Slowly Therese raised her head, and tried to speak. She longed to say that she had nothing to forgive; but had not the courage to meet the glances of those eyes which were fixed upon her with an expression of passionate entreaty, and seemed to be gazing into her heart, reading its most cherished, most consecrated secrets.

Did he understand the language of her agitation? "Look at me, Therese," whispered he." It is an eternity since we met, and now—one more look at your angel-face, for I come to bid adieu to it forever."

She started, repeating his words, "Bid adieu—adieu!"

"Yes, sweet one, adieu. Some wiseacre has guessed the secret which I had fondly imagined was known to God and to myself only. And yet, Therese, I have never even told myself how passionately I love you! My eyes must have betrayed me to others; for since that happy day at Sclionbrunn when I kissed the rose which had dropped from your hair, you have not been seen at court. I never should have told you this, my best beloved, but the anguish of this hour has wrung the confession from me. It will die away from your memory like the tones of a strange melody, and be lost in the jubilant harmony of your happy married life."

He turned away that she might not see the tears which had gathered in his eyes and were ready to fall. As for Therese, she rose to her feet. For one moment, her heart stood still—the next, her blood was coursing so wildly through her veins that she thought he must surely hear its mad throbbings in the stillness of that little room. The emperor turned again, and his face was grave, but calm. He had mastered his emotion, and, ashamed of the weakness of the avowal he had made, he determined to atone for it. He took the hand of the countess and led her to a divan, where he gently drew her down, while she obeyed, as though her will had suddenly been merged into his. She was conscious of one thing only. He was there!—he whose name was written upon her heart, though she had never uttered it until that day!

He stood before her with folded arms, and contemplated her as an enthusiast might look upon the statue of a saint.

"Therese," said he, after a long silence, "why did you say that you would go into a convent?"

Therese grew pale and shivered, but said nothing. Joseph, bending down and looking into her eyes, repeated his question.

"Because my father wishes me to marry a man whom I do not love," replied Therese, with a candor which yielded to the magic of his glance as the rose gives her heart's sweet perfume to the wooing of the summer breeze.

"But, Therese," said the emperor, mindful of his promise, "you must obey your father. It is your duty."

"No—I shall never marry," returned Therese, eagerly.

"Marriage is the only vocation fit for a woman," replied Joseph. "The wife is commanded to follow her husband."

"Yes, to follow the husband of her love," interrupted she, with enthusiasm. "And oh, it must be heaven on earth to follow the beloved one through joy and sorrow, to feel with his heart, to see with his eyes, to live for his love, or, if God grant such supreme happiness, to die for his sake!"

"Therese!" exclaimed Joseph, passionately, as, gazing upon her inspired countenance, he forgot every thing except his love.

She blushed, and her eyes sought the floor. "No," said she, as if communing with herself, "this blessing I shall never know."

"And why not?" cried he. "Why should one so young, so beautiful, so gifted as you, cast away the ties of social life and pass within the joyless portals of a convent?"

Therese said nothing. She sat ashamed, bewildered, entranced; and, in her confusion, her beauty grew tenfold greater. The emperor's resolutions were fast melting away.

Again he besought her in tender tones. "Tell me, my Therese; confide in me, for I swear that your happiness is dearer to me than my life." He bent closer, and seized her hands. His touch was electric, for a tremor took possession of them both, and they dared not look at each other. Joseph recovered himself, and began in low, pleading tones: "Look at me, beloved, and let me read my answer in your truthful eyes. Look at me, for those eyes are my light, my life, my heaven!"

Therese could not obey. Her head sank lower and lower, and deep, convulsive sighs rent her heart. The emperor, scarcely knowing what he did, knelt before her. She met his glance of intoxicated love, and, unable to resist it, murmured:

"Because I love—thee."

Had he heard aright? Was it not the trees whispering to the summer air, or the birds cooing beneath the eaves? Or had an angel borne the message from that heaven which to-day was so radiant and so silver-bright?

He still knelt, and pressed her trembling hands to his lips, while his face was lit up with a joy, which Therese had never seen there before.

"Have I found you at last, star of my dark and solitary life?" said he. "Are you mine at last, shy gazelle, that so long have escaped me, bounding higher and higher up the icy steeps of this cheerless world? Oh, Therese, why did I not find you in the early years of life? And yet I thank Heaven that you are mine for these few fleeting moments, for they have taken me back to the days of my youth and its beautiful illusions! Ah, Therese, from the first hour when I beheld you advancing on your father's arm to greet me, proud as an empress, calm as a vestal, beautiful as Aphrodite, my heart acknowledged you as its mistress! Since then I have been your slave, kissing your shadow as it went before me, and yet riot conscious of my insane passion until your father saw me with that rose—and then I knew that I loved you forever! Yes, Therese, you are the last love of an unfortunate man, whom the world calls an emperor, but who lies at your feet, as the beggar before his ideal of the glorious Madonna! Bend to me, Madonna, and let me drink my last draught of love! I shall soon have quaffed it, and then—your father will be here to remind me that you are a high-born countess, the priceless treasure of whose love I may not possess! Kiss me, my Therese, and consecrate my lips to holy resignation!"

And Therese, too bewildered to resist, bent forward. Their lips met, and his arms were around her, and time, place, station, honor—every thing vanished before the might of their love.

Suddenly they heard an exclamation—and there, at the porture, stood the father and the suitor of Therese, their pale and angry faces turned toward the lovers.

The emperor, burning with shame and fury, sprang to his feet. Therese, with a faint cry, hid her face in her hands, and, trembling with fear, awaited her sentence.

There was a deep silence. Each one seemed afraid to speak, for the first word uttered in that room might be treason. With dark and sullen faces, the two noblemen looked at the imperial culprit, who, leaning against the window, with head upturned to heaven, seemed scarcely able to sustain the weight of his own anguish. The stillness was insupportable, and it was his duty to break it. He glanced at the two men who, immovable and frowning, awaited this explanation.

Joseph turned to Therese, who had not yet withdrawn her hands. She felt as if she could never face the world again.

"Rise, Therese, and give me your hand," said he, authoritatively.

She obeyed at once, and the emperor, pressing that trembling hand within his own, led her to her father.

"Count Dietrichstein," said he, "you reminded me to-day of the long-tried loyalty of your house, and asked me, as your reward, to advise your daughter's acceptance of the husband you have chosen for her. I have fulfilled my promise, and Therese has consented to obey your commands. She promises to renounce her dream of entering a convent, and to become the wife of Count Kinsky. Is it not so, Therese? Have I not your approval in promising these things to your father?"

"It is so," murmured Therese, turning pale as death.

"And now, Count Dietrichstein," continued Joseph, "I will allow you to postpone your mission to Brussels, so that before you leave Vienna you may witness the nuptials of your daughter. In one week the marriage will be solemnized in the imperial chapel. Count Kinsky, I deliver your bride into your hands. Farewell! I shall meet you in the chapel."

He bowed, and hurried away. He heard the cry which broke from the lips of Therese, although he did not turn his head when her father's voice called loudly for help. But seeing that the countess's maid was walking in the park, he overtook her, saying, hastily, "Go quickly to the pavilion; the Countess Therese has fainted."

Then he hastened away, not keeping the walks, but trampling heedlessly over the flowers, and dashing past the lilacs and laburniuns, thinking of that fearful hour when Adam was driven from Paradise, and wondering whether the agony of the first man who sinned had been greater than his to-day, when the sun was setting upon the last dream of love which he would ever have in this world!



CHAPTER CLXXI.

THE TURKISH WAR.

The bolt had fallen. Russia had declared war against Turkey. On the return of the emperor from his unfortunate pilgrimage to Count Dietrichstein's villa, three couriers awaited him from Petersburg, Constantinople, and Berlin. Besides various dispatches from Count Cobenzl, the courier from Petersburg brought an autographic letter from the empress. Catharine reminded the emperor of the promise which he had made in St. Petersburg, and renewed at Cherson, announced that the hour had arrived for its fulfilment. The enmity so long smothered under the ashes of simulated peace had kindled and broken out into the flames of open war.

The Porte himself had broken the peace. On account of some arbitrary act of the Russian ambassador, he had seized and confined him in the Seven Towers. Russia had demanded his release, and satisfaction for the insult. The sultan had replied by demanding the restoration of the Crimea, and the withdrawal of the Russian fleet from the Black Sea.

The disputants had called in the Austrian internuncio, but all diplomacy was vain. Indeed, neither Russia, Turkey, nor Austria had placed any reliance upon the negotiations for peace; for while they were pending, the three powers were all assiduously preparing for war. In the spring of 1788, the Austrian internuncio declined any further attempt at mediation, and hostilities between Russia and Turkey were renewed.

Joseph received the tidings with an outburst of joy. They lifted a load of grief from his heart; for war, to him, was balsam for every sorrow.

"Now I shall be cured of this last wound!" exclaimed he, as he paced his cabinet, the dispatches in his hand. "God is merciful—He has sent the remedy, and once more I shall feel like a sovereign and a man! How I long to hear the bullets hiss and the battle rage! There are no myrtles for me on earth; perchance I may yet be permitted to gather its laurels. Welcome, O war! Welcome the march, the camp, and the battle-field!"

He rang, and commanded the presence of Field-Marshal Lacy. Then he read his dispatches again, glancing impatiently, from time to tine, at the door. Finally it opened, and a page announced the field-marshal. Joseph came hurriedly forward, and grasped the hands of his long-tried friend.

"Lacy," cried he, "from this day you shall be better pleased than you have been with me of late—I have seen your reproving looks—nay, do not deny it, for they have been as significant as words; and if I made no answer, it was perhaps because I was guilty, and had nothing to say. You have sighed over my dejection for months past, dear friend, but it has vanished with the tidings I have just received I am ready to rush out into the storm, bold and defiant as Ajax!"

"Oh, how it rejoices my heart to hear such words!" replied Lacy, pressing Joseph's hand. "I recognize my hero, my emperor again, and victory is throned upon his noble brow! With those flashing eyes, and that triumphant bearing, you will inspire your Austrians with such enthusiasm, that every man of them will follow whithersoever his commander leads!"

"Ah," cried Joseph, joyfully, "you have guessed, then, why I requested your presence here! Yes, Lacy, war is not only welcome to you and to me, but I know that it will also rejoice the hearts of the Austrian army. And now I invite you to accompany me on my campaign against the Turks, and I give you chief command of my armies; for your valor and patriotism entitle you to the distinction."

"Your majesty knows that my life is consecrated to your service," replied Laoy, with strong emotion. "You know with what pride I would fight at your side, secure that victory must always perch upon the banners of my gallant emperor."

"And you rejoice, do you not, Lacy, that our foe is to be the Moslem?"

Lacy was silent for a while. "I should rejoice from my soul." replied he, with some hesitation, "if Austria were fighting her own battles."

"Our ally is distasteful to you?" asked Joseph, laughing. "You have not yet learned to love Russia?"

"I have no right to pass judgment upon those whom your majesty has deemed worthy of your alliance, sire."

"No evasions, Lacy. You are pledged to truth when you enter these palace walls."

"Well, sire, if we are in the palace of truth, I must confess to a prejudice against Russia, and Russia's empress. Catharine calls for your majesty's assistance, not to further the cause of justice or of right, but to aid her in making new conquests."

"I shall not permit her to make any new conquests!" cried Joseph. "She may fight out her quarrel with Turkey, and, so far, I shall keep my promise and sustain her. But I shall lend my sanction to none of her ambitious schetney. I suffered the Porte to code Tauris to Catharine, because this cession was of inestimable advantage to me. It protected my boundaries from the Turk himself, and then it produced dissension between the courts of St. Petersburg and Berlin and so deprived the latter of leer powerful ally. [Footnote: The emperor's own words.—See. Gross-Hofflnger, iii., pp. 428, 429.] But having permitted Russia to take possession of the Crimea, the aspect of affairs is changed. I never shall suffer the Russians to establish themselves in Constantinople. The turban I conceive to be a safer neighbor for Austria than the bat. [Footnote: The emperor's own words.—See" Letters of Joseph ll.," p. 135.] At this present time Russia offers me the opportunity of retaking Belgrade, and avenging the humiliation sustained by my father at the hands of the Porte. For two hundred years these barbarians of the East have been guilty of bad faith toward my ancestors, and the time has arrived when, as the avenger of all mankind, I shall deliver Europe from the infidel, and the world from a race which for centuries has been the scourge of every Christian nation."

"And in this glorious struggle of Christianity and civilization against Islamism and barbarism, I shall be at my emperor's side, and witness his triumph! This is a privilege which the last drop of my blood would be inadequate to buy!"

The emperor again gave his hand. "I knew that you would be as glad to follow me as a war-horse to follow the trumpet's call. This time we shall have no child's play; it shall be war, grim, bloody war! And now to work. In one hour the courier must depart, who bears my manifesto to the Porte. No, Lacy," continued the emperor, as Lacy prepared to leave, "do not go. As commander-in-chief, you should be thoroughly acquainted with the premises of our affair with Turkey, and you must hear both the manifestoes which I an about to dictate. The first, of course, declares war against the Porte. The second is, perhaps, a mere letter to the successor of the great Frederick. His majesty of Prussia, foreseeing, in his extreme wisdom, that I am likely to declare war against Turkey, is so condescending as to offer himself as mediator between us! You shall hear my answer, and tell me what you think of it."

Lacy bowed, and the emperor opening the door leading to the chancery, beckoned to his private secretary. He entered, took his seat, and held his pen ready to indite what Joseph should dictate. Lacy retired to the embrasure of a window, and with his arms crossed stood partly hidden by the heavy crimson velvet curtains, his eyes fixed upon leis idolized sovereign.

Joseph went restlessly to and fro, and dictated his manifesto to the Porte. Referring to his alliance with Russia, and the failure of his attempts at intervention, he went on to say that as the sincere friend and ally of the empress, he was compelled to fulfil his obligations, and reluctantly to take part in the war which Catharine had declared against Turkey. [Footnote: Hubner. ii., p. 468.]

"Now," said the emperor, "take another sheet and write 'To his majesty, the King of Prussia.'"

"My Royal Brother—

"It is with feelings of profound regret that I find myself forced to decline your majesty's most friendly offers of mediation with Turkey. I am obliged to unsheathe my sword, and I shall not return it to the scabbard until it shall have won full reparation for all the wrongs sustained by my forefathers at the hands of the Porte. Your majesty is a monarch, and as such, you are acquainted with the rights of kings. And is this undertaking of mine against Turkey any thing more than an attempt to resume the rights of which my throne has been dispossessed?

"The Turks (and perhaps not they alone) have a maxim, that whatever they lose in adverse times, they must win back when opportunity is favorable. By such means the house of Hohenzollern has attained its present state of prosperity. Albert of Brandenburg wrested the duchy of Prussia from its order, and his successors, at the peace of Oliva, maintained their right to the sovereignty of that country.

"Your majesty's deceased uncle, in like manner, wrested Silesia from my mother at a time when, surrounded by enemies, her only defences were her own true greatness and the loyalty of her subjects.

"What equivalent for her lost possessions has Austria received at the hands of those European courts who have blown so many blasts on the balance of power?

"My forefathers were forced at different times to yield up Spain, Naples, Sicily, Belgrade, the principality of Silesia, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Tortona, and a portion of Lombardy. What has Austria taken in return for these heavy loses?

"A portion of the kingdom of Poland! And one of less value than that assigned to Russia.

"I hope that you will not dispute the justice of my resolve to make war upon the Porte, and that you will not hold me less a friend because I may do some injury to the Ottoman. Your majesty may rest assured that under similar circumstances, I should apply the same principles to myself, were I possessed of any of YOUR territory.

"I must also announce to you that, for some years to come, diplomacy must give place to war.

"Hoping for a continuation of your majesty's friendship, I am, with highest esteem, your friend and brother, JOSEPH." [Footnote: "Letters of Joseph II.," page 121, and the following.]

The letter concluded, the emperor dismissed his secretary and threw himself into an arm-chair.

"Well Lacy," said he, "are you pleased with my letter? Have I convinced the king that it is my duty to declare war against the Moslem?"

"Sire," said Lacy, approaching, "I thank you from my heart for the privilege of hearing that letter. I know not which to admire most, your majesty's admirable knowledge of the history of your house, or the quiet sharpness with which you have made your statements. But this I know, that had you forbidden me to accompany you, I should have been, for the first time in my life, rebellious; for if I had not been allowed to fight as an officer, I should have done so as a private."

"There spoke my Lacy, my own gallant Austrian!" exclaimed Joseph. "To work, then, to work! Promulgate your orders and set your men in motion. In two days we must have two hundred thousand men on our frontiers. We must draw a gigantic cordon from the Dniester to the Adriatic. The main body, however, must go forward to Semlin and Futak. We two follow the main army, and day after to-morrow we must set out, and—no," said the emperor, interrupting himself, while all the light died out from his countenance. "No—I cannot set out for a week yet. I must first bid adieu to the last tie that binds my heart (as a man) to this life! That tie riven, I live as all emperor and a warrior. Once in camp, I shall, Heaven be praised! forget all things else, and be myself again!"



CHAPTER CLXXII.

MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION.

The eight long, weary days had gone by, the preparations for war were complete, and the emperor was ready to join his army. He had worked day and night, refusing to rest, and answering all remonstrances with a sad smile.

"I was not born a sovereign to devote my life to my own comfort," said he, "but to consecrate it to my empire. When I become too feeble to do my duty, I shall ask for a pension and retire to a convent, like Charles the Fifth. I have no taste, however, for the vocation, sincerely hoping to die as I have lived—an emperor."

"But, sire," said the imperial physician, Von Quarin, "your first duty is to preserve your life for Austria's sake. You have a hot fever, and your eyes and cheeks are hollow."

"Give me a cool drink, doctor, perchance it may refresh my burning heart," said Joseph, with sad irony.

"Cool drinks will do no good unless your majesty consents to take some rest. Sleep is the sovereign remedy of which you are in need, sire. "

"I do not wish to sleep," replied Joseph, gloomily. "Sleep brings happy dreams, and I hate them because of their falsehood! Who would dream of bliss, to wake and find it all a lie!"

"Your valet told me that you did not lie down last night."

"My valet is a chatterbox, and knows not what he says."

"But, your majesty, I know that you have not been to bed."

"Then I slept in an arm-chair! But no, I will not deny it. I sat up all night, Quarin, for I had an important duty to perform before leaving Vienna. I was making my will."

"Your will!" repeated Von Quarin. "Surely your majesty does not fear—"

"No, I fear nothing—certainly not death," returned the emperor. "It must be sweet to die, and part from the disappointments of life; for man either goes to eternal sleep, or wakes forever to eternal happiness! I am not afraid of death, but I must put my house in order, for bullets respect no man, and they have never yet been taught that an emperor is not to be approached without ceremony. One might strike me on the head and send me to my eternal rest. Why, what a doleful face you wear, Quarin! 'L'Empereur est mort!—Vive l'Empereur!' I shall bequeath to you a noble young emperor and a beautiful arid charming empress. Is not that better than a surly old fellow like myself? Francis is my pride, and his sweet Elizabeth is like a daughter to me. I must then make my will and provide for my children. Now, doctor, have you forgiven me for sitting up all night?"

"I have nothing to forgive, sire; but I implore you grant me one request."

"You wish to dose me with medicine! It is in your face; you carry an apothecary's shop in your eyes just now."

"No, sire, I wish to ask permission to follow you as your surgeon, that if any thing should happen, I may be there."

"No, Quarin, you must not follow me. I cannot he guilty of the egotism which would monopolize your valuable services. A soldier in the field has no right to be sick, lest he be suspected of cowardice and as for casualties—why, if a ball should strike me, there are plenty of army surgeons who will dress my wounds as they dress those of my men. Remain at home, then, my friend, and do better service by far than you could render me on the battle-field. Farewell now. In two hours I leave, but before that time I have some important business on hand. First, I must go with my will to Prince Kaunitz."

"Did your majesty hear that he had almost struck the Countess Clary, and had banished her from his presence for a week, because she had pronounced the word 'testament' in his hearing?"

"Yes, I was told of it, and I shall take good care not to bring down the vials of his wrath upon my head," said Joseph, laughing.

"I shall not pronounce the word 'testament,' I shall speak of my treaty of peace with life, and use every precaution to save his highness's feelings. Strange mystery of life!" continued the emperor, musing, "forever changing shape and hue, like the nimble figures of a kaleidoscope! Well, I must use stratagem in this matter of the 'testament,' for Kaunitz must assume the regency of the empire, and then—then—I must attend a wedding. After that, the battlefield! Adieu, Quarin—if we meet no more on earth, I hope that we shall meet above."

One hour later the emperor returned from the hotel of his prime minister, and entered the imperial chapel. He was in full dress, decked with all his orders. It was only on state occasions that Joseph appeared in his magnificent uniform; he had not worn it since the marriage of his nephew to the Princess Elizabeth of Wurtemberg. But his face was very pale, and when he perceived the bride, he leaned for one moment against a friendly pillar that saved him from reeling. This weakness, however, lasted but a moan, he walked firmly up to the altar, where the bridal party stood awaiting the imperial entrance.

The emperor approached Count Dietrichstein, and greeted him cordially; then turning to Count Kinsky he extended his hand. The bridegroom did not appear to see this, for he cast down his eyes, and made a deep inclinatiou, while Joseph, with a sad smile, withdrew his hand.

He had not dared to look upon the trembling bride, who, seated on a chair, and surrounded by her attendants, had just recovered from a swoon. Her aunt, the Countess Dietrichstein, explained that from Therese's childhood, she never had been able to overcome her terror of lightning; and certainly, if this were so, she had every reason for terror now. The whole sky was darkened by one dense pall of heavy clouds; the stained windows of the chapel were fiery with angry lightning, while fierce above their heads the rolling thunder boomed along the heavens, and then died away in low mutterings that made the earth tremble.

There was no time to await the passing away of the storm, for the guests at that hurried bridal were impatient to depart. The carriages of the emperor and of Count Dietrichstein here without, and neither could tarry long in Vienna. At the altar stood Therese's uncle, Count Leopold von Thun, Bishop of Passau, and around him was grouped a stately array of prelates and priests. Count Dietrichstein whispered in his daughter's ear. She rose from her seat, but her light figure swayed to and fro like a slender tree before the advancing storm, and her lovely face was pale as that of a statue, just leaving the hand of the sculptor. Therese's fear of lightning was no fiction, and she almost sank to the floor as a livid flash glanced across the form of the emperor, and enveloped him in a sheet of living flame. Unheeding it, he moved on toward the unhappy girl, and without a word or a look extended his hand. Therese, trembling, gave him hers, and started when she felt the burning clasp that closed upon her icy fingers. The emperor led her to the altar; behind came the aunt and father of the bride, and between them Count Kinsky, whose jealous eyes watched every movement of those hands which joined together for the space of a moment, were about to be sundered forever.

Nothing, however, was to be seen. The emperor's eyes were fixed upon the altar, those of Therese were cast down. Neither saw the other. Only the burning pressure of one hand and the clammy coldness of the other revealed to both the extent of the sacrifice they were making to the Moloch of the world's opinion.

Now they stood before the altar. The emperor gave the bride into the hands of the bridegroom, and stepped aside to take his place.

The ceremony over, the bishop pronounced the blessing, and all present knelt to receive it. Joseph and Therese were side by side. With a sigh they raised their eyes to heaven, each praying for the other. The emperor's eyes were dim with tears, but he dashed them away, and, rising from his knees, prepared to congratulate the bride.

A peal of thunder drowned the few words which he murmured. But her heart caught the meaning, and she whispered in return

"Yes, in heaven."

Then he dropped her hand, and addressed himself to the bridegroom.

"Count Kinsky," said he, authoritatively, "I wish to speak with you in private."

The count, with a scowl, followed his sovereign to the nave of the chapel, where, at a distance from the bridal party, they were in no danger of being overheard.

"Count," said the emperor, gravely, "you love the Countess Therese?"

Count Kinsky was silent for a while. Then, suddenly, he replied in sharp, cutting accents

"I have loved her."

The emperor repeated his words.

"You have loved her? Do you, then, love her no longer?"

"No. I love her no longer."

"When did you cease to love her?"

"On this day week, your majesty," said the count, defiantly. Joseph would not seem to observe the look which accompanied these words. His voice was unchanged, as he replied

"Count, although you feel resentful toward me, you believe me to be a man of honor, do you not?"

"I do, sire."

"Then I swear to you by all that is sacred to me as man and sovereign, that Therese is as pure in the sight of Heaven as its brightest angel. I swear to you that she is as worthy as ever she was to be loved and esteemed by her husband as his wife and the future mother of his children."

"Your majesty must have formed an intimate acquaintance with the countess, to be able to answer for her purity of heart," returned Kinsky, coldly.

Joseph looked up, pained.

"Ah!" said he, "you are implacable. But you believe me, do you not?"

The count inclined his head.

"I dare not doubt my sovereign's word."

"Then you will love Therese as she deserves to be loved?"

"Love is not to be controlled—not even by an emperor. My love and hate are not to be drawn off and on like a glove!"

"Hate!" cried the emperor, shocked. "Great God! it cannot be possible that you hate the woman whom you have voluntarily chosen, and whom even now, before yonder altar, you have sworn to love. Why, then, did you marry her?"

"Sire, you commanded me to do so just one week ago, and, as a loyal subject, I was compelled to obey. You gave me no alternative, and I married her."

"She will make you happy," replied Joseph, in a faltering voice. "I beseech of you, be gentle with her. Her heart is not at ease, and she needs all your tenderness to restore her to happiness."

Count Kinsky bowed frigidly.

"Will your majesty allow me to ask a favor of you?" said he.

"It will gratify me to do any thing for you," replied Joseph, his eyes lighting up with pleasure.

"Then I ask of your majesty, on your Honor, to answer the question I am about to ask."

"On my honor, count, I will answer it," said Joseph, smiling.

"What did your majesty say to the countess just now, and what was her reply?"

The emperor was thunderstruck—he could not articulate a word.

"Your majesty was so obliging as to promise an answer."

"Yes, count, yes," faltered the emperor. "You shall be satisfied. I said, 'Farewell, Therese, I shall claim thee in heaven.'"

"Your majesty was so condescending as to address my wife in this familiar strain? And her reply was—"

"Only these words, 'Yes, in heaven.'"

"I thank your majesty."

They both returned to the company. Joseph cast one last look at Therese, who, pale and rigid, was receiving the congratulations of her unsuspecting friends, and then he addressed her father.

"Well, count, I believe that our furlough has expired, and we must return to our commands. Farewell! and may we both return victorious to Vienna!"

A half an hour later, an imperial caleche conveyed him to the array, and to Field-Marshal Lacy, who had preceded him there by several days.

At the same moment, the travelling-carriage of Count Kinsky drove up to his hotel. Count Dietrichstein, before setting out, had accompanied his daughter to her husband's residence, and had bidden her adieu. Therese was now alone. She shuddered as she heard Count Kinsky's step, and wished from her soul that death would release her from the hateful tie which bound them together.

The door opened, and he appeared. She uttered a faint cry, and pressed her hands to her throbbing heart. Count Kinsky answered the cry with a laugh of scorn.

"Are you afraid?" said he, striding toward her, and contemplating her with a face indicative of smothered passion.

Therese raised her eyes, and looked fearlessly into his eyes

"No, Count Kinsky, I am not afraid, nor would I fear, if you had come to kill me."

The count laughed aloud. "Ah!" cried he, in a harsh, grating voice, "you think that I might do like Prince Bragation and the Duke of Orleans, who strangled their young wives because they suspected them of infidelity! My dear madame, these romantic horrors belong to a bygone century. In this sober and prosaic age, a nobleman avenges his wounded honor, not by murder, but by contempt. I have only intruded myself to ask if you are ready to start?"

"I am ready," replied Therese, wearily.

"Then allow me to accompany you to the carriage."

"My father having given you my hand, I have no right to refuse your escort."

"Before we go, be so condescending as to say which one of my estates you prefer for a residence."

"Select my residence yourself, count; you know that I have never visited your estates."

"Then I choose for you my castle in Hungary, near the Turkish frontier, for there you will have the latest news from the army and its commanders."

Therese made no reply to this sarcasm. She bent her head, and said: "I am ready to submit myself to your decision in all things."

"I hope that the Countess Therese will not long have to live in subjection to her husband," continued he, "and that the journey which I am about to undertake will result happily for us both. You go to Hungary, I go to Rome. I go to implore of the pope a divorce."

"You are going to sue for a divorce?" asked Therese, "Perhaps you can spare yourself the trouble of a journey to Rome, count, for I have already anticipated your wishes. My petition to his holiness went several days ago, and—"

"His majesty, the emperor, was so obliging as to send it by an imperial courier. Is that what you were about to say?"

Therese continued as though she had not heard the interruption "My application went through Monsignore Garampi, the papal nuncio, who promised to use his influence in my behalf."

"What an edifying couple!" exclaimed Kinsky, with another scornful laugh. "How congenial! The same wishes, and, unconsciously, the very same deeds! What a pity we must part so soon, for, I leave you to-day; nor shall I have the pleasure of seeing you again until I bring you a decree of divorce."

"You will be most welcome," returned Therese, calmly. "Now be so good as to escort me to my carriage."

"Pray give me your arm. I have but one more observation to make. I hope that you will now be able to prove substantially to the emperor that it was quite useless for him to shelter himself behind the words, 'I shall claim thee in heaven!' But if I may presume so far, I request that you will defer these demonstrations until I return from Rome with my letters of divorce."

Therese had no strength to retort. She hung down her head, and large scalding tears fell from her eyes. Count Kinsky placed her in the carriage, closed the door, and then returned to his own travelling-chariot, which was a few paces behind. The two equipages thundered down the streets together, but at the gates they parted, the one taking the road for Hungary, the other for Rome. [Footnote: This whole story is Historical. The "heavenly Therese," as she is called by Hormayer, was really married and thus abandoned by her husband, who persisted in believing that the connection between herself and the emperor was not guiltless. But the count met with no success in the matter of the divorce. The pope refused.]



CHAPTER CLXXIII.

THE LAST DREAM OF GLORY.

Destiny was testing the fortitude of the emperor with unrelenting harshness. It would seem that inflexible fate stood by, while one by one this man's hopes of fame, honor, and love were wrested away, that the world might see and know how much of bitterness and disappointment it is in the power of one human heart to endure.

In the Netherlands and in Hungary he was threatened with rebellion. The Magyars especially resented the violation of their constitutional rights; in Tyrol, too, the people were disaffected; and Rome had not yet pardoned him the many indignities she had endured at his hands. This very war, which he had welcomed as a cure for his domestic sorrows, was yielding him naught but annoyance and misery.

Yes, destiny had decreed that nothing which he undertook should prosper. His army, which was encamped in the damp marshes that lie between the Danube and Save, was attacked by a malarious fever more destructive by far than the bloodiest struggle that ever reddened the field of battle. The hospitals were crowded with the sick and dying, and the enfeebled soldiers, who dragged themselves about their ramps, wore sullen and discontented faces; a spirit of insubordination was beginning to manifest itself among the troops, and the very men who would have rushed to the cannon's mouth, grew cowardly at the approach of the invisible foe that stole away their lives, by the gradual and insidious poison of disease. The songs and jests of the bivouac were hushed, the white tents were mournful as sepulchres, and the men lost all confidence in their leaders. They now accused the emperor and Lacy of incapacity, and declared that they must either be disbanded or led against the enemy.

This was precisely what Joseph had been longing to do, but he was compelled to await the advance of the Russians, with whom it had been arranged that the Austrians were to take a junction before they marched into Turkey. The Russians, however, had never joined the emperor; for some misunderstanding with Sweden had compelled the czarina to defend her northern frontier, and so she had as yet been unable to assemble an army of sufficient strength to march against Turkey. Joseph then was condemned to the very same inaction which had so chafed his spirit in Bavaria; for his own army of itself was not numerous enough to attack the enemy. He could not snake a move without Russia. Russia tarried, and the fever in the camp grew every day more fatal.

Instead of advancing, the heart-sick emperor was forced to retreat. His artillery was withdrawn to Peterwardein, and the siege of Belgrade entirely relinquished. Disease and death followed the Austrians to their new encampment, and louder grew the mutterings of the men, and more bitter their denunciations of the emperor.

They little knew that while they were assailed by physical infirmities, their hapless chieftain was sick both in body and mind. He shared all their hardships, and watched them with most unremitting solicitude. He erected camp hospitals, and furnished the sick with wine and delicacies which he ordered from Vienna for their use. All military etiquette was suspended; even the approach of the emperor for the time being was to be ignored. Those who were lying down were to remain lying, those who were sitting were to keep their seats.

Meanwhile Joseph walked daily through the hospitals, bestowing care and kindness upon all, and no man there remarked that the deadly malaria had affected him in an equal degree with his troops. Heat, hardships, and disappointment had done their work as effectually upon the commander-in-chief as upon the common soldier; but no one suspected that fever was consuming his life; for by day, Joseph was the Providence of his army, and by night, while his men were sleeping, he was attending to the affairs of his vast empire. He worked as assiduously in camp as he had ever done at home in his palace. Every important measure of the regency was submitted to him for approval; the heads of the several departments of state were required to send him their reports; and many a night, surrounded by heaps of dispatches, he sat at his little table, in the swampy woods, whose noxious atmosphere was fitter for the snakes that infested them than for human beings of whatever condition in life. [In the archives of Vienna is preserved a dispatch of Joseph, written in the open woods on the night before the taking of Sabacz.—Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 464.]

One little ray of light relieved the darkness of this gloomy period. This was the taking of the fortress of Sabacz where Joseph led the assault in person. Three cannoneers were shot by his side, and their blood bespattered his face and breast. But in the midst of danger he remained perfectly composed, and for many a day his countenance had not beamed with an expression of such animated delight. This success, however, was no more than a lightning-flash relieving the darkness of a tempestuous night. The fortress won, the Austrians went back to their miserable encampment in the sickly morasses of Siebenburgen.

Suddenly the stagnant quiet was broken by the announcement that the Turks had crossed the Danube. This aroused the army from their sullen stupor, and Joseph, as if freed from an incubus, joyfully prepared himself for action.

The trumpet's shrill call was heard in the camp, and the army commenced their march. They had advanced but a few miles when they were met by several panic-stricken regiments, who announced that the Austrian lines had been broken in two places, that General Papilla had been forced to retreat, and that the victorious Turks were pouring their vast hordes into Hungary.

Like wildfire the tidings spread through the army, and they, too, began their retreat, farther and yet farther back; for, ever as they moved, they were lighted on their way by the burning villages and towns that were the tokens of a barbarous enemy's approach. The homeless fugitives, too, rent the air with their cries, and clamored for protection against the cruel infidel.

No protection could they find, for the Austrians were too few in number to confront the devastating hosts of the invading army. They were still compelled to retreat as far as the town of Lugos, where at last they might rest from the dreadful fatigues of this humiliating flight. With inexpressible relief, the soldiers sought repose. They were ordered, however, to sleep on their arms, so that the artilleryman was by his cannon, the mounted soldier near his horse, and the infantry, clasping their muskets, lay in long rows together, all forgetting every thing save the inestimable blessing of stretching their limbs and wooing sleep.

The mild summer moon looked down upon their rest, and the emperor, as he made a last tour of inspection to satisfy himself that all lights were extinguished, rejoiced to think that the Turks were far away, and his tired Austrians could sleep secure.

Joseph returned to his tent, that is, his caleche. He, too, was exhausted, and closed his eves with a sense of delicious languor. The night air, blowing about his temples, refreshed his fevered brow, and he gave himself up to dreams such as are inspired by the silvered atmosphere, when the moon, in her pearly splendor, looks down upon the troubled earth, and hushes it to repose.

The emperor, however, did not sleep. For a while, he lay with closed eyes, and then, raising himself, looked up toward the heavens. Gradually the sky darkened; cloud met cloud and obscured the moon's disk, until at last the firmament was clothed in impenetrable blackness. The emperor, with a sad smile, thought how like the scene had been to the panorama of his life, wherein every star had set, and whence every ray of light had fled forever!

He dreamed on, while his tired men slept. Not all, however, for, far toward the left wing of the army, a band of hussars were encamped around a wagon laden with brandy, and, having much more confidence in the restorative powers of liquor than of sleep, they had been invigorating themselves with deep potations. Another company of soldiers in their neighborhood, awakened by the noisy mirth of the hussars, came forward to claim their share of the brandy. It was refused, and a brawl ensued, in which the assailants were repulsed.

The hussars, having driven them from the field, proceeded to celebrate their victory by renewed libations, until finally, in a state of complete inebriation, they fell to the ground, and there slept the sleep of the intoxicated.

The men who had been prevented from participating in these drunken revels resolved to revenge themselves by a trick. They crept stealthily up to the spot where the hussars were lying, and, firing off their muskets, cried out, "The Turks! the Turks!"

Stupefied by liquor, the sleepers sprang up, repeating the cry. It was caught and echoed from man to man, while the hussars, with unsheathed sabres, ran wildly about, until hundreds and hundreds were awakened, each one echoing the fearful words—

"The Turks! the Turks!"

"Halt! halt!" cried a voice to the terrified soldiers. "Halt, men, halt!"

The bewildered ears mistook the command for the battle-cry of the Turks, "Allah! Allah!" and the panic increased tenfold. "We are surrounded!" shrieked the terror-stricken Austrians, and every sabre was drawn, and every musket cocked. The struggle began; and the screams of the combatants, the groans of the wounded, the sighs of the dying filled the air, while comrade against comrade, brother against brother, stood in mortal strife and slew each other for the unbelieving Turk.

The calamity was irretrievable. The darkness of the night deceived every man in that army, not one of whom doubted that the enemy was there. Some of the terrified soldiers fled back to their camps, and, even there, mistaken for Turks, they were assaulted with sabre and musket, and frightful was the carnage that ensued!

In vain the officers attempted to restore discipline. There was no more reason in those maddened human beings than in the raging waves of the ocean—The emperor, at the first alarm, had driven in his caleche to the place whence the sound seemed to come.

But what to a panic-stricken multitude was the voice of their emperor? Ball after ball whistled past his ears, while he vainly strove to make them understand that they were each one slaying his brother! And the night was so hideous, so relentless in its darkness! Not one star glimmered upon the face of the frightful pall above—the stars would not look upon that fratricidal stuggle!

The fugitives and their infuriated pursuers pressed toward a little bridge which spanned a stream near the encampment. The emperor drove rapidly around, and reached the banks of the river before them, hoping thence to be heard by his men, and to convince them that no Turks were by.

But they heeded the sound of his voice no more than the sea heeded that of the royal Canute. Trey precipitated themselves toward the bridge, driving the carriage of the emperor before them to the very edge of the steep river-bank. It wavered; they pushed against it with the butt-ends of their muskets. They saw nothing—they knew nothing save that the carriage impeded their flight!

It fell, rumbling down the precipice into the deep waters which bubbled and hissed and then closed over it forever. No man heeded its fall. Not one of all that crowd, which oft had grown hoarse with shouts at his coming, paused to save the emperor from destruction. But he, calm and courageous, although at that moment he could have parted with life without a sigh, had made a desperate spring backward, and had alighted on the ground.

When he recovered from the violence of the fall, he found himself unhurt, but alone. Not one of his suite was to be seen; in the mad rush of the men for the crossing, they had been parted from him. The little rustic bridge bad fallen in, and those who remained behind had rushed with frantic yells in search of some other crossing. The emperor could hear their cries in the distance, and they filled his heart with anguish inexpressible.

With desponding eyes he gazed upward, and murmured, "Oh, that I could die before the sun rises upon the horrors of this night My soul is weary—my every hope dead. Why did I turn back when death was smiling from the crystal depths of that placid stream? Even now, I may still find rest. Who will ever know how the emperor met his fate?" He paused, and looked around to see if any thing was nigh. Nothing! He made one step forward, then shuddering, recoiled with an exclamation of horror at his miserable cowardice.

"No!" cried he, resolutely, "no, I will not die—I must not, dare not die. I cannot go to the grave misjudged and calumniated by my own subjects! I must live, that, sooner or later, they may learn how faithfully I have striven to make them happy! I must live to convince them that the promotion of their welfare has been the end and aim of my whole life!" [Footnote: The emperor's own words.—Hubner, ii., p. 488.]

At that moment there was a rent in the blackened firmament, and the moon emerged, gradually lighting up the dark waters and the lonely woods, until its beams shone full upon the pale, agitated features of that broken-hearted monarch.

"The emperor!" cried a loud voice, not far away. "The emperor!" and a rider, galloping forward, threw himself from his horse.

"Here, your majesty, here is my horse. Mount him. He is a sure and fleet animal."

"You know me, then?" asked Joseph.

"Yes, sire; I am one of your majesty's grooms. Will you do me the honor to accept my horse?"

The emperor replied by swinging himself into the saddle. "But you, my good fellow, what will you do?"

"I shall accompany your majesty," replied the groom, cheerfully. "There is many a horse seeking its master to-night, and it will not be long before i capture one. If it please your majesty, I will conduct you to Karansches. The moon has come out beautifully, and I can easily find the way."

"I have found MY way," murmured the emperor to himself. "God has pointed it out to me, by sending help in this dark, lonely hour. Well, life has called me back, and I must bear its burdens until Heaven releases me."

Just then a horse cane by, at full speed. The groom, who was walking by the emperor's side, darted forward, seized the reins, and swung himself triumphantly into the saddle.

"Now, sire," said he, "we can travel lustily ahead. We are on the right road, and in one hour will reach Karansebes."

"Karansebes!" mused the emperor. "'Cara mini sedes!' Thus sang Ovid, and from his ode a city took her name—the city where the poet found his grave. A stately monument to Ovid is Karansebes; and now a lonely, heart-sick monarch is coming to make a pilgrimage thither, craving of Ovid's tomb the boon of a resting-place for his weary head. Oh, Cara mihi sedes, where art thou?"

In the gray of the morning they reached Karansebes. Here they found some few of the regiments, the emperor's suite, and his beloved nephew Franz, who, like his uncle, had been almost hurried to destruction by the hapless army, but had been rescued by his bold and faithful followers. They had shielded the archduke with their own bodies, forming a square around his person, and escorting him, so guarded, until they had penetrated the dangerous ranks of the demented fugitives. [Footnote: Hubner, ii:, p. 477.]

All danger was past, but the events of that night were too much for the exhausted frame of the emperor. The fever, with which he had wrestled so long, now mastered his body with such violence that he was no longer able to mount his horse. Added to this, came a blow to his heart. The army refused to follow him any longer. They called loudly for Loudon, the old hero, who, in spite of his years, was the only man in Austria who would lead them to victory.

The emperor, stung to the soul by the mistrust of his men, gave up his last hope of military glory. He sent for Loudon; and Loudon, despite his infirmities, came at the summons.

The old hero was received with shouts of welcome. The huzzas reached the poor, mean room where Joseph lay sick with a burning fever. He listened with a sad smile, but his courage gave way, and scalding tears of disappointed ambition moistened his pillow. "Loudon has come," thought he, "and the emperor is forgotten! No one cares for him more!—Well—I must return to Vienna, and pray that the victory and fame, which have been denied to me, may be vouchsafed to Loudon!"



CHAPTER CLXXIV.

THE HUNGARIANS AGAIN.

Destiny had broken the emperor's heart. He returned from the army seriously ill, and although he had apparently recuperated during the winter, the close of the year found him beyond all hope of recovery.

Even the joyful intelligence of Loudon's victories was powerless to restore him to health. Loudon had won several battles, and had accomplished that for which Joseph had undertaken the war with Turkey. He had once more raised the Austrian flag over the towers of Belgrade. [Footnote: The conquest of Belgrade was accompanied by singular coincidences. The Emperor Francis (the husband of Maria Theresa) had been in command when, in 1739, the Turks took it from Austria. His grandson, Francis, with his own hand fired the first gun, when it was retaken by Loudon. In 1789 General Wallace surrendered the fortress to Osman Pacha. In 1789 Osman Pacha, the son of the latter, surrendered it to General (afterward Field-Marshal) Wallace, son of the former.—Hubner, ii., p. 492.]

Vienna received these tidings with every demonstration of joy. The city was illuminated for three days, and the emperor shared the enthusiasm of the people. He took from his state-uniform the magnificent cross of Maria Theresa—the cross which none but an emperor had ever worn—and sent it to London with the title and patent of generalissimo. [Footnote: This cross was worth 24,000 ducats.—Gross-Hotfinger, iii., p. 500.] He attended the Te Deum, and to all appearances was as elated as his subjects. But once alone with Lacy, the mask fell, and the smile faded from his colorless lips.

"Lacy," said he, "I would have bought these last superfluous laurels of Loudon with my life. But for me no laurels have ever grown; the cypress is my emblem—the emblem of grief."

He was right. Discontent reigned in Hungary, in the Netherlands, and latterly in Tyrol. On every side were murmurs and threats of rebellion against him who would have devoted every hour of his life to the enlightenment of his subjects. All Belgium had taken up arms. The imperial troops had joined the insurgents, and now a formidable army threatened the emperor. Van der Noot, the leader of the revolt, published a manifesto, declaring Belgium independent of the Austrian empire. The insurgents numbered ten thousand. They were headed by the nobles and sustained by the clergy. Masses were said for the success of the rebels, and requiems were sung for those who fell in battle or otherwise. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 289.] The cities of Brussels, Antwerp, Louvain, Mechlin, and Namur, opened their doors to the patriots. The Austrian General D'Alton fled with his troops to Luxemburg, and three millions of florins, belonging to the military coffers, fell into the hands of the insurgents. [Footnote: D'Alton was cited before the emperor, but on his way to Vienna he took poison and died four days before Joseph.]

Such was the condition of the Austrian empire toward the close of the year 1789. The emperor resolved to make one more attempt to bring the Belgians to reason, and to this end he sent Count Cobenzl to Brussels, and, after him, Prince de Ligne.

The prince came to take leave of the emperor. "I send you as a mediator between myself and your countrymen," said Joseph, with a languid smile. "Prove to those so-called patriots that you, who endeavor to reconcile them to their sovereign, are the only Belgian of them all who possesses true patriotism."

"Sire, I shall say to my misguided countrymen that I have seen your majesty weep over their disloyalty. I shall tell them that it is not anger which they have provoked in your majesty's heart, but sorrow."

"Yes," replied Joseph, "I sorrow for their infatuation, and they are fast sending me to the grave. The taking of Ghent was my death-struggle, the evacuation of Brussels my last expiring sigh. Oh!" continued he, in tones of extreme anguish—"oh, what humiliation! I shall surely die of it! I were of stone, to survive so many blows from the hand of fate! Go, De Ligne, and do your best to induce your countrymen to return to their allegiance. Should you fail; dear friend, remain there. Do not sacrifice your future to me, for you have children." [Footnote: The emperor's own words—"Envres du Prince de Ligne,"]

"Yes, sire," replied De Ligne, with emotion, "I have children, but they are not dearer to me than my sovereign. And now, with your majesty's permission, I will withdraw, for the hour of my departure is at hand. I do not despair of success. Farewell, sire, for a while."

"Farewell forever!" murmured Joseph, as the door closed behind the prince. "Death is not far off, and I have so much to do!"

He arose hastily from his arm-chair, and opening the door that led into the chancery, called his three secretaries.

"Let us to work," said he, as they entered.

"Sire," replied one of them, in faltering tones, "Herr von Quarin desired us, in his name, to implore of your majesty to rest for a few days."

"I cannot do it," said Joseph, impatiently. "If I postpone this writing another day, it may never be accomplished at all. Give in your reports. What dispatches have we from Hungary?"

"They are most unsatisfactory, sire. The landed proprietors have refused to contribute their share of the imposts, and the people rebel against the conscription-act, and threaten the officers of the crown with death."

"Revolt, revolt everywhere!" exclaimed the emperor, shuddering. "But I will not yield; they shall all submit!"

The door of the cabinet opened, and the marshal of the household entered, announcing a deputation of Magyars.

"A deputation! From whom?" asked Joseph, eagerly.

"I do not know, sire, but Count Palfy is one of the deputies."

"Count Palfy again!" cried the emperor, scornfully. "When the Hungarians have a sinister message to send, they are sure to select Count Palfy as their ambassador. Show them to the reception-room which opens into my cabinet, count. I will see them there."

He dismissed the secretaries, and rang for his valet. He could scarcely stand, while Gunther was assisting him to change his dressing-gown for his uniform. [Footnote: This was the brother of him who was the lover of Rachel.] His toilet over, he was obliged to lean upon the valet for support, for his limbs were almost failing him.

"Oh!" cried he, bitterly, "how it will rejoice them to see me so weak and sick! They will go home and tell their Hungarians that there is no strength left in me to fight with traitors! But they shall not know it. I will be the emperor, if my life pay the forfeit of the exertion. Lead me to the door, Gunther. I will lean against one of the pillars, and stand while I give audience to the Magyars."

Gunther supported him tenderly to the door, and then threw it wide open. In the reception-room stood the twelve deputies, not in court-dress, but in the resplendent costume of their own nation. They were the same men who, several years before, had appeared before the emperor, and Count Palfy, the Chancellor of Hungary, was the first one to advance.

The emperor bent his head, and eyed his visitors.

"If I am not mistaken," said he, "these are the same gentlemen who appeared here as Hungarian deputies several years ago."

"Yes, sire, we are the same men," replied Count Palfy.

"Why are you here again?"

"To repeat our remonstrances, sire. The kingdom of Hungary has chosen the same representatives, that your majesty may see how unalterable is our determination to defend our rights with our lives. Hungary has not changed her attitude, sire, and she will never change it."

"Nor shall I ever change mine," cried Joseph, passionately.

"My will to-day is the same as it was six years ago."

"Then, sire, you must expect an uprising of the whole Hungarian nation," returned Count Palfy, gravely. "For the last time we implore your majesty to restore us our rights."

"What do you call your rights?" asked Joseph, sarcastically.

"All that for centuries past has been guaranteed to us by our constitution; all that each king of Hungary, as he came to the throne, has sworn to preserve inviolate. Sire, we will not become an Austrian province; we are Hungarians, and are resolved to retain our nationality. The integrity of Hungary is sorely threatened; and if your majesty refuse to rescue it, we must ourselves hasten to the rescue. Not only our liberties are menaced, but our moneyed interests too. Hungary is on the road to ruin, if your majesty does not consent to revoke your arbitrary laws, or—"

"Or?"—asked Joseph, as Palfy hesitated.

"On the road to revolution," replied the deputy firmly.

"You presume to threaten me!" cried Joseph, in a loud voice.

"I dare deliver the message intrusted to me, and, had I been too weak to speak it, intrusted to those who accompany me. Is it not so, Magyars?"

"It is, it is," cried all, unanimously.

"Sire, I repeat to you that Hungary is advancing either toward ruin or revolution. Like the Netherlanders, we will defend our constitution or die with it. Oh, your majesty, all can yet be remedied! Call a convention of the states—return the crown of St. Stephen, and come to Hungary to take the coronation oath. Then you will see how gladly we shall swear allegiance to our king, and how cheerfully we will die for him, as our fathers did before us, in defence of the empress-queen, his mother."

"Give us our constitution, and we will die for our king!" cried the Magyars in chorus.

"Yes, humble myself before you!" exclaimed Joseph, furiously.

"You would have the sovereign bow before the will of his vassals!"

"No, sire," returned Count Palfy, with feeling. "We would have your majesty adopt the only means by which Hungary can be retained to the Austrian empire. If you refuse to hear us, we rise, as one man, to defend our country. We swear it in the name of the Hungarian nation!"

"We swear it in the name of the Hungarian nation!" echoed the Magyars.

"And I," replied Joseph, pale and trembling with passion, "I swear it in the name of my dignity as your sovereign, that I never will yield to men who defy me, nor will I ever forgive those who, by treasonable importunity, have sought to wring from me what I have not thought it expedient to grant to respectful expostulation!"

"Sire, if you would give this proof of love to your subjects, if, for their sakes, you would condescend to forget your imperial station, you cannot conceive what enthusiasm of loyalty would be your return for this concession. In mortal anxiety we await your final answer, and await it until to-morrow at this hour."

"Ah!—you are so magnanimous as to grant me a short reprieve!" shouted the infuriated emperor, losing all command of himself. "You—"

Suddenly he ceased, and became very pale. He was sensible that he had burst a blood-vessel, and he felt the warm stream of his life welling upward, until it moistened his pallid lips. With a hasty movement he drew out his handkerchief, held it for a moment before his mouth, and then replaced it quickly in his bosom. Large drops of cold sweat stood out from his brow, and the light faded from his eyes. But these haughty Magyars should not see him fall! They should not enjoy the sight of his sufferings!

With one last desperate effort he collected his expiring energies, and stood erect.

"Go," said he, in firm, distinct tones; "you have stated your grievances, you shall have my answer to-morrow."

"We await your majesty until to-morrow at noon," returned Count Palfy. "Then we go, never to return."

"Go!" cried the emperor, in a piercing voice; and the exasperated Magyars mistook this last cry of agony for the culmination of his wrath. They bowed in sullen silence, and left the room.

The emperor reeled back to his cabinet, and fell into a chair. He reached the bell, and rang it feebly.

"Gunther," said he to his valet, and now his voice was hardly audible, "send a carriage for Quarin. I must see him at once."



CHAPTER CLXXV.

THE REVOCATION.

When Quarin entered the emperor's cabinet, he found him quietly seated before his escritoire half buried in documents: The physician remained standing at the door, waiting until he should be ordered to approach.

Suddenly Joseph was interrupted in his writing by a spell of coughing. He dropped his pen, and leaned back exhausted. Quarin hastened to his side.

"Your majesty must not write," said he, gravely. "You must lay aside all work for a time."

"I believe that I shall have to lay it aside forever," replied Joseph, languidly. "I sent for you to say that I have a lawsuit with my lungs, and you must tell me which of us is to gain it." [Footnote: Joseph's own words.—"Characteristics of Joseph II." p. 14]

"What am I to tell your majesty?" asked the physician, disturbed.

The emperor looked up with eyes which glowed with the flaming light of fever. "Quarin, you understand me perfectly. You must tell me, in regard to this lawsuit with my lungs, which is to gain it, myself or death? Here is my evidence."

With these words he drew out his handkerchief and held it open between his wan, transparent hands. It was dyed in blood.

"Blood!" exclaimed Quarin, in a tone of alarm. "Your majesty has received a wound?"

"Yes, an interior wound. The Hungarians have dealt me my death-blow. This blood is welling up from a wounded heart. Do not look so mournful, doctor. Let us speak of death as man to man. Look at me now, and say whether my malady is incurable."

"Why should it be incurable?" asked the physician, faltering. "You are young, sire, and have a sound constitution."

"No commonplaces, Quarin, no equivocation," cried Joseph, impatiently. "I must have the truth, do you hear me?—the truth. I cannot afford to be surprised by death, for I must provide for a nation, and my house must be set in order. I am not afraid of death, my friend; it comes to me in the smiling guise of a liberator. Therefore be frank, and tell the at once whether my malady is dangerous."

Again he raised his large, brilliant eyes to the face of the physician. Quarin's features were convulsed with distress, and tears stood in his eyes. His voice was very tremulous as he replied

"Yes, sire, it is dangerous."

The emperor's countentance remained perfectly calm. "Can you tell me with any degree of precision how long I have to live?"

"No, sire; you may live yet for several weeks, or some excitement may put an end to your existence in a few days. In this malady the patient must be prepared at any moment for death."

"Then it is incurable?"

"Yes, sire," faltered Quarin, his tears bursting forth afresh.

The emperor looked thoughtfully before him, and for some time kept silence. Then extending his hand with a smile, he said,

"From my soul I thank you for the manly frankness with which you have treated me, Quarin, and I desire now to give you a testimony of my gratitude. You have children, have you not?"

"Yes, sire—two daughters."

"And you are not rich, I believe?"

"The salary which I receive from your majesty, united to my practice, affords us a comfortable independence."

The emperor nodded. "You must do a little commission for me," said he, turning to the escritoire and writing a few lines, which he presented to Quarin.

"Take this paper to the court chancery and present it to the bureau of finances. You will there receive ten thousand florins wherewith to portion your daughters."

"Oh, sire!" exclaimed Quarin, deeply moved, "I thank you with all the strength of my paternal heart."

"No," replied Joseph, gently, "it is my duty to reward merit. [Footnote: These are the emperor's words. This scene is historical.—Hubner. ii., p. 496.] In addition to this, I would wish to leave you a personal souvenir of my friendship. I bestow upon you, as a last token of my affection, the title of freiherr, and I will take out the patent for you myself. Not a word, dear friend, not a word! Leave me now, for I must work diligently. Since my hours are numbered, I must make the most of them. Farewell! Who knows how soon I may have to recall you here?"

The physician kissed the emperor's hand with fervor, and turned hastily away. Joseph sank back in the chair. His large eyes were raised to heaven, and his wan face beamed with something brighter than resignation.

At that moment the door of the chancery was opened, and the first privy-councillor came hastily forward.

"What is it?" said Joseph, with a slight start.

"Sire, two couriers have just arrived. The first is from the Count Cobenzl. He announces that all Belgium, with the exception of Luxemburg, is in the hands of the patriots; that Van der Noot has called a convention of the United Provinces, which has declared Belgium a republic; her independence is to be guaranteed by England, Prussia, and Holland. Count Cobenzl is urgent in his request for instructions. He is totally at a loss what to do."

The emperor had listened with mournful tranquillity. "And the second courier?" said he.

"The second courier, sire, comes from the imperial stadtholder of Tyrol."

"What says he?"

"He brings evil tidings, sire. The people have rebelled, and cry out against the conscription and the church reforms. Unless these laws are repealed, there is danger of revolution."

The emperor uttered a piercing cry, and pressed his hands to his breast. "It is nothing," said he, in reply to the anxious and alarmed looks of the privy-councillor. "A momentary pang, which has already passed away—nothing more. Continue your report."

"This is all, your majesty. The stadtholder entreats you to quiet this rebellion and—"

"And to revoke my decrees, is it not so? The same croaking which for eight years has been dinned into my ears. Well—I must have time to reflect, and as soon as I shall have determined upon my course of action, you shall learn my decision."

"Rebellion in Tyrol, in Hnngary, in the Netherlands!" murmured the emperor, when he found himself alone. "From every side I hear my death-knell! My people would bury me ere I have drawn my last sigh. My great ancestor, Charles, stood beside his open grave, and voluntarily contemplated his last resting-place; but I! unhappy monarch, am forced into mine by the ingratitude of a people for whom alone I leave lived! Is it indeed so? Must I die with the mournful conviction that I have lived in vain? O my God, what excess of humiliation Thou hast forced upon me! And what have I done to deserve such a fate? Wherein have I sinned, that my imperial crown should have been lined with so many cruel thorns? Is there no remedy? must I drink this last bitter chalice? Must I revoke that which I have published to the world as my sovereign will?"

He ceased, and folding his arms, faced his difficult position. For one hour he sat motionless, his face grooving gradually paler, his brow darker, his lips more rigidly compressed together.

At length he heaved one long, convulsive sigh. "No—there is no other remedy. I have toiled in vain—my beautiful structure has fallen, and my grave is under its ruins! O my God, why may I not have a few months more of life, wherewith to crush these aspiring rebels? But no!. I must die now, and leave them to triumph over my defeat; for I dare not leave to my successor the accursed inheritance of civil war. To the last hour of my life I must humble my will before the decree of that cruel destiny which has persecuted me from boyhood! Be it so!—I must clutch at the remedy—the fearful remedy—I must revoke!"

He shuddered, and covered his face with his hands. There had been one struggle with his will, there was now another with his despair. He moaned aloud—scalding tears trickled through his poor, wasted fingers, and his whole being bowed before the supremacy of this last great sorrow. Once—only once, he uttered a sharp cry, and for a moment his convulsed countenance was raised to heaven. Then his head fell upon the table, and his wretchedness found vent in low, heart-rending sobs.

And thus he spent another long hour. Finally he looked up to heaven and tried to murmur a few words of resignation. But the spectre of his useless strivings still haunted his mind. "All my plans to be buried in the grave—not one trace of my reign left to posterity!" sighed the unhappy monarch. "But enough of repining. I have resolved to make the sacrifice—it is time to act!"

He clutched his bell, and ordered a page to summon the privy-councillor from the adjoining room.

"Now," said the emperor, "let us work. My hand is too tremulous to hold a pen; you must write for me.—First, in regard to Hungary. Draw up a manifesto, in which I restore their constitution in all its integrity."

He paused for a few moments, and wiped the large drops of cold sweat which were gathering over his forehead. "Do you hear?" continued he; "I revoke all my laws except one, and that is, the edict of religious toleration. I promise to convoke the imperial diet, and to replace the administration of justice upon its old footing. I repeal the laws relating to taxes and conscription, I order the Hungarian crown to be returned to Ofen, and, as soon as I shall have recovered from my illness, I promise to take the coronation-oath. [Footnote: This is the revocation edict, which, promulgated a few weeks before the death of Joseph, caused such astonishment throughout Europe—Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p. 290.] Write this out and bring it to me for signature. Then deliver it into the hands A Count Palfy. He will publish it to the Hungarians.

"So much for Hungary!—Now for Tyrol. Draw up a second manifesto. I repeal the conscription-act, as well as all my reforms with respect to the church. When this is ready, bring it to me for signature; and dispatch a courier with it to the imperial stadtholder. Having satisfied the exactions of Hungary and Tyrol, it remains to restore order in the Netherlands. But there, matters are more complicated, and I fear that no concession on my part will avail at this late hour. I must trample my personal pride in the dust, then, and humble myself before the pope! Yes—before the pope! I will write, requesting him to act as mediator, and beg his holiness to admonish the clergy to make peace with me. [Footnote: Gross-Hoffinger, iii., p.379] Why do you look so sad, my friend? I am making my peace with the world; I am drawing a pen across the events of my life and blotting out my reforms with ink. Make out these documents at once, and send me a courier for Rome. Meanwhile I will write to the pope. Appearing before him as a petitioner, it is incumbent upon me to send an autographic letter. Return to me in an hour."

When, one hour later, the privy-councillor re-entered the cabinet, the letter to the pope lay folded and addressed on the table. But this last humiliation had been too much for the proud spirit of the emperor to brook.

He lay insensible in his chair, a stream of blood oozing slowly from his ghastly lips.



CHAPTER CLXXVI.

THE DEATH OF THE MARTYR.

He had made his peace with the world and with God! He had taken leave of his family, his friends, and his attendants. He had made his last confession, and had received the sacraments of the church.

His struggles were at an end. All sorrow overcome, he lay happy and tranquil on his death-bed, no more word of complaint passing the lips which had been consecrated to the Lord. He comforted his weeping relatives, and had a word of affectionate greeting for every one who approached him. With his own feeble hand he wrote farewell letters to his absent sisters, to Prince Kaunitz, and to several ladies for whom he had an especial regard; and on the seventeenth of February signed his name eighty times.

He felt that his end was very near; and when Lacy and Rosenberg, who were to pass the night with him, entered his bedchamber, he signed them to approach.

"It will soon be over," whispered he. "The lamp will shortly be extinguished. Hush! do not weep—you grieve me. Let us part from each other with fortitude."

"Alas, how can we part with fortitude, when our parting is for life!" said Lacy.

The emperor raised his eyes, and looked thoughtfully un to heaven. "We shall meet again," said he, after a pause. "I believe in another and a better world, where I shall find compensation for all that I have endured here below."

"And where punishment awaits those who have been the cause of your sorrows," returned Rosenberg.

"I have forgiven them all," said the dying monarch. "There is no room in my heart for resentment, dear friends. I have honestly striven to make my subjects happy, and feel no animosity toward them for refusing the boon I proffered. I should like to have inscribed upon my tomb, 'Here lies a prince whose intentions were pure, but who was so unfortunate as to fail in every honest undertaking of his life.' Oh, how mistaken was the poet, who wrote,

'Et du trone au cerenell le passage est terrible!'

"I do not deplore the loss of my throne, but I feel some, lingering regret that I should have made so few of my fellow-beings happy—so many of them ungrateful. This, however, is the usual lot of princes!" [Footnote: The emperor's own words.—"Characteristics of Joseph II.," p. 23.]

"It is the lot of all those who are too enlightened for their times! It is the lot of all great men who would elevate and ennoble the masses!" cried Lacy. "It is the fate of greatness to be the martyr of stupidity, bigotry, and malice!"

"Yes, that is the word," said Joseph, smiling. "I am a martyr, but nobody will honor my relics."

"Yes, beloved sovereign," cried Rosenberg, weeping, "your majesty's love we shall bear about our hearts, as the devotee wears the relic of a marytred saint."

"Do not weep so," said Joseph. "We have spent so many happy days together, that we must pass the few fleeting hours remaining to us in rational intercourse. Show me a cheerful countenance, Rosenberg—you from whose hands I received my last cup of earthly comfort. What blessed tidings you brought me! My sweet Elizabeth is a mother, and I shall carry the consciousness of her happiness to the grave. I shall die with ONE joy at my heart—a beautiful hope shall blossom as I fall!—Elizabeth is your future empress; love her for my sake; you know how unspeakably dear she is to me. And, now that I think of it, I have not heard from her since this morning. How is she?"

The two friends were silent, and cast down their eves.

"Lacy!" cried the emperor, and over his inspired features there passed a shade of human sorrow. "Lacy, speak—you are silent—O God, what has happened? Rosenberg, tell me, oh tell me, how is my Elizabeth, my darling daughter?"

So great were his anxiety and distress, that he half rose in his bed. They would not meet his glance, but Rosenberg in a low voice replied:

"The archduchess is very sick. The labor was long and painful."

"Ah, she is dead!" exclaimed Joseph, "she is dead, is she not?"

Neither of his weeping friends spoke a word, but the emperor comprehended their silence.

Falling back upon his pillow, he raised his wasted arms to heaven. —"O God, Thy will be done! but my sufferings are beyond expression! I thought that I had outlived sorrow: but the stroke which has come to imbitter my last moments exceeds all that I have endured throughout a life of uncheckered misery!" [Footnote: The emperor's own words.]

For a long time he lay cold and rigid. Then raising himself upon his arm, he signed to Rosenberg to approach. His eyes beamed as of erst, and his whole demeanor was that of a sovereign who had learned, above all things, to control himself.

"She must be buried with all the tenderness and honor of which she was deserving," said he. "Rosenberg, will you attend to this for me? Let her body be exposed in the court-chapel to-morrow. After that, lay her to rest in the imperial vaults, and let the chapel be in readiness to receive my own remains." [Footnote: Joseph's own words.—See Hubner, ii., p. 491.]

This was the last command given by the emperor. From that hour he was nothing more than a poor, dying mortal, whose last thoughts are devoted to his Maker. He sent for his confessor, and asked him to read something appropriate and consolatory. With folded hands, his large violet eyes reverently raised to heaven, he listened to the holy scriptural words. Suddenly his countenance brightened, and his lips moved.

"Now here remain faith, hope, and love," read the priest.

The emperor repeated the three last words, "faith—hope" and when he pronounced the word "love," his face was illumined with a joy which had its source far, far away from earth!

Then all was silent. The prayer was over, and the dying emperor lay motionless, with his hands folded upon his breast.

Presently his feeble voice was heard in prayer. "Father, Thou knowest my heart—Thou art my witness, that I meant—to do—well Thy will be done!" [Footnote: Ramshorn, p. 410]

Then all was still. Weeping around the bed stood Lacy, Rosenberg, and the Archduke Francis. The emperor looked at them with staring eyes, but he recognized them no longer. Those beautiful eves were dimmed forever!

Suddenly the silence was broken by a long, long sigh.

It was the death-sigh of JOSEPH THE SECOND!

Joseph died on the 20th of February, 1790. But his spirit outlived him and survives to the present day. His subjects, who had so misjudged him, deplored his loss, and felt how dear he had been to them. Now that he was dead—now that they had broken his heart, they grieved and wept for him. Poets sang his praises in eulogies, and wrote epitaphs laudatory of him who may be considered the great martyr of political and social enlightenment

THE END