INTRIGUE.
Whilst in North Germany the catastrophe so disastrous to the House of
Guelph was completed, in Vienna everything was expected from the battle
which all foresaw must take place in Bohemia almost immediately. The
Austrian arms had been successful in Italy, that drill ground for the
Austrian general staff officers, the battle of Custozza had been won,
and new confidence filled the Viennese, as to their success in Germany.
The Viennese placed full confidence in Field-Marshal Benedek, the man
of the people, and from him they expected, in their light-hearted,
sanguine fashion, complete success. Those anxious doubts had vanished
which a short time before had filled them with uneasiness; the arms of
Austria were victorious in Italy, fortune was favourable to the empire,
and with excited but joyful confidence they awaited news from Bohemia.
A great victory was certainly expected.
Things were looked at differently, and not with such confidence in the
state offices in the Ballhaus Platz, and in the Hofburg.
Count Mensdorff was sad and downcast; the Italian success had not
removed his gloomy forebodings, and he could only reply with a feeble
smile to the congratulations he received on the victory of Custozza.
The emperor alternated between fear and joyful hope; the victory in
Italy awakened in his heart the proud recollection of Novara, and a
wide and brilliant future spread before his gaze. But when the doubts,
the warnings of Field-Marshal Benedek occurred to him--the plain,
straightforward general, who troubled himself little about strategic
operations, and only knew how to lead his soldiers against the enemy
and to fight; but who continually maintained that with these troops, in
the condition in which he found them, he could not beat the enemy--the
emperor's heart had deep misgivings, and he waited for the future with
great anxiety.
Whilst all Vienna felt the most restless, feverish excitement; whilst
everyone wished that time had wings to hasten the events of the future,
Madame Antonia Balzer lay on her luxurious couch in her quiet boudoir.
The curtains were closed, notwithstanding the great heat; a soft
twilight prevailed, and a mysterious and varied perfume pervaded the
room, that perfume which fills the immediate neighbourhood of an
elegant and beautiful woman; one cannot tell of what it consists, but
it gives the invisible air a magnetic, sympathetic charm.
The young lady lay there as if she courted sleep, and on her features
neither the passionate _abandon_ appeared with which she had welcomed
Herr von Stielow, nor the icy coldness which she had shown to her
husband.
Her large eyes gazed gloomily into space, and her face expressed
anxious, mournful weariness.
A number of sealed letters and telegrams lay on a small table near her.
Her pearly hand played carelessly with a small poodle dog which lay
curled up in her lap.
"I thought I was strong," she whispered to herself; "and yet I cannot
forget him!"
She sprang up, placed the little dog upon the pillow, and walked slowly
up and down the room.
"What a wonderful organization is our human nature!" she cried
scornfully. "I thought I was strong. I had set it before me as a means
to rule, to rise on the aspiring ladder of life, without permitting
myself to be kept back by the emotions and motives of the common herd;
and now, when my feet touch the very first step of the ladder I look
back, my heart weeps; I am sick with love and regret, like any
milliner's girl," she added, with an angry look, as she stamped her
small foot upon the carpet.
She gazed before her.
"And why," she asked thoughtfully, "why cannot my heart forget one who
so scornfully turned from me, who so contemptuously gave me up? This
Count Rivero--he offers me what I long for; he is a man who occupies a
high place in the world, and guides with powerful hand the threads that
weave the fate of men; why do I not love him? I might be happy. And
he," she continued, while a soft mist came over her eyes, and her arms
were slightly raised, "he, for whom every pulse in my heart beats, he
whom I call back in the still hours of the night, whom my arms seek in
empty space, who is he? A boy,--in intellect far beneath me; yet oh! he
is so beautiful, so pure!" she cried, stretching out her hands to the
picture her mind had called up; "I love him, and I am the slave of my
love!"
She sank wearily into a luxurious chair, and covered her face with her
hands.
She sat for a long time motionless, and only the panting breath of her
heaving bosom interrupted the silence of the darkened room.
Then again she sprang up, and with trembling lips and vehement voice
she cried,--
"But she--who tore him from me--that fine lady, who from her cradle has
enjoyed every happiness life can afford, who basks in the golden
sunshine of an admiring world, who has all--all, that is denied
me--shall she enjoy the love that I have lost?"
She hastily opened a small casket of incrusted ebony, and took out a
photograph in the form of a _carte-de-visite_.
She regarded it long with glowing looks.
"What foolish, inexpressive features!" she cried; "how lukewarm, how
wearisome must be her love. Can she make him happy--he, who has known
the passion of my heart--who has learnt what love is?"
And she spasmodically seized the likeness and crushed it together.
The bell of the entrance hall aroused her from her stormy dreams; she
threw the crumpled photograph hastily back into the casket, and her
face resumed its usual calm expression.
The servant announced Count Rivero, who immediately entered,
faultlessly elegant as ever, cold, calm, and friendly; the smile of the
man of the world upon his lips.
With light elastic steps he approached the lady and pressed his lips
lightly on her hand--not with the fiery warmth of a lover--still less
with the respectful courtesy of a man of distinction towards a lady of
the great world. In the count's greeting there was a certain negligent
familiarity, which only his extreme elegance, and the courteous bearing
which marked his every movement preserved from rudeness.
She seemed to feel this, and regarded her visitor coldly, almost with
enmity.
"What? have you slept, my fair friend?" said the count, smiling: "truly
it is hard to believe that the whole world is trembling with anxiety
when one enters this darkened and quiet apartment."
"A number of letters and despatches have arrived!" she said, pointing
to the small table near her couch.
"Are you sure," asked the count, "that this large correspondence does
not arouse curiosity?"
She smiled coldly.
"They are accustomed to my receiving many letters, and I do not think
they will seek here for the clue of important political events."
The count walked to the window, and drew back one of the curtains,
admitting the bright light into the room. He then pushed the table with
the letters to the window, and opened them one after another, whilst
the young lady watched him from her easy-chair in silence.
The count drew a portfolio from his pocket, took out a small volume
containing various ciphers, and with its help began to decipher the
letters. The contents appeared in the highest degree satisfactory, for
an expression of joy beamed from his face, and he rose with a proud
look when he had ended the perusal.
"I see the work approaches its completion," he said, half to himself,
half to Madame Balzer; "soon will the building of lies and wickedness
fall in ruins, and truth and right will again triumph."
"And what will it be to me?" asked the young lady, slightly turning her
head towards the count.
He came up to her, seated himself near her couch, and spoke with
extreme courtesy, as he kissed the hand she negligently abandoned to
him.
"You have assisted in a great and noble work, my lovely friend, and you
have rendered very important assistance by taking charge of a secret
correspondence, which has enabled me to preserve the appearance of a
man of the world and ordinary traveller. I promise you an independent
and brilliant position. The _how_ you must leave to me. I hope you
trust my words."
She gave him a quick look and said,--
"I do not doubt that you can keep your promise, or that you will keep
it."
"But," he continued, "much remains still to be done, and I believe I
can open out greater and nobler spheres to your genius and industry:
will you continue to be my confederate?"
"I will," she replied; then a deep sigh heaved her breast, a rapid
blush tinged her cheeks, and whilst a trembling fire sparkled in her
eyes she said, "I have one wish."
"Express it!" he said with the gallantry of a man of the world; "if it
be in my power to fulfil it--"
"I believe it is, for I have seen so many proofs of your power that I
have unbounded confidence in it."
"Well?" he asked, gazing at her enquiringly.
She cast down her eyes, interlaced her fingers, and said in a low and
timid voice,--
"Give me back Stielow."
Immense surprise, and a shade of displeasure appeared on his face.
"I certainly did not expect this wish," he said, "I thought you had
forgotten this caprice. To fulfil it exceeds my power."
"I do not believe it," she replied, raising her eyes and gazing full at
the count, "he is a boy, and you know how to lead earnest men of ripe
years."
"But you forget," said he, "that--"
"That he, in a fit of ill-temper, out of spite, has thrown himself at
the feet of a _fade_, insipid girl, who finds a place in the almanach
de Gotha, where her heart is also," she cried, rising hastily from her
recumbent position, with flashing eyes. "No, I do not forget it, but
just for that reason I will have him back. I will help you in
everything," she continued, speaking more slowly, "I will employ all
the powers of my intellect and of my will, on behalf of your plans; but
I will have something in return for myself, and I say therefore, 'Give
me back Stielow.'"
"You shall certainly," said the count, "have for yourself whatever you
wish. I impose no restraints on your little personal divertissements,"
he added, with a smile; "but what do you want with this boy--as you
yourself call him?--can you not rule men with your genius, and by a
glance from those eyes?"
"I love him!" she whispered.
The count looked at her with amazement.
"Forgive me!" he said, smiling, "this boy--"
"Because he is a boy," she cried, and a stream of passionate feeling
gushed from her large widely-opened eyes,--"because he is so pure, so
good, and so beautiful," she whispered, and her eyes were veiled with
mist.
The count looked at her very gravely.
"Do you know," he said, "that the love which rules you will take from
you the power of ruling others, and of being my ally?"
"No," she cried, "no, it will strengthen me; but the vain longing in my
heart makes me gloomy and weak,--oh! give him back to me again. I own
my weakness, let me in this one point be weak, and I promise in every
other you shall find me strong and immovable."
"Had you told me before what you now tell me," said he thoughtfully,
"it might have been possible, perhaps, but now it is out of my power,
and--I may not use it; this young man shall not be the plaything of
your caprice," he said gravely and decidedly, "shake off this weakness,
be strong, and forget this fancy!"
She rose cold and calm.
"Let us speak of it no more," she said in her accustomed tone.
The count examined her attentively.
"You own I am right?" he asked.
"I will forget this fancy," she replied without a muscle of her face
changing.
At this moment the door-bell was heard.
"It is Galotti," said the count, and opened the door of the boudoir.
A strongly-made man entered, of middle height with a full face. His
thin hair left a lofty arched brow completely free, the bright eyes
were quick and observing, and the full lips denoted an energetic
temperament and brilliant eloquence.
"Things are going on excellently," cried the count, advancing to meet
him. "Everything is prepared for the decisive blow. The Sardinian party
have lost courage; they are disorganized by the Austrian victory, and
with one stroke the contemptible government they call Italian will
crumble to pieces."
"Glorious! glorious!" cried Galotti, as he pressed Count Rivero's hand,
and approached the lady, whom he greeted with all the grace of one
accustomed to good society. "I bring good news too," he said, "they are
ready at the Farnese Palace, and Count Montebello has, in answer to a
confidential enquiry, made it clearly understood that he will take no
steps to prevent Italy from becoming what was intended at the peace of
Zurich."
"I will leave you, gentlemen," said Madame Balzer. "I will have
breakfast prepared in the dining-room, and shall be at your disposal
when your interview is ended."
Count Rivero kissed her hand, Signer Galotti bowed, and she withdrew
through the door leading to her sleeping apartment.
"The king will go to Naples?" asked the count as soon as she had left
the room.
"At the very first sign from us," replied Galotti, "a troop of
brigands, formed of old soldiers of the Neapolitan guards, will await
him on the coast, the Sardinian garrisons are always weak, and at the
first signal the whole people will rise!"
"Do you think the moment has come for placing the match to our
well-laid train?" asked the count.
"Certainly," replied Galotti; "what should we wait for? The Sardinian
army is completely demoralized by the battle of Custozza, and is held
in check by the Grand Duke Albert, so that it cannot be employed in the
interior. The most rapid action is needful; in a few weeks Italy can be
freed from the heavy yoke which weighs her down. Everyone is waiting
longingly for the word, the giving of which is in your hand."
The count walked thoughtfully to the window.
"Everything has been prepared so long, thought over so carefully," said
he, "and yet now the decisive moment approaches, now the eventful
word--'Act!'--must be spoken, giving life and motion to our quiet
preparations,--the doubt arises whether all is well organized. Yet we
can no longer hesitate. We must send the watchword to Rome and Naples,
and to Tuscany," he said, turning to Galotti; "here are three
addresses," he added, taking from his portfolio three cards and
carefully perusing them. "The text of the telegram is written below,
the names, like the contents of the despatches, are perfectly
unimportant, they will disclose nothing."
And with a trembling hand he held out the cards to Signor Galotti.
Madame Balzer rushed into the boudoir.
"Do you know, Count Rivero," she cried, "that the army in Bohemia is
completely defeated? The news is spreading like wild-fire through
Vienna, my maid has just heard it in the house."
The count gazed at her in blank dismay. His eyes opened wide with
horror, a nervous movement convulsed his lips, and he hastily snatched
up his hat.
"Impossible!" cried Galotti. "General Gablenz has been victorious in
several skirmishes; a great battle was not expected."
"We must hear what has happened," said the count, in a low voice, "it
would be horrible if this intelligence were true."
He was about to hasten away. A violent peal at the bell was heard, and
almost immediately a young man in the dress of a priest entered the
room.
"Thank God! that I find you here, Count Rivero," he cried, "nothing
must be done, the disaster is immense, Benedek is totally beaten, the
whole army is in wild flight and confusion."
The count was dumb. His dark eyes were raised to heaven with a burning
look, deep grief was painted on his features.
"We must act so much the more rapidly and energetically," cried
Galotti; "if this news reaches Italy our confederates will be
frightened and confused, the enemy will gain courage, and the lukewarm
will become foes."
He stretched out his hand to take the cards which Rivero still held.
The count made a movement of refusal.
"How did you gain your information, Abbe Rosti?" he asked quietly.
"It has just been brought from the Hofburg to the Nuncio," replied the
abbe. "Unhappily there is no doubt of its truth."
"Then the work of years is lost!" said Count Rivero, in a grave and
melancholy voice.
"Let us use the present moment!" cried Galotti, "let us act quickly;
then, let what will happen in Germany, we shall at least have restored
Italy to her ancient rights, and Austria must be grateful to us if we
give her in Italy the influence she has lost in Germany."
"No!" said the count, calmly, "we must not venture upon action before
the situation is perfectly plain. Our whole force in Italy is quite
strong enough to break the Piedmontese rule if the regular army is
engaged and defeated by the victorious Austrian troops, but we are not
in a position to effect anything against the army of Piedmont if it is
free to act against us. We should uselessly sacrifice all our faithful
friends, and we should destroy the organization we have formed with
such toil, which will be useful to us in the future, and which we could
never again bring to such perfection if it were now broken up. And I
fear Victor Emanuel's army will be free, I fear Vienna will give up
Italy."
"Give up Italy, after the victory of Custozza!" cried the Abbe Rosti,
"it is impossible,--wherefore?"
"For Germany! which she will also lose!"
"But, my God!" cried Galotti, "that would have been done before the
campaign, if done at all. Austria's forces in Germany would have been
doubled--but now--"
"My dear friend," said the count, sighing, "remember the words of the
First Napoleon: 'Austria is always too late--by one year, one army, and
one idea!'"
"I cannot make up my mind to sit still," cried Galotti, energetically,
"now that everything is prepared, and we seem almost to hold success in
our hands."
"I do not desire that we should indifferently sit still," said Count
Rivero; "we will never sit still," he added, with flashing eyes, "but
we must perhaps begin again a long and toilsome work from the
beginning. For the present we must not act hastily, and compromise
individuals and events, risking the future before we see our way
clearly. Do you know," he enquired of the abbe, "how the emperor
received the intelligence and what he did?"
"The emperor was much cast down, as was natural," said the abbe; "he
sent Count Mensdorff immediately to the army, that he might ascertain
its condition. That is all we have yet heard."
"Mensdorff was right," said Count Rivero, thoughtfully; then, raising
himself with an energetic movement, he said: "Once more, gentlemen, we
must see clearly before we act; and our courage must not fail, even if
we perceive long years of toil before us. Above all, I wish to be fully
informed as to the present, then we will speak of the future."
He approached the lady, who had remained during the conversation gazing
before her as if completely indifferent, and said, as he kissed her
hand: "Auf Wiedersehn! chere amie!" then he added in a somewhat lower
voice, "Perhaps the moment will soon come for opening so wide a field
to your skilful industry, that all minor wishes will be forgotten!"
She looked up at him quickly for a moment, but she did not reply.
The two other gentlemen took leave, and left the room with the count.
The young lady remained alone.
A flashing look followed them as they withdrew.
"You wish to use me for your plans," she cried, "you seek to charm me
with hopes of freedom and dominion, and you would prepare for me a
gilded slavery? You forbid my heart to beat, because it cannot be so
serviceable as your tool? Ah! you deceive yourself, Count Rivero! I
need you, but I am not your servant, your slave! Well then, let war
begin between us," she said, with determination; "not war to the death,
but a war for rule; I will try to make your proud shoulders bear me up
to power and independence. Independence!" said she, sighing, after a
short silence, "how much I am short of it, yet let me go carefully and
prudently onwards; first, I will see whether I cannot win back the
unfaithful friend to whom my heart still clings, without the aid of my
master."
She threw herself on the sofa, and looked thoughtfully before her.
"But, my God!" she cried, with anguish in her eyes, as she pressed her
tender hand to her forehead, "I wish to win him back, and he is before
the enemy, the great battle has been fought, perhaps he lies dead
already upon the bloody field." And her eyes gazed into space as if she
actually saw the horrible picture her fancy had painted.
Then she leant back and a dark expression passed over her face.
"And if it were so?" she said, gloomily, "perhaps it would be better
for me, and I might then be free from the burning thorn I cannot tear
from my heart. The count is right! such love is weakness, and I will
not be weak! perhaps I should again be strong. But to know that he is
living, to think that he belongs to me no longer, that he, in his
beauty, is at the feet of another--"
She sprang up, a wild glow kindled in her eyes, her breast heaved high,
her beautiful features were distorted by the vehemence of her emotion.
"Never, never!" she said, in a low, hissing voice. "If he were dead, I
could forget him; but that picture will pursue me everywhere--will
poison my life. Poison!" she repeated, and an evil flash passed across
her face. "How easy it was in days gone by," she whispered, "to destroy
an enemy! Now--" Again she stared blankly before her. "But is it
needful to poison the body to conquer difficulties?"
A wicked smile played around her beautiful mouth; her eyes flashed, and
for a long time she sat thinking deeply.
She rose and went to her rosewood writing-table. She took a packet of
letters from one compartment and began to read them attentively.
Several she threw back; at last she seemed to have found what she
sought. It was a short note only, written on a single sheet.
"He wrote me this during the man[oe]uvres," said she; "this will serve
me."
She read:--
"My sweet queen,
"I must tell you in a few words how my heart longs for you, and how
much I feel this separation. All day I am interested, and hard at work
at my duty, but when at night I lie down in bivouac, the stars above
me, and the soft breath of night sighing around, then your sweet image
dwells in my heart; I seem to feel your breath; I open my arms seeking
to embrace you; and when at last sleep weighs down my eyelids, you are
with me in my dreams. Oh, that the unmelodious trumpet must destroy
such heavenly visions! I would ever dream until I am again with you,
and find with you a sweeter reality. I kiss this paper, so soon to
touch your lovely hands."
While she read her voice was soft, and she gazed at the letter lost in
recollections.
Then again her features grew cold and hard.
"This will do perfectly," said she; "and no date; excellent!"
She seized a pen, and after considering the handwriting for a few
moments, she wrote at the commencement of the letter--"June 30th,
1866."
She looked attentively at her writing.
"Yes," she said, "it will pass capitally."
She rang a small silver bell. Her maid entered.
"Find my husband," said Madame Balzer, "and tell him I wish to speak to
him immediately."
The maid withdrew, and the young lady walked thoughtfully to the
window, carelessly looking down on the excited crowds below, whilst a
slight smile of satisfaction played on her lips.