THE FLIGHT.
The countess passed into her dressing-room. She closed and locked the
door, then, going across the room, she stopped before a large picture
that hung opposite to her rich Venetian toilet-mirror. The frame of this
picture was ornamented with small gilt rosettes. Margaret laid her hand
upon one of these rosettes, and drew it toward her. A noise of machinery
was heard behind the wall. She drew down the rosette a second time, and
then stepped back. The whirr was heard again, the picture began to move,
and behind it appeared a secret door. Margaret opened it, and, as she
did so, her whole frame shook as if with a deadly repugnance to that
which was within.
"I am here, Count Schulenberg," said she, coldly.
The figure of a young man appeared at the doorway.
"May I presume to enter paradise?" said he, stepping into the room with
a flippant air.
"You may," replied she, without moving; but the hue of shame overspread
her face, neck, and arms, and it was plain to Count Schulenberg that she
trembled violently.
These were to him the signals of his triumph; and he smiled with
satisfaction as he surveyed this lovely woman, so long acknowledged to
be the beauty par excellence of the imperial court at Vienna. Margaret
allowed him to take her hand, and stood coldly passive, while he covered
it with kisses; but when he would have gone further, and put his arm
around her waist, she raised her hands, and receded.
"Not here," murmured she, hoarsely. "Not here, in the house of the man
whose name I bear. Let us not desecrate love; enough that we defile
marriage."
"Come, then, beloved, come," said he, imploringly. "The coach is at the
door, and I have passes for France, Italy, Spain, and England. Choose
yourself the spot wherein we shall bury our love from the world's gaze."
"We go to Paris," replied she, turning away her head.
"To Paris, dearest? Why, you have forgotten that the emperor leaves for
Paris to-morrow, and that we incur the risk of recognition there."
"Not at all--Paris is a large city, and if we are discovered, I shall
seek protection from the emperor. He knows of my unhappy marriage, and
sympathizes with my sorrows."
"Perhaps you are right, dearest. Then in Paris we spend our honey-moon,
and there enjoy the bliss of requited love."
"There, and not until we reach there," said she, gravely. "I require a
last proof of your devotion, count. I exact that until we arrive in
Paris you shall not speak to me of love. You shall consider me as a
sister, and allow me the privilege of travelling in the carriage with my
maid--she and I on one seat, you opposite."
"Margaret, that is abominable tyranny. You expect me to be near you, and
not to speak of love! I must be watched by your maid, and sit opposite
to you!--You surely cannot mean what you say."
"I do, indeed, Count Schulenberg."
"But think of all that I have endured for a year that I have adored you,
cold beauty! Not one single proof of love have you ever given me yet.
You have tolerated mine, but have never returned it."
"Did I not write to you?"
"Write; yes. You wrote me to say that you would not consent to be mine
unless I carried you away from Vienna. Then you went on to order our
mode of travelling as you would have done had I been your husband. 'Be
here at such an hour; have your passes for various countries. Describe
me therein as your sister. Come through the garden and await me at the
head of the secret stairway.' Is this a love-letter? It is a mere note
of instructions. For one week I have waited for a look, a sigh, a
pressure of the hand; and when I come hither to take you from your home
forever, you receive me as if I were a courier. No, Margaret, no--I will
not wait to speak my love until we are in Paris."
"Then, Count Schulenberg, farewell. We have nothing more to say to one
another."
She turned to leave the room, but Schulenberg darted forward and fell at
her feet. "Margaret, beloved," cried he, "give me one single word of
comfort. I thirst to know that you love me."
"Can a woman go further than I am going at this moment?" asked Margaret,
with a strange, hollow laugh.
"No. I acknowledge my unspeakable happiness in being the partner of your
flight. But I cannot comprehend your love. It is a bitter draught in a
golden beaker."
"Then do not drink it," said she, retreating.
"I must--I must drink it; for my soul thirsts for the cup, and I will
accept its contents."
"My conditions?"
"Yes, since I must," said Schulenberg, heaving a sigh. "I promise, then,
to contain my ecstasy until we reach Paris, and to allow that guardian
of virtue, your maid, to sit by your side, while I suffer agony
opposite. But oh! when we reach Paris--"
"In Paris we will talk further, and my speech shall be different."
"Thank you, beloved," cried the count passionately. "This heavenly
promise will sustain me through my ordeal." He kissed the tips of her
fingers, and she retired to change her ball-dress for a travelling
habit.
When she had closed the door, the expression of Count Schulenberg's face
was not quite the same.
"The fierce countess is about to be tamed," thought he. "I shall win my
bet, and humble this insolent beauty. Let her rule if she must, until we
reach Paris; but there I will repay her, and her chains shall not be
light. Really, this is a piquant adventure. I am making a delightful
wedding-tour, without the bore of the marriage-ceremony, at the expense
of the most beautiful woman in Europe; and to heighten the piquancy of
the affair, I am to receive two thousand louis d'ors on my return to
Vienna. Here she comes."
"I am ready," said Margaret, coming in, followed by her maid, who held
her mistress's travelling-bag.
Count Schulenberg darted forward to offer his arm, but she waved him
away.
"Follow me," said she, passing at once through the secret opening.
Schulenberg followed, "sighing like a furnace," and looking daggers at
the confidante, who in her turn looked sneeringly at him. A few moments
after they entered the carriage. The windows of the Hotel Esterhazy were
as brilliantly illuminated as ever, while the master of the house
slumbered peacefully. And yet a shadow had fallen upon the proud
escutcheon which surmounted the silken curtains of his luxurious
bed--the shadow of that disgrace with which his outraged wife had
threatened him!