CHAPTER III.
BARON VON KOLBIELSKY.
Leonore had accompanied her father into the anteroom and listened in breathless silence to his departing footsteps.
Then, rushing to the window, she threw it open and gazed down into the street. Yes, she saw him enter a carriage and drive off in it, turning once to nod to her.
With a sigh of relief she went back to her boudoir. Her whole being seemed transformed. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, and a happy smile hovered around her lips as she glanced at the clock.
"Twelve!" she cried joyously, "twelve! He will come! I shall see him again. Ah, there he is! There he is!"
She darted to the door to open it. She had not been mistaken. He was there, the man whom she expected. With a cry of joy he opened his arms, and she threw herself into them, clasping her arms around his neck, and laid her head upon his breast.
"Welcome, my beloved one, welcome! Oh, how delightful it is to rest upon your breast!"
"And what happiness to clasp you in my arms, Leonore! Raise your head, my sweet love; let me see your beautiful face and sun myself in your eyes."
She lifted her face to his, gazing at him with a happy smile. "I see myself in your eyes, dearest."
"And you would see yourself in my heart also, if you could look into it, Leonore. But come, my queen, sit down and let me rest at your feet and look up to you as I always do in spirit."
He accompanied her to the divan and pressed her down upon the silken cushions. Then, reclining at her feet, he laid his clasped hands in her lap and resting his chin upon them, gazed up at her.
"Do you really love me, Leonore? Can you, the proud, petted, much courted Baroness de Simonie, really love the poor adventurer, who has nothing, is nothing, calls nothing his own, not even his heart, for that belongs to you."
"I love you, because you are what you are," she said, smiling, stroking his black hair lightly with her little white hand.
"I love you because you are different from every one else; because what attracts others does not charm you; what terrifies others does not intimidate you; I love you precisely because you are the poor adventurer you call yourself. Thank heaven that you are no sensible, prudent, deliberate gentleman, who longs for titles and orders, for money and position, but the clever adventurer who calls nothing his own save his honor, seeks nothing save peril, loves nothing save—"
"Loves nothing save Leonore," he ardently interrupted. "Believe me, it is so! I love nothing save you, and, until I knew you, I did not know even love, only hate."
"Hate?" she asked, smiling. "And whom did you hate, my loved one?"
"The foes of my native land," he cried, while a dark, angry flush swept over his handsome, expressive face, and his dark eyes flashed more brightly.
"The foes of your native land?" she repeated, smiling. "And who are these hated foes?"
"The Prussians and the Emperor Napoleon. It was the Prussians who first dismembered my hapless country. Oh, I was but a little boy when the Empress Catharine and King Frederick stole the fairest portions of hapless Poland. I did not understand my mother's tears, my father's execrations, but as my father commanded me, I laid my hand upon the Bible and vowed eternal, inextinguishable hatred of the Prussians. And the boy's vow has been kept by the man. I have struggled ceaselessly against these ambitious land-greedy, avaricious Prussians; fought with my tongue, my sword, and my pen. And when at last, at Jena, they were vanquished and forced to bow to the very dust, I exulted, for their defeat was Poland's vengeance. God was requiting the wrong they had done to Poland. Since then I have no longer hated the Prussians, but I despise them."
"And whom do you hate now?" she asked, gazing lovingly at him with her large, dreamy eyes.
"Him, the traitor, the actor, and liar, the Emperor Napoleon!" he cried, starting up and pacing excitedly to and fro. "Ah, Leonore, why did you lay your hand upon the great, ever-aching wound in my heart? Why did you ask about my hate when I wished to speak to you only of my love? Why do you wish to see that my heart is bleeding when you ought only to know that it exults in love? Yet perhaps it is better so; better that you should behold it wholly without disguise; that you should know it not only loves, but hates. Leonore, all my love is yours, all my hate Napoleon's. I came to Vienna by the behest of my hate, and for the first time, I found here what I had never known—love. Hitherto my heart had belonged to my native land, now it is yours, Leonore. The poor adventurer, who, under manifold forms, in manifold disguises, under many names, had wandered through the world, always in the service of his native land and vengeance, has now found a home at your feet, and it sometimes happens that he forgets grief for his country in the joy of his love. And yet, Leonore, yet there are bitter, sorrowful hours, in which I execrate my love itself; in which I feel that I will rend it from my heart; that I must escape from it into the hate which hitherto has guided and fixed my whole existence."
"If you feel and think thus, you do not love me," she said mournfully.
"Yes, I love you, Leonore; love you with rapture, with anguish, with despair, with joy. Yet I ask myself what will be the goal and end of this love? I ask myself when this sun, which has shone upon me through one beautiful, splendid day, will set?"
"It will never set, unless by your desire," she cried, putting her arms around his neck and bending to imprint a kiss upon his brow.
"It will set, for I am not created to live in sunshine and enjoy happiness. My life belongs to my native land! I have sworn to consecrate it to my country, and I must keep my oath. I dare not give myself up to love until I have done enough for hate; I dare not enjoy happiness ere I have fulfilled vengeance."
"Vengeance, my dearest? On whom do you wish to take vengeance?"
"On him who stole my native land; who deluded us for years with false hopes, with lying promises; who promised us liberty and in return gave us bondage. I seek to avenge my country on Napoleon—"
"Hush! for God's sake, hush!" she cried, trembling violently, as she pressed her hand upon his lips. "Do not utter such words; do not venture even to think them; for even thoughts bring danger, and speech will bring you death."
"Ah," he cried, laughing, "does my proud, royal Leonore fear? Does she fear in her own house, in her boudoir, where love alone can hear?"
"And hate," she said anxiously. "For you say that not only love, but hate, dwells in your heart."
"But not in yours, Leonore. No, in your heart dwells only love, and I will trust it. Yes, you beautiful, glorious woman, I will give you a proof of my infinite love and confidence. You shall know my secrets and I will tell you what I have yet betrayed to no woman on earth."
"No, no," she cried vehemently; "no, I will hear nothing. I do not wish to know your secrets; for I might reveal them in my sleep. They might fill my soul with such anguish and terror, that they would occupy it even in slumber, and I might tell in my dreams what I certainly would not disclose in waking, though I were exposed to the tortures of the rack. Oh, love, I fear your secrets, and I fear that they threaten you with peril! Give them up. If my love has any power over you, I entreat you: renounce them. Resign all your plans of hate and vengeance! Cast thoughts of anger from you! You have lived and labored for your native land long enough. Now, my love, dismiss hatred from your heart, and yield it to love! Renounce vengeance and allow yourself happiness! You say that you love me—give me a proof of it, a divine, beautiful proof! Let us fly, my beloved one, fly from this world of falsehood, treachery, hate, and anger, to conceal ourselves in a quiet corner of the earth, where no one knows us, where the noise of the world does not penetrate, where we shall learn nothing more of its dissensions and wars, where only love and peace will dwell with us; where, clasped in each other's embrace, we can rest on Nature's bosom and receive from her healing for all our wounds, comfort for all our losses. Oh, let us fly, for I know well that, so long as you are here—here in this world of strife and intrigue—you will not be mine; you cannot wrench yourself away from the numerous relations which hold and bind you, draw you into their perilous circle. Give them up. Let us rend these bonds which fetter you and will drag you to destruction. Let us go to America; far, far away to some quiet, unknown valley, where there are no human beings, and therefore there will be no falsehood and no treachery, no battles and strife. There let us dwell in the divine peace of creation; live as Adam and Eve lived in Paradise, quietly and at rest in the precincts of pure human happiness."
"And you would, you could, do this for me?" he asked, gazing with admiring eyes at her glowing face, radiant with enthusiasm. "You, the petted queen of society, the spoiled, delicate daughter of luxury and wealth, you could resolve to lead a quiet, simple, unknown life, far from the world and men?"
"Oh," she exclaimed, "such an existence would be my happiness, my ecstasy, my bliss. I would greet it exultingly. I long for it with all the powers of my soul, all the fervor of my heart. Give it to me, my beloved; give us both this life of solitude and divine peace. Speak one word—say that you are ready to fly with me—I will arrange everything for our escape; will guide us both to liberty, to happiness. Speak this one word, and I will sever every tie that binds me to the world; my future and my life will belong to you alone. We will strip off all the luxury that surrounds us as the glittering snake-skin with which we have concealed our real natures, and escape into the solitude as free, happy children of God. If such a life of peace and rest does not satisfy you; if you wish to labor and create, be useful to mankind, we can find the opportunity. We will buy a tract of land in America, gather around us people to cultivate it, create a little state whose prince you will be, which you will render free and happy and content. Say that you will, my loved one; tell me that you will make my golden dreams of the future a reality—oh, tell me so and you will render me the proudest and happiest of women. My dearest, you have so long devoted your life to hate, consecrate it now to love; let yourself be borne away by it. It will move mountains and fly on the wings of the morning through every realm. Hitherto you have called Poland your native land—now let love be your country, and you shall find it on my breast. Come, my darling, come! My arms are opened to embrace you; they are ready to bear you away, far away from this battle-rent, blood-soaked Europe. Save yourself, my beloved, save me! Come to my arms, let us fly to America!"
She held out her arms, gazing at him with a happy, loving smile. But he did not rise from his knees to fall upon her breast; he only bowed his head lower and kissed the hem of her dress—kissed her feet, which he pressed to his bosom.
"Alas!" he sighed sadly, "this little foot, in its white satin shoe, is not created for the rough paths of life; it would be torn and blood-stained by their thorns, and the fault would be mine. No, my sweet love, you shall not for my sake renounce the world of pleasure and splendor whose queen you are, even though you wish it, and perhaps even long for the peace and quiet of solitude. I must not accompany you thither, must not be faithless to myself. For the most terrible and inconsolable thing which can befall a man is to be faithless to himself and turn from the way which he himself has chosen, and from the goals which he himself has appointed. But I should do this, Leonore, if I renounced the goals and efforts of my whole past life, and turned from what I have hitherto regarded as the most sacred purpose of my existence. You yourself, Leonore, cannot wish it, for then how could you trust my fidelity, my love, if, for your sake, I could be untrue to my native land, my sacred duty. No, Leonore, my heart is yours, but my brain and life belong to my country. I came to Vienna to serve it. The great patriots of Poland sent me here. 'Go to Austria, they said, and serve there the sacred cause of freedom and human dignity.' And I went, and am here to serve it. Many are in the league with me, struggling with me toward the same goal. No one knows the others, but in the decisive hour we shall all work together for the one great object. And this hour will soon come; all the preparations are made, all the plans are matured. It is approaching. The great hour of sacred vengeance is approaching. You do not wish me to initiate you into my secrets, Leonore, and I now feel that you are right, for every sharer in these secrets is imperiled by them, and I will not draw you, my beloved one, into the dangerous circle, where I am bound. But if a gracious destiny grants our plans success, if the great venture which we have determined upon succeeds, then, Leonore, I will come to you, hold out my hand, and exultingly repeat the question which to-day I dare only to whisper timorously: Leonore, will you be my wife?"
She did not answer immediately, but covered her glowing face with her hands, while her whole frame trembled with emotion. "Oh," she groaned sorrowfully, "you will never repeat the question, for you will perish in the dangers which you are preparing for yourself."
"No," he cried joyously, "I shall not perish in them, and I shall come to repeat my question. Believe me, love, and be glad and strong. Do not fear for me, and forgive me if, during the next few days, I keep away from you. The last preparations for our great enterprise are to be made; all my strength of mind, all the courage of my soul must be summoned, and perhaps I might be cowardly and weak if I should see you, gaze into your beloved face, and think of the possibility that I was beholding it for the last time; that death might clasp me in his arms ere I again pressed you to my heart. So I will bid you farewell, my dearest, farewell for a week. During this time, remember me, pray for me, and love me. A week, my dear one, then I will return to you; and then, oh, then may I be permitted never to leave you again; then perhaps we shall make the dream of your heart a reality, and in some valley of the New World seek for ourselves a new world of happiness."
He again pressed her closely in his arms and imprinted a long, ardent kiss upon her lips. "Farewell, beloved, farewell for a week, an eternity."
"Do not say that; do not talk so!" she cried, trembling, as she threw her arms around his neck and clung closely to him. "Oh, do not speak of an eternity of separation, as you bid me farewell, or my arms will hold you to draw you by force from the dangers that threaten you; my lips will betray you by calling for help and accusing you of a conspiracy, merely to save you—compel you to renounce your perilous plans."
"If you should do that, Leonore; if even for love of me you could become a traitress, I would kill myself, but ere I died I would curse you and invoke heaven's vengeance upon you! But why conjure up such terrible pictures! I know that my Leonore would be incapable of treachery, and that, during this week of separation, no word, no look, no hint, will betray that her mind is anxious and that some care oppresses her."
"I swear to you that by no word, no look, no hint will I betray anything," she said solemnly. "I swear that I will not even attempt to guess your secrets, in order not to be disturbed by them. But one question more, dearest. I shall give an entertainment to-morrow. Count Andreossy, Colonels Mariage and Schweitzer, Captain de Guesniard, and the two Counts von Poldring will be present, as well as Generals Berthier and Massena, and several men who are prominent in aristocratic Austrian society. Will you not attend my reception? Will you not come to-morrow?"
"No," he replied, "no, I cannot attend gay entertainments now. My week of exile begins from this hour, and the first festival for me will be when I again clasp you in my arms. And now, dearest, let me go. This last kiss on your eyes—do not open them until I have left you; for your eyes exert a magic power, and if they are gazing at me I shall not have courage to go. Farewell, my beloved star, farewell, and when you rise for me once more, may it be for the radiant hour of a reunion, unshadowed by fresh pangs of parting."
He pressed a last lingering kiss upon her eyes. She submitted and sat quietly with closed lids and clasped hands until the door had closed behind him and the sound of his steps died away in the anteroom.
Then she slipped from the divan upon her knees, and, raising her hands to heaven, cried: "I thank Thee, oh God, I thank Thee. He is not one of the conspirators; he has no share in these plans; for he is not coming to the entertainment to-morrow, and therefore does not belong to those who have their secret appointment with me. Oh, God be praised for it, and may He guard and protect him in all his enterprises! I do not wish to know them; I will not investigate them. Thou, oh God, canst shield and defend him. Thou alone!"
CHAPTER IV.
BARON VON MOUDENFELS.
Colonel Mariage, alone in his room, was pacing restlessly up and down, with his eyes fixed intently, almost anxiously, upon the door.
"The appointed hour has come and he is not here," he murmured in a low tone. "Has suspicion been roused, and have they arrested him? Oh, God forbid! then we should all be lost, for we are all compromised, and letters from me, also, would be found among his papers."
At this moment the door was softly opened and the servant announced "Baron von Moudenfels."
"He is welcome, heartily welcome!" cried the colonel joyfully, swiftly advancing toward the door, through which the person announced had just entered the room. It was an old man with a long white beard, his head covered with a large wig, whose stiff, powdered locks adorned the temples on both sides of his pale, emaciated face. Thick, bushy brows shaded a pair of large dark eyes, whose youthful fire formed a strange contrast to the bowed frame and the white hair. His figure, which must once have been stately and vigorous, was attired in the latest fashion, and the elegance of his dress showed that Baron von Moudenfels, though a man perhaps seventy, had not yet done with the vanities of this world, but was ready to pay them homage. In his right hand, over which fell a broad lace cuff, he held an artistically carved cane, on whose gold handle he leaned, as he moved wearily forward, and a pin with beautiful diamonds glittered in the huge lace jabot on his breast.
Colonel Mariage held out both hands to the old man, but the baron contented himself with placing the finger-tips of the little hand adorned with glittering rings in the colonel's right hand a moment, and then sank into the armchair, panting for breath.
"Pardon me," he gasped, "but the exertion of climbing your two long flights of stairs has exhausted my strength, and I must rest. You probably see that I am a poor, fragile old man, who has but a few steps to take to his grave."
"But who will probably carefully avoid them," replied the colonel, smiling. "You are, as you say, an old man, but in this aged form dwells a fiery, youthful soul, whose strength of will will support the body so long as it needs the aid."
"So long as it is necessary to the native land, yes," cried the baron eagerly; "so long as there are foes to fight, friends to aid. Yes, the last years of my life belong to my native land and the foes who oppress it, and I know that I shall not die until I have attained the object of my life, until I have helped to overthrow the tyrant who has not only rendered my native land, Germany, wretched, but is also hurling his own country, France, into ruin."
Colonel Mariage glanced around the room with a hasty, anxious look. "For heaven's sake," he whispered, "don't speak so loud, baron; who knows whether my valet is not a paid spy; whether he is not standing at the door listening to betray me at once to Count Andreossy, or even to the emperor."
"My dear colonel," said the baron, smiling, "that is why it is quite time that we should secure you against such treason, and remove those who threaten you."
"What do you mean by that, baron?" asked the colonel timidly. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying that the great hour of decision is approaching," replied the baron solemnly. "I mean that ere a week has passed, the world will be released from the yoke which oppresses it—released from the evil demon, Napoleon."
The colonel, without answering even by a word, crossed the large apartment, and with a swift jerk opened the door leading into the anteroom. Then, after convincing himself that no one was near, he closed it, and made a tour of the spacious room, carefully examining every portière, every article of furniture, and at last approached the baron, who had been watching him with a quiet, scornful smile.
"Now, my dear baron, speak," he said, taking his seat in an armchair opposite to him. "We are really alone and without listeners, so I am ready to hear you. Do you bring news from our friends? News from France, especially?"
"Yes, news from France. I mean news from the Minister of Police, Fouché. Do you know, my dear sir, that Fouché is very much dissatisfied with his beloved fellow conspirators; that he thinks they have not acted so resolutely and energetically as might have been expected from the brave generals and colonels of the French army?"
"Why should he be dissatisfied?" asked the colonel. "What ought we to have done? When and where could we have acted more energetically?"
"At Castle Ebersdorf, my dear colonel. Surely you know that, after the battle of Aspern, when Napoleon left his exhausted and conquered army on the island of Lobau, and went to Castle Ebersdorf himself to enjoy a refreshing sleep after his first great defeat."
"Yes, that sleep was really singular enough," said Mariage thoughtfully. "The emperor slept soundly twenty-two hours; slept so soundly, in so motionless a posture, breathing so softly, that he might have been believed to be dead, and did not even hear his drunken soldiers force their way into the castle garden, and, with furious shouts, plunder and destroy everything until our representations and entreaties forced them to retire."
"Yes, the emperor fell into a deathlike slumber and would have been unable to resist or to defend himself had he been bound and gagged and quietly carried away. Yet what did the generals and colonels who had assembled in the large reception-hall close beside the sleeping emperor's private office? What did the gentlemen who all belonged to the secret league which has existed in the French army four years, and whose object is to overthrow the hated tyrant and oppressor? Did they avail themselves of the opportunity to attain this desired goal with a single bold stroke? No, they stood whispering and irresolute, asking one another what should be done if Napoleon did not wake from his deathlike slumber—who should then be his heir to the throne of France? Whether they should make Bernadotte, the Prince of Ponte Corvo, or Eugene, the Viceroy of Italy, or the Count of Provence, who styles himself Louis XVIII., king of France, or again restore the great and glorious republic? And since they could not agree upon these questions, they did nothing at all, but contented themselves with sending a secret envoy to Paris to ask Fouché what should be done, how they should act in such a case, and what counsel he had to give."
"But how do you know all this so accurately?" asked the colonel in surprise. "One would really suppose you had been present, yet I distinctly remember that this was not the case."
"No, I was not; but you probably know that a certain Commissioner Kraus was there. Bernadotte had made the acquaintance of this Herr Kraus at Colonel Oudet's, who, as is well-known, is the head of the secret society, which existed in the French army, and to whose laws all members, or, if you choose, all fellow-conspirators, were compelled to submit. Oudet had recommended Kraus to the Prince of Ponte Corvo as a faithful and reliable man, a skillful negotiator, who was qualified to maintain and to promote the agreements and alliances between the French conspirators and the German patriots, and who could be employed without fear or reserve. Well, this Commissioner Kraus, as you probably know, had come to Ebersdorf to negotiate in behalf of myself and my German friends, and to ask whether the time had not now come to accomplish the great work and rid Germany of the scourge which God had sent in punishment of all her sins. Commissioner Kraus described that scene in the great hall of Castle Ebersdorf. He returned as your messenger, and brought us the news that we must keep quiet and wait for further tidings, and, after bringing this message, he went to Paris to Fouché, the minister of police, to deliver the letter and inquiry of the conspirators."
"And he has not yet returned," said Mariage, sighing. "Some misfortune has befallen him; the emperor's spies have doubtless tracked him, and he has atoned for his reckless enterprise with his life."
"No, Kraus is too clever and too bold to let himself be discovered by Napoleon's spies," said the baron with a subtle smile, "and, since Monsieur Bonaparte must fare like the worthy citizens of Nuremberg who hang no one until they have caught him, Commissioner Kraus has not been compelled to atone for his bold enterprise with his life, but has returned successful and unharmed."
"What? He has returned?"
"Four days ago."
"Four days ago, and I, we all, know nothing of it?"
"Yes, I knew it. Surely you are aware that Fouché was not to direct his reply directly to any one of you, to a subject of the emperor, in order, in case of discovery, to compromise no one. So Fouché addressed his reply to me; for if the letter had actually been opened, it could have done Baron von Moudenfels no harm, since fortunately I am not one of the emperor's subjects, and what he could punish in you as high-treason, he must recognize in us Germans as patriotism."
"But the letter, Fouché's answer!" said Mariage impatiently. "Pray do not keep me on the rack any longer. What does Fouché write?"
"Why, his letter is tolerably laconic, and one must understand how to read between the lines to interpret the meaning correctly. Here it is. You see that it is directed to me—Baron von Moudenfels—and contains nothing but the following words: 'Why ask me anything, when you ought already to have accomplished everything yourselves? Put him in a sack, drown him in the Danube—then all will be easily arranged everywhere.'"[C]
"For heaven's sake," cried the colonel, pale and horror-stricken, "what does Fouché mean? Of whom is he speaking?"
"Why, of whom except Bonaparte, or, as he likes to call himself, the Emperor Napoleon!" said the baron coolly. "And you will admit that Fouché is right. If, at Ebersdorf, the sleeping Bonaparte had been thrust into a sack and flung into the Danube, the whole affair would have been ended in the most successful and shortest way, instead of our now being obliged to rack our brains and plunge into dangers of every kind to attain the same goal which we were then so near without peril or trouble. But it is useless to complain; we must rather be mindful to seize the best means of repairing the omission."
"Has Fouché given no counsel, suggested no plan?"
"Yes, he sent verbally, by Commissioner Kraus, counsels and plans to be communicated by me to the conspirators, and this communication has occupied me during these last few days. The point was to discover, among those who were in close attendance upon the emperor, certain individuals who could be won over to our plans."
"And have you succeeded?"
"Yes, I have succeeded. Do not ask the persons and names. I have sworn to mention none, and just as I would communicate your name to no one, I may not impart the names of the others to you. Secrecy and silence must envelop the whole conspiracy like a veil that bestows invisibility, if we are to hope for success. No one will know of the others until the day of decision, and even the necessary arrangements which the conspirators have to make must be done under a mask. I am the mediator, who conveys the messages to and fro, and I know very well that I risk my life in doing it. But I am ready to sacrifice it for my native land, and death is a matter of indifference, if my suffering serves my country. Now listen! Within a week Napoleon must be removed; for every day beyond endangers us the more. He has a suspicion of our plans; he has a whole legion of spies in the army, in Vienna, acting in concert with friends and foes, to watch the designs of the conspirators. For he is perfectly conscious that a conspiracy exists, and some inkling even of the conversation of his generals at Castle Ebersdorf has reached his ears. It caused such an outburst of fury that he was attacked with convulsions, and for three days ate nothing until Roustan had tasted it, because he was afraid of being poisoned. The Emperor Napoleon also learned that Colonel Oudet was head of the secret society, and his most dangerous enemy, because he was extremely popular in the army and possessed rare powers of persuasion. So Oudet must be removed, and he has been."
"Then you think that—"
"That the bullet which struck Colonel Oudet at the battle of Wagram was not a chance shot, sent by the enemy? Certainly I think so, and the proof of it is that the wound was in the back of the head. So he was struck from behind, and his murderer was in the ranks of his fellow-combatants. So you see that the emperor had sentenced him to death and he had his executioners ready to fulfill his commands. We must let this serve as a warning to us. We must kill him, that he may not discover us and order his executioners to kill us."
"It is true, we are all lost if he discovers the conspiracy. As I said, the work must be accomplished within a week, or you and all your companions, all the members of the society, will be imperiled. The emperor has his suspicions; if he becomes certain, your death-sentence will be signed. You hate Bonaparte. You are an adherent of the Count de Lille. You desire to replace the legitimate King Louis XVIII. upon the throne of his ancestors. Well, to accomplish this, Bonaparte must fall. Help to overthrow him, help to rid the world of this monster, who feeds upon the blood of all the youth of Europe, and you will be sure of the gratitude of your king. He has a general's commission ready for you, promises orders and a title, and he will keep his royal word."
"And what is asked of me? What part have I to perform?"
"The part of a man who is blind and deaf, colonel. You are commander of the military police, and your officials will perhaps spy out the conspiracy and make reports to you. You will be deaf to these reports, and order your subordinates to be the same. You are on the staff of the present Governor-general of Vienna, Count Andreossy, and it is your task not merely to hear, but also to see what is occurring in the capital. But, during the next few days, you will have the kindness to be blind and see nothing that is passing around you, not to notice the preparations that attract the attention of the suspicious. You will give the same directions to your confidant, our fellow-conspirator, Captain de Guesniard, and if our enterprise is endangered, you will warn us through him, as we will communicate to you, by the same person, what other aid we expect from you. Are you ready to fulfill these demands?"
"Yes, baron, I am ready. I hate Napoleon and I love the legitimate king of France. So I have no choice. I will risk my life to serve the king, for the kings of France have been kind and gracious lords to my family for centuries, and we owe them all that we are. I am ready to prove my gratitude by deeds, and I hope that, if I fall in the service of the king, he will have pity on my wife and my two children as soon as he himself returns to France. I will fulfill your commands. I will play the part of one who is blind and deaf. I will see and hear nothing, warn no one, unless I am forced to warn the conspirators."
"In that case you will have the kindness to send your friend, Captain de Guesniard, to St. Stephens. One of our emissaries will be waiting night and day at the entrance of the main door of the cathedral, and every message he receives will be faithfully brought to us."
"But who will it be? How is De Guesniard to recognize your confidant?"
"Who will it be? To-day our messenger at the door of St. Stephens will be a beggar-woman, to-morrow perhaps a blind cripple, the day after a priest, a lady, or some other person who would not rouse suspicion. The token by which to recognize the envoy will be a strip of blue paper, held in the left hand."
"Well, that will suffice. You have nothing more to say, baron?"
"No, colonel. So you will have the kindness to see and hear nothing for the space of a week, but if, at the end of that time, you learn the news that the Emperor Napoleon has disappeared, you will hear it with the joy of a true patriot. It will be reserved for you to set off at once with post horses to bear to the Count de Lille in England this message of the rescue and purification of his throne."
"Ah, that is indeed a delightful and honorable task," cried the colonel joyously. "Heaven grant that it may be executed."
"It will be, for our arrangements are well made, and we are all anxious to do our utmost to regain the greatest of blessings, over liberty. Farewell, Colonel Mariage, in a week we shall see each other again."
"In a week or never," sighed Colonel Mariage, pressing the baron's proffered hand in his own.
CHAPTER V.
COMMISSIONER KRAUS.
After taking leave of Colonel Mariage, old Baron von Moudenfels passed through the antechamber, where he found the valet, with slow and weary steps. Panting and resting on every stair, he descended the staircase, coughing, and moved slowly past the houses to the nearest carriage, into which he climbed with difficulty and sank with a groan upon the cushions.
"Where shall I drive, your lordship?" asked the hackman, lifting his whip to rouse the weary nags from their half slumber.
"Where? I don't know myself, my friend," replied the old man, sighing. "I only want to ride about a little while to rest my poor old limbs and get some fresh air. So take me through the busiest streets in Vienna, that I may see them. I am a stranger who has seen little of your capital, because his weary limbs will not carry him far. So drive very slowly, at a walk, that I may see and admire everything—so slowly that if I liked anything especially, and wanted to get out, I could do so without stopping the vehicle."
"Then your lordship does not want to drive by the trip, but by the hour?"
"Yes, my friend, by the hour, and here are four florins in prepayment for two hours. You'll have no occasion to trouble yourself now, but drive as slowly as possible and your horses will be able to rest. So go on through the busiest streets, and at a walk."
"Well, that will suit my poor beasts," said the driver, laughing, "they have already been standing for six hours, and stiff enough from it."
He touched his horses' backs with the are whip, and the animals started.
The carriage now rolled on slowly, like a hearse, at the pace drivers usually take when they wish to notify pedestrians that they have no occupant in their vehicles and can receive a passenger. So no one noticed the slow progress of the carriage; no one in the crowded streets through which it passed heeded it. Yet many a person might have been interested if he could have cast a glance within.
Something strange and unusual was certainly occurring inside the hack. No sooner had it started than Baron von Moudenfels hastily raised both the side windows and pulled down the little curtains of dark red silk. No curious eyes could now look in at him, and he could fearlessly devote himself to his occupations, which he did with perfect composure and unconcern. First, he drew from the back pocket of his coat a package wrapped in paper, which he unrolled, placing its contents on the back seat. These consisted of a wig of short fair hair, a mustache of the same color, and two little boxes containing red, white, and black paints. Then the baron took from his breast-pocket another package, which he unwrapped and produced a mirror, brushes and combs.
After hanging the mirror by a small hook on the cushion of the back seat, the baron began to make his toilet, that is, to transform himself from an old man into a young one. First, he removed his powdered wig and exchanged it for the blonde one, doing it so quickly that the most watchful eye would have had no time to see the color of his own hair concealed beneath. With the same speed he fastened over his hitherto beardless lips a pointed mustache of reddish-fair hair and, after removing from his face the skillfully painted wrinkles and the powder, he hastened to add red cheeks to the fair curls on his head, and to tinge the tip of his nose with the rosy hue which suggests a convivial nature. After this was accomplished, and the baron had convinced himself by a careful examination in the mirror that he was transformed into a charming, gay, young fellow, he began a similar metamorphosis of his costume. Taking the diamond pin from his lace jabot he hid it under his vest, which he buttoned to the necktie. Then removing the light silk long-skirted dress-coat, he turned it completely on the other side and, by taking out some pins which held them, let the tails fall back. The dress-coat was now changed into an overcoat, a blue cloth overcoat, whose color harmonized very pleasantly with his fair hair.
Now the metamorphosis was complete, and, from the skill and speed with which the baron had performed it, one might suppose that he was not practising such arts of disguise for the first time, but was well-trained in them. With perfect calmness and deliberation he now put the cast-off articles into the parcels, hid them in the pockets of his clothes, and, after unscrewing the gold crutch-handle from his cane and replacing it by a plain ivory head, he drew up the little curtains and looked out with a keen, watchful gaze. The carriage was just passing down the crowded and busy Grabenstrasse moving behind a long row of equipages following a funeral procession, and the driver was of course compelled to proceed slowly.
The baron now cautiously opened the carriage door, and as it was just in the act of turning a corner, he took advantage of the opportunity offered to spring with a swift leap into the street.
He now hurried rapidly along the opposite side; his bearing was as vigorous and energetic as it had just been bowed and feeble; and with the wrinkles and gray hair every trace of age had also vanished he was now a young man, but the large black eyes, with their bold, fiery gaze, suited the rosy cheeks and fair hair as little as they had formerly harmonized with the old man's pallid countenance. But at any rate the present youthfulness was no disguise, and the swift, vigorous movements were no assumption; that was evident from the ease and speed with which the baron, after entering one of the handsomest houses in the Grabenstrasse, ran up the stairs, never pausing until he had mounted the third flight. Beside the bell of a glass door, on a shining brass plate, was engraved the name of Count von Kotte. Baron von Moudenfels pulled this bell so violently that it echoed loudly, and at the door, which instantly opened, appeared a liveried servant with an angry face, muttering with tolerable distinctness something about unseemly noise and rude manners.
"Is Count von Kotte at home?" asked the baron hastily.
"No," muttered the lackey, "the count isn't at home, and it wasn't necessary to ring so horribly loud to ask the question."
He stepped back and was about to close the door again, but the baron thrust his foot between it and the frame and seized the man's sleeve.
"My good fellow, I must see the count," he said imperiously.
"But when I tell you that the count isn't—"
He stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence and cast a stolen glance at the florin which the baron had pressed into his hand.
"Announce me to Count von Kotte," said the baron pleasantly. "He will certainly receive me."
"Your name, sir?" asked the lackey respectfully.
"Commissioner Kraus," was the reply. The man withdrew, and, a few minutes after, returned with a smiling face.
"The count is at home and begs the gentleman to come in," he said, throwing the door wide open and standing respectfully beside it.
Commissioner Kraus, smiling, stepped past him into the anteroom. A door on the opposite side opened, and the tall figure of a man attired in the Austrian uniform appeared.
"Is it really you, my dear Kraus!" he cried. "So you have returned already. Come, come, I have longed to see you."
Holding out his hand to the visitor, he drew him hastily into the next room.
"You have longed to see me, my dear count," said Kraus, laughing, "and yet I was within an ace of being turned from your door. Since when have you lived in a barricaded apartment, count?"
"Since the spies of the French governor of Vienna, Count Andreossy, have watched my door and pursued my every step," replied the count, smiling. "But now speak, my dear Kraus. You went to Totis? You talked with the Emperor Francis?"
"I went to Totis and talked with the Emperor Francis."
"Good heavens! you say it with such a gloomy, solemn expression. Has the emperor become irresolute?"
"Yes, that is it. The emperor is surrounded by adherents of the Napoleonic party; they have succeeded in thrusting back the real patriots, the Anti-Bonapartists, and would have rendered them wholly inactive had not the Empress Ludovica tried to support them with all her influence. All is not yet lost, but unless we soon succeed in making a decisive step, our foes will completely gain the ear of the emperor, persuade him to accept the ignoble, humiliating peace which Napoleon offered, and, from his enemy, become his ally."
"It would be horrible if that could be done," cried the count sadly. "It is not possible that the Emperor Francis could resolve upon such humiliation."
"They have alarmed the emperor, intimidated him; told him that his crown, his life, were at stake; that unless he would make himself Napoleon's ally and accept the proffered peace, the Emperor Napoleon would say of him what he said of the Bourbons in Spain: 'The Hapsburg dynasty has ceased to exist.' If something does not now happen, if we do not force a decision, everything is lost. Austria will conclude a humiliating peace and, instead of being delivered from the French tyrant's yoke, we shall be obliged to see Austria sink into a French province, and the Emperor Francis, in spite of his high-sounding title, become nothing more than the viceroy of the Emperor Napoleon."
"It must not, it shall not come to that!" exclaimed the count wildly. "We must risk everything to prevent this. We must stake our blood, our lives, to save Austria and Germany!"
"Ah, if you speak and think thus, count, you are one of us; you will wish to have a share in our work of liberation."
"Yes, I demand my share, and the greater and more perilous it is, the more welcome it will be."
"We all risk our lives," said Kraus solemnly, "and if we are defeated, we shall all be lost; for the Emperor Francis will not protect us—he will abandon us to Napoleon's wrath, in order to prove that he had no part in our plans. With this conviction, we must begin our work and arrange our affairs as if we were going into a battle."
"My affairs are arranged, and I am ready," replied the count solemnly.
"Hush! listen! All our friends, like you, are ready, and the conspiracy winds like a great chain through all the countries of Europe. Every one who loves his native land, and therefore hates Napoleon, has laid his brave hand on this chain and will add the link of his manly strength. In France, in England, in Spain and Italy, in Sweden, in Russia and Turkey, everywhere, our friends are waiting for the decisive act which must take place here. In England they have bought arms and ammunition and sent them to Heligoland Thence members of our league have brought them here and distributed them among the brothers. In the harbor of Genoa a Swedish and an English ship lie ready for our service; the English one to aid our escape and convey us to England, if our enterprise fails; the Swedish one to serve as a transport vessel, if we succeed. Everywhere our friends are working, everywhere they are preparing the insurrection; Tyrol is like a well-filled bomb which needs only the application of a spark to burst and scatter confusion around it, and in the minds of individuals patriotism has increased to a fanaticism which deems even murder a justifiable means to rid Europe from the shameful yoke of the tyrant. If we cannot execute our plan, if we do not succeed in abducting Napoleon, perhaps the dagger of an assassin will he raised against him—an assassin who does not regard his deed as a crime, but as a sacred duty."
"And why are we content with an abduction?" asked the count fiercely. "Why should not the blood of the man who has shed so many torrents of blood, be shed also?"
"Because that would be too light a punishment," said Kraus, with an expression of gloomy hate. "Because it would be an atonement for all his crimes, if he fell beneath the daggers of murderers. Such daggers rendered the tyrant Julius Cæsar a hero, a martyr, and they would also transform Napoleon into a demi-god. No, we will not grant him such a triumph, such a glorious end—we will not allow him a speedy death. He shall ignominiously disappear; he shall die slowly on some barren island in the ocean; die amid the tortures of solitude, of weariness, of powerless rage. This must be the vengeance of Europe; this must be the end of the vampire who has drunk her heart's blood."
"You are right? it shall, it must be so," cried the count, with sparkling eyes. "Now tell me, what have I to do? What part is assigned to me?"
"You will go to Genoa, count. Here is a letter from General Nugent to the captain of the Swedish ship Proserpina, now lying in the harbor."
"But it is not sealed?" asked the count, taking the paper offered.
"Open it, and you will find that it does not contain a single word. I received it so from our messenger, who brought it directly from Count Nugent in Heligoland to me. It is your letter of recommendation, that is all! Written words might compromise, spoken ones die away upon the wind. If you deliver this, addressed in General Nugent's hand, to the captain of the Proserpina, he will recognize you as the right messenger, and you will then tell him verbally what you have to say."
"What shall I tell him?"
"Tell him to take in his freight, have his ballast on board, and keep everything in readiness for departure. From the day that you reach him the Proserpina must be ready for sea, and a boat must lie in the harbor night and day to receive the members of our league who will come if the plan succeeds."
"But I hope this is not all that I have to do? I shall not be denied a more active part in the great cause?"
"If you wish, no! One of us will accompany Bonaparte to Genoa as his jailer. You can relieve him there, and attend him to his prison."
"I will do so. But where will the prison be?"
"You will put him on some barren island in the ocean, which will serve as his dungeon. Then you will return. But you must name the place to which you conveyed him to no one except the heads of the society: that is, to General Nugent and myself. We will guard it as the most sacred secret of our lives, that no one may learn it—no one can make the attempt to rescue him."
"I thank you," cried the count joyously. "You assign me an honorable task, which proves that the heads of the society trust me. What else have I to do? Will not a meeting of the conspirators take place? Will you not summon one?"
"No, for I shall go at once to Totis to make the most necessary additional arrangements with General Bubna, and through him with the Empress Ludovica, that, if the plot succeeds, the advantage will be ours and cannot be claimed by the French party. But you, count, must manage to summon such an assembly of our friends in some unsuspected place. I learn that Baroness de Simonie is to give an entertainment to which, without knowing it, she has invited a number of our friends. You will recognize them by the black enamel ring which every member of our band must wear upon the little finger of his left hand. You will name to each a place of meeting.
"Oh, I already know one," cried the count, "it is—"
"Mention no names," Kraus interrupted quickly. "I shall not be present, so it is not necessary for me to know. Every secret is imperiled by needless communication, and we must compromise no one without cause. Here, count, are some necessary papers in which you will find further instructions. Make your preparations accordingly, and when you have read them and informed the persons concerned, burn them."
"But you tell me nothing about the principal matter," said the count. "Who will accomplish the actual deed? Who will have the heroic daring to take Napoleon captive?"
"Many will be active in that, count. The names are not to be mentioned, but if you lay stress upon it, I will tell you that of the person who has undertaken to lie in ambush for Napoleon, gag him, and carry him away. It is Baron von Moudenfels."
"Von Moudenfels? I don't know him, but I have heard of him. Was it not Baron von Moudenfels who arranged the secret connection with the conspirators in the French army, and negotiated with Oudet?"
"Yes, the same man. He is a great patriot and a daring fellow. He hates Napoleon, and if he once has him in his grasp, he will die rather than suffer him to escape, though Napoleon should offer a kingdom as a ransom. Now farewell, count, and may God grant that we see each other again successful! May the guardian angel of our native land protect us in the perils which we must bravely meet."
"So be it," said the count, cordially pressing in his own Kraus' extended hand. "Go to Totis: I will go to Genoa, to await my prisoner there."
With the same hasty steps as he had come, Commissioner Kraus again hastened down the steps, and once more plunged into the tumult of the street. After a short walk, he again entered a house and ascended the stairs to a door in the fourth story beside which, in a rush-bottomed chair, sat a servant, with his head bowed on his breast, sleeping peacefully.
Baron von Moudenfels or Commissioner Kraus tapped the slumberer lightly on the shoulder.
"Wake up and open the door, Peter!" he said.
The man started up and stared at the person standing before him with dilated eyes.
"Who are you, sir, and what do you want of me?" he exclaimed sulkily.
"Then you don't know me?" asked Kraus, smiling. "Must I tell you that I am your master?"
"Herr Baron! Is it you? Is it possible that it's you; that anybody can disguise himself so—and—"
"Hush! you know that you are not to wonder at anything, and must always be prepared to see me in any disguise. True, I should have expected that you would recognize your master's voice."
"I beg your pardon, sir; I was so very sound asleep. I didn't sleep all night because I was expecting you, and I've been on the watch all day."
"Have many spies been here?" asked the baron as, followed by his servant, he entered his sitting-room.
"Yes, sir, they fairly besieged the door of the house and patrolled the opposite side of the street all day long. Three times, too, gentlemen called to ask for you. They said that they were visitors, but I think they were only spies who wanted to find out whether you were at home."
"Well, now they can come and assure themselves that I'm here," replied his master, stretching himself comfortably upon the sofa. "True, it won't last long—we start in an hour. Order post-horses, Peter, two post-horses and a light carriage, and pack the baggage."
"Yes, sir!" sighed Peter. "What clothes will you take? Do we travel this time again as Baron von Moudenfels, and must I pack the old gentleman's baggage as I did for the journey to Frankfort?"
"No, not as Baron von Moudenfels. This time I shall go in my own person and under my own name. We shall go to Totis to the camp of his majesty the emperor. So take the court dress and everything necessary for a gentleman. Thank heaven, I shall be rid of the tiresome wig for a few days."
Removing the blonde wig he passed his hand through the black locks which appeared under it.
"Hurry, Peter, order post-horses and pack our clothing; we must start in an hour."
CHAPTER VI.
THE CONSPIRACY DISCOVERED.
The festival was over, the last guests had taken leave of Baroness de Simonie, and the servants and lackeys were gliding noiselessly through the empty rooms to extinguish the lights in the chandeliers and candelabra, and here and there push the scattered pieces of furniture into place.
Baroness de Simonie had gone to her boudoir, but though it was late at night she seemed to feel no disposition to retire to rest, nor was there the slightest expression of weariness on her beautiful face; her eyes sparkled as brightly as they had just flashed upon her guests, and there was no change in the proud carriage of her head, or of the tall, slender figure, still robed in white satin veiled with silver-embroidered white crêpe. The diadem of diamonds still glittered in her hair, and clasps of the same brilliant gems adorned her neck and her bare white arms.
Madame de Simonie was pacing up and down her boudoir with hasty, impetuous steps; her whole being seemed intensely agitated. Sometimes she paused at the door to listen, then with panting breath resumed her restless movement to and fro, while her scarlet lips murmured: "He does not come yet. Something extraordinary must have happened. But what? What? Can he be in danger? Oh, my God, if this terrible week were once over, that—But hush! I hear footsteps; it is he."
Springing to the door with a single bound like a lioness, she tore it open.
"Is it you, father?"
"Yes, it is I," he answered, entering the room and cautiously locking the door behind him.
"Thank heaven that you are here, father!" she sighed, with an air of relief.
"What?" he asked, smiling, "has my Leonore again become so affectionate a daughter that she is anxious about her father if he is suddenly called away at night? For you have been anxious about me—about me and no one else—have you not?"
"No, not for you," she cried impetuously, "for him, for him alone. Tell me that he is not in danger, that he has nothing to do with the matter on whose account you were so suddenly called away!"
"I swear it, Leonore. But, my child, the impetuosity of your passion is beginning to make me uneasy. How will you keep your head clear, if your heart is burning with such impetuous fire that the rising smoke must becloud your brain? I have allowed you to give yourself the amusement of love, but you must not make a serious life question of it."
"Yet I shall either perish of this love or be new-born by it," she murmured. "But let us not talk about it. Tell me first why you left the ball so suddenly?"
"Urgent business, my child. The emperor sent for me to come to Schönbrunn."
"The emperor! What did he want of you?"
"There is something to be discovered, Leonore—a murderer who seeks the emperor's life."
"A murderer!" she said, shuddering; "my God, suppose it should be he!"
"The emperor has received an anonymous letter from Hungary, in which he is informed that, during the course of the next week, a young man will come to Schönbrunn to murder him.[D] I suppose that this comes directly from the Emperor Francis' court at Totis. Some fanatic has told the Emperor Francis that he will go there to murder his hated foe, and the kind-hearted emperor, in his magnanimity has sent this warning to Napoleon."
"And he was in Totis," said Leonore, trembling, under her breath, "and he told me that in a week something decisive would happen."
"You are silent, Leonore?" asked her father. "Have you nothing to tell me?"
She started from her sorrowful reverie; a bold, resolute fire again flashed in her eyes. "I have many things to tell you, many important things," she replied. "But I will not utter a single word unless you first take an oath."
"What oath?"
"The oath that, if it is Kolbielsky who comes to murder Napoleon, you will warn him and let him escape."
"But how am I to warn him in advance, since the probability is that, if I really catch him, it will be at the moment of the deed."
"Well, then, you will let him escape at that moment, if it is Kolbielsky."
"But that is impossible, Leonore! You will understand yourself that it is impossible."
"Well, then, do as you choose, but do not ask me to communicate my discoveries. Good-night, father; I feel tired, I will go to sleep."
Passing her father, she approached the door. But just as she was about to open it, he laid his hand on her arm and stopped her.
"Stubborn girl," he said, smiling, "I see that your will must be obeyed to induce you to speak. Well, then, I swear that, if the person who comes to murder Napoleon is Baron von Kolbielsky, I will let him escape if he falls into my hands."
"Swear it by my mother's spirit and memory."
"I swear it by your mother's spirit and memory. But now, Leonore, speak. Have you really discovered a conspiracy?"
"Yes, I have discovered a conspiracy, and, thank heaven, I can tell you everything—the names of all the conspirators; for he is not among them—he has nothing to do with this crazy, reckless affair. Father, you can tell Napoleon that a widespread conspiracy exists, and that it even has numerous adherents in his own army. The most aristocratic members of it were present at my entertainment and held a consultation here. Colonel Mariage, as you know, had begged me to give him and his friends a room where they could talk undisturbed."
"And you gave him the little red drawing-room didn't you?"
"Yes. I gave them the little red drawing-room, which is reached from this boudoir. I was in the niche and heard all."
"So it is really an actual conspiracy?" asked her father, with a happy smile.
"Really an actual conspiracy," she repeated gravely, "and unless you warn the Emperor Napoleon, unless you save him, he will be a lost man within a week, even if that murderer's dagger should not strike him."
"That is splendid, that is marvelous," cried her father. "Leonore, this time we shall really attain our goal. We shall be rich. The emperor is generous; he loves life. I will set a high price upon it. By heaven, the Cæsar's head is well worth four hundred thousand francs! I will ask them, and I shall receive. We shall be rich enough to do without and be independent of men."
"And I shall be free," murmured Leonore, with a flash of enthusiasm upon her beautiful face. "You will not forget, father, that you promised to give me my liberty if I helped you to become rich. You will not forget that you are to permit me to escape, with the man I love, from this false, pitiful world, and fly with him to some remote, secluded nook, where no one knows me—no one can betray to him the shame and sin of my past life. And above all, father, you will not forget that you have solemnly sworn to reveal nothing of my former existence, not to let him suspect who I am, and—"
"Who and what your father is, you wanted to say," he interrupted. "Yes, I will remember and not disclose our little secrets to him. The virtuous Baron von Kolbielsky would certainly be very much astonished if he made the discovery that your major-domo has the honor of being your father, and that the father of the proud baroness is no other than the well-known spy Schulmeister, who has rendered the Emperor Napoleon so many useful services, and whose name Kolbielsky has so often mentioned in my presence with scornful execration. No, he must not learn all this. We will conceal our past, we will begin a new life, and since we shall then be rich enough, it will not be difficult for us to remain noble and virtuous. But now, my Leonore, tell me exactly and in detail everything you know. Come, let us sit down on this divan and allow me to note at once the most important points in your story, and especially the names."
"Then listen, father! Thursday next the emperor is to be carried away by force."
"Carried away—where?" asked Schulmeister, smiling.
"To some desolate island in the ocean. But do not interrupt me; don't let me anticipate, but relate everything in regular order. So listen and note what is necessary. There is a conspiracy which has its members in the French army, in the garrison now in Vienna, nay, even among those who are in the closest attendance upon the emperor, and which unites all the malcontents in France with the foes of Napoleon throughout all Europe. Heligoland is the meeting-place for the envoys of the conspirators throughout Europe; there the central committee always assembles at certain times, and from there by confidential messengers and fellow conspirators issues its commands and directions to the members in all places; there is the depot of the arms, ammunition, and other military stores. Thither England has sent General Bathurst; Spain, General Bandari, for consultation and agreement with the Austrian General Nugent, the Russian General Demidoff, and a certain Baron von Moudenfels, who has apparently played a prominent part in all these negotiations, and in whose hands all the single threads of this many-branched conspiracy meet. There was devised and arranged the plan which is now to be executed and in which Baron von Moudenfels plays the most important part."
"Do you know this Baron von Moudenfels?" asked Schulmeister. "Was he at your entertainment this evening? I saw several gentlemen who were strangers to me, and whose names I was going to ask you, when I was called away. Was Baron von Moudenfels among them?"
"No, father, he was not among them, and I do not know Baron von Moudenfels at all. According to the descriptions which I heard of him this evening, he is a man already advanced in years, but whose youthful vigor and energy were extravagantly praised and admired. Baron von Moudenfels has been the originator and director of the whole plan, and has been engaged for months in making preparations for its execution. Listen to the rest of my story! On Thursday the plot must be put into action. On that day the emperor will take a ride in the afternoon, as he always does. If, by chance, he should show no disposition to do so, they will induce him by some means, and will persuade him to go to the woods near Schönbrunn. The emperor likes to dismount there and stroll along the lovely, shady paths, talking with his generals. To his surprise he will find a most charming little hut which he has not seen before—for the very good reason that it was erected only the previous day. The emperor, as is well-known, is curious, and he will go to it. The conspirators—and his entire suite is composed of them—the conspirators will propose going in. A French song, the signal that everything is ready, will be heard within. The emperor will enter, his companions will follow. Inside the hut armed conspirators will be stationed, who, as soon as the emperor enters, will seize and gag him, bind him hand and foot, and thus render him harmless. Then one of the party who entered with the emperor, Colonel Lejeune, whose figure is exactly like his, will put on a suit of clothes made precisely like the emperor's, and, donning Napoleon's three-cornered hat, will leave the hut. Meanwhile twilight will have gathered, and the conspirators, with the emperor—that is Colonel Lejeune—at their head, will return to Schönbrunn. The guards will salute as soon as they see the emperor dash into the courtyard. The chief equerry will hold his stirrup, and help him to dismount. The emperor, followed by his suite, will enter the castle, and silently, according to his custom, ascend the stairs and go to the hall where he receives his marshals; there, as he so frequently does, he will dismiss all who are present with a wave of his hand and pass on into his study, which adjoins his sleeping-room."
"Well, it must be admitted that so far the affair has a glimmer of feasibility and probability," said her father, smiling. "But I should be very anxious about the continuation. Would Roustan, who undresses the emperor every evening, also be deceived by the masquerade, or would the conspirators attempt to abduct him also? And then—has it been forgotten that before going to rest the emperor now works an hour every evening with his private secretary, Bourrienne?"
"Bourrienne is one of the conspirators. He will enter the room with his portfolio and remain there an hour, after first bringing to the anteroom the order, in the emperor's name, to make no further reports to him that evening, as he was wearied and therefore wished to go to rest early. The Mameluke Roustan could not be bribed, and therefore the attempt was relinquished. But the day before, through a dose of arsenic which will be administered to him, Roustan will be so dangerously ill that he cannot attend upon the emperor, and Constant will take his place."
"And is the valet Constant one of the conspirators?"
"He is, and he will be on duty during the night in the anteroom of the bedchamber. In this way the emperor's disappearance will be concealed until the next morning, and the matter will not become known until the following day at nine o'clock, when the generals arrive. What will happen then, whether Eugene is declared emperor or the Bourbons are again summoned to the throne, will depend upon what occurs in France, and what effect the emperor's disappearance has upon the minds of the people there. We need not trouble ourselves about it for the present; it does not belong to the business which occupies our attention."
"No, no, we have to deal only with the emperor," cried Schulmeister, laughing, "and I can tell you that I am as anxious about the progress of this matter as if it were the development of a drama, and that I am extremely curious to know what more is to be done with the gagged emperor. We have left him in the hut."
"Yes, and he will remain there until the night has closed in. Then Baron von Moudenfels and two other conspirators, disguised as workmen, will convey him in a basket standing ready in the hut, such as are used in the transportation of the sick to the place in the woods where a carriage will be waiting for the basket and its companions. They will ride all night long, relays will be ready everywhere at the appointed spots, and, when morning dawns, they will have reached the house of a conspirator near Gratz, and spend the day there. At nightfall the journey will be continued in the same way, and so, constantly traveling by night and resting by day in the house of a conspirator, until Trieste is reached. To be prepared for all casualties, a French passport for the transportation of an invalid to Trieste has been obtained. Count Andreossy issued it at the request of Colonel Mariage, and for greater security, Captain de Guesniard, in full uniform and provided with the necessary legal documents, will accompany the party to Trieste."
"Who are to be the other companions of the captive emperor?"
"Three more persons will accompany him. First, Baron Moudenfels, the originator and instigator of the whole plan. Then there are two subaltern officers in the French army, for whom Captain de Guesniard answers, but whose names were not mentioned."
"Oh, I will discover them," cried Schulmeister, "be assured I will discover them; and I am glad that there is some special work for me in this affair. Go on now, go on, my Leonore."
"There is but little more to say. A ship, laden with grain, lies in the harbor of Trieste with papers ready to set sail at once for Genoa. The Baron von Moudenfels, with the prisoner and the two French lieutenants, will take passage in her for Genoa, where another vessel, furnished by the Swedish members of the league, is ready to convey the party further. Count von Kotte has already been sent from here to Genoa by Baron von Moudenfels to give directions to the captain of the ship, who from that port will relieve Baron von Moudenfels from the charge of the prisoner."
"And what is the goal of his journey?"
"As I told you, some desolate island in the ocean, where no ships touch. There the emperor will be put ashore and left to support life like a second Robinson Crusoe, or in his despair seek death."