"I am no Jewess at heart, father. I have been educated in a Christian country, and after the manner of Christian women. And you, too, have renounced your birthright. You have eaten and drunk with the Gentiles; you have cut your hair, and have adopted their dress. Nay, more! You have parted with your name, and have accepted a Christian title. Why, then, have you not the manliness to abjure the god of revenge and hate, and openly adore the Christian God of love and mercy?"

"I will live and die a Jew!" cried the banker, choking with rage. "I swear it again, and may I be accursed if I ever break my oath!"

"Then, father, release me from the lie that follows me like an evil shadow, blasting my life here and hereafter. Give me to my lover. Keep your wealth to enrich your tribe, but give me your blessing and your love!"

"You shall remain a Jewess!" thundered her father.

"Is this your last word?" cried Rachel, springing to her feet. "Is this your last word?"

"It is," replied he, eying her with cold cruelty.

"Then hear my determination. I have sworn fidelity to Gunther, and if I must choose between you, I give myself to him. I will not become a Christian, for such was my oath; but I will abjure Judaism."

"And become a Deist?"

"Call it what you will. I shall adore the God of love and mercy."

"A Deist! Then you have never heard what punishment awaits the Deist here. You do not know that the emperor, who affects toleration, has his vulnerable heel, and will not tolerate Deism. The gentle punishment which his majesty awards to Deism is—that of the lash. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, ii., p. 160.] So that I scarcely think you would dare me to accuse you of that! But pshaw! I go too far in my fears. My daughter will recognize her folly, and yield her will to mine. She will be, as she has ever been, my adored child, for whose happiness I can never do too much; whose every wish it shall be my joy to gratify."

"I have but one wish—that of becoming the wife of Gunther."

Her father affected not to hear her. "Yes," continued he, "she will verify my promise, and take the husband I have chosen. This marriage will be a fine thing for both parties, for I give my daughter one-half million of florins, and Baron von Meyer gives his son a million cash down. Then the father-in-law gives three hundred florins a month for pin-money, and I seven hundred; so that Rachel has a thousand florins a month for her little caprices, and of this she is to render no account. That is a pretty dower for a bride. I give my daughter a trousseau equal in magnificence to that of a princess. Upon her equipage, the arms of our two houses are already emblazoned, and to-morrow four of the finest horses in Vienna will conduct the Baroness von Meyer to her husband's palace. I congratulate you, baroness. No Christian woman in Vienna shall have an establishment like yours."

"I shall never be the Baroness von Meyer," said Rachel, calmly, but an icy chill ran through her veins, for she loved her father, and felt that they must shortly part forever.

"Yes, you will be the Baroness von Meyer to-morrow. I have anticipated all your objections. The rabbi that is to marry you is a Pole. He will not understand your reply, and the young baron has magnanimously consented to overlook any little informality of which your folly may be the cause; for he likes money, and is too good a Jew not to aid me in rescuing my heiress from disgrace. You see that your poor little struggles will all be in vain. Resign yourself, then, and accept the brilliant destiny which awaits you."

"I will sooner die than consign myself to misery and disgrace!"

"Be easy on that subject. God will shield you from misery, and your father's watchful eye will see that you do not consign yourself to disgrace," replied the banker, coldly. "But enough of words. Night sets in, and I have yet a few preparations to make for tomorrow. It is proper that you pass the last evening of your maiden life in solitude, and that you may not spend it in weariness, I have ordered your drawing-rooms to be lighted, and your trousseau to be laid out for your inspection. Go, and gladden your heart with its magnificence. Good-night."

So saying, Baron Eskeles Flies left the room. Rachel heard him turn the key in the lock, and withdraw it. She then remembered that the drawing-rooms were lighted. Perhaps her father had neglected to fasten some of the doors leading thence into the hall. She sprang to the door of communication, and flung it open. The rooms were brilliantly illuminated, and the sparkling chandeliers of crystal looked down upon a wilderness of velvet, satin, flowers, lace, and jewels—truly a trousseau for a princess.

But what cared Rachel for this? Indeed, she saw nothing, save the distant doors toward which she sped like a frightened doe. Alas! they, too, were locked, and the only answers to her frantic calls were the mocking echoes of her own voice.

For a few moments she leaned against the wall for support; then her glance took in the long perspective of magnificence which was to gild the hideous sacrifice of a whole human life, and she murmured, softly:

"I must be free. I cannot perjure myself. I shall keep my vow to Gunther or die! My father is no father—he is my jailer, and I owe him no longer the obedience of a child."

She went slowly back, revolving in her mind what she should do. Unconsciously she paused before a table resplendent with trinkets, whose surpassing beauty seemed to woo the young girl to her fate. But Rachel was no longer a maiden to be allured by dress. The exigencies of the hour had transformed her into a brave woman, who was donning her armor and preparing for the fight.

"Gunther awaits me," said she, musing.

But why—where? that she could not say. But she felt that she must free herself from prison, and that her fate now lay in her own hands.

At that moment she stood before a large round table which was just under the principal chandelier of her superb reception-room. Here lay dainty boxes containing laces, and caskets enclosing jewels. Not for one moment did she think of their contents. She saw but the gilt letters which were impressed upon the red morocco cases.

"RACHEL VON MEYER" was on every box and case. In her father's mind she already bore another name.

"Rachel von Meyer!" said she, with a shudder. "My father denies me his name! Who, then, am I?"

A flush of modest shame overspread her face, as scarcely daring to articulate the words, she knelt, and murmured:

"I am Rachel Gunther. And if such be my name," continued she, after a pause of rapture, "I have no right to be here amid the treasures of the Baroness von Meyer. I must away from this house, which is no longer a home for me. Away, away! for Gunther awaits me."

And now she looked with despair at the locked doors and the lofty windows, so far, far from the ground.

"Oh, if I had but wings!—I, who am here a prisoner, while my heart is away with him!"

Suddenly she gave a start, for deliverance was possible. She looked from the window as if to measure its height, and then she darted through the rooms until she saw a table covered with silks. She took thence a roll of white, heavy ribbon, and, throwing it before her, exclaimed joyfully:

"It is long, oh, it is quite long enough. And strong enough to support me. Thank Heaven! it is dark, and I shall not he seen. A gold ducat will bribe the guard at the postern—and then I am free!"

She returned to her sitting-room, and, with trembling haste, threw a dark mantle around her. Then, looking up at her father's portrait, her eyes filled with bitter tears.

"Farewell, my father, farewell!"

Scarcely knowing what she did, she fled from her room, and returned to the only object which possessed any more interest for her there, the long, long ribbon which, like a gigantic serpent, lay glistening on the floor where she had unrolled it. She stooped to pick it up, and trailing it after her, she flew from room to room, until she came to the last one of the suite which overlooked the park. She opened a window, and listened.

Nothing was heard there save the "warbling wind," that wooed the young branches, and here and there a little bird that ventured its note upon the night.

Rachel secured the ribbon to the crosswork of the window, and then let it fall below. Once more she listened. She could almost hear the beatings of her own heart, but nothing else broke the silence of the house.

She gave one quick glance around her beautiful home were lay all the splendor that might have been hers, and grasping the ribbon firmly in her hands, she dropped from the window to the ground.



CHAPTER CLV.

THE MARRIAGE BEFORE GOD.

Gunther had returned from the palace to his own lodgings in the city. Here, the labors of the day over, he sat dreaming of his love, wondering whether she thought of him during these dreary weeks of their forced parting.

He had stretched himself upon a divan, and, with his head thrown back upon the cushion, he gave himself up to thoughts of that love which was at once the greatest grief and the greatest joy of his life.

"Will it ever end?" thought he. "Will she ever consent to leave that princely home for me?"

Sometimes a cloud came over his handsome, noble features, sometimes the sunlight of happiness broke over them, and then he smiled. And on he dreamed, happy or unhappy, as he fancied that Rachel was his, or was parted from him forever.

The door-bell rang with a clang that startled him. But what to him was the impatience of those who sought admittance to his house? He had almost begun to fancy that Rachel was before him, and he was vexed at the intrusion.

Meanwhile, the door of his room had been softly opened, but Gunther had not heard it. He heard or saw nothing but his peerless Rachel. She was there with her lustrous eyes, her silky hair, her pale and beautiful features. She was there.

What! Did he dream? She was before him, but paler than her wont, her dark eyes fixed upon him with a pleading look, her lithe figure swaying from side to side, as with uncertain footsteps she seemed to be approaching his couch. Good God! Was it an apparition? What had happened?

Gunther started to his feet, and cried out, "O my Rachel, my beloved!"

"It is I," said she, in a faltering voice. "Before you take me to your heart, hear me, Gunther. I have fled from my father's house forever—for he would have sold me to a man whom I abhor, and whom I could never have married, had my heart been free. I bring neither gold nor jewels. I come to you a beggar—my inheritance a father's curse, my dowry naught but my love and faith. So dowered and so portioned, will you take me, Gunther?"

Gunther looked upon his love with eyes wherein she must have read consolation for all her trials, for her sweet lips parted with a happy smile.

"My treasure!" was his reply, as he took her little trembling hand, and pressed it fondly within his own. "Come, my Rachel, come and see how I have longed for this day."

He drew her forward, and opened a door opposite to the one by which she had entered.

"Come, your home is ready, my own."

They entered together, and Rachel found herself in a drawing-room where taste and elegance amply atoned for the absence of splendor.

"Now, see your sitting-room."

Nothing could be more cheerful or homelike than the appointments of this cosy apartment, lighted like the drawing-room by a tasteful chandelier.

"There," said Gtinther, pointing to a door, "is your dressing-room, and within, your chamber, my Rachel. For six months this dwelling has awaited its mistress, and that she might never enter it unawares, it has been nightly lighted for her coming. I was almost tempted to despair, beloved. You have saved me from a discouragement that was undermining my health. Now you are here, and all is well. When shall the priest bless our nuptials! This very night, shall he not, my bride?"

"He can never bless them," replied Rachel, solemnly.

Gunther turned pale.

"Never? You have not, then, come to be my wife?"

"I cannot be your wife according to human rites, Gunther, for well you know that I have sworn never to become a Christian. But I am yours for time and eternity, and knowing my own heart, I accept the world's scorn for your dear sake. Earth refuses to bless our nuptials, but God will hear our vows. Gunther, will you reject me because I am a Jewess?"

Gunther imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and sank on his knees before her.

"Rachel," said he, raising his right hand to heaven, "I swear to love you for better or for worse, devoting my life to your happiness. On my knees I swear before God to honor you as my wife, and to be faithful and true to you until death does us part."

Rachel then knelt at his side, and, laying her hand in his repeated her vows. Then they kissed each other, and Gunther, taking her in his arms, pressed her to his throbbing heart.

"We are husband and wife," said he. "God has received our vows, and now, Rachel, you are mine, for He has blessed and sanctioned your entrance into my house!"



CHAPTER CLVI.

THE PARK.

The first days of a smiling spring had filled the park with hundreds of splendid equipages and prancing horsemen. There was the carriage of the Princess Esterhazy, with twenty outriders in the livery of the prince; that of the new Prince Palm, whose four black horses wore their harness of pure gold; there was the gilded fairy, like vis-a-vis of the beautiful Countess Thun, its panels decorated with paintings from the hands of one of the first artists of the day; the coach of the Countess Dietrichstein, drawn by four milk-white horses, whose delicate pasterns were encircled by jewelled bracelets worthy of glittering upon the arm of a beauty. In short, the aristocracy of Austria, Hungary, and Lombardy were there, in all the splendor of their wealth and rank. It seemed as though Spring were holding a levee, and the nobles of the empire had thronged her flowery courts.

Not only they, but the people, too, had come to greet young Spring. They crowded the footpaths, eager to scent the balmy air, to refresh their eyes with the sight of the velvet turf, and to enjoy the pageant presented to their wondering eyes by the magnificent turn-outs of the aristocracy. Thousands and thousands filled the alleys and outlets of the park, all directing their steps toward the centre, for there the emperor and his court were to be seen. There the people might gaze, in close proximity, at the dainty beauties, whom they knew as the denizens of another earthly sphere; there they might elbow greatness, and there, above all, they might feast their eyes upon the emperor, who, simply dressed, rode to and fro, stopping his horse to chat, as often with a peasant as with a peer.

The emperor dismounted, and this was the signal for all other cavaliers to dismount and accompany him. The ladies also were compelled to rise from their velvet cushions and to tread the ground with their silken-slippered feet. Their equipages were crowded together on one side of the square, and around them the horses, now held by their liveried jockeys, were champing their bits and pawing the ground with restless hoofs.

The crowd was so dense, that the patrician and plebeian stood side by side. The people, in their innocent enjoyment of the scene, broke several times through the ranks of titled promenaders, who, vainly hoping to find some spot unprofaned by the vicinity of the vulgar herd, were moving toward the centre of the garden.

The emperor saw the lowering brows of his courtiers, and knew that their angry glances were directed toward the people.

"What is the matter with you, my lords?" asked he. "You are the picture of discontent. Pray, Count Furstenberg, speak for the court. What has happened to discompose your equanimity?"

"I do not know, your majesty," stammered the count.

"And yet you frown terribly," laughed Joseph. "Come—no concealment. What has vexed you all?"

"Your majesty commands?"

"I do."

"If so, sire, we are annoyed by the vulgar curiosity of the populace, who gape in our faces as if we were South Sea Islanders or specimens of fossil life."

"True, the curiosity of the Viennese is somewhat troublesome," replied the emperor, smiling: "but let us call this eagerness to be with us, love, and then it will cease to be irksome."

"Pardon me, your majesty, if I venture to say that under any aspect it would be most irksome to us. If your majesty will excuse my freedom, I think that in opening all the gardens to the people, you have made too great a concession to their convenience."

"You really think so?"

"Yes, sire, and I beg you to hear the request I have to prefer."

"Speak on, count."

"Then, your majesty; in the name of every nobleman in Vienna, and, above all, in the name of our noble ladies. I beseech of you grant us the exclusive privilege of ONE garden, where we may meet, unmolested by the rabble. Give us the use of the Prater, that we may have some spot in Vienna where we can breathe the fresh air in the company of our equals alone."

The emperor had listened with a supercilious smile. "You desire to see none but your equals, say you? If I were to indulge in a similar whim, I should have to seek companionship in the crypts of the Capuchins. [Footnote: The emperor's own words. Ramshorn's "Life of Joseph II."] But for my part I hold all men as my equals, and my noble subjects will be obliged to follow my example. I shall certainly not close any of the gardens against the people, for I esteem and love them." [Footnote: When the emperor opened the park to the people, he caused the following inscription to be placed over the principal entrance: "Dedicated to all men, by one who esteems them."]

The emperor, as he concluded, bowed and turned to greet the Countess Pergen.

"Welcome, countess, to Vienna," said he, bowing. "You have been away for some time. May I inquire how you are?"

"Tres-bien, volre majeste," replied the countess, with a profound courtesy.

The emperor frowned. "Why do you not speak German?" said he, curtly. "We are certainly in Germany. "

And without saying another word to the discomfited lady, he turned his back upon her. Suddenly his face brightened, and he pressed eagerly through the crowd, toward a pale young man, who met his smiling gaze with one of reciprocal friendliness.

Joseph extended his hand, and his courtiers saw with surprise that this person, whose brown coat was without a single order, instead of raising the emperor's hand to his lips, as was customary at court, shook it as if they had been equals.

"See," cried Joseph, "here is our young maestro, Mozart. Did you come to the park to-day to teach the nightingales to sing?"

"Heaven forbid, your majesty; rather would I learn from the tuneful songsters whom God has taught. Perhaps some of these days I may try to imitate their notes myself."

The emperor laid his hand upon Mozart's shoulder and looked with enthusiasm into his pale, inspired countenance. "Mozart has no need to learn from the nightingale," said he, "for God has filled his heart with melody, and he has only to transfer it to paper to ravish the world with its strains. Now for your 'Abduction from the Auge Gottes'—nay, do not blush; I am a child of Vienna, and must have my jest with the Viennese. Tell me—which gave you most trouble, that or your opera 'Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail?'" [Footnote: On the day of the representation of the opera "Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail," in Vienna, Mozart ran away with his Constance. He conducted her to the house of a common friend, where they were married. This same friend brought about a reconciliation with the mother of Constance. The house in which the widow and her daughter lived was called "Das Auge Gottes," and the Viennese, who knew the history of Mozart's marriage, had called it "Die Entfuhrung aus dem Auge Gottes."—Lissen's "Life of Mozart."]

"Truly," replied Mozart, still somewhat embarrassed, "the abduction from the Auge Gottes, sire. I had to sigh and sue until I was nigh unto despair before I was successful."

"But you concluded both works on the same day."

"Yes, sire. First, that which lay in my head, and then that which was nearest my heart."

"I congratulate you upon the success of both. 'Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail' is a charming opera. Charming, but it contains too many notes."

"Only as many as were necessary, sire," said Mozart, looking full in the emperor's face.

Joseph smiled. "Perhaps so, for you must be a better judge of the necessity than I. For that very reason," added he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I have sent you my sonata for revision. Like all inexperienced composers, I am anxious to know my fate. Tell me, what do you think of my sonata, Herr Kapellmeister?"

Mozart was silent, while the emperor waited anxiously for his reply. "Why do you not speak?" said he, impatiently. "Tell me, what do you think of my sonata?"

"The sonata, sire, is—good," returned Mozart, with some hesitation; "but he who composed it," added he, smiling, "is much better. Your majesty must not take it ill if you find some of your passages stricken out."

The emperor laughed. "Ah!—too many notes, as I just now remarked of your opera—only that from your judgment there can be no appeal. Well—give us a new opera, and let it be comic. Music should rejoice, not grieve us. Addio." [Footnote: This interview is strictly historical.—Lissen's "Life of Mozart."]

He then returned to the group which he had left, none of whom seemed to have been much comforted by the familiarity of the emperor with a poor little kapellmeister.

"My hour of recreation is over," said Joseph, "but as you know that I am no lover of etiquette, let no one retire on my account. I know where to find my equerry, and prefer to find him alone." With these words he turned away.

Suddenly he was seen to stop and frown visibly. With a quick motion of the hand he signed to Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein to approach.

As Podstadsky was about to make a profound inclination, the emperor interrupted him roughly. "No ceremony—we have no time to be complimentary. What are you doing in Vienna?"

The count saw that his sovereign was angry. "Sire," replied he, "I spend my time just as it happens—"

"That is, you ride, walk, gamble, and carouse, when you are doing nothing worse. I thought you had left Vienna. You had better go upon your estates and attend to the welfare of your vassals. Idleness is the parent of crime, and I fear that if you remain another day in Vienna, you will bring disgrace upon your father's name. Go at once." [Footnote: The emperor's own words to Podstadsky.—"Anecdotes, etc., of the Emperor Joseph II."]

Count Podstadsky looked in wonder after the emperor. "Is this accident or design? Does he suspect something, or is he only trying to induce me to work, as he does every nobleman? Ah, bah!—I must see Arabella, and hear what she thinks of it!"



CHAPTER CLVII.

THE PARTING.

They sat together in the little boudoir which had so often rung with their laughter, and where they had so often sneered at their titled dupes in Vienna.

There was no laughter to-day: the beautiful features of the Countess Baillou were contracted with alarm, and the frivolous Podstadsky was thoughtful and serious.

The countess was superbly dressed. A rich robe of velvet, embroidered with gold, fell in heavy, glistening folds around her graceful figure; a diadem of brilliants sparkled like a constellation upon the blackness of her luxuriant hair, and her exquisite neck and arms were covered with costly gems. She had just completed her toilet for a dinner given by the Princess Karl Liechtenstein, when Podstadsky had met her with the alarming intelligence which had obliged her to send an excuse.

For one whole hour they had been considering their situation— considering those words of the emperor; now planning one method of escape, now another,

"Then you do not believe that the danger is imminent?" said Podstadsky, after along, anxious pause.

"I do not," replied the countess, "The emperor has always been fond of advising other people, and of humbling the Austrian aristocracy above all, when the people are by to hear him, and he can make capital out of it to increase his popularity. I suppose his rudeness to you was all assumed, to make an impression upon the foolish populace. That is all."

Podstadsky shook his head. "The tone of the emperor was so pointed—it seemed as though some special meaning lay in his words."

"That, my dear Carlo, simply means that fear caused you to interpret them significantly."

"The words themselves were significant enough; and his look!—Oh, Arabella, we are in danger! Dearest let us fly, fly at once!"

He had risen, and, in his anguish, had tried to draw her to himself. She put him quietly away, and contemplated him with a sneer. "No folly!" said She. "Even if the emperor had meant to warn you, his warning came too late to save you from the watchful police of Vienna."

"No, no, Arabella. I tell you that the emperor will facilitate my escape for my parents' sake. Oh, why did I not obey, and mount my horse at once, and fly to some sequestered vale where I might have found refuge from dishonor?"

"And where you might realize your mother's touching dream of becoming a boor, and repenting your sins in sackcloth and ashes! That maternal idyl still troubles your poor, shallow brain, does it? For my part, I think no spectacle on earth is so ridiculous as that of the repentant sinner. It is the most humiliating character in which a man can appear before the world, and it is unworthy of you, Carlo. Hold up your head and look this phantom of dancer in the face. It is but a phantom. The bright, beautiful reality of our luxurious life is substantially before us. Away with cowardice! He who treads the path which we have trodden, must cast all fear behind him. Had we been scrupulous, or faint-hearted, you would have been to-day a ruined nobleman, dependent upon the pittance doled out to you from parental hands, or upon some little office pompously bestowed by the emperor; and I—ha! ha!—I should have been a psalm-chanting nun, with other drowsy nuns for my companions through life, and a chance of dying in the odor of sanctity! We were too wise for that; and now the structure of our fortunes is complete. Its gilded dome reaches into the heaven of the most exclusive circles; princes, dukes, and sovereigns are our guests. In the name of all for which we have striven, Carlo, what would you have more?"

"I am afraid that the structure will fall and bury us under its ruins," said Carlo, shivering.

"Better that than inglorious flight. Stay where you are; show a bold front, and that will disarm suspicion. Why do you gaze at me so strangely?"

"I gaze at you because you are so beautiful," replied he, with a faint smile, "as beautiful as was that fallen angel who compassed the ruin of man!"

"I AM a fallen angel," returned she, proudly, "and you know it. Together we fell, together we have risen. So long as we smile, we shall compass the ruin of many men; but if once we frown, we shall be known as evil spirits, and our power is at an end. Smiles are the talismans that insure victory; so smile, Carlo, smile and be gay."

"I cannot, I cannot. My veins are chilled with vague terror, and ever before my eyes comes the pale and anguish-stricken face of my mother! Arabella, if you will not leave this accursed spot, let us die. Better is death than the dungeon and disgrace!"

He threw his arms around her, and pressed his hot, parched lips to hers. Again she disengaged herself, and her musical laugh rang out upon the stillness—clear, merry, silvery as ever. "Die! Are you tired of pleasure? I am not. I shall yet have many an intoxicating draught from its golden beaker. Die! As if we knew what came after death! But come; I pity your state of mind, and since you can no longer be happy in Vienna, we shall travel. Mark you! I say TRAVEL; but there shall be no flight "

Count Podstadsky uttered a cry of wild joy, and pressed the hand she gave him to his lips. "When shall we travel? Now?"

She shook her head. "That were flight. We start to-morrow "

"To-morrow!" cried he, exultingly, "to-morrow, at dawn of day?"

"By no means. To-morrow at noon, in the sight of the whole world."

"Be it so, then," sighed the count. "We go by different roads, and meet at Neustadt."

"Yes, at Neustadt. And now go, Carlo. We both have important arrangements to make before we leave."

"I have very little to do," laughed Podstadsky, who had already recovered his spirits. "My valuables all belong to the usurers. For some time past they have stationed an agent of theirs in my house as steward. He watches over their property; I have no interest in it."

"Why don't you pay them with your nice new bank-notes—hey, Carlo?"

Carlo grew troubled again. "I did try to do so, but they refused. They had given me gold, and must have gold in return."

"So much the better. Your bank-notes will meet with a better reception elsewhere," said Arabella, hurriedly. "But come, let us go to work. Burn all indiscreet papers, and take every thing that you can secrete. And now away with you! I must be alone, for I have enough to do to keep me up this livelong night. Clear your brows, my Carlo, and sleep free from anxiety. To-morrow we leave Vienna, and your trials will be at an end. Addio, caro amico mio, addio!"

He kissed her hand, and she accompanied him to the door. He closed it behind him, while she stood breathless, listening to his retreating footsteps. Now he was on the staircase. The heavy street door closed—a moment's delay, and his carriage rolled away. Yes, he was off at last. Thank Heaven, he was off!



CHAPTER CLVIII.

COLONEL SZEKULY.

Arabella listened—listened until the sound of the wheels had died away; then she laughed. "He thinks me fool enough to share his disgrace! As if I had not long ago foreseen that this was to be the end of that hair-brained fool! In expectation of HIS fate, I have been countermining with Szekuly, and his foolish old hands have flung up shovelfuls of gold as we went along—bright, shining ducats, which shall go with me to Paris. Now I am free, free from my dangerous accomplice, free from my tiresome old adorer, whose love for me so nearly approaches insanity that it may lead him to compromise himself in more ways than one. But he must not compromise me! For the world, as yet, I am the modest, virtuous Countess Baillou, chaste as I am beautiful!"

While she soliloquized thus, the countess walked hurriedly through the room, with folded arms, fiery eyes, and on her lips a smile—but what a smile! Alone in that gorgeous apartment, with her sinister beauty and her angry, flashing jewels, she might have been mistaken for a malign spirit who had just left her kingdom of darkness to visit the earth with ruin!

"It is evident," said she, musing, "that the emperor meant to warn him; and it follows that as he has not fled to-day he is lost! And he SHALL be lost, for I must be free. I cannot afford to share my hardly-earned winnings with him. He must away to prison; it is my only chance for freedom."

"But if, after all, the emperor should connive at his escape! Or if he should be seized with a fit of suspicion, and return! Good Heaven! now that fortune favors me, I must snatch security while it lies within my grasp."

Here she rang so violently, that the valet, who was in the anteroom almost precipitated himself into her presence.

"If Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein calls, say that I am not at home. Apprise the other servants, and add that be is never to find admittance into this house again. Whosoever, after this, admits him even to the vestibule, shall leave my service. Away with you!"

"And now," continued she, as the valet closed the door, "now to work." She went toward a mirror, and there unfastened her diadem, then her necklace, brooch, and bracelets. With her hands full of jewels, she flew to her dressing-room and deposited them in their respective cases. Then she opened a large, brass-bound casket, and counted her treasures.

The first thing that came to light was a necklace of diamond solitaires. "These three stars of the first magnitude," said she, contemplating the centre stones, "are the involuntary contribution of the Princess Garampi I borrowed her bracelet for a model, giving my word that it should not pass from my hands. Nor has it done so, for I have kept her brilliants and returned her—mine. She is never the wiser, and I am the richer thereby. For this string of pearls, with the superb ruby clasp, I am indebted to her highness the Princess Palm. One evening, as I welcomed her with an embrace, I made out to unfasten it while I related to her a piquant anecdote of her husband's mistress. Of course she was too much absorbed in my narrative to feel that her necklace was slipping, for I was not only entertaining, but very caressing on the occasion. There was music in the room, so that no one heard the treasure fall. The necklace, a perfect fortune, lay at my feet; I moved my train to cover it, and signed to Carlo, who, I must say, was always within call. He invited the princess to dance, and—the pearls found their way to my pocket. What a talk that loss made in Vienna! What offers of reward that poor woman made to recover her necklace! All in vain, and nobody condoled more affectionately with her than the charming, kind-hearted Countess Baillou. This sorrow—but, pshaw! what a child I am, to be gloating over my precious toys while time passes away, and I must be off to-night!"

She closed her boxes, replaced them in her strong, well-secured casket, and, having locked it, hung the key around her neck. "Here lies the price of a princely estate," said she, "and now I must attend to my ducats."

She stood upon a chair, and took from the wall a picture. Then, pressing a spring behind it a little door flew open, revealing a casket similar to the one containing her jewels. She took it down, and, placing it on the table, contemplated the two boxes with profound satisfaction.

"Twenty thousand lovers' eyes look out from this casket," said she, with a laugh; "all promising a future of triumphant joy. Twenty thousand ducats! The fruits of my savings! And dear old Szekuly has made economy very easy for some months past, for one-half of these ducats once belonged to him. To be sure, I gave him in return the deeds of an entail which I own in Italy, and which he can easily reconvert into money. At least he thinks so. Well—I owe him nothing. We made an exchange, and that is all."

After this edifying monologue, the countess exchanged her elegant costume for a simple travelling-dress, and as she completed her toilet the clock struck eight. Every thing being ready, she returned to her boudoir and rang once. This signified that her confidential valet was wanted. In a few moments the door opened, and an old man, whose dark hair and eyes marked his Italian birth, entered noiselessly. The countess bade him close the door and approach. He obeyed without the least manifestation of surprise, muttering as he went, "Walls have ears."

"Giuseppe," said his mistress, "are you still willing to follow me?"

"Did I not swear to your mother, my beloved benefactress, never to abandon you, signora?"

"Thanks, amico; then we leave Vienna to-night."

"I heard the order forbidding Count Podstadsky the house, signora, and I made ready to depart."

"Good and faithful Giuseppe! Since you are ready, nothing need detain us. Go at once and order post-horses, and come with the travelling carriage to the corner of the street above this."

"Si, signora; I shall leave the carriage there, and return for the two caskets; you will then go out by the postern, and having joined us, we are off. Is that your will?"

"Yes, Giuseppe, yes. Go for your life!"

"Be ready to leave the house in one hour, signora, for you know that I am a swift messenger."

The old man bowed and retreated as silently as he came. His mistress looked after him, saying, "There goes a jewel which I have neither borrowed nor stolen: it comes to me by the inalienable right of inheritance. Now I can rest until he returns."

With a deep sigh of relief, she threw herself upon the divan, and, closing her eyes, gave herself up to rosy dreams. She had not lain long, before the door opened and a valet announced "Colonel Szekuly."

"I cannot receive him," exclaimed she, without rising.

"You must receive him, countess," said a voice behind her, and starting from the divan, she beheld the tall form of her "tiresome old adorer," enveloped in a military cloak, with his plumed hat drawn far over his brow. Before she had time to speak, he had dismissed the valet and closed the door.

"You presume strangely upon your influence," cried Arabella, half amused, half angry. "Because you reign over my heart, you aspire to reign over my domestics, I perceive."

"Peace!" cried the colonel, imperatively. "I have not come hither to suck poison from your honeyed lips. I have already had enough to cause my death. Though you have cruelly deceived me, I come to give you a last proof of my love. Do not interrupt me."

"I will not breathe." said she, with a smile so bewitching, that Szekuly averted his eyes, for it maddened him.

"You know," said he, and the old man's voice faltered as he spoke, "that the director of police is my friend. I had invited him to dine with me. He came but half an hour ago to excuse himself because of an arrest of some importance. Do you guess whose arrest?"

"How should I guess?" said she, still with that enchanting smile. "I have no acquaintance with the police."

"God grant that you may never make their acquaintance!" ejaculated he, hoarsely. "They have just now arrested Count Podstadsky."

Not a feature of her face changed, as she replied: "Ah! Count Podstadsky arrested? I am sorry to hear it. Can you tell me why?"

"For forging bank-notes to the amount of a million of florins."

"I suspected as much; I have several times been the victim of his thousand-florin notes."

"The victim, countess? Is that an appropriate expression?"

"I think it is," replied she, quietly. "Is that all the news?"

"No, countess. The count is taken, but his accomplice—"

She breathed quickly and her mouth quivered, but she rallied and made answer. "He had accomplices?"

"He had an accomplice, and—hush! we have no time for falsehood. Every moment is precious to you. Perhaps the director of the police came to me because knowing how—I have loved you, he would rescue you from shame. Let us hope that he did, for he told me that he had orders to arrest the Countess Baillou."

"When?" asked she, almost inaudibly; and now her face was pale as death.

"At dusk, that you might be spared the curiosity of a crowd."

Arabella sprang from her couch. "It is already night!" cried she, her voice rising almost to a scream.

"Yes," replied her lover, "but I hope we have time. I have prepared everything for your flight. My carriage and postilions await you in the next street. Be quick, and you may escape."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed she. "Give me but one moment." She flew to her dressing-room, and tried to carry her two boxes. But the ducats were too heavy.

"I must leave the jewels," said she; and climbing up again with her casket, she concealed it in the wall, and replaced the picture. "It is, at all events, perfectly safe, and Giuseppe will come for it."

"Come!" cried Szekuly from the drawing-room.

"I come," answered she, while she wrapped a cloak about her and with trembling hands tied on her travelling-hat.

"Give me your box," said Szekuly, "it will impede your movements."

But she held it fast, and said: "No—they are my jewels, now my only riches."

"And you are afraid to trust them with me?" asked he, with a bitter smile—"to me, who will die of your treachery!"

"People do not die so easily," said she, trying to smile; but her teeth chattered, as she flew rather than ran down the grand staircase and arrived breathless before the door. The porter opened it in wonder. The night-air blew into her face, and revived her courage. Now she might breathe freely, for she was—

But no! From the dark recesses of the stone portico emerged three muffled figures, and one of them laid his rough grasp upon the delicate arm of the countess and dragged her back into the vestibule.

"Too late, too late!" murmured the colonel, passively following, while his heart bled for the treacherous woman whom he would have died to save.

"Countess Arabella Baillou," said one of the figures, "I arrest you in the name of the emperor."

She looked defiance at him. "Who are you that dare arrest me?"

He took off his hat and bowed derisively. "I am the director of police, countess, very much at your service. Here is my authority for your arrest."

He would have shown her the emperor's signature, but she dashed away the paper, and fastening her angry eyes upon Szekuly, who was leaning against a marble pillar, she said:

"That is your dear friend, is it? You have been playing the detective, have you? Inducing me to fly, that my flight might expose me to suspicion!"

The colonel cried out as though he had been wounded. "By all that is sacred in heaven, I would have saved you!" sobbed he.

"And for your attempt I am obliged to detain you also, my poor, unhappy friend," said the director of the police. "But you will soon be able to prove your innocence. Let one of these men accompany you home and there remain under arrest until you hear from me. Now, madame, follow me, if you please."

"Allow me first to speak a word of consolation to my generous protector," said the countess.

"Certainly, madame."

Arabella bowed her beautiful head and approached Szekuly, who was scarcely able to stand, so great was his emotion.

"Colonel Szekuly," said she, in a whisper, "you lent me fifty thousand florins upon some Italian securities of mine. They are all forgeries. I forged them myself, as well as all the fine letters of introduction with which I befooled the aristocracy of Vienna."

Szekuly stared for one moment at his tormentor, then hastily pressing his hand to his heart, he sank with a low sigh upon the marble floor.

The countess laughed out loud. "He has fainted!" exclaimed she. "Contemptible world, wherein men act like women, and women like men! Come, gentlemen, I am ready to follow you; but my innocence will speedily be reestablished, and the emperor, then, will owe me an apology for his want of courtesy."



CHAPTER CLIX.

THE POPE'S DEPARTURE.

The people of Vienna were enraptured to the last with the visit of the pope. Whenever he appeared, they sank upon their knees, as, with his bewitching smile, he gave them his benediction. But these accidental meetings did not satisfy the zeal of the Viennese: they longed to receive a formal and solemn blessing, pronounced in the cathedral from the papal throne.

High upon his throne sat the holy father in his pontifical robes, his triple crown upon his head, and the diamond cross of his order upon his breast. His canopy was of velvet, richly embroidered with gold, and around him were grouped the princes of the church. But the pope, his large expressive eyes fixed upon the altar, seemed isolated from all ecclesiastical pomp, mindful alone of the God whose representative on earth he was. And when he rose to give the papal benediction, the handsome face of Pius Sixth beamed with holy inspiration, while the people, filled with love and joy, knelt to receive the blessing which had been transmitted to them in uninterrupted succession from the holy Apostles themselves.

But however the loving heart of the pope might rejoice at his reception by the people, there were two men in Vienna who resisted him with all the pride of individuality and all the consciousness of their own worth and consequence.

The first of these was the emperor. He had sought continually to remind the sovereign pontiff that although the head of Christendom might be his guest, he, Joseph, was sole lord of his own domains. He had ordered that all ecclesiastic ordinances, before being printed, should receive the imperial exequatur. The pope had desired during his stay to issue a bull in relation to the newly-erected church of St. Michael. The bull had been returned for the signature of the emperor.

Other humiliations besides this had been endured by the head of the church. Perhaps in the two solemn benedictions which he had given—the first in the palace-court, the second in the cathedral, Pius had hoped to appear in public with the emperor as his spiritual vassal; but Joseph was careful not to allow him this gratification. He had no sooner learned that the throne of the pope in the cathedral was being erected higher than his own, than he ordered the imperial throne to be removed, and excused himself from attendance at high mass upon the pretext that he was suffering from severe pain in the eyes, and dared not encounter the blaze of light. It was an obstinate case of ocular malady, for it had already prevented him from appearing in the palace-court, when decorum would have exacted of him to walk behind the pope.

The other man who had completely ignored the pope's presence in Vienna, was Kaunitz. In vain had his visit been expected; he never came; and finally the day of the departure of his holiness arrived. He had received the adieus of the nobles and had taken leave of the clergy. At two o'clock he expected the emperor, who was to accompany him as far as Mariabrunn. It was now eleven, and he had, therefore, three hours of leisure.

He rang for his valet and bade him send a messenger to Prince Kaunitz, apprising him that in half an hour the pope would visit him. A few moments after this, the door reopened and the papal master of ceremonies entered the room. Pius received him with a friendly smile. "I know why you are here," said he. "You have heard from Brambilla that I contemplate a visit to Prince Kaunitz, and you come to remonstrate with me."

"Yes, I entreat your holiness not to take this step which—"

"Which is beneath the dignity of the head of the church," interrupted Pius. "You can well imagine that I have already said as much to myself. I know, that in going to visit this proud man, I humble myself. But if humility becomes any one of the servants of God, it becomes the successor of Peter, and I have no right to shrink from personal humiliation, when, perchance, it may win something from haughtiness in favor of the church of God. Perhaps the advances I make to Kaunitz may move his cold heart, and teach him to do unto others as others have done unto him."

"But if your holiness intends to bestow such an unheard-of honor upon the prince, you should at least have given him a day wherein to make suitable preparations for your coming."

The pope smiled. "Dear friend, I see farther into this man's heart than you. I have taken him unawares, precisely because he would gladly have added to my humiliations by neglecting the hint which such an announcement would have conveyed. It was, therefore, better to forestall the slight by making it impossible for him to offer it as a matter of choice."

"But why does your holiness confer upon this disdainful Austrian an honor which he is unworthy to receive?"

"Why? Because I feel it my duty to leave nothing undone which can be conducive to the interests and glory of our holy mother, the church. Who knows but that the Lord may have sent me to convert an erring sinner from his ways? Go, my friend, go, and send my messenger. I must see this man who, from youth to old age, has defied the Lord of heaven and earth!"

A half an hour later an imperial state carriage was before the palace of Prince Kaunitz, and the pope, followed by his chaplain, entered its lofty vestibule.

The prince had been diligent, for there, in their richest liveries of state, were his whole household, and at the foot of the staircase, over which a rich Turkey carpet had been spread for the occasion, stood the young Countess Clary in full dress, who knelt, and in soft, trembling accents begged of his holiness a blessing.

He laid his hand upon her head, and then extended it that she might press to her lips the ring of St. Peter. He then raised her, and begged her to accompany him to the presence of her uncle, the prince.

As they walked together from one magnificent apartment to another, the countess was apologizing for her uncle who, not having left his room for some weeks, was unable to come out to receive his holiness from dread of encountering the cold air of the halls.

The pope bowed, and followed the countess until she stopped before a closed door, and said:

"In this room, my uncle awaits the gracious visit of your holiness."

The pope entered, but he was not met on the threshold as he had anticipated. No, indeed. Far from the door, with the entire length of the room between them, close to the chimney where a huge fire was burning, stood Kaunitz. He was in an undress coat, with his hat upon his head, [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 38.] and so absorbed in thought that he was quite unaware of the entrance of his guest, until the Countess Clary, in a loud voice, said:

"His holiness the pope."

Kaunitz moved, and measuring his advance by that of Pius, he managed to meet him just half way, and, as he bowed, he at last condescended to take off his hat.

Pius returned the bow, and, as is customary with all independent princes, extended his hand to be kissed.

Kaunitz, with an assurance almost inconceivable, took it within his own, and giving it a hard shake, after the English fashion, exclaimed:

"De tout mon coeur! de tout mon coeur!" [Footnote: Historical.—See Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 39.]

At this familiarity an expression of pain flitted over the handsome, noble features of the pope, and the smile died upon his lips. But he had expected humiliation, and had armed himself to endure it.

"I have come to visit your highness," said he, mildly, "because, although you have not asked it, I would fain leave with you the blessing of the church."

"I thank your holiness for the consideration you are pleased to show me," replied Kaunitz. "But before all things let me request your permission to resume my hat. The cold air is injurious to my weak head." [Footnote: The prince's own words.—See Bourgoing, "Pius VI. and his Pontificate," p. 225.]

And whether to ward off the cold air or the blessing of the church, the old sinner replaced his hat without waiting to hear the pope's reply.

Pius could only affect not to perceive the rudeness, while he seated himself, and invited the prince to be seated also. There was a pause. Kaunitz took the chair, and then looking full into the eyes of his guest, awaited with perfect indifference the opening of the conversation.

The expression of pain deepened upon the face of the pope; but again he recovered himself, and made a second effort at conciliation.

"I have come to give to your highness a proof of my esteem and consideration," said he.

Kaunitz bowed stiffly. "I am so much the more surprised at this mark of consideration, that I have never been able to see in your holiness's state-papers the least recognition of my claims to statesmanship."

"Perhaps we may have misjudged one another. I have desired, in visiting Vienna, to heal all misunderstandings, and to afford to my son in Christ, the emperor, every facility for his reconciliation to the holy church. I have also prayed to Almighty God to touch the heart of your highness, that you also might turn your steps toward the 'one fold.'"

"I hope that I have never strayed from the path of right. The object of my life has been to make Austria great and independent, and to aid my emperor in freeing his subjects from foreign dominion. To-day no earthly potentate has a voice in Austria, save Joseph; he is absolute master here, and as all his acts have been for Austria's good, she has entered at last upon a career of indisputable prosperity. But there is nothing wonderful in this, when he had me as a coadjutor."

Pius looked with profound sadness at this haughty statesman, who had not a thought beyond the present world.

"You speak of things that are of the earth, earthy. And yet your hair is white as snow, and you an old man hastening to the grave! At your advanced age it would become your highness, who have done so much for your sovereign, to do something now to reconcile yourself to your Maker." [Footnote: The pope's own words to Kaunitz.—See "Pius VI. and his Pontificate," p. 226.]

Kaunitz grew deathly pale; not all the paint that besmeared his wrinkles could conceal his pallor. His forehead contracted, and hung in heavy folds, while his breath came fast and gasping. The pope had spoken of THE GRAVE, and the vulnerable heel had received a wound.

It was some time before he could recover his self-possession—some time again before he could force down his fury, and so remain master of the situation. At last the victory was won, and he spoke calmly.

"I hope," said he, "that having done nothing to offend my Maker, it is unnecessary for me to seek reconciliation with Him. I have done all that I could for religion; it is not my fault if her interests are not identical with those of the church. But pardon me that I should have strayed to themes so unbecoming to my character as host, and yours as my guest. Let us speak of science, art, life, and its multitudinous enjoyments. Your holiness, I know, is a distinguished patron of the fine arts. And as you are fond of painting, allow me to offer you a sight of my pictures. You will find them quite worth your inspection."

With these words, Kaunitz rose, and, without waiting for the pope's consent, stepped as hastily forward as his infirmities would permit, and opened the door which led to his picture-gallery. The pope followed him leisurely, and after him came the chaplain, the Countess Clary, and Baron Binder.

Kaunitz did the honors, passing with visible haste from one painting to another. "Here," said he, "is a masterpiece of Murillo, which the Vatican might envy me—Murillo, who was equally successful, whether he tried his hand at Virgin or vagabond. Just look at this! Did ever the earth bestow upon longing man a more voluptuously-beautiful woman than this dark-eyed Madonna!"

"It is a beautiful picture," murmured Pius, approaching with the hope of being spared any more such comments on art.

"But your holiness has not the proper light," cried Kaunitz, familiarly. "Come a little more to the left."

And, in the excitement of his enthusiasm, the prince was so forgetful of the rank of his visitor as to catch him by the arm, and drag him to the spot he advised. Pius started, and for one moment his eyes darted fire, for, to the very depths of his soul, he felt the indignity; but he remembered his resolve to "bear all things," and stood quietly contemplating the picture until his tormentor spoke again.

He, on his part, affected not to perceive that he had done any thing amiss; and with an appearance of great empressement, he followed the pope from picture to picture, dragging him first to one point, then to another, as he pretended to think that the best light for seeing his paintings was to the right or to the left. [Footnote: Bourgoing, "Pius VI. and his Pontificate." p. 227.]

The pope made no resistance, perhaps because he was astounded at the insolence of the proceeding, perhaps because he judged it best to affect unconsciousness of the insults which were being heaped upon his head. But he was wounded to the heart, and raised his eyes to his chaplain, who, indignant at the contumely offered to his beloved pontiff, at once came forward to his relief, by reminding him that the emperor would shortly visit his rooms.

"You are right, my friend," said Pius. Then turning to Kaunitz, he continued: "I must go, and cannot have the pleasure of completing my survey of your paintings. Had I known that you possessed so many treasures, I would have come earlier, that I might have been allowed to visit them a little more at my leisure. I am under many obligations to you for your politeness, and for the very unusual courtesies which I have received at your hands."

He took the arm of his chaplain, and left the room. At the door he was met by the Countess Clary, and as she knelt a second time before him, he laid his hand upon her head, with a gesture full of nobleness and grace.

"I leave you my blessing, my child, and I leave it to all who inhabit this house. May those whose hearts have been hardened by sin, return in humility to the Lord: for humility is the crown of Christian graces, and he who hath it not can never aspire to life eternal."

He went on without ever turning his head or seeming to know that Kaunitz was behind, excusing himself from going farther with his holiness, by reason of the danger to which he would be exposed, etc., etc.

At the portal of the palace the pope was received by his master of ceremonies, who accompanied him to his cabinet. One glance at his pale countenance had revealed to him the inutility of the condescension of the supreme pontiff, who with a weary sigh sank back into the depths of an arm-chair.

"You were quite right," said he, after a pause, "and I was wrong. I ought never to have gone to this man. God has punished me for my vanity, and has used him as an instrument to remind me that I am but a poor miserable creature, full of projects, but empty of results! Ah, Battista! with what bright hopes of touching the emperor's heart I started upon this pilgrimage to Vienna, priding myself upon my humility, and building thereupon my trust! Nothing has come of my efforts—nothing! I have learned one thing, however, of the emperor. He is no Christian, but he is not a bad man. I really believe that he acts from a sense of mistaken duty."

The master of ceremonies shook his head, and was about to reply, when there was a knock at the door, and the emperor asked admittance. The master of ceremonies retired to the anteroom, where the suites of the pope and the emperor were awaiting the signal for departure. Joseph approached his holiness, and gave into his hand a case which he begged him to accept as a souvenir of his visit to Austria.

Pius, bewildered by all that he had endured on that day, opened it in silence. But he was astonished when he saw the magnificence of he gift. It was a large cross of pure, white brilliants, upon a bed of dark crimson velvet. [Footnote: This cross was valued at 200,000 florins.—See Hubner, i., p. 128.]

"I beg of your holiness," said Joseph, "to wear this in remembrance of me."

Pius raised his head, and looked anxiously into the smiling face of the emperor. "Oh, my son," said he, "would this were the only cross I was forced take back with me to Rome!"

"Your holiness must be content to take with you my love and regard," replied Joseph, evasively; "and I would gladly give you another pledge of them before we part. Will you allow me to bestow upon your nephew, Luigi Braschi, the title and diploma of a prince?"

Pius shook his head. "I thank your majesty; but my nephew cannot accept the honor you would confer upon him. It was not to advance the interests of my family, but the glory of the church, that I came to Vienna. [Footnote: Pius's own words.—See Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 40.] Your majesty would make a prince of my nephew, and yet you seek to humble his uncle, who is the vicar of Christ on earth."

"What have I done, your holiness?"

"You have suppressed the order of the Mendicant Friars, and you have called Cardinal Megazzi to account, because he printed one of my bulls without submitting it to you for your approbation."

"I consider that the Mendicants lead a contemptible life, and we have no use for them in Austria. As to the bull, no law is permitted to go forth in my dominions unless it is approved by me, for the laws of my land must be subject to no power but my own."

The pope heaved a sigh, for it was useless to argue with Joseph. "Is it also true that your majesty has confiscated and sold all the property of the convents and churches, and that it is your intention to give salaries to the clergy?"

"Yes, that is my plan; I may as well be frank with you, and avow it. But I am very far from its accomplishment; I have taken nothing but the property of the convents as yet."

"And woe to your sacrilegious hand that you have done so!" cried Pius, rising to his feet and confronting the emperor. "I cannot conceal from your majesty that your conduct has inflicted a serious wound upon the church, and has scandalized all good Christians. The robbing of the church is an error condemned by ecclesiastic councils, and execrated by the fathers of the church. Shall I remind you of the words which John, the patriarch of Alexandria, spoke to a sovereign who would have robbed the clergy of their temporal goods? 'How canst thou, a perishable mortal, give unto another that which is not thine own? And when thou givest that which belongs to God, thou rebellest against God himself. What man endowed with reason will not pronounce thine act a transgression, a signal and sinful injustice? How can a man presume to call himself a Christian who desecrates the objects consecrated to Christ!' Thus has God spoken through the mouth of His servant, and his words are appropriate to the acts of your majesty!'" [Footnote: This harangue of the pope is historical.—Hubner, i., p. 285.]

The voice of the pope was choked by tears, and in the excess of his grief he sank back upon the chair and leaned his head upon his hand.

The emperor had listened with profound indifference. It was not the first time he had seen the pope thus moved, and he was perfectly aware that it was better to make no reply until the violence of his emotion had exhausted itself.

"Your holiness goes too far in your apostolic zeal," said he, after a pause of some length. "I shall neither quote the Scriptures nor the Fathers in my defence; for you and I would not be apt to interpret them in the same sense. I shall content myself with observing that, in spite of all your anger, I shall hearken to the voice of my own conscience, which tells me that my acts are those of a wise lawgiver, and of a faithful defender of religion. With this voice, my own reason, and help from above, I am not afraid of being in error. [Footnote: Joseph's own words.—Hubner, i., p. 287.] At the same time, I assure your holiness of my sincerest regard. You may not have attained the object of your visit, but I hope that you carry away at least the conviction of my honesty and integrity of purpose. The interests of state and church may be at variance, but we need not be personal enemies; and over the gulf which separates us as princes, we may join hands as friends, may we not?"

With these words, the emperor extended his hand, and the pope did not refuse to take it.

"It is time for me to be going," replied he. "This cross, which in the prodigality of your friendship, you have bestowed upon me, I shall wear for your sake, and it shall remind me to pray daily that God may enlighten you, and lead you back to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. For in the church alone is true peace to be found. He who strives against her, strives against Christ. Farewell, and may He mercifully bring you to a sense of your errors!"



CHAPTER CLX.

THE REPULSE.

The aristocracy of Vienna were in a state of extreme excitement. It was whispered from one noble to another, that the Aulic Council had condemned Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein for life to the house of correction, and he was to sweep the streets in the garb of a common criminal. [Footnote: This was in accordance with the new Josephine code.] This was not all. Another fearful announcement had fallen like a bolt upon the heads of the most illustrious families in Vienna. For some weeks past, Count Szekuly had been missing. His servants had given out that he had gone to visit his relatives in Hungary; but they seemed so embarrassed and uneasy, that no one believed them. Colonel Szekuly had many powerful friends. He was an intimate associate of all the Hungarian noblemen in Vienna, and hard long been a welcome guest wherever the fashionable world had assembled. Moreover, he was the adorer of the most admired woman in Vienna, the lovely Countess Baillou.

She, too, had disappeared. Where could they be? Was it accident, or had she responded to his love, and left a world of worshippers, to live for him alone?

Finally the mystery was solved. A few days after the arrest of Podstadsky, Szekuly also had been arrested. It was now well known that Podstadsky had forged notes; but it was impossible to suspect a man of Szekuly's unimpeachable character of any connection with a crime of that nature.

Unhappily, however, though less in degree, the accusation against Szekuly was similar in kind. He was a defaulter; and from the coffers of his regiment (which were confided to his care) sixty thousand florins had disappeared.

The Countess Baillou was his accuser. She had been charged with being a party to Podstadsky's fraud, but he, as well as Szekuly, had loudly declared her innocence. Both had avowed themselves to be her lovers, and it was ascertained that her household had been maintained at Podstadsky'a cost. As his mistress, she had received many of his bank-notes, but he protested that she knew nothing of his forgeries. He confessed his own guilt, but firmly upheld her innocence. So far from being his accomplice, Podstadsky declared that she had been his victim.

But a coffer containing twenty thousand ducats had been found upon the person of the countess. This money had not been given her by Podstadaky, since he had nothing but forged notes to give. The countess, when questioned, answered unhesitatingly, that one half the sum she had won at play, and the other half she had received as a present from Colonel Szekuly. It was well known that Szekuly had not the means of bestowing such princely gifts; yet, when informed of the countess's charge, he had grown pale, but replied that the countess had spoken nothing but truth.

Suspicion was aroused; the strong box of the regiment was examined, and found empty! Von Szekuly acknowledged that he had taken the money, believing in good faith that, by the sale of certain deeds in his possession, he would be able to replace it at short notice. But where were these papers? They could not be found, and Szekuly refused to give any account of them. He was guilty, he said, and must submit to his fate. Colonel von Szekuly, a Hungarian baron, under sentence for theft! This was a blot upon the escutcheon of more than one illustrious family. But the emperor, in framing his severe code, had reserved to himself the right to pardon; and this right, it was hoped, he would exercise in favor of the high-born criminals. It was not possible that he intended to humiliate the nobility of Austria so cruelly as to condemn two of them to the pillory, to the sweeping of the streets, to be chained to two common felons for life! [Footnote: Hubner, ii., p. 383]

No!—this was an outrage which the emperor would never dare to perpetrate, for it would arouse the bitter animosity of the whole aristocracy. Still it would be better to petition him at once, and warn him of his peril.

He was petitioned, but his invariable reply was, that the law must decide. It was known, however, that the sentence was not signed, and there was still hope. But how to reach the emperor? Since the council had pronounced judgment on the criminals, Joseph had granted audience to no one; he had avoided all proximity to the nobles, and to secure himself from importunity, had ceased to ride in the park, contenting himself with a daily drive in his cabriolet. Finally the petitioners remembered the "Controlorgang," and thither they repaired early in the morning. Ladies, as well as lords, came on foot, that the emperor might not be warned by the sound of their rolling equipages to deny himself again. They were the first to enter the palace on that day, and were so numerous that no other petitioners could obtain entrance. On that occasion, then, they were among their peers, and the canaille would never know how count and countess, baron and baroness, had humbled themselves for the sake of their caste.

As soon as Gunther opened the door, they rushed into the small room which was called the Controlorgang, and there, with beating hearts, awaited the entrance of the all-powerful emperor.

He came, and when he saw who were the petitioners of the day, his countenance expressed astonishment: but he did not depart from his usual habit, and walked slowly down the middle of the room, extending his hand to receive the petitions.

"How?" said he, when he had reached the last person, "Count Lampredo, you have nothing to present! You all desire to speak with me? I fear that my time is too short to gratify you."

"Sire, we have but one petition to make," said the count, speaking for the others. "One common misfortune threatens us all—"

"What can it be"

"Oh, your majesty," cried he, fervently, "have mercy upon Count Podstadsky and Baron von Szekuly!"

"Mercy, sire, mercy for Podstadsky and Szekuly!" cried the noble petitioners with one accord, while all knelt before the astounded emperor.

He surveyed them with an angry frown. "Rise, all of you," said he. "Have you forgotten that kneeling has been abolished here? The Spanish customs which were once so popular in the palace, are unbecoming in this room, where all who enter it are nothing but petitioners seeking justice at my hands."

"And mercy, sire!" added Count Lampredo, imploringly.

"And mercy which can be conceded only so far as it is perfectly compatible with justice."

"Mercy, gracious emperor, mercy for Podstadsky and Szekuly!" reiterated the petitioners.

"You ask for mercy which wounds justice, and I repeat that I cannot grant the one without the other. Count Podstadsky, through his frauds, has ruined thousands of my subjects; Baron von Szekuly has stolen sixty thousand florins, and both these men have disgraced their births and titles."

"Allow Szekuly to be tried by a military court, sire. They at least would shield him from dishonor, for they would sentence him to death."

"He has committed a vulgar crime and he shall be punished according to the burghers' code. That code ignores capital punishment."

"But its punishments are more fearful than death, sire. A man is thrice dead who has lost liberty, honor, and name. The man who in manacles sweeps the public streets, or tugs at the car, is a thousand times more to be pitied than he who lays his head upon the block. Oh, sire, it cannot be that you would consign a nobleman to such contumely!"

"No, I honor the nobleman too much to brand him with such infamy," replied the emperor, hastily. "But if a cavalier commits a crime, I disfranchise him at once; and, stripped of name, title, and privileges, I hand him over to the law which regards him exactly as it does any other base-born villain. [Footnote: Joseph's own words. See Hubner, ii., p. 432.] Be comforted, then. These criminals are no longer noblemen, and have nothing in common with you."

"Oh, sire, do not say so; for their shame is reflected upon us all!"

"How?" exclaimed Joseph, with affected surprise, "are you all thieves and forgers?"

"No, sire; but our honor suffers through their dishonor. Oh, your majesty, in the name of the illustrious families who for centuries have been the loyal subjects of your house, save our escutcheons from this foul blot!"

"Save us, sire, save us from infamy!" echoed the others.

"No!" exclaimed the emperor. "He who is not ashamed of the crime will not be ashamed of the disgrace. If, for the sake of his rank, a man is to have the privilege of being a villain, where, then, is justice? [Footnote: Ibid.] Not another word of this! My forbearance is exhausted; for I have sought by every means to convince you that, as a sovereign, I shall show partiality to no order of men. Podstadsky and Szekuly shall suffer to the full extent of the law, for the worth of their ancestors cannot wipe out their own unworthiness."

The emperor withdrew, and when the door closed behind him, many an eye there flashed with hatred, and many a compressed lip told of meditated vengeance for the indignity suffered by a powerful order at his hands that day.

"Our humiliation, then, has been of no avail!" muttered Count Lampredo, "and the nobles of Austria must suffer disgrace because of the obstinate cruelty of the man who should uphold them."

"But we will be revenged!" whispered Count Hojada, a near relative of Szekuly's. "The sovereign who, like Joseph, heaps obloquy upon a nobility, some of whom are his equals in descent, is lost! The emperor shall remember this hour, and rue it also!"

"Yes," said another, "he shall repent this day. We are all of one mind, are we not, friends?"

"Ay," muttered they, with gnashing teeth. "He shall pay dearly for this!"



CHAPTER CLXI.

THE COUNT IN THE PILLORY.

Crowds of people gathered around the street corners to read the large hand-bills posted there. The bills announced that Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein had been condemned to three days of pillory, to public sweeping of the streets, and ten years' detention in the house of correction. Colonel von Szekuly to three days of pillory, and four years' detention.

The guilt of the Countess Baillou not having been fully established, she was pardoned by the emperor. But she was ordered to be present at Podstadsky's exposition in the pillory, and then to leave Vienna forever.

The people read these fearful tidings in dumb amazement and vague apprehension of evil to themselves. Never had they so completely realized the new order of things as at this moment. One of the privileged, whom they had hitherto beheld at a distance in splendid equipages, on elegant horses, in brilliant uniforms around the person of the emperor, one of these demi-gods was to be trailed in the dust like a criminal from the dregs of the populace. A count, in the gray smock of the felon, was to sweep the streets, which, perchance, his aristocratic foot had never trodden before. A proud Hungarian nobleman, a colonel of the guard, was to be exposed in the pillory for three days. These were terrible and startling events. Not a trace of exultation was upon the gloomy faces of the multitude: this abasement of two men of illustrious birth to an equality with boors, seemed an invasion of the conservative principles of society. It was an ugly dream—the people could not realize it. They must go to the spot where the sentence was to be executed, to see if indeed Olympus had been levelled to the earth. Hurried along by one common impulse, the silent multitude wound in a long stream through the streets, until they reached the market-place where the sentence was to be carried out. Neither idle curiosity nor malice had led the people thither; it was a pilgrimage to the new era which at last was dawning upon the world.

There, in the centre of the great open square, was the throne of infamy upon which an Austrian nobleman was about to bid adieu to name, honor, family, and the associations which had surrounded his boyhood, and to be thrust into the revolting companionship of robbers and murderers!

Not a smile was seen upon those appalled faces; men whispered to one another that the count was the only son of one of the proudest families in Hungary; and that the countess, his mother, had died of her son's shame. The eyes of the women filled with tears, and, for the sake of the martyred mother, they forgave the guilty son. The weeping of the women deepened the sympathies of the men; and they began to murmur against the heartless emperor, who degraded an illustrious subject, and sent a noble countess broken-hearted to the grave!

And now appeared the criminal. Culprit though he was, his beauty and air of distinction were indisputable.

"Poor young man!" murmured the women, sobbing.

"He will not long survive his disgrace," said the men, sorrowfully. "He looks like a ghost, and the emperor will soon have to bury him by the side of his mother."

No one remembered that this man had committed an infamous crime; no one thanked the emperor for having bestowed upon the Austrian people the inestimable gift of equality before the law. The commoner himself felt aggrieved at the monarch who had treated a nobleman no better than he would have done a serf.

Count Podstadsky was still in the elegant costume of the day. Graceful and distinguished in his bearing, he leaned his weary body, against the stake that supported the scaffold on which he was to suffer the last degree of public infamy. But now the executioner approached, holding a pair of large glistening shears. He gathered the soft brown curls of the count in his rough grasp, and very soon the glossy locks fell, and there remained nothing but the shorn head of the felon. This done, the executioner drew off the gold-embroidered coat which became the young nobleman so well, and threw over his shoulders the coarse smock, which, henceforth, was to designate him as a miscreant.

How changed, alas, was the high-born Carlo! How little this chattering creature, disguised in serge, resembled the cavalier who had enlisted the sympathy of the multitude! He was no longer a man, and name he had none. His number, in scarlet list upon the left sleeve of his smock, was the only mark that distinguished him from his brethren—the other malefactors. But the fearful toilet was not yet at an end. The feet and hands were yet to be manacled. As the handcuffs clicked around those delicate wrists, the executioner looked up in amazement. Heretofore he had been accustomed to hear the jeers and loud mockery of the multitude, as they applauded the completion of the felon's toilet; but today there was not a sound! Nothing to be seen but pale, sorrowful faces—nothing to be heard but sobs and murmurs of sympathy.

Still one more torture! The executioner gave him the broom, the baton of his disgrace, and he grasped its handle for support. He could scarcely stand now!

At this moment, in fiendish contrast with the behavior of the people, a loud, mocking laugh was heard. Shudderingly they looked around, wondering who it was that could add the weight of a sneer to the supreme misery which was rending their hearts. It came from above; and every face, even that of the wretched Podstadsky, as uplifted in horror. He caught at the stake, and his vacant eyes rested upon the house whence the cruel laugh had issued. There, on a balcony, guarded by several men in black, stood a beautiful young woman. She it was who had dealt the blow. In the hour of his agony her rosy lips had mocked him!

"Arabella!" shrieked the despairing man; and with this cry he sank insensible to the earth. [Footnote: Count Podstadsky did not long survive his disgrace. His delicate body soon sank under the hardships of his terrible existence. One day while sweeping the streets he ruptured a blood-vessel and died there, with no mourners save his fellow-criminals.—See Hubner ii., pp. 583-591. "Characteristic and Historical Anecdotes of Joseph II." "Friedel's Letters from Vienna," vol. i., p. 68.]

While all this was transpiring at the market-place, an imperial state-carriage had been hurrying through the streets until it stopped before a gloomy house, of which the doors and window-shutters were all closed. A footman, in the imperial livery, was seen to ring, and then an old man in faded black livery opened the door. A few whispered words passed between them; then a cavalier, in an elegant uniform, sprang from the carriage and entered the house. The old butler went before, and showed him up the creaking staircase, and through a suite of mouldy rooms until they reached one with closed doors.

"So please your majesty," said the old man, "Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein is in there."

The emperor nodded. "Do not announce me," said he, and he knocked at the door. A feeble voice from within responded to the knock, and the emperor entered without further ceremony. A tall, venerable man in deep mourning came forward and looked at him with hollow, staring eyes.

"The emperor!" exclaimed he, recognizing his unexpected guest.

"Yes, Count Podstadsky, it is I," said the emperor, bowing, as he would have done before a mighty monarch. "I come to express my profound regret for the great misfortune which has lately befallen you. No man knows better than myself what grief it is to lose a beloved wife. And yours was such a noble, such a devoted wife!" [Footnote: Hubner, ii., p. 391.]

"Devoted!" exclaimed the old count, sadly. "Alas, sire, there was something on earth which was nearer to her heart than I, else she had not died and left me alone. I loved nothing but her, and in losing her I lose all that made life endurable. I would wish to die now; but I have still a principle to defend—the honor of my family."

"We both have a principle to defend!" replied the emperor, deeply moved at the excessive grief of which he was a witness. "The principle of honor and justice—let us both teach the world that justice attacks the individual criminal and not his family; and that the honor of a family requires that justice should be satisfied. The name of Podstadsky-Liechtenstein has ever been an illustrious one, and I desire to prove to you my regard for your race. Give me your hand, count, and let us be friends."

He extended his hand, and with quiet solemnity the old count took it and looked up into his sovereign's face.

"I thank your majesty," said he, after a pause. "Your conduct toward me is noble and magnanimous, and I shall be grateful for it to my latest breath. You have acted as became a sovereign who has no right to set at defiance the laws he has made. Had I been his judge, I should myself have condemned the criminal who was once my son, and to-day is the murderer of his mother. Years ago I sat in judgment over this transgressor and when I did so, I lost my only child. As for the man who to-day has suffered the penalty of his crimes, I know him no longer."

"And YOUR honor is unspotted," said the emperor. "Give me your arm, count, and let me conduct you to my carriage. It is a lovely day. We will take a drive together, and then dine at Schonbrunn. Come—I am resolved that you shall spend this whole day with me. Give me your arm."

"Sire," whispered the old man, hesitating and looking gloomily toward the window, "the day is so bright and the sun shines so fiercely, I fear that my eyes cannot bear the glare. I beg of you allow me to remain at home."

The emperor shook his head. "Nay, your eyes are not weak. You can bear the fullest light of day; you have no need to hide your honored head from the gaze of the world. Take courage, dear friend, and think of what we both have said. Have we not our principles to defend? And must we not both assert them courageously?"

"Your majesty is right," cried the old count. "I am ready to follow you."

And while Carl Podstadsky, awaking from his swoon, looked up into the face of the malefactor, who from henceforth was to be the companion of his sleeping and waking, and the witness of his despair—while one of along train of outlawed felons, he dragged his misery through the hot, dusty streets, his father drove with the emperor to Schonbrunn, and among all the brilliant guests who dined with him on that day, to none was the emperor so deferential in his courtesy as to the old Count Podstadsky-Liechtenstein.



CHAPTER CLXII.

THE NEMESIS.

Meanwhile where was the siren who had lured Szekuly to destruction? Where was she for whose sake Carl Podstadsky had precipitated himself into the waters of obloquy? When the waves had engulfed him, she had disappeared, and the last sounds that had rung in his ears were the sounds of her cruel mirth!

Was there no punishment in reserve for such atrocity? No punishment for this woman without heart, without pity, without remorse? Would no hand unmask this beautiful fiend?

The hand is ready, but it is invisible; and Arabella, in her newfound security, is dazzled at the magnitude of her own good fortune. "Whom the gods wish to destroy they first blind." True, she had lost her gold, the price of Szekuly's good fame; but she was not poor; her jewels were worth many such a coffer of ducats. Once in possession of her casket, she was again rich, happy, and courted. Not a creature, save Giuseppe, knew the whereabouts of this precious casket, and with it they must away to Paris!

It was dusk, and Giuseppe, with a travelling carriage, once more awaited his mistress at the corner of the street. There remained nothing to do now but to remove the coffer from its hiding-place, and that was the work of half an hour. Arabella had the key of the little postern, and there was no danger of spies, for the house was empty. Having avowed herself to be the pensioned mistress of Podstadsky, the law had placed its seal upon her effects, and they were all to be sold for the benefit of the count's creditors.

The night was dark, and the street lanterns were propitiously dim. Here and there was heard the step of a solitary foot-passenger, and from time to time the monotonous tramp of the patrol. One of these patrols had just passed the garden-wall of the hotel, of which the Countess Baillou had been the presiding goddess. He looked up at the darkened windows as he went, wondered whither the goddess had flown, and walked on. When the echo of his step had died away from the pavement, and the last beams of the lantern were flickering out, a dark, slender form emerged from one of the pillars of the wall, and glided toward the little side-door, which opened on that narrow street. The key was in the door, it clicked in the lock, and the figure disappeared within. All was quiet.

"I am safe," thought she; "not a sound is within hearing. Now for my treasures, and away I away from this hateful city forever!"

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first blind."

Arabella never suspected that, under cover of darkness, others besides herself were lurking in that garden; and now as she advanced toward the house, two tall figures approached the postern, and stationed themselves on either side of it.

"She is caught," whispered one.

"Yes," replied another, "the bird has come of its own accord into the net. We must wait now until we receive further orders."

Arabella, meanwhile, looked exultingly at the dark clouds which overhung the sky, and almost laughed. "Thank you, fair moon," said she, "for withdrawing your splendor at my behest. Tomorrow you shall shed your soft beams upon my flight, for then I shall need your friendly light. Far away from Vienna, I shall be rich, happy, and free!"

Now she was at the servants' entrance. Oh, how the hinges creaked, as she opened the door! But what of it? No one was there to hear the sound. How foolishly her heart was beating! Now she was inside, and, with spasmodic haste, she bolted herself within. The darkness was intense. She could not see her hand before her, and in spite of herself a cold chill ran through her frame, and her knees trembled with vague terror. What if, through this black expanse, a hand should suddenly touch hers! and—"Oh, how dreadful is this darkness!" thought she. "I might die here, and no one could come to my help! I feel as I did once before, on that night of horror in Italy!"

She shuddered, and, almost swooning with fright, cowered under the shelter of the marble balustrade, to which she had by this time groped her way. And now, before her terrified soul, swept phantom after phantom, all from the miserable spirit-land of the past. Once more she lived through a night dark as this, when a wretched, betrayed, dishonored girl, she had slunk through the streets of Rome in search of death—death and annihilation in the black waves of the Tiber. She felt the waters engulf her, she heard her own death-cry, the last protest of youth against self-destruction; and then she felt the grasp of Podstadsky—Podstadsky who, in restoring her to the world, had laid a new curse upon her life. Until then she had been luxurious, frivolous, pleasure-loving; but in the Tiber she had found a new and terrible baptism—the baptism of crime. Without love she had consented to become Podstadsky's mistress, and so became the partner of his guilt. Together they had planned their bold schemes of fraud, and, oh, how successful they had been until this last misfortune! At all events, her connection with Podstadsky was at an end. The pillory had liberated her, and now—now she would lead a blameless life. No more fraud—no more theft. Crime was too dangerous; she saw that it must inexorably lead to shame. She would be satisfied with what she had, and become a virtuous woman. She was quite rich enough to be good, and it would be such bliss to live without a guilty secret!

She laughed, and then shivered at the sound of her own voice, and a supernatural terror took such violent hold of her imagination, that she could no longer bear the darkness. She must see, or she would die of fear. Giuseppe had provided her with a dark lantern, a vial of phosphorus, and some matches.

"How delightful it is to have this new invention!" thought she, as, touching the phosphorus, she struck a light. With this light she felt a little reassured, but could she have seen her blanched, terror-stricken face, she would have screamed, and fancied it a spectre!

Hush! Was there a muffled sound behind her? She paused and listened, her eyes glaring as though they would start from their sockets. Pshaw! it was only the rustling of her own silk mantle as it went trailing up the marble staircase. Nothing in human shape was there, save two pale statues, which stood like dead sentinels at the head of the stairs. As she passed these she shuddered, and almost fancied that they had stepped from their pedestals to follow her. Giving one quick glance behind, she sped like a hunted doe through those halls, of which so lately she had been the pride, and arrived breathless at the door of her boudoir. She darted in, and there, safe in its place, was the picture.

This gave her courage. But she must have rest after her fearful pilgrimage through that dark, empty house. She sank upon her satin lounge, and abandoned herself to the joy and security of the hour. She had just come to the end of a perilous journey. Night and danger were behind, the rosy morning of safety was about to dawn. She was so full of joyous emotion, that scarcely knowing what she did, her lips began to move in unconscious prayer!

Prayer! She had no right to such a privilege as that; and starting from her seat, lest she should falter in the purpose of her visit, she quickly removed the picture, touched the spring, and the precious coffer stood revealed.

No, no, she could never give it up! She stretched out her arms, and pressed it to her heart, as a mother does her only child. Trembling with eager joy, she placed it on the table, and opening it, contemplated her treasures on their beds of crimson velvet.

How they sparkled! How they seemed to burn with splendor as the rays of the little lantern coquetted with their beauty! She was repaid for all her terrors, she was happy and secure!

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first blind."

She was so absorbed in the magnificence of her diamond necklace for which she had been indebted to the Princess Garampi, that she did not hear the footfall of the men who were close behind her. They smiled, and pantomimed one to another as they watched her toying with her flashing jewels.

Then suddenly springing forward, as if they feared she might escape through the secret opening in the wall, they grasped her with their powerful hands, and she was once more a prisoner.

"The emperor can no longer defend his beautiful countess," said the one who seemed to direct the others. "We have caught her in the act of robbing Count Podstadsky's creditors. And, unless I am mistaken, we shall find among her booty all the jewels that were missing at last winter's entertainments; for, as I had the honor of reminding his majesty, the Countess Baillou was at every ball where jewels were lost. I told the emperor that if he would give you freedom, I engaged to find something more than a mare's nest when I tracked you hither. I was sure you would come, and my spies have been within, waiting for you since this morning."

"What reward was promised by the emperor for my detection?" said Arabella, now self-possessed.

"Five hundred ducats," was the reply.

"Five hundred ducats?" repeated she, tossing back her beautiful head. "A beggarly reward for the person of a lady of rank like me! Take this necklace, and divide it between you. Each one will then have more than the frugal emperor has promised to all. Take it and give me my freedom. Your generous act will never be known."

"How, lady! You would bribe us, as you have bribed so many noble cavaliers? No, no. Your game is at an end, and if ever you appear in public again, it will be as a criminal. You must come with me. You, men, take up this coffer."

She strove no longer. Without another word she took the arm of the police-officer and went firmly forward.

Her lips moved, and she murmured: "Alas he is right. My career is at an end." [Footnote: This beautiful woman, "the ornament of the most elegant circles in Vienna," as she is called by the chroniclers of the times, was condemned to three days of pillory, the same punishment as that suffered by the victim of her wickedness and coquetry. She was then sent guarded to the confines of Austria, from whence she was banished for life.—See Hubner, ii., 392. Gross-Hoffinger, iii.]



CHAPTER CLXIII.

HORJA AND THE REBELLION IN HUNGARY.

Four years had gone by since Joseph had reigned sole monarch of Austria. For four years he had devoted himself to the Austrians, having but one object, that of making them a free, enlightened, and happy people, emancipating them from the influence of the church, and breaking the fetters of serfdom; granting them equality before the law, and enriching them by his encouragement of manufactures and the privileges he accorded to merchants.

What was his reward? Dissatisfaction and opposition from every class of society; ingratitude and ill-will from all parties. The nobles disliked him because he had sought every opportunity of humbling them before the people; the clergy opposed him because of his sequestration of church property, and his assumption of spiritual authority. But his bitterest enemies were the bureaucratie. He had invaded all their customs, discharging every man who had not studied at the university, and requiring constant labor from the first as well as the last of the employes. He was the terror of all aspirants for civil office, and the whole body hated him, embarrassed his steps, and ruined his plans by voluntary misconception of all his orders.

As yet, there was no outburst of dissatisfaction. The discontent was latent, and Joseph still indulged the hope of outliving opposition, and proving to his subjects that all the innovations which they had so ungratefully endured were for the ultimate good of the Austrian nation.

He was therefore ill-prepared for the news which reached him from Hungary. He had freed the people from slavery and taxation, and had exacted that the nobles should pay their share of the imperial taxes. He had instituted a general conscription, and the most powerful Magyar in Hungary was bound to serve, side by side, with the lowest peasant. Finally he had forbidden the use of any other language in Hungary save the German.

A cry of indignation was heard from every turreted castle in the land. They were wounded in the rights hitherto guaranteed to them by every emperor of Austria. And above all other oppression, they were to be robbed of their mother tongue, that they might lose their nationality, and become a poor Austrian dependency. [Footnote: That was precisely Joseph's object: and yet he wondered that this people did not love him.]

But Joseph's enactments were detested not only by the nobles, they were equally unwelcome to the people. The latter were horror-stricken by the general conscription, and fled by thousands to take refuge among the mountains from the conscribing officers.

One of their own class, however, succeeded in drawing them from their hiding-places. The loud voice of Horja rang throughout every valley, and ascended to every mountain-summit. He called them to liberty and equality. He asserted that nobility was to be destroyed in Hungary. There were to be no more castles, no more magnates of the land. The emperor had promised as much in Vienna. He had sworn to free the Hungarian peasantry, and to bring the proud noble down to an equality with his serf.