THE PROPHECY.
The empress spoke not a word during the drive to the palace. She was so
absorbed in her sorrow as to be unconscious of the presence of another
person, and she wept without restraint until the carriage stopped. Then,
stifling her sobs and hastily drying her tears, she dropped her veil and
walked with her usual majestic gait through the palace halls. In her
anteroom she met a gentleman in waiting coming toward her.
"Father Gassner, your majesty."
"Where is he?"
"Here, so please your majesty."
"Let him follow me into my cabinet," said the empress, going forward,
while the courtier and the priest came behind. When she reached the door
of her cabinet she turned. "Wait here," said she. "When I ring, I beg of
you to enter, father. The count will await your return in this room."
She entered her cabinet and closed the door. Once more alone, she gave
vent to her sorrow. She wept aloud, and in her ears she seemed to hear
the clear, metallic voice of the sick nun pealing out those dreadful
words: "She will live through much evil, but will return to virtue."
But Maria Theresa was no coward. She was determined to master her
credulity.
"I am a simpleton," thought she. "I must forget the dreams of a
delirious nun. How could I be so weak as to imagine that God would
permit an hysterical invalid to prophesy to a sound and strong woman
like myself? I will speak with Father Gassner. Perhaps he may see the
future differently. If he does, I shall know that they are both false
prophets, and their prophecies I shall throw to the winds."
Strengthened by these reflections, the empress touched her bell. The
door opened, and Father Gassner entered the room. He bowed, and then
drawing his tall, majestic figure to its full height, he remained
standing by the door, with his large, dark-blue eyes fixed upon the face
of the empress. She returned the glance. There seemed to be a strife
between the eyes of the sovereign, who was accustomed to see others bend
before her, and those of the inspired man, whose intercourse was with
the Lord of lords and the King of kings. Each met the other with dignity
and composure.
Suddenly the empress strode haughtily up to the priest and said in a
tone that sounded almost defiant:
"Father Gassner, have you the courage to look me in the face and assert
yourself to be a prophet?"
"It requires no courage to avow a gift, which God, in the superabundance
of His goodness, has bestowed upon one who does not deserve it," replied
the father, gently. "If my eyes are opened to see, or my hand to heal,
glory be to God who has blessed them! The light, the grace are not mine,
why should I deny my Lord?" [Footnote: Father Gassner was one of the
most remarkable thaumaturgists of the eighteenth century. He healed all
sorts of diseases by the touch of his hand and multitudes flocked to him
for cure. His extraordinary powers displeased the bishop of his diocese,
and, to avoid censure, Father Gassner sought protection from the
empress, who held him in great reverence. His prediction concerning the
fate of Marie Antoinette was generally known long before its
accomplishment. It was related to Madame Campan, by a son of Kaunitz,
years before the Revolution.]
"Then, if I question you as to the future, you will answer?"
"If it is given to me to do so, I will answer."
"Tell me, then, whether Antoinette will be happy in her marriage?" The
priest turned pale, but he said nothing.
"Speak, speak; or I will denounce you as a false prophet!"
"Is this the only thing your majesty has to ask of me?"
"The only one."
"Then denounce me--for I cannot answer your majesty."
Gassner turned, and his hand was upon the lock of the door.
"Stay!" cried the empress, haughtily. "I command you, as your sovereign,
to speak the truth."
"The truth?" cried Gassner, in a voice of anguish, and his large eyes
opened with an expression of horror.
What did he see with those eyes that seemed to look far out into the dim
aisles of the terrible future?
"The truth!" echoed the unhappy mother. "Tell me, will my Antoinette be
happy?"
Deep sighs convulsed the breast of the priest, and, with a look of
inexpressible agony, he answered, solemnly:
"Empress of Austria, WE HAVE ALL OUR CROSS TO BEAR!"
[Footnote: "Memoires de Madame Campan," vol. ii., p. 14.]
The empress started back, with a cry.
"Again, again!" murmured she, burying her face in her hands. But
suddenly coming forward, her eyes flaming like those of an angry
lioness, she said:
"What mean these riddles? Speak out at once, and tell me, without
equivocation--what is to be the fate of Antoinette?"
"WE HAVE ALL OUR CROSS TO BEAR," repeated the priest, "and the Queen of
France will surely have hers."
With these words he turned and left the room.
Pale and rigid, the empress stood in the middle of the room, murmuring
to herself the two fearful prophecies: "She will live through much evil,
but will return to virtue."--"We have all our cross to bear, and the
Queen of France will surely have hers."
For a while Maria Theresa was overwhelmed by the double blow she had
received. But it was not in her nature to succumb to circumstances. She
must overrule them.
She rang her bell, and a page entered the room.
"Let a messenger be dispatched to Prince Kaunitz, I wish to see his
highness. He can come to me unannounced."
Not long after the prince made his appearance. A short sharp glance at
the agitated mien of the empress showed to the experienced diplomatist
that to-day, as so often before, he must oppose the shield of
indifference to the storm of passion with which he was about to contend.
"Your majesty," said he, "has sent for me, just as I was about to
request an audience. I am in receipt of letters from the emperor. He has
spent a day with the King of Prussia."
He attempted to give the letters into the hands of the empress, but she
put them back with a gesture of impatience.
"Prince Kaunitz," said she, "it is you who have done this-you must undo
it. It cannot, shall not be."
"What does your majesty mean?" asked Kaunitz, astonished. "I speak of
that which lies nearest my heart," said the empress, warmly.
"Of the meeting of the emperor with the King of Prussia," returned
Kaunitz, quietly. "Yesterday they met at Neisse. It was a glorious
interview. The two monarchs embraced, and the emperor remarked-"
"Enough, enough!" cried Maria Theresa, impatiently. "You affect to
misunderstand me. I speak of Antoinette's engagement to the dauphin. It
must be broken. My daughter shall not go to France."
Kaunitz was so completely astounded, so sincerely astounded, that he was
speechless. The paint upon his face could not conceal the angry flush
that colored it, nor his pet locks cover the wrinkles that rose up to
disfigure his forehead.
"Do not stare at me as if you thought I was parting with my senses,"
cried the empress. "I know very well what I say. I will not turn my
innocent Antoinette into that den of corruption. She shall not bear a
cross from which it is in my power to save her."
"Who speaks of crosses?" asked Kaunitz, bewildered. "The only thing of
which I have heard is a royal crown wherewith her brow is to be decked."
"She shall not wear that crown?" exclaimed Maria Theresa. "God himself
has warned me through the lips of His prophets, and not unheeded shall
the warning fall."
Kaunitz breathed more freely, and his features resumed their wonted
calmness.
"If that is all," thought he, gayly, "I shall be victorious. An ebullition
of superstition is easily quieted by a little good news." "Your majesty
has been following the new fashion," said he, aloud; "you have been
consulting the fortune-tellers. I presume you have visited the nun who
is subject to pious hysterics; and Father Gassner, I see, has been
visiting your majesty, for I met him as I was coming to the palace. I
could not help laughing as I saw his absurd length of visage."
Maria Theresa, in reply to this irony, related the answers which had
been made to her questions.
Kaunitz listened with sublime indifference, and evinced not a spark of
sympathy. When the empress had concluded her story, he merely said
"What else, your majesty?"
"What else?" echoed the empress, surprised "Yes, your majesty. Surely
there must be something more than a pair of vague sentences, a pair of
'ohs' and 'ahs;' and a sick nun and a silly priest. These insignificant
nothings are certainly not enough to overturn the structure which for
ten years we have employed all our skill to build up."
"I well know that you are an infidel and an unbeliever, Kaunitz," cried
the empress, vexed at the quiet sneers of her minister. "I know you
believe that only which you can understand and explain."
"No, your majesty, I believe all that is reasonable. What I cannot
comprehend is unreasonable."
The empress glanced angrily at his stony countenance. "God sometimes
speaks to us through the mouths of His chosen ones," cried she; "and, as
I believe in the inspiration of Sister Margaret and Father Gassner, my
daughter shall not go to France."
"Is that your majesty's unalterable resolution?"
"It is."
"Then," returned Kaunitz, bowing, "allow me to make a request for
myself."
"Speak on."
"Allow me at once to retire from your majesty's service."
"Kaunitz!" exclaimed Maria Theresa, "is it possible that you would
forsake me?"
"No, your majesty; it is you who forsake me. You are willing, for the
sake of two crazy seers, to destroy the fabric which it has been the
work of my life to construct. Your majesty desires that I should remain
your minister, and with my own hand should undo the web that I have
woven with such trouble to myself? All Europe knows that the French
alliance is my work. To this end I have labored by day and lain awake by
night; to this end I have flattered and bribed; to this end I have seen
my friend De Choiseul disgraced, while I bowed low before his miserable
successor, that I might win him and that wretched Du Barry to my
purpose!"
"You are irretrievably bent upon this alliance?" asked the empress,
thoughtfully. "It was then not to gratify me that you sought to place a
crown upon my dear child's head?"
"Your majesty's wishes have always been sacred to me, but I should never
have sought to gratify them, had they not been in accordance with my
sense of duty to Austria. I have not sought to make a queen of the
Archduchess Maria Antoinette. I have sought to unite Austria with
France, and to strengthen the southwestern powers of Europe against the
infidelity and barbarism of Prussia and Russia. In spite of all that is
taking place at Neisse, Austria and Prussia are, and ever will be,
enemies. The king and the emperor may flatter and smile, but neither
believes what the other says. Frederick will never lose an opportunity
of robbing. He ogles Russia, and would gladly see her our 'neighbor,' if
by so doing he were to gain an insignificant province for Prussia. It is
to ward off these dangerous accomplices that we seek alliance with
France, and through France, with Spain, Portugal, and Italy. And now,
when the goal is won, and the prize is ours, your majesty retracts her
imperial word! You are the sovereign, and your will must be, done. But I
cannot lend my hand to that which my reason condemns as unwise, and my
conscience as dishonorable. I beg of your majesty, to-day and forever,
to dismiss me from your service!"
The empress did not make any reply. She had risen, and was walking
hastily up and down, murmuring low, inarticulate words and heaving deep,
convulsive sighs. Kaunitz followed her with the eye of a cool physician,
who watches the crisis of a brain-fever. He looked down, however, as the
empress, stopping, raised her dark, glowing eyes to his. When he met her
glance his expression had changed; it had become as usual.
"You have heard the pleadings of the mother," said she, breathing hard,
"and you have silenced them with your cold arguments. The empress has
heard, and she it is who must decide against herself. She has no right
to sacrifice her empire to her maternity. May God forgive me," continued
she, solemnly clasping her hands, "if I err in quelling the voice of my
love which cries so loudly against this union. Let it be accomplished!
Marie Antoinette shall be the bride of Louis XVI."
"Spoken like the noble Empress of Austria!" cried Kaunitz, triumphantly.
"Do not praise me," returned Maria Theresa sadly; "but hear what I have
to say. You have spoken words so bold, that it would seem you fancy
yourself to be Emperor of Austria. It was not you who sought alliance
with France, but myself. You did nothing but follow out my intentions
and obey my commands. The sin of my refusal, therefore, was nothing to
you or your conscience--it rested on my head alone."
"May God preserve your majesty to your country and your subjects! May
you long be Austria's head, and I--your right hand!" exclaimed Kaunitz.
"You do not then wish to retire?" asked she, with a languid smile.
"I beg of your majesty to forgive and retain me."
"So be it, then," returned the empress, with a light inclination of the
head. "But I cannot hear any more to-day. You have no sympathy with my
trials as a mother. I have sacrificed my child to Austria, but my heart
is pierced with sorrow and apprehension. Leave me to my tears. I cannot
feel for any one except my child--my poor, innocent child!"
She turned hastily away, that he might not see the tears that were
already streaming down her face. Kaunitz bowed, and left the cabinet
with his usual cold, proud step.
The minister once gone, Maria Theresa gave herself up to the wildest
grief. No one saw her anguish but God; no one ever knew how the powerful
empress writhed and wrung her hands in her powerless agony; no one but
God and the dead emperor, whose mild eyes beamed compassion from the
gilt frame in which his picture hung, upon the wall. To this picture
Maria Theresa at last raised her eyes, and it seemed, to her excited
imagination, that her husband smiled and whispered words of consolation.
"Yes, dear Franz, I hear you," said she. "You would remind me that this
is our wedding-day. Alas, I know it! Once a day of joy, and from this
moment the anniversary of a great sorrow! Franz, it is OUR child that is
the victim! The sweet Antoinette, whose eyes are so like her father's!
Oh, dear husband, my heart is heavy with grief; Why may I not go to rest
too? But thou wilt not love me if my courage fail. I will be brave,
Franz; I will work, and try to do my duty."
She approached her writing-table, and began to overlook the heaps of
papers that awaited her inspection and signature. Gradually her brow
cleared and her face resumed its usual expression of deep thought and
high resolve. The mother forgot her grief, and the empress was absorbed
in the cares of state.
She felt so strongly the comfort and sustenance derived from labor, that
on that day she dined alone, and returned immediately to her
writing-desk. Twilight came on, and still the empress was at work.
Finally the rolling of carriages toward the imperial theatre was heard,
and presently the shouts of the applauding audience. The empress heard
nothing. She had never attended the theatre since her husband's death,
and it was nothing to her that to-night Lessing's beautiful drama,
"Emilia Galotti," was being represented for the first time in Vienna.
Twilight deepened into night, and the empress rang for lights. Then
retiring to her dressing-room, she threw off her heavy court costume,
and exchanged it for a simple peignoir, in which she returned to her
cabinet and still wrote on.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by a knock, and a page entered with a
golden salver, on which lay a letter.
"A courier from Florence, your majesty," said he.
Maria Theresa took the letter, and dismissed the page. "From my
Leopold," said she, while she opened it. "It is an extra courier. It
must announce the accouchement of his wife. Oh, my heart, how it beats!"
With trembling hands she held the missive and read it. But at once her
face was lighted up with joy, and throwing herself upon her knees before
the portrait of the emperor, she said, "Franz, Leopold has given us a
grandson. Do you hear?"
No answer came in response to the joyful cry of the empress, and she
could not bear the burden of her joy alone. Some one must rejoice with
her. She craved sympathy, and she must go out to seek it.
She left her cabinet. Unmindful of her dress, she sped through the long
corridors, farther and still farther, down the staircase and away to the
extremest end of the palace, until she reached the imperial theatre.
That night it was crowded. The interest of the spectators had deepened
as the play went on. They were absorbed in the scene between Emilia and
her father, when a door was heard to open and to shut.
Suddenly, in the imperial box, which had so long been empty, a tall and
noble figure bent forward, far over the railing, and a clear, musical
voice cried out:
"Leopold has a son!"
The audience, as if electrified, rose with one accord from their seats.
All turned toward the imperial box. Each one had recognized the voice of
the adored Maria Theresa, and every heart over-flowed with the joy of
the moment.
The empress repeated her words:
"Leopold has a son, and it is born on my wedding-day. Wish me joy, dear
friends, of my grandson!"
Then arose such a storm of congratulations as never before had been
heard within those theatre walls. The women wept, and the men waved
their hats and cheered; while all, with one voice, cried out. "Long live
Maria Theresa! Long live the imperial grandmother!"