"Well, the plan really is not impracticable, and has been devised with equal boldness and calculation. Only I should like to know why so much ado is made, instead of adopting the shorter process, that is, murdering the emperor."
"For two reasons! The conspirators consider their task too sacred to profane it by assassination. They wish to rid Europe of the unhallowed yoke which weighs upon it in the person of the Emperor Napoleon. They are convinced that they are summoned to the work; that they shall thereby render the world and mankind a service full of blessing; but they will not anticipate fate; they will leave it to God to end a life which they merely desire to render harmless to God and men. This is the first motive for not killing the emperor, the second is that they believe a speedy death would be no fit punishment for the crime which Napoleon has perpetrated on humanity, while a perpetual, hopeless captivity, embittered by the omnipresent, ever alert consciousness of ruined greatness, of fame buried in dust and silence, would be a lasting penance more terrible to an ambitious land-robber than death could ever be."
"They are right, by the eternal God, they are right!" cried Schulmeister; "I believe that the emperor would prefer a speedy death a hundred times to such slow torture; and to you, Leonore, to you and to me will now fall the vast, the priceless happiness of preserving the emperor from such martyrdom. I say the priceless happiness, but I shall take good care that the emperor pays me for it as dearly as possible, and—so far as it can be done—balances the immense weight of our service by its compensation. By heaven, half a million francs really seems a trivial reward, and I don't know whether we can be satisfied with it."
"I shall be satisfied," cried Leonore, with an enthusiastic glance, "only when you fulfill the vow which you made; when, after I have made you rich, you make me free and permit me to go with the man whom I love wherever I desire, taking care that you do not betray by a word, a hint, who I am, and what I was."
"I will fulfill my oath to you," said Schulmeister earnestly, "for you have performed yours. You have discovered a conspiracy, and through this discovery saved the emperor from a terrible misfortune, and given me the right to demand a high price. You will make me rich; you will drive the demon of poverty from my head; I will repay you—I will guard yours from the demons of disgrace and shame; you shall have no cause to blush in the presence of the man whom you love. On the day that I bring from the emperor half a million as my property and yours, your past and mine will both be effaced, and we will enter upon a new life, in a new world! Let the spy, Schulmeister, the adventuress Leonore de Simonie; be buried, and new people, new names, rise from the budding seeds of the half million. But now farewell, my daughter, my beautiful Leonie. I must begin the work, must summon all my assistants and subordinates, and assign their tasks, for the next few days will bring much work. It is not enough for me to inform the emperor of the existence of a conspiracy, and the plan of the accomplices, but I must be able to give him convincing and irrefutable proofs of this plot, that he may not deem it a mere invention which I have devised in order to be able to claim a large reward. No, the emperor must see that I am telling him the truth, so I must not let the affair explode too soon. I must first know the names and residences of all the conspirators, investigate the details of the whole enterprise, and hold in my hand the threads of the entire web in order to be sure that all the spiders who have labored at it will be caught in their own net."
"Do so, father," cried Leonore joyously. "I will leave them all to you—all these poor spiders of the conspiracy. I feel no pity for them. Let them die, let them suffer, what do I care! I, too, have suffered, oh, and what mortal anguish! Yes, let them die and rot; I shall at last be happy, free, and beloved. Oh, God be praised that the man whom I love is not entangled in this conspiracy, that I could disclose the whole plot, mention the names of all the conspirators, without fear of compromising him. Yes, I thank Thee, my God, that Kolbielsky has no share in this scheme."
CHAPTER VII.
THE REVELATION.
The fatal Thursday had passed, Wednesday had come, yet Leonore had received no tidings from her father. For three days she had not seen him, had had no message from him.
But it was not this alone that disturbed and tortured Leonore. She had also had no news from Kolbielsky, though the week which he had named as the necessary duration of their parting had expired the day before. He had said:
"My week of exile will begin from this hour, and the first festival will be when I again clasp you in my arms."
This week had expired yesterday, and Kolbielsky had not come to clasp his loved one in his arms again. She had expected him all through the day, all through the night, and the cause of her present deep anxiety was not solicitude about her father, the desire to learn the result of the conspiracy discovered; no, it was only the longing for him, the terrible dread that some accident might have befallen Kolbielsky.
Why did he not come, since he had so positively promised to return at the end of a week? Was it really only a coincidence that the day which he had fixed for his return was the selfsame one on which the conspiracy formed by Napoleon's foes was to break forth?
What if he had had a share in the conspiracy? If he had deceived her, if—But no, no, that was wholly impossible—that could not be! She knew the names of the conspirators, especially those of the heads and leaders; she knew that Kolbielsky's name had not once been mentioned during the whole discussion between them. So away with anxieties, away with cowardly fears. Some accident might have detained him, might have caused a day's delay.
To-day, yes, to-day he would come at last! To-day she would see him again, would rush into his arms, rest on his heart, never, oh! never to part from him again! Hark, a carriage was stopping before the door! Steps echoed in the corridor.
They approached, stopped at her door! It is he, oh, surely it is he!
Darting to the door, she tore it open.
No! It was her father, only her father!
With a troubled cry, she sank into the chair beside the door. Her father went to her; she did not see the sorrowful, almost pitying look he fixed upon her. She had covered her face with her hands and groaned aloud. Schulmeister stood before her with a gloomy brow, silent and motionless.
At last, after a long pause, Leonore slowly removed her hands from her face and raised her head.
"Are we rich now?" she asked in a whisper, as though she feared lest even the walls should hear her question.
"Yes," he exclaimed joyfully, "yes, we are rich."
Drawing his pocketbook from his coat, he opened it and poured out its contents, shaking the various papers with their array of high numbers into Leonore's lap.
"Look, my daughter, my beloved child! Look at these wonderful papers. Ten banknotes, each one fifty thousand francs. That is half a million, my Leonore! Look at these papers. Yet no, they are no papers, each is a magic spell, with which you can make a palace rise out of nothing. See this thin scrap of paper; a spark would suffice to transform it to ashes, yet you need only carry it to the nearest banker's to see it changed into a heap of gold, or glitter as a parure of the costliest diamonds. If you desire it, these papers will transmute themselves into a magnificent castle, into liveried servants, into superb carriages. Oh, I already see you standing as the proud mistress of a stately castle, in your ancestral hall, with vassals bowing before you, and counts and princes suing for your hand. For these magic papers will give you everything, everything; not luxury alone, but honor, rank, and dignity, the love and esteem of men. Take them, for the whole ten papers shall be yours. I wish to see you rich and happy, therefore I defied disgrace and mortal peril. Come, my child, let us set out this very hour to buy with these papers, far away from here, in an Eden-like region, a castle which shall be adorned with all that luxury and art can offer. Come, my Leonore, come. We have accomplished our work of darkness, now day is dawning, now our star is rising. Come, come! Alas, the days are so short, let us hasten, hasten to enjoy them!"
Leonore slowly shook her head. "He must return," she said solemnly. "First I must see him again, have him tell me that he will go with me to that distant region. What would all the treasures of the earth avail, if I did not have him! What would I care for castles, diamonds, and carriages if he were not with me! I am expecting him—he may be here at any moment. So tell me, father—describe quickly how everything has happened. I have not seen you for three days; I do not know what has occurred, for, strangely, nothing has reached the public."
"The emperor enjoined the most inviolable silence upon us all," said Schulmeister gloomily. "The whole affair has been treated and concealed as the most profound secret. The emperor does not wish to have anything known about it; no one must deem it possible that people have dared to seek to take his life, to attempt to capture him. I never saw him in such a fury as when I first told him the plan of the conspirators. His eyes flashed lightnings, he stamped his feet, clenched his little hands into fists, and stretched them threateningly toward the invisible conspirators. He vowed to kill them all, to take vengeance on them all for the unprecedented crime."
"And has he fulfilled the vow?"
"He has. He has punished the conspirators, so far as lay in his power. But some of them, for instance Baron von Moudenfels, do not belong to the number of his subjects, but are Austrians. The emperor did not have the sentence which he pronounced upon his own subjects executed upon them; he could not at this time, for you know that negotiations for peace have been opened, and the treaty will be signed immediately. So the emperor did not wish to constitute himself a judge of Austrian subjects; it is a delicate attention to the Austrian emperor, and the latter will know how to thank him for it and to punish the criminals with all the rigor of the law. Therefore Baron von Moudenfels and Count von Kotte have merely been held as prisoners, and were compelled to witness the execution to-day."
"What execution?" asked Leonore in horror.
"Colonel Lejeune, Captain de Guesniard, and two sous-lieutenants were shot this morning on the meadow at Schönbrunn,"[E] said Schulmeister in a low tone.
Leonore shuddered, and a deathlike pallor overspread her face. "And I delivered them to death!" she moaned.
"And if you had spared them, you would have delivered the Emperor Napoleon, the greatest man of the age, to death, to the most terrible torture of imprisonment!" cried her father, shrugging his shoulders. "These men wished to commit a crime against their sovereign, their commander. You have no reason to reproach yourself for having delivered the criminals to the law."
"And Mariage? What has become of Mariage?"
"Apparently he received a warning; he has fled. But we found all the others yesterday at their posts; for we had made all our arrangements so secretly that even the conspirators who surrounded the emperor were not aware of it. The emperor at first intended to act strictly according to the programme of the conspirators; take the ride with his suite, and not permit me to come to his assistance, with a few trustworthy assistants, until after he had entered the hut and been captured. But he rejected this plan, because he would have been compelled to arrest his most distinguished generals and subject the greater number of his staff officers to a rigid investigation. The whole army would then have heard of this bold conspiracy, and conspiracies are like contagious diseases, they always have successors. So the emperor rejected this plan, and, at the moment that his suite were mounting to attend him on his ride, he dismissed them all, saying that he wished to go into the woods alone, accompanied only by Colonel Lejeune, the Mameluke, and myself. You can imagine the mute horror, the deathlike pallor of the generals. The emperor did not vouchsafe any of them a glance, but dashed away. When we had ridden into the woods, the emperor checked his horse and turned to Colonel Lejeune, who, white as a corpse, rode beside him.
"Your sword, colonel!" he exclaimed, in tones of thunder. "You will not play the part of emperor to-day, but merely the character of an arch-traitor and assassin."
At the same instant Roustan and I rode to Lejeune's side, and each seized an arm. A moment later he was disarmed and deprived of the papers which we found in his breast pocket, and the tender farewell letters to his wife and his mother, in case that the enterprise should fail.
"I will have these sent at once to their addresses the morning after your execution," the emperor said, with a withering glance from his large flashing eyes. Then he rode on, and we followed, each holding an arm of Lejeune, who rode between us. At last we reached the hut and the emperor checked his horse again. Roustan uttered a low whistle and, at the same instant, six gray-bearded giants of the imperial guard stood beside us as if they had sprung from the earth. As soon as the conspirators entered the hut, they had cautiously approached it and, concealed behind the trees, awaited the preconcerted signal.
The emperor greeted them with the smile which bewitched his old soldiers, because it reminded them of the days of their great victory.
"I know that you are faithful," he said, "but I should also like to know whether you are silent."
"Silent as the grave, if the Little Corporal commands it," said old Conradin, the emperor's favorite.
"Well, I believe you, and you shall give me a proof of it to-day. Clear out the nest you see there, and catch the birds for me!"
"He pointed with uplifted arm and menacing gesture to the hut; the soldiers rushed to it and broke in the door. Shouts of rage were heard, several shots rang out, then all was still, and the old grenadiers dragged out five men. Three were wounded, but they had avenged themselves, for three of the soldiers were also injured."
"Was Baron von Moudenfels among the prisoners?" asked Leonore quickly.
"Yes," replied Schulmeister, "yes, he was among them."
"Then you saw him?"
"Yes, I saw him."
The slow, solemn tone with which her father answered made Leonore tremble. She looked up questioningly into his face, their eyes met, and were fixed steadily on each other.
"Why do you gaze at me so sadly and compassionately?" asked Leonore suddenly, cowering as though in fright.
"I did not know that I was doing so," he answered gently.
"You were, you are still," she cried anxiously. "Father, I read misfortune in your face. You are concealing something from me! You—oh, heaven, you have news of Kolbielsky."
She started up, letting the bank-notes fall unheeded to the floor, seized her father's arm with both hands, and gazed silently at him with panting breath.
He avoided her eyes, released himself almost violently from her grasp, stooped, picked up the bills and divided them into halves, putting five into his breast pocket, and giving his daughter the other five.
"Take it, my Leonore; take the magic key which will open Paradise to you!"
She took the bank-notes and, with a contemptuous gesture, flung them on the floor.
"You know something of Kolbielsky," she repeated. "Where is he? Answer me, father, if you don't wish me to fall dead at your feet."
"Yet if I do answer, poor child, what will it avail you? He is lost, you cannot save him."
She neither shrieked nor wept, she only grasped her father's arm more firmly and looked him steadily in the face.
"Where is Kolbielsky?" she asked. "Answer, or I will kill myself."
"Well, Leonore, I will give you a proof of my infinite love. I will tell you the truth, the whole truth. When the prisoners were dragged out of the hut, one of them suddenly made an attempt to escape. The soldier tried to hold him, they struggled—in the scuffle the conspirator's wig fell off. Hitherto he had had white hair—"
"It was Baron von Moudenfels?" asked Leonore breathlessly.
"Yes, Leonore, it was Baron von Moudenfels. But when the wig was torn from his head, we saw no old man, no Baron von Moudenfels, but—"
"Kolbielsky!" she shrieked with a loud cry of anguish.
Her father nodded, and let his head sink upon his breast.
"And he, too, was shot this morning?" she asked in a low, strange whisper.
"No, Leonore. I told you that the emperor, out of regard for his future ally, the Emperor Francis, did not have him executed. He simply imprisoned him and punished him only by compelling him to witness the execution. He will leave it to the Emperor Francis to pronounce sentence of death upon the assassin."
"He lives? You will swear that he lives?" she asked breathlessly.
"I will swear that he lives, and that he will live until the return of the courier whom Count Bubna, who is in Schönbrunn attending to the peace negotiations—has sent to Totis to the Emperor Francis."
The Baroness de Simonie bounded like a tigress through the room, tearing at the bell till it sounded like a tocsin and the servants came rushing in terror from the anteroom.
"My carriage—it must be ready in five minutes!" she cried. The servants ran out and Leonore darted across the room, tore open the door of the adjoining chamber, opened a wardrobe in frantic haste, and dragged out a cloak, which she flung over her shoulders.
"In heaven's name, Leonore, are you out of your senses?" asked her father, who had hurried after her and now seized her arm. "What do you mean to do? Where are you going?"
"To the Emperor Napoleon!" she cried loudly. "To the Emperor Napoleon, to save the life of the man I love. Give me the money, father!"
"What money, Leonore?"
"The bank-notes! The blood-money which I have earned!"
Her father had carefully gathered up the bank-bills which she had thrown about the room, and gave them to her. Leonore shuddered as she clenched them in her trembling hands. "I have sold him," she shrieked, raising the hand that held the papers toward heaven. "His blood clings to this money. But I will hurl it at the emperor's feet. I want no pay; I will beg his life for my recompense. Pray father, pray that he may hear me, may grant me mercy, for I swear by all that is sacred, if Kolbielsky must die, I will kill his murderers. And his murderers are—you and I!"
"The carriage is at the door," said a servant, entering.
She sprang forward. "I am coming. Pray, father, pray for mercy upon my loved one's murderers!"
CHAPTER VIII.
PARDON.
Four days had elapsed since the execution at Schönbrunn. Baron von Kolbielsky had been forced to attend it and was then conveyed to Vienna to spend dreary, lonely days at the police station in the Krebsgasse.
He had vainly asked at least to be led before his judges to receive his sentence. The jailer, to whom Kolbielsky uttered these requests whenever he entered, always replied merely with a silent shrug of the shoulders, and went away as mute as he had come.
But yesterday, late in the evening, he had entered, accompanied by the Chief Commissioner Göhausen, two magistrates, and a clergyman. With a solemn, immovable official countenance Commissioner Göhausen opened the document which his subordinate handed to him, and, in a loud voice, read its contents. It was a sentence of death. The death-sentence of Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky "on account of sympathy and complicity in a murderous assault upon the sacred life of his annointed imperial ally and friend, Napoleon, emperor of the French."[F] Early the following morning, at dawn, Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky must be shot at Schönbrunn.
Kolbielsky had listened to this death-warrant with immovable composure—no word, no entreaty for pardon escaped his lips. But he requested the priest, who desired to remain to pray with him and receive his confession, to leave him.
"What I have to confess, only God must know," he said, smiling proudly. "In our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of my friends. God sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on me. I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request."
So he was left alone—alone during this long bitter night before his doom! Yet he was not solitary! His thoughts were with him, and his love—his love for Leonore!
Never had he so ardently worshipped her as on this night of anguish. Never had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave of her. Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his eyes. He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he loved. All his desires turned to her. Oh, to see her once more! What rapture thrilled him at the thought! And he knew that she would come if he sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring him her last love-greeting. He need only call the jailer and say to him:
"Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottengasse. Tell her that I beg her to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell. She is my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me."
He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred, and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.
But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his heart, for such a message would have compromised her. Perhaps she, too, might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal, though she was innocent.
No, he dared not send to her! His Leonore, the beloved, worshipped idol of his heart, should not suffer a moment's anxiety through him. He loved her so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for her. Let her think of him as one who had vanished! Let her never learn that Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man whom she loved. He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave her hope! Hope of a meeting—not yonder, but here on earth! She would expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of seeing him no more. Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless, would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was destiny which severed them—that if he did not return to her, he had gone to the place whence there is no return.
"Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one! Never to see you again, never again to hear from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look into your eyes, those eyes which shine more brightly than all the stars in heaven."
It was already growing lighter. Dawn was approaching. Yonder, in the dark night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day. The sun was rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the condemned man, death.
Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation, support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it shielded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death. And though fate had not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust, trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and the liberties of the nations.
There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy. The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.
No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The bolts on the outer door were already rattling.
"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart, farewell!"
The inner door was opened—Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.
Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment, utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor, closed the door behind him and locked it.
The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for years.
Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.
"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"
The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?" he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."
A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.
The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young man's face.
Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou bringest love.
"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my—"
He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept—wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight, of ecstasy—tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.
Yet no. He would not weep, for tears will dim her image. He wished to see her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live there while he died.
He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with a happy smile.
"Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars? Do you shine on me once more, ere I enter eternal night?"
Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.
"Why do your lips quiver? Why do they utter no word of love? Oh, let me break the seal of silence which closes them."
Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the lips.
"Speak, my Leonore, speak! Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you."
"No, no," she cried exultingly, "no, you will not leave me, you will stay with me."
Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flashing eyes she repeated:
"You will stay with me."
"Oh, my sweet love, I cannot! They have sentenced me to death. They will soon come to summon me."
"No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death. They will not kill you. I bring you life! I bring you pardon!"
"Pardon!" he cried, almost shrieked. "Pardon! But from whom?"
"Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!"
"God be praised. I can accept it from him," cried Kolbielsky jubilantly. "So I am free? Speak, dearest, I am free?"
She shook her head slowly and sadly. "I have been able only to save you from death," she said mournfully. "I have been able only to obtain your life, but alas! not your liberty."
"Then I remain a prisoner?"
"Yes, a prisoner."
"For how long?"
"For life," she murmured in a voice barely audible.
But Kolbielsky—laughed.
"For life! That means—so long as Napoleon lives and is powerful. But he will die; he will fall, and then my emperor will release me; then I shall belong to life, to the world; then I shall again be yours! I will accept my emperor's pardon, for it is you who bring it to me—you have obtained it. You say so, and I know it. You hastened to Totis, you threw yourself at the emperor's feet, pleaded for mercy, and he could not resist your fiery zeal, your bewitching personality. But how did you know that I was arrested? Who told you that I was Baron von Moudenfels?"
"My uncle," she replied with downcast eyes, "my uncle brought me the tidings; he told me that Napoleon, through Count Bubna, had sent a courier to Totis, to the Emperor Francis, and asked your condemnation. I hastened to Schönbrunn; I succeeded in overcoming all obstacles and reaching the emperor. I threw myself at his feet, confessed amid my tears that I loved you, begged for your life. And he granted it; he became your intercessor to the Emperor Francis. He wrote a few lines, which I was to convey to Totis myself. I did so, hastening thither with post-horses. I spoke to the emperor. He was deeply moved, but he had not the courage to take any decisive step; he still dreaded offending his new ally. The Emperor Napoleon begs me to grant Kolbielsky's life, he said. 'I will do so, but can do nothing more for the present. I will grant him life, but I cannot give him liberty. He must be taken to the Hungarian fortress Leopoldstadt. There he must remain so long as he lives.'"
"To Leopoldstadt! In an open grave," cried Kolbielsky gloomily. "Cut off from the world, in joyless solitude, far from you. Oh, death, speedy death would be better and—"
"No," she interrupted, "not far from me! I will remain with you. The emperor at my fervent entreaty, permitted your servant, your faithful servant, to accompany you, share your imprisonment. Now look at me, beloved, look at me. I wear your livery, I am the faithful servant who has the right to go with you. Oh! no, no, we will be parted no longer. I shall stay with you."
Clasping both arms around his neck, she pressed a glowing kiss upon his lips.
But Kolbielsky released himself from the sweet embrace and gently pushed her back. "That can never be—never will I accept such a sacrifice from you. No, you shall not bury your beauty, your youthful bloom in a living tomb. Your tender foot is not made to tread the rough paths of life. The proud Baroness de Simonie, accustomed to the splendor, luxury, and comfort of existence must not drag out her life in unworthy humiliation. I thank you, love, for the sacrifice you wish to make, but nothing will induce me to accept it. Return to the world, my worshipped one! Keep your love, your fidelity! Wait for me. Even though years may pass, the hour of liberty will at last strike and then I will return to you!"
"No, no!" she impetuously exclaimed. "I will not leave you; I will cling to you. You must not repulse me. The emperor has given your servant the right to stay with you. I am your servant. I shall stay!"
"Leonore, I entreat you, do not ask what is impossible. There are sacrifices which a man can never accept from the woman he loves—which humiliate him as they ennoble her. I should blush before your nobility; it would bow me into the dust. Leonore de Simonie must not leave the pure, proud sphere in which she lives; she must remain what she is, the queen of the drawing-room."
"Is this your final answer?" she asked, turning deadly pale.
"My final one."
"Well, then, hear me! You shall know who I am; you shall at least learn that you might accept every sacrifice from me without ever being obliged to blush in my presence. You thrust me from you, that is, you thrust me into death! Yes, I will die, I wish to die, but first you shall hear from my lips the truth, that you may not grieve, may not shed a single tear for me. So hear me, Carl, hear me! I am not what you believe. My foot is not accustomed to the soft paths of life—the world of splendor and honor is not mine. From my earliest childhood I have walked in obscurity and humiliation, in disgrace and shame, a dishonored, ignominious creature."
As if crushed by her own words she sank down at his feet, and raised her clasped hands beseechingly, while her head drooped low on her breast.
Kolbielsky gazed at her with an expression of unspeakable horror, then a smile flitted over his face.
"You are speaking falsely," he cried, "you are speaking falsely out of generosity."
"Oh, would to heaven it were so!" she lamented. "No, believe me, I am telling the truth; I am not what I seem; I am not the Baroness de Simonie."
"Not Baroness de Simonie? Then who are you?" he shrieked frantically.
"I am a paid spy of the Emperor Napoleon, and the spy Schulmeister is my father."
Kolbielsky uttered a cry of fury and raised his clenched fist as if he intended to let it fall upon her head. But he repressed his rage and turned away. Despair and grief now overpowered him. He tottered to a chair and, sinking into it, covered his face and wept aloud.
Leonore was still kneeling, but when she heard him sob she started up, rushed to him, and again throwing herself at his feet, she embraced his knees.
"Do not weep—curse me! Thrust me from you, but do not weep. Alas! yet I have deserved your tears. I am a poor, lost creature. Yes, do not weep. I have suffered much, sinned much, but also atoned heavily. Yes, weep for me! My life lies bare as a torn wreath of roses in the dust—not a blossom remains, nothing save the pathway of thorns, grief, and torture. Yes, weep for me—weep for a lost existence. I was innocent and pure, but I was poor—that was my misfortune. Poverty drove my father to despair, drove us both to disgrace and crime. Oh, God! I was so young, and I wanted to live; I did not wish to die of starvation, and the tempter came to me in my father's form, whispering, 'Have money and you will have honor! Help yourself, for men and women will not aid you. They turn contemptuously away because you are poor. To-morrow, if you are rich, they will pay court to you, honor, and love you. I offer you the means to become rich. Give me your hand, Leonore, despise the people who leave us to die, and follow me.' I gave him my hand, I followed him, I became Napoleon's spy. I had money, I had a name, I saw people throng around me, I learned to despise them, and therefore I could betray them. But, in the midst of my brilliant life, I was unhappy, for the consciousness of my shame constantly haunted me, constantly cast its shadow upon me. And one day, one day I saw and loved you! From that day I was the victim of anguish and despair. On my knees I besought my father to release me, to permit me to escape from the world. He threatened to betray my past, my disgrace to you. And I—oh, God, I loved you—I yielded, I remained. My father vowed that, if I made him rich, he would set me free. I discovered a conspiracy. You were not among the accomplices—I betrayed it. I wanted to serve you by the treachery and I plunged you into ruin."
Tears gushed from her eyes; the sobs so long repressed burst forth and stifled the words on her lips. Kolbielsky no longer wept. He had let his hands fall from his face, and was listening to her in deep thought, in breathless suspense. Now, when she paused sobbing, he stretched out his hand as if he wished to raise Leonore, then he seemed to hesitate and withdrew it.
She did not see it; she did not venture to look at him; she gazed only into her tortured heart. "I have betrayed you," she continued, after an anxious, sorrowful pause. "Oh, when I learned it, a sword pierced my soul and severed it from every joy of life. I knew, in that hour, that I had fallen a prey to despair, but I wished at least to rescue you. I have saved you, that is the sole merit of my life. Napoleon could not resist my despair, my tears, my wrath—he pitied me. He gave your life to me. All the blood-money which I had gained, all the splendor which surrounded me, I flung at my father's feet. I released myself from him forever, and, that my penance might be complete, I called all my servants and revealed my ignominy to them. Then I left the palace where I had lived so long in gilded shame. I took nothing with me. I call nothing mine except these clothes and the name of Leonore. Now you know all, and you will no longer be able to say that I can make a sacrifice for you. Decide whether I must die, or whether you will pardon me. Let me atone; let me live—live as your slave, your thrall. I desire nothing save to see you, serve you, live for you. You need never speak to me, never deem me worthy of a word. I will divine your orders without them. I will sleep on your threshold like a faithful dog, that loves you though you thrust him from you—who caresses the hand that strikes him. I have deserved the blows; I will not murmur, only let me, let me live."
She gazed imploringly at him, with a face beaming with enthusiasm and love.
And he?
A ray of enthusiasm illumined his face also. He bent over the kneeling figure, laid his hands on her shoulders, and gazed into her face while something akin to a divine smile illumined his features.
"When I bade you farewell," he said softly, "I said that if I returned, I would ask you a momentous question. Do you know what it was?"
She shrank and a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but she did not venture to reply, only gazed breathlessly at him with fixed eyes.
He bent close to her and, smiling, whispered:
"Leonore, will you be my wife?"
With a cry of joy she sprang into his arms, laughing and weeping in her ecstasy.
Kolbielsky pressed her closely to his heart and laid his hand upon her head as if in benediction.
"You have atoned," he said solemnly. "You shall be forgiven, for you have suffered heavily! You have come to me homeless. Henceforth my heart shall be your home. You have cast aside your name—I offer you mine in exchange. Will you be my wife?"
She whispered a low, happy "yes."
An hour later an officer of justice arrived to announce to Kolbielsky his change of sentence to perpetual imprisonment and inform him that the carriage was waiting to convey him to Leopoldstadt.
Kolbielsky now desired to see the priest whose ministration he had formerly refused, and when, half an hour later, he entered the carriage, Leonore was his wife. She accompanied him, disguised as his servant, for the permission to attend the prisoner to Leopoldstadt was given in that name. But the priest promised to go to the emperor himself and obtain for the wife the favor which had been granted to the servant.
He kept his word, and, a few weeks later, the governor of Leopoldstadt received the imperial command to allow the wife of the imprisoned Baron von Kolbielsky to share his captivity.
But Kolbielsky's hope of a speedy release was not to be fulfilled. Napoleon had become the emperor of Austria's son-in-law, and thereby Kolbielsky's position was aggravated. He knew too many of the Emperor Francis' secrets, could betray too much concerning the emperor's hate, and secret intrigues of which Francis himself had been aware. He was dangerous and therefore must be kept in captivity.
In his wrath he wrote vehement, insulting letters to the Emperor Francis, made himself guilty of high-treason. So they were well satisfied to find him worthy of punishment, and render the troublesome fault-finder forever harmless.
So he remained a prisoner long after Napoleon had been overthrown. His wife died many years before him, leaving one daughter, who, when a girl of eighteen, married a distinguished Austrian officer. Her entreaties and her husband's influence finally succeeded in securing Kolbielsky's liberation. In the year 1829 he was permitted to leave Leopoldstadt, to live with his daughter at Ofen, where he died in 1831.
THE END.
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