"In a week or never," sighed Colonel Mariage, pressing the baron's proffered hand in his own.



CHAPTER V.

COMMISSIONER KRAUS.

After taking leave of Colonel Mariage, old Baron von Moudenfels passed through the antechamber, where he found the valet, with slow and weary steps. Panting and resting on every stair, he descended the staircase, coughing, and moved slowly past the houses to the nearest carriage, into which he climbed with difficulty and sank with a groan upon the cushions.

"Where shall I drive, your lordship?" asked the hackman, lifting his whip to rouse the weary nags from their half slumber.

"Where? I don't know myself, my friend," replied the old man, sighing. "I only want to ride about a little while to rest my poor old limbs and get some fresh air. So take me through the busiest streets in Vienna, that I may see them. I am a stranger who has seen little of your capital, because his weary limbs will not carry him far. So drive very slowly, at a walk, that I may see and admire everything—so slowly that if I liked anything especially, and wanted to get out, I could do so without stopping the vehicle."

"Then your lordship does not want to drive by the trip, but by the hour?"

"Yes, my friend, by the hour, and here are four florins in prepayment for two hours. You'll have no occasion to trouble yourself now, but drive as slowly as possible and your horses will be able to rest. So go on through the busiest streets, and at a walk."

"Well, that will suit my poor beasts," said the driver, laughing, "they have already been standing for six hours, and stiff enough from it."

He touched his horses' backs with the are whip, and the animals started.

The carriage now rolled on slowly, like a hearse, at the pace drivers usually take when they wish to notify pedestrians that they have no occupant in their vehicles and can receive a passenger. So no one noticed the slow progress of the carriage; no one in the crowded streets through which it passed heeded it. Yet many a person might have been interested if he could have cast a glance within.

Something strange and unusual was certainly occurring inside the hack. No sooner had it started than Baron von Moudenfels hastily raised both the side windows and pulled down the little curtains of dark red silk. No curious eyes could now look in at him, and he could fearlessly devote himself to his occupations, which he did with perfect composure and unconcern. First, he drew from the back pocket of his coat a package wrapped in paper, which he unrolled, placing its contents on the back seat. These consisted of a wig of short fair hair, a mustache of the same color, and two little boxes containing red, white, and black paints. Then the baron took from his breast-pocket another package, which he unwrapped and produced a mirror, brushes and combs.

After hanging the mirror by a small hook on the cushion of the back seat, the baron began to make his toilet, that is, to transform himself from an old man into a young one. First, he removed his powdered wig and exchanged it for the blonde one, doing it so quickly that the most watchful eye would have had no time to see the color of his own hair concealed beneath. With the same speed he fastened over his hitherto beardless lips a pointed mustache of reddish-fair hair and, after removing from his face the skillfully painted wrinkles and the powder, he hastened to add red cheeks to the fair curls on his head, and to tinge the tip of his nose with the rosy hue which suggests a convivial nature. After this was accomplished, and the baron had convinced himself by a careful examination in the mirror that he was transformed into a charming, gay, young fellow, he began a similar metamorphosis of his costume. Taking the diamond pin from his lace jabot he hid it under his vest, which he buttoned to the necktie. Then removing the light silk long-skirted dress-coat, he turned it completely on the other side and, by taking out some pins which held them, let the tails fall back. The dress-coat was now changed into an overcoat, a blue cloth overcoat, whose color harmonized very pleasantly with his fair hair.

Now the metamorphosis was complete, and, from the skill and speed with which the baron had performed it, one might suppose that he was not practising such arts of disguise for the first time, but was well-trained in them. With perfect calmness and deliberation he now put the cast-off articles into the parcels, hid them in the pockets of his clothes, and, after unscrewing the gold crutch-handle from his cane and replacing it by a plain ivory head, he drew up the little curtains and looked out with a keen, watchful gaze. The carriage was just passing down the crowded and busy Grabenstrasse moving behind a long row of equipages following a funeral procession, and the driver was of course compelled to proceed slowly.

The baron now cautiously opened the carriage door, and as it was just in the act of turning a corner, he took advantage of the opportunity offered to spring with a swift leap into the street.

He now hurried rapidly along the opposite side; his bearing was as vigorous and energetic as it had just been bowed and feeble; and with the wrinkles and gray hair every trace of age had also vanished he was now a young man, but the large black eyes, with their bold, fiery gaze, suited the rosy cheeks and fair hair as little as they had formerly harmonized with the old man's pallid countenance. But at any rate the present youthfulness was no disguise, and the swift, vigorous movements were no assumption; that was evident from the ease and speed with which the baron, after entering one of the handsomest houses in the Grabenstrasse, ran up the stairs, never pausing until he had mounted the third flight. Beside the bell of a glass door, on a shining brass plate, was engraved the name of Count von Kotte. Baron von Moudenfels pulled this bell so violently that it echoed loudly, and at the door, which instantly opened, appeared a liveried servant with an angry face, muttering with tolerable distinctness something about unseemly noise and rude manners.

"Is Count von Kotte at home?" asked the baron hastily.

"No," muttered the lackey, "the count isn't at home, and it wasn't necessary to ring so horribly loud to ask the question."

He stepped back and was about to close the door again, but the baron thrust his foot between it and the frame and seized the man's sleeve.

"My good fellow, I must see the count," he said imperiously.

"But when I tell you that the count isn't—"

He stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence and cast a stolen glance at the florin which the baron had pressed into his hand.

"Announce me to Count von Kotte," said the baron pleasantly. "He will certainly receive me."

"Your name, sir?" asked the lackey respectfully.

"Commissioner Kraus," was the reply. The man withdrew, and, a few minutes after, returned with a smiling face.

"The count is at home and begs the gentleman to come in," he said, throwing the door wide open and standing respectfully beside it.

Commissioner Kraus, smiling, stepped past him into the anteroom. A door on the opposite side opened, and the tall figure of a man attired in the Austrian uniform appeared.

"Is it really you, my dear Kraus!" he cried. "So you have returned already. Come, come, I have longed to see you."

Holding out his hand to the visitor, he drew him hastily into the next room.

"You have longed to see me, my dear count," said Kraus, laughing, "and yet I was within an ace of being turned from your door. Since when have you lived in a barricaded apartment, count?"

"Since the spies of the French governor of Vienna, Count Andreossy, have watched my door and pursued my every step," replied the count, smiling. "But now speak, my dear Kraus. You went to Totis? You talked with the Emperor Francis?"

"I went to Totis and talked with the Emperor Francis."

"Good heavens! you say it with such a gloomy, solemn expression. Has the emperor become irresolute?"

"Yes, that is it. The emperor is surrounded by adherents of the Napoleonic party; they have succeeded in thrusting back the real patriots, the Anti-Bonapartists, and would have rendered them wholly inactive had not the Empress Ludovica tried to support them with all her influence. All is not yet lost, but unless we soon succeed in making a decisive step, our foes will completely gain the ear of the emperor, persuade him to accept the ignoble, humiliating peace which Napoleon offered, and, from his enemy, become his ally."

"It would be horrible if that could be done," cried the count sadly. "It is not possible that the Emperor Francis could resolve upon such humiliation."

"They have alarmed the emperor, intimidated him; told him that his crown, his life, were at stake; that unless he would make himself Napoleon's ally and accept the proffered peace, the Emperor Napoleon would say of him what he said of the Bourbons in Spain: 'The Hapsburg dynasty has ceased to exist.' If something does not now happen, if we do not force a decision, everything is lost. Austria will conclude a humiliating peace and, instead of being delivered from the French tyrant's yoke, we shall be obliged to see Austria sink into a French province, and the Emperor Francis, in spite of his high-sounding title, become nothing more than the viceroy of the Emperor Napoleon."

"It must not, it shall not come to that!" exclaimed the count wildly. "We must risk everything to prevent this. We must stake our blood, our lives, to save Austria and Germany!"

"Ah, if you speak and think thus, count, you are one of us; you will wish to have a share in our work of liberation."

"Yes, I demand my share, and the greater and more perilous it is, the more welcome it will be."

"We all risk our lives," said Kraus solemnly, "and if we are defeated, we shall all be lost; for the Emperor Francis will not protect us—he will abandon us to Napoleon's wrath, in order to prove that he had no part in our plans. With this conviction, we must begin our work and arrange our affairs as if we were going into a battle."

"My affairs are arranged, and I am ready," replied the count solemnly.

"Hush! listen! All our friends, like you, are ready, and the conspiracy winds like a great chain through all the countries of Europe. Every one who loves his native land, and therefore hates Napoleon, has laid his brave hand on this chain and will add the link of his manly strength. In France, in England, in Spain and Italy, in Sweden, in Russia and Turkey, everywhere, our friends are waiting for the decisive act which must take place here. In England they have bought arms and ammunition and sent them to Heligoland Thence members of our league have brought them here and distributed them among the brothers. In the harbor of Genoa a Swedish and an English ship lie ready for our service; the English one to aid our escape and convey us to England, if our enterprise fails; the Swedish one to serve as a transport vessel, if we succeed. Everywhere our friends are working, everywhere they are preparing the insurrection; Tyrol is like a well-filled bomb which needs only the application of a spark to burst and scatter confusion around it, and in the minds of individuals patriotism has increased to a fanaticism which deems even murder a justifiable means to rid Europe from the shameful yoke of the tyrant. If we cannot execute our plan, if we do not succeed in abducting Napoleon, perhaps the dagger of an assassin will he raised against him—an assassin who does not regard his deed as a crime, but as a sacred duty."

"And why are we content with an abduction?" asked the count fiercely. "Why should not the blood of the man who has shed so many torrents of blood, be shed also?"

"Because that would be too light a punishment," said Kraus, with an expression of gloomy hate. "Because it would be an atonement for all his crimes, if he fell beneath the daggers of murderers. Such daggers rendered the tyrant Julius Caesar a hero, a martyr, and they would also transform Napoleon into a demi-god. No, we will not grant him such a triumph, such a glorious end—we will not allow him a speedy death. He shall ignominiously disappear; he shall die slowly on some barren island in the ocean; die amid the tortures of solitude, of weariness, of powerless rage. This must be the vengeance of Europe; this must be the end of the vampire who has drunk her heart's blood."

"You are right? it shall, it must be so," cried the count, with sparkling eyes. "Now tell me, what have I to do? What part is assigned to me?"

"You will go to Genoa, count. Here is a letter from General Nugent to the captain of the Swedish ship Proserpina, now lying in the harbor."

"But it is not sealed?" asked the count, taking the paper offered.

"Open it, and you will find that it does not contain a single word. I received it so from our messenger, who brought it directly from Count Nugent in Heligoland to me. It is your letter of recommendation, that is all! Written words might compromise, spoken ones die away upon the wind. If you deliver this, addressed in General Nugent's hand, to the captain of the Proserpina, he will recognize you as the right messenger, and you will then tell him verbally what you have to say."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him to take in his freight, have his ballast on board, and keep everything in readiness for departure. From the day that you reach him the Proserpina must be ready for sea, and a boat must lie in the harbor night and day to receive the members of our league who will come if the plan succeeds."

"But I hope this is not all that I have to do? I shall not be denied a more active part in the great cause?"

"If you wish, no! One of us will accompany Bonaparte to Genoa as his jailer. You can relieve him there, and attend him to his prison."

"I will do so. But where will the prison be?"

"You will put him on some barren island in the ocean, which will serve as his dungeon. Then you will return. But you must name the place to which you conveyed him to no one except the heads of the society: that is, to General Nugent and myself. We will guard it as the most sacred secret of our lives, that no one may learn it—no one can make the attempt to rescue him."

"I thank you," cried the count joyously. "You assign me an honorable task, which proves that the heads of the society trust me. What else have I to do? Will not a meeting of the conspirators take place? Will you not summon one?"

"No, for I shall go at once to Totis to make the most necessary additional arrangements with General Bubna, and through him with the Empress Ludovica, that, if the plot succeeds, the advantage will be ours and cannot be claimed by the French party. But you, count, must manage to summon such an assembly of our friends in some unsuspected place. I learn that Baroness de Simonie is to give an entertainment to which, without knowing it, she has invited a number of our friends. You will recognize them by the black enamel ring which every member of our band must wear upon the little finger of his left hand. You will name to each a place of meeting.

"Oh, I already know one," cried the count, "it is—"

"Mention no names," Kraus interrupted quickly. "I shall not be present, so it is not necessary for me to know. Every secret is imperiled by needless communication, and we must compromise no one without cause. Here, count, are some necessary papers in which you will find further instructions. Make your preparations accordingly, and when you have read them and informed the persons concerned, burn them."

"But you tell me nothing about the principal matter," said the count. "Who will accomplish the actual deed? Who will have the heroic daring to take Napoleon captive?"

"Many will be active in that, count. The names are not to be mentioned, but if you lay stress upon it, I will tell you that of the person who has undertaken to lie in ambush for Napoleon, gag him, and carry him away. It is Baron von Moudenfels."

"Von Moudenfels? I don't know him, but I have heard of him. Was it not Baron von Moudenfels who arranged the secret connection with the conspirators in the French army, and negotiated with Oudet?"

"Yes, the same man. He is a great patriot and a daring fellow. He hates Napoleon, and if he once has him in his grasp, he will die rather than suffer him to escape, though Napoleon should offer a kingdom as a ransom. Now farewell, count, and may God grant that we see each other again successful! May the guardian angel of our native land protect us in the perils which we must bravely meet."

"So be it," said the count, cordially pressing in his own Kraus' extended hand. "Go to Totis: I will go to Genoa, to await my prisoner there."

With the same hasty steps as he had come, Commissioner Kraus again hastened down the steps, and once more plunged into the tumult of the street. After a short walk, he again entered a house and ascended the stairs to a door in the fourth story beside which, in a rush-bottomed chair, sat a servant, with his head bowed on his breast, sleeping peacefully.

Baron von Moudenfels or Commissioner Kraus tapped the slumberer lightly on the shoulder.

"Wake up and open the door, Peter!" he said.

The man started up and stared at the person standing before him with dilated eyes.

"Who are you, sir, and what do you want of me?" he exclaimed sulkily.

"Then you don't know me?" asked Kraus, smiling. "Must I tell you that I am your master?"

"Herr Baron! Is it you? Is it possible that it's you; that anybody can disguise himself so—and—"

"Hush! you know that you are not to wonder at anything, and must always be prepared to see me in any disguise. True, I should have expected that you would recognize your master's voice."

"I beg your pardon, sir; I was so very sound asleep. I didn't sleep all night because I was expecting you, and I've been on the watch all day."

"Have many spies been here?" asked the baron as, followed by his servant, he entered his sitting-room.

"Yes, sir, they fairly besieged the door of the house and patrolled the opposite side of the street all day long. Three times, too, gentlemen called to ask for you. They said that they were visitors, but I think they were only spies who wanted to find out whether you were at home."

"Well, now they can come and assure themselves that I'm here," replied his master, stretching himself comfortably upon the sofa. "True, it won't last long—we start in an hour. Order post-horses, Peter, two post-horses and a light carriage, and pack the baggage."

"Yes, sir!" sighed Peter. "What clothes will you take? Do we travel this time again as Baron von Moudenfels, and must I pack the old gentleman's baggage as I did for the journey to Frankfort?"

"No, not as Baron von Moudenfels. This time I shall go in my own person and under my own name. We shall go to Totis to the camp of his majesty the emperor. So take the court dress and everything necessary for a gentleman. Thank heaven, I shall be rid of the tiresome wig for a few days."

Removing the blonde wig he passed his hand through the black locks which appeared under it.

"Hurry, Peter, order post-horses and pack our clothing; we must start in an hour."



CHAPTER VI.

THE CONSPIRACY DISCOVERED.

The festival was over, the last guests had taken leave of Baroness de Simonie, and the servants and lackeys were gliding noiselessly through the empty rooms to extinguish the lights in the chandeliers and candelabra, and here and there push the scattered pieces of furniture into place.

Baroness de Simonie had gone to her boudoir, but though it was late at night she seemed to feel no disposition to retire to rest, nor was there the slightest expression of weariness on her beautiful face; her eyes sparkled as brightly as they had just flashed upon her guests, and there was no change in the proud carriage of her head, or of the tall, slender figure, still robed in white satin veiled with silver-embroidered white crepe. The diadem of diamonds still glittered in her hair, and clasps of the same brilliant gems adorned her neck and her bare white arms.

Madame de Simonie was pacing up and down her boudoir with hasty, impetuous steps; her whole being seemed intensely agitated. Sometimes she paused at the door to listen, then with panting breath resumed her restless movement to and fro, while her scarlet lips murmured: "He does not come yet. Something extraordinary must have happened. But what? What? Can he be in danger? Oh, my God, if this terrible week were once over, that—But hush! I hear footsteps; it is he."

Springing to the door with a single bound like a lioness, she tore it open.

"Is it you, father?"

"Yes, it is I," he answered, entering the room and cautiously locking the door behind him.

"Thank heaven that you are here, father!" she sighed, with an air of relief.

"What?" he asked, smiling, "has my Leonore again become so affectionate a daughter that she is anxious about her father if he is suddenly called away at night? For you have been anxious about me—about me and no one else—have you not?"

"No, not for you," she cried impetuously, "for him, for him alone. Tell me that he is not in danger, that he has nothing to do with the matter on whose account you were so suddenly called away!"

"I swear it, Leonore. But, my child, the impetuosity of your passion is beginning to make me uneasy. How will you keep your head clear, if your heart is burning with such impetuous fire that the rising smoke must becloud your brain? I have allowed you to give yourself the amusement of love, but you must not make a serious life question of it."

"Yet I shall either perish of this love or be new-born by it," she murmured. "But let us not talk about it. Tell me first why you left the ball so suddenly?"

"Urgent business, my child. The emperor sent for me to come to Schoenbrunn."

"The emperor! What did he want of you?"

"There is something to be discovered, Leonore—a murderer who seeks the emperor's life."

"A murderer!" she said, shuddering; "my God, suppose it should be he!"

"The emperor has received an anonymous letter from Hungary, in which he is informed that, during the course of the next week, a young man will come to Schoenbrunn to murder him.[D] I suppose that this comes directly from the Emperor Francis' court at Totis. Some fanatic has told the Emperor Francis that he will go there to murder his hated foe, and the kind-hearted emperor, in his magnanimity has sent this warning to Napoleon."

"And he was in Totis," said Leonore, trembling, under her breath, "and he told me that in a week something decisive would happen."

"You are silent, Leonore?" asked her father. "Have you nothing to tell me?"

She started from her sorrowful reverie; a bold, resolute fire again flashed in her eyes. "I have many things to tell you, many important things," she replied. "But I will not utter a single word unless you first take an oath."

"What oath?"

"The oath that, if it is Kolbielsky who comes to murder Napoleon, you will warn him and let him escape."

"But how am I to warn him in advance, since the probability is that, if I really catch him, it will be at the moment of the deed."

"Well, then, you will let him escape at that moment, if it is Kolbielsky."

"But that is impossible, Leonore! You will understand yourself that it is impossible."

"Well, then, do as you choose, but do not ask me to communicate my discoveries. Good-night, father; I feel tired, I will go to sleep."

Passing her father, she approached the door. But just as she was about to open it, he laid his hand on her arm and stopped her.

"Stubborn girl," he said, smiling, "I see that your will must be obeyed to induce you to speak. Well, then, I swear that, if the person who comes to murder Napoleon is Baron von Kolbielsky, I will let him escape if he falls into my hands."

"Swear it by my mother's spirit and memory."

"I swear it by your mother's spirit and memory. But now, Leonore, speak. Have you really discovered a conspiracy?"

"Yes, I have discovered a conspiracy, and, thank heaven, I can tell you everything—the names of all the conspirators; for he is not among them—he has nothing to do with this crazy, reckless affair. Father, you can tell Napoleon that a widespread conspiracy exists, and that it even has numerous adherents in his own army. The most aristocratic members of it were present at my entertainment and held a consultation here. Colonel Mariage, as you know, had begged me to give him and his friends a room where they could talk undisturbed."

"And you gave him the little red drawing-room didn't you?"

"Yes. I gave them the little red drawing-room, which is reached from this boudoir. I was in the niche and heard all."

"So it is really an actual conspiracy?" asked her father, with a happy smile.

"Really an actual conspiracy," she repeated gravely, "and unless you warn the Emperor Napoleon, unless you save him, he will be a lost man within a week, even if that murderer's dagger should not strike him."

"That is splendid, that is marvelous," cried her father. "Leonore, this time we shall really attain our goal. We shall be rich. The emperor is generous; he loves life. I will set a high price upon it. By heaven, the Caesar's head is well worth four hundred thousand francs! I will ask them, and I shall receive. We shall be rich enough to do without and be independent of men."

"And I shall be free," murmured Leonore, with a flash of enthusiasm upon her beautiful face. "You will not forget, father, that you promised to give me my liberty if I helped you to become rich. You will not forget that you are to permit me to escape, with the man I love, from this false, pitiful world, and fly with him to some remote, secluded nook, where no one knows me—no one can betray to him the shame and sin of my past life. And above all, father, you will not forget that you have solemnly sworn to reveal nothing of my former existence, not to let him suspect who I am, and—"

"Who and what your father is, you wanted to say," he interrupted. "Yes, I will remember and not disclose our little secrets to him. The virtuous Baron von Kolbielsky would certainly be very much astonished if he made the discovery that your major-domo has the honor of being your father, and that the father of the proud baroness is no other than the well-known spy Schulmeister, who has rendered the Emperor Napoleon so many useful services, and whose name Kolbielsky has so often mentioned in my presence with scornful execration. No, he must not learn all this. We will conceal our past, we will begin a new life, and since we shall then be rich enough, it will not be difficult for us to remain noble and virtuous. But now, my Leonore, tell me exactly and in detail everything you know. Come, let us sit down on this divan and allow me to note at once the most important points in your story, and especially the names."

"Then listen, father! Thursday next the emperor is to be carried away by force."

"Carried away—where?" asked Schulmeister, smiling.

"To some desolate island in the ocean. But do not interrupt me; don't let me anticipate, but relate everything in regular order. So listen and note what is necessary. There is a conspiracy which has its members in the French army, in the garrison now in Vienna, nay, even among those who are in the closest attendance upon the emperor, and which unites all the malcontents in France with the foes of Napoleon throughout all Europe. Heligoland is the meeting-place for the envoys of the conspirators throughout Europe; there the central committee always assembles at certain times, and from there by confidential messengers and fellow conspirators issues its commands and directions to the members in all places; there is the depot of the arms, ammunition, and other military stores. Thither England has sent General Bathurst; Spain, General Bandari, for consultation and agreement with the Austrian General Nugent, the Russian General Demidoff, and a certain Baron von Moudenfels, who has apparently played a prominent part in all these negotiations, and in whose hands all the single threads of this many-branched conspiracy meet. There was devised and arranged the plan which is now to be executed and in which Baron von Moudenfels plays the most important part."

"Do you know this Baron von Moudenfels?" asked Schulmeister. "Was he at your entertainment this evening? I saw several gentlemen who were strangers to me, and whose names I was going to ask you, when I was called away. Was Baron von Moudenfels among them?"

"No, father, he was not among them, and I do not know Baron von Moudenfels at all. According to the descriptions which I heard of him this evening, he is a man already advanced in years, but whose youthful vigor and energy were extravagantly praised and admired. Baron von Moudenfels has been the originator and director of the whole plan, and has been engaged for months in making preparations for its execution. Listen to the rest of my story! On Thursday the plot must be put into action. On that day the emperor will take a ride in the afternoon, as he always does. If, by chance, he should show no disposition to do so, they will induce him by some means, and will persuade him to go to the woods near Schoenbrunn. The emperor likes to dismount there and stroll along the lovely, shady paths, talking with his generals. To his surprise he will find a most charming little hut which he has not seen before—for the very good reason that it was erected only the previous day. The emperor, as is well-known, is curious, and he will go to it. The conspirators—and his entire suite is composed of them—the conspirators will propose going in. A French song, the signal that everything is ready, will be heard within. The emperor will enter, his companions will follow. Inside the hut armed conspirators will be stationed, who, as soon as the emperor enters, will seize and gag him, bind him hand and foot, and thus render him harmless. Then one of the party who entered with the emperor, Colonel Lejeune, whose figure is exactly like his, will put on a suit of clothes made precisely like the emperor's, and, donning Napoleon's three-cornered hat, will leave the hut. Meanwhile twilight will have gathered, and the conspirators, with the emperor—that is Colonel Lejeune—at their head, will return to Schoenbrunn. The guards will salute as soon as they see the emperor dash into the courtyard. The chief equerry will hold his stirrup, and help him to dismount. The emperor, followed by his suite, will enter the castle, and silently, according to his custom, ascend the stairs and go to the hall where he receives his marshals; there, as he so frequently does, he will dismiss all who are present with a wave of his hand and pass on into his study, which adjoins his sleeping-room."

"Well, it must be admitted that so far the affair has a glimmer of feasibility and probability," said her father, smiling. "But I should be very anxious about the continuation. Would Roustan, who undresses the emperor every evening, also be deceived by the masquerade, or would the conspirators attempt to abduct him also? And then—has it been forgotten that before going to rest the emperor now works an hour every evening with his private secretary, Bourrienne?"

"Bourrienne is one of the conspirators. He will enter the room with his portfolio and remain there an hour, after first bringing to the anteroom the order, in the emperor's name, to make no further reports to him that evening, as he was wearied and therefore wished to go to rest early. The Mameluke Roustan could not be bribed, and therefore the attempt was relinquished. But the day before, through a dose of arsenic which will be administered to him, Roustan will be so dangerously ill that he cannot attend upon the emperor, and Constant will take his place."

"And is the valet Constant one of the conspirators?"

"He is, and he will be on duty during the night in the anteroom of the bedchamber. In this way the emperor's disappearance will be concealed until the next morning, and the matter will not become known until the following day at nine o'clock, when the generals arrive. What will happen then, whether Eugene is declared emperor or the Bourbons are again summoned to the throne, will depend upon what occurs in France, and what effect the emperor's disappearance has upon the minds of the people there. We need not trouble ourselves about it for the present; it does not belong to the business which occupies our attention."

"No, no, we have to deal only with the emperor," cried Schulmeister, laughing, "and I can tell you that I am as anxious about the progress of this matter as if it were the development of a drama, and that I am extremely curious to know what more is to be done with the gagged emperor. We have left him in the hut."

"Yes, and he will remain there until the night has closed in. Then Baron von Moudenfels and two other conspirators, disguised as workmen, will convey him in a basket standing ready in the hut, such as are used in the transportation of the sick to the place in the woods where a carriage will be waiting for the basket and its companions. They will ride all night long, relays will be ready everywhere at the appointed spots, and, when morning dawns, they will have reached the house of a conspirator near Gratz, and spend the day there. At nightfall the journey will be continued in the same way, and so, constantly traveling by night and resting by day in the house of a conspirator, until Trieste is reached. To be prepared for all casualties, a French passport for the transportation of an invalid to Trieste has been obtained. Count Andreossy issued it at the request of Colonel Mariage, and for greater security, Captain de Guesniard, in full uniform and provided with the necessary legal documents, will accompany the party to Trieste."

"Who are to be the other companions of the captive emperor?"

"Three more persons will accompany him. First, Baron Moudenfels, the originator and instigator of the whole plan. Then there are two subaltern officers in the French army, for whom Captain de Guesniard answers, but whose names were not mentioned."

"Oh, I will discover them," cried Schulmeister, "be assured I will discover them; and I am glad that there is some special work for me in this affair. Go on now, go on, my Leonore."

"There is but little more to say. A ship, laden with grain, lies in the harbor of Trieste with papers ready to set sail at once for Genoa. The Baron von Moudenfels, with the prisoner and the two French lieutenants, will take passage in her for Genoa, where another vessel, furnished by the Swedish members of the league, is ready to convey the party further. Count von Kotte has already been sent from here to Genoa by Baron von Moudenfels to give directions to the captain of the ship, who from that port will relieve Baron von Moudenfels from the charge of the prisoner."

"And what is the goal of his journey?"

"As I told you, some desolate island in the ocean, where no ships touch. There the emperor will be put ashore and left to support life like a second Robinson Crusoe, or in his despair seek death."

"Well, the plan really is not impracticable, and has been devised with equal boldness and calculation. Only I should like to know why so much ado is made, instead of adopting the shorter process, that is, murdering the emperor."

"For two reasons! The conspirators consider their task too sacred to profane it by assassination. They wish to rid Europe of the unhallowed yoke which weighs upon it in the person of the Emperor Napoleon. They are convinced that they are summoned to the work; that they shall thereby render the world and mankind a service full of blessing; but they will not anticipate fate; they will leave it to God to end a life which they merely desire to render harmless to God and men. This is the first motive for not killing the emperor, the second is that they believe a speedy death would be no fit punishment for the crime which Napoleon has perpetrated on humanity, while a perpetual, hopeless captivity, embittered by the omnipresent, ever alert consciousness of ruined greatness, of fame buried in dust and silence, would be a lasting penance more terrible to an ambitious land-robber than death could ever be."

"They are right, by the eternal God, they are right!" cried Schulmeister; "I believe that the emperor would prefer a speedy death a hundred times to such slow torture; and to you, Leonore, to you and to me will now fall the vast, the priceless happiness of preserving the emperor from such martyrdom. I say the priceless happiness, but I shall take good care that the emperor pays me for it as dearly as possible, and—so far as it can be done—balances the immense weight of our service by its compensation. By heaven, half a million francs really seems a trivial reward, and I don't know whether we can be satisfied with it."

"I shall be satisfied," cried Leonore, with an enthusiastic glance, "only when you fulfill the vow which you made; when, after I have made you rich, you make me free and permit me to go with the man whom I love wherever I desire, taking care that you do not betray by a word, a hint, who I am, and what I was."

"I will fulfill my oath to you," said Schulmeister earnestly, "for you have performed yours. You have discovered a conspiracy, and through this discovery saved the emperor from a terrible misfortune, and given me the right to demand a high price. You will make me rich; you will drive the demon of poverty from my head; I will repay you—I will guard yours from the demons of disgrace and shame; you shall have no cause to blush in the presence of the man whom you love. On the day that I bring from the emperor half a million as my property and yours, your past and mine will both be effaced, and we will enter upon a new life, in a new world! Let the spy, Schulmeister, the adventuress Leonore de Simonie; be buried, and new people, new names, rise from the budding seeds of the half million. But now farewell, my daughter, my beautiful Leonie. I must begin the work, must summon all my assistants and subordinates, and assign their tasks, for the next few days will bring much work. It is not enough for me to inform the emperor of the existence of a conspiracy, and the plan of the accomplices, but I must be able to give him convincing and irrefutable proofs of this plot, that he may not deem it a mere invention which I have devised in order to be able to claim a large reward. No, the emperor must see that I am telling him the truth, so I must not let the affair explode too soon. I must first know the names and residences of all the conspirators, investigate the details of the whole enterprise, and hold in my hand the threads of the entire web in order to be sure that all the spiders who have labored at it will be caught in their own net."

"Do so, father," cried Leonore joyously. "I will leave them all to you—all these poor spiders of the conspiracy. I feel no pity for them. Let them die, let them suffer, what do I care! I, too, have suffered, oh, and what mortal anguish! Yes, let them die and rot; I shall at last be happy, free, and beloved. Oh, God be praised that the man whom I love is not entangled in this conspiracy, that I could disclose the whole plot, mention the names of all the conspirators, without fear of compromising him. Yes, I thank Thee, my God, that Kolbielsky has no share in this scheme."



CHAPTER VII.

THE REVELATION.

The fatal Thursday had passed, Wednesday had come, yet Leonore had received no tidings from her father. For three days she had not seen him, had had no message from him.

But it was not this alone that disturbed and tortured Leonore. She had also had no news from Kolbielsky, though the week which he had named as the necessary duration of their parting had expired the day before. He had said:

"My week of exile will begin from this hour, and the first festival will be when I again clasp you in my arms."

This week had expired yesterday, and Kolbielsky had not come to clasp his loved one in his arms again. She had expected him all through the day, all through the night, and the cause of her present deep anxiety was not solicitude about her father, the desire to learn the result of the conspiracy discovered; no, it was only the longing for him, the terrible dread that some accident might have befallen Kolbielsky.

Why did he not come, since he had so positively promised to return at the end of a week? Was it really only a coincidence that the day which he had fixed for his return was the selfsame one on which the conspiracy formed by Napoleon's foes was to break forth?

What if he had had a share in the conspiracy? If he had deceived her, if—But no, no, that was wholly impossible—that could not be! She knew the names of the conspirators, especially those of the heads and leaders; she knew that Kolbielsky's name had not once been mentioned during the whole discussion between them. So away with anxieties, away with cowardly fears. Some accident might have detained him, might have caused a day's delay.

To-day, yes, to-day he would come at last! To-day she would see him again, would rush into his arms, rest on his heart, never, oh! never to part from him again! Hark, a carriage was stopping before the door! Steps echoed in the corridor.

They approached, stopped at her door! It is he, oh, surely it is he!

Darting to the door, she tore it open.

No! It was her father, only her father!

With a troubled cry, she sank into the chair beside the door. Her father went to her; she did not see the sorrowful, almost pitying look he fixed upon her. She had covered her face with her hands and groaned aloud. Schulmeister stood before her with a gloomy brow, silent and motionless.

At last, after a long pause, Leonore slowly removed her hands from her face and raised her head.

"Are we rich now?" she asked in a whisper, as though she feared lest even the walls should hear her question.

"Yes," he exclaimed joyfully, "yes, we are rich."

Drawing his pocketbook from his coat, he opened it and poured out its contents, shaking the various papers with their array of high numbers into Leonore's lap.

"Look, my daughter, my beloved child! Look at these wonderful papers. Ten banknotes, each one fifty thousand francs. That is half a million, my Leonore! Look at these papers. Yet no, they are no papers, each is a magic spell, with which you can make a palace rise out of nothing. See this thin scrap of paper; a spark would suffice to transform it to ashes, yet you need only carry it to the nearest banker's to see it changed into a heap of gold, or glitter as a parure of the costliest diamonds. If you desire it, these papers will transmute themselves into a magnificent castle, into liveried servants, into superb carriages. Oh, I already see you standing as the proud mistress of a stately castle, in your ancestral hall, with vassals bowing before you, and counts and princes suing for your hand. For these magic papers will give you everything, everything; not luxury alone, but honor, rank, and dignity, the love and esteem of men. Take them, for the whole ten papers shall be yours. I wish to see you rich and happy, therefore I defied disgrace and mortal peril. Come, my child, let us set out this very hour to buy with these papers, far away from here, in an Eden-like region, a castle which shall be adorned with all that luxury and art can offer. Come, my Leonore, come. We have accomplished our work of darkness, now day is dawning, now our star is rising. Come, come! Alas, the days are so short, let us hasten, hasten to enjoy them!"

Leonore slowly shook her head. "He must return," she said solemnly. "First I must see him again, have him tell me that he will go with me to that distant region. What would all the treasures of the earth avail, if I did not have him! What would I care for castles, diamonds, and carriages if he were not with me! I am expecting him—he may be here at any moment. So tell me, father—describe quickly how everything has happened. I have not seen you for three days; I do not know what has occurred, for, strangely, nothing has reached the public."

"The emperor enjoined the most inviolable silence upon us all," said Schulmeister gloomily. "The whole affair has been treated and concealed as the most profound secret. The emperor does not wish to have anything known about it; no one must deem it possible that people have dared to seek to take his life, to attempt to capture him. I never saw him in such a fury as when I first told him the plan of the conspirators. His eyes flashed lightnings, he stamped his feet, clenched his little hands into fists, and stretched them threateningly toward the invisible conspirators. He vowed to kill them all, to take vengeance on them all for the unprecedented crime."

"And has he fulfilled the vow?"

"He has. He has punished the conspirators, so far as lay in his power. But some of them, for instance Baron von Moudenfels, do not belong to the number of his subjects, but are Austrians. The emperor did not have the sentence which he pronounced upon his own subjects executed upon them; he could not at this time, for you know that negotiations for peace have been opened, and the treaty will be signed immediately. So the emperor did not wish to constitute himself a judge of Austrian subjects; it is a delicate attention to the Austrian emperor, and the latter will know how to thank him for it and to punish the criminals with all the rigor of the law. Therefore Baron von Moudenfels and Count von Kotte have merely been held as prisoners, and were compelled to witness the execution to-day."

"What execution?" asked Leonore in horror.

"Colonel Lejeune, Captain de Guesniard, and two sous-lieutenants were shot this morning on the meadow at Schoenbrunn,"[E] said Schulmeister in a low tone.

Leonore shuddered, and a deathlike pallor overspread her face. "And I delivered them to death!" she moaned.

"And if you had spared them, you would have delivered the Emperor Napoleon, the greatest man of the age, to death, to the most terrible torture of imprisonment!" cried her father, shrugging his shoulders. "These men wished to commit a crime against their sovereign, their commander. You have no reason to reproach yourself for having delivered the criminals to the law."

"And Mariage? What has become of Mariage?"

"Apparently he received a warning; he has fled. But we found all the others yesterday at their posts; for we had made all our arrangements so secretly that even the conspirators who surrounded the emperor were not aware of it. The emperor at first intended to act strictly according to the programme of the conspirators; take the ride with his suite, and not permit me to come to his assistance, with a few trustworthy assistants, until after he had entered the hut and been captured. But he rejected this plan, because he would have been compelled to arrest his most distinguished generals and subject the greater number of his staff officers to a rigid investigation. The whole army would then have heard of this bold conspiracy, and conspiracies are like contagious diseases, they always have successors. So the emperor rejected this plan, and, at the moment that his suite were mounting to attend him on his ride, he dismissed them all, saying that he wished to go into the woods alone, accompanied only by Colonel Lejeune, the Mameluke, and myself. You can imagine the mute horror, the deathlike pallor of the generals. The emperor did not vouchsafe any of them a glance, but dashed away. When we had ridden into the woods, the emperor checked his horse and turned to Colonel Lejeune, who, white as a corpse, rode beside him.

"Your sword, colonel!" he exclaimed, in tones of thunder. "You will not play the part of emperor to-day, but merely the character of an arch-traitor and assassin."

At the same instant Roustan and I rode to Lejeune's side, and each seized an arm. A moment later he was disarmed and deprived of the papers which we found in his breast pocket, and the tender farewell letters to his wife and his mother, in case that the enterprise should fail.

"I will have these sent at once to their addresses the morning after your execution," the emperor said, with a withering glance from his large flashing eyes. Then he rode on, and we followed, each holding an arm of Lejeune, who rode between us. At last we reached the hut and the emperor checked his horse again. Roustan uttered a low whistle and, at the same instant, six gray-bearded giants of the imperial guard stood beside us as if they had sprung from the earth. As soon as the conspirators entered the hut, they had cautiously approached it and, concealed behind the trees, awaited the preconcerted signal.

The emperor greeted them with the smile which bewitched his old soldiers, because it reminded them of the days of their great victory.

"I know that you are faithful," he said, "but I should also like to know whether you are silent."

"Silent as the grave, if the Little Corporal commands it," said old Conradin, the emperor's favorite.

"Well, I believe you, and you shall give me a proof of it to-day. Clear out the nest you see there, and catch the birds for me!"

"He pointed with uplifted arm and menacing gesture to the hut; the soldiers rushed to it and broke in the door. Shouts of rage were heard, several shots rang out, then all was still, and the old grenadiers dragged out five men. Three were wounded, but they had avenged themselves, for three of the soldiers were also injured."

"Was Baron von Moudenfels among the prisoners?" asked Leonore quickly.

"Yes," replied Schulmeister, "yes, he was among them."

"Then you saw him?"

"Yes, I saw him."

The slow, solemn tone with which her father answered made Leonore tremble. She looked up questioningly into his face, their eyes met, and were fixed steadily on each other.

"Why do you gaze at me so sadly and compassionately?" asked Leonore suddenly, cowering as though in fright.

"I did not know that I was doing so," he answered gently.

"You were, you are still," she cried anxiously. "Father, I read misfortune in your face. You are concealing something from me! You—oh, heaven, you have news of Kolbielsky."

She started up, letting the bank-notes fall unheeded to the floor, seized her father's arm with both hands, and gazed silently at him with panting breath.

He avoided her eyes, released himself almost violently from her grasp, stooped, picked up the bills and divided them into halves, putting five into his breast pocket, and giving his daughter the other five.

"Take it, my Leonore; take the magic key which will open Paradise to you!"

She took the bank-notes and, with a contemptuous gesture, flung them on the floor.

"You know something of Kolbielsky," she repeated. "Where is he? Answer me, father, if you don't wish me to fall dead at your feet."

"Yet if I do answer, poor child, what will it avail you? He is lost, you cannot save him."

She neither shrieked nor wept, she only grasped her father's arm more firmly and looked him steadily in the face.

"Where is Kolbielsky?" she asked. "Answer, or I will kill myself."

"Well, Leonore, I will give you a proof of my infinite love. I will tell you the truth, the whole truth. When the prisoners were dragged out of the hut, one of them suddenly made an attempt to escape. The soldier tried to hold him, they struggled—in the scuffle the conspirator's wig fell off. Hitherto he had had white hair—"

"It was Baron von Moudenfels?" asked Leonore breathlessly.

"Yes, Leonore, it was Baron von Moudenfels. But when the wig was torn from his head, we saw no old man, no Baron von Moudenfels, but—"

"Kolbielsky!" she shrieked with a loud cry of anguish.

Her father nodded, and let his head sink upon his breast.

"And he, too, was shot this morning?" she asked in a low, strange whisper.

"No, Leonore. I told you that the emperor, out of regard for his future ally, the Emperor Francis, did not have him executed. He simply imprisoned him and punished him only by compelling him to witness the execution. He will leave it to the Emperor Francis to pronounce sentence of death upon the assassin."

"He lives? You will swear that he lives?" she asked breathlessly.

"I will swear that he lives, and that he will live until the return of the courier whom Count Bubna, who is in Schoenbrunn attending to the peace negotiations—has sent to Totis to the Emperor Francis."

The Baroness de Simonie bounded like a tigress through the room, tearing at the bell till it sounded like a tocsin and the servants came rushing in terror from the anteroom.

"My carriage—it must be ready in five minutes!" she cried. The servants ran out and Leonore darted across the room, tore open the door of the adjoining chamber, opened a wardrobe in frantic haste, and dragged out a cloak, which she flung over her shoulders.

"In heaven's name, Leonore, are you out of your senses?" asked her father, who had hurried after her and now seized her arm. "What do you mean to do? Where are you going?"

"To the Emperor Napoleon!" she cried loudly. "To the Emperor Napoleon, to save the life of the man I love. Give me the money, father!"

"What money, Leonore?"

"The bank-notes! The blood-money which I have earned!"

Her father had carefully gathered up the bank-bills which she had thrown about the room, and gave them to her. Leonore shuddered as she clenched them in her trembling hands. "I have sold him," she shrieked, raising the hand that held the papers toward heaven. "His blood clings to this money. But I will hurl it at the emperor's feet. I want no pay; I will beg his life for my recompense. Pray father, pray that he may hear me, may grant me mercy, for I swear by all that is sacred, if Kolbielsky must die, I will kill his murderers. And his murderers are—you and I!"

"The carriage is at the door," said a servant, entering.

She sprang forward. "I am coming. Pray, father, pray for mercy upon my loved one's murderers!"



CHAPTER VIII.

PARDON.

Four days had elapsed since the execution at Schoenbrunn. Baron von Kolbielsky had been forced to attend it and was then conveyed to Vienna to spend dreary, lonely days at the police station in the Krebsgasse.

He had vainly asked at least to be led before his judges to receive his sentence. The jailer, to whom Kolbielsky uttered these requests whenever he entered, always replied merely with a silent shrug of the shoulders, and went away as mute as he had come.

But yesterday, late in the evening, he had entered, accompanied by the Chief Commissioner Goehausen, two magistrates, and a clergyman. With a solemn, immovable official countenance Commissioner Goehausen opened the document which his subordinate handed to him, and, in a loud voice, read its contents. It was a sentence of death. The death-sentence of Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky "on account of sympathy and complicity in a murderous assault upon the sacred life of his annointed imperial ally and friend, Napoleon, emperor of the French."[F] Early the following morning, at dawn, Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky must be shot at Schoenbrunn.

Kolbielsky had listened to this death-warrant with immovable composure—no word, no entreaty for pardon escaped his lips. But he requested the priest, who desired to remain to pray with him and receive his confession, to leave him.

"What I have to confess, only God must know," he said, smiling proudly. "In our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of my friends. God sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on me. I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request."

So he was left alone—alone during this long bitter night before his doom! Yet he was not solitary! His thoughts were with him, and his love—his love for Leonore!

Never had he so ardently worshipped her as on this night of anguish. Never had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave of her. Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his eyes. He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he loved. All his desires turned to her. Oh, to see her once more! What rapture thrilled him at the thought! And he knew that she would come if he sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring him her last love-greeting. He need only call the jailer and say to him:

"Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottengasse. Tell her that I beg her to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell. She is my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me."

He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred, and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.

But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his heart, for such a message would have compromised her. Perhaps she, too, might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal, though she was innocent.

No, he dared not send to her! His Leonore, the beloved, worshipped idol of his heart, should not suffer a moment's anxiety through him. He loved her so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for her. Let her think of him as one who had vanished! Let her never learn that Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man whom she loved. He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave her hope! Hope of a meeting—not yonder, but here on earth! She would expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of seeing him no more. Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless, would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was destiny which severed them—that if he did not return to her, he had gone to the place whence there is no return.

"Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one! Never to see you again, never again to hear from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look into your eyes, those eyes which shine more brightly than all the stars in heaven."

It was already growing lighter. Dawn was approaching. Yonder, in the dark night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day. The sun was rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the condemned man, death.

Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation, support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it shielded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death. And though fate had not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust, trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and the liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy. The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart, farewell!"

The inner door was opened—Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.

Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment, utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor, closed the door behind him and locked it.

The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for years.

Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.

"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"

The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?" he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."

A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young man's face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou bringest love.

"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my—"

He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept—wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight, of ecstasy—tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.

Yet no. He would not weep, for tears will dim her image. He wished to see her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live there while he died.

He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with a happy smile.

"Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars? Do you shine on me once more, ere I enter eternal night?"

Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.

"Why do your lips quiver? Why do they utter no word of love? Oh, let me break the seal of silence which closes them."

Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the lips.

"Speak, my Leonore, speak! Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you."

"No, no," she cried exultingly, "no, you will not leave me, you will stay with me."

Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flashing eyes she repeated:

"You will stay with me."

"Oh, my sweet love, I cannot! They have sentenced me to death. They will soon come to summon me."

"No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death. They will not kill you. I bring you life! I bring you pardon!"

"Pardon!" he cried, almost shrieked. "Pardon! But from whom?"

"Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!"

"God be praised. I can accept it from him," cried Kolbielsky jubilantly. "So I am free? Speak, dearest, I am free?"

She shook her head slowly and sadly. "I have been able only to save you from death," she said mournfully. "I have been able only to obtain your life, but alas! not your liberty."

"Then I remain a prisoner?"

"Yes, a prisoner."

"For how long?"

"For life," she murmured in a voice barely audible.

But Kolbielsky—laughed.

"For life! That means—so long as Napoleon lives and is powerful. But he will die; he will fall, and then my emperor will release me; then I shall belong to life, to the world; then I shall again be yours! I will accept my emperor's pardon, for it is you who bring it to me—you have obtained it. You say so, and I know it. You hastened to Totis, you threw yourself at the emperor's feet, pleaded for mercy, and he could not resist your fiery zeal, your bewitching personality. But how did you know that I was arrested? Who told you that I was Baron von Moudenfels?"

"My uncle," she replied with downcast eyes, "my uncle brought me the tidings; he told me that Napoleon, through Count Bubna, had sent a courier to Totis, to the Emperor Francis, and asked your condemnation. I hastened to Schoenbrunn; I succeeded in overcoming all obstacles and reaching the emperor. I threw myself at his feet, confessed amid my tears that I loved you, begged for your life. And he granted it; he became your intercessor to the Emperor Francis. He wrote a few lines, which I was to convey to Totis myself. I did so, hastening thither with post-horses. I spoke to the emperor. He was deeply moved, but he had not the courage to take any decisive step; he still dreaded offending his new ally. The Emperor Napoleon begs me to grant Kolbielsky's life, he said. 'I will do so, but can do nothing more for the present. I will grant him life, but I cannot give him liberty. He must be taken to the Hungarian fortress Leopoldstadt. There he must remain so long as he lives.'"

"To Leopoldstadt! In an open grave," cried Kolbielsky gloomily. "Cut off from the world, in joyless solitude, far from you. Oh, death, speedy death would be better and—"

"No," she interrupted, "not far from me! I will remain with you. The emperor at my fervent entreaty, permitted your servant, your faithful servant, to accompany you, share your imprisonment. Now look at me, beloved, look at me. I wear your livery, I am the faithful servant who has the right to go with you. Oh! no, no, we will be parted no longer. I shall stay with you."

Clasping both arms around his neck, she pressed a glowing kiss upon his lips.

But Kolbielsky released himself from the sweet embrace and gently pushed her back. "That can never be—never will I accept such a sacrifice from you. No, you shall not bury your beauty, your youthful bloom in a living tomb. Your tender foot is not made to tread the rough paths of life. The proud Baroness de Simonie, accustomed to the splendor, luxury, and comfort of existence must not drag out her life in unworthy humiliation. I thank you, love, for the sacrifice you wish to make, but nothing will induce me to accept it. Return to the world, my worshipped one! Keep your love, your fidelity! Wait for me. Even though years may pass, the hour of liberty will at last strike and then I will return to you!"

"No, no!" she impetuously exclaimed. "I will not leave you; I will cling to you. You must not repulse me. The emperor has given your servant the right to stay with you. I am your servant. I shall stay!"

"Leonore, I entreat you, do not ask what is impossible. There are sacrifices which a man can never accept from the woman he loves—which humiliate him as they ennoble her. I should blush before your nobility; it would bow me into the dust. Leonore de Simonie must not leave the pure, proud sphere in which she lives; she must remain what she is, the queen of the drawing-room."

"Is this your final answer?" she asked, turning deadly pale.

"My final one."

"Well, then, hear me! You shall know who I am; you shall at least learn that you might accept every sacrifice from me without ever being obliged to blush in my presence. You thrust me from you, that is, you thrust me into death! Yes, I will die, I wish to die, but first you shall hear from my lips the truth, that you may not grieve, may not shed a single tear for me. So hear me, Carl, hear me! I am not what you believe. My foot is not accustomed to the soft paths of life—the world of splendor and honor is not mine. From my earliest childhood I have walked in obscurity and humiliation, in disgrace and shame, a dishonored, ignominious creature."

As if crushed by her own words she sank down at his feet, and raised her clasped hands beseechingly, while her head drooped low on her breast.

Kolbielsky gazed at her with an expression of unspeakable horror, then a smile flitted over his face.

"You are speaking falsely," he cried, "you are speaking falsely out of generosity."

"Oh, would to heaven it were so!" she lamented. "No, believe me, I am telling the truth; I am not what I seem; I am not the Baroness de Simonie."

"Not Baroness de Simonie? Then who are you?" he shrieked frantically.

"I am a paid spy of the Emperor Napoleon, and the spy Schulmeister is my father."

Kolbielsky uttered a cry of fury and raised his clenched fist as if he intended to let it fall upon her head. But he repressed his rage and turned away. Despair and grief now overpowered him. He tottered to a chair and, sinking into it, covered his face and wept aloud.

Leonore was still kneeling, but when she heard him sob she started up, rushed to him, and again throwing herself at his feet, she embraced his knees.

"Do not weep—curse me! Thrust me from you, but do not weep. Alas! yet I have deserved your tears. I am a poor, lost creature. Yes, do not weep. I have suffered much, sinned much, but also atoned heavily. Yes, weep for me! My life lies bare as a torn wreath of roses in the dust—not a blossom remains, nothing save the pathway of thorns, grief, and torture. Yes, weep for me—weep for a lost existence. I was innocent and pure, but I was poor—that was my misfortune. Poverty drove my father to despair, drove us both to disgrace and crime. Oh, God! I was so young, and I wanted to live; I did not wish to die of starvation, and the tempter came to me in my father's form, whispering, 'Have money and you will have honor! Help yourself, for men and women will not aid you. They turn contemptuously away because you are poor. To-morrow, if you are rich, they will pay court to you, honor, and love you. I offer you the means to become rich. Give me your hand, Leonore, despise the people who leave us to die, and follow me.' I gave him my hand, I followed him, I became Napoleon's spy. I had money, I had a name, I saw people throng around me, I learned to despise them, and therefore I could betray them. But, in the midst of my brilliant life, I was unhappy, for the consciousness of my shame constantly haunted me, constantly cast its shadow upon me. And one day, one day I saw and loved you! From that day I was the victim of anguish and despair. On my knees I besought my father to release me, to permit me to escape from the world. He threatened to betray my past, my disgrace to you. And I—oh, God, I loved you—I yielded, I remained. My father vowed that, if I made him rich, he would set me free. I discovered a conspiracy. You were not among the accomplices—I betrayed it. I wanted to serve you by the treachery and I plunged you into ruin."

Tears gushed from her eyes; the sobs so long repressed burst forth and stifled the words on her lips. Kolbielsky no longer wept. He had let his hands fall from his face, and was listening to her in deep thought, in breathless suspense. Now, when she paused sobbing, he stretched out his hand as if he wished to raise Leonore, then he seemed to hesitate and withdrew it.

She did not see it; she did not venture to look at him; she gazed only into her tortured heart. "I have betrayed you," she continued, after an anxious, sorrowful pause. "Oh, when I learned it, a sword pierced my soul and severed it from every joy of life. I knew, in that hour, that I had fallen a prey to despair, but I wished at least to rescue you. I have saved you, that is the sole merit of my life. Napoleon could not resist my despair, my tears, my wrath—he pitied me. He gave your life to me. All the blood-money which I had gained, all the splendor which surrounded me, I flung at my father's feet. I released myself from him forever, and, that my penance might be complete, I called all my servants and revealed my ignominy to them. Then I left the palace where I had lived so long in gilded shame. I took nothing with me. I call nothing mine except these clothes and the name of Leonore. Now you know all, and you will no longer be able to say that I can make a sacrifice for you. Decide whether I must die, or whether you will pardon me. Let me atone; let me live—live as your slave, your thrall. I desire nothing save to see you, serve you, live for you. You need never speak to me, never deem me worthy of a word. I will divine your orders without them. I will sleep on your threshold like a faithful dog, that loves you though you thrust him from you—who caresses the hand that strikes him. I have deserved the blows; I will not murmur, only let me, let me live."

She gazed imploringly at him, with a face beaming with enthusiasm and love.

And he?

A ray of enthusiasm illumined his face also. He bent over the kneeling figure, laid his hands on her shoulders, and gazed into her face while something akin to a divine smile illumined his features.

"When I bade you farewell," he said softly, "I said that if I returned, I would ask you a momentous question. Do you know what it was?"

She shrank and a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but she did not venture to reply, only gazed breathlessly at him with fixed eyes.

He bent close to her and, smiling, whispered:

"Leonore, will you be my wife?"

With a cry of joy she sprang into his arms, laughing and weeping in her ecstasy.

Kolbielsky pressed her closely to his heart and laid his hand upon her head as if in benediction.

"You have atoned," he said solemnly. "You shall be forgiven, for you have suffered heavily! You have come to me homeless. Henceforth my heart shall be your home. You have cast aside your name—I offer you mine in exchange. Will you be my wife?"

She whispered a low, happy "yes."

An hour later an officer of justice arrived to announce to Kolbielsky his change of sentence to perpetual imprisonment and inform him that the carriage was waiting to convey him to Leopoldstadt.

Kolbielsky now desired to see the priest whose ministration he had formerly refused, and when, half an hour later, he entered the carriage, Leonore was his wife. She accompanied him, disguised as his servant, for the permission to attend the prisoner to Leopoldstadt was given in that name. But the priest promised to go to the emperor himself and obtain for the wife the favor which had been granted to the servant.

He kept his word, and, a few weeks later, the governor of Leopoldstadt received the imperial command to allow the wife of the imprisoned Baron von Kolbielsky to share his captivity.

But Kolbielsky's hope of a speedy release was not to be fulfilled. Napoleon had become the emperor of Austria's son-in-law, and thereby Kolbielsky's position was aggravated. He knew too many of the Emperor Francis' secrets, could betray too much concerning the emperor's hate, and secret intrigues of which Francis himself had been aware. He was dangerous and therefore must be kept in captivity.

In his wrath he wrote vehement, insulting letters to the Emperor Francis, made himself guilty of high-treason. So they were well satisfied to find him worthy of punishment, and render the troublesome fault-finder forever harmless.

So he remained a prisoner long after Napoleon had been overthrown. His wife died many years before him, leaving one daughter, who, when a girl of eighteen, married a distinguished Austrian officer. Her entreaties and her husband's influence finally succeeded in securing Kolbielsky's liberation. In the year 1829 he was permitted to leave Leopoldstadt, to live with his daughter at Ofen, where he died in 1831.

THE END.



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FOOTNOTES:

[A] Napoleon's own words. See Hormayr, "Universal History of Modern Times," part III., p. 136.

[B] Historical. See Hormayr's "Universal History."

[C] Historical. "Anemones from the Diary of an Old Pilgrim," Part II., p. 99.

[D] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II., p. 90.

[E] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II,. p. 90.

[F] "Anemones," Part II., p. 93.

THE END