THE LAST APPEAL.
The carriage of the Countess Esterhazy was returning from a ball which
the empress had given in honor of her son's departure from Vienna.
Joseph was about to visit France, and his lovely young sister was once
more to hear the sound of a beloved voice from home.
It was long past midnight; but the Hotel Esterhazy was one blaze of
light. It had been one of the countess's first orders to her steward
that, at dusk, every chandelier in her palace should be lighted. She
hated night and darkness, she said, and must have hundreds of wax-lights
burning from twilight until morning. This was one of the whims of the
fair Margaret, which, although it amused all Vienna, was any thing but
comic to her husband, for it cost him one thousand florins a month.
The hotel, then, from ground-floor to attic, was bright as noon-day. Six
lackeys, in silvered livery, stood on either side of the entrance, with
torches in their hands, to light their lady to the vestibule. From the
inner door to the staircase a rich Turkey carpet covered the floor; and,
here again, stood twelve more lackeys, performing the office of
candelabra to the light-loving countess. At the foot of the stairs stood
the steward and the butler of the household, awaiting such orders as she
might choose to fling at them on her way; and at the head of the stairs,
waiting to receive her, stood a bevy of dames de compagnie, and other
female attendants.
The countess passed through this living throng without vouchsafing one
glance in acknowledgment of their respectful greetings. In profound
silence she swept up the stairway; her long, glossy train of white satin
following her as she went, like the foaming track that a ship leaves
upon the broad bosom of the ocean, and the diamonds that decked her
brow, neck, and arms, flinging showers of radiance that dazzled the eye
like lightning when the storm is at its height. Her head was thrown
back, her large black eyes were starry as ever, and her face was so pale
that its pallor was unearthly.
At the landing-place she turned, and speaking to the steward, said:
"Let Count Esterhazy know that in ten minutes I await him in the blue
room." Having said thus much, she continued her way, and disappeared
from the eyes of her staring household.
Her disappearance was the signal for the transformation of the
candelabra into men.
"Did you hear her?" whispered one. "She has sent for the count."
"Never troubling herself whether he sleeps or wakes," said another.
"Poor man! He has been in bed for four hours."
"No wonder he goes to bed early," remarked a third. "It is the only
place on earth where he has peace."
"Nevertheless he will be obedient and come; he dare not refuse." "Oh,
no!" was the general response. "In ten minutes he will be here; or his
amiable countess will treat us to a scene like some we have witnessed,
wherein she flings handfuls of gold out of the windows, and gathers all
the people in Vienna before the hotel to see the show. "
The servants were right; Count Esterhazy did not disobey his wife. He
trembled when he received her message, called nervously for his valet to
dress him, and at the end of the ten minutes was on his way to the
blue-room.
The countess was there before him, looking like an angry queen about to
condemn a recreant vassal to death. And Esterhazy, with the mien and
gait of a culprit, carne into her presence with a bow that was almost a
genuflection.
"You see, countess," said he, "with what haste I obey your commands. I
feel so honored at the call, that--"
He paused--for really her fiery eyes seemed to burn him; and her
contempt dried up the stream of his commonplace flattery, as the breath
of the sirocco parches up the dew-drops.
"Why do you not go on?" said she.
"I am bewildered by my own joy," replied he, blandly. "Remember--it is
the first time since our marriage that you have allowed me the privilege
of an interview in private; and I may well lose my speech in the
intoxication of such a moment."
"It is the first time. You have a good memory. Can you also recollect
how long it is since we had that interview?"
"Can I recollect? Four long years!"
"Four long years," sighed she, "to the day, and almost to the hour."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the count. "And can you forgive me for having
forgotten this charming anniversary?"
"You are happy to have tasted of the Lethe of indifference. I--I have
counted the days and the hours of my slavery; and each day and hour is
branded upon my heart. Have you forgotten, too, Count Esterhazy, what I
swore to you on that wedding-night?"
"Yes, Margaret--I have forgotten all the cruel words you spoke to me in
an outburst of just indignation."
"I wonder that you should have forgotten them, for it has been my daily
care to remind you of the vow I then made. Have I not kept my word? Have
I not crossed your path with the burning ploughshares of my hatred? Have
I not cursed your home, wasted your wealth and made you the
laughing-stock of all Vienna?"
"You judge yourself with too much severity, Margaret," said the count,
mildly. "True--we have not been very happy; since this is the first time
since our marriage-night, that we are face to face without witnesses. I
will not deny, either, that our household expenditures have cost several
millions, and have greatly exceeded our income. But the lovely Countess
Esterhazy has a right to exceed all other women in the splendor of her
concerts and balls, and the richness of her dress. Come, make me amends
for the past--I forgive you. There is still time to--"
"No!" exclaimed she, "the time went by four years ago. You can never
make amends to me, nor I to you. Look at yourself! You were then a young
man, with high hopes and a light heart. Many a woman would have been
proud to be called your wife--and yet you chose me. Now, that four years
of accursed wedded life have gone over your head, you have passed from
youth to old age, without ever having known an interval of manhood. And
I--O God! What have I become through your miserable cowardice! I might
have grown to be a gentle woman, had fate united me to him whom I love;
but the link that has bound me to you has unsexed me. Our marriage was a
crime, and we have paid its penalty; you are as weak as a woman, and
I--as inflexible as a man."
Two large tears glittered in her eyes, and fell slowly down her pale
cheeks. Count Esterhazy approached and caressed her with his hands. She
shuddered at his touch, recoiling as if from contact with a reptile.
Meanwhile, he was imploring her to begin a new life with him--to give
him her hand, to make him the happiest of men.
"No, no, no!" cried she. "In mercy cease, or you will drive me mad. But
I will forgive you even your past treachery, if you will grant the
request I am about to make."
"You will condescend to ask something of me! Speak, Margaret speak! What
can I do to make you happy?"
"You can give me my freedom," replied the countess, in a soft, imploring
voice. "Go with me to the empress, and beg her to undo what she has
done. Tell her that she has blasted the lives of two human beings--tell
her that we are two galley-slaves, pining for liberty."
Count Esterhazy shook his head. "The empress will never allow us to be
divorced," said he, "for I have too often assured her that I was happy
beyond expression, and she wouldn't believe me if I came with another
story."
"Then let us go to the fountain head," said the countess, wringing her
hands. "Let us go to the pope, and implore him to loose the bands of our
mutual misery."
"Impossible! That would be a slight which the empress never would
forgive. I should fall under her displeasure."
"Oh, these servile hearts that have no life but that which they borrow
from the favor of princes!" cried Margaret, scornfully. "What has the
favor of the empress been worth to you? For what have you to thank her?
For these four years of martyrdom, which you have spent with a woman who
despises you?"
"I cannot dispense with the good-will of my sovereign," said the count,
with something like fervor. "For hundreds of years, the Esterhazys have
been the favorites of the Emperors of Austria; and we cannot afford to
lose the station we enjoy therefrom. No--I will do nothing to irritate
the empress. She chose you for my wife, and, therefore, I wear my chains
patiently. Maria Theresa knows how I have obeyed and honored her
commands; and, one of these days, I shall reap the reward of my loyalty.
If Count Palfy dies, I am to be marshal of the imperial household; but
yet higher honors await us both. If I continue to deserve the favor of
the empress, she will confer upon me the title of 'prince.' You refuse
to be my wife, Margaret; but you will one day be proud to let me deck
that haughty brow with the coronet of a princess."
Margaret looked more contemptuously at him than before.
"You are even more degraded than I had supposed," said she. "Poor,
crawling reptile, I do not even pity you. I ask you for the last time,
will you go with me to Rome to obtain a divorce?"
"Why do you repeat your unreasonable request, Margaret? It is vain for
you to hope for a divorce. Waste my fortune if you will--I cannot
hinder you--I will find means to repair my losses; and the empress,
herself, will come to my assistance, for--"
"Enough!" interrupted the countess. "Since you will not aid me in
procuring our divorce, it shall be forced upon you. I will draw across
your escutcheon such a bar sinister as your princely coronet will not be
large enough to hide. That is my last warning to you. Now leave me."
"Margaret, I implore you to forgive me if I cannot make this great
sacrifice. I cannot part from you, indeed I cannot," began the count.
"And the empress will reward your constancy with the title of 'prince,"'
replied Margaret, with withering scorn. "Go--you are not worthy of my
anger--but I shall know where to strike. Away with you!"
Count Esterhazy, with a deep sigh, turned and left the room.
"The last hope to which I clung, has vanished!" said she, "and I must
resort to disgrace!"
She bent her head, and a shower of tears came to her relief. But they
did not soften her heart. She rose from her seat, muttering, "It is too
late to weep! I have no alternative. The hour for revenge has struck!"