?”
“My name at this side of the Alps, General, is Count de Valetta; but I
have another and better known designation, before I pronounce which, I
would gladly enlist in my favor whatever I might of yonr good opinion.”
“All this sounds like a riddle to me, Signor Conte,” said the General,
“and I am but a plain man, little skilled at unravelling a difficulty.”
“I am addressing the General Count von Auersberg,” said the other.
“Well, sir, it was hearing that you were the officer selected for this
duty that induced me to ask I might be appointed also. I have been most
anxious to meet you, and, in the accidents of a state of war, knew not
how to compass my object.”
The old General bowed politely, and waited, with all patience, for
further enlightenment.
“My desire for this meeting. General, proceeds from my wish to exculpate
myself from what may seem to have been an unqualified wrong done to a
member of your family. I am Prince Alexis Midchekoff.”
Auersberg started from his chair at the words, and bent a look of angry
indignation at the speaker,--an expression which the Russian bore with
the very calmest unconcern.
“If I am to resume this explanation,” said he, coldly, “it must be when
you have reseated yourself, and will condescend to hear me suitably.”
“And who is to be my guarantee, sir, that I am not to listen to an
insult?” cried the old General, passionately. “I see before me the man
who has outraged the honor of my house. You know well, sir, the customs
of your nation, and that you had no right to accept a lady's hand in
betrothal without the permission of your Emperor.”
“I was certain to obtain it,” was the calm answer.
“So certain that it has been refused,----peremptorily, flatly refused.”
“Very true, General. The refusal came at my own especial request. Nay,
sir, I need not tell you these words convey no insulting meaning,--but
hear me patiently, before you pronounce. The facts are briefly these. It
came to my knowledge that this young lady's acceptance of me proceeded
entirely from considerations of fortune,--that she had been greatly
influenced by others, and strongly urged to do that which might, at the
sacrifice of herself, benefit her family. These considerations were not
very flattering to me personally; but I should have overlooked them,
trusting to time and fortune for the result, had I not also learnt that
her affections were bestowed upon another,----a young Englishman,
with whom she had been for some time domesticated, whose picture she
possessed, and from whom she had received letters.”
“Am I to take this assertion on trust?” cried the General.
“By no means, sir. This is the picture, and here is one of the letters.
I know not if there have been many others, nor can I say whether she has
replied to them. It was enough for me that I discovered I had no claim
on her affection, and that our marriage would bring only misery on both
sides. To have disclosed these facts before the world would of course
have exculpated me, but have injured _her_. I therefore took what
I deemed a more delicate course, and, by providing for the Imperial
refusal, I solved a difficulty that must otherwise have involved her
in deep reproach.” The Prince waited some seconds for the General to
speak; but the old man stood like one stunned and stupefied, unable
to utter a word. At last Midchekoff resumed: “My master fixed a sum of
eighty thousand roubles to which I at once assented, as a settlement on
Mademoiselle de Dalton; but this, I grieve to say, she has peremptorily
rejected.”
“Has she----has she done this?” cried the old Count. “Then, by St.
Stephen! she is my own dear child forever; come what may, there is no
disgrace can attach to her.”
“I had hoped, sir,” said Midchekoff, “that you might have seen this
matter as I did, and that I might have counted on your advocating what
is simply a measure of justice.”
“I know little of the extent to which money reparations can atone for
injured feelings or wounded honor. My life has never supplied even a
single lesson on that score. All I see here is, an injury on either
side. _Your_ fault, I think, has been properly expiated; and as for
_hers_, I want no other justification than what you have told me. Now,
where is she? When may I see her?”
“I had given orders for her return to Vienna, with the intention of
placing her under your charge; but some mistake has occurred, and
her departure has been delayed. A second courier has, however, been
despatched, and ere this she will have left St. Petersburg.”
“You have acted well throughout, Prince,” said the old General, “and
I shall owe you my gratitude for the remainder of my life; not for the
delicacy of your reserve, still less for the generous character of
your intentions, but because you have shown me that this girl has a
highhearted sense of honor, and is a thorough Dalton.” The old man's
eyes filled up with tears, and he had to turn away to hide his emotion.
Midchekoff rose to withdraw, affecting to busy himself with the papers
on the table, while Auersberg was recovering his self-possession. This
did not, however, seem an easy task; for the old General, forgetting
everything save Kate, leaned his head on his hands, and was lost in
thought.
The Prince respected his emotion, and withdrew in silence.
So much was the old General von Auersberg absorbed in his interest for
Kate, that he had not a thought to bestow upon the immediate affairs
before him. It was scarcely a few weeks since he had received a few
lines from herself, telling of the Emperor's refusal, and asking for his
advice. It needed all his long-pledged devotion to monarchy to enable
him to read the lines without an outbreak of passion; and his first
impulse was to seek out the man who had so grossly insulted his house,
and challenge him to single combat. Later reflection showed him that
this would be to arraign the conduct of the Emperor, and to call
in question the judgment of a crowned head. While agitated by these
opposite considerations, there came another and scarcely less sad
epistle to his hand; and if the writer was wanting in those claims to
station and rank which had such hold upon his heart, her touching words
and simple style moved him to emotions that for many a year seemed to
have slept within him.
It was Nelly's account of her father's death, told in her own
unpretending words, and addressed to one whom she recognized as the head
of her house. She dwelt with gratitude on the old Count's kindness, and
said how often her father had recurred to the thought of his protection
and guidance to Frank, when the time should come that would leave him
fatherless. It seemed as if up to this point she had written calmly and
collectedly, expressing herself in respectful distance to one so much
above her. No sooner, however, had she penned Frank's name, than all
this reserve gave way before the gushing torrent of her feelings, and
she proceeded:----
“And oh! sir, is not the hour come when that protection is
needed? Is not my poor brother a prisoner, charged with a
terrible offence--no less than treason to his Emperor? You,
who are yourself a great soldier, can say if such is like to
be the crime of one well born, generous, and noble as Frank,
whose heart ever overflowed to all who served him, and who,
in all the reckless buoyancy of youth, never forgot his
honor. Crafty and designing men--if such there may have been
around him--might possibly have thrown their snares over
him; but no persuasion nor seductions could have made him a
traitor. 'See what the Kaiser has made Count Stephen!' were
some of the last lines he ever wrote to me, 'and, perhaps,
one day, another Dalton will stand as high in the favor of
his master.' His whole heart and soul were in his soldier
life. You, sir, were his guide-star, and, thinking of you,
how could he have dreamed of disloyalty? They tell me that
in troubled times like these, when many have faltered in
their allegiance, such accusations are rarely well inquired
into, and that courts-martial deal peremptorily with the
prisoners; but you will not suffer mv brother to be thus
tried and judged. You will remember that he is a stranger
in that land, an orphan, a mere boy, too; friendless,--no,
no, not friendless, forgive me the ungracious word; he who
bears your name, and carries in his veins your blood, cannot
be called friendless.. you will say, perhaps, how defend
him?--how reply to charges which will be made with all the
force of witness and circumstance? I answer, hear his own
story of himself; he never told a lie--remember that, Count-
-from his infancy upwards! we, who lived with and about him,
know that he never told a lie! If the accusation be just--
and oh! may God avert this calamity--Frank will say so. He
will tell how and when and why this poison of disaffection
entered his heart; he will trace out his days of temptation
and struggle and fall, without a shadow of concealment; and
if this sad time is to come, even then do not desert him.
Bethink you of his boyhood, his warm, ardent nature, burning
for some field of glorious enterprise, and dazzled by
visions of personal distinction. How could he judge the
knotted questions which agitate the deepest minds of great
thinkers? A mere pretence, a well-painted scene of
oppression or sufferance, might easily enlist the sympathies
of a boy whose impulses have more than once made him bestow
on the passing beggar the little hoardings of weeks. And
yet, with all these, he is not guilty,--I never can believe
that he could be! Oh, sir, you know not, as I know, how
treason in him would be like a living falsehood; how the act
of disloyalty would be the utter denial of all those dreams
of future greatness which, over our humble fireside, were
his world! To serve the Kaiser,--the same gracious master
who had rewarded and ennobled our great kinsman,--to win
honors and distinctions that should rival his; to make our
ancient name hold a high place in the catalogue of
chivalrous soldiers,--these were Frank's ambitions. If you
but knew how we, his sisters, weak and timid girls, seeking
the quiet paths of life, where our insignificance might
easiest be shrouded,--if you knew how we grew to feel the
ardor that glowed in his heart, and actually caught up the
enthusiasm that swelled the young soldier's bosom! you have
seen the world well and long; and, I ask, is this the clay
of which traitors are fashioned? Be a father to him, then,
who has none; and may God let you feel all the happiness a
child's affection can bestow in return! “We are a sad
heritage, Sir Count! for I now must plead for another, not
less a prisoner than my poor brother. Kate is in a durance
which, if more splendid, is sad as his. The ceremony of
betrothal--which, if I am rightly told, is a mere
ceremonial--has consigned her to a distant land and a life
of dreary seclusion. There is no longer a reason for this.
The sacrifice that she was willing to make can now confer no
benefit on him who sleeps in the churchyard. The Prince has
shown towards her a degree of indifference which will well
warrant this breach. There was no affection on either
side, and it would be but to ratify a falsehood to pledge
fidelity. You alone have influence to effect this. She will
hear your counsels, and follow them with respect, and the
Prince will scarcely oppose what his conduct seems to favor.
This done, Sir Count, let Kate be your daughter; and oh! in
all the glory of your great successes, what have you gained
to compare with this? She loves you already--she has told me
of the affectionate gentleness of your manner, the charm of
your chivalrous sentiments, and a nobility marked by every
word and every gesture. Think, then, of the untaught
devotion of such a child--your own by blood and adoption--
loving, tending, and ministering to you. Think of the proud
beating of your heart as she leans upon your arm, and think
of the happiness, as she throws around your solitary
fireside all the charm of a home! How seldom is it that
generosity doubles itself in its reward, but here it will be
so. You will be loved, and you will be happy. With two such
children, guided by your influence and elevated by your
example, what would be your happiness, and what their
fortune?”
In all these pleadings for those she loved so dearly, no allusion ever
was made by her to her own condition. A few lines at the very end of the
letter were all that referred to herself. They were couched in words of
much humility, excusing herself for the boldness of the appeal she had
made, and apologizing for the hardihood with which it might be said she
had urged her request.
“But you will forgive--you have already forgiven me, Sir
Count,” wrote she; “my unlettered style and my trembling
fingers have shown you that this task must have lain near to
my heart, or I had not dared to undertake it. My life has
been spent in a sphere of humble duties and humble
companionship. How easily, then, may I have transgressed the
limits of the deference that should separate us! I can but
answer for my own heart, within which there exists towards
you but the one feeling of devotion--deep and hopeful.
“If in your kindness you should ever bestow a thought upon
me, you will like to know that I am well and happy. Too
lowly in condition, too rude in manners, to share the
fortune of those I love so dearly, I would yet delight to
hear of and from them, to know that they still bear me in
their affection, and think with fondness on poor lame Nelly.
Even the blessing of their presence would not repay me for
the wrong I should do them by my companionship, for I am a
peasant girl as much from choice as nature. Still, the
sister's heart throbs strongly within the coarse bodice,
and, as I sit at my work, Frank and Kate will bear me
company and cheer my solitary hours.
“My humble skill is amply sufficient to supply all my wants,
were they far greater than habit has made them. I live in a
land dear to me by associations of thought and feeling,
surrounded by those of a condition like my own, and who love
and regard me. I am not without my share of duties, too,----
your kindness would not wish more for me. Farewell, then,
Sir Count. Your high-hearted nature has taught you to tread
a lofty path in life, and strive--and with great success--
for the great rewards of merit. It will be a pleasure to you
yet to know that in this country of your adoption there are
humble prizes for humble aspirants, and that one of these
has fallen to the lot of
“Nelly Dalton.
“Any letter addressed 'To the care of Andreas Brennen, Juden
Gasse, Innspruck,' will reach me safely. I need not say with
what gratitude I should receive it.”
Such were the lines which reached the old Count's hand on the very day
he set out with his detachment for Vienna. Overcome by shame and sorrow
at what he believed to be Frank Dalton's treason, he had demanded of the
Minister of War his own act of retirement from the army, and for some
months had passed a life of privacy in a little village on the Styrian
frontier. The wide-spread disaffection of the Austrian provinces, the
open revolt of Prague, the more than threatening aspect of Hungary, and
the formidable struggle then going on in Lombardy, had called back into
active life almost all the retired servants of the monarchy. To give way
to private grief at such a moment seemed like an act of disloyalty, and,
throwing off every mere personal consideration, the old soldier repaired
to the capital, and presented himself at the levée of the Archduke
Joseph. He was received with enthusiasm. Covered with years as he was,
no man enjoyed more of the confidence and respect of the soldiery, who
regarded him as one tried and proved by the great wars of the Empire,--a
Colonel of Wagram was both a patriarch and a hero. It was of great
consequence, too, at that precise conjuncture, to rally round the throne
all that were distinguished for fealty and devotion. He was immediately
appointed to the command of a division of the army, and ordered to set
out for Italy.
The complicated nature of the politics of the period, the mixture of
just demand and armed menace, the blending up of fair and reasonable
expectations with impracticable or impossible concessions, had so
disturbed the minds of men that few were able, by their own unaided
judgment, to distinguish on which side lay right and justice; nor was
it easy, from the changeful councils of the monarch, to know whether the
loyalty of to-day might not be pronounced treason to-morrow. Many of
the minor movements of the time--even the great struggle of the
Hungarians--originated in a spontaneous burst of devotion to the
Emperor,--to be afterwards converted by the dark and wily policy of an
unscrupulous leader into open rebellion. No wonder, then, if in such
difficult and embarrassing circumstances, many strayed unconsciously
from the paths of duty,--some misled by specious dreams of nationality,
others from sympathy with what they thought the weaker party; and
others, again, by the force of mere companionship or contact. In this
way few families were to be found where one or more had not joined the
patriotic party, and all the ties of affection were weak in comparison
with the headlong force of popular enthusiasm. The old General von
Auersberg knew nothing of these great changes; no news of them had
reached his retirement; so that when he rejoined the army he was shocked
to see how many had fallen away and deserted from the ancient standard
of the Kaiser. Many a high name and many an ancient title were more than
suspected amongst the Hungarian nobility; while in Italy they who most
largely enjoyed the confidence of the Government were to be found in the
ranks of the insurgents.
It might be supposed that these things would have in some degree
reconciled the old Count to the imputed treason of his nephew, and that
he would have found some consolation at least in the generality of the
misfortune. Not so, however. His mind viewed the matter in a different
light. He was willing to concede much to mistaken feelings of
nationality, and to associations with a time of former independence; but
these motives could have no relation to one who came into the service
as he himself and Frank did,--soldiers by the grace and favor of the
Emperor.
The blot this treason left upon his name was then a sore affliction to
one whose whole aim in life had been to transmit an honorable reputation
and an unshaken fidelity behind him. His reasoning was thus: “_We_
have no claims of ancient services to the monarchy to adduce,----_our_
ancestors never proved their devotion to the House of Hapsburg in times
past,--we must be taken for what our own deeds stamp us.” With this
decisive judgment he was ready to see Frank delivered before a court,
tried and sentenced, without offering one word in his behalf. “This
done,” thought he, “it remains but for me to show that I have made the
only expiation in my power, and paid with my heart's blood for another's
fault.”
Such was the resolve with which he crossed the Alps,--a resolve defeated
for the moment by discovering that Frank was no longer a prisoner, but
had made his escape in some unexplained manner on the eventful day of
Goito.
This disappointment, and the still sadder tidings of the Emperor's
withheld permission to Kate's marriage, came to his ears the same
day,--the most sorrowful, perhaps, of his whole life. His honorable fame
as a soldier tarnished, his high ambition for a great alliance dashed by
disappointment, he fell back for consolation upon poor Nelly's letter.
The weak point of his character had ever been a dread of what he called
his Irish cousins; the notion that his successes and supposed wealth
would draw upon him a host of hungry and importunate relatives, eager to
profit by the hard-won honors of his unaided career. And although year
after year rolled on, and no sign was made, nor any token given, that
he was remembered in the land of his forefathers, the terror was still
fresh in his mind; and when at last Peter Dalton's letter reached him,
he read the lines in a torrent of anger,--the accumulation of long years
of anticipation. Nelly's epistle was a complete enigma to him. She was
evidently unprotected, and yet not selfish; she was in the very humblest
circumstances, and never asked for assistance; she was feelingly alive
to every sorrow of her brother and sister, and had not one thought for
her own calamities. What could all this mean?--was it any new phase or
form of supplication, or was it really that there did exist one in the
world whose poverty was above wealth, and whose simple nature was more
exalted than rank or station?
With all these conflicting thoughts, and all the emotions which
succeeded to the various tidings he had heard, the old Count sat
overwhelmed by the cares that pressed upon him; nor was it for some
hours after Midchekoff's departure that he could rally his faculties to
be “up and doing.”
The buzz and murmur of voices in an outer room first recalled him
to active thought, and he learned that several officers, recently
exchanged, had come to offer their thanks for his kind intervention. The
duty, which was a mere ceremony, passed over rapidly, and he was once
more alone, when he heard the slow and heavy tread of a foot ascending
the stairs, one by one, stopping at intervals, too, as though the effort
was one of great labor. Like the loud ticking of a clock to the watchful
ears of sickness, there was something in the measured monotony of the
sounds that grated and jarred his irritated nerves, and he called out
harshly:
“Who comes there?”
No answer was returned; and, after a pause of a few seconds, the same
sound recurred.
“Who's there?” cried the old man, louder; and a faint, inaudible attempt
at reply followed.
And now, provoked by the interruption, he arose to see the cause; when
the door slowly opened, and Frank stood before him, pale and bloodless,
with one arm in a sling, and supporting himself on a stick with the
other. His wasted limbs but half filled his clothes; while in his
lustreless eye and quivering lip there seemed the signs of coming death.
With an instinct of kindness, the old General drew out a chair and
pressed the poor boy down upon it. The youth kissed the hand as it
touched him, and then heaved a heavy sigh.
“This exertion was unfit for you, my poor boy,” said the Count, kindly.
“They should not have permitted you to leave your bed.”
“It was my fault, not theirs, General. I heard that you were about to
leave the village without coming to the hospital, and I thought, as
perhaps----,” here his voice faltered, and a gulping fulness of the
throat seemed almost to choke him--“that as, perhaps, we might never
meet again in this world, I ought to make one effort to see you, and
tell you that I am not, nor ever was, a traitor!”
[Illustration: 380]
As though the effort had exhausted all “his strength, his arms dropped
as he said the words; his head fell forward, and he would have fallen to
the ground had not the old General caught him in his arms.
“You are too weak, too ill for all this, my poor fellow.” said the
Count, as he held the boy's hand in his own, and gazed affectionately at
him.
“True, ever true,” muttered the youth, with half-closed lids.
“I will hear all this when you are better, Frank; when you are strong,
and able to declare it manfully and openly. I will bless you, with my
heart's warmest blessing, for the words that restore us both to fair
fame and honor; but you must not speak more now.”
The boy bent his head in token of submission, but never spoke.
“It will be the proudest hour of my life, Frank, when you can throw off
this reproach, and stand forth a thorough Dalton, unshaken in truth and
honor. But, to do this, you must be calm and quiet now,--not speak, nor
even think of these things. You shall remain with me.”
Here the boy's tears fell upon the old man's hand. For a second or two
not a word was spoken. At last he went on,----
“Yes; you shall not leave me from this hour. Our fortunes are the same.
With you it remains to show that we are worthy soldiers of our Kaiser.”
Frank pressed the old Count's hand upon his heart, as though to call its
very pulses to bear witness to his fealty. This simple action seemed to
have exhausted his last energy, for he now sank back in his chair and
fainted.
The excitement he had gone through appeared to have utterly prostrated
him, for he now lay for hours motionless and unconscious. Except a
heavy sigh at long intervals, he gave no sign of life; and the surgeons,
having exhausted all their resources to stimulate him, gave but faint
hope of his recovery. They who only knew the old Count as the stern
soldier, bold, abrupt, and peremptory, could not conceive by what magic
he had been changed into a mould of almost womanly tenderness. There was
no care he did not bestow on the sick youth. The first surgeons of the
Staff were sent for, and all that skill and affection could suggest were
enlisted in his service. The case, however, was of gloomy presage. It
was the relapse fever after a wound, aggravated by mental causes of deep
influence.
The greatest sympathy was felt for the old Count's position. His
comrades came or sent frequently to him. Kind messages reached him from
quarters wherein once lay all his pride and glory; and a young archduke
came himself to offer his new litter to convey Frank to Verona, where
the Imperial headquarters were stationed. These were the very flatteries
which once Von Auersberg would have prized above all that wealth could
give; these were the kind of recognitions by which he measured his own
career in life, making him to feel where he stood; but now one grief had
so absorbed him he scarcely noticed them. He could not divest his mind,
either, of the thought that the boy's fate was intended as a judgment
on himself for his own cold and ungenerous treatment of him. “I forgot,”
would he say to himself,----“I forgot that he was not a castaway like
myself. I forgot that the youth had been trained up amidst the flow
of affectionate intercourse, loving and beloved, and I compared his
position with my own.”
And such was in reality the very error he committed. He believed that by
subjecting Frank to all the hard rubs which once had been his own fate
he was securing the boy's future success; forgetting the while how
widely different were their two natures, and that the affections
which are moulded by habits of family association are very unlike the
temperament of one unfriended and unaided, seeking his fortune with no
other guidance than a bold heart and strong will. The old Count was not
the only one, nor will he be the last, to fall into this mistake; and
it may be as well to take a warning from his error, and learn that for
success in the remote and less trodden paths of life the warm affections
that attach to home and family are sad obstacles.
It was ten days before Frank could be removed, and then he was carried
in a litter, arriving in Verona on the fourth day. From his watchful
cares beside the sick-bed, the old General was now summoned to take part
in the eventful councils of the period. A great and momentous crisis
had arrived, and the whole fate, not only of Austria, but of Europe,
depended on the issue. The successes of the Italian arms had been, up to
this point, if not decisive, at least sufficiently important to make the
result a question of doubt. If the levies contributed by the States of
the Church and Tuscany were insignificant in a warlike point of view,
they were most expressive signs of popular feeling at least. Austria,
besides, was assailed on every flank, with open treason in her capital;
and the troops which might have conquered Lombardy were marching
northward on Prague, or turning eastward towards Hungary. It then became
a grave question whether, even at the cost of the whole Milanais, a
peace should not be at once concluded, and Austria merely stipulate for
certain commercial advantages, and the undisturbed possession of the
Venetian States. If the more dispassionate heads that rule cabinets saw
wisdom in this plan, the warmer and less calculating hearts of soldiers
deemed it a base humiliation. Long accustomed to treat the Italians with
a haughty contempt, they could not endure the thought of recognizing
them as equals, not to say superiors. There were thus two parties in the
Council,----the one eager for a speedy termination of the war, and the
other burning to erase the memory of late defeats, and win back the
fair provinces of their Emperor. To such an extent had this spirit of
discordance at last gone, that the cabinet orders of Vienna were
more than once overruled at headquarters, and the very decrees of
the Government slighted by the commander-in-chief. It was a time of
independent will and personal responsibility; and probably to this
accident is owing the salvation of the Imperial House.
At last, when the sympathies of France and England with the cause of
Italy became more than a mere suspicion, when troops marched southward
towards the Alps, and diplomatic messages traversed Europe, counselling,
in all the ambiguous courtesy of red tape, “wise and reasonable
concessions to the fair demands of a people,” the cabinet of Vienna
hastily despatched an envoy to Lombardy, with orders to concert with the
generals, and treat for a peace.
Had a squadron of the enemy dashed through the streets of Verona, they
could not have created one half the dismay that did the arrival of the
calèche which conveyed the Imperial Commissioner. The old Field-Marshal
had just returned from a review of the troops, who, as usual when
he appeared, were wild with enthusiasm, when an officer of his staff
announced the presence of the envoy, and in a low whisper added the
object of his mission. A council was speedily called, and Von Auersberg
specially invited to be present and assist in its deliberations.
The discussion lasted several hours; and, however unshaken in hope and
resolute in will the old Marshals of the Empire, they found themselves
no match in argument for the wily civilian, who, displaying before
them the financial embarrassments of the State, showed that war implied
bankruptcy, and that even victory might mean ruin. The great questions
of Imperial policy, which in their zeal they had overlooked, were
strongly pressed upon them; and that public opinion of Europe, which
they had only fancied a bugbear and a mockery, was represented as the
formidable expression of the great family of mankind, on the conduct of
one of its own members. With all this it was no easy task to reconcile a
bold soldier, at the head of a splendid army, to retire from the field,
to confess himself beaten, and to acknowledge defeat, with an assured
sense of victory in his heart The evening closed in, and still they sat
in debate. Some had exchanged opposition for a dogged and cold silence;
others had modified their views to a kind of half-concession; while a
few rallied round their old chief, with a mistaken determination to
have one more dash at the enemy should the peace be ratified on the day
after. It would seem as if the Commissioner had been fully prepared for
every phase of this opposition. He combated every argument in turn, and
addressed himself with readiness to every objection that was offered. At
last, when in a burst of mortification and anger the old Field-Marshal
arose from the table, and declared that, come what might, it should
never be said that _he_ had lost the provinces of his master, the other
stole close beside him, and whispered a few words in his ear. The old
man started; his rugged, weather-beaten face twitched with a short,
convulsive movement, and he threw himself down into a chair, with a
muttered oath on his lips.
There was now a dead silence in the chamber. Every eye was turned
stealthily towards the old General, by whose counsels they were wont to
be guided; but he never spoke a word, and sat with his hands resting on
his sword-hilt, the rattle of the scabbard against the belt, as it shook
beneath his hand, being the only sound heard.
They are dreadful moments in life when men of high and daring courage
see the trust they have long reposed in bold and vigorous measures
rejected, and in its stead wily and crafty counsels adopted and
followed. This was such a moment; and the old warriors, tried in many a
battle-field, scarcely dared to meet each other's eyes, from very shame
and sorrow. It was just then that the sharp, quick trot of horses
was heard from without, and the jingling sound of bells announced a
post-carriage. Scarcely had it stopped, when an aide-de-camp entered,
and whispered a few words to the Field-Marshal.
“No, no,” said the old man, peevishly; “we are marching on to dishonor
fast enough. We want no priestly aid to hasten our steps.”
The young officer appeared to hesitate, and still lingered in the
chamber.
“It is your friend, the Abbé, has arrived,” said the General, addressing
the Commissioner; “and I have said we can dispense with his arguments.
He can add little to what you have so ably spoken; and if we are to
depose our arms, let it be at the bidding of our Emperor, and not at the
beck of a priest.”
“But D'Esmonde must have come from the south,” interposed the civilian;
“he may have some tidings worth hearing.”
“Let him come in, then,” said the Field-Marshal, abruptly; and the
officer retired.
D'Esmonde had scarcely passed the threshold when his quick, keen glance
around the room revealed to him the nature of their gloomy counsels. A
dogged look of submission sat on every face, and the wily priest read in
their fallen countenances all the bitterness of defeat.
The stern coldness of the reception that met him never abashed the Abbé
in the least; and he made his compliments to the principal personages
of the council with a _suave_ dignity the very opposite to their
uncourteous manner. Even when he had completed the little circle of his
attentions, and stood in expectation of a request to be seated, his air
was calm and unembarrassed, although not a word, or even a gesture, gave
the invitation. All felt that this should come from the Field-Marshal
himself, and none dared to usurp the prerogative of his rank. Too deeply
lost in his own brooding thoughts to attend to anything else, the old
General sat still, with his head bent down over the hilt of his sabre.
“His Holiness commissions me to greet you, Herr Feld-Marshal,” said the
Abbé, in a low, soft voice, “and to say that those ancient medals you
once spoke of shall be speedily transmitted to your palace at Milan.”
“My palace at Milan, sir!” exclaimed the old man, fiercely. “When shall
I see that city again? Ask that gentleman yonder, who has just arrived
from Vienna, what the cabinet counsels are; he will tell you the
glorious tidings that the army will read to-morrow in a general order!”
“I have later news than even _his_!” said the Abbé, coolly seating
himself at the table, and placing a roll of papers before him. “Baron
Brockhausen,” said he, addressing the Commissioner, “if I mistake not,
left Vienna on the ninth, reached Innspruck the eleventh, stayed there
till the evening of the thirteenth, and only reached here some hours
ago. The Prime Minister, consequently, was unaware that, on the tenth,
General Durando was recalled by the Pope; that on the evening of the
same day Pepe received a similar order from the King of Naples; that
the Tuscan levies and the Polish legion have been remanded; and that
Piedmont stands alone in the contest, with a disorganized army and
divided counsels. These,” said he, pointing to the letters before
him,--“these are copies of the documents I refer to, you will see
from these that the right flank of the Piedmontese army is open and
unprotected; that, except the banditti of Rome and Tuscany, there are no
troops between this and Ferrara; and if the reinforcements that are now
halted in the Tyrol be but hurried down, a great and decisive blow may
be dealt at once.”
“Bey'm Blitzen! you ought to have been a general of brigade, priest!”
cried the old Field-Marshal, as he clasped his hand in both his own,
and pressed it with delight. “These are the noblest words I have heard
to-day. Gentlemen,” said he, rising, “there is little more for a council
to do. You will return at once to your several brigades. Schrann's eight
battalions of infantry, with two of Feld-Jagers, to hold themselves in
readiness to march to-morrow; the Reuse Hussars to form escort to the
light artillery on the Vicenza road; all the other cavalry to take up
position to the right, towards Peschiera.”
“This means a renewal of hostilities, then?” said the Commissioner.
“It means that I will win back the provinces of my Emperor. Let him
dispose of them after as he pleases.” And so saying, he left the room,
followed by the other officers.