Title: Prince Eugene and His Times
Author: Mühlbach, L. (Luise)
Language: English
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PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES

An Historical Novel

BY

L. MUHLBACH


AUTHOR OF FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS COURT, THE MERCHANT OF BERLIN,
BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI, JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT, ETC.


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY ADELAIDE DeV. CHAUDRON



CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

    I.   The Countess of Soissons
   II.   The Laboratory
  III.   Prince Eugene
   IV.   The Riot
    V.   Barbesieur Louvois
   VI.   The State Reception
  VII.   Help in Time of Need
 VIII.   The Flight
   IX.   The Parting


BOOK II.

    I.   Marianna Mancini
   II.   The Trial
  III.   A Skirmish
   IV.   Louvois' Daughter
    V.   The Court-Ball
   VI.   The Lady of the Bedchamber
  VII.   The Lady of the Bedchamber
 VIII.   First Love
   IX.   The Betrayal


BOOK III.

    I.   The Disappointment
   II.   The Foes
  III.   The Repulse
   IV.   The Farewell
    V.   A Page from History
   VI.   The Emperor Leopold I.
  VII.   The Council of War
 VIII.   The Plains of Kitsee
   IX.   The Baptism of Blood
    X.   Vienna
   XI.   The Re-enforcements

BOOK IV.

    I.   The Fall of Buda
   II.   The Friends
  III.   The Marquis Strozzi
   IV.   Laura
    V.   The Regatta
   VI.   The Negotiator
  VII.   The Lovers reunited
 VIII.   Antonio's Expiation
   IX.   The Dungeon

BOOK V.

    I.   A Twofold Victory
   II.   The Dumb Music
  III.   The Retirement of the Commander-in-Chief
   IV.   The Fall of Belgrade
    V.   The Marchioness
   VI.   The Flight
  VII.   The Forester's Hut

BOOK VI.

    I.   Sister Angelica
   II.   Louis the Fourteenth
  III.   The King and the Petitioners
   IV.   The Window that was too large
    V.   The Imperial Diet at Regensburg
   VI.   The Judith of Esslingen
  VII.   Her Return

BOOK VII.

    I.   The Island of Bliss
   II.   The French in Speier
  III.   The Treasure
   IV.   Caspar's Vengeance
    V.   The Duchess of Orleans
   VI.   The Deliverance of Trier
  VII.   The Fire-tongs
 VIII.   Brave Hearts

BOOK VIII.

    I.   The Advance into France
   II.   The Ravens
  III.   Sick and Well
   IV.   The Duke's Dangerous Illness
    V.   The Marquis Strozzi
   VI.   Insanity and Revenge
  VII.   The Ambrosia
 VIII.   The Betrothal
   IX.   Vengeance



PRINCE EUGENE AND HIS TIMES.



BOOK I.


PRINCE EUGENE, THE LITTLE ABBE



CHAPTER I.

THE COUNTESS OF SOISSONS.


"Is that your last word, madame?" said Louvois, in a tone so
emphatic as to be almost threatening.

"My last word," replied the countess, haughtily. "My daughter is too
young to marry, and were she older, I would not impose a husband
upon her who was not the man of her choice. She shall bestow her
hand and heart together."

"Do you mean that it is impossible for your daughter to love my
son?" asked Louvois, hastily.

The countess raised her shoulders and smiled superciliously, while
from her large black eyes there darted forth a glance that spoke
volumes to the mind of the irritated minister.

"It would appear," said she, "that there can be no sympathy between
the Mancinis and the Louvois, and that their antipathies are to be
perpetuated from generation to generation."

"You would remind me of the similarity which the fate of my son as a
wooer bears to that of his father?" asked Louvois. "I do not deny
it; the repulse which twenty-one years ago I received from Olympia
Mancini, she repeats to-day in the person of her daughter. But it
may be that on some other occasion the Mancinis shall be repulsed by
the Louvois."

"A threat?" said the countess, angrily.

Now it was the shoulders of the minister that were raised. "I have
sowed love and reaped hate," said he, quietly.

The countess laughed. "Ah," said she, "I see that you have
remodelled your speech according to the pious formulary of Madame de
Maintenon, and that you seek for your troubadours among the
prophets."

"Yes--the Scriptural prophets satisfy MY cravings for knowledge,"
replied Louvois, smiling. "Pity that everybody else is not as
orthodox as I!"

"What do you mean?" asked the countess, uneasily.

"I mean that it would be better for the Countess de Soissons if she
imitated the discretion of Madame de Maintenon, and eschewed
association with those unholy prophets who draw their inspiration
from the stars."

"Do you think so? And yet the book of the stars is inspired and
contains truth, for therein it stands written that our two families
will never be united by the bonds of love. What is the use of
striving against destiny? Fate has willed our enmity, and we must
submit with resignation," said the countess, with an affected drawl.
"You see," added she, pathetically, "how beautifully I fall into
your new-fashioned dialect, and how harmoniously my dulcet notes
mingle with those of the court chorus."

"I remember the dulcet notes of a poem written years ago, which were
wont to edify the court with a strain that would sound inharmonious
there to-day. What would De Montespan and De Maintenon say to such
discordant lines as these?" And Louvois began to hum the following:

  "La belle Olympe n'a point de seconde,
   Et l'Amour a bien reuni
   Dedans l'infanta Mancini
   Par un avantage supreme
   Tout ce qui force a dire: J'aime!
   Et qui l'a fait dire a nos dieux!"
 [Footnote: "Les Nieces de Mazarion," par Renee, p. 177.]

"What they would say?" replied the countess; "why, they would listen
approvingly to a rhapsody which time has falsified, and imagine that
I wince to hear it sung. But they would be in error. I thank you for
recalling to my mind the golden vision of the past, wherein a king
knelt at my feet, and Louvois lived upon my smiles. She who can look
back upon conquests such as these, can afford to despise the
contrarieties of the present, while she plumes her victorious wings
for future flight, wherein she shall attain indemnification for the
trifling vexations of to-day."

"I wish you may realize your joyous anticipations," replied Louvois,
with a sneer. "But if you will allow me to draw your horoscope, you
will confess that I am a wiser seer than your dear friend La
Voisin."

For one moment the features of the countess contracted painfully,
but she mastered her emotion and was able to reply with a tranquil
smile,--"Do so, your excellency, I am all attention."

"I read in the stars that snares encompass you, Countess de
Soissons. You have enemies, numerous, powerful, and crafty. At their
head stands the queen, who can never forgive you for having opened
one of her letters, and having stolen thence a note addressed to the
king, which accused her of secret machinations with Spain. Then
there is poor Louise de la Valliere, who for your cruel sarcasms
shed such oceans of tears--"

"She is in a convent."

"True, but the scars of your persecutions are upon her heart; and
although she may be a Christian, think you that she has ceased to be
a woman? Third--among the number of those who hate you is the
Marquise de Montespan, to whom the brilliant assemblages at the
Hotel de Soissons are a source of mortification, for she can never
forget that, on more than one occasion, the king has forgotten his
rendezvous with her, to linger at the side of his fascinating
hostess. And we must not overlook the pious De Maintenon, who lives
in constant terror lest some day or other your presence should
recall to the king that golden vision of his youth, whereof Olympia
Mancini was the enshrined divinity. For this reason you are more
obnoxious to the ex-governess than De Montespan herself. The star of
the latter favorite is already on the wane, whereas yours may rise
again at the bidding of Memory. These four women have long-meditated
your destruction, and many are the thorns with which they have
strewed your path in life. But, to compass your ruin, there was
wanting ONE strong arm that could concentrate their scattered
missiles, and hurl them in ONE great bomb at your head. Countess de
Soissons, that arm is mine--I, Louvois, the trusted minister of the
king, the friend of De Maintenon, the mightiest subject in France--I
am the man whose arm shall strike on behalf of your enemies, of whom
in me behold the chief! You have thrown me your gauntlet, and I
raise it. I proclaim myself your foe, and since there must be war
between our races, we shall see whether for the future the Mancinis
may not be made to suffer through the Louvois! This is my horoscope,
and now mark well my last words: La Voisin the soothsayer was
arrested last night."

All the self-control which she could gather to meet this sinister
disclosure, could not smother the groan which was upheaved from
Olympia's sinking heart.

Louvois affected not to hear it. He bowed low and prepared to take
his leave. The countess made no effort to detain him; she was too
frightened for circumspection, and she followed his retreating
figure with eyes that were all aflame with hate. Nor did their fiery
glow abate when, having reached the door, Louvois turned and
confronted her.

He surveyed her calmly, but his eye returned hate for hate, and so
for a moment they stared at each other, while there passed between
the two a silent challenge, which both felt was to be fought out to
the death.

After a pause Louvois spoke. His mouth dilated with a cruel smile,
which, when its mocking light was seen, betokened peril to those who
offended him.

"Madame," said he. "not only has La Voisin been arrested, but her
private papers have been seized." So saying, he bowed again and
disappeared behind the portiere.



CHAPTER II.

THE LABORATORY.


The countess listened to his echoing footsteps until they were no
longer audible, nor did she move until she heard the roll of the
carriage which bore him away.

Gradually the sound of the receding vehicle melted into distance,
and a deep silence ensued. This silence first roused the countess
from her lethargy. A tremor convulsed her limbs; her dilated orbs
which had been fixed upon the door relaxed, and wandered from the
silken hangings of the walls to the gilded furniture around her;
from the tables of Florentine marble to the rainbow-tinted
chandeliers, whose pendants swayed to and fro in the sunshine. And
now they rested dreamily upon a picture which, conspicuous for size
and beauty, hung immediately opposite to the sofa whereon she was
reclining. It was the full length portrait of a handsome youth. He
was not tall, but he was gracefully proportioned. His shoulders were
broad; and, rising from the midst of a slender throat, adorned with
a fall of lace, appeared his stately head crowned with a wealth of
long, brown curls. His face was of a beautiful oval, his complexion
clear, his mouth wreathed with happy smiles. The brow was high and
arched, and the fine gray eyes beamed with hope and energy. In one
hand he held a rose, which he extended to a person not represented
in the picture; the other band, half veiled by its overhanging fall
of gossamer lace, rested carelessly on the table, while close by lay
two rose-buds, which seemed just to have been dropped from the half-
open fingers. Over an arm-chair in the background was thrown a
mantle of royal ermine, which partially concealed the kingly crown
that surmounted its high carved back.

The eyes of the countess were fixed upon this picture with an
expression of tender sadness, and slowly, as if yielding to an
influence altogether objective, she rose from her seat and advanced
toward the portrait, where she remained gazing until her sight was
dimmed by tears, while the youth smiled ever, and ever held out the
rose.

What golden tribute had his homage brought to her ambition! What
ecstasy had it poured into her heart! How truly had she loved that
princely boy, who, careless, happy, and fickle, was bestowing upon
other women the roses which for her had withered years ago, leaving
upon their blighted stems the sharp and cruel thorns of his
inconstancy!

Since then, twenty-three years had gone by; she had become a wife
and the mother of seven children, but the wound still festered; the
old sorrow still sang its mournful dirge within a heart which to-day
beat as wildly as ever, and felt a pang as keen as when it first
grew jealous, and learned that not she, but Marie, had become the
divinity whom Louis worshipped.

Marie, too, had been forsaken, and had stifled the cries of her
despairing heart by marriage with another. The fate of both sisters
had been the same--a short dream of gratified ambition, followed by
long years of humiliation. It seemed that the prosperity and
happiness of Cardinal Mazarin's nieces had been coexistent with his
life, for when the eyes of their uncle closed in death, the light of
their fortunes grew dim and expired.

The portrait of Louis XIV., which was calling up the spectres of so
many buried joys, had been painted expressly for Olympia Mancini. It
represented his first declaration of love to her, and had been sent
as a souvenir of "the brightest hour of his life." He had barely
reached his thirty-seventh year, and yet this winsome youth had been
transformed into a demure devotee, who, despising the vanities of
the world, had turned his heart toward heaven, and spent his life
doing penance for the sins of his early manhood!

And this transformation was the work of a woman who had neither
beauty, youth, nor birth to recommend her to the favor of a monarch-
-a woman who had been the paid governess of the king's bastards, and
was not even gifted with intellect enough to cover her other
deficiencies!

These last thoughts brought a smile to the face of the countess.
Turning suddenly away from the portrait she crossed the room with
rapid steps, and placed herself directly in front of a large
Venetian mirror which occupied the space between two windows. It
gave back the reflection of an exquisite figure, whose outlines
contributed much to the grace with which the folds of a blue satin
dress fell in rich profusion around it. The white shoulders were
scarcely concealed by a shawl of superb lace, and the arms, still
round, were set off by costly bracelets. The raven hair, with not a
trace of time's finger to discolor its glossy blackness, fell around
her face in curls as delicate as the tendrils of a grape. Her brow
was smooth and polished, her eyes aglow with passionate longing,
and, as her lips curved into a complacent smile, they disclosed two
rows of pearly teeth, compact and without a fleck.

Yes, she was not deceived. Olympia de Soissons was a handsome woman,
and with so much comeliness, such ready wit, and such unrivalled
powers of conversation, she might gird up her loins to do battle
with her rivals. Was not Madame de Maintenon her elder by three
years? And as for De Montespan, was she not wasting away into an old
woman? If they had found it possible to win the heart of this
sensual Louis, why not she? This heart had once been all her own,
and why should not she, who combined the beauty of one mistress with
the shrewdness of the other, dispossess them both, and re-enter into
possession of her old domains?

She smiled again, and saw how well her smiles became her. "Yes,"
said she to herself, "yes, I will recall this truant merlin, and he
shall return to perch upon the hand he used to love! I will be
mistress of his heart and mistress of his realms. She foretold it
all, and gave me the charm wherewith to work the spell."

But as she gave utterance to these last words, her lips began to
quiver, and her fine features were distorted by some sudden pain.
She had just called to mind the fearful intelligence of La Voisin's
arrest.

"Great God! If my letters should have been found among her papers!
What, oh what would be MY fate?"

She shuddered--and in place of the triumphant vision of a heart
recaptured, a monarch at her feet, there arose the fearful spectacle
of an execution which, four years before, she had witnessed at the
bloody Place de Greve. Once more she saw the square, black with a
mass of human beings, who, jeering, shouting, and cursing, moved
hither and thither like the waves of a turbulent ocean; at every
window that looked out upon the place, she saw gayly-dressed ladies
who peered anxiously out to catch a glimpse of one gloomy object
that loomed darkly up from its centre. She saw the crowd give way
and part, as, keeping pace with the dull sound of a muffled drum, a
sad procession entered upon the scene. At its head marched a
battalion of soldiers, and behind them, seated in the felon's cart,
came a pale, beautiful woman, who ever and anon pressed to her
quivering lips the crucifix held out to her by a priest--that last
link of sympathy between the convict and his fellow-creatures. At
the criminal's side, in symbolic robes of sanguinary red, was the
executioner that was to sever this slender tie, and wrench the
spirit from the body to whose guardianship God had committed it on
earth. Silently the hideous cortege moved on, while the crowd fell
back to let it pass, until the scaffold came to view. How joyously
the sun's rays seemed to play around the glittering axe that was to
end a career of secret crime! How eagerly the high-born dames bend
forward to catch sight of the criminal, as, leaning on the arm of
the priest, she tottered to her doom! Olympia remembered only too
well the moment when the drum ceased its "discordant sound," and
when the silence was so oppressive that the low voice of the
condemned was heard uttering her last prayer. She knelt beside the
block--a circle of light was described upon the air--and the head
fell upon the blood-besprinkled sand.

The Countess de Soissons sickened as she remembered that the woman
whom she had seen executed was one of high position, no less a
personage than the beautiful and fascinating Marquise de
Brinvilliers. Neither her rank, her charms, nor the strenuous
efforts of her powerful friends, had been adequate to save her from
the headsman's axe. She had been convicted of poisoning, and had
shared the fate of other malefactors of less repute. Her confidante
La Voisin had been arrested at the time, but as nothing proved her
to have been an accomplice of her former mistress she had escaped
conviction.

Something new with regard to the fortune-teller must have
transpired, for Louvois had considered her arrest as an ill-omen for
the Countess de Soissons. Not only for Olympia, however, was the
arrest of Catherine a calamity, for she was the trusty counsellor of
many a noble lady who, before suspicion had sullied her name, had
been the dear and intimate associate of the Marquise de
Brinvilliers.

The countess had turned away from the contemplation of her mellow
charms, and was on her way to her boudoir. She bolted the door
within, and, crossing the room, mounted a chair that stood by the
side of a tall mirror set in a thick gilt frame. She touched a
spring, when the mirror glided noiselessly aside, revealing a dark
recess within the wall.

Olympia slipped through the opening, which closed behind her, darted
up a narrow staircase, and, hastily drawing a key from a pocket
concealed within the folds of her dress, she unlocked the door of a
room whose aspect was anything but appropriate to the pursuits of a
lady of quality.

It was to all appearances a kitchen, for one entire side of it was
occupied by a hearth full of recesses, each one of which contained a
furnace fitted up with iron utensils for cooking. On the mantel,
which corresponded to this immense hearth, were ranged pipkins and
other vessels of different sizes, interspersed with rows of phials
and flasks containing liquids of every imaginable color. On a
massive oaken table, in the centre of the apartment, were placed a
number of bowls and dishes, and near them lay a disorderly pile of
papers, books, and pamphlets.

Olympia approached the hearth, stooped over one of the furnaces, and
from a fagot lying near gathered a few small sticks. Over these
sticks she poured a fluid from one of her flasks, and then rubbing
them briskly together, they began to emit sparks. She placed them
under the furnace, added a little more fuel, and in a few moments
had a good fire.

She now sprang to her feet, and hastily pushing aside a row of
pipkins, opened a small door which had been concealed behind them,
above the mantel. From a recess within the wall she took a brass-
bound casket, which she placed upon the table.

The casket contained some books, papers, and several diminutive
phials. One of these phials she held up to the light, contemplating
its contents with manifest satisfaction.

"Herein lies the spell that is to lure my faithless monarch back
again. La Voisin may rot in prison, but her mantle of science has
fallen upon me, and her secrets are mine. Her last, best gift shall
restore me to my throne. Not only did she leave me the means of
success, but she foretold the certainty of that success besides. It
must be so: La Voisin never erred in her predictions, and I shall
triumph!"

Pressing the phial to her lips, Olympia hid it beneath the folds of
her lace tucker, murmuring the while, "I shall sip of this nectar
anon; for the present, I must provide for discovery."

She took the papers that lay in the casket, and weighing them in her
hand said musingly:

"How light they are, and yet how heavy was the gold with which I
purchased them! 'Tis a pity they should be destroyed: what if I
should forget? But no! oblivion of their treasured secrets were
impossible to me; so away with you! You might turn traitors, and I
had best anticipate treachery by destruction."

Then followed the books and the contents of the phials remaining in
the casket. The blue flames leaped high as these last were added to
the cremation, and the room became oppressive with their unwholesome
vapor.

"The window must be opened," said Olympia. "This odor might betray
me. People might suspect me of having cooked arsenic in my kitchen
instead of onions."

With, these words she opened the casement, and the noxious cloud
passed slowly out into the air.

"Now all is safe. Louvois can send as many bailiffs as he lists, and
should they poke their inquisitive noses into my sanctum, they will
find nothing for their pains but an innocent laboratory wherein the
Countess de Soissons prepares her cosmetics, and makes experiments
in the chemistry of the toilet."

She replaced her casket, searched the mantel carefully, and then
glanced sharply around the room to assure herself that she was alone
and undiscovered.

Yes! Alone, the witnesses of her guilt consumed, and their ashes
etherealized throughout space.

The countess smiled, and, as she locked the door of her laboratory,
her spirits revived and her thoughts once more reverted to the
ambitious dreams of the morning. When she had reached her boudoir
again, and the complaisant mirror had resumed its place, she drew
the flask from her bosom, removed the glass stopper, inhaled for a
moment its perfume, and then, raising it to her lips, drained the
contents to their last drop.

"And this philter is to make me mistress of your heart, King Louis!
How I long to begin my reign!"

A slight rustling was heard outside, and the guilty woman trembled
anew. She concealed the phial, and listened breathlessly, while her
straining eyes were fixed upon the door as though they had hoped to
see through its panels of oak whether friend or foe stood without.

A slight knock was heard, and now, in spite of herself, the Countess
de Soissons grew pale and shivered. What if the myrmidons of Louvois
had come with a lettre de cachet! What if--No! not even HE would go
so far in his enmity to the niece of the great cardinal, the
relative of the reigning Duke of Savoy, and the daughter-in-law of
the Princess Carignan.

So she summoned resolution enough to cross the room, draw back the
bolt, and to say in a loud, imperious tone: "Come in."

The door opened, and admitted a young man. The countess no sooner
recognized him than she smiled, and, with a slight elevation of her
shoulders, said, "Nobody but you."

"Nobody but me," replied the youth, sadly. "I come to ask of my
gracious mother an interview."



CHAPTER III.

PRINCE EUGENE.


The countess inclined her head in token of assent; but, as she did
so, her eyes rested on the diminutive form of her son with an
expression that savored of disdain. The look was unmotherly, and
seemed to say, "How can a man of such insignificant appearance be
the son of the stately Countess de Soissons?"

And indeed to a careless observer the words were not inappropriate
to his dwarfish proportions. His head, which, between his
excessively wide shoulders, was perched upon the top of a very long
neck, was too large, much too large for his body. His face was
narrow, his complexion swarthy, his sallow cheeks high and sunken. A
nose slightly turned up, gave an expression of boldness to his
countenance, increased by the shortness of his upper lip, which
exposed to view two large front teeth that were almost ferocious in
their size. On either side of his high, narrow forehead, his hair,
instead of being worn according to the prevailing fashion, was
suffered to fall in long elf-locks about his ears. Notwithstanding
all these disadvantages, his eyes were so superlatively beautiful
that they almost persuaded you into the belief that he was handsome.
From their lustrous depths there streamed a meteoric splendor,
which, more than words, revealed the genius, the enthusiasm, and the
noble soul to which Nature had assigned such unworthy corporality.

Those speaking eyes were fixed upon the countess in tender sadness,
while, in a respectful attitude near the door, he awaited her
permission to approach.

She languidly extended her hand, and, Eugene coming forward, bent
over and imprinted upon it a heartfelt kiss.

"My dear mother then consents?" said he, humbly.

"I know of no reason why I should refuse," replied the countess,
carelessly. "Neither am I able to divine wherefore you make your
request in a tone of such unusual solemnity. One would suppose that
the little abbe has come to invite his mother to a confession of her
sins, so portentous is his demeanor."

"Would I could receive that confession," exclaimed he, earnestly;
"would I could look into my mother's heart and read the secrets
there!"

"Indeed! and have you come hither to catechise your mother, then?"
said the countess, with a frown.

"No, dear mother, no," cried Eugene, eagerly; "I have come to ask of
you whether I may walk with head erect before the world, or whether
I must die because of our dishonor?"

"An extraordinary alternative to present for my decision, certainly;
and I confess that I am very curious to learn how it happens that I
can assist you in your dilemma. Speak, then, and I will listen."

With these words the countess threw herself indolently into an arm-
chair, and motioned Eugene to a seat. But he only advanced a step or
two, and gazed wistfully upon her handsome, hardened face.

"Mother," said he, in a low, husky voice, "the soothsayer La Voisin
has been arrested."

"Ah! what else?" asked the countess, with perfect composure.

"Her house is guarded, every corner has been searched, and her
papers have all been seized."

"And what else?" repeated the countess.

Her son looked up, and a ray of hope shot athwart his pale and
anxious face. "Nothing is talked of in Paris," continued he, "but
the strange revelations connected with her arrest. It is said that
she not only drew the horoscope of those who were accustomed to
visit her, and gave them philters, but--but--"

"But," echoed the countess as her son paused.

"But that she prepared secret poisons, one of which, called 'La
poudre de succession,' was specially designed for the use of those
who wished to remove an inconvenient relative."

This time the countess was silent; her brow contracted, and she
shivered perceptibly.

An involuntary cry burst from the lips of her son, which recalled
her to a sense of her imprudence.

"What ails you?" asked she, abruptly. "Have you seen a ghost, that
you cry out in a voice so unearthly?"

"Yes, mother, I have seen a ghost--the ghost of my father! "And
while the countess grew pale, and her eyes dilated with fear, her
unhappy son sank upon his knees before her, and clasped his hands
with agony of apprehension.

"Mother, have mercy on me, and forgive me if, in the anguish of my
writhing soul, I ask you whether you are innocent of my father's
death?"

"Has any one dared to accuse me?" asked she, with a scowl.

"Ay! And so publicly, that men spoke of it together as I passed them
in the streets to-day. Need I say that I was ready to die of grief
as I heard the epithet of murderess applied to the mother who to me
has been the ideal of beauty, goodness, and excellence, which my
heart has worshipped to the exclusion of all other loves! My brain
was on fire as I dashed through the scornful crowd, and made my way
to you, mother, here to look upon your dear face, and read in your
eyes your innocence of the hideous crime. We are alone with God: in
mercy tell me, are you innocent or guilty?"

As he raised his face to hers, the countess saw there such powerful
love struggling with his anguish, that her heart was touched, and
the angry words she had meditated died upon her lips.

"These are cruel doubts wherewith to assail your mother, Eugene,"
said she, after a pause. "Follow me, and in the presence of your
forefathers you shall he answered."

With a lofty bend of the head, she left the room, followed by her
stricken child. They crossed a spacious hall, and traversed one
after another the apartments of state which were thrown open to
guests on occasions of great ceremony, and led to the grand hall of
reception. At the farther end of this hall, under a canopy of purple
velvet, surmounted by a ducal crown, were the two thrones which, on
the days of these state receptions, the Count and Countess de
Soissons were privileged to occupy in presence of their guests,
provided his majesty were not of the number. This right they held by
virtue of their connection with the royal house of France, and their
close relationship to the Duke of Savoy. At the time of the marriage
of his niece with the Count de Soissons, Cardinal Mazarin had
obtained from Louis XIV. an acknowledgment of her husband as a
prince of the blood, and, by virtue of this acknowledgment, his
right to attend without invitation all court festivities, to appear
at the public and private levees of the king, and in his own palace
to sit upon a throne.

On either side of the throne-room of the Hotel de Soissons were
ranged the portraits of their ancestors, in armor, in ducal or
episcopal robes, in doublet and hose, or in flowing wigs. Silently
the mother and son walked by the stately effigies of princes and
princesses, until they had reached the farthest portrait there.

With outstretched arms the countess pointed to the likeness of a
handsome man, clad in a rich court-suit, which well became his
aristocratic figure. As he gazed upon the pleasant smile that
illumined a face expressive of exceeding goodness, the eyes of young
Eugene filled with tears.

His mother surveyed him with a curl of her lip.

"Tears!" said she. "And yet you stand before the portrait of your
father, whom you accuse me of having murdered!"

"No, no," cried her son, eagerly, "I did not accuse, I--I--"

"You inquired," interrupted the countess, disdainfully. "And by your
inquiry you insinuate that such a crime by the hand of your mother
was not only possible, but probable."

"Unhappily, I have more than once seen La Voisin in your boudoir,
mother."

The countess affected not to hear. "Then a son considers himself
justifiable in asking of his mother whether or not she poisoned his
father; he should do so with the sword of justice in his hand, not
with an eyelid that trembles with cowardly tears."

"Mother, have pity on me," sobbed Eugene, throwing himself at her
feet. "Do not answer my cruel question, for I read your innocence in
the noble scorn that flashes from your eye, and beams from every
feature of your dear, truthful face. Pardon me, beloved mother;
pardon your repentant child."

"No, I shall not pardon the poltroon who, believing that his mother
has disgraced his escutcheon, weeps like a woman over wrongs which
he should avenge like a man. But I forgot. The little abbe of Savoy
is not accustomed to wear a sword; HIS weapon is the missal. Go,
then, to your prayers, and when you pray for your father's soul, ask
forgiveness of God for your heartless and ungrateful conduct to his
widow."

"Dear, dear mother, have pity!" sobbed Eugene, still kneeling at her
feet.

"Was there any pity in your heart for me when you asked that
shameful question?"

"I was demented," cried he; "maddened by the sneers that were flung
at me in the streets to-day."

"And, to console yourself, you joined in the popular cry. 'Vox
populi vox Dei,' I suppose, is your pious motto."

"Mother!" cried Eugene, springing to his feet, "crush me, if you
will, under the weight of your anger, but do not stretch me upon the
rack of your scorn. I am no devotee; and, if the king, my family,
and yourself, are, forcing me into a career which is repugnant to
every instinct of my manhood, pity me, if you will, but do not
insult me."

"Pity you!" sneered the countess. "I am a woman; but he who would
venture to pity ME, would receive my glove in his face for his
insolence. Go, faint heart! You are fit for nothing but a whining
priest, for there is not a spark of manhood within your sluggish
breast. No generous blood of the princes of Savoy mantles in your
sallow check; 'tis the ichorous fluid of the churchman Mazarin that-
-"

"Mother!" thundered Eugene, with a force that gave the lie to her
derisive words--"mother, you shall go no further in your disdain of
me, for the blood of Savoy is seething within my veins, and I may,
perchance, forget that she who so affronts my father's son, is my
mother!"

"You have already forgotten," replied the countess, coldly. "My
answer to your infamous charge shall be made not to you, but to your
ancestors."

So saying, she bent her steps toward the ducal throne, and seating
herself thereon, addressed her son:

"Eugene of Savoy, Prince of Carignan, Bourbon, and Piedmont, bend
your knee before the mother that bore you, and hearken to her
words."

The prince obeyed, and knelt at the foot of the throne.

The countess raised her arm, and pointed to the portraits that hung:
around. "You have been witnesses," said she, addressing them all,
"to the outrage which has been put upon me to-day by him who
inherits your name, but not your worth. If I am the guilty wretch
which he has pronounced me to be, strike me to the earth for my
crimes, and justify his parricidal words. But you know that I am
innocent, and that, with bitter tears, I lamented the death of my
murdered husband!"

"Murdered!" exclaimed Eugene. "It is, then, true that he was
murdered?"

"Yes," replied the countess, "he was murdered, but not by bowl or
dagger."

With these words, she rose, and, slowly descending from her throne,
she returned to the spot which she had left, and gazed mournfully
upon her husband's portrait. "He was a noble, brave, and gallant
prince," said she, softly. "He loved me unspeakably, and wherefore
should I have taken the life of him whose whole pleasure lay in
ministering to my happiness? What could I gain by the death of the
dearest friend I ever had? Ah, never would he have mistrusted his
Olympia! Had the envious rabble of Paris defamed me while he lived
to defend my honor, it is not your father, Prince Eugene, that would
have joined my traducers and outraged my woman-hood, as you have
done to-day!"

"Forgive me," murmured the prince.

"Yes, my beloved," continued she, addressing the picture, "they
accuse me of murdering thee, because they seek my ruin as they
compassed thine."

"Who, dear mother, who?" cried Eugene, passionately. "Who are the
fiends that murdered my father and calumniate my mother?"

"They are Louis XIV.," exclaimed the countess, "his minister
Louvois, and his two mistresses, De Montespan and De Maintenon."

"The king!" echoed Eugene, in a voice of such fury, that his mother
turned her eyes from the portrait, and stared at him with amazement.

"You hate the king?" said she, hurriedly.

"Yes," said Eugene, his eyes flashing fire; "yes, I hate him."

"And why?"

"Do not ask me, mother; I dare not say wherefore I hate the king."

"Then I will tell you why. You hate him because you believe the
scandalous reports which my enemies have spread throughout Europe as
regards my relations, in years gone by, with Louis. You believe that
your mother was once the king's mistress, and that, to hide her
shame, she borrowed the name of the Count de Soissons."

Eugene made no reply.

"Ah, why have I no son to shelter me from these infamous suspicions!
Why must I live and die under such false and disgraceful
imputations?"

"Then, it is not true?" cried Eugene, joyfully. "You did not love
the king, mother?"

"Yes, I did love him," said she, calmly, "and loved him as an
Italian alone can love."

Eugene groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

"I do not deny the love," continued the countess, "for it was all
the work of Cardinal Mazarin. He brought me from Italy, and bade me
win the king's heart and become a queen; and when he did so he added
a recommendation to me to be a good, dutiful niece, and never to
forget who it was had helped me to a crown. I saw the youth whom the
cardinal desired me to love: the handsomest, wittiest, and most
accomplished cavalier in France. I obeyed but too willingly, and
Louis became the idol of my life."

"Then it is true that my mother was beloved by the king?" said
Eugene, sternly.

"Beloved by him, but never his mistress!" returned the countess,
proudly. "Yes, he loved me as I did him, with the trust, the
strength, the passion, that are characteristic of a first love. I
was ambitious for him as well as for myself, and would have had him
a monarch in deed as well as in name. I led him away from the
frivolous regions of indolent enjoyment to the starry realms of
poetry, art, and science; and, had Louis ever risen to the fame of
Numa, I should have merited that of Egeria. But this conflicted with
the ambition of the cardinal. He had no sooner comprehended the
nature of the influence I exerted over his royal tool, than he
poisoned his ear by insinuating that ambition, not love, was the
spring of all my efforts to elevate him to the level of his
magnificent destiny. Poor, weak Louis! He was anything that Cardinal
Mazarin chose to make him; so at the word of command he ceased to
love, and went to make an offering of his accommodating affections
to Marie. She made him take an oath never to look at me again."

"Did he respect the oath?"

"Just so long as he loved Marie. I need not tell you that I suffered
from his inconstancy. I was inexpressibly grieved; but pride upheld
me, and Louis never received a word or look of reproach for his
faithlessness. Meanwhile your father offered his hand, and before I
accepted it he was made acquainted with the history of my heart. I
concealed nothing from him, so that he was at once the confidant of
my past sorrows, and their comforter."

"Thank you, dear, dear mother," said Eugene, tenderly. "In the name
of all your children, let me thank you for your noble candor."

"I married the Prince de Soissons, and here, in presence of his
assembled ancestors, I swear that I have kept unstained the faith I
pledged him at the marriage-altar. Let the world belie me as it
will, Olympia Mancini has ever been a spotless wife. So true is
this, that Louis, when he had abandoned Marie, and had tired of his
queen, returned to me with vows of a love which he swore had been
the only genuine passion of his life; and when, as my husband's
loyal wife, I repulsed the advances of his sovereign, that sovereign
became my bitterest enemy. Not even after he had consoled himself
with the insipid charms of that poor, flimsy creature, La Valliere,
did Louis relent; his animosity, because of some witticism of mine
on the subject of his hysterical mistress, has pursued me throughout
life; not only me, but every member of my family. For a mere epigram
I was banished from Paris, and your father stripped of a lucrative
and honorable office. We managed after a time to return to court,
but my enemies were more powerful than I. Through the jealousy of
the Marquise de Montespan I was a second time banished; but before
we left, your father fought two duels with noblemen who had
circulated the calumnies which the marquise had originated
concerning me. The Duke de Noailles was wounded, and the Chevalier
de Grand Mercy killed. Although the challenges had been honorably
sent and accepted, the Count de Soissons was summoned before the
king and publicly rebuked. Oh, let me speak no longer of the
contumely we endured during those bitter days! My husband died,
blessing me, and cursing the selfish monarch who had ruined us
both."

Eugene clinched his hand. "I shall remember the curse," cried he,
"and it shall be verified if God give me strength, mother!"

"Yes, avenge us if you can, Eugene, but, until the day of reckoning
come, we must be politic and wary. Be silent and discreet as I was,
when, on being allowed to return to Paris, I humbled myself for my
dear children's sake, and not only swore to write no more epigrams,
but went in person to sue to Madame de Montespan for pardon and
protection!"

"Mother, is it possible! Far better had it been for us to die
obscurely in some provincial village, than purchase our admission to
court at the price of such humiliation as that!"

"No, no--I had sworn to be revenged upon my persecutors, and no plan
of vendetta could I carry out in a provincial village. Do you
remember what I told my sons on the day of our return to the Hotel
de Soissons?"

"Ay, mother, that do I. You said: 'Bow your heads in ostensible
humility, but never forget that the Bourbons have robbed you of your
inheritance. Never forget that if you are poor, it is because on
some idle pretext of a conspiracy that never could be proved, Louis
XIV. sequestered the estates of the Counts de Soissons.' These were
your words, and you see that I have not forgotten them. They are the
steel on which I have sharpened the hate I feel for the King of
France. And now that its edge is keen, why may I not lift it against
the man who belied my mother, and murdered my father? Oh mother,
mother, why will you force me to become a priest?"

"What else could you become?" asked Olympia. "The king is your
guardian, and he it is that from your childhood has destined you for
the church."

"I hate this garb," exclaimed Eugene, touching his cassock. "My
vocation is not for the priesthood, and, if I am called upon to
utter compulsory vows, I feel that I shall disgrace my cloth. Dear
mother, loosen the detested bonds that bind me to a listless and
contemplative life! Gird me with a sword, and let me go out to
battle with the world like a man!"

The countess looked disdainfully at the diminutive figure of her
son, and raised her shoulders with contempt. "You a soldier!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Eugene, passionately. "Yes! My soul abhors the
cloister, and yearns for the battle-field. While you have fancied
that I was studying theology, I have been poring over the lives of
great commanders; and, instead of preparing my soul for heaven, I
have trained my body for earthly strife. Look not so compassionately
upon my stature, mother. This body is slender, but 'tis the coat of
mail that covers an intrepid soul, and I have hardened it until it
can bid defiance to wind or weather. With this arm I curb the
wildest horse, nor will its sinews yield to the blow of the most
practised swordsman in France. I have studied the science of warfare
in books: my life has been one long preparation for its practice,
and I cannot, will not relinquish my day-dreams of glory."

"There is no help for it, I tell you. All princes of the blood are
wards of the king: your royal guardian has chosen your profession,
and you must either submit or bear the consequences of his wrath."

"What care I for his wrath? Let him give me my freedom, and I will
promise never to seek my fortune at his hands."

"At all events, wait for some favorable opportunity to rebel,
Eugene. We are poor and dependent now, and your brother's scandalous
marriage has forever marred our hopes of seeing him heir to the
duchy of Savoy. To think of a Prince de Carignan uniting himself to
the daughter of the equerry of the Prince de Conde! What a
disgrace!"

"My brother consulted his heart and not his escutcheon," replied
Eugene, with a smile. "He followed the example of his father, and
may God bless him with a wife as beautiful and as virtuous as his
mother!"

The countess, who had begun to frown at Eugene's apology for his
brother, could not resist this filial flattery. She gave him her
hand, which he kissed devoutly.

"You no longer believe me guilty, my son?" said she. Eugene knelt
and murmured: "Pardon, dear, dear mother! My life will be all too
short to expiate my unworthy doubts, and to avenge your wrongs."

"Avenge them, but do not exasperate the king. Imitate Richelieu and
Mazarin, and the priest's gown will no longer be distasteful to you.
They were great in the field and in the cabinet, and both possessed
more than regal power, for both were the rulers of kings."

Eugene was about to reply, but Olympia raised her hand in
remonstrance, and continued:

"I exact of you, for a time at least, apparent submission and
perfect silence. When the hour is ripe for retaliation, you shall
strike, and repay me for all that I have endured at the hands of the
king. But, for the present, breathe not the name of Louis above a
whisper. I have a deadlier foe than he to encounter now. Louvois,
Louvois, I dread above all other men; and if you have the strength
of a man in your arm, Eugene, let the force of its vengeance fall
upon the head of him, whose animosity is more potent than that of
all my other enemies united."

"It shall crush him and all who seek to injure you, mother.
Revenge!--yes, revenge for your wrongs, for my father's death, and
for MY bondage!"

"Ay, revenge, Eugene! A man may wear the garb of an ecclesiastic
with the heart of a hero, and to your brave heart these Princes of
Carignan commit my cause! Come, let us leave our ancestors to their
grim repose. May they lend their ghostly aid to the arm that wields
the carnal weapons of our righteous vengeance!"

As she turned to leave the gallery, the train of her blue satin
dress became entangled in the claws of the lion which supported the
throne. Eugene stooped hastily to release it, and, instead of
dropping it again, he smiled affectionately upon his mother and
placed himself in the attitude of a page.

The countess looked pleased at the attention, and said, "Have you
learned, among your other accomplishments, to be a trainbearer?"

"Yes, mother, I have learned to be your trainbearer, but to no other
mortal would I condescend to do such service."

But Olympia was not listening. She was day-dreaming again, and the
substance of her dreams was as follows:

"How soon, perchance, the court of France may bear my train along,
while I, victorious and exultant, crush the head of my enemies
beneath my heel! I feel the glow of the philter as it courses
through my veins, warming the blood that shall mantle in my cheeks,
kindling the fire that shall flash from my eyes! The hour is nigh
when I am to make my last supreme effort for mastery over the heart
of Louis: if I fail--I have an avenger in Eugene, who--"

At this moment an outcry was heard in the streets, and as Olympia
opened the door of her cabinet, she was confronted by her steward,
who, unannounced, stood pale as death before his astonished
mistress.



CHAPTER IV.

THE RIOT.


"What, in the name of Heaven, is the matter?" exclaimed she. "Whence
these discordant yells without, and how comes it that you enter my
private apartments without a summons?"

"I trust your highness will pardon my boldness; the case is too
urgent to admit of formalities, and I come to receive your
instructions as to--"

Here the voice of the steward was overpowered by the yells of the
populace without, and for several moments the countess and her son
stood in speechless amazement, waiting an explanation. "What can it
mean?" asked she at last.

"Your highness," replied the trembling steward, "the court is filled
with an infuriated mob, who rushed in before we had time to close
the gates."

Eugene, with an exclamation of dismay, would have darted to the
window, but the steward raised his hand imploringly.

"Do not let them see you, prince," cried he. "They have torn up the
pavement, and with the stones have shattered the windows of the
lower story."

"Then it is a riot," said the countess, "and the canaille of Paris
have rebelled against the aristocracy."

"Unhappily, your highness, their anger is directed exclusively
against the Hotel Soissons, and, if I judged by the number of our
assailants, I should say that all Paris has joined in the attack.
Not only the canaille are here, but, as I was hurrying to the corps
de garde to ask for protection, I saw more than one well-dressed
personage descend from his carriage and come thither to increase the
number of our enemies."

"I understand," said the countess, setting her teeth, "the anger of
the mob is directed against ME."

"Mother," whispered Eugene, "they must be the same men whom I met in
the streets, and whose jeers drove me thither to add to your misery
the stab of my unfilial doubts."

"Did you say that you had sent off for guards?" asked she of Latour.

"Yes. your highness. I went at once to the headquarters of the corps
de garde, and the officer of the day promised immediate succor."

"It will not be sent," returned Olympia. "But hark! What tumult is
this?"

"They are battering the palace-doors," said Eugene, who, in spite of
the steward's entreaties, had approached the window and was looking
down upon the mob. The palace de Soissons fronted the Poie Deux
Ecus, from which it was separated by a tall iron railing. The
enclosure was filled with a throng so dense that there was scarcely
room for them to move a limb; and yet, in their regular assaults
upon the palace-doors, they seemed to be obeying the commands of
some unseen chief.

Eugene surveyed the scene with something of that calm but powerful
interest which possesses the soul of a commander about to engage the
enemy.

"The multitude increase," said he. "If they continue to press in
much longer, the court will be so thronged that no more missiles can
be thrown."

At that very moment the windows were assailed by a hail-storm of
stones, one of which fell at Olympia's feet. She touched it with the
point of her satin slipper, remarking as she did so, "This is a
greeting from Louvois."

"For God's sake, your highness, be not so rash!" exclaimed Latour,
as a second stone flew over the head of the prince, and shattered
part of a cornice close by.

Eugene had not moved. He heeded neither steward nor stone, but stood
with folded arms, looking upon the terrible concourse of his
mother's accusers. His face was very pale and resolute; it expressed
nothing beyond stern endurance; but the eye was threatening, and the
dwarfish figure had expanded until the abbe was forgotten, and in
his place stood the implacable foe of Louis XIV.

"Yes," said he, "I was right. The crowd is so dense that they now
threaten one another, and, unless they force the entrance to the
palace, they will be crushed by their own numbers."

"They will never force the entrance," said Latour. "The door is
barred and bolted, and they may bombard it for a day before they
ever make an impression upon the stout plates of iron with which it
is lined."

"Ay," replied Eugene, with a smile. "Catharine de Medicis knew how
to build a stronghold. She knew from experience what it is to face
an insurrection, and took her precautions accordingly. We owe her a
debt of gratitude for our security--Good heavens!" cried he,
interrupting himself, "they have found means to send us another
salvo."

A shower of stones came rattling toward the very window where he
stood, one of which struck the countess on the shoulder and caused
her to wince.

Once more Latour besought her to take refuge in another apartment.

"You have said that they cannot force the entrance: what do you
fear?" said she.

"I fear the stones, your highness."

"Then I will prove to the rabble that I, no more than Cardinal
Mazarin, am to be terrified by stones," returned Olympia,
approaching the window and placing herself at the side of her son.

The multitude, as they recognized her, broke forth into a wild shout
of abhorrence.

"Look! there is the woman who murdered her husband, and would have
murdered her children too!" "There is the wretch who would have
poisoned the king!" "There stands the accomplice of La Voisin!" "And
while her tool languishes in prison, she has no right to breathe the
free air of heaven!" "Away with her to the Bastile!" "To the
Bastile, to the Bastile!" "No! let her be burned for her crimes!"

"Louvois! Louvois!" murmured Olympia, her brow reddening with
humiliation.

Another yell from the besiegers was silenced by a loud voice, whose
words of command rose clear above the tumult.

"I knew it," said Eugene, "they have a leader. There is a method in
these manifestations which shows that they are not the disconnected
efforts of a many-headed monster."

"Great God! And the guards are not even to be seen!" cried Latour,
who stood with folded hands, murmuring snatches of prayer for help.

"Nor will they be seen," added Olympia, in a low voice.

Eugene was glancing now at his mother, now at her persecutors. As
his eye wandered from one to another of the uplifted and angry faces
below, he saw two men somewhat elevated above the rest, who with
their outstretched arms were giving the signal for a fresh
onslaught. No demonstration, however, followed the command, for the
people had gravitated into one solid body, of which no portion was
capable of independent action.

"Now," thought the prince, "now would be the opportunity for
retaliation. If I had but the means!--Latour." continued he, aloud,
"do the iron gates of entrance open within or without?"

"Without, your highness."

"So that if we could get access to the street, we might cage up
these base-born villains, might we not?"

"Yes, your highness; but he who shuts the gates must undo the chains
by which they are fastened back."

"Who has the keys?"

"I, your highness. I have them now upon my person."

"There are outlets by which you could gain access to the gates
without facing the people?"

"Certainly, your highness," began Latour; but his words were drowned
in another outburst of howlings from the maddened mob, and another
discharge of stones whizzed through the air, crushing the mullions
of the windows to splinters, and dashing their fragments of
shivering glass into the very faces of the unfortunate besieged.

"If the guards would but come!" said Latour, reiterating for the
twentieth time his doleful refrain.

"Since it appears that they have no intention of coming," replied
the prince, "we must e'en take this matter of defence in our own
hands. Hasten, Latour, to the street--undo the fastenings, and quick
as thought lock the gates!"

"But, your highness, do you suppose that I shall be suffered by that
infuriated crowd to lock or unlock the gates at pleasure?"

"Never fear; their faces are all turned toward the palace. You will
have accomplished the thing before they know that you have
undertaken it. Take two other men with you, who, as soon as you
release the chains, must fling the gates together, while you relock
them. Now be dexterous, and you will have performed no unimportant
feat of strategy."

"I will do my best, your highness."

"Before you go, summon the household to my presence. How many men
are there at home to-day?"

"Twelve, your highness."

"Enough to settle with two thousand such wretches."

Latour darted away on his double mission, and the prince turned to
his mother, who, undaunted and defiant, still stood before the
window contemplating her assailants, giving back look for look of
scorn and abhorrence.

"May I beg of my dear mother permission to absent myself for a
while?" said Eugene.

The countess looked round with inquiring eyes. "Whither would you
go, my son?" asked she.

"I wish to give some orders to the domestics, to arm them, and
assign to each man his post."

"Where will you find weapons, my son?"

"I have among my effects a small collection of fire-arms. They are
all in good order, and all loaded. I have nothing to do but
distribute them, and place my men."

The countess smiled. "In good sooth, I begin to believe that you are
fitter for a soldier than for a churchman. But you are not in
earnest when you speak of using firearms?"

"Why not? We are attacked, and, obeying the laws of necessity, we
defend ourselves. Unfortunately, we are forced to remain on the
defensive; I only wish I had an opportunity to attack."

"But what means that new outbreak of fury?" asked the countess,
returning to the window.

"It means," cried Eugene, joyfully, "that Latour has been
successful, and the gates are locked. The ruffians have discovered
the snare, and they howl accordingly. Now to my garrison; I must
station it with judgment, for it is not numerous."

"I will accompany you, my son," said the countess. "I would not miss
the sight of the first exploit of my future cardinal, him who
promises to unite in his own person the wisdom of Mazarin with the
prowess of Richelieu!"

The servants were assembled in the hall, whither they had taken
refuge from the stones and splintering glass, that were flying in
the palace windows. They were not a very valiant-looking body of
troops, but their commander made no comment upon their dismayed
faces. He merely counted them and spoke to his valet.

"Darmont, conduct these men to the armory, and provide each one with
a musket. Let them handle the guns carefully, for they are heavily
loaded. Bring me my pistols also. And now, away! and return
quickly."

Silently, and, to all appearances, not much edified by these
recommendations, the domestics followed Darmont, while Eugene
returned to his station at the window.

"Not only have they a leader," said he, "but I believe that they
were instigated to make this attack, mother."

"No doubt of it," replied Olympia; "and since Louvois has dared so
much, we may infer that he has the sanction of the king for his
brutality."

"Look!" cried Eugene, catching her arm, "there is the leader!--that
tall man in the brown suit, with bright buttons, who stands upon the
stone seat, near the gates."

"I see him," returned the countess. "He is speaking with two men who
are directly in front of him. This person looks familiar to me: I
have surely seen that tall figure and those wide shoulders before.
If his hat were not drawn so far over his brows, and we could but
see his face, our doubts as to the source of this outrage would
speedily be solved."

"He has been giving instructions, for the two men are addressing the
crowd. I fear we must look out for another bombardment."

And so it seemed; for the mob, having recovered from their momentary
fright, were evidently preparing for action. Hundreds of brawny
arms, each one of which grasped a stone, were raised into the air:
while as many stooping forms were seen, crouching close to the
ground, that they might leave room for the slingers to hurl their
missiles without impediment.

"That is a good manoeuvre," said Eugene. "Their leader understands
strategic warfare. They are ready, and await the word of command. It
comes! Stand back, mother!"

A crash was heard, but not a stone had been aimed at the windows.
"Ah, I understand," cried Eugene. "They are trying to force the
door, and so obtain their release. Thank Heaven! Here comes the
garrison, a handful of braves who, I hope, are destined to change
the fortunes of the day.--Now," continued he, advancing to meet
them, "listen to me. There are twelve of you, and the hall has seven
openings. Leave the central window free, and station yourselves two
at each one of the other six. Throw open the casements, cock your
guns, and be ready for the word of command. Darmont, give me my
pistols."

With one of these in either hand, Eugene stationed himself at the
window in the centre, while his mother stood by his side.

"They are about to favor us with another volley," said the prince.
"Neither they nor their leader have as yet remarked the changed
aspect of the palace-windows."

"The hat of the leader is purposely drawn down, and, while he
succeeds in concealing his features, he loses sight of the danger
which threatens from above. So much the better for us; but I do long
to have a sight of his face," returned the countess.

"You shall have your wish," replied Eugene, with a smile. "I will
knock off his hat, and your curiosity shall be gratified."

"How will you manage to do that?"

"You shall see," said he, raising the pistol that he held in his
right hand.

He fired, and when the smoke had cleared away, the face of the
leader was exposed to view. The ball had struck the hat, which had
fallen, and now a pair of dark, sinister eyes were glaring at the
spot whence the insult had been sent.

"Have a care," said the prince, leaning forward and addressing the
crowd. "If you send another missile against these walls, I will have
twelve of your lives!"

The men, who were just about to fling their stones, paused and
stared at one another in dumb perplexity.

Their leader, pale with rage, gave the word of command.

Eugene heard it, and called out in clear, defiant tones: "If the
leader of this riot attempt a repetition of his order, I will break
his right arm."

"Another volley, men!" shouted the chief.

A second report from the window was heard, which was answered by a
yell from below. Eugene's ball had pierced the elbow of the leader,
and the dismayed crowd had made a hasty movement toward the gates.

"Do you not see that there is no egress for you except through the
palace? Look at the murderess there, instigating her whelp to new
crimes! She exults over your weakness, and laughs at your panic. On!
on! Batter down the doors!"

"On!" echoed the mob; and their stones were flung with such frenzy
against the palace-doors, that its very walls trembled.

"Fire!" called out the sonorous voice of Eugene, and in another
moment might be seen the sinking forms of twelve of the rioters,
while, among the others, some were pale with fright, and a few cried
out that they would he revenged.

"Revenge is for those whom you have insulted and attacked," replied
the prince, deliberately. "You have made a cowardly assault upon a
noble lady, and not one of you shall leave this place alive!--Make
ready! Take aim!" continued he to his men.

The click of the locks was distinctly heard, and in the crowd each
man fancied that one of those carbines was aimed at his own head.
The mob was losing heart; not even their leader was to be seen or
heard. He had taken refuge in a sheltered corner of the court, where
his wounds were being bound up by his lieutenants. Inconspicuous as
he was, however, the sharp eyes of Olympia had followed him to his
retreat. Not for one moment did she lose sight of him; she was
determined to solve the enigma of his identity. As the last
bellicose words of Prince Eugene rang through the ears of his
dismayed followers, the wounded ringleader flung back his head with
such sudden haste, that its masses of dark, tangled hair were
entirely thrown aside, and the face that was revealed by their
removal, caused the countess to start and utter an exclamation of
surprise. As Eugene was about to give the command to fire, his
mother caught his arm, and whispered in his ear:

"My son, I now think that I can tell you the name of yonder caitiff
there, and, if I have guessed rightly, it were better for us to
cease hostile demonstrations, and capitulate."

"Capitulate!" cried the prince, indignantly. "Capitulate with the
rabble! Who can be this man that has so suddenly cowered the heart
of my noble mother?"

"I think that he is the son of Louvois," whispered she.

"Ah, the presuming Barbesieur, who would have given his name to a
Princess de Carignan?"

"Yes--the same. His beard is dyed, and he wears false locks, but,
spite of his disguise, I feel sure that it is Barbesieur. And I warn
you, Eugene! harm not a hair on his head, for he is the favorite son
of the mightiest man in France--mighty and vindictive. Kill as many
of the rabble as you will; but give positive orders to your men not
to touch Barbesieur Louvois."

"I ought to command them to fire on no other man, for he is
responsible for the acts of every rioter here."

"That would be to cast your entire family into the very jaws of
destruction. These men who call me murderess, could not be made to
believe that I have the tenderness of a mother for my children; but
you, Eugene, who know how dearly I love you all, you can understand
that no revenge would be sweet that was purchased at the expense of
my children's welfare. Spare, then, I implore you, the man who holds
your destinies in his unfriendly hand."

"So be it," sighed Eugene, and he went from man to man, saying in a
low voice, "Direct your fire toward the left." He then took his
station at the central window, and, raising his arm, called out a
second time: "Make ready! Take aim!"

The multitude heard, and their exceeding consternation found
utterance in one prolonged shriek of horror.

"Do not fire!" screamed a hundred voices. "Do not fire! We are
defenceless!"

The order was countermanded, and the self-possessed defender of the
beleaguered palace advanced his head and contemplated the ignoble
faces of his enemies.

"You acknowledge yourself baffled, then? You are willing to
retreat?"

"Ay!" was the ready response of every rioter there.

"You swear to desist now and forever from your infamous attack upon
this palace? You swear never more to make use of vituperative
epithets toward the family of the deceased Count de Soissons?"

"We swear, we swear! Open the gates! Let us out! Let us out!" was
now the universal cry.

"Not so fast. Before you have my permission to retire, I must have
unequivocal, outspoken evidence of your repentance and conversion.
You have presumed to asperse the good name of the Countess de
Soissons. Take back your injurious words, and cheer her now, right
lustily. Cry out three times, 'Long live the noble Countess de
Soissons!' and, if your acclamations are to my mind, I will open the
gates."

The reply to these conditions was a greeting so enthusiastic and so
unanimous, that you would have sworn the mob had assembled before
the hotel to tender to its inmates a popular ovation.

"Miserable canaille!" muttered their chief; "they are base enough to
hurl their stones at ME, if that beardless manikin up there should
require it of them, as a peace-offering to his immaculate mother!"

"I told your excellency that you could not trust them," replied the
companion on whose arm he was leaning. "It is a dangerous thing to
be identified with any action of theirs."

"You were right, Francois. Give me your arm, and let us try to reach
the gates, so as to be the first to escape from this accursed man-
trap."

"You have cheered the countess but once," cried Eugene to the
multitude. "Do you wish me to renew our strife?"

"Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!" was the prompt reply.
And, without waiting for a third suggestion, they shouted again and
again, "Long live the Countess de Soissons!"

Olympia's flashing eyes rested proudly on her son. "I thank you,
Eugene: you have avenged me effectually. All Paris will be filled
with lampoons on the ridiculous repulse of the valiant Barbesieur
and his followers."

Eugene made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the personage whom
they supposed to be the son of Louvois, and the prince knew
perfectly well wherefore he seemed in such nervous haste to reach
the gates.

"He hopes to escape without recognition," muttered Eugene, "but I
must have a word with him before we part."

"Open the gates!" clamored the populace anew; then suddenly there
was a cry of alarm which was echoed from man to man, from group to
group, until it shaped itself into these words: "The guards! The
guards!"



CHAPTER V.

BARBESIEUR LOUVOIS.


Thundering down the street came a troop of horsemen who halted
directly in front of the palace-gates.

"Louvois' spies have been reporting the failure of his son's warlike
expedition," remarked Olympia, "and the guards whom WE had vainly
called to our help, have come in hot haste to protect our
assailants."

By this time the officer in command was at the gates making vain
efforts to open them.

"What does this signify?" asked he. "And what is this multitude
about in the court of the Hotel de Soissons?"

"Look at the palace-windows and the palace-doors, and you will read
your answer there," replied Eugene. "I closed the gates against a
furious and misguided mob; but we have come to terms, and I am about
to liberate them. I crave your indulgence for these poor fellows:
they have been deceived, and knew not what they did, and I hope that
you will make good the forgiveness I have extended to their fault,
by allowing them to go hence without molestation."

"If so," replied the officer, "I shall be happy to confirm you
highness's clemency by carrying out your order for their release."

"Is it possible," asked the countess of her son, "that you are in
earnest? You intend to suffer those wretches to go away unharmed!
Because I asked your forbearance for one man, shall this vile horde
be snatched from the hands of justice!"

"Do you suppose that justice has any intention of overtaking them?"
asked Eugene, with a significant smile. "Believe me, dear mother, I
do but anticipate the object for which the guards were sent, and
spare myself and you the humiliation of publishing to the world that
neither law nor justice takes cognizance of the wrongs of the
Countess de Soissons. These men have come hither to succor our
enemies, not us."

"Ah, my son, I begin to appreciate you. You have inherited the
sagacity of your great uncle," returned Olympia.

"Open the gates! open the gates!" cried the rioters.

"Will your highness be pleased to send some one to release your
prisoners?" asked the captain of the guardsmen.

"I shall be there myself, in a moment," was the reply.

"You!" exclaimed the countess. "Would you expose yourself to the
vengeance of the populace, Eugene?"

"They will not molest me. Barbesieur Louvois has reached the gates,
and I must greet him ere he goes.--Come, Latour and Darmont, and
show me the way by the private staircase. The rest of you keep your
posts and be watchful, for the struggle may be renewed, and it is
just possible that I may have to order you to fire.--And now shall I
conduct my mother to her boudoir?"

"No, my son, I remain here to observe what passes below, nor will I
retire until I shall have seen the ending of this curious
spectacle."

Eugene bowed and withdrew. "Go before, Latour," said he. "I am
unacquainted with the private inlets and outlets of the palace."

Latour obeyed, saying to himself: "They may well make a priest of
this virtuous youth, who knows nothing of the secret windings of his
own hotel. His father and his brother were wiser than he; and many a
night have they gone in and out on visits of gallantry, when they
were young enough to be as squeamish as he, or old enough to have
reformed their ways."

"Give me the keys," said Eugene, as they emerged from the side-
entrance. "I will unlock the gates, and when I cry 'Halt!' do you
seize upon a man whom I shall point out to you as he attempts to
force the passage in advance of his confederates."

"Let us alone for holding him fast, your highness."

Eugene went a few steps farther; then, turning round, he said: "Yes-
-grasp him well, hut be careful not to take him by the right arm,
for I believe that it is wounded."

As he spoke these merciful words, Eugene blushed, for he saw a
derisive smile on Latour's face.

"I was in error," thought the steward. "Such a soft heart ought to
have been lodged in the body of a woman."

They had now reached the palace-front, where, in return for the
obsequious salutation of the captain of the guard, Eugene slightly
inclined his head.

"You came late to the rescue," said the prince. "Had you answered
the requisition of my steward, you would have spared me the painful
necessity of wounding a dozen of those poor devils."

"Was there bloodshed?" returned the officer.

"Of course there was. You can hardly imagine that I quieted these
turbulent rioters with a lullaby. Yes, there has been bloodshed, and
I have had satisfaction for the affront offered to my house to-day.
I hope you hold me justified in my method of procedure."

"Perfectly justified, your highness."

"Then the matter rests here, and peace is proclaimed. From my
amnesty, however, I except one man, him who is responsible for all
the evil that has been done by his followers."

"Your highness has only to point him out, and I will have him
arrested forthwith."

"You give me your word of honor that he shall not escape
punishment?"

"My word of honor, your highness."

"Latour and Darmont, station yourselves one on either side of me,
while I unlock the gates."

They took their positions, and Eugene slowly drew out his ponderous
keys. They were heard to click in the locks, and at the welcome
sound, there was a shout of joy from the imprisoned rioters. They
pressed eagerly forward--the gates parted--and the crowd began to
pour out into the streets. Eugene soon perceived the tall form of
the ringleader, although he had borrowed the hat of his companion,
and wore it slouched far down over his face.

As he approached the entrance, Eugene gave the signal agreed upon,
and he was seized by Latour and Darmont. But they had forgotten the
precaution given them as regarded his wounded arm, for as they
touched him he had been unable to suppress a cry of pain.

"Hold him, Latour," said the prince, "and you, Darmont, close the
gates so that only one man may pass at a time. Some of those guards
might be of service to us. Have I your permission to employ them,
captain?"

Eight men were ordered to dismount and to station themselves at the
gates, which, spite of the tremendous pressure from within, they
managed to secure, so that each man as he passed could be scanned by
him, who, notwithstanding his delicate build and diminutive stature,
was unquestionably the hero of the day.

"Now that the court is empty, you can see what devastation has been
committed," said he to the captain of the guard.

"Yes, indeed," replied the latter, raising himself in his stirrups
to overlook the railing, "they have uprooted the whole pavement."

"And have seriously damaged the windows," added Eugene. "For all
this destruction we have to thank yonder churl," continued he,
pointing to a man of almost gigantic stature, who was struggling to
free himself from the hands of Latour and Darmont. "Not content with
the laurels he has won as the ringleader of a mob, he has aspired to
achieve renown by defaming women. He has incited the populace to
asperse the good name of my honored mother, and by Heaven, he shall
suffer for every opprobrious word that has fallen from the tongue of
every base-born villain that followed him hither!"

"Your highness shall yourself dictate his punishment," replied the
officer, courteously.

"Then order your men to capture the twelve last rioters that leave
the enclosure, and let their leader, who is a thousand times more
guilty than they, oversee the restoration of the pavement, and
himself remove yonder Druid's temple, that lies before the central
window there."

"Never!" exclaimed the giant, redoubling his efforts to escape, and
writhing so vigorously that Latour and Darmont had to strain every
sinew to retain their hold of his huge body.

Eugene eyed his prisoner with withering scorn. "You hear him,
captain! He says 'Never!' as though it were for him to decide
whether or not my judgment is a righteous one. And yet I think it
most moderate amends to make for such immeasurable wrong."

"Indeed, your highness, it is most disproportionate to the enormity
of the offence. It is only too merciful!--Here! Eight men to carry
out the orders of the noble Prince of Savoy!" shouted he,
peremptorily.

The crowd, meanwhile, by this time convinced that submission was
their only alternative, were passing slowly and silently through the
gates. They were so completely subdued, that not one ventured a
remonstrance. They were intent each man upon his own retreat, and
nobody was troubled about the fate of the chief.

"There are just twelve men within the enclosure," said the officer.
"Instead of capturing them singly, close the gates, and secure them
all at once."

"But first let us admit my distinguished prisoner.--Thrust him in,
Latour, and conduct him to his task. He must expiate his offence
against the Countess de Soissons, by removing that heap of stones,
which were cast by his command against my palace-doors. If he prove
intractable, bring him to his senses by administering a blow or two
with a stout cudgel."

The chief, who for a few moments had been hoping by affected
submission to withdraw the attention of Eugene from himself to his
followers, gave a howl of rage, and looked around for his companion.
The latter, instead of passing out with the crowd, had remained
voluntarily in the enclosure with the twelve who were to suffer for
all.

They whispered together, after which the subordinate, approaching
the captain of the guard, said: "Captain, I come to offer myself in
the place of my poor brother, who, having been wounded in the arm,
is helpless, and incapable of removing the smallest of those
stones."

"What says your highness?" asked the officer of the prince.

"I grant the petition, for it is reasonable. Let him confine
himself, then, to the superintendence of the work."

"Captain, I crave permission to conduct my brother to a surgeon,
where his wound may be dressed. It is impossible that any man can be
so brutal as to require him to stay here with a bullet in his arm,"
said the subordinate.

"The bullet was no impediment while outrage was to be committed on
the properly of the Countess de Soissons," thundered Eugene, "and I
exact that he remain."

"Your highness's commands shall be obeyed," replied the officer.

"Captain," said the ringleader, dragging himself forward, while in
his tremendous strength he forced his captors along with him,
"captain, I must have a word in private with you. I have something
of importance to communicate, and you must come nearer that I may
whisper in your ear."

So imperious was the sound of his voice that the captain
involuntarily obeyed, and bent down his ear to listen. Although the
latter was on horseback and the former on fact, his tall figure was
almost on a level with the officer's head.

He spoke a few low words, the captain started, and, quickly raising
his head, he surveyed the gigantic chief from head to foot. He then
conferred with him a few moments, after which he addressed himself
in a very embarrassed manner to Eugene.

"Your highness, this poor man complains so piteously of the agony he
endures, that it would be cruel to detain him any longer. If you
have no objection, I will send him to the surgeon, accompanied by
four of my men, who, when his wound shall have been dressed, can
reconduct him hither."

"He will not return," replied Eugene, with a shrug. "He will find
means to escape the vigilance of the police. So be it. Let his
wounds be dressed, and let him depart whither he lists. But I have a
few words of adieu to speak ere he goes." So saying, he approached
his tall adversary, and so commanding was his presence, so fiery his
eye, and so proud his demeanor, that Eugene of Savoy looked mightier
than the wide-shouldered giant before him.

"I wish merely to say to this fellow that he is a knave," said the
prince. "Yes, captain, a knave, although you start to hear me call
him thus. I neither know his name, nor wish to know it; hut I shall
recognize him among a thousand, and, if ever I meet him again, I
will give him a knave's portion--a sound horsewhipping. And now away
with him! His presence is intolerable!"

"I go," replied the other, pale and trembling with rage. "But
beware, little priestling, how you cross MY path! If ever you dare
intrude yourself upon my sight, I will crush your diminutive carcass
as an elephant does a crawling worm!" He went, followed by him who
had claimed him as a brother, and accompanied by four guardsmen, who
rode at some distance behind their prisoners.

"And now, captain," said Eugene, "since your sympathizing heart has
made it impossible for you to allow justice its way, you will, I
presume, see fit to appoint another man to supervise the repairing
of my court-yard."

"I myself will attend to it, your highness," said the officer,
bowing to his saddle-bow. "Not only that; I will send workmen to
replace the broken panes and restore the window-frames, so that by
to-morrow no trace of the damage done shall remain."

Eugene laughed. "You are certainly most accommodating! As much so as
if the city guard had participated in the riot! Adieu, sir! And may
this be our last meeting of the sort!"

Accompanied by his two domestics, he re-entered the palace. His
twelve men were at their posts, and the countess was still standing
at the window whence she had witnessed the scene below. Eugene
dismissed his household, gave orders to have his weapons carefully
replaced in his armory, and then, with a deep inclination to his
mother, he asked if he might now conduct her to her boudoir.

She gave a smiling assent, took his proffered arm, and returned to
her cabinet. Once there, she turned toward her son, and,
contemplating him for the first time in her life with pride and
admiration, she thanked him warmly for what he had done.

"My dear son," said she, "I must congratulate you upon your strength
of character. Believe me, you looked mightier far than Louvois'
overgrown Titan. If he surpassed you in stature, your great soul
towered far above his lofty person. I could not hear what you were
saying to those two men, Eugene, but I read in the glance of your
fearless eye that your words were such as would have rejoiced my
heart to overhear. In that moment my soul went far out into the
future, and there I saw you great, glorious, renowned. You know,
Eugene, that I have sometimes strange revelations of things hidden
from ordinary mortals: I have visions that are prophetic, and I tell
you that you are destined to earn imperishable fame. Go, my son, and
fulfil your destiny!"

Eugene, his features illumined by enthusiasm and radiant with hope,
covered his mother's hand with kisses, and again besought her
forgiveness for his unfilial behavior in the gallery. "Dear mother,"
said he, tearfully. "are you indeed reconciled to your unworthy
child?"

"Yes, Eugene, yes. When you compelled that unwilling multitude to do
me homage, I forgave you from my heart. I have always loved you as
my child, but from this day forward I honor you as my deliverer.
Come to my arms and take the mother's kiss that shall consecrate you
to glory."

Eugene, intoxicated with happiness, threw himself upon her bosom,
and was clasped to her heart. "With this kiss I greet the hero whose
exploits shall shed new lustre upon his princely house. God bless
thee, my son! Sweeter lips may meet thine in the glow of a love more
passionate, but never will they kiss thee with a tenderness more
true than does thy proud mother this day!"

"And never will I love woman more tenderly than I do my precious
mother. You were my ideal of womanly perfection as a child, and your
adored image will be my soul's divinity to the latest hour of my
life! Never again will I doubt you; were the whole world to scorn
you, I at least will believe in you, and honor you with a faith as
implicit as that which leads man to martyrdom for his Redeemer's
sake."

"Believe in me, and trust me," returned the countess, again
impressing a kiss on her son's forehead. "And when you are great and
powerful, think of this hour, my child. 'Tis one of the brightest of
my life; one of the few wherein I have unveiled my heart to mortal
man. Think of it, then, Eugene, when you wear the hat of a cardinal,
and--"

"What, mother! You would devote me to the priesthood, after all that
has passed between us to-day!"

"'Tis your only path to renown; 'tis the only ladder by which
ambition can climb to power. With Louis' favor, you may become a
cardinal and a statesman; without it you will never become a field-
marshal. We must take fate as we find it, Eugene; not whine because
we may not fashion it to our own liking."

"Then be it so: I submit. But I tell you, for the last time, that
under my priestly gown there will be heard the wild and unseemly
throbbings of a heart that not only pants for glory, but yearns for
love."

"Cardinals may hope for both," returned Olympia, with a strange,
unpleasant smile. "Ask the widowed Queen Anne, whether Richelieu
knew how to love. And ask her whether Mazarin was not as fond as he
was sagacious. But enough of day-dreams: we must return to the
affairs of real life. There has been a demonstration of serious
import against me to-day. I must oppose it by another. Louvois and
his minions must learn that I am not to be intimidated by their
menaces, nor to be browbeaten by their contumely."

Near her hand, on a porphyry table, lay a golden bell--a marvel of
Benvenuto Cellini's workmanship. The countess took it up and rang.

The steward answered the summons, and begged to know what her
highness was pleased to command.

"Let the palace-doors be thrown open, that the people may know how
little I fear their dislike. Send all the lackeys out, and let them
announce to the court that to-day I hold a special levee, and that
my rooms will be opened to visitors at nine this evening. Let the
equerry be informed that in half an hour I shall take a drive in my
open caleche, with six horses and two outriders, all in livery of
state."

The steward bowed and left the room. When he had gone, the countess
again addressed her son: "In half an hour the court will be
assembled at the Pre aux Clercs; no doubt it would gratify more than
one of those envious Parisians were I absent to-day. But they shall
not enjoy any such satisfaction. They shall greet me as usual, and
I--I--I intend to approach the king!"

"And I, dearest mother," said Eugene, "beg to be allowed to
accompany you in your ride."

"You shall do so, son of my heart," exclaimed Olympia, giving him
her hand. "I see that you are not only the child of my love, but
bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Yes, Eugene, you shall be my
knight, and no loving maiden was ever prouder of her cavalier than I
shall be of mine!"



CHAPTER VI.

THE STATE RECEPTION.


The commands of the countess were promptly obeyed. All Paris (that
is, the Paris of the aristocracy) were informed that a special
reception would be held at the Hotel de Soissons, and messengers
were dispatched with official announcement of the same to the royal
household. The ponderous gates were flung wide open to admit the
carriage of state. Eugene's superb gelding was led out by his
jockey; while near the open portiere stood the equerry whose office
it was to hand the countess to her carriage.

Her turnout was magnificent. The frame of the carriage was of dead
gilt, while above the burnished wheels rose its body, in shape and
color like the wonderful lily of the Amazon. Its exterior of snowy
whiteness was relieved by the rich coloring of the arms of Carignan
and Soissons emblazoned on the panels; the interior was cushioned
with purple velvet embroidered in gold. To this sumptuous vehicle
were harnessed six white horses, whose head-gear of velvet was
adorned with ostrich-plumes so delicate, that, as the air breathed
upon them, they looked like wreaths of snowy vapor. Perched high
above the hammer-cloth, which in color and material corresponded
with the inner decorations of the carriage, sat the chub-faced
coachman, his head buried in the vast expanse of a flowing wig, and
surmounted by a gold-and-purple cocked hat. The handle of his coach-
whip was of steel inlaid with gold, and he flourished it with as
much ostentation as if it had been the baton of a field-marshal.
Behind this princely equipage were two footmen in state livery; on
either side were two outriders.

The countess emerged from her palace-doors, clad in mantle of sky-
blue velvet bordered with gold. She was followed by the prince, who,
as the equerry advanced to assist his mistress, gently waved him
away, and took his place. Olympia smiled fondly upon her son, and
with graceful negligence sank back among her luxurious cushions.

The equerry approached for orders. "Let the coachman drive leisurely
through the streets, and still more slowly when we enter the Pre aux
Clercs."

Eugene mounted his impatient gelding, and his mother, inclining her
head to the equerry, gave the signal for their departure.

Slowly went the cortege, through the Eue des Deux Ecus and along the
Quartier St. Honore, while from every house, as they passed, the
windows were cautiously opened, and sneering faces looked down upon
the vain pomp with which Olympia de Soissons would have sustained
the falling ruins of her good name.

But things grew worse, when the outriders would have opened a
passage for the carriage through the crowded streets. As soon as the
people recognized the liveries, all the conventional homage with
which they were accustomed to greet such splendor, was transformed
into scorn.

"The poisoner! the poisoner!" they cried. "She braves us in the open
streets! Away with her! Away with the accomplice of La Voisin!"

The object of all this contumely preserved an appearance of
consummate indifference to it all; but her son! her unhappy son
blushed with shame and anger. He turned his sympathizing eyes upon
her, whom he believed to be an impersonation of every feminine
virtue, and she replied to his glance by an unconscious smile.

At last they reached the Pre aux Clercs, the fashionable promenade
of the day. Here the aristocracy were accustomed to drive, the king
and queen invariably appearing there to receive, sometimes, in the
case of the former, to pay homage. How often had he leaned upon the
carriage of Olympia, while princes and princesses of the blood had
been obliged to wait behind, until the Countess de Soissons was
ready to move on, and allow them to proceed! And how they had
flattered and praised, and curried favor with the divinity of the
hour!

"It must all be enacted anew," thought the ex-favorite, as she
slightly raised her head to see if the king was in sight. "The
philter will work: from the moment I catch his eye, he is mine! This
was La Voisin's promise."

Yes--the royal equipages were there, at the other end of the shaded
avenue, and, following in their wake, were those of the court.
Olympia cast aside her nonchalance, and raised her head that she
might be seen. The crisis had come! She was now to quaff the
intoxicating drink of success, or drain the poisoned chalice of
defeat!

She could see the very smile on his face as he whispered flattering
words in the ear of some beauty who was in advance, and whom Olympia
could not recognize. One moment more, and her equipage would pass!
He would meet her eye, and the passion of his youth would be
rekindled in his heart, never more to die out!

But what commotion was this among the lords and ladies that
surrounded the king? His majesty spoke with his chief equerry; the
equerry sprang forward, and presently the royal equipages came
rushing by, close, close to the caleche of the countess, who vainly
sought to meet the eye of Louis, for he was conversing with the
queen, and his head was turned away.

Scarcely had the royal carriages been put in motion, before the
entire cortege followed at the same rapid pace. Princes and
princesses of the blood,--dukes, counts, and marquises,--duchesses
and marchionesses, rushed by so swiftly that not one of her court
friends had time to give so much as a passing nod to her who
nevertheless was allied by marriage to the reigning Duke of Savoy.

The last equipage had just gone by. "Is it the will of your highness
that we follow?" asked the equerry.

The countess inclined her head, and the equerry passed the word to
the coachman: "Follow the cortege." But the horses stirred not a
foot.

Eugene repeated the order, when the coachman slowly shook his head.
"Impossible, gracious prince, impossible!--The countess would never
forgive me, and I should be despised by every coachman of
distinction, were I so far to forget my duty as to suffer that an
equipage bearing the ducal arms of Savoy should follow the carriage
of a nobleman so insignificant as the Vicomte de Charlieu. Why, he
goes back but ten generations!"

Eugene smiled and delivered the portentous message to his mother.

"He is right," replied she; "and were he wrong, it would avail me
nothing to contend with him on a point of etiquette. The coachmen of
people of quality are more tenacious of their rights than the noble
families they serve. Not long ago, the Duchesses of Chartres and of
Luynes waited four hours in the rain, because, having met in a very
narrow street, neither one of their coachmen would back out, to give
the other an opportunity of passing. I must imitate their patience,
and wait for the return of the cortege, to take my proper place."

The decision of the countess being transmitted to the coachman, he
nodded approvingly. "I thought her highness would understand,"
replied he. "Our place is after the Duchess de Bourbon, the sixth
carriage from that of his majesty. The coachman of the Duke de
Cheneuse knows it as well as I do, and he will yield us precedence
as soon as he sees me ready to fall in."

They waited--the countess in perfect composure, her large black eyes
cast upward in complete forgetfulness of the actual state of things
around her; Eugene, with visible annoyance on his face, darting
anxious and uneasy glances down the avenue through which the king
was expected to return. And so passed an hour, at the end of which
the avenue was still and empty as a desert. It now became apparent
that his majesty had selected some other route by which to reach the
Louvre, and Olympia, awaking from her golden day-dreams, began to
realize the exceeding awkwardness of her position. For the first
time her heart faltered, and a cloud passed over her face.

Eugene rode up to the portiere, and addressing the countess in
Italian: "Mother," said he, "if we remain here any longer, I shall
choke with rage."

"Home," said Olympia to the equerry. "Home! Quick! Urge your horses
to their fullest speed!"

On the evening of that eventful day, every reception-room in the
Hotel Soissons was thrown open, and the palace front was one blaze
of light. But the steward had been obliged to close the gates, and
station four armed men within them, to protect the entrance from the
rabble who had again begun to assemble, again begun to threaten.

The countess was either ignorant of this unpleasant circumstance, or
she considered it beneath her notice. From her carriage she had
passed to her cabinet, whence she had never emerged until compelled
to make her toilet for the evening. Her temporary discouragement
overcome, she entered the throne-room magnificently attired,
sparkling with jewels, and radiant with feverish expectation. She
was still upheld by the confidence she reposed in La Voisin's
predictions, and the firm faith with which she clung to the virtues
of her philter.

She could not, however, repress the scowl that darkened her brow,
as, glancing around her vast suite of empty rooms, she beheld not
one visitor!--no living being besides her own three daughters, the
young Princesses de Carignan, who came forward to kiss her hand, and
pay her their tribute of affectionate admiration.

She paid very little attention to their sweet flattery; her restless
eyes wandered from door to door, where not a form was seen but those
of the four lackeys, who were in waiting to announce the
distinguished guests as they arrived.

The mocking echo of her tread, as she traversed the void which
should have been filled with a courtly throng, sounded ominous in
her ear, and the haughty woman began to quail. She had heard it said
that when a ship was doomed to destruction, no rats were ever known
to leave port in its hold. Was she a sinking ship? Was her doom
sealed? Once more her longing eyes sought the lofty, open doors,
through which so often the court had passed to do her homage on her
throne, and she shivered almost perceptibly. But she forced a smile,
and observed to her eldest daughter: "Our guests are unusually late
to-night. Even the Duchess de Bouillon, generally so punctual, has
not yet made her appearance."

"Even your adorer, Marshal de Luxemburg, mamma, is not vet here."
returned the princess, with a smile.

The countess looked sharply at her daughter. Why had she mentioned
the name of De Luxemburg? Why named him in conjunction with the
Duchess de Bouillon? Did Johanna know that these two were her
confidants, and that they were accustomed to visit La Voisin
together? That only five days before, they had met in the den of the
soothsayer, to have their horoscope drawn for the last time? Did
Johanna know that through De Luxemburg's efforts Louis's valet had
been bribed to rob him of a lock of his hair, without which the
precious philter could never have been distilled? Oh, no! She was
silly--nervous--the events of the day had disheartened her, and she
was growing to be a craven. How should Johanna know her secrets? The
allusion to the marshal was accidental.

The wax-lights were growing fearfully short, and still the invited
guests tarried. Never in her life before had Olympia condescended to
rest her gaze upon the faces of those who served her; to-night she
could not resist an inclination to glance for one moment at their
countenances. As she looked athwart those features, erst so
submissive and so reverent, she saw significant smirks, and an
expression of disdain for which she could have felled them to the
earth.

Meanwhile the three princesses, their lips distorted with forced
smiles, stood around their mother, sometimes raising their anxious
eyes to her stormy face, sometimes exchanging uneasy glances one
with another; but not one of them daring to break the oppressive
silence by a single word.

At last the painful lull was broken by a slight rustling. The door
of the anteroom was opened, and a solitary figure was seen
traversing the long suite of apartments.

"Eugene," exclaimed Johanna. "Our little abbe!" And, delighted to
put an end to their embarrassment, the sisters went forward with
outstretched hands to meet him.

But Eugene could not respond to their greeting. His eyes were fixed
upon the chandelier, under whose blaze he beheld a pale, sinister
face, and a tall, haughty figure; his mother, attired with regal
splendor, looking every inch a queen; but ah! a dethroned queen, for
her subjects had deserted her and among them "there was none so poor
to do her reverence."

He approached her, and, as she silently extended her icy hand, he
covered it with loving kisses. "I had hardly expected to find my
dear mother here before me," said he, with a smile.

"Why so, Eugene?" asked Olympia.

"Because the hour for your reception was fixed for nine o'clock, and
it has not yet struck nine."

The countess glanced quickly at the clock on the sculptured mantel-
piece. "It is almost ten," said she.

"Your clock is nearly an hour too fast," said Eugene, who had
followed the direction of his mother's eyes. And he drew out his own
watch.

She looked at it a moment. "True--your watch is slow. Eugene. You
knew, then, before you came hither, that no one had yet arrived?"

"Dear mother," responded Eugene, "you think--"

"I think that you are a tender, loving son," said she, interrupting
him. "But it is not necessary to deceive me, dear boy. I know that
it is almost an hour past the time I had appointed; but that
signifies nothing. It was not known until late that I would receive
to-night, and this is the reception-day of the Duchess de Luynes. My
guests will naturally have gone thither first, and they will come
later to us."

"You are quite right," replied Eugene. "But would it not be better
for you to retire to your cabinet and rest until the company arrive?
I will call you as soon as the rooms begin to fill."

She shook her head slowly. "No--I remain here. It would be cowardly
to retire now. Let us calmly await our distinguished guests. They
will be coming very soon."

Eugene bowed his head in obedience to her commands, and stationed
himself by the side of his sisters. There was another long silence,
interrupted by the slow, inflexible strokes of the clock, which
announced the hour of "ten."

Great drops of anguish stood out upon the pale, high forehead of the
prince, and his sisters could no longer restrain their tears. The
countess alone looked resolute: her features betrayed no emotion
whatever; but about her mouth there hovered a vindictive smile, and
in her eyes there was a light like that which glitters in the
serpent's head that looks out from the deadly jungles of India.

"Would that I could breathe poison into the veins of yonder staring
menials at the door!" said she to herself. "Would that I could blind
their staring eyes with lightning! But for them I might leave this
fiery furnace of shame, and hide my face within the privacy of my
own room!"

A sound was heard without, and the Princess Joanna unconsciously
clasped her hands with delight, exclaiming, "There comes a
carriage!"

The countess turned around, and glanced fiercely at her
unsophisticated daughter. "Is there anything remarkable in the sound
of a carriage, that it should occasion so much joy, mademoiselle?
Are carriages so rare within the gates of the Hotel Soissons?"

The door opened, and the gentleman-usher, with his gilded staff,
appeared on the threshold.

"Madame la Marquise Dupont de Lanin," cried he, and the lady
followed the announcement at once.

Often had the poor old marquise attended the levees of the Countess
de Soissons, but never before had she been accorded so distinguished
a reception. She was tolerated in the salons of Paris on account of
her high birth and connections; added to which she had a tongue in
her mouth like a two-edged sword, which flew hither and thither
about the reputations of those who slighted or forgot her claims to
courtesy.

To-night she was most graciously, most cordially welcomed. Like the
dove which brought the olive-branch to Noah, the marquise was a
messenger from dry land. The waters had subsided--the deluge of
their troubles was over.

With wreathed smiles and flattering words, Olympia came forward to
greet her first guest. The old marquise received the unprecedented
attention paid her without the least manifestation of surprise. With
her sharp old eyes, she traversed the empty vastness of the gilded
halls that were wont to swarm with the creme de la creme of Paris,
and understood the matter at once. She had scarcely had time to
reciprocate the politeness of her hostess before two other carriages
rolled into the court-yard and two more distinguished names were
announced by the usher.

This time an old duchess and an equally venerable viscount entered
the room of state. Their social STATUS was similar to that of the
marquise: they belonged to the species whom the world is compelled
to invite, but whom it detests, because they never have been known
to decline an invitation. But they, too, were heartily welcomed,
and, by one not initiated in the mysteries of the hour, they would
have been set down as the countess's dearest friends.

Eugene took no part in the conversation which ensued. He had again
resumed his taciturn and unsocial demeanor, and now, with folded
arms, he stood in the deep recess of a curtained window, sometimes
looking gloomily out into the night, anon glancing at the little
knot of adventurers, and personages of doubtful reputation, who
occasionally added another to the meagre group that were around his
mother. Olympia strove to converse gayly with her assemblage of
insupportables, but she was chafing like an infuriated lioness.

"If Marianna and De Luxemburg would but come! I might, at least,
learn how I stand at court, and find out why the king returned to
the Louvre by an unusual route. Heavens! how long will I be able to
smile upon these hateful bores? How long sustain the burden of this
insufferable lie?"

The evening waned, and neither Marianna, De Luxemburg, nor any other
member of the court circle appeared, to silence the apprehensions or
soothe the wounded pride of the haughty Countess de Soissons. But
late--very late--when she had relinquished all hopes of another
arrival, the doors were flung open, and the usher, in a loud voice,
announced: "His highness the Duke de Bouillon!"



CHAPTER VII.

HELP IN TIME OF NEED.


Olympia, who, with three or four wrinkled old fops, and as many
withered dames, had just taken her seat at a card-table, kissed her
hand, and received her brother-in-law, with a profusion of smiles
such as never before had greeted his entrance into the salons of the
Hotel Soissons.

He seemed to be totally unconscious of her blandishments, as, with a
slight inclination to the company, he came very close to the
hostess, and, regardless of etiquette, whispered something in her
ear.

His communication must have been of a nature to excite mirth, for
she threw back her head, and, laughing rather more boisterously than
was her wont, rose quickly from her seat.

"Of course, my dear duke," said she, so as to be heard by all who
were around; "of course you shall have the drops for my sister. I
regret to hear that she needs them. Come with me to my cabinet, and
you shall receive them from my hand. I will even taste them in your
presence, that they may not be suspected of containing poison.
Follow me, if my kind friends will excuse us for a few moments."

With a graceful bend of her head, the countess crossed the room, and
disappeared with her brother-in-law. From the window to which he had
retired, Eugene had seen and heard what was passing, and in the
stern expression of the Duke de Bouillon's face he had read
something of more significance than a whispered request for
headache-drops. No sooner had his mother left the room than he
followed her, and as she was about to enter her cabinet, he laid his
hand upon her shoulder:

"Pardon, dear mother," said he, in fond and deprecating tones. "I
merely wish to say, that during your interview with my uncle, I will
remain in the little room adjoining. You may want me, perchance, to
execute some commission--it may be to bear an apology to our
guests."

"It will be better for Prince Eugene to take part in our
conference," said the duke, with his usual moroseness. "He is the
only son you have in Paris, and, as the representative of the
family, it is proper for him to hear what I am about to
communicate."

"I consent," replied Olympia, calmly. "I have no secrets from my
son, and your highness may speak without reserve what you have come
hither at this unusual hour to say."

With these words she entered her cabinet, the others following
silently behind. The duke closed the door and looked around, to see
that there were no other occupants of the room. He peered curiously
at the heavy folds of the satin curtains which concealed the
windows, and, having satisfied himself that no listeners lurked
behind, he spoke.

"You are quite sure that we cannot be overheard?" said he,
addressing the countess.

"Perfectly sure," replied she. "Of these walls it may be said, that,
unlike walls of ordinary construction, they have no ears. Speak
without apprehension. But above all things let us be seated."

"No, madame, let us remain as we are, and hearken to my words. You
know that La Voisin was arrested last night."

"I know it. Monsieur Louvois brought me the news this morning, and
it was corroborated by the rabble that attacked us not long after
his departure from the palace. It is said that La Voisin is a
toxicologist, and that she has been in the habit of selling poison
to her patrons. Was this what you came to say?"

"With this I intended to open my communication, madame. That La
Voisin has trafficked in poisons is proved, and she will assuredly
mount the scaffold for her crimes. But the next point is to inquire
to whom her poudre de succession has been sold."

"Has the question been put to La Voisin?" asked the countess,
carelessly. "They have only to inquire of her; doubtless she will
reveal the names of her friends."

The duke came nearer, and looked sternly in her face. "The question
has been asked, and it has been answered, madame."

The countess shuddered, but recovered herself instantaneously.
Momentary as it was, however, Eugene had seen the motion, and now
his large dark eyes were fixed upon his uncle with a look of steady
defiance.

"The confessions of La Voisin can be of no significance to the
Countess de Soissins," said he, haughtily. "She cannot have made any
declaration that would compromise a noble lady!"

"Nevertheless she has compromised one of the noblest names in
France," returned the duke. "She was forced to reveal the names of
her confederates."

"Yes! they have been as cruel as they were to poor Brinvilliers;
they have taken her to the chambre ardente." cried the countess, in
a trembling voice.

"Yes, madame, she was taken to the chambre ardente, stretched upon
the rack, and then she confessed." "Confessed what?" gasped Olympia.

"She confessed to have sold her poudre de succession; to have
foretold the future, and to have prepared love-philters."

"I do not know that there is treason in drawing horoscopes and
brewing love-philters," returned the countess, with a forced laugh.

"It is treason to brew love-philters, when they are designed to take
effect upon the King of France," replied the duke. "It is also
treason to steal a lock of his hair wherewith to prepare the
philter."

"Did she say this?" screamed the countess, with the ferocity of a
tigress at bay.

"She did. The lock of hair was obtained by Marshal Luxemburg, who
bribed the valet of his majesty; the philter was prepared for the
Countess de Soissons."

"Her tortures must then have unsettled her reason," cried Olympia.
"To end her agony, the poor delirious wretch has confessed any thing
that her executioners may have suggested."

"You are mistaken. When she had fully recovered her senses, she
repeated her declaration word for word. She signalized three persons
as her trustiest confidants. Two of the three were her accomplices;
the third is merely accused of having made use of La Voisin to raise
the devil. The two who are accused of murder are Monsieur de
Luxemburg and Madame de Soissons."

"The third?" said Olympia, hoarsely.

"My own wife," returned the duke, mournfully. "Not having been
accused of crime, she has not been sent to the Bastile; his majesty
has graciously permitted her to be imprisoned in her own hotel."

"Not sent to the Bastile!" echoed the countess, with a shudder.
"Has--any one been--sent there?"

"Yes. Two hours ago Monsieur de Luxemburg was arrested, and he is
now there in a criminal's cell."

The countess uttered a cry of anguish, and tottered to a seat, for
her trembling limbs refused to support her. She put her hand to her
head, and looked wildly around.

"And I?--am I to be arrested?"

"Yes, madame. The lettre de cachet has been sent by Louvois to the
king, and--" "And the king!" said Olympia, almost inaudibly.

"His majesty has signed it."

The countess pressed her hands upon her heart, and then, suddenly
springing to her feet, she burst into a loud, frenzied laugh. "He
has signed! He has signed!--And you--you--" muttered she, with a
scowl at the duke, "did you offer to act as bailiff for the king?"

As though he would have confronted a world to shield her from harm,
Eugene threw his arm around his mother's waist, and stood between
the two.

"If such be your errand, Duke de Bouillon, you must first be the
assassin of her son. No blow shall reach her, until it shall have
pierced the heart of her only protector!"

"Not so grandiloquent, my little abbe," replied De Bouillon,
superciliously. "Methinks, were I so disposed, I might snap the
feeble thread of your existence, without any extraordinary display
of valor, but I have no desire to deprive the countess of so valiant
a knight. I come, not to arrest, hut to deliver her. I come to save
herself from the headsman, her family from the foul blot of her
public execution."

"Avenging God!" murmured the miserable woman.

"You must fly, Olympia," continued the duke, compassionating her
fearful condition, "you must fly, and without delay."

"Fly!" exclaimed Eugene, furiously. "Because a degraded wretch like
that La Voisin, in her delirium of agony, has spoken the name of the
Countess de Soissons, she shall become a fugitive from justice? No,
mother, no! Remain to confound your calumniators, and, with the good
sword of Right, and Truth, pierce the vile falsehood to its heart's
core!"

The duke shook his head. "Let not ill-advised heroism tempt you to
defy your legions of accusers. Be you innocent or guilty, you are
prejudged, and will be condemned. Believe me, the danger is urgent,
and it were sheer imbecility to confront it."

"You say the king has signed?" replied she, with a vacant stare.
Then clasping her hands, she burst into a flood of tears, repeating
o'er and o'er the piteous words, "Oh no! No! No! It cannot be! It
cannot be!"

"Nevertheless, he has done it; done it at the instigation of Louvois
and De Montespan. But mark me well, and you too, abbe--listen to
what I am about to say. The king himself it was who sent me hither
to warn you; it is he who urges you to flight. That you may have
time to escape, the lettre de cachet is not to go into effect until
to-morrow morning. But the morrow is close at hand: hark!--the clock
strikes eleven, and you have but one hour. If after midnight you are
found within the gates of Paris, your doom is certain. The spies of
Louvois are close at hand; they watch before your palace-gates, and
await the twelfth stroke of the iron tongue that speaks from the
towers of Notre Dame, to force their way into the very room wherein
we stand. If they pass the threshold of the palace you are
irretrievably lost!"

The countess spoke not a word in reply. They scarcely knew whether
she had understood the terrible import of the duke's appeal. She had
remained motionless, almost breathless; her face white as death, her
large orbs distended to their utmost, gazing, not upon the tangible
objects that were before them, but upon some fearful pageant that
was passing within the shadowy precincts of her soul.

Her lips began to move, and she muttered incoherent words. "Ah! is
it so?" said she, almost inaudibly. "The end of that bright dream!
The philter! What!" cried she with sudden energy, "he warns me? He
grants me--one--one hour!" And then, overpowered by the reality of
her supreme desolation, she opened her arms, and looked defiantly
above, as if invoking the wrath of that Heaven which had forsaken
her.

"Olympia," said the duke, touching her arm, "you have but three-
quarters of an hour to quit Paris."

"Dear mother," implored Eugene, "decide quickly whether you go or
remain."

She shuddered, and, with a deep sigh, suffered her arms to fall
listlessly at her side.

"I must drink of this chalice of humiliation," said she, mournfully.
"I must fly."

A groan of anguish broke from the depths of Eugene's suffering
heart, while a strange look shot athwart the countenance of the
duke. The groan was that of faith that faltered; the glance was that
of doubt made certainty.

"I must make my escape," iterated Olympia in a tone more resolute.
"If Louvois has effected the arrest of a woman allied to the royal
family, it is because he is secure of her conviction. Rather than
become his victim, I will endure the shame of flight. Time enough
remains to me for justification." [Footnote: The countess's own
words.--See Amadee Renee, "The Nieces of Mazarin," p. 207.]

"Justification shall come through me!" cried Eugene, raising his
right hand as though taking an oath.

"Countess, countess," urged De Bouillon, "you have but half an
hour."

"You are right," returned Olympia, summoning all her resolution to
her aid. "Time is flying, and I must be diligent."

"I promised his majesty not to leave you until you were on your way,
Olympia," was the duke's reply, "and I shall remain to fulfil my
promise."

"And I, mother," added Eugene, "will never leave you until you are
in perfect safety."

"Then let us prepare," was Olympia's rejoinder. "You, duke, be so
kind as to collect my papers and money. They are in that ebony
secretary at your elbow. Here are the keys. You will find a casket
therein, where all that you find may be deposited for the present. I
myself will gather up my jewels and such clothing as cannot be
dispensed with. Eugene, my son, go at once to the stables: order my
travelling-chariot, and see that eight of my swiftest horses are
attached to it. In Brussels I shall find a friend in the Spanish
viceroy. Send forward relays to Rheims and Namur; and let the men be
clad in liveries of dark gray. Hasten, my son; before half an hour,
I must be hence!"

When Eugene returned, he found his mother waiting. The duke hastily
threw over her shoulders a travelling-cloak bordered with fur, and
Olympia, drawing the hood closely around her face, prepared to quit
the room.

"Shall I not call my sisters to bid you adieu?" asked her son.

"No," said she, calmly. "Their absence would be remarked, and
nothing must arouse the suspicion of my guests. I leave to you,
Monsieur de Bouillon, the task of communicating my flight to my
daughters. May I request you to bear a message to the king also?
Tell him that whenever he will pass his royal word that I may return
without danger of incarceration, I shall be ready to appear before
my accusers, and defend my calumniated reputation. [Footnote: Her
own words.--See the "Letters of Madame de Sevigne," vol. iii.] Give
me your arm,--and yours, Eugene: we are late."

Silently, and without a single expression of regret, she went
through the lofty corridors of the hotel, until she reached the
private staircase by which Eugene had passed to the street that
morning. The servants had assembled to bid her adieu, and, as they
tendered their good wishes, she bent her lofty head with the
condescension of a queen. Before descending, she addressed a few
words to the steward:

"I am forced to leave Paris for a time, Latour. My enemies refuse me
the poor privilege of remaining here to refute the absurd charges
preferred against me by the senseless rabble that are in their pay.
During my absence, I leave you in full command of my household. You
shall receive your wages until you decide to seek employment
elsewhere. Farewell all!"

The chariot with eight superb horses was at the postern, and around
it stood the lackeys in their liveries of sombre gray. The countess
took her seat in the carriage, and, bending forward to kiss her son,
said, "Bear my greetings to your sisters, Eugene."

"Will my gracious uncle accept this commission?" asked he, turning
to the duke.

"Why not you?" asked Olympia.

"Because my place is with you, dearest mother," was the simple reply
of her devoted child, while he took his seat at her side.

"It is right," remarked the duke, "and I begin to feel considerable
respect for our little abbe!"

"I shall compel respect from more than the Duke de Bouillon,"
thought his nephew.

"Farewell!" said Olympia, with as much self possession as if she had
been starting for a tour of pleasure. "Tell the king that I forget
to pity my own impotence in compassionating his."

The carriage rolled away, first under the illuminated windows of the
rooms of state, where the unconscious Princesses de Carignan were
doing their best to entertain the motley assemblage, that had been
so suddenly deserted by their mother; then along the dimly-lighted
streets where Eugene's heart beat with painful apprehension lest the
crowd should recognize the fugitive; then they entered the avenue
where the court had turned its back upon Olympia and her extravagant
hopes, and at last--they reached the gates.

Meanwhile the Duke de Bouillon had returned to the salons, where he
announced the departure of the countess to her guests; the servants
had dispersed, and returned to their usual employments, all except
one, who crept stealthily out, and, turning the corner, advanced a
few paces into a dark and narrow alley. Two horsemen were waiting
his appearance there.

"Has she gone?" asked one.

"Yes," replied the man; "and relays have been ordered to hasten her
escape."

"What route did she take?"

"She goes to Brussels, by the way of Rheims, Rocroy, and Namur."

"Here are your four louis d'ors."

With these words, the two horsemen galloped away, turning their
horses' heads toward the palace of the minister of war. In the
porte-cochere stood Louvois himself, who, motioning them not to
dismount, spoke a few low words, and then handed to each one a
package of letters and a purse of gold.

"Fly with all speed," said he, in his parting injunctions. "Kill as
many horses as you list--I pay for their carcasses; but see that at
every station you arrive a full hour before the countess."

He then entered his carriage, and drove to the Louvre to inform the
king that his royal commands had been obeyed, and that the Countess
de Soissons had been suffered to escape.

As the chariot that was bearing away the disgraced Olympia drove
through the barrier and entered upon the high-road, the two horsemen
galloped past, and so completely did they distance the unhappy
travellers, that in a few moments the echo of their horses' feet had
died away into silence.



CHAPTER VII.

THE FLIGHT.


It was a glorious night--a night of sapphire skies, radiant with
stellar diamonds--one of those nights whose beauty intensifies
pleasure, and whose gentle influence soothes pain; which, to the
joyous heart seem to prefigure heaven; to the sorrowing are like the
healing touch of the Almighty hand, which, in exceeding love, has
stricken it with a passing pain.

But not a ray of hope or consolation refreshed the dreary wastes of
the heart of Olympia de Soissons. She had withdrawn herself from the
embrace of her son, and leaned far back into the corner of the
carriage. But for the glare of her large, black eyes, as they
reflected the light of the lamps on either side, she might have been
asleep, so motionless she lay; but, whenever Eugene turned a timid
glance upon her rigid features, he saw that she seemed ever and ever
to be looking away from him, and far out upon the black and
shapeless masses of the woods through which they journeyed all that
night.

He had tried to divert her by conversation; but to his remarks she
had made such curt and random replies, that he desisted, and left
her to the bleak solitude of her own reveries.

And thus they passed the night. With fresh relays of eight spirited
horses, they travelled so swiftly, that when morning dawned, the
lofty towers of the Cathedral of Rheims were seen looming through
the mist, and the coachman drew up before the gates.

But, although a courier had been sent in advance to order it, no
relay was there. The coachman turned to Eugene for instructions.

"This is most unfortunate," replied he, "for it compels us to enter
the city and change horses at the royal post-house. While
arrangements are being made there, will it please my dear mother to
leave her carriage and partake of some refreshment?"

The countess replied with a silent bend of the head, and Eugene sent
forward a courier, with orders to have breakfast prepared. The
carriage passed the old Roman gate, and entered the city, made
famous by the coronation of so many kings of France. The rattle of
the wheels over the rough stone pavement made the countess start
with apprehension of she knew not what, and she withdrew cautiously
from sight.

"It is well that the roll of this clamorous carriage cannot awaken
our foes," said she, as they stopped before the post-house.

Her rejoicings were premature; for the master of the post-horses
came leisurely forward, his face expressing a mixture of rude
curiosity with careless contempt.

"You want post-horses?" asked he, with a familiar nod.

Eugene's large eyes flashed fire. "It would appear," said he, "that
you do not know to whom you have the honor of speaking, or else you
would remove your hat."

"Oh, yes, I know who you are," answered he, insolently. "That is the
Countess de Soissons, and you are the little abbe, her son. But I
keep on my hat, for it is cool this morning, and it suits me NOT to
remove it."

"It suits you, then, to be a boor, a barefaced--"

"Peace, Eugene!" interrupted Olympia, in Italian; "peace, or you
will cause me some detention that may imperil my life. See; in spite
of the undue hour, how many men are around our carriage. They are
not here by accident. Their presence only proves that Louvois'
couriers have anticipated us; and if ever we hope to pass the
frontiers of France, we must be discreet."

"And I may not, therefore, chastise this varlet! I must sit tamely
by while he insults my mother!"

"He is but a tool, Eugene. Spare the instrument, and strike the hand
that directs it against me."

"By the Eternal God, I will smite that hand!" said Eugene, while the
master of the post-horses stood staring at Olympia with an
expression of familiarity that would have cost him his life, had she
been free to take it. But sweet as the honey of Hybla were the words
she spoke.

"Good sir, would you be so obliging as to furnish us with eight
horses?" said she, almost imploringly.

"Eight horses! for that light vehicle? It looks much as if you were
trying to make your escape, and were sore pressed to move on."

"I am, indeed, sorely pressed," said she, in tones of distress;
"hasten, I implore of you, hasten!"

"You cannot have them before half an hour," said he, turning on his
heel, and re-entering the house.

The countess now called to one of her footmen: "Go, see if we can
have a room and some breakfast."

The man obeyed, but returned almost immediately, with a most
embarrassed expression.

"They have no vacant room, and say that your highness need not
trouble yourself to leave the carriage, in search of lodgings, were
it even for five minutes."

"Then go and bring us each a cup of chocolate," replied the
countess, with a sigh.

The footman renewed his petition, and this time returned,
accompanied by a woman, who, in angry haste, approached the unhappy
fugitives:

"You are the Countess de Soissons?" asked she, with a bold stare.

"Yes, madame, I am; and I hope you will do me the favor to serve us
a cup of chocolate."

"You do--do you? Well, I have come out here to tell you that I shall
do no such thing. How do I know that your breath may not poison my
cup and--"

"Woman!" cried Eugene, springing up from his seat.

His mother put him firmly back. "I command you to keep silence,"
said she, imperiously. Then, resuming her colloquy with the woman
who stood by, with arms akimbo: "I will tell you how you can oblige
me without any risk to yourself."

"How, pray?"

"Sell me, not only the chocolate, but the cups that contain it. I
will give you a louis d'or for each one."

The woman's eyes glistened with greed of gold. "Two louis d'ors for
two cups of chocolate!" said she to herself, "that is a brave trade
for me. You shall have them," added she aloud. "I will fetch them in
a moment."

And off she pattered with her slipshod shoes into the house. The
countess then addressed her son, who, leaning back in a corner of
the carriage, sat with his head buried in his hands.

"Eugene," said she, emphatically, "if you are to accompany me any
farther, it must be as a peace-loving abbe not as an irascible
soldier. If you incense these people against us, your indiscreet
zeal will cause me to be captured. I have no longing for death; I
desire to live until my son, the mighty cardinal, has trampled under
foot the least as well as the greatest of my enemies."

"Oh, mother, I have not only YOUR injuries to avenge, but mine! I
have the burning shame of yesterday to wipe out, although the wound
of my humiliation can never be healed."

"Time--Nature's sweet balm--heals every wound, and in our days of
adversity let this be our consolation. To the sharp lash of Destiny
the wise man will bow in silence; but if the blow be from the hand
of man, it is from the crucible of the suffering it imposes that
must come the strength wherewith we retaliate; from the depths of
our wounded hearts that must spring the geysers of our seething
revenge. It would gratify me to have you the companion of my flight,
but, if in the impotence of your wrath you seek to defend me, it
will be better for us to part.--Ah, here comes the chocolate! I
confess that I rejoice to scent its fragrant aroma. Let us drink,
and afterward you will decide whether you subscribe to my exactions,
or return to Paris."

The cups were cracked, without handles, and of coarse pottery--the
thrifty housewife having taken care to select the worst of her wares
to barter away. The countess smilingly accepted hers, and, as Eugene
was putting his impatiently away, she took it herself from the
servant's hands.

"Drink," said she, "and hearken to a saying of our uncle, Cardinal
Mazarin: 'When a man is troubled in spirit, he must strengthen
himself in body. The world is a great campaign against contrarieties
with which we must daily anticipate a skirmish. And above all, on
the eve of a great battle, the soul, which is the chief, must see to
it that his soldier, which is the body, is in a condition to do him
service.' These were the words of a wise man, and they are worthy of
being remembered. Drink your chocolate, my son, for you well know
that we are about to go into action."

He took the cup from his mother's hand, and, without another word,
emptied it of its contents. The woman, meanwhile, had been watching
her cups, lamenting their approaching destruction, which, spite of
the tremendous price at which they had been purchased, she looked
upon as a sacrifice greatly to be deplored. Seeing that the
catastrophe was approaching, she stepped forward to receive her pay.
In her hand she held a large pan of water, which she raised to a
level with the portiere of the carriage.

"Now, madame," said she, "you have had your chocolate, give me my
louis d'ors."

From her jewelled purse Olympia drew out two gold-pieces, which she
offered to the woman. But, instead of receiving them, she cried out
in a shrill voice:

"Drop them in the water. After a few hours I may venture to touch
the gold that has passed through your hands!"

The crowd, whom curiosity had drawn around the carriage, now burst
out into a shout of applause.

"Right, right, Dame Margot! You are a prudent woman! Nobody knows
what might come of handling her louis d'ors."

Olympia smiled. "Yes." said she, "you are a wise woman, and, as a
token of my admiration for your prudence, here are three louis d'ors
instead of the two I had promised."

So saying, she dropped three gold-pieces in the basin. The woman
blushed, and looked ashamed. The crowd were astonished, and here and
there were heard a few murmured words of sympathy. "That was very
kind, was it not? After all, she may not be as bad as they say. It
may all be a lie about her poisoning her children!"

Olympia heard it, and a proud smile flitted over her beautiful face.
The woman still lingered at the carriage-door. "And the cups?" asked
she, wistfully. "I suppose you will break them, will you not?"

"No," replied the countess, speaking so that she might be heard by
the people. "No, my good woman, I will not break them: they shall
lie in the basin, so that, like the gold, they may be purified until
you find them worthy of being used again!"

And again her jewelled hand was extended, and from her slender
fingers the cups were carefully dropped into the basin.

"Your highness," exclaimed the woman, abashed, "I thank you a
thousand times for your generosity, and I hope you will forgive my
rudeness. I would not have been so forgetful of the respect I owe to
a lady of your rank, if I had not been put up to it by other people.
From my heart I beg your pardon, madame."

"You are sincerely forgiven," replied Olympia, gently. "I am
accustomed to contumely, and when unjustly persecuted I follow the
example of my Saviour--I forgive those that hate and revile me."

"Did you hear that?" whispered the multitude one to another. "And do
you mark what a beautiful countenance she has? Instead of being a
murderess, she may be a pious saint. Who knows?"

"No," cried the vender of chocolate, bravely diving her hand into
the basin and withdrawing her louis d'ors, "no, she is no murderess,
she is a benevolent, Christian lady."

"She is a benevolent Christian lady," shouted the people, and in
less than five minutes the countess was as popular as a prince who
has just ascended the throne.

A third time the magic purse was drawn forth, and two more louis
d'ors glittered in the hand of Dame Margot!

"May I ask of you the favor to give this to those good people, that
they may drink my health?" said Olympia.

"You are an angel," cried Margot, while her eyes grew moist with
sympathizing tears.

"Yes, an angel!" echoed the crowd. "So beautiful! So good! So
bountiful!"

They were still in the height of their enthusiasm when the half hour
had expired, and the post-horses were brought out and harnessed. The
postilion sounded his horn, and the coachman cracked his whip.

"Long live the noble Countess de Soissons!" cried Dame Margot, and
"Long live her highness!" echoed the converts, while the carriage
thundered through the streets, and the countess threw herself back
and laughed.

"Miserable rabble!" said she, "whose love and hate are bought with
gold, and whom philanthropists regard as the exponents of the Divine
will! 'Vox populi vox Dei,' forsooth!"--Then, turning to Eugene,
who, during the whole performance, had remained sullenly silent, she
continued: "Have you decided whether to leave or accompany me? If
the latter, it must be in the character of a diplomatist, whose
weapons are sweet words and shining gold."

"I go on with you, mother, as your loving and obedient son," said
Eugene, kissing her hand--even the one which still clasped the
wonder-working purse. "I have no right to despise this tiny
necromancer, for, by its beneficent power, you have been rescued
from dangers which I, a man, and not a coward, was impotent to
avert. I submit, dear mother, to your dictates--no longer your
champion, look upon me henceforth as your subject."

The voice was very mournful in which Eugene made this profession of
vassalage, and at its conclusion his eyes were veiled by tears of
burning humiliation. His mother affected not to perceive his
emotion, as she replied in her blandest tones:

"I thank you, my son. Your decision is a most filial and meritorious
one. The two days that have just passed over your head have proved
to me that, whatever may be your career, you are destined to render
it illustrious: either by statesmanship or prowess. Whether as an
ecclesiastic, a politician, or a soldier, you will certainly attain
distinction."

"Mother, as a soldier, I MAY attain distinction; as a churchman,
never. For the present I accept my fate; but blessed will be the day
on which I go into the world free to feel the power of my manhood,
and to shape my fortunes with my own hand. Let women rise to dignity
through royal favor and family influence; man's only ally should be
his own strong arm. Far nobler to me is the lieutenant who wins his
epaulets upon the battle-field, than the prince who is born to the
command of an army."

"Have a care how you speak such high-treason at the court of Louis
XIV.," replied his mother. "It would be repeated to his majesty, and
never would be forgiven."

"I hope to do many things in my life that will be repeated to his
majesty of France--perchance some of which may never obtain his
forgiveness," replied Eugene, quietly. "But let us speak of the
present, and of you, beloved mother."

Olympia threw herself back against the soft upholstery that lined
the back of the carriage. "Rather let us speak of nothing, my child.
Neither of us had any rest last night: I would gladly sleep awhile."

She closed her eyes, and finally Nature asserted her long-frustrated
claims. In a few moments, the humiliations, the fears, and the
sufferings of the unhappy Olympia, were drowned in the drowsy waters
of profound sleep.

She was not long permitted to remain in oblivion of her woes. Her
repose was broken by the hoots and hisses of another vulgar crowd,
that swarmed like hornets about the carriage-windows. They had
arrived at another station, where, in place of finding post-horses,
they were met by another mob as vituperative as the one they had
encountered before.

Eugene thrust open the portiere, and, leaping into the very midst of
the rioters, he drew out his pistols. "The first one of you," cried
he, "that proffers another injurious word, I will shoot as I would a
vicious dog!"

"Hear that sickly manikin! He is trying to browbeat us!" cried some
one in the crowd.

"Yes, yes, trying to browbeat us!" echoed the chorus.

"Yes--by the eternal heavens above us!" exclaimed the prince. "The
first that moves a foot toward us, dies!"

His eyes flashed so boldly, and his attitude was so commanding, that
the people, ever cowed by true courage, faltered and fell back.

Just then Olympia opened the door on her own side of the chariot,
and, without the slightest manifestation of fear or anger, stepped
to the ground, and, with one of her bewitching smiles, made her way
to the very center of her foes. Her voice was soft and low, but, to
a, practised ear, it would have seemed like that of a lioness, who,
forced to temporize, was longing to devour.

"Good people," said the leonine siren, "pardon the irascibility of
this young man. He is my son, and, when he heard his mother's name
aspersed, his anger got the better of his discretion. Is it not
true," continued she, turning to a woman who had been most
vociferous in her maledictions, "is it not true, dear friend, that a
son is excusable who grows indignant when he hears his mother
accused of deeds the very thought of which would fill her with
horror? Perhaps you, too, have a son that loves you, and who,
knowing you to be a good and pious woman, would never suffer any man
to attack your good name."

"Yes," replied the woman, entirely propitiated, "yes, madame, I have
a son who certainly would defend my good name against any man that
attacked it."

"Then you will make allowances for mine, and speak a kind word for
him to your friends here, for we mothers understand one another, do
we not? And any one of us is ready to shelter the good son of some
other woman? Are we not?"

"That we are," returned the woman, enthusiastically. "I will protect
your son, never fear." And, with her arms upraised, she dashed
through the crowd, and addressed those who were nearest to Eugene,
and who, partially over their panic, were just about to remember
that they were many against their one opponent.

"Let him alone!" cried she. "He is her son! You see that we have
been deceived by those who told us that she had poisoned her
children. How should this one love her, if she were so wicked?"

"Dear friends," cried Olympia, so as to be heard by ail around, "you
have been shamefully imposed upon, if you were told that I poisoned
my dear children. I have given birth to seven, who are all alive to
testify that their poor mother is innocent."

"All seven alive! Seven children, and not one dead!" exclaimed the
"dear friend" whom Olympia had specially addressed. "Just think of
that! Why, of course she is innocent."

And here and there the shrill voices of the women were heard
repeating the words, "She is innocent, of course she is innocent!"

"You perceive, then," continued the countess, pursuing her
advantage, "that I have powerful enemies, since they precede me on
my journey with slanderous falsehoods, and try to turn the honest
hearts of the villagers of France against me and my son. I see that
they have been here, and have bribed you to insult me."

"That is true," cried a chorus of rough voices. "We were paid to
insult you and to refuse you post-horses."

"Well, then," returned Olympia, with one of her most enchanting
smiles, "I, too, will give you money, but it shall not be to bribe
you to resent my injuries. It will be to dispose of as your kind
hearts deem best."

She threw out a handful of silver, for which some began to stoop and
scramble, while others, emboldened by the sight of such a largesse,
crowded around, stretching out their hands for a "souvenir."

"Whoever, at the expiration of fifteen minutes, furnishes me eight
fresh horses, shall receive eight louis d'ors as a token of my
gratitude," said the sagacious Olympia.

No sooner were the words spoken, than every man there flew to earn
the token. In less than a minute the ground was cleared, and naught
was to be seen but a few women and children, still bent upon
searching for the silver.

The countess returned to her carriage, where she found Eugene,
looking embarrassed and ashamed. He immediately apologized for his
involuntary disregard of her injunctions.

"Dear mother, forgive me; in this last dilemma I have conducted
myself like a madman, while you have shown that you possess true
heroism. I see how very much wiser you are than I; and I solemnly
promise to attempt no more violence, where personal violence is not
offered to us. But to say that I could exchange my weapons for
yours, I cannot. I never shall learn to dissimulate and flatter."

His mother slightly raised her shoulders. "You will learn it in
time, when you will have learned to despise your fellows as I do.--
But see! Heaven be praised, here come the horses."

In a few moments, eight brown hands were outstretched to receive the
gold, and, amid the huzzas of the multitude, the Countess de
Soissons pursued her journey.



CHAPTER IX.

THE PARTING.


Eugene looked gloomily out of the carriage-window, and heard a
succession of deep sighs.

"Shall I tell you why you are so sad?" said Olympia to her son.

"I am sad because I feel my miserable impotence," replied he,
moodily. "I am sad because I must at last acknowledge that Mazarin
was right when he said that gold was the only divinity devoutly
worshipped on earth."

"Speak not slightingly of gold," cried Olympia, laughing; "it has
probably saved my life to-day. Unluckily we are far from the end of
our journey, and I may not have enough of this precious gold
wherewith to purchase forbearance as we go."

"We are not far from the frontier, and once in Flanders, you are
safe."

"Not so. There are no bounds to the realms of this yellow divinity.
Its worshippers are everywhere, and Louvois will seek them in France
and out of it. But I think I have a device whereby we may outwit our
mighty oppressor, and avoid further contumely."

"What is it, mother?"

"I will take another and a less public road. You shall go with me as
far as the boundaries. We can pass the night at Rocroy, and part on
the morrow: you to retrace your steps. I to continue my flight in a
plain carriage, with two horses and no attendants."

"I have promised to submit, and will obey you implicitly," returned
Eugene, respectfully. "Since you command me to go, we will part at
Rocroy."

"Ah!" sighed the countess, "I would we were there, for indeed I am
exhausted, and yearn for rest."

Many hours, however, went by, before they reached Rocroy, and,
wherever their need compelled them to stop, they met with the same
insults; the same efforts were to be gone through, to propitiate the
rabble; and Eugene was forced to endure it all, while his martyred
heart was wrung with anguish that no words are adequate to picture.

At last, to the relief of the prince, and the great joy of his
mother, who was almost fainting with fatigue, the fortress was
reached, the foaming horses were drawn up, and the officer in
command was seen coming through a postern, followed by six of his
men.

It was the custom in France to search every vehicle that left the
frontier; and, in compliance with this custom, the officer advanced
promptly to meet the travellers. The countess had so often submitted
to this formality, that when her name and destination were asked,
she avowed them both without the least hesitation.

"I hope," added she, "that the declaration of my name and rank will
exempt me from the detention usual in these cases, for I am in great
haste, and you will oblige me by ordering the gates to be opened at
once."

"I am sorry to disoblige your highness," replied the officer, with a
supercilious smile, "but that very declaration compels me to refuse
you egress through the gates of Rocroy."

"What in Heaven's name do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Olympia,
alarmed.

"I mean that Monsieur Louvois's orders are express that the Countess
de Soissons shall not be suffered, to pass the fortress, and his
orders here are paramount."

With these words the officer turned his back, made a sign to his
men, and in less than a minute the party had disappeared, and the
inexorable gates had closed.

The countess sighed wearily. "Let us go farther," said she "In the
next village we will at least find lodgings, and rest for the
night."

The horses' heads were turned, and the tired animals urged on, until
a neighboring town had been reached, whose stately inn, with its
brightly-illuminated entrance, gave promise of comfortable
entertainment for man and beast.

Three well-dressed individuals stood in the lofty door-way, and as
the carriage drove up they came forward to meet it. Eugene,
shielding his mother from sight, asked if they could alight to sup
and lodge there for the night.

"That depends upon circumstances," replied one of them. "You must
first have the goodness to give us your name."

"My name is nothing to the purpose," cried Eugene, impatiently. "I
ask merely whether strangers can be accommodated with supper and
beds in this house."

"The name is every thing, sir, and, before I answer your inquiry, I
must know it--unless, indeed, you are anxious to conceal it."

"A Prince de Carignan has never yet had reason to conceal his name,"
said Eugene, haughtily.

"Ah! your highness, then, is the Prince de Carignan! And may this
lady in the corner there be your mother, the Countess de Soissons?"

"Yes--the Countess de Soissons; and now that you are made acquainted
with our names--"

"I regret that I cannot receive you," interrupted the host. "Were
you alone, my house and every thing within my doors would be at the
service of the Prince de Carignan, but for his mother we have no
accommodation. We are afraid of noble ladies that use poison."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before he sprang up the
steps, and closed the doors of the inn in their faces.

"Ah!" muttered Olympia between her teeth, "such cruelty as this is
enough to drive any one to the use of poison! And if I live I will
be revenged on yonder churl that has sent me out into the darkness,
denying me food and rest!"

"Whither will your highness go now?" asked the footman; and, by the
tone of the inquiry, Olympia felt that her menials were rapidly
losing all respect for a "highness" that could no longer command
entrance into a public inn.

"Take a by-way to the next village, and stop at the first peasant's
hut on the road."

The coachman was growing surly, and the poor, worn-out horses were
so stiff that they could barely travel any longer. The village,
however, was only a few miles off, so that they were not more than
an hour in reaching a miserable hovel, at the door of which was a
man in the superlative degree of astonishment. He, at least, had
never heard of Louvois and Louvois's orders, so that, for the
promise of a gold-piece, he was easily induced to receive the
desponding party. But his only bed was of straw, and he feared their
excellencies would not be satisfied with his fare.

"My friend," said Olympia, "to an exhausted traveller a litter of
straw is as welcome as a bed of down;" and, with a sigh of relief,
she took the arm of her son, and entered the hut.

"Are you married?" asked she, taking her seat on a wooden stool,
near the chimney.

"Yes; and here is my wife," said he, as a young woman, blushing and
courtesying, came forward to welcome her distinguished visitors.

"Have you a wagon and horses?" continued the countess.

"A wagon, your excellency, but no horses: we have two sturdy oxen,
instead."

"Would you like to earn enough money to-night to buy yourself a
handsome team?"

"Yes, indeed, we would," cried husband and wife simultaneously.

"Then," said Olympia to the latter, "sell me your Sunday-gown, let
me have something to eat, and throw down some clean straw in the
corner, where I may sleep for a few hours. When I awake," added she
to the man, "harness your oxen, and take me in your wagon beyond the
frontier, to Flanders. If you will do this, you shall have fifty
louis d'ors for your trouble."

The peasant grinned responsive. "That will I," cried he, slapping
his thigh; "and, if you say so, I'll take you as far as Chimay,
which is a good way beyond the frontier."

"Right," said the countess, joyfully. "To Chimay we go. Now, my good
girl, bring me your best holiday-suit."

The young woman ran, breathless with joy, to fetch her attire, while
the man went out to feed his oxen. Olympia then addressed herself to
Eugene:

"Now, my son, we are alone, and I claim the fulfilment of your
promise. You have seen me to a place of safety, and you must return
to Paris. Listen now to my commands, perhaps the last I may ever
give you."

"Command, dear mother, and I will obey. But do not ask me to abandon
you to the danger which still threatens you."

"You exaggerate my danger, Eugene; and, by remaining with me, you
increase it. You are too impulsive to be a discreet companion, and I
exact of you to leave me. Disguised as a peasant-woman, and
travelling in an ox-cart, my foes will never discover me, and I have
every hope of reaching my destination in safety."

"It is impossible," persisted Eugene, his eyes filling with tears.

"My child, must I then force you to do my bidding?"

"No force can compel me to do what I know to be craven and
dishonorable," cried the prince. "Mother, I must not--cannot obey."

"For one short moment, the eyes of the countess flashed fire, but as
suddenly they softened, and she smilingly extended her hand:"

"Well--let us contend no longer, dear boy; I see that, for once, I
must succumb to your strong will. Here comes the woman with my
disguise. Go out a while, and let me change my dress. Send the
footman with a little casket you will find in the carriage-box. Here
is the key. And, Eugene, do beg the man to send in our supper, that
it may be ready for us when I shall have metamorphosed myself into a
peasant-woman."

About fifteen minutes later, the countess called her son. "How do
you like me?" she said. "Am I sufficiently disguised to pass for
that fellow's wife? What a strange picture we will make--you and I,
seated on a sack of wool, and drawn by a pair of creeping oxen! 'Tis
well for you that you are an abbe; were you any thing else, you
could not venture to travel by the side of a woman of low degree.
But--come, let us enjoy our supper; I, for one, am both hungry and
sleepy."

She drew a stool up to the table, which was spread with a clean
cloth, and covered with platters of bread, butter, and cheese.
Between two wooden bowls stood a large pitcher of milk. These bowls
the countess filled to the brim, and handed one to her son.

"Pledge me a bumper, and wish me a prosperous journey," said she,
playfully, while she put the cup to her lips, all the while narrowly
watching Eugene.

He followed her example, and drained his bowl to its last drop.
Then, striving to fall in with her mood, he said:

"You see how obedient I am, and yet you know that I am not one of
those that would be content to live in a land flowing with milk and
honey."

"Thank you," replied his mother, "for this one act of obedience. I
could wish you were as submissive in other things. But--what is the
matter, boy? You are pale."

"I do not know," stammered Eugene, his tongue seeming paralyzed. "I
am sick--I want-fresh air! Some air, mother!"

He attempted to rise, but fell back into his seat.

"Mother," murmured he, while his features were becoming distorted by
pain, "have you drugged--"

He could articulate no longer, but gazed upon his mother with fast-
glazing eyes, until slowly his dull orbs closed, and his head
dropped heavily upon the table.

"Three minutes," said the countess, quietly. "Only three minutes,
and he sleeps soundly. La Voisin was a wonderful creature! What a
high privilege it is to reign over the will of another human being
with a might as mysterious as it is irresistible? And greater yet
the privilege of dispensing life or death! Why did I not exercise
that power over the proud man that follows me with such unrelenting
hate? Ah, Louvois, had I been braver, I had not endured your
contumely! Poor, weak fool that I was, not to wrestle with fate and
master it! But--it is useless to repine. Let me see. Eugene will
sleep four hours, and, ere he wakes, I must be beyond the frontiers
of hostile France."

She left the little room and joined the peasant's wife.

"I have prevailed upon my son to return to Paris," said she, in that
caressing tone which she had practised so successfully through the
day. "His health is delicate, and the hardships of our hurried
journey have so exhausted him that he has fallen into a profound
sleep. Do not disturb him, I entreat of you, dear friend, and, when
he awakes, give him this note."

She drew from her pocket-book a paper, and, giving it to the woman,
repeated her request that her dear boy should not be disturbed.

"I will take my seat at the door, madame, and await the wakening of
Monsieur l'Abbe, to deliver your highness's note. But will you too
not rest awhile, before you go on? I think you look as if you needed
sleep quite as much as your son."

"No, no, thank you, I must reach Flanders before sunrise," replied
Olympia, "and do beg your husband to use dispatch, for I am
impatient to start. Will you also be so obliging as to call my
servants? I must say a few words to them before we part."

When the men came in, their mistress, in spite of her costume, wore
a demeanor so lofty, that they were afraid to betray their cognition
of her disguise, and were awed back into their usual stolid and
obsequious deportment.

"You have witnessed," said the countess, "the persecutions that have
been heaped upon me since yesterday, and of course you are not
surprised to find that I have adopted a disguise by which I may hope
to escape further outrage. You have both been among the trustiest of
my servants, and to you, rather than to my son, I confide my parting
instructions. He is now asleep, and I will not even waken him to
take leave; for he would wish to accompany me, and so compromise
both his safety and mine. I therefore journey in secret and alone.
As for you, be in readiness to return to Paris by daylight, and do
all that you can for the comfort of my son on the way."

"I served his father," replied the coachman, "and will do my duty by
his son, your highness. Rely upon me."

"And I," added the footman, "will do my best to deserve the praise
your highness has so kindly vouchsafed to us, by serving my lord and
prince as faithfully as I know how."

"Right, my good friends. You will always find him, in return, a
gracious and generous master. You will have no difficulty in
procuring relays or lodging on your return to Paris: oblige me,
then, by travelling with all speed, for it is important that my son
arrive quickly. And now farewell, and accept this as a remembrance."

Dropping several gold-pieces into the hands of each one, their proud
mistress inclined her head, and passed out of the hut.

"If your highness is ready," said the peasant's wife, meeting her on
the threshold, "my husband is in his wagon waiting."

"In one moment," replied Olympia; "I must return to take a last kiss
from my son."

She hastened back to the little room, and, stepping lightly,
advanced to the table, where Eugene, his head supported by his arms,
lay precisely in the position wherein she had left him. She lifted
the masses of his shaggy, black hair, and gazed wistfully upon his
pale face. "And if the stars are not false," whispered she,
tenderly, "this feeble body enshrines a mind that shall win renown
for the house of Savoy. God bless thee, my fragile, but great-
hearted Eugene! As I gaze upon thy pallid brow, my whole being is
inundated by the gushing waters of a love which to-night seems more
than maternal! So should angels love the sons of men! Take from my
lips the baptismal kisses that consecrate thee to glory! May God
bless and prosper thee, my boy!"

She bent over the sleeping youth and kissed his forehead o'er and
o'er. When she raised her head, among the raven masses of Eugene's
hair there trembled here and there a tear, perhaps the purest that
ever flowed from the turbid spring of Olympia de Soisson's corrupt
heart.

One more kiss she pressed upon his clasped hands, and then she
hurried away. The cart was before the door; she took her seat, and
slowly the creeping oxen went out into the darkness, bearing away
with them a secret which, to the wondering peasant-woman, was like
Jove's descent to the daughter of Acrisius. [Footnote: Louvois's
hate pursued the Countess de Soissous to Brussels, where the beggars
were bribed to insult her as she passed them in the streets. She was
so persecuted by the rabble that, on one occasion, when she was
purchasing lace at the convent of the Beguines, they assembled in
such multitudes at the entrance, that the nuns, to save her from
being torn to pieces, were compelled to permit her to remain with
them all night. Finally the governor of Netherlands was driven to
take her under his own personal protection, by which it became
unlawful to molest her further. After the governor became her
champion, the prejudices of the people wore gradually away, until at
last Olympia held her levees as she had done in her palmy days at
the Hotel de Soissons.--See Abbe de Choisy: Memoires, p. 224. Renee:
"Les Nieces de Mazarin," p. 212.]

Four hours passed away, and the power of the drugged cup was at an
end. Day was breaking, and, although by the uncertain light of the
gray dawn, no object in that poor place was clearly defined, still
everything was visible. Eugene raised his head and looked,
bewildered, around the room. He saw at once that his mother was not
there, and with a gesture of wild alarm he sprang to his feet.

"Mother, my mother!" exclaimed he.

The door opened, and the smiling peasant with a deep courtesy came
forward to wish his highness good-morning.

"Your mother, excellency, has been gone these four hours," said she.

"Gone! Gracious Heaven! whither, and with whom?"

"She went to Flanders, excellency, with my husband. Do not feel
unhappy, sir, I beg of you; my husband is a good, prudent fellow,
and he will take her safely to Chimay. Here is a paper she left for
you, and she bade me say that, as soon as I had given you an early
breakfast, you would return with your servants to Paris."

Eugene clutched at the note, and returned to the table to read it.
Its contents were as follows:

"My dear child, you would not obey me, and yet I could no longer
brook the danger of your attendance. Although I am no adept in the
art of poisoning, yet I have learned from La Voisin to prepare
harmless anodynes, one of which I mingled with the cup of milk you
took from my hand to-night. You sleep, dear Eugene, and I must go
forth to meet my fate alone. Your knightly repugnance to what you
looked upon as a desertion of your mother, has forced me to the use
of means which, though perfectly innocent, I would rather not have
employed. I knew no other device by which to escape your too loving
vigilance."

"Go back to Paris, my Eugene, and go with all speed, for there you
can protect, there alone you can defend me. There are my enemies;
and, although I dedicate you to the church, I would not have you put
in practice that precept of the Scriptures which enjoins upon you to
forgive your traducers, and bless those who despitefully use you.
No, no! From my son's hand I await the blow that is to avenge my
wounded honor and my blasted existence. Farewell! The spirit of
Mazarin guide you to wisdom and success! Olympia."

"I will avenge you, my own, my precious mother," said Eugene, his
teeth firmly set with bitter resolve. "The world has thrown its
gauntlet to us, and, by Heaven I will wear it on my front! I have
swept the dark circle of every imaginable sorrow, and my soul is
athirst for strife. 'Tis a priestly office to vindicate a mother's
good name, and I shall be the hierophant of an altar whereon the
blood of her enemies shall be sacrificed. And now, dear maligned
one," continued he, kissing the words her hand had traced,
"farewell! Thou wert my first passionate love, and in my faithful
heart nothing ever shall transcend thee!"

Half an hour later he was on the road to Paris; but, desirous to
escape notice, Eugene travelled without footmen or outriders, and
confined himself to a span of horses for his carriage. The simple
equipage attracted no attention, and no one attempted to peer at its
silent occupant, so that on the morning of the next day he had
arrived in Paris.

It was a clear, bright morning, and perchance this might be a reason
why the streets were unusually crowded; but as the prince was
remarking what a multitude were astir to enjoy the beauty of a sky
that was vaulted with pale-blue and silver, he observed at the same
time that all were going in one direction. The throng grew denser as
the carriage advanced, until it reached the Rue des Deux Ecus, when
it came to a dead stop. And after that it advanced but a few feet at
a time, for the whole world seemed to be going, with Eugene, to the
Hotel de Soissons.

At last they reached the gates, and the prince was about to alight,
when, directly in front of the palace, and within the court, he saw
the sight which had attracted the multitude thither.

Before the principal entrance of the palace were six horsemen, two
of whom in their right hands held long trumpets decked with flowing
ribbons. Behind these, bestriding four immense horses of Norman
breed, were four beadles in their long black gowns, and broad-
brimmed hats, looped up with cockades. Behind these four were two
mounted soldiers, dressed like those in front, in the municipal
colors of the city of Paris, and in place of trumpets they carried
halberds.

As he saw this extraordinary group, who had apparently selected the
court of the Hotel Soissons wherein to enact some ridiculous
pageant, Eugene could scarcely believe his dazzled eyes. He looked
again, and saw the horsemen raise their trumpets to their lips,
while the air resounded with a fanfare that made the very windows of
the palace tremble in their frames.

The multitude, that up to this moment had been struggling and
contending together for place and passage, suddenly grew breathless
with expectation, when a second fanfare rang out upon the air; and,
when its clang had died away, one of the black-robed beadles cried
out in a loud voice:

"We, the appointed magistrate of the venerable city of Paris, hereby
do summon the Countess Olympia de Soissons, Princess of Carignan,
widow of the most high the Count de Soissons, Prince Royal of
Bourbon, and Prince of Carignan, to appear within three days before
our tribunal, at the town-hall of our good city of Paris."

The trumpet sounded a third time, and another beadle continued the
summons:

"And we, the appointed magistrate of the venerable city of Paris, do
hereby accuse said Countess Olympia de Soissons and Princess de
Carignan of sorcery and murder by poison. If she hold herself
innocent of these charges, she will appear within the three days by
law granted her wherein to answer our summons. If she do not appear
within three days, she shall he held guilty by contumacy, and
condemned."

Scarcely had these last words been pronounced, when the people broke
out into jubilant shouts over the fearless rectitude of the
honorable city fathers, who were not afraid to lift the avenging arm
of justice against criminals in high places.

Amid the din that followed, Eugene escaped from his carriage to the
private entrance, through which twice before he had passed in such
indescribable anguish of heart.

Not a soul was there to greet the heir of this princely house, or
bid him welcome home. The servant, who, after his repeated
knockings, appeared to open the door, gazed at his young lord with a
countenance wherein terror and sympathy were strangely mingled.

"Are the princesses at home?" asked Eugene.

"No, your highness, they took refuge with their grandmother, the
Princess de Carignan."

"Took refuge!" echoed Eugene, staring at the man in dumb dismay.

"Yes, my lord, they were afraid of the people, who have gathered
here by thousands every day since the countess left. This is the
third summons that has been made for her highness, and at each one
the people of Paris have flocked to the hotel with such jeers and
curses, that the poor young ladies were too terrified to remain."

"They acted prudently," replied Eugene, recovering his self-
possession. "But where is the steward? And where are the other
servants?"

"Latour accompanied the princesses, your highness, and has not
returned. The remainder of the household have taken service
elsewhere."

"What! my valet, Dupont?"

"He thought your highness had left Paris for a long time, and looked
for another master."

"Then how comes it that you are here, Conrad?"

"I, my lord? Oh, that is quite another thing. I belong to a family
that have served the Princes de Carignan for three generations. I
myself have served them from my boyhood, and if your highness does
not discharge me, I shall not do so, were the hotel to be attacked
by every churl in Paris."

As Conrad spoke these words, Eugene turned and looked affectionately
at his faithful servant. "Thank you, Conrad, for your loyalty and
courage; I can never grow unmindful of such devotion. From this day
you become my valet, and if you never quit my service until I
discharge you, we will roam the world together as long as we both
live! "

Tears of gratitude glistened in Conrad's honest eyes. "Then to the
day of my death I remain with my dear lord," replied he, kneeling,
and devoutly kissing the hand which Eugene had extended. "And I
swear to your highness love and fealty, while God gives me life
wherewith to serve you."

"I believe you, Conrad," replied Eugene, kindly, "and I thank you
for the solitary welcome you have given me on my return to this
unhappy house. Your loving words have drowned the clang of yonder
trumpets without.--And now let us part for a while: I feel inclined
to sleep."

The prince turned into a hall that led to his apartments, and
entered his bed-chamber. He had scarcely taken a seat, and leaned
his weary head upon his hand, before the trumpet pealed another
blast, and the beadle again summoned the Countess de Soissons to
answer before the tribunal of justice for her crimes!

The people shouted as though they would have rent the canopy of
heaven; and Eugene, overcome by such excess of degradation, burst
into a flood of tears.



BOOK II.


CHAPTER I.

MARIANNA MANCINI.


For a day Eugene remained in his room, while Conrad kept vigil in
the antechamber without. The unhappy prince had longed so intensely
for the privilege of grieving without witnesses, that he felt as if
no boon on earth was comparable to solitude. Not only his
affections, but his honor, had been mortally wounded: what medicine
could ever restore it to life?

And through the long night Conrad had listened to his slow, measured
step, as forth and back he had paced his room in the vain hope of
wooing sleep to

   "steep his senses in forgetfulness."

Finally day dawned, and Conrad then ventured to knock and inquire
whether his lord would not breakfast. The door was not opened, but
Eugene thanked him, and refused. The poor fellow then threw himself
down on the carpet and slept for several hours. He was awakened by
his father, the only servant besides himself that had remained to
share the humiliations of the family, and who now came as bearer of
a letter from the Duke de Bouillon, which was to be delivered to the
prince without delay.

Delighted to have a pretext that might gain him admittance to the
presence of his master, Conrad sprang up and knocked. The door was
just sufficiently opened to give passage to the latter, was hastily
closed, and the bolt was heard to slide. But two hours later Eugene
appeared, and greeted his two faithful attendants with a gracious
inclination of the head.

"Now, Conrad," said he, "I am ready to oblige you by taking my
breakfast. Immediately after, I shall go out, and, as I go on an
affair of importance, order the state-coach, two footmen, and two
outriders. What makes you look so blank? Does it seem singular that
I ride in state through the streets of Paris?"

"God forbid, your highness!" exclaimed Conrad, "but--"

"But--"

"But we have no footmen--no outriders, your highness."

"True," said Eugene, "I had forgotten. But I suppose that the
rascals may be found and re-engaged. Go after them, Conrad, and--
stay--where is the steward?"

"He went with the princesses to the Hotel Carignan, your highness."

"True--true--you told me so yesterday. Go to him, Conrad; bid him
return and resume his duties, for the Hotel de Soissons must be
open, and I must have a household befitting my rank. Be as diligent
as you can, my good fellow, and let the carriage be before the
entrance in one hour."

"But first, your highness must breakfast."

"And how can I breakfast if all the servants have deserted? Or has
the cook been more loyal than his companions?"

"No, your highness; he went with the rest, but he is in the
neighborhood, and will be glad to return."

"I am rejoiced to hear it. Fetch him, then, and let him provide
breakfast. But, above all things, find me footmen and outriders. I
would rather go out hungry than without attendants."

"Your highness shall have all you desire," returned Conrad, with
alacrity; and he kept his word. An hour later, the state-coach stood
before the portal of the palace, and the outriders and footmen were
each man in his proper place. The prince had partaken of an
excellent breakfast, and was advancing to his carriage.

When he saw old Philip, the coachman, he gave him a look of grateful
recognition, and inquired whether he had recovered from the fatigues
of their uncomfortable journey.

"I endured no fatigue, your highness," was the old man's reply. "I
was on duty, and had no right to be fatigued."

"Bravely answered," returned Eugene. "I see that you, at least, are
unchanged, and I may rely upon your loyalty. And the rest of you,"
continued he, looking searchingly around at the captured deserters,
"you have returned, I perceive."

"Your highness," replied one of them, eagerly, "I had the honor of
accompanying you to Flanders."

"Oh, I do not allude to you, Louis. I know that I can count upon
you."

"We, too, are loyal, your highness," replied the others, "and are
ready to serve you from the bottom of our hearts. The hotel was
empty, and we had supposed ourselves to be without places. But we
are only too happy to return."

"Very well, I shall have occasion to test your fidelity this very
day. Conrad, get in the coach with me. I desire to converse with you
in private."

Conrad dared not disobey, although to sit opposite to his master in
a carriage, seemed to him the acme of presumption. He took his seat
with a look of most comic embarrassment, and stared at the prince as
though he suspected him of being suddenly attacked with insanity.

"To the Hotel Bouillon!" was the order given, and the coach went
thundering through the gates toward the Quai Malaquais. It was
stared at, precisely as before, when Eugene and his mother had
attempted to join the royal cortege at the Pre aux Clercs. The
people sneered at the equipage and escutcheon of a countess, who,
for three days in succession, had been publicly summoned before the
tribunal of justice; but of the young prince, who was the solitary
occupant of the coach, they took no notice whatever. He was not
guilty, therefore he provoked no curiosity; he was not handsome,
therefore he attracted no attention. As lonely and heart sick his
head reclined amid the velvet cushions, whose silken threads seemed
each a pricking thorn to give him pain, Eugene's resolves of
vengeance deepened into vows, and he swore an oath of enmity against
his mother's enemies, which long years after he redeemed.

Conrad was perplexed, and ashamed of the honor conferred upon him;
but when after a long pause Eugene began to speak in low, earnest
tones, the embarrassed expression of the valet's countenance gave
place to a look of interest, and finally he ventured a smile.

"Indeed, your highness," replied he, "it shall be accomplished to
your entire satisfaction, and old Philip will be delighted to be of
the party. He is already burning to revenge himself upon the Louvois
family for taking precedence of carriages that have the right to go
before them; and he has more than once approached the coachmen of
the nobles thus insulted, for their cowardice in suffering it."

"Well--you will both have an opportunity of exhibiting your powers
to-day in the Pre aux Clercs, and I only hope that the court will be
there to witness it."

"Philip will not fail, your highness, nor I either."

"Thank you. There may be an affray, and perchance a blow or two in
store for you; but I will reward you handsomely. But what is this?
The carriage has stopped, and we have not yet reached the Hotel de
Bouillon."

Conrad sprang out to ascertain the cause of their detention.

"Your highness," said he, returning, "we cannot proceed any farther.
The street is blocked up with carriages that extend all the way to
the entrance of the hotel. Some of them are equipages of the princes
of the blood."

"Then I must go on foot, and you and Philip can profit by your
leisure to discuss the manner of your attack. But by all means let
it be in the Pre aux Clercs, where all these carriages will be
filled with occupants."

So saying, Eugene alighted, and hurried to the hotel. Its large
portals were flung wide open, and streams of elegantly-dressed
courtiers and ladies were entering the palace. In such a crowd,
where the men were in glittering uniforms, and the women,
resplendent with diamonds, wore long trains of velvet or satin,
borne by gayly-attired pages, nobody had eyes for a little abbe,
clad in russet gown, with buttons of brass; so that Eugene was more
than once forced back before he made his way to the state
apartments. Step by step he advanced, until at last he reached the
centre of the room, where the family were assembled to receive their
distinguished guests.

The duke, in the uniform of a general, stood in the midst of the
group. At his side was the duchess, the celebrated Marianna Mancini,
the rival of Olympia de Soissons, not only in the affections of
Cardinal Mazarin, but also in those of the king. When the heart of
Louis had wearied of the elder sister, its capricious longings
fluttered toward the younger, for whose sake he deserted La
Valliere, and to whom, for a season, he swore every imaginable vow
of love and eternal constancy.

Marianna had gained wisdom from the experience of her sister. Quite
convinced of the transitory nature of a king's favor, she formed the
bold design of capturing the hand as well as the heart of his
majesty of France. Perhaps Louis fathomed her intentions, and
resolved to punish her ambition, for he suddenly manifested a
willingness to marry the Spanish princess, whom Mazarin had vainly
endeavored to force upon him as a wife; and Marianna, like her
sister, sought consolation in marriage with another, and became
Duchess de Bouillon. [Footnote: This is a mistake. The one whom
Louis loved was Marie Mancini, Princess of Colonna.--TRANS.]

Years had gone by, but Marianna was still a court beauty, and she
still possessed a certain influence over the heart of her royal
admirer. She alone refused to do homage to De Moutespan, and she
alone ventured to interrupt the pious conversations of the king with
his new favorite De Maintenon. When the obsequious courtiers were
vying with each other as to who should minister most successfully to
the vanity of the monarch that considered himself as the state; when
princes and princesses listened breathlessly to the oracles that
fell from his inspired lips, the Duchess de Bouillon was not afraid
to break their reverential silence, by conversing at her ease in a
tone of voice quite as audible as that of his majesty.

She stood in the midst of that brilliant throng, accepting their
homage as though she had been born to a throne, and dispensing
gracious words with the proud consciousness that every smile of hers
was received as a condescension. And yet, in that very hour, the
Duchess de Bouillon was under impeachment for crime. Her summons had
been sent "in the name of the king;" but everybody knew that it was
the work of Louvois, and everybody knew equally well that the
compliment paid to the duchess that day, was especially gratifying
to the king, who himself had suggested it as a means of vexing his
arrogant minister.

That morning, his majesty had held a grand levee, which was
punctually attended by all who had the inestimable privilege of
appearing there. Louis received his courtiers with that gay and
smiling affability which was the result of his temperament, and had
procured for him from one of his adorers the surname of Phoebus.
But, all of a sudden, a cloud was seen to obscure the face of the
sun, and the dismayed sycophants were in a flutter to know what was
passing behind it. The firmament had darkened at the approach of the
Duke de Vendome and the Cardinal d'Albret.

"My lords," said the king, curtly, "I am surprised to see you here.
Methinks the proper place for you both this morning would be at the
side of your relative, the Duchess de Bouillon."

"Sire," replied the young duke, "I came to see if the sun had risen.
I behold it now; and since the day has dawned on which my aunt is to
appear before her accusers, I hasten whither duty calls, to take my
place among her adherents."

"And you, cardinal?" said Louis, to the handsome brother of the Duke
de Bouillon.

"I, my sovereign, am accustomed to say my orisons before turning my
thoughts to the affairs of this world. Now that I have worshipped at
the shrine of my earthly divinity, I am ready to admit the claims of
my noble sister-in-law."

The king received all this adulation as a matter of course, and,
without vouchsafing any reply, turned to his confessor. Pere la
Chaise looked displeased; he had no relish for court nonsense at any
time; but what availed his exhortations to humility, if his royal
penitent was to have his ears poisoned with such abominable stuff as
this!

Louis guessed somewhat the nature of his confessor's vexation, for
he blushed, and spoke in a mild, conciliatory tone:

"Pardon me, father, if this morning I have ventured to permit the
things of this world to take precedence of things spiritual. But a
king should be ready at all hours to do justice unto all men; and as
this is the day fixed for the trial of a noble lady of France, for
crimes of which I hope and believe that she will be found innocent,
I have deemed it proper to show my impartiality by upholding those
who have the courage to avow themselves champions or defenders of
the Duchess de Bouillon. Come, father, let us hasten to the chapel."

He rose from his couch, and, with head bowed down, traversed his
apartments, until he reached a side-door which communicated with the
rooms of the Marquise de Maintenon. On either side were long rows of
obsequious courtiers, imitating as far as they could the devotional
demeanor of the king; and, following the latter, came Pere la
Chaise--the only man in all the crowd who walked with head erect.
His large, dark eyes wandered from one courtier to another, and
their glances were as significant as words. They asserted his
supremacy over king and court; they proclaimed him the ambassador of
the King of kings.

At the threshold Louis turned, and, letting fall the mantle of his
humility, addressed his courtiers.

"My lords," said he, imperiously, "we dispense with your attendance
in chapel this morning, and you are all free to go whithersoever you
deem best."

With a slight bend of the head, he passed through the portiere and
disappeared. The courtiers had comprehended the motive of their
dismissal: it was a command from his majesty to repair to the Hotel
de Bouillon. They hastened to avail themselves of the royal
permission, and one and all were shortly after in presence of the
duchess, offering sympathy, countenance, and homage.



CHAPTER II.

THE TRIAL.


While she received her numerous visitors with cordiality, Marianna
Mancini tempered her affability with just enough of stateliness to
make it appear that their presence there was a matter of course, and
not of significance. She had arrayed herself with great splendor for
this extraordinary occasion of mingled humiliation and triumph. She
wore a dress of rose-colored satin, whose folds, as she moved,
changed from the rich hues of the carnation to the delicate tinge of
the peach-blossom. Her neck and arms were resplendent with diamonds,
and her whole person seemed invested with more than its usual
majesty and grace.

She saw Eugene, who was making vain endeavors to approach her. With
mock-heroic air, she raised her white arm, and motioned away those
who were immediately around her person.

"Let me request the mourners," said she, "to give place to the
priest, who advances to hear the last confession of the criminal.
Poor little abbe! How will he manage to sustain the weight of the
iniquities I shall pour into his ears?"

A merry laugh followed this sally, and all eyes were turned upon
Eugene, who, blushing like a maiden, kissed his aunt's outstretched
hand, but was too much embarrassed to reply to her greeting.

"Prince," said a tall personage coming forward, "will you allow me
to act as your substitute? My shoulders are broad, and will gladly
bear the burden of all the sins that have ever been committed by
your charming penitent."

"I dare say. Monsieur la Fontaine," replied Eugene, recovering
himself, "and they will incommode you no longer than the time it
will occupy you to weave them into a tissue of pleasant fables."

"Thanks, gallant abbe!" cried Marianna, pleased. "You look upon my
crimes, then, as fiction?"

"Yes, dearest aunt," said Eugene, resolutely; "they are, I heartily
believe, as fictitious as those attributed to my dear and honored
mother."

As he spoke, Eugene's large eyes looked courageously around, to read
the countenances of the men that were listening. Whatever they might
think of the mother, the chivalry of her son was indisputable, and
no one was disposed to wound his filial piety by so much as a
supercilious glance.

The silence that ensued was broken by La Fontaine. "Did you know,"
said he, "that Madame de Coulanges had been summoned to trial
yesterday?"

"Yes," replied the duchess, "but I have not heard the result. Can
you tell it to us, my dear La Fontaine?"

"I can. The judges paid her a compliment which I am sure she has not
received from anybody else, since the days of her childhood."

"What was it!"

"They gave in a verdict of--innocent."

A hearty laugh followed this satire of La Fontaine's, and the
duchess indulged in so much mirth thereat, that her eyes sparkled
like the brilliants on her person, and her cheeks flushed until they
rivalled the deepest hues of her pink dress.

"Ah!" cried La Fontaine, bending the knee before her, "La mere des
amours, et la reine des graces, c'est Bouillon, et Venus lui cede
ses emplois." [Footnote: La Fontaine's "Letters to the Duchess de
Bouillon," p. 49.]

"Go on, go on, fabulist!" cried Marianna, laughing.

La Fontaine continued:

"Ah, que Marianne a de beautes, de graces, et de charmes; Elle sait
enchanter et l'esprit et les yeux; Mortels, aimez-la tous! mais ce
n'est qu'a des dieux, Qu'est reserve l'honneur de lui rendre les
armes!"

[Footnote: See Works of La Fontaine.]

"Do you, then, desert and go over to my enemies?" asked the duchess,
reproachfully.

"I!" exclaimed La Fontaine, rising to his feet. "Who could so
calumniate me?"

"Why, did not you say 'elle gait enchanter'? And is not that the
very crime of which I am accused?"

La Fontaine was about to make some witty reply to this sportive
reproach, when the Duke de Bouillon announced to the duchess that
she must prepare herself to appear before her judges.

"I am ready," was the response, and Marianna passed her arm within
that of her husband.

"My friends." said she, addressing all present, "I invite you to
accompany me on my excursion to the Arsenal. Come, Eugene, give me
your other arm. It is fit that the criminal should go before her
accusers between her confessor and her victim."

"Madame," returned Eugene, frowning, "I am no confessor. A confessor
should be an anointed of the Lord, which I am not."

"Not anointed!" exclaimed the duchess. "I have an excellent receipt
for unguent given me by La Voisin; and, if you promise that I shall
not be made to mount the scaffold for my obliging act, I will anoint
you myself, whenever you like."

"Mount the scaffold!" cried La Fontaine. "For such as you, duchess,
we erect altars, not scaffolds. True, you have bewitched our hearts,
but we forgive you, and hope to witness, not your disgrace, but your
triumph."

And, indeed, the exit of the Duchess de Bouillon had the appearance
of an ovation. The streets were lined with people, who greeted her
with acclamations, as though they were longing to indemnify one
sister for the obloquy they had heaped upon the other. The
aristocracy, too, felt impelled to avenge the insult offered to
their order by the impeachment of the Countess de Soissons. In the
cortege of the Duchess de Bouillon were, all the flower of the
French nobility; and such as had not joined her train were at their
windows, waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands to
Marianna, who, in a state-carriage drawn by eight horses, returned
their greetings with as much unconcern as if she had been on her way
to her own coronation.

Next to her equipage was that of the Countess de Soissons; and
bitter were the feelings with which Eugene gazed upon the multitude,
who, but a few days before, had driven his mother into exile. He was
absorbed in his own sorrowful musings, when the carriage stopped,
and it became his duty to alight and hand out his aunt.

She received him with unruffled smiles, and they entered the
corridors of the Arsenal. Behind them came a gay concourse of
nobles, drawn out in one long glittering line, which, like a gilded
serpent, glided through the darksome windings of that gloomy palace
of justice.

The usher that was stationed at the entrance of the council-chamber
was transfixed with amazement at the sight. He rubbed his eyes, and
wondered whether he had fallen asleep and was dreaming of the fairy
tales that years ago had delighted his childhood. And when he saw
the duchess smile, and heard her ringing laugh, he was so bewitched
with its music that, instead of challenging her train of followers,
he suffered them every one to pass into the chamber without a
protest.

At the upper end of the hall of council, seated around a table
covered with a heavy black cloth, were the judges in their funeral
gowns and long wigs, which floated like ominous clouds around their
sinister faces. Close by, at a smaller table similarly draped, sat
the six lateral judges of the criminal court, and the scribes, who
were prepared to take notes of all that was said during the trial.

When Marianna came in, with her cortege stretching out behind her
like the tail of a comet, the pens dropped from their hands and the
solemn judges themselves looked around in undisguised astonishment.

The duchess, affecting complete unconsciousness of the sensation she
was creating, came in smiling, graceful, and self-possessed. While
the frowning faces of the judiciary scanned the gay host of
intruders, who were desecrating the solemnity of the council-chamber
with their levity, the duchess advanced until she stood directly in
front of their table, and there she smiled again and inclined her
head.

The judges were still more astounded--so much so, that they were at
a loss how to express their indignation. It took the form of
exceeding respect, and their great black wigs were all
simultaneously bent down in acknowledgment of the lady's greeting.

The only one among them who allowed expression to his displeasure
was the presiding judge, Laraynie, who, with a view to remind the
criminal that her blandishments were out of place, stiffened himself
considerably.

"The Duchess de Bouillon has been summoned before this august
tribunal to answer for the crimes with which she has been charged,"
said he, severely. "Are you the accused?"

"My dear president," returned Marianna, flippantly, "how can you be
so absurd? If you have forgotten ME, I perfectly remember YOU. You
were formerly amanuensis to my uncle, Cardinal Mazarin, who promoted
you to the office, because of your dexterity in mending pens. Yes, I
am the Duchess de Bouillon, and nobody has a better right to know it
than you, who wrote out my marriage contract, and were handsomely
paid for your trouble."

"Our business is not with the past, but the present," replied
Laraynie, haughtily. "The question is not whether you are or are not
the niece of the deceased Cardinal Mazarin, but whether you are or
are not guilty of the crimes for which you have been summoned
hither?--"

"Which summons, you perceive, I have obeyed," interrupted the
duchess. "But I pray you to understand that I acknowledge no right
of yours to cite a duchess before your tribunal, sir. If I come at
your call, it is because it has been made in the name of the king,
my sovereign and yours!" [Footnote: The duchess's own words.--See
Renee, "The Nieces of Mazarin," p. 395.]

"You have obeyed the citation, because it was your duty to obey it,"
returned Laraynie. "But I see here a multitude who have come neither
by indictment nor invitation. It is natural enough that the Duke de
Bouillon should accompany his spouse on an occasion of such solemn
import to her safety; but who are all these people that have
obtruded themselves upon our presence?"

"Did you not comply with my husband's request that I might be
accompanied to the Arsenal by a few of my friends?"

"Yes--his petition was granted."

"Well, then," replied Marianna, turning toward the brilliant
assembly that had grouped themselves around the room in a circle,
"these are a few of my most particular friends. You see on my right
the Dukes de Vendome and d'Albret, and the Prince of Savoy; on my
left, the Prince de Chatillon, and others with whose names and
persons you were familiar in the days of your secretaryship under
Cardinal Mazarin."

"To our business!" cried Laraynie, angrily. "We will begin the
examination."

"First let me have a seat," replied the duchess, looking around, as
though she had expected an accommodation of the kind. There was not
even a stool to be seen in the council-chamber. But at the table of
the judges stood a vacant armchair, the property of some absent
member; and in the twinkling of an eye Eugene had perceived and
rolled it forward. He placed it respectfully behind his aunt, and
resumed his position on her left.

This bold act was received by the judiciary with a frown, by the
other spectators with a murmur of applause, and by the beautiful
daughter of the house of Mancini with one of those bewitching smiles
which have been celebrated in the sonnets of Benserade, Corneille,
Moliere, St. Evremont, and La Fontaine.

She sank into the luxurious depths of the arm-chair, and her
"particular friends" drew nearer, and stationed themselves around
it.

"Now, gentlemen," said she, in the tone of a queen about to hold a
levee, "now I am ready. What is it that you are curious to know as
regards my manner of life?"

"First, your name, title, rank, position, age, and--"

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried Marianna, interrupting the president in his
nomenclature, "is it possible that you can be so uncivil as to ask a
lady her age? I warn you, if you persist in your indiscreet
curiosity, that you will compel me to resort to falsehood, for I
positively will not tell you how old I am. As regards the rest of
your questions, you are all acquainted with my name, title, rank,
and position. Let us come to the point."

"So be it," replied the president, who was gradually changing his
tone, and assuming a demeanor less haughty toward the duchess. "You
are accused of an attempt on the life of the Duke de Bouillon."

"Who are my accusers?" asked Marianna.

"You shall hear," replied Laraynie, trying to resume his official
severity. "Are you acquainted with La Voisin?"

"Yes, I know her," said Marianna, without any embarrassment
whatever.

"Why did you desire to rid yourself of your husband?" was the second
interrogatory.

"To rid myself of my husband!" cried the duchess, with a merry
laugh. Then turning to the duke, "Ask him whether HE believes that I
ever meditated harm toward him."

"No!" exclaimed the duke. "No! She has ever been to me a true and
loving wife, and we have lived too happily together for her ever to
have harbored ill-will toward me. Of evil deeds, my honored wife is
incapable!"

"You hear him, judges; you hear him!" exclaimed Marianna, her face
beaming with exultation. "What more have you to ask of me now?"

"Why were you in the habit of visiting La Voisin?"

"Because she was shrewd and entertaining, and because she promised
me an interview with spirits."

"Did you not show her a purse of gold, and promised it to her in
case these spirits made their appearance?"

"No!" said Marianna, emphatically, "and that for the best of
reasons. I never was possessed of any but an empty purse--a
melancholy truth, to which my husband here can bear witness. That I
may have promised gold to La Voisin is just possible, but that she
ever saw any in my possession is impossible."

Marianna glanced at her friends, who returned her look with
approving nods and smiles.

"You deny, then," continued the judge, not exactly knowing what to
say next, "you deny that you ever made an attempt to poison your
husband?"

"I do, and I am sure that La Voisin never originated a calumny so
base. But I confess that I was dying to see the spirits. Unhappily,
although La Voisin called them, they never came."

"You confess, then, that you DID instigate La Voisin to cite
spirits?"

"I certainly did, but it was all to no purpose. The spirits were
excessively disobliging, and refused to appear."

Another murmur of approbation was heard among the friends of the
duchess, some of whom applauded audibly.

"You are accused not only of raising spirits, but of citing the
devil," pursued Laraynie, in tones of marked reproof. "Have you ever
seen the devil?"

"Oh, yes! He is before me now. He is old, ugly, and wears the
disguise of a presiding judge."

This time the applause rang through the council-chamber. It was
accompanied by shouts of laughter, and no more attempt was made by
the amused spectators to preserve the least semblance of decorum.
The president, pale with rage, rose from his seat, and darting fiery
glances at the irreverent crowd, whom the duchess had named as her
particular friends, he cried out:

"The trial is over, and I hereby dismiss the court."

"What--already?" said the duchess, rising languidly from her seat.
"Have you nothing more to say to me, my dear President Laraynie?"

Her "dear president" vouchsafed not a word in reply; he motioned to
his compeers to rise, and they all betook themselves to their hall
of conference. When the door had closed behind them, Marianna
addressed her friends.

"My lords," said she, "I must apologize for the exceeding dulness of
the scene you have just witnessed. But who would ever have imagined
that such wise men could ask such a tissue of silly questions? I had
hoped to experience a sensation by having a distant glimpse of the
headsman's axe, and lo! I am cheated into an exhibition of President
Laraynie's long ears!" [Footnote: The duchess's own words. This
account of the trial is historical.--See Renee, "The Nieces of
Mazarin," p. 395.]

"Come, Marianna," said her husband, passing her arm within his. "It
is time for our drive to the Pre aux Clercs; the king and court are
doubtless there already."

"And I shall annoy Madame de Maintenon by entertaining his majesty
with an account of the absurd comedy that has just been performed in
the council-chamber of the Arsenal."

So saying, Marianna led the way, and, followed by her adherents,
left the tribunal of justice, and drove off in triumph to the Pre
aux Clercs.



CHAPTER III.

A SKIRMISH.


Instead of accompanying his aunt from the council-chamber to her
carriage, Eugene fell back, and joined two young men, who were
walking arm in arm just behind the duke and duchess.

They greeted him with marked cordiality, and congratulated him upon
the presence of mind with which he had captured the judicial arm-
chair, and pressed it into the service of his aunt.

"My cousins of Conti are pleased to jest," replied Eugene. "Such
praise befits not him who removes a chair, but him who unsettles a
throne."

"Have you any such ambitious designs?" asked Prince Louis de Conti,
sportively.

"Why not?" returned his brother, Prince de la Roche. "It would not
be the first time that such a feat had been performed by an
ecclesiastic. Cardinal Mazarin removed the throne of France from the
Louvre to his bedchamber, and what Giulio Mazarini once
accomplished, may perchance be repeated by his kinsman, the abbe."

"Who tells you that I am a priest?" said Eugene.

"First--your garb; second, the will of your family; and third, the
command of the king."

"You forget the will of the individual most interested. But of that
anon--I have a request to make of you both."

"It is granted in advance," exclaimed the brothers with one voice.

"Thank you, gracious kinsmen. Will you, then, accept a seat in my
carriage, and drive with me to the Pre aux Clercs?"

"With pleasure. Is that all?"

"Almost all," replied Eugene, laughing. "What else remains to be
done, must be performed by myself."

"Ah! There is something then in the wind? May we ask what it is?"

"You will witness it, and that is all I require of you. But here is
my carriage. Be so kind as to step in."

Conrad stood at the portiere, and, while the young Princes de Conti
were entering the coach, he drew from under his cloak a slender
parcel, which he presented to his lord.

Eugene received it with a smiling acknowledgment. "Is all prepared?"
he asked.

"Yes, your highness. Old Philip is in ecstasies, and the other
lackeys are like a pack of hounds on the eve of a fox-chase."

"They shall hear the fanfare presently," returned Eugene, following
his cousins, and taking his seat opposite to them.

"What is that?" asked the Prince de Conti pointing to the long, thin
roll of white paper which Eugene held in his hand.

"I suspect that it is a crucifix, and Eugene is going to entrap us
into a confession," returned De la Roche, who loved to banter his
cousin.

"We shall see," replied Eugene, opening the paper, and exhibiting
its contents. "A whip!" exclaimed De Conti.

"Yes, a stout, hunting-whip!" echoed De la Roche. "Are we to go on a
fox-hunt, dear little abbe?"

"We are, dear, tall prince, and we shall shortly set out."

"Things begin to look serious," observed De Conti, with a searching
glance at the pale, resolute face of his young relative. "You do not
really intend to chase your fox in presence of the king?"

"Yes, I do. I intend to prove to his majesty that I am not
altogether unskilled in worldly craft, and, as regards my fox, I
intend that all Paris shall witness his punishment."

"You mean that you have been insulted, and are resolved to disgrace
the man that has insulted you?" asked De la Roche.

"You have guessed," said Eugene, deliberately, as he unwound the
long lash of the whip, and tried its strength.

"But Eugene," said De Conti, earnestly, "remember that such
degradation is only to be wiped out with blood, and that your cloth
will not protect you from the consequences of so unpriestly an act."

Eugene's eyes flashed fire. "Hear me," said he. "If my miserable
garb could prevent me from vindicating my honor as a man, I would
rend it into fragments, and cast it away as the livery of a coward.
A man's dress is not a symbol of his soul; and so help me, God! this
brown cassock shall some day be transformed into the panoply of a
soldier. But see! The carriage stops, and we are about to taste the
joys ineffable of seeing the King of France drive by."

Two outriders in the royal livery were now seen to gallop down the
allee, as a signal for all vehicles whatsoever to drive aside until
the royal equipages had passed by.

In this manner Louis was accustomed to exhibit himself to the
admiring gaze of his subjects, and to bestow upon them the
unspeakable privilege of a stray beam from the "son of France."
Never had he shed his rays upon a more numerous or more magnificent
concourse than the one assembled in the Pre aux Clercs; for the
Duchess de Bouillon had just entered with her cortege, and the allee
was lined on either side with splendid equipages and their
outriders--pages, equestrians, and foot-passengers.

His majesty was gazing around, bowing affably to the crowd, when he
perceived the Duchess de Bouillon, and caught her eye. Louis waved
his hand, and smiled; and this royal congratulation filled up the
measure of Marianna's content. At that moment his face was illumined
by an expression of genuine feeling, perhaps a reflection of the
light of a love which had shone upon it in the golden morning of his
youth.

The king's coach had gone by; following came the equipages of the
royal family, and the princes of the blood: then--

"My dear cousin," said Eugene, "be on your guard, and if the glasses
of our carriage-windows begin to splinter, close your eyes, for--"

At this moment the coach darted suddenly forward, and took its place
behind the royal cortege. There was a tremendous concussion of
wheels and shafts, a crash of broken panes, a stamping and
struggling of horses; and, above all this din, the frantic oaths of
the coachmen that had suffered from the collision.

"What do you mean, you ill-mannered churl! What do you mean by
driving in front of my horses?" cried a loud and angry voice.

"What do you mean yourself, clown!" was the furious reply of the
Jehu addressed. "My horses were merely advancing to take the
position which belongs to them of right, and how dare you stop the
way!"

"Do you hear?" asked Eugene, with composure. "The drama begins, and
I and my whip will shortly appear on the stage. It was my trusty old
Philip who began the fray, and--it has already gone from words to
blows, for it seems to me I heard something like a box on the ear--"

"You did indeed!" exclaimed the Prince de Conti; "but what on earth
can it mean?"

"You will find out presently," replied Eugene. "But wait a moment, I
must listen for my cue--"

"Your cue will have to be a thunder-clap, if you are to hear it
above all this racket," said De la Roche, slightly lowering one of
the windows, and looking cautiously out. "Devil take me! but it is a
veritable pitched battle. These knights of the hammer-cloth are
dexterous in the use of their fists, and every one of your servants,
Eugene, are engaged in the fight!"

The prince's last words were lost to his listeners, for a tremendous
crash drowned his voice, and something fell heavily to the ground.

"This is my cue," cried Eugene. "Come--I am about to make my debut."
And before he had time to rise from his seat, the portiere flew
open, and Conrad hastily took down the carriage-steps.

"Is his coach overturned?" asked the prince.

"Yes, your highness, and he is inside. His footmen tried to get him
out; but with the help of some of our friends we fell upon them, and
so gave them plenty of occupation, until your highness was ready to
appear."

"Well--let him out, Conrad. I am ready for him! Come," added he,
turning to his cousins. "Come, and let us survey the field."

In truth, the Pre aux Clercs, at this moment, resembled a battle-
ground. Although the royal cortege had long gone by, the promenaders
were too curious to follow; they all remained to see the end of this
turbulent opening. Every one had witnessed old Philip's manoeuvre,
and everybody knew that the point of attack was the carriage of
Barbesieur Louvois, for the footmen of the Countess de Soissons had
been seen to seize the horses' reins, and force them out of the way.

And now the coaches were all emptied of their occupants, who crowded
around the spot which Eugene, with his two cousins, was seen
approaching. They began to comprehend that this was no uproar among
lackeys, but a serious misunderstanding between their masters. The
Dukes de Bouillon, de Larochejaquelein, and de Luynes, the Princes
de Belmont and Conde, and many other nobles of distinction, came
forward and followed Prince Eugene to the field of action. The
coachman and lackeys of Barbesieur Louvois were trying to force the
footmen of the Countess de Soissons to right their overturned coach.
Old Philip cried out that the Princes de Carignan took precedence of
all manner of Louvois of whatever generation, and that he would not
stir. His companions had applauded his spirit, and both parties
having found allies among the other retainers of the nobles on the
ground, the battle had become general, and the number of fists
engaged was formidable.

The tumult was at its height when the clear, commanding tones of
Eugene's voice were heard.

"Churl and villain!" exclaimed he, "are you at last in my power?"

In a moment every eye was turned upon the speaker, who, just as
Barbesieur was emerging from the coach-window, seized and held him
prisoner. The belligerent lackeys were so astounded, that on both
sides the upraised fists were suspended, while old Philip, taking
advantage of the momentary lull, cried out in stentorian tones:

"Armistice for the servants! Their lords are here to decide the
difficulty!"

Down went the fists, and all parties gazed in breathless silence at
the pale, young David, who confronted his Goliath with as firm
reliance on the justice of his cause as did the shepherd-warrior of
ancient Israel. Eugene was pale and collected, but his nostrils were
distended, and his eyes were aflame. Barbesieur's great chest heaved
with fury, as he felt himself in the grasp of his puny antagonist,
and turning met the glance of the son of Olympia de Soissons.

For a few moments no word was spoken. The two enemies exchanged
glances; while princes, dukes, counts, and their followers, looked
on with breathless interest and expectation.

Barbesieur now made one supreme effort to escape, but all in vain.
With one thrust of his muscular arm, Eugene forced him back into the
coach, his nether limbs within, his great trunk without the window.

"Miserable coward," said the prince, "who to escape from the dangers
of a fray among lackeys, have taken refuge in the carriage of a
nobleman! Monsieur Louvois will assuredly have you punished for your
presumption; but before he hears of your insolence toward him, you
shall be chastised for the injuries you have inflicted upon me."

"Dare harm one hair of my head," muttered Barbesieur, between his
teeth, "and your life shall be the forfeit. My father will avenge
me."

"So be it; but first, let me avenge my mother," cried Eugene,
raising his whip on high.

"Eugene, Eugene," exclaimed the Duke de Bouillon, trying to reach
his kinsman in time to prevent the descending stroke, "you are
mistaken. This gentleman is no intruder in the coach of the Louvois;
it is Barbesieur de Louvois himself!"

"It is you that are in error," returned Eugene, holding fast to his
prisoner, who looked like some great monster in a trap. "This is not
Monsieur Louvois; this is a leader of mobs, an instigator of riots.
He is the knave that incited the people of Paris to malign my
mother, and to stone her palace.--Here! Philip! Conrad! Men of my
household, do you not recognize this man?"

"Ay, ay!" was the prompt response, "he is the very man that led on
the rabble."

"He is. The captain of the guard allowed him to escape, but before
he left I promised him a horsewhipping, and I never break my word.--
You are a villain, for you have defamed a noble lady.--Take this!
You are a liar, for you have accused her of crime.--Take this! You
are a poltroon, for while you were inciting others to violent deeds,
you hid your face, and denied your name.--Take this!"

At each opprobrious epithet, the lash fell heavily upon the
shoulders of Barbesieur, and every blow was answered by a cry of
mingled pain and rage. The multitude looked on in silence, almost in
terror; for who could calculate the consequence of such an indignity
offered to such a family!

"And now," said Eugene, throwing the whip as far as he could send
it, "now you are free! My mother's defamer has been lashed like a
hound, and her son's heart is relieved of its load."

So saying, he turned his back, and joined the group, among whom his
cousins were awaiting his return.

"Which of you, my lords," said he, "cried out that I was mistaken in
the identity of yonder knave?"

"It was I, Eugene," replied the Duke de Bouillon.

"But you see your error now, do you not, uncle? since not only I,
but my whole household proclaim him to be the ring-leader of that
riot, which forced my mother into exile."

"And yet he is assuredly Barbesieur Louvois," laughed the Prince de
Conti.

"Well--we shall see," was the reply. "He has disengaged himself from
his coach-window, and if he is a gentleman he will know what he has
to do."

And Eugene returned to the place where Barbesieur was now standing,
calling out to his friends to follow him.

"Are you quite sure, my lords, that this individual is Monsieur
Louvois?"

They answered with one voice, "We are!" while all eyes were fixed
upon the tall figure which, now relaxed and bent with shame,
resembled the stricken frame of an old man; while his eyes were
sedulously cast down, that they might not meet the glance of the
meanest man who had witnessed his disgrace.

"I am still incredulous," said the prince. "But I reaffirm that this
is the brutal ringleader of the mob that attacked my mother's home,
and since I am ready to swear upon my honor that it is he, have not
I performed my duty by chastising him?"

"Yes, Prince of Savoy, if you are sure that it is he," was the
unanimous reply.

"I can prove that it is he. When, in spite of my warning, he
uplifted his right arm to urge the rabble to a new attack on the
palace, I aimed a bullet at his elbow, and it reached its mark. Now,
if this man be Monsieur Louvois, and not the knave I hold him to be,
let him raise his right arm, and so brand me as a liar."

As he heard this challenge, Barbesieur trembled, and his face paled
to a deadly whiteness. His right hand was buried in the breast of
his coat, and well he knew that every eye was riveted upon that
spot. He made one superlative effort to straighten his arm, but no
sooner had he moved it than he uttered a stifled cry of pain, and
the wounded limb fell helpless to his side.

"My lords," said Eugene, inclining his head, "you see that I am no
calumniator. This is the churl who maligned my mother's name."

"And I am Barbesieur Louvois!" cried the churl, gnashing his teeth
with rage. "I am Barbesieur Louvois, and you shall learn it to your
sorrow, for my father will avenge the insult you have offered to his
son."

"Your father!" echoed the Prince de Conti. "But yourself! What will
you do to mend your bruised honor? A nobleman knows but one means of
repairing that."

Barbesieur blushed, and then grew very pale. "You see that I am
incapable of resorting to this means," replied he, in much
confusion.

"Then you will not challenge the Prince de Carignan?"

"It is not in my power to send a challenge. My right arm is useless
to me."

"Sir," said De Conti, haughtily, "there are blots on a man's honor,
which can only be wiped out with blood; and when the right hand is
powerless, a nobleman learns to use his left."

"I claim the privilege of waiting until I shall have regained the
use of my right hand," returned Barbesieur with a sinister glance at
De Conti. "I cannot be sure of my aim with an unpractised left hand;
and when I meet this miserable manikin, I wish to kill him.--Eugene
of Savoy, you have offered me a deadly affront; and as soon as my
wound is healed, you shall hear from me."

"Don't give yourself the trouble of sending me a challenge,"
returned Eugene coolly, "for I will not accept it."

"Not accept it!" echoed Barbesieur, unable to suppress the gleam of
satisfaction that WOULD shoot across his countenance. "Your valor
then, which is equal to put opprobrium upon a defenceless man, will
not bear you out to face him in a duel? What say these gentlemen
here present, to such behavior on the part of a prince of the ducal
house of Savoy?"

"When I shall have spoken a few more words to you, they can decide.
You have so outraged my mother, the Countess de Soissons, that the
falsehood with which you have befouled her honored name can never be
recalled! Not content with forcing her, by your persecutions, into
exile, your emissaries preceded her to every point whereat she
sought shelter, and incited the populace to refuse her the merest
necessaries of life! For wrongs such as these, nothing could repay
me but the infliction of a degradation both public and complete. I
have disgraced you; the marks of my lash are upon your back, and
think you that I shall bestow upon you one drop of my blood
wherewith to heal your stripes? No! I fight with no man whom I have
chastised as I would a serf; but if you have a friend that will
represent you, here is my gauntlet: let him raise it.--Gentlemen,
which of you will be the proxy that shall cleanse the sullied honor
of Barbesieur Louvois with his blood?"

"Not I," said the two Princes de Conti, simultaneously.

"Nor I," "Nor I," "Nor I!" echoed the others.

"Nor I," cried the Duke de la Roche Guyon stepping forward so as to
be conspicuous and generally heard. "I am the son-in-law of Monsieur
Louvois, and unhappily this man is the brother of my dear and
honored wife. But he is no kinsman of mine; and if I raise this
glove, it is to return it to the Prince of Savoy, for among us all
he has not an enemy. He stands in the midst of his friends, and they
uphold and will sustain him, let the consequences of this day be
what they may."

With a deep inclination of the head, the duke returned his glove to
Eugene, who, greatly affected, could scarcely murmur his thanks.

With glaring eyes and scowl of hatred, Barbesieur had listened,
while his brother-in-law's repudiation of the tie that bound them to
one another had deepened and widened the gashes of his disgrace.
With muttered words of revenge, he mounted the horse of one of his
grooms, and galloped swiftly out of sight of the detested Pre aux
Clercs.

"Gentlemen," resumed the Duke de la Roche Guyon, "I am about to seek
an audience with Monsieur Louvois, to relate to him the events that
have just transpired; and to exact of him as a man of honor that he
will seek no revenge for the affront offered to his son. Which of
you, then, will accompany me as witness?"

"All, all," cried the cavaliers, with enthusiasm. "We sustain the
Prince of Savoy, and if Minister Louvois injures a hair of his head,
he shall be answerable for the deed to every nobleman in France."

"And you, dear Eugene, whither are you going?" asked De Conti,
putting his hand on his cousin's shoulder, and contemplating him
with looks of affectionate admiration.

"I?" said Eugene, softly. "I shall return home to the hall of my
ancestors, there to hang this gauntlet below my mother's portrait.
Would that kneeling I could lay it at her feet!"

He was about to turn away, when De Conti remarked, "I wonder whether
Barbesieur will have the assurance to attend the court-ball to-
night?"

"We shall see," replied Eugene, with a smile.

"We! Why, you surely will not present yourself before the king,
until you find out in what way his majesty intends to view your
attack upon the favorite son of his favorite minister?"

"I shall go to the ball to ascertain the sentiments of his majesty.
You know how I abhor society, and how awkward I am in the presence
of the beau monde; but not to attend this ball would be an act of
cowardice. I must overcome my disinclination to such assemblies, and
learn my fate to-night."



CHAPTER IV.

LOUVOIS' DAUGHTER.


"Are you really in earnest, ma toute belle?" said Elizabeth-
Charlotte of Orleans. "Are you serious when you relinquish your
golden hours of untrammelled existence, to become my maid of honor?"

The young girl, who was seated on a tabouret close by, lifted her
great black eyes, and for a moment contemplated the large, good-
natured features of the duchess; then, smiling as if in satisfaction
at the survey, she replied:

"Certainly, if your highness accords me your gracious permission to
attach myself to your person."

"And does your father approve? Has the powerful minister of his
majesty no objection to have his daughter enter my service?"

"I told him that if he refused I would take the veil," returned the
young girl, with quiet decision.

The duchess leaned forward, and contemplated her with interest.
"Take the veil!" exclaimed she. "What should such a pretty creature
do in a convent? You are not--you cannot be in earnest. Let those
transform themselves into nuns who have sins upon their consciences,
or sorrow within their hearts: you can have had no greater loss to
mourn than the flight of a canary, or the death of a greyhound."

The maiden's eyes glistened with tears. "Your highness, I have lost
a mother."

"Oh, how unfeeling of me to have forgotten it!" exclaimed the
duchess. "But, in good sooth, this heartless court-life corrupts us
all; we are so unaccustomed to genuine feeling, that we forget its
existence on earth. Dear child, forgive me; I am thoughtless, but
not cruel. Give me your hand and let us be friends."

The girl pressed a fervent kiss upon the hand that was outstretched
to meet hers. "Oh!" cried she, feelingly, "my grandmother was right
when she told me that you were the best and noblest lady that ever
graced the court of France."

"Did your grandmother say that, love?" asked the duchess. "I
remember her as one of the most delightful persons I ever met. She
was a spirited, intelligent, and pure-minded woman; and many are the
pleasant hours we have passed together. I was really grieved when
the Marquise de Bonaletta disappeared from court, and went into
retirement."

"She left the court for love of my mother, whose marriage was a most
unhappy one; and who, although she had much strength of mind, had
not enough to cope with the malignity of the enemies that were of
her own household."

"Your father was twice married, was he not?"

"Yes, your highness; and, by his first marriage, had a son and a
daughter. With the latter, the present Duchess de la Roche Guyon, my
mother lived in perfect harmony, but her step-son, Barbesieur, hated
her, and finally caused her to quit her husband's house, and take
refuge with her mother, the Marchioness de Bonaletta."

"I remember," returned the duchess. "Both ladies left Paris at the
same time, and nothing was ever heard of them afterward. They
retired to the country, did they not?"

"Yes, your highness. My grandmother had inherited a handsome estate
from her husband; and thither they took refuge from the persecution
of Barbesieur--my brother, and yet the enemy who, before I had
attained my sixth year, had driven me to a state of orphanage, by
alienating from me my father's affection. Well--I scarcely missed
his protection, for dear mother's love filled up the measure of my
heart's cravings for sympathy, and her care supplied every
requirement of my mind. But my happiness was short-lived as a dream;
my mother's health had been sorely shattered by her many trials, and
I was not yet fourteen when it pleased God to take her to Himself."

The duchess listened with tender sympathy. "I see, dear child," said
she, "that you are a loving daughter, for two years have gone by
since your misfortune, and yet your eyes are dim with tears."

"Ah, your highness, time has increased, not lessened, my sorrow. The
longer the separation, the harder it is to bear, and I know not from
what source consolation is to flow. For a time, however, I had the
sympathy of my grandmother to soothe my grief. We visited her grave,
we spoke of her together. For love of her who was so eager for my
improvement, I applied myself heartily to my studies. Hoping,
believing that she looked down from heaven upon her child, I strove
to prove my love by cultivating to their utmost the powers which God
had bestowed upon me."

"And no doubt you have become such a learned little lady, that you
will be quite formidable to such triflers as we," said the duchess,
with a smile.

"No, indeed, dear lady. I am slightly proficient in music and
painting--these are my only accomplishments."

"Ah, you love music? How it delights me to know this, for I, too, am
passionately fond of it! When I was a maiden in Heidelberg, I used
to roam about the woods, singing in concert with the larks and
nightingales; and my deceased father, the Elector Palatine, finally
declared that I was no German princess, but a metamorphosed lark,
whom he constantly expected to see spread out her wings, and depart
for Bird-land. Sometimes, when my reveries are mournful, I could
almost wish myself a lark, hovering over the fields that lie at the
foot of our dear castle at Heidelberg, or nestling among its towers,
wherein I have passed so many joyous hours. Now, if I were a Hindoo,
I would look forward with pleasure to the day of my transmigration;
for as a lark, I would fly to my dear native home, and sing the old
air of which my father was so fond:"

  "'The sky that bends over the Neckar is fair,
   And its waters are kissed by the soft summer air'--"

As the duchess attempted to hum this familiar strain, her voice grew
faint, and her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them hastily away.

"My dear child," said she, after a pause, "I know not why your sweet
companionship should have brought to mind visions of home and
happiness that are long since buried in the grave of the past. I
seldom indulge in retrospection, Laura; it unfits me for endurance
of the heartless life we lead in Paris. But sometimes, when we are
alone, you will let me live over these sunny hours, and--"

Again her voice faltered, and she buried her face in her hands,
while Laura looked on with sympathetic tears.

There was a silence of several moments, at the end of which the
duchess gave a short sigh, and looked up. Her face was quite
composed, and, smiling affectionately upon her young companion, she
resumed their conversation.

"And now, dear child, go on with what you were relating to me. My
little episode of weakness is ended, and I listen to your artless
narration with genuine pleasure. You lived with your grandmother on
her estate, and you were tenderly attached to each other?"

"Yes, indeed, I loved my grandmother to adoration. My lonely heart
had concentrated all its love upon her who loved ME not only for my
own, but for my mother's sake; and we were beginning to find
happiness in our mutual affection, when death again snatched from me
my last stay, my only friend. My dear grandmother would have gone
joyfully, but for the sake of the poor child she was leaving behind.
When she felt her end approaching, she sent for my father, who
obeyed the summons at once. He arrived in time to receive her last
injunctions. They had a long private interview, at the end of which
I was called in, and formally delivered over to the guardianship of
my father, who promised me his love and protection. But my
grandmother added these words, which I have carefully treasured in
my memory:"

"'If you should ever need advice or countenance from a woman, go to
the Duchess of Orleans. She is a virtuous and benevolent princess,
and will befriend you. With her for a protectress, you will be as
safe from harm as in the sheltering arms of your own mother.'"

The duchess extended her hand. "I thank your grandmother, dear
child, for her confidence in my benevolence: if I have never
deserved it before, I will earn it now; and be assured that in me
you will find a loving protectress. But why should you need any
influence of mine? Your father is the most powerful subject at
court, and the whole world will be at your feet. Young, handsome,
and rich, every nobleman in France will be your suitor."

"But I can never marry without love," replied Laura,
enthusiastically. "Love alone could reconcile me to the exigencies
of married life, and I must choose the man that is to rule over my
destiny. Let me be frank, and confess to your highness why I desire
to place myself under your protection. My father is trying to force
me into a marriage with the Marquis de Strozzi, the Venetian envoy.
He is young, handsome, rich, and may perhaps become Doge of Venice.
He is all this--but what are his recommendations to me? I do not
love him! More than that, he is the friend of Barbesieur, and
therefore I dislike him. The match, too, is of Barbesieur's making:
he it was that influenced my father to consent to it. I have already
declared that, sooner than marry the marquis, I will take the veil.
But my vocation is not for the cloister, and therefore I implore
your highness's protection. I beseech you, give me the place made
vacant by the marriage of your maid of honor, and save me from a
life of misery. In my father's house I am solitary and unloved: but
even loneliness of heart I could endure, if I were permitted to
endure it in peace! But a compulsory marriage is worse to me than
death! Save me, dear lady, and I will be the humblest and most
obedient of your subjects!"

The duchess smilingly shook her head. "I am afraid," said she, "that
the daughter of Louvois will not be permitted to accept the office
you ask, my child. Do you know that my maids of honor are paid for
their services?"

"Yes, your highness; but I crave permission to serve you without
salary. I am rich, and, as regards fortune, independent of my
father. On condition that I assume her name, my grandmother left me
the whole of her vast estates. I have wealth, then, more than enough
to gratify my wildest caprices;--but no mother--no friend. Oh, take
pity on me, and befriend a poor orphan!"

"A poor orphan!" laughed the duchess. "A rich heiress, you mean--a
marchioness of fifteen years, who is possessed of sufficient
character to dispute the mandates of the powerful minister of the
King of France! But your resolute bearing pleases me. You are not
the puppet of circumstances, nor is your heart hardened by ambition.
It follows whither youthful enthusiasm beckons, and scorns the rein
of worldly restraint. I like your spirit, Laura, and I love YOU. You
may count upon me, therefore, as far as it lies in my power to serve
you. But understand that I am not a favorite at court. The king
honors me occasionally with his notice; but the two great magnates,
the 'powers that be,' De Montespan, and her rival De Maintenon, both
dislike me. They have reason to do so, for I do not love them. I am
at heart an honest German woman, and have no taste for gilded
corruption. I honor and love my brother-in-law, whom God preserve
and bless! But if the Lord would take these two marchionesses to
Himself, or send them below, to regions more congenial to their
tastes than heaven, I assure you that I would not die of grief at
their loss. De Montespan is merely a dissolute woman, who abandoned
her husband and children to become the mistress of a king. But that
De Maintenon! Her hypocrisy is enough to turn one's stomach. She not
only supplants her benefactress in the affections of her lover, but
dresses up her sins in the garments of a virtue, and affects piety!
She teaches his majesty to sin and pray, and pray and sin, hoping to
compound with Heaven for adultery, by sanctimony: perchance
expecting, as brokerage for her king's regenerated soul, an earthly
reward in the shape of a mantle edged with ermine! When I think of
that Iscariot in petticoats, I am ready to burst with indignation!"

The duchess grew so excited that she had to wipe her face with her
embroidered handkerchief. After cooling herself for a few moments,
she resumed:

"Yes! and to think that the princes of the blood and the queen
herself, are obsequious to these two lemans of a king! May I freeze
in the cold blast of royal disfavor, before I degrade my rank and
womanhood by such servility! And mark this well, little marchioness,
if you take service with me. Who goes to court with me, pays no
homage to the mistresses of the king.--But why do you kneel, my
child? What means this humility?"

"How otherwise could I give expression to my reverence, my
admiration, my love?" exclaimed Laura, her countenance beaming with
beautiful enthusiasm. "And how otherwise could I thank my God that
so noble, so brave, so incomparable a woman is my protectress! Let
me kiss this honored hand that has never been contaminated by the
touch of corruption!"

"You are a sweet enthusiast," said Elizabeth-Charlotte, bending down
and kissing Laura's brow. "In your eye there beams a light that
reveals to me a kindred spirit. Beautiful, young, hopeful though you
be (and I am none of these), there is a congeniality of soul between
us that leaps over all disparity, and proclaims us to be friends.
Come, dear child, to my heart."

With a cry of joy, Laura threw herself into the arms of the duchess,
who held her fast, and kissed her o'er and o'er.

"Sweet child," exclaimed she, "your spontaneous love is like a
flower springing from the hideous gaps of a grave. I greet it as a
gift of God, and it shall reanimate within me happiness and hope.
You are but fifteen, Laura, and I am a mature woman of thirty; but
my heart is as strong to love as yours; for many years it has pined
under clouds of neglect, but the sun of your sympathy has shone upon
it, and, warmed by its kindly beams, it will revive and bloom."

"And oh how I shall love you in return!" cried the happy girl. "As a
mother whom I trust and revere--as a sister to whom I may confide my
girlish secrets--as a guardian angel whose blessing I shall implore.
But in the world, and when I bear your train, I will forget that I
am aught but the lowliest handmaiden of her royal highness,
Elizabeth-Charlotte, Duchess of Orleans."

"And when we are alone and without witnesses, we will speak of those
we have loved; and I, alas! of some whom I have not loved; for,
Laura, MY marriage was a compulsory one. The altar on which I
pledged my faith was one of sacrifice; and I, the bride, the lamb
that was immolated for my country's good. Ah! many tears have I shed
since I was Duchess of Orleans; but your tender hand shall wipe them
away, and in your sweet society I shall grow joyous again. We will
sing the ditties of my fatherland; and, provided no one is within
hearing, I will teach you our German dances, which, because of the
corruption that dwells within their hearts, these French people
stigmatize as voluptuous. With such a birdling as you to carol
around me, the lark that once dwelt in my heart, will find its voice
again, and awake to sing a hymn of thankfulness to God, who has
enriched me with the blessing of your love."

"And I, dear lady, will try to deserve the happiness He has
vouchsafed to me, by loving all His creatures--even Barbesieur
himself."

"Ah! Barbesieur!" echoed the duchess, thoughtfully. "I doubt whether
he or your father will consent to give you to me, Laura. Nobody
knows better than Monsieur Louvois, how unimportant a personage at
court is the Duchess of Orleans."

"He must give me to you or to the cloister," exclaimed Laura,
quickly. "And not only relinquish me, which would be no great loss,
but my worldly good, which are an important item in his estimation.
I am absolute mistress of my fortune, and nobody but the Chevalier
Lankey has a word to say in the matter. As for him--dear old fellow!
he is the tenderest guardian that ever pretended to have authority
over an heiress; and he loves me so sincerely, that if I were to
come and say that, to save me from misfortune, he must stab me to
the heart, he would do my bidding, and forthwith die of grief for
the act."

"I can almost believe you, absurd child; for you are an enchantress,
and therefore irresistible."

"Yes--I am irresistible," replied Laura, throwing her arms around
the duchess's neck, "and I vow and declare that it is my good
pleasure to live forever in the sunshine of your highness's
presence; so I consider myself as accepted and installed."

"With all my heart, if your family be propitious! And with a view to
reconciling them, I must create an office for you of more dignity
than that of a mere maid of honor. You shall be lady of the
bedchamber; and I will announce your appointment with all due
formality to the king, the court, and my own household. You retain
the title of maid of honor, because that gives you the right to
remain constantly attached to my person; but, except on days of
extraordinary ceremony, you shall be dispensed with the duty of
following me as train-bearer."

"I shall be dispensed with no such thing!" cried Laura, playfully;
"I do not intend to delegate my duties to anybody; above all, a duty
which to me will be a privilege."

"We shall see, you self-willed girl," was the reply, "for I shall
forbid you in presence of my household, and, for decorum's sake, you
will be forced to obey. Neither shall you inhabit the third story of
the main palace, in common with the other maids of honor; you shall
occupy the pretty pavilion in the garden, and have an independent
household as befits your rank and fortune. Now, as regards your
table. You know that, by the laws of French etiquette, nobody is
permitted to sit at table with the princes or princesses of the
blood; and my lord, the duke, is so stringent in his observance of
these laws, that he would faint were he to witness a breach of them.
When his royal highness, then, dines with me, you will be served in
the pavilion, and are at liberty to invite whom you please to share
your repasts; but happily, I am honored with his presence but twice
a week; and on all other days, we shall breakfast and dine together.
The duke spends two days out hunting, and the other three with his
mistress, Madame de Rulhieres. You look surprised to hear me mention
this so coolly. Time was, when I felt humiliated to know that mine
were not the only children who kissed my husband, and called him
father. The caresses he bestowed upon his mistress, I never grudged.
She robbed me of nothing when she accepted them. As the wife of a
man whom I did not love, I could aspire to none of the joys of
wedded life; I have contented myself with fulfilling its duties, and
so conducting myself that I need never be ashamed to look my dear
children in the face. But enough of this: let us return to you. You
will keep your own carriage, use your own liveries, and be sole
mistress of your house and home, into which the Duchess of Orleans
shall not enter unannounced. You will find it larger than it looks
to be. It contains a parlor, sitting and dining rooms, a library
opening on the garden; a bed-room, three chambers for servants, and
two anterooms, large enough to accommodate your worshippers while
they await admission to your presence. This is all I have to offer
my lady of the bedchamber. May I hope that it is agreeable?"

"Agreeable!" exclaimed Laura, affectionately. "It will place me on a
pinnacle of happiness. And now that I have heard of all the favors,
the privileges, and the honors that are to accrue to me from my
residence in the pavilion, will my gracious mistress deign to
instruct me as to the duties I am to perform, in return for her
bounty?"

"Wilful creature, have I not already told you? On occasions of state
you are to be one of my trainbearers; and when his majesty comes to
visit me, you station yourself at my side. Then you are to drive out
with me daily, and as you alone will be with me in the carriage, we
can have many a pleasant chat, while the maids of honor come behind.
And we must be discreet, or they may inform monsieur of the
preference which madame has for her lady of the bedchamber; and
then, Heaven knows what the duke might do to us! Let us hope that he
would not poison you, as he did my poor little Italian greyhound, a
few weeks ago. He hated the dog because I loved it, and because it
was a present to me from my dear brother Carl. So be wary and
prudent, Laura: these maids of honor have sharp ears, and it is not
safe to talk when they are waiting in the anteroom, for some are in
the pay of De Maintenon and you will not have been here many days
before one of them is sold to your father. I can scarcely believe in
the reality of my new acquisition, for much as I regret to tell you
so, Laura, you cannot enter my service until Monsieur Louvois comes
hither to make the request himself. Otherwise, monsieur and Madame
de Maintenon would spread it about, that I had forcibly abducted the
Marchioness de Bonaletta, and torn her from her loving father's
arms."

"My father will be here to-day to comply with all the formalities
that must precede my installation," replied Laura. "And, if your
highness will admit him, I shall have the happiness of being in your
train at the court-ball to-night." "Of course I must admit him,
since you will it, my queen of hearts. By what magic is it that you
have won my love so completely to-day, Laura?"

"By the magic touch of my own heart that loves you so well, dear
lady--so well, that I ask no other boon of Heaven but that of
deserving and returning your affection."

"Until some lover comes between us, and robs me of my treasure,"
said the duchess, with a smile. "Have you seen the brigand yet? Do
you know him?"

Laura laughed. "He is a myth--I have no faith in his existence,"
said she.

"He exists, nevertheless, my child, and will make his appearance
before long; for you are destined to have many suitors."

"But none that approaches my ideal of manhood. Where shall I find
this hero of my dreams?--not at the court of France, your highness.
But--should he ever come out of the clouds, brave, noble, wise, as I
have pictured him, then, oh then! I should follow the destiny of
woman; leaving all other beings, even my gracious mistress herself,
to cleave unto him, and merge my soul in his! Were I to love, the
world itself would recede from view, leaving all space filled with
the image of the man I loved! Better he should never come down from
the moon--for, if he comes, I am lost!"



CHAPTER V.

THE COURT-BALL.


The magnificent halls of the Louvre were open to receive the guests
of his majesty Louis XIV. Balls were "few and far between" at the
French court, and the festivities of the evening were significant,
as betokening triumph to De Montespan and mortification to De
Maintenon.

For Louis, like Mohammed's coffin, was suspended between the heaven
of De Mainteuon's pious attractions, and the earth of De Montespan's
carnal fascinations. Neither the exhortations of Pere la Chaise, nor
the affectionate zeal of De Maintenon, had as yet overthrown the
power of De Montespan; and more than once, when wearied with the
solemn dulness of the former, had he sought refuge from drowsiness
in the rollicking companionship of the latter, who, if she was a
sinner, wore the livery of her master, and sinned honestly and
above-board. De Montespan always profited by these little intervals
of tenderness, to obtain some signal favor from Louis, which had the
effect of perplexing the court, and rendering it a doubtful matter
to those who would fain have gone over to the victorious party,
which of his two mistresses was truly sovereign of the king's
unstable affections.

Such a concession was this ball, wrung from Louis, first by coaxing,
and finally by pouting and tears. De Montespan was elated, for it
was a double triumph; it was given at her request, and was to take
place on her birthday.

And De Maintenon, of course, was proportionally crest-fallen. But,
after shedding just as many tears as she deemed appropriate,
Scarron's widow was clever enough to understand that wisdom lay in
acquiescence. She wiped her eyes, and suffered herself to be
caressed into a good-humor; was more amiable, more sprightly, more
fascinating than ever, with not a trace of disappointment in her
looks, save that which lay in the unusual paleness of her face.

Louis was so touched by her magnanimity, that he absolutely begged
her pardon; and she was so overcome by the condescension of his
majesty, that she asked permission to be present at the ball.

"He was only too happy!" that is to say, he did his best to conceal
his consternation at the unheard-of proposition. Sainte Maintenon at
a ball! What would she do in so unrighteous a place? And worse--
still worse: what would his other charmer say when she heard of it?
What outbreak of indignation might not be expected, when De
Montespan was told that her ex-governess was to be present at a ball
given in her own honor? Between his saint and his sinner, Louis was
sorely perplexed. But he might have spared himself all uneasiness.
De Montespan was not in the least ruffled at the tidings; she rather
enjoyed the idea of setting off her own splendor against the
shabbiness of her rival.

But the court was in a state of anxious excitement on the subject.
Everybody was dying of curiosity to see the meeting of the rivals,
and the effect that was to be produced by their presence on the poor
deserted queen.

To which of the favorites will the king throw his handkerchief? With
which of the two will he converse most? Will he feel at ease as he
treads the minuet under the eyes of the devotee? Or will he venture
to recognize HER in presence of the courtesan?

Such were the questions that were continually asked, but never
answered by the elegant crowd which thronged the halls of the palace
that evening. The rencontre of Eugene and Barbesieur was for the
moment forgotten. It was not likely that either one of the
disputants would venture to appear at court, until the king had
decided to which party belonged the blame of the affray; but, as
regarded the brush that was imminent between the king's mistresses,
that was a matter which concerned everybody, and everybody was in a
flutter to know the result.

The lord chamberlain having announced that the court was about to
make its entrance, the throng pressed forward to the Gallery of
Apollo. Four immense chandeliers lit up the gorgeous frescoes on the
ceiling, and poured a flood of radiance upon the line of stately
courtiers and elegant women who were the guests of the king's leman
that night. The ladies coquetted with their large fans, whispered
with the cavaliers close by, and dispensed smiles and bewitching
glances upon those who were too far for speech until the master of
ceremonies flung open the doors, and announced "his majesty the
king."

There was at once profound silence; and in a moment every head was
bent, and every eye sought the floor. The men bowed low, the women
courtesied lower, and nothing was to be seen but a chaos of jewels,
velvet, brocade, and llama, surmounted by feathered, flowered, or
ringleted heads, and long, flowing wigs.

The one personage who had the right to hold himself erect in the
presence of this reverential multitude--the king--appeared, followed
by a glittering train of marshals, chamberlains, officers of the
royal household, and pages. His majesty traversed the gallery and
approached the throne, which, for this festive occasion, was hung
with white velvet, studded with golden lilies. Not far from the
royal arm-chair stood a lady, whose sad eyes looked wearily upon the
pageant, and whose pallid lips had long since forgotten how to
smile. It was Maria Theresa, the queen. She had made her entry
before the king, but it had scarcely been remarked. She was a
deserted wife, and, being without influence at court, had no favors
to bestow. She was, therefore, altogether sans consequence.

Nevertheless, she was the queen-consort, and Louis, extending his
hand, and inclining his royal head, assisted her to mount the
throne. As soon as the kingly pair were seated, his majesty's voice
was heard--

"My guests are welcome."

As if by enchantment, feathers, flowers, curls, and wigs, all rose
up out of chaos, and every eye was turned upon the handsome person
of the sovereign.

While all this had been going on Eugene of Savoy stood erect, nor
once cast down his flashing eyes before the lightning of the royal
presence. He had entered quietly, had retired to the recess of a
window, and, as the crowd had simultaneously become a heap of
garments, he had curled his lip in contempt. Suddenly his eye grew
soft, and his mouth relaxed into a smile. Not far from the throne he
had seen one head--one beautiful head, and had met the glance of a
pair of glorious eyes, which were quietly surveying the scene, and,
as Eugene thought, enjoying it with an expression of suppressed
amusement.

Who could she he, that, while every other person there had lost his
individuality and merged it into one monstrous concretion of
obsequiousness, had preserved her balance, and stood undazzled by
the rays of the sun of France? As young as she was lovely, whence
came the mingled self-possession and unconsciousness which made her
an observer instead of a worshipper? Eugene had never seen this
beautiful creature before; but from the depths of her starry eyes
there streamed a light that went straight to his heart, making
strange revelation of some half-forgotten bliss which, in an
anterior state of being, might once have been his own.

But how came she hither? What had her fair, unclouded brow, her
innocent face, her maidenly bearing in common with the vain,
voluptuous, and corrupt women around, who were so lost to shame as
not only to do homage to the king's mistresses, but to envy them the
infamous distinction of his preference?

Their eyes met; and in her glance of astonishment Eugene fancied
that he saw mirrored his own surprise at her extraordinary defiance
of courtly servility. She too seemed to ask, "How is it that you
stand so proudly erect, when every other head is bent in reverence
before our sovereign? Who are you, that presume to--"

But the king and his suite passed between them, and the beautiful
face was lost to sight. In its place, Eugene beheld the haughty
monarch who had caused such bitter tears to flow from the eyes of
his dear, exiled mother; and the thought of that beloved mother led
to remembrance of his father's death, and to the tyranny which would
make of his father's son an unwilling priest.

Meanwhile the king had seated himself on the throne, and the princes
and princesses of the blood had approached to pay their homage. Not
a sound was heard in that splendid gallery, save the subdued tones
of Louis, who was conversing with the Duke of Orleans; for, until
the former rose to make his grande tournee, etiquette required of
his adoring subjects to be dumb.

A slight hum, however, began to be heard at the lower end of the
hall, and all eyes were turned toward the door which opened to admit
the woman whom the king delighted to honor.

Her tall figure was set off to great advantage by a dress of purple
velvet, embroidered with silver. From her voluptuous shoulders
drooped a mantle, edged with richest ermine; and her swelling bust
was scarcely concealed by a drapery of silvered gauze. On her bosom
she wore a fleur de lis composed of emeralds, pearls, and diamonds,
and on her magnificent brow glittered a diadem of brilliants worthy
the acceptance of an empress.

So haughty was her bearing, and so obsequious were the salutations
which greeted her entrance, that hut for the pale statue that
occupied a seat next the king, Madame de Montespan might have been
mistaken for the queen.

Eugene's eyes had sought and found the young girl, whose sweet
vision had been displaced by the king, but who now, in full view of
the company, stood immediately behind the chair of the Duchess of
Orleans. Would she bow her incomparable head before that exalted
harlot? Would she outrage her maidenhood by acknowledgment of De
Montespan's title to consideration? No! Thank God, she was true to
her pure, womanly instincts. Her face crimsoned, her delicate brows
were slightly drawn together, and her head was unconsciously raised,
as if in protest against the public scandal of this woman's
intrusion.

When Eugene saw this, his heart leaped with joy, and he yearned to
throw himself at her feet.

"In Heaven's name who can she be, that fairy-queen, who fears not
mortal man?" thought he. "Who--"

But suddenly his eye shot fire, and the expression of his face was
transformed. He had met the glance of Barbesieur Louvois, who, under
shelter of De Montespan's favor with Louis, and the protection of
his father, had intruded himself into the company of the proudest
nobles in France. How was it possible that the master of ceremonies
had allowed to a disgraced man the privilege of appearing before the
king and queen?

"Gracious Heaven!" thought Eugene, "are honor and shame but empty
words? Is this, indeed, the Marchioness de Montespan, whose entrance
is greeted like that of a sovereign, while the Countess de Soissons
wanders in foreign lands, a fugitive from justice? Justice?--No! A
fugitive from oppression, and the kinsman who should have protected
her--her oppressor! And is yonder swaggering cavalier the caitiff
whose back is smarting with the lash of my hunting-whip? And those
smiling courtiers there, who take him by the hand--are they the
noblemen that upheld me in the act? By Heaven, they greet him as
though, like me, his veins were blue with the blood of kings! But
no!--not all! The Princes of Conti have refused to recognize him:
they bow to the minister of war, but pass without a word to his son.
For that act I shall hold them 'in my heart of hearts,' nor forget
their manliness while I live to honor worth and scorn servility!"

Eugene looked affectionately at his cousins, until his eyes filled
with tears of gratitude; but they were unconscious of the comfort
they had ministered to his wounded heart, for they were not aware of
his presence in the ballroom.

The king had not yet ended his long conversation with the Duke of
Orleans. The company stood still and expectant, and the Marchioness
de Montespan began to exhibit signs of impatience. She had hoped
that the ceremonial of compliments to and from the royal family
would have been over before her entrance; and now that she had been
there fully ten minutes, the king seemed as unconscious of her
presence as ever.

But--thank Heaven! the colloquy was at an end; the king has risen,
and has signified to the queen that the princesses of the blood may
rise also. He descends from his throne, and De Montespan's heart is
wild with joy. The moment of her triumph approaches; Louis is about
to lead her out for the minuet, and so proclaim her queen of the
festival. She smiles ineffably; in her eagerness, she almost, rises
from her tabouret to meet him, but--what can he intend to do? Has he
not seen her?--He turns away, and--now he extends his hand to
another!

De Montespan was perfectly overwhelmed, and, all etiquette
forgetting, she actually rose from her seat and took a step forward,
that she might see who was the person that had been so singularly
honored by the king.

Who was it? Why, nobody but Sainte Maintenon, who, without pomp or
parade, had entered the room, and had taken her tabouret with as
much simplicity as she would have seated herself in church.

Her toilet, as well as her demeanor, presented a singular contrast
with that of her sparkling rival. Her dress was of dark velvet,
buttoned up to the throat. Her wealth of beautiful black hair was
fastened up with a barbe of gossamer lace, and the only ornament she
wore around her neck was a delicate gold chain, to which was
attached a miniature of Louis set in superb brilliants.

And upon this wearisome, insipid, old-fashioned puppet, the King of
France had bestowed his attentions. De Montespan would have given
her diadem to have been permitted to vent her humiliation in tears;
but pride restrained her, while she looked on, and saw how the king
led De Maintenon to the queen, an honor hitherto reserved for
princesses of the blood. And with what feline humility she knelt and
pressed her majesty's hands to her unholy lips! Oh! De Montespan
could have taken her life when she saw this!

And she--she for whom this gay assemblage were called together, sat
unnoticed and alone; her expected triumph, defeat--every hope she
had cherished of love reciprocated, and ambition gratified,
transformed into despair, by one little act. The king had given his
hand to her rival!



CHAPTER VI.

THE LADY OF THE BEDCHAMBER.


The conversation between the king, the queen, and Madame de
Maintenon, was long and interesting. When she saw the former rise
and incline his head, De Montespan's heart fluttered with
expectation; but his majesty stopped before the Duchess of Orleans,
and there he lingered so long that everybody wondered what could be
the attraction there. Presently Elizabeth-Charlotte turned to the
young girl who stood beside her, and presented her to the king. How
beautiful she was! How enchanting her smile, how charming her
blushes!

She was evidently a stranger, and De Montespan set her down as an
enemy, for she had not complied with the customs of the court, by
which every lady introduced there was expected to leave a card for
the mistress of the king. An enemy, then, she must be--perchance, a
rival! But who was she?

"Yes, who is she?" thought Prince Eugene, as, transfixed with
admiration, he gazed upon her lovely face. "I must know," exclaimed
he aloud, while he pressed forward to make the inquiry.

There was no one near to whom he could address himself, for he now
for the first time remarked that he stood quite alone. He began to
be aware that his friends were shy and kept aloof; but Eugene had
come to this ball to prove that the son of the Countess de Soissons
was not to be browbeaten by king or courtier; and he went on and on
until he stood so near to Louis that he could look him full in the
eye.

The grand monarque knit his brows, and presumed that the Prince of
Savoy would understand the hint, and withdraw; but Eugene paid no
attention to the Olympic frown, or affected not to see it.

Louis, who had been chatting with the little Duke of Maine, strode
angrily forward and addressed the prince:

"I judge from your eyes, little abbe, that you have come hither to
ask some favor of us to-night?"

"Then my eyes belie my purpose, your majesty," replied Eugene,
quietly. "I have no favor to ask of any one."

"I understand," said the king, slightly raising his shoulders. "You
have come for an answer to your last petition?"

"Pardon me, sire, I have presented no petition whatever to your
majesty."

"If you have not, your mother, the Countess de Soissons, has
presented one for you. She begged me, not long ago, to appoint you
prebendary of a cathedral: as she has thought proper to abscond from
my dominions, I have had no opportunity of answering her request.
When you write to her, you can tell her that it is refused. Prince
Eugene of Savoy leads too worldly a life to deserve promotion in the
church. Bullies are not apt to distinguish themselves as
ecclesiastics."

"Sire, I thank your majesty; for the sentiments to which you have
just given utterance release me from further obligation to enter
upon a career for which I have neither inclination nor calling."

To these bold words Louis vouchsafed no answer. He annihilated the
offender with a glance, and passed on. Then turning to the Duke of
Orleans, he said in a voice that was intended to be generally heard,
"I cannot imagine what that little abbe of Savoy wants here to-
night. His face brings me bad luck." [Footnote: The king's own
words.--See "Memoirs of the Duke de St. Simon," vol. x]

This was enough to damn Eugene forever at the French court. It was
the anathema maranatha of his sovereign, and cast him out from
association with all loyal subjects. Nobody in those vast halls
would have been seen in his vicinity; his best friends would not now
have ventured one look of sympathy or kindness toward a nobleman so
publicly and pointedly insulted by royalty. He was henceforth a
proscribed man.

The Princes de Conti were sorely grieved, but they dared, no more
than their compeers, risk the displeasure of the king by upholding
their outraged kinsman. The eldest one, however, managed to whisper
a word or two in passing.

"Dear Eugene," said he, "do be reasonable, and put an end to this
abominable scene by going home. Our hearts are all with you, but we
dare not affront the king by the smallest demonstration on your
behalf; he is looking out for it, and would revenge himself
effectually. We went this morning with De la Roche Guyon to Louvois,
and obtained his sacred promise to ignore your difficulty with his
son, and allow it to be settled between yourselves. But he has
evidently not kept his word; for the affair has been misrepresented
to the king, and the insult you have received is a proof of it. Go
away for a few weeks until it blows over, and all will have been
forgotten."

"I have no desire to have my affairs forgotten; I trust that they
may be remembered," replied Eugene. "But hark! the music.--We are to
have the ineffable privilege of seeing the king dance. Doubtless you
have already secured a partner, and I will not detain you."

The music was heard, and his majesty went through the usual form of
requesting the queen to open the ball. She answered, as she was
expected to do, that her health was too feeble for her to enjoy
dancing, and she hoped his majesty would excuse her, and find
another partner.

This was always a time of suspense and excitement at court-balls;
for the lady who was then selected by the king was, de facto, the
queen of the festival. The minuet's enticing measure was calling
upon its votaries to commence; but, until the king had made his
choice, no one could stir.

Madame de Montespan's heart began to throb anew with hope. 'This
time she was sure of being chosen, for De Maintenon did not dance;
and, after all, what signified a few words with the queen, compared
with the glory of being led out to the dance by the king?

Her eyes sparkled with animation, her mouth began to ripple with
happy smiles, and oh! triumph and joy! the king was seen coming in
that direction.

But again he stopped to speak with the Duchess of Orleans. What
could he want of her? If De Montespan had been within hearing, she
need not have wondered, for Louis merely requested the pleasure of
her hand for the dance.

Elizabeth-Charlotte looked up in astonishment.

"I hope I have not fallen into disfavor," said Louis, answering the
look. "You are not about to refuse me?"

"Oh, sire," replied his sister-in-law, laughing, "I am merely
overcome with your condescension. But your majesty knows," continued
she, seriously, "that since my father's death I have never danced. I
was enjoying myself in this very hall while he was expiring at home;
and from that unhappy day I have never desired to dance again.
Moreover, I am a miserable partner, and you would be ashamed of me."

"How ashamed?" asked Louis, amused at his sister-in-law's
artlessness.

"I mean, sire, that strive as I will, I am always behind-hand in a
dance. I am like the snail, who, being invited to a wedding, arrived
there a year after, and found herself the first guest that had come
to the christening. As she entered the garden she fell into a ha-ha,
whereupon she said, 'More haste, worse speed.'"

Louis laughed heartily. "Then I am refused, dear sister," said he,
"and I must acquiesce in your decision. But I must have satisfaction
for the affront. You must find a substitute."

"A substitute!" exclaimed the duchess, reddening with anger, as she
fancied she saw the king's eyes wander to the tabouret whereon De
Montespan still waited and smiled. "Surely, your majesty would not
ask of me--"

"Why not?" cried Louis, enjoying her perplexity. "Why may I not ask
you to procure me a substitute of your own selection? It is not much
for you to do--is it?"

As he spoke, the eyes of the king rested unequivocally upon an
object which he perceived just behind the chair of the duchess. She
understood, and hastened to repair her blunder. "Sire," said she
"may I ask of your majesty a favor? My new lady of the bedchamber
has just arrived in Paris, where she is a perfect stranger. Will you
be so gracious as to give her this proof of your royal favor? She is
not only my favorite attendant, but the daughter of your majesty's
minister of war, and--"

"And she is, above all things, herself--the beautiful Marchioness de
Bonaletta," interrupted the king, with somewhat of his youthful
courtliness and grace. "You propose her as your substitute, do you
not?"

"Yes, sire--if your majesty is so good."

"So good! I shall esteem myself most happy in the acquisition of so
charming a partner. Does the Marchioness de Bonaletta consent?"

With these words, Louis offered his hand; and Laura, without
embarrassment or presumption, accepted the honor conferred upon her,
and was led out to the dance. A murmur of admiration followed her
appearance, but she seemed quite unconscious of the impression she
had made. Her lovely countenance was neither lit up by pride, nor
suffused by bashfulness. Her cheeks were slightly flushed by natural
modesty, and her sweet, unaffected bearing enhanced her incomparable
beauty of person.

Even De Montespan herself could not withhold her tribute of
admiration. At first she had darted glances of hatred toward an
imaginary rival; but, a calm survey of Laura's pure and angelic
expression of face reassured her. This girl had no mind to entrap
the king, and if Louis had not courage enough to dance with HER (De
Montespan), in presence of that canting hypocrite De Maintenon,
perhaps it was quite as well that he had provided himself with a
partner sans coquetterie, and therefore sans consequence.

Madame de Maintenon, too, had remarked Laura, as, gracefully
emerging from her concealment behind the seat of the duchess, she
had unostentatiously accepted the king's invitation to dance.

"What a union of tact with tenderness of heart is apparent in all
that his majesty does," said she to the Duke de Maine, who was
standing beside her. "This young girl is the personification of
innocence and purity, and his majesty's selection of her as his
partner proves that he not only desires to pay homage to youth and
beauty, but also to virtue and modesty."

"How beautiful she is!" murmured a young cavalier, who, with
Barbesieur Louvois, was watching the dancers.

"Why do you sigh?" replied Barbesieur. "You ought rather to be proud
of your future bride."

"My future bride!" echoed he, dolefully. "I would she were, my dear
friend. But although your father has so graciously given his
consent, I am as far from obtaining her as ever."

"It you wait for that," whispered Barbesieur in return, "you may
wait until the day of judgment. My sister is one of those
incomprehensible beings that loves opposition for opposition's sake.
If she is disdainful, it is precisely because she is quite as much
enamored of you as you are of her. She is a sort of chaste Artemis
who is ashamed of her preference for a man, and would die rather
than confess it."

"She enchants me at one moment, and drives me to despair the next,"
sighed the marquis.

"No need for despair," was the reply. "My dear marquis," continued
Barbesieur, coming close to the ear of the Italian, "what will you
give me if I promise that you shall become her husband?"

The eyes of the marquis glowed with desire, and his swarthy face was
tinged with red. "What would I give?" cried he, as he caught a
glimpse of Laura on the dance. "The half of my fortune, the half of
my life, if, with one half of either, I might call her mine!"

"Nay," said Barbesieur, with a sinister laugh, "I am neither robber
nor devil. I wish neither your fortune nor your soul in exchange for
my wares. Laura is so headstrong, that she will have to be forced
into happiness, and made to take what even now she is longing to
snatch. So if I make you both happy, you will not then object to
giving me a few of the crumbs that fall from your table?"

"I will give you any thing you desire, and my eternal gratitude to
boot, if you will help me to become possessor of that angel."

"I am passionately fond of hunting, and the Marchioness de Bonaletta
has the most tempting bit of woods that ever made a hunter's heart
ache to call it his. Now if you marry Laura, you become her
guardian, and have absolute power over her property."

"I care nothing for her property," cried the marquis, passionately.
"Her beauty, her sweetness, and her noble birth, are wealth enough
for me. In the golden book of Venice the name of the richest noble
there inscribed is the Strozzi."

"Everybody knows that, dear marquis, and therefore you will not
refuse the reward I claim from my sister's own possessions. 'Tis but
meet that she make a present to her brother on her wedding-day. So,
then, we understand each other: immediately after the ceremony of
your marriage, you make out a deed by which you relinquish to me the
usufruct of the Bonaletta estates in Savoy for life. Who gets them
after me, I care not."

"I consent; and add thereunto a yearly pension of one thousand
ducats. Does that content you?"

"Your liberality is really touching. A thousand ducats to boot! They
will fall like a refreshing shower into a purse that is always as
empty as the sieves of the Danaides. It is a bargain. YOU wed Laura
Bonaletta, and _I_ get her estates, and one thousand ducats a year."

"Here is my hand."

"And mine. In one month you shall both be on your way to Venice; you
a happy bridegroom, and she--your bride."



CHAPTER VII.

THE LADY OF THE BEDCHAMBER.


The dance was over, and the king reconducted Laura to her chaperone.
"My dear sister," said he, "the fascinations of the partner you
selected for me are almost enough to reconcile one to a refusal from
yourself. I am convinced that I have been the envy of every cavalier
present. I withdraw, therefore, that I may not stand in the way of
the fair Laura's admirers."

And gracefully saluting his partner, the royal flirt betook himself
at last to poor De Montespan, who had tact enough to smother her
chagrin, and give him a cordial reception. It was better to be
noticed late than never.

"Your highness," whispered Laura, bending over the back of the
duchess's chair, "pray command me not to dance any more. Do you see
that swarthy, sinister face over there, close to Barbesieur? It is
the Marquis de Strozzi staring at me already. He is about to come
hither, and if you do not assist me I shall have to dance with him."

"Never fear, darling," whispered the duchess in return. "They shall
not rob me of you so soon. Take your place, and, being on duty, no
one can claim you, were it the wild hunter himself."

Laura hastened to resume her station, and, in doing so, glanced
toward the window, where stood the pale young man whom she had
noticed before. Their eyes met again, and again she blushed. Laura
bent her head, and, feigning to arrange a displaced ringlet on the
head of her mistress, she said, in low, earnest tones: "Pardon me,
gracious mistress; but will you tell me who is that young cavalier
in the recess of the window opposite?"

"Certainly, my dear," replied the duchess in the same tone of voice.
"He is one whom all the courtiers avoid to-night--miserable
timeservers as they are--for he has fallen into disgrace with your
father and the king. He is Prince Eugene of Savoy."

"Prince Eugene!" echoed Laura. "He who laid the weight of his whip
over Barbesieur's shoulders this morning!"

"Yes, the same, and he has been publicly rebuked for it to-night.
Your father has received full satisfaction, Laura; for, not only has
his majesty offered a pointed slight to the man who disgraced
Barbesieur, but he has paid him a signal compliment by opening the
ball with his sister."

"If I had imagined that any thought of Barbesieur mingled with the
compliment paid me by the king, I would have refused to dance with
him."

The duchess looked up astounded. "Why, Laura, such an insult to his
majesty would almost amount to treason. For Heaven's sake, never
utter such sentiments at court, child!"

"What care I for the court?" cried Laura, her eyes filling with
tears. "I am overwhelmed with the shame of having been made use of
as a tool wherewith to humiliate the noble Prince de Carignan! But I
shall repair the wrong I have done him, and that in presence of the
court!"

"Thoughtless, impulsive child, what would you do?" said Elizabeth-
Charlotte, anxiously. "I really believe you are ready to go up and
give him a kiss, by way of proving that you are not a party to his
humiliation to-night!"

"Perhaps I am!" exclaimed Laura, passionately. "The prince was right
to punish Barbesieur for his cowardly attack upon a noble lady; and
my brother-in-law, De la Roche Guyon, was one of those who justify
him. I, too, applaud his spirit; for, in avenging his mother, ho
avenged mine. This morning, when no king was by to uphold the
calumniator, all these nobles were the friends of the prince, and
not one of them would lift the gauntlet which, with his brave hand,
he flung to the world. And to-night they desert him!--They are not
worthy to touch the hem of his garment!--But I will take his hand--
the noble hand that had disgraced his mother's traducer beyond the
power of royalty to undo!"

"You will do no such thing, you dear little madcap!" returned the
duchess, glancing admiringly at the beaming countenance of the
beautiful enthusiast. "You have a brave heart, dear child; but you
must not allow it to run away with your judgment. You must keep your
place at my side, nor let magnanimity get the better of discretion.
The latter is a cardinal virtue in woman. But--see how the Marquis
de Strozzi devours us with his eyes; he is waiting until I cease
speaking to come forward and claim your hand. Be comforted--he shall
not have it. Here he comes--let the chamberlain have a chance to
present him."

So saying, she turned away from Laura, and began to fan herself
vigorously, while the marquis and the chamberlain advanced.

"Your royal highness," said the latter, reverentially, "may I
present the Marquis de Strozzi?"

"I am acquainted with him," interrupted the duchess. "He needs no
introduction. How do you like Paris, marquis? Why are you not
dancing this evening?"

"Your royal highness has anticipated my wishes," was the reply. "I
am anxious to dance, and crave your permission to offer my hand to
the Marchioness de Bonaletta."

"I regret to disoblige you," answered the duchess, "but you see that
she is on duty, and etiquette forbids her to leave her post, except
for two dances. His majesty has had the first, and for the second
she is engaged."

"Then I shall follow her example, and decline to dance," returned De
Strozzi, with his burning glances rivetted upon Laura's face.

She drew back haughtily. "The Marquis de Strozzi will oblige me by
following the example of some other person. I have no desire to be
remarked by him in any way."

The marquis's brow grew dark, and his eyes glowed like coals of
fire. But he made an attempt to smile as he replied, "However I
might be inclined to obey your commands, I have it not in my power
to comply with a request so unreasonable."

The duchess saw how the crimson blood was mantling in the cheeks of
her "dear little madcap," and she thought it prudent to put an end
to the skirmish by rising from her seat.

"I will take a turn through the ballroom," said she. "Come,
marchioness."

She came down from the platform reserved to the various members of
the royal family, and mingled with the gay groups below, addressing
here and there a greeting to her friends, or stopping to receive
their heartfelt homage. Side by side came the duchess and her lady
of the bedchamber; the latter all unconscious of her beauty,
enjoying the scene with the zest of youth, unmindful of the fact
that at every step she took, her admirers increased, until the
cortege was as long as the trail of a comet.

But one face she sees--the noble countenance of Prince Eugene--who,
as she approaches the window near which he stands, looks as though
the morning sun had shone upon his heart, driving away all darkness
and all night. She sees that joyous look, and with a wild bound her
heart leaps to meet his. Her brow crimsons with shame, and she
presses close to the duchess, as if to seek protection from her own
emotion.

Elizabeth-Charlotte misunderstood the movement, or she may have
guessed the longing that was struggling with decorum in the heart of
her young attendant. She advanced toward the prince, and signed for
him to approach.

Eugene started forward and stood directly in front of them. "How is
the Princess de Carignan?" asked the duchess, kindly, "and why is
she not here to-night? I hope she is not indisposed!"

"Your highness," returned Eugene, with a smile, "she is ill with a
malady that has attacked every member of our family."

"What malady, prince?"

"The malady of royal disfavor, your highness."

"That is indeed a fearful malady, prince, for it rarely attacks the
innocent."

"Pardon me, your highness," returned Eugene, calmly, "since the
death of Cardinal Mazarin 'tis a heritage in our family, and--"

"Madame," said a voice behind the duchess, "be so good as to take my
arm. The queen desires your attendance."

Eugene looked up, and saw a small, effeminate personage,
magnificently attired, and wearing the broad, blue band of the order
of St. Louis. He recognized the king's brother, the Duke of Orleans.

The duchess, with a sigh, laid her arm within that of her husband;
but, disregarding his frowns, she remained to say a parting word to
the victim of kingly displeasure.

"Give my regards to the princess, your grandmother, and tell her
that if her indisposition lasts, I will go in person to express my
sympathy with you both."

"Madame," said the duke, angrily, while, with little regard to
courtesy, he almost dragged her along with him, "you will do no such
thing. I cannot understand your audacity; still less will I
countenance it. The Prince of Savoy has been so pointedly slighted
by his majesty, that no one dares be seen conversing with him; it
seems to me that you set a shameful example to the court by noticing
one whom your king has been pleased to reprove."

"It seems to me that my example would be worse, were I to ignore my
acquaintances because they happen to be momentarily out of favor at
court," replied Elizabeth-Charlotte. "Such miserable servility may
beseem a courtier, but it ill becomes our princely station. And if
the king speaks to me on the subject, I shall say as much to him,
for his majesty has a noble heart and will approve my independence."

While their royal highnesses were thus interchanging opinions on the
subject of court ethics, a scene was being enacted behind them,
which, had he witnessed it, would have called forth the indignation
of the duke.

The Marchioness Bonaletta, as a matter of course, had followed her
mistress; but during his short colloquy with the latter, Eugene had
received so sweet a smile from her attendant, that he followed at a
distance; resolved, since he could do no more, to gaze at her until
the ball was over. In spite of the throng which closed as fast as
the ducal pair went by, Eugene saw that the marchioness had dropped
her fan. It became entangled in the train of another lady, and
finally was dragged to the floor.

Eugene rescued it from destruction, and hastened with it to its
owner, who appeared just to have discovered her loss.

"You are looking for your fan?" said he, with a beaming smile.

"Yes, prince," replied she, giving him in return a look that almost
maddened him with joy--it was so kind, so gentle, so sympathizing.

"I have been so fortunate as to find it," replied he, in a voice
whose music thrilled the heart of her to whom he spoke. "And to be
permitted to return it to you, confers upon me the first pleasurable
sensation I have felt since I entered this unfriendly palace to-
night."

"I am happy to have been the means," she began. But just then the
Duke of Orleans turned around, and his indignation may be imagined
when he saw the Prince of Savoy in conversation with a lady of the
duchess's household!

"Call your lady of the bedchamber hither," said he, imperiously.
"That little abbe has the assurance to follow us, as though to defy
his majesty, and prove to the court that, if nobody else esteems
him, he has friends in the household of the Duchess of Orleans. Send
that young lady on some errand."

The duchess walked a few steps farther, then turning around she
beckoned to Laura. "Come, Marchioness de Bonaletta, I must present
you to the queen."

"Ah!" thought Eugene, as he took up his position in the window
again, "if I may not follow her, at least I know her name!
Marchioness Bonaletta--what a pretty name it is! I have never heard
it before, nor have I ever seen any thing that reminded me of her
lovely person. 'Tis plain that she is a stranger at this corrupt
court. Those limpid eyes, that brow of innocence, those heavenly
smiles--O my God! what sudden thrill of joy is this which pervades
my being? What flood of ecstasy is this which drowns my soul in
bliss! Oh, angel of beauty--"

But his raptures were suddenly brought to a close by the sight of
Louvois, who with his son joined the party of the Duchess of
Orleans. He did not like to see him so near his angel; but his
uneasiness increased to positive pain when he saw her extend her
hand, and greet him with one of her sweetest smiles.

"So," thought Eugene, "she is like the rest! Louvois is the favorite
of the king, and of De Maintenon, and therefore she greets him as
though he were a near and dear friend. But what is it to me? I came
here to show his majesty that I shall maintain my rights in the face
of his displeasure, and here I shall remain, though she and every
other woman here do homage to my foes. What is the Marchioness
Bonaletta to me?"

But, in spite of himself, his eyes would wander to the spot where
she stood, and his heart seemed ready to burst when he beheld
Barbesieur approach her. He spoke to her and she answered him; but
Eugene could see that she was displeased. Could he have heard the
words she addressed to Barbesieur, he would have hated himself for
his unworthy suspicions, and would have acknowledged that she was
not like the rest.

"So my lovely sister has refused to dance with the Marquis de
Strozzi?" said Barbesieur.

"Yes," was the curt reply.

"And may one venture to inquire why?"

She darted a glance of contempt at him. "Because he is your friend."

Barbesieur laughed. "I really believe that you are in earnest, my
candid sister. It is enough for a man to be my friend to earn your
enmity."

"You are right," said she, deliberately.

"But you will hardly go so far as to say that it suffices for a man
to be my foe, to be your friend," said he with an ugly frown.

"What if it were so?" said she.

"If it were so, I would advise my sister not to provoke me too far.
I would advise her not to make any more demonstrations of regard to
the little abbe of Savoy, and to remember that she is my sister."

"When I heard of all that took place this morning at the Pre aux
Clercs," said Laura, "I remembered it to my shame and sorrow."

Barbesieur grew pale with rage and hissed into his sister's ear--
"Have a care, girl, how you rouse me to retaliation! I can crush you
like a worm under my heel; and as for yonder princely beggar, be
assured that I shall remember him to his cost."

"Which means that you will bring suit against him, and obtain
damages," replied she, contemptuously; "for you know that the Prince
of Savoy will not condescend to fight a duel with Barbesieur de
Louvois."

"I would not make myself ridiculous by fighting with such an apology
for a man; but I will crush him as I would any other reptile that
attempts to injure me. There shall not be a day of his life that
does not bring him some pang which he shall owe to the hate of
Barbesieur de Louvois. And I counsel YOU not to imitate his
audacity, for--"

"Why, you scarcely expect me to bestow a horsewhipping upon you?"
laughed Laura. "But I am not afraid of you, Barbesieur; it is not in
your power to injure me."

"If you are not afraid of me, so much the worse for you; I should
have thought that you had learned from your mother, how Barbesieur
de Louvois nurses his hate, and how it blossoms into misery for
those on whom he bestows it."

Laura's eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered. "I did learn
it from her martyrdom; but she was not like me. She submitted where
I would resist."

"Resistance will only increase the bitterness of your punishment,
and once more I warn you not to make friends of my enemies, and not
to offer slights to my friends. The Marquis de Strozzi wishes to
marry you; your father is anxious for the match--SO AM _I_, and you
shall marry the marquis, of that be assured. He has asked you to
dance, to-night, and you shall dance with him, too. This plea of an
engagement is a falsehood. Where is your partner?"

"I will remind him of our engagement, now that I am prepared to
fulfil mine," answered Laura, And, yielding to an impulse of
aversion to Barbesieur, resolved to give him then and there proof
unquestionable of her contempt; impelled, too, by an enthusiastic
longing to sympathize with one whom all had united to slight, and
forgetful of the social restraints which it is always unwise for a
woman to overleap, Laura pressed through the crowds that were
assembling for the dance, and stepped so proudly by, that all
wondered at the solemn earnestness of her mien, more resembling that
of a priestess than of a young maiden at her first ball.

If all other eyes were gazing upon her, those of Eugene were riveted
upon her advancing figure with mingled rapture and wonder. He had
long since forgotten the rudeness of the king and the contumely of
his courtiers. Laura's image filled his heart, and left no space
therein for painful emotions. He had watched her countenance while
Barbesieur had been speaking to her, and had guessed that their
colloquy was anything but friendly. He had seen her turn suddenly
away, and now she came nearer and nearer, until her dazzled
worshipper lost all sense of time and place, and his enfranchised
soul went out to meet hers.

But at last she came so near, that he wakened from his ecstasy, and
remembered that he had nothing in common with that high-born girl;
for, shame had fallen upon his house, and royalty had turned its
back upon him.

But he had scarcely time to pass from heaven to earth before she
stood directly before him, her starry eyes uplifted to meet his, her
sweet voice drowning his senses in melody.

"Prince," said she, in clear, self-possessed tones that attracted
the attention of those immediately around, "it appears that you have
forgotten the engagement you made to dance with me this evening.
Pardon me if I recall it to you."

So saying, she extended her little hand to Eugene, who, bewildered
with joy, was almost afraid to touch the delicate embroidered glove
that lay so temptingly near his. He was afraid that he had gone mad.
But Laura smiled, and came a step nearer; whereupon he gave himself
up to the intoxicating dream, and led her away to the dance.

They took their place among the others, but the dancers looked upon
them with glances of uneasiness and displeasure. How were they to
know that they might not be compromised by their vicinity to an
ostracized man, and how did they know that the king was not
observing them, to see how they would receive this bold intruder?

They might have spared themselves all anxiety; for, in the first
place, the king was in another room, at the card-table, and, in the
second place, their sensitive loyalty was soon relieved from its
perplexities.

As a matter of course, Laura's generous indiscretion had been
witnessed by Barbesieur; not only by him, however, but by her father
and the Duchess of Orleans. Barbesieur, enraged, would have
followed, and torn her violently away, but Louvois' hand was laid
upon his shoulder, and Louvois' voice (imperious even in a whisper)
bade him remain.

"No eclat, my son: we are the guests of his majesty."

"But I cannot brook her insolence," muttered Barbesieur, in return.
"She is my sister, and before she shall dance with a man that has
insulted me, I will fell him to the earth, were the king at my side
to witness it."

"Be quiet, I command you, or you shall sleep to-night within the
walls of the Bastile," was the reply. "God knows that you ought to
avoid notoriety; for, your affair with Prince Eugene has not covered
you with glory. Retire, then, if you cannot control yourself, and I
will find means to put an end to this foolish demonstration of your
sister."

The means were at hand; they were concentrated in the person of his
royal highness the Duke of Orleans. He had been about to join the
dance, when he, too, witnessed the terrible sight of Laura de
Bonaletta standing at the side of the little abbe of Savoy!

With a hasty apology to his partner, the Duchess de Chevreuse, he
strode away and joined madame. Elizabeth-Charlotte saw him coming
and heaved a sigh. "Now for a tempest in a teapot!" thought she. "To
be sure, the anger of my lord is not much like that of a thundering
Jove; yet I don't know but what it is better to be struck dead by
lightning, than to live forever within sound of the scolding tongue
of a fishwife! I must try, however, to be conciliatory in my tones,
or poor Laura will get into trouble."

So she smiled as graciously as she could, but her affability was
lost upon the duke. He was in a towering passion.

"Madame," said he, in a low, but snappish voice, "do you know that
your lady of the bedchamber is dancing with the Prince of Savoy?"

The duchess turned around, as if to see whether Laura were not at
her post. "True enough," replied she, "she is not here. I was so
absorbed in my conversation with the queen that I had not missed
her. I suppose she thought I could spare her for a while, and so
allowed herself to be persuaded to dance."

"But when I tell you that she is dancing with Prince Eugene!--with
the son of the Countess de Soissons!" cried the duke, impatiently.

"I understand your highness. The prince is in disgrace, and has the
plague. But you must pardon my little marchioness, for she is new to
court customs, and does not know how contagious is her partner's
malady. She will learn prudence, all in good time, and, perchance,
become as obse--I mean as discreet--as the rest of us."

"You will be so good as to begin her education at once, by reproving
her sharply for her indecorous behavior here to-night," said the
duke, beginning to stammer.

"When he stammers," thought his wife, "he is in a rage. I had better
try the effect of soft words. What would your highness have me say?"
added she aloud.

"I would have you send a peremptory message to the marchioness to
quit the dance immediately; and, if she does not obey, I would have
you go yourself and--"

"My dear lord," whispered madame, laying the weight of her hand upon
monsieur's arm, "do you forget that she is the daughter of Louvois,
and that we dare not affront her lightly? And have you forgotten
that her father has promised to obtain for you, from his majesty,
the woods of St. Germain. In accordance with your desire and that of
her father, who is powerful enough to command everybody at this
court, I have taken this young girl into my service since this
morning. Would you undo what I have done for your advantage?"

"But it is an outrage," murmured the duke, somewhat pacified. "It is
an outrage against his majesty."

"I will put an end to the outrage then, but I will do so by gentle
means.--My Lord Marquis de Valmy, I am suffering terribly with a
migraine, and am compelled to retire. Will you bear my apology to
the Marchioness de Bonaletta, and say that I regret to be obliged to
interrupt her pleasures, but must request her attendance."

The marquis hastened away with his message, and just as Prince
Eugene had so far recovered himself as to be able to address a few
murmured words of thanks to his beautiful partner, just as she was
looking bashfully into his face, and had seen that his large black
eyes were moistened with tears, she heard a voice at her side:

"Madame is suddenly indisposed, and regrets to say that she requires
the attendance of the Marchioness de Bonaletta. Her highness is
sorry to be obliged to interrupt you, mademoiselle."

"I will have the honor of conducting mademoiselle to her highness,"
replied Eugene, regaining in a moment all his self-possession.

Laura had just laid her arm within his, when monsieur approached
with most undignified haste.

"Give me your arm, mademoiselle," said he. "Her highness has
requested me to accompany you to her seat."

And without a word or look significative of his knowledge that
Eugene was nigh, the duke placed Laura's other arm within his own,
and stalked away.

The prince left the dancers, and retired again to his window-seat.
He was pale with the shock of his sudden disappointment, but was
callous to the fresh insult offered him by the king's brother. Still
less was he conscious of the titter that was going around at his
expense, or of the scornful looks directed to him from the eyes of
many who until that day had called themselves his friends. He had
neither eyes, ears, nor understanding, for any creature but the one
who had braved the ridicule of the court, and the displeasure of its
sovereign, to show her sympathy with a man in adversity. He must--he
WOULD see her again! He must thank her for her magnanimity, let the
consequences be what they would!

He darted forward toward the door through which the Duke and Duchess
of Orleans were passing, with their suite. On the stairway he caught
a glimpse of Laura's white satin dress, and one look at her
beautiful face. He made a desperate effort to follow, but before he
could put his foot on the top step, the Duke of Orleans and his
suite, returning to the ballroom, stopped the way.

"Too late! too late!" groaned Eugene. "But I will see her again, if
it costs me my life!"

The carriage of madame, meanwhile, was rolling homeward. She and her
attendant were seated opposite each other, both keeping a profound
silence. At length Laura could bear it no longer. Gliding from her
seat, and kneeling at the feet of the duchess, she took her hand and
pressed it to her lips.

"Dear lady," sobbed she, passionately, "have I done wrong? If I
have, reprove me; but speak. Your silence is harder to bear than
rebuke."

The duchess, no longer able to keep up her affected displeasure, put
her arms around the young girl, and kissed her forehead. "I
certainly ought to reprove you," said she, "for your conduct has
been almost unmaidenly, but I have not the heart to chide you for
indiscretion that springs from the overflowing of a generous nature.
You have violated every rule of etiquette and decorum; but what
would you? I am the least conventional of beings myself; and,
instead of condemning you, I positively admire your impropriety. You
have raised a tempest about your ears, child; but I will do my best
to defend you against the king, monsieur, and the censorious world.
Against your father and your brother you can defend yourself."

"They may think of me whatever they please," cried Laura, joyfully.
"I shall not defend myself against anybody, for you are not
displeased, and HE!--oh, I believe that I conferred upon him one
moment of happiness!"

"He! Who? Of whom do you speak?"

"Of Prince Eugene," murmured Laura, blushing.

"Prince Eugene!" echoed the duchess.

"Yes," exclaimed she, passionately, "of him, the noble, brave
knight, who, like another St. George, sets his foot upon the dragon
of this world's wickedness, and towers above its miserable
worshippers, like an archangel!"

"Great Heavens! what has possessed the girl?" exclaimed the duchess.
"She speaks of that little abbe as if he were an impersonation of
manly beauty!"

"And so he is! His eyes are aflame with the light of a noble soul,
and his face is as that of a demi-god!"

"A demi-god!" cried madame, clasping her hands. "I do believe she
has fallen in love with him!"

Laura buried her face in the folds of the duchess's dress. "Pray for
me, dear lady," sobbed she; "pray for me. Never would my father
consent to bestow my hand upon the son of the Countess de Soissons,
and I!--oh, if I should love him, I would forsake the whole world
for his sake. Alas! alas! I believe that he is lord and sovereign of
my heart, for it bounds to meet his, as though it felt that he was
master of its destiny!"



CHAPTER VIII.

FIRST LOVE.


Four days had elapsed since the ball, and its events, triumphs, and
contrarieties were already forgotten. Nobody bestowed a thought upon
Prince Eugene, who, concealed from view by the thick cloud of the
king's dislike, had fallen into complete oblivion.

Nobody said a word about the ignominious punishment administered to
Barbesieur de Louvois, for the king had treated him with
consideration; and his majesty's countenance had healed his stripes,
and cured his wounded honor. So that Barbesieur de Louvois was
greeted with the courtesy due to a noble knight, and Eugene of Savoy
was spurned as a base-born churl.

Was it for this that he was so pale, so silent, and so shy? Was it
for this that he sat alone in his room for hours, murmuring words of
passionate tenderness, and extending his arms to heaven, as if he
expected some seraph to visit him in his desolate home? Was it for
this that by night he paced the length of a garden-wall, and stood
with folded arms before its trellised gates? Had sorrow and slight
unsettled his reason?

If they had, there was "method in his madness," for his steps were
ever directed toward the same place, the hotel of the Duke of
Orleans.

On this fourth day after the ball, at dusk, Eugene left the Hotel de
Soissons, and took the way, as usual, toward the Palais Royal. Its
long facade was dimly lighted, and every thing within seemed hushed.

"I am fortunate," thought he; "the duchess has dismissed her
attendants, and SHE has retired to the pavilion."

He continued his way along the side-wing of the palace, until he
arrived at the garden which occupied the space now contained between
the Rue Vivienne and the Bourse. This magnificent garden was
refreshed by plashing fountains, and decorated by noble trees and
gay parterres; but it was encompassed by a high stone wall, of which
the summit was defended by short iron spikes whose uplifted points
gave warning to all passers-by that intrusion into this paradise was
attended with danger.

But what cares love for "stony limits," or when did danger ever
intimidate a stout heart?

Eugene was now at the extreme end of the garden. The deep, unbroken
stillness of solitude reigned around. At times, and at a distance,
was heard the faint rumbling of a coach; but otherwise nothing
interrupted the loneliness of the place and the hour. For, although
nine o'clock had just sounded from the tower of St. Jacques, all
Paris was at rest, save the few aristocrats who were on their way to
balls and banquets, or the houseless wretches who, with their dark
lanterns, were searching the gutters for a lost penny.

So that Eugene was unobserved, and had full opportunity to draw from
his cloak a package which proved to be a rope-ladder of silk; to
unroll, and fling it over the garden wall. It caught in the prongs,
and in a few moments he was within the enchanted walls of the palace
where Laura de Bonaletta dwelt.

She was alone in her pavilion, in the room which led into the
garden, and its glass doors now stood wide open. She had thrown
aside her court-dress, and was now attired in a white peignior edged
with delicate lace. Her feet were encased in slippers of blue satin
embroidered with silver, and her hair, stripped of all ornament, was
twisted into a coronal around her graceful head.

She had dismissed her attendants, and sat beside a table of white
marble, holding in her hand a book which she seemed to read--yet not
to read. She turned its pages, and her eyes were fixed upon them,
but little saw Laura of their contents, she was looking into another
book, the book of her own heart; and mysterious were the pages
thereof, half painful, half pleasant, to peruse.

Around her all was silent. From time to time the night wind sighed
through the branches of the trees without, and a few sorrowing
leaves fell rustling to the ground, while she, her book now laid
aside, and her pretty hands folded in her lap, gazed and gazed at
sky and earth, at moonlit paths, and darkly looming trees, but saw
nothing of them all. Something broke the perfect stillness. It was
neither summer breeze, nor rustling leaf; 'twas the crackling gravel
that was being displaced by approaching footsteps. The sound was all
unheeded by Laura, who heard nothing but the voice of her heart as
it sang its first anthem of love.

The moon emerged from a silver cloud, and Eugene's figure darkened
the threshold. For one moment he contemplated the beautiful picture
before him, then with noiseless steps he approached and knelt at her
feet.

"Kill me for my presumption," whispered he, "for I deserve death.
But I would rather die at your feet than live another hour out of
your sight."

Laura spoke not a word in return, but neither did she cry out in
terror or surprise. She merely gazed at Eugene with distended eyes,
whose mysterious expressions he dreaded to interpret.

A feeling of anguish inexpressible pervaded his being. "I thought
so," murmured he, bitterly. "I thought so; and yet I could not have
done otherwise. Had I known that I was to be racked for my temerity,
I must have sought you, alone and unattended--sought you as I would
my Maker, when no curious eye was upon me to see my tears, no
mocking tongue to echo my sighs; hut when, unfettered by the bonds
of a conventional world, I was free to pour out the oceans of love
that are drowning me in their sweetness; and then!--to live or die,
as you should determine. I love you! Do you hear? I love you! And
with such strength of love, that if I am unworthy; if, poor, ill-
favored, unfortunate, the Prince of Savoy may not aspire to your
hand, then call your people, and drive me hence; for whether you
welcome or whether you spurn, you still must hear me, while my
yearning heart cries out for judgment. Speak, beloved! I await my
sentence--is it life or death?"

He raised his pleading eyes to hers, and as they met, her beautiful
head drooped lower and lower, until it almost touched his own. He
felt the soft touch of her hands upon his shoulders, and heard the
thrilling accents of her trembling voice, as, in tones so inaudible
that none but a lover's ear could have guessed their sweet import,
she whispered these words:

"I was waiting for thee."

With a wild cry of rapture, Eugene caught her to his heart, and
imprinted one long, loving lass upon her lips. Then he gazed upon
her with an expression of passionate tenderness, which transfigured
his homely features and lent them beauty.

"Say that thou lovest me," cried he, "oh, say it again--again--
again."

"I love thee," repeated Laura, "I love thee, Eugene. When first our
eyes met, I knew that my heart had found its sovereign. Oh, sweet
vassalage, that never again will seek enfranchisement! Oh, happy
bondage, than liberty more precious! Bondage that makes me thine,
and thou mine forever!"

"Ay, forever!" echoed Eugene, while tears streamed from his eyes at
sound of her delicious avowal. "We love each other! Oh, my Laura,
what magic in those blessed words! We love each other! I could weary
echo with repetition of the sound: WE! 'Tis the first time in my
life that my name has ever been joined with that of a fellow-being.
My brothers, who enjoyed the privileges of their birth and rank,
looked down with contempt upon one who was condemned to the
obscurity of the priesthood; my young sisters feared me, and I was
too shy to ask for their love; in my proud and beautiful mother's
heart there was no room for the son, to whom fate had allotted no
share of her loveliness and grace. Alone in the midst of a family
circle, alone in society, alone in the world, I thrust back into my
sorrowing soul the hopes, the loves, the aspirations of youth, and
refused to listen to their pleadings. But in the depths of the
night, when no mortal was by, and I stood alone in the presence of
God. I called them up, and bade them weep with me that life and
light were denied them. I mourned, and prayed for deliverance, but
no friendly voice ever bade me be comforted. And so I lived, shunned
and despised by my fellows."

"No, no, my Eugene, not shunned and despised," exclaimed Laura,
while her gentle hands wiped away the tears that were streaming down
her lover's cheeks. "You belie yourself and the world. It may not
love you, but it has divined your worth."

Eugene answered with a faint smile. "My worth is small, beloved; but
no human being has ever divined the secrets of my ambitious heart.
But ah! how changed is life to me to-night! I went to that ball to
throw down the gauntlet of my hate before Louvois and his son. I was
rebuked by the king, slighted by his nobles; but I had no eyes to
see, no pride to resent their insults. When I saw thee. the sun
shone upon my heart, and there was light and love within. But oh!
when thou earnest so near that I felt the perfume of thy breath upon
my cheek, and the touch of thy hand within my hand, then I was born
again to a life of hope and happiness. My soul's better half was
found, and nevermore shall it wander from my side. I am here at thy
feet to ask thee for my wife. I have neither wealth nor repute to
offer thee: I am a poor appanagist, a prince without fortune or
distinction. But, dearest, if thou wilt be mine, I swear by all the
imprisoned aspirations which thy coming has liberated, that the wife
of Eugene of Savoy shall have pride in her husband! Be mine, be
mine, and I will make thy name illustrious!"

"I am thine," said Laura, fervently, "for time and for eternity. I
care not whether thy name be obscure or thy fortunes adverse; I love
thee as thou art." And so saying, she extended her hand.

He grasped it in his own and covered it with rapturous kisses. "From
this blissful hour, then, thou art my betrothed; and to-morrow I
shall ask the consent of madame to our marriage. Or hast thou
relatives whom I must know and propitiate?"

At this innocent question, Laura's youth and animal spirits got the
better of her sentiment. She laughed heartily. "What!" cried she,
"you do not know who I am?"

"No, sweetest; I know not, I care not who thou art. What have I to
do with thy surroundings? I love thee--only thee. If thou hast
father and mother, I will throw myself at their feet, and beg their
blessing for us both."

Laura's hilarity had all vanished. As Eugene had spoken of her
father and mother, her cheeks had blanched, and the smile had died
from the rosy lips. "Alas!" cried she, clasping her hands, "he knows
not who I am!"

"I know thou art an angel, and that is enough to make me the
happiest of men."

"True, true," murmured Laura. "When my grandmother retired from
court, he was but a boy."

"And had I been a man, what to me are the comings and goings of the
ladies of the court?" said Eugene, simply. "But why art thou
troubled, my beloved?"

"Alas! alas!" murmured Laura, her eyes filling with tears. "May God
grant that you spoke the truth, Eugene de Carignan, when you said
that you cared not who was my father or my mother!"

"So help me Heaven, I do not care!" was the fervent response, while
he gazed passionately upon his new-found treasure.

She bent her head, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Eugene,"
said she, almost gasping for breath, "I bear my mother's name; but I
am the daughter of your bitterest enemy, Louvois."

Eugene started back in horror. "Louvois! Louvois!" echoed he,
mournfully. "And Barbesieur, her brother!"

"Not my own brother," cried Laura, terrified at the effect of her
revelation. "Before I had seen you, I approved your act, and bade
God bless the son that had avenged his mother's wrongs upon her
traducer. Ah, Eugene! my affianced, say that you do not hate me! I
knew that you were the son of the Countess de Soissons, and yet I
loved YOU!--perhaps the more, that Barbesieur was your enemy."

"And I love you, my own one, despite your parentage. I love you so
far beyond all feelings of pride or enmity, that I am ready to
humble myself before my mother's enemy, and be to him a son."

"He will never receive you as such," cried she, bitterly. "Woe is
me, if he should learn what has transpired to-night between us! He
would part us by force."

"Part us he shall not!" exclaimed Eugene, passionately, while he
flung his arm around the maiden's slender waist, and pressed her
wildly to his heart. "Thou art Louvois' daughter, but my betrothed."

"I am Barbesieur's sister, but thou art my affianced!"

"Neither daughter nor sister of any man, my Laura; thou art thyself-
-and being thyself--mine."

"Thine for life and death," was her reply, "and from this hour I
know no will of mine."

"Then, ere thy father suspects our love, it must be sanctified
before the altar of God. Our faith once plighted there, no hand of
mortal can wrest thee from my side. Art ready to speak the
irrevocable words that bind us together as man and wife?"

"I am ready," replied she, clasping her hands, and looking solemnly
up to heaven. "If, in my eager acquiescence, I seem unmaidenly,
forgive me; but I dare not be coy, Eugene; we have no time for
conventional reserve, and I must act as becomes a brave and trusting
woman, for every moment is fraught with danger. I am surrounded by
spies, even of my own household, and, until I hear the blessing of
the priest, I shall disbelieve my own happiness."

"Then hear me, dearest. I know how crafty are the spies of Louvois,
and I tremble lest the whispering breeze betray our secret. Yes, we
must be diligent, so diligent that Fate shall stand between our love
and all contingency. For two days I shall part from thee--long days
that will steep my soul in darkness! But day after to-morrow, at
this same hour of the evening, I shall be here with the chaplain of
the Princess de Carignan, an old and dear friend, who will bless our
bridal. As witnesses, I will be accompanied by my kinsmen, the
Princes de Conti, two of the worthiest nobles of France. Be in
readiness, my best beloved, that not a word need be spoken until we
are married. Then away with me to the Hotel de Soissons, where those
who love, may seek thee in thy husband's home."

"So soon?" murmured Laura, blushing. "Shall I leave my dear mistress
without a word? Is she not to share our secret?"

"Assuredly not; for it would burden her with a painful
responsibility. It would be her duty to betray you, artless child."

"Oh, I will not speak!" exclaimed Laura, eagerly. "I will be silent;
and when--when we are married, we will beg so humbly for forgiveness
that she will have to grant it."

"You must leave a note declaring everything; for with our marriage
ends all secrecy. I will neither see you nor write until the
appointed time. Dismiss your household as early as possible, and, if
all is propitious, place a light in yonder window. If I see it, I
will enter with the priest, and, lest there should be interruption,
he will begin the ceremony at once."

"Alas, Eugene!" said Laura, looking anxiously around, "some evil
spirit is about. It whispers me that this shall never be! Speak to
me--in mercy speak! Let me hear thy voice, for even now its sinister
threatenings are freezing the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, sweet one, fear nothing! My love shall compass thee with a
charm that shall keep away all evil spirits, and make thy life a
waking dream of bliss."

"How can I ever prove to thee how much I love thee?"

"Thou wilt prove it to me when, day after to-morrow, thou forsakest
father and brother, to cleave to me alone; for never will my
mother's son take the hand of Barbesieur Louvois."

"Nor my mother's daughter," cried Laura, vehemently,

"for she, too, has a debt of hatred to pay to the man who broke that
mother's heart. And believe me, our marriage will avenge us both;
for it will end his contemptible intrigues to sell my hand to
whomsoever chinks most gold in his. And now, dear Eugene, good-
night!"

"Must I be exiled so soon, Laura? What have I done to be thus driven
from paradise?"

"Nothing--nothing," stammered she. "But my mother's name has made me
fear that--that I am wrong to hold such long parley with you in
secret and at night. Methinks I see that mother's pleading eyes
before me, and oh, Eugene! whenever they rest upon me thus, 'tis
because danger threatens! Go, beloved, and God be with you!"

"I go," sighed he. "I would not stay one moment to wound your sweet
scruples, my madonna. One more kiss, and then--good-night!"

They walked side by side until they stood upon the threshold. Eugene
put his arm around her waist, and kissed her fair brow.

"Look," said she, "at yonder star that is just emerging from a
fleecy cloud. It soars joyously upward now, and shall be to us an
omen of hope and happiness. Farewell."

"Farewell!" was the sad response, and Eugene went slowly down the
dark avenue, until he was lost in the gloom of night. Laura lingered
for a while, listening to his footsteps, then resumed her seat at
the table.

A half hour went by, and Laura sought her chamber. To her surprise
she found her waiting-woman stretched at full length on the carpet,
in a deep sleep, so deep that her mistress had much trouble to waken
her. When, at last, she had been made to rise, she seemed scarcely
to know where she was, or to whom she was speaking.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said she drowsily, "I was dreaming.
I thought I heard robbers in the house, and when your ladyship
spoke, I was struggling."

"God be thanked, there are no robbers here!" returned Laura, kindly.
"Perhaps you heard the sentry's step in the park, and you ought to
know that the Palais Royal is strictly guarded. But why are you not
in bed with the rest? I dismissed you all."

"I have no right to retire before my mistress," returned the girl,
obsequiously. "Therefore, I sat in your ladyship's room. to await
you, but sleep overcame me, and I humbly crave your pardon. Shall I
close the door that leads to the garden?"

"What! still afraid of robbers, Louise?" laughed Laura. "Well--close
the door, if you will--good-night."

"Can I do nothing for your ladyship?"

"Thank you--yes. Open the door of Madame Dupont's room, and let me
feel that I am within hearing of my dear old Cerberus. That is all."

The waiting-woman did as she was bidden, and then retired to her
room, but not to sleep. She seated herself before a table, drew out
her portfolio, and began to write. Now and then she paused and
looked up, when the sinister light that shone in her eyes streamed
through the room like the phosphorescent glow of the lichen that
moulds in the churchyard.

She wrote the whole night long, and day dawned before she rose from
her task.

"Ah," sighed she, "for such a service surely he will return to me! I
have repeated their conversation, word for word, not a sigh or a
kiss have I forgotten. Who but his poor Louise would have served him
so faithfully! 'Tis a vile trade, that of a spy; nor would I have
accepted such a mission for all the gold in the king's treasury;
but, for love of Barbesieur Louvois, I would sell my own sister to
infamy--why not his?"

While thus soliloquizing, she had left her own room and crossed the
corridor that led to the men's apartments. She opened the door of
one of the rooms without knocking, and going directly up to a bed
she touched the sleeper, and having wakened him, whispered:

"George, awake--awake!--rouse up quickly!"

"What is it?" mumbled George, stretching himself.

"Hist!--It is I, Louise. Dress yourself as speedily as you can, and
away with this packet to your master. Give it to no messenger, but
place it in his own hands, and he will reward you magnificently, for
you will have done him a great service."

She glided away and returned to her own room, leaving the door open.
In less than fifteen minutes George stood before her, equipped for
secret service. "Mademoiselle Louise," whispered he, "I shall be
with Monsieur de Louvois in ten minutes; for I have the key of the
postern, and can slip out and back again without anybody being the
wiser for my little excursion."

"So much the better. Away with you, and the sooner the better!"

George went on his way, and Louise stood in her doorway until she
heard him softly open and close the outer door below; then she threw
herself upon her bed to sleep. Her last words were these:

"Oh, faithless but loved--now can I dream that thine arms are around
me once more!"



CHAPTER IX.

THE BETRAYAL.


The sun was high in the heavens when Laura awoke, and rang for her
waiting-woman. Mademoiselle Louise, fresh, smiling, and officious,
came at once from the anteroom, and began the toilet of her
mistress. She seemed to take more pleasure than usual in gathering
her magnificent dark coils into a net of gold and pearls, and to
linger more admiringly than ever over the last little touches given
to the lace that bordered Laura's neglige of spotless white mull.

She certainly was one of the loveliest of created beings, and so
thought good Madame Dupont, as her ex-pupil came into the dining-
room, and imprinted two hearty kisses on her withered old cheeks.
They sat down together to breakfast, and George, looking as innocent
as if he had just awaked from the sleep of the righteous, came in
with their morning chocolate. All went on as usual, except with the
young marchioness, who, instead of laughing and chatting of Italy,
and Bonaletta, as she was accustomed to do with her "dear Dupont,"
sipped her chocolate in silent abstraction. Breakfast had long been
over, and still she sat in her arm-chair, looking dreamily into the
garden, her head leaning on her hand, her lips sometimes rippling
with a smile, sometimes opening with a gentle sigh.

She had been plunged in her blissful reverie for almost an hour,
when the door was opened, and George appeared before her.

"Your ladyship," said he, "a man without desires speech with you."

"Who is he, George?" asked Laura, reluctantly returning to the world
and its exigencies.

"He will not say, my lady. He wears no livery, but says that your
ladyship knows whence he comes and why. He has a bouquet which was
forgotten yesterday evening."

Laura darted from her chair; then, blushing deeply, she stopped, and
recalled her wandering senses.

"Admit him," said she, trying to speak carelessly. "I will inquire
what this means."

"Oh, 'tis a greeting from him," thought she; but before she had time
to surmise any further, the door reopened, and a young man entered
the room, holding in his hand a superb bouquet of rare and exquisite
flowers.

"Who sent you hither?" asked Laura, with wildly-beating heart.

"A cavalier whose name I do not know," replied the young man,
looking timidly up at the dazzling vision of beauty that stood
before him. "I am first clerk in the largest establishment of the
Marche aux Fleurs, and the gentleman who bespoke the bouquet ordered
the handsomest flowers in our collection. Your ladyship sees that we
have filled the order with the greatest care; for this bouquet
contains specimens of our rarest and most expensive flowers. To be
sure, the gentleman paid an enormous price for it, saying that
nothing we could furnish was too costly for the occasion."

Laura had listened with wonderful patience to all this idle babble.
"Give me the flowers," she said. "They are indeed most beautiful,
and I am grateful for them, both to you and the amiable unknown who
sends them."

"He is very small; of sallow complexion, but with large black eyes,"
replied the clerk, while, with an awkward scrape and bow, he
presented the bouquet to Laura. "He was so pleased with our
selection, that he kissed one of the flowers."

Before she had time to control her tongue, Laura had exclaimed,
"Which one?"

"The blue one, your ladyship, called Comelina coelestis."

Laura looked down at the Comelina coelestis, and fain would she have
robbed it of its kiss, but she consoled herself with the thought
that she would rifle it of its sweets as soon as the messenger left.

He came closer. "Your ladyship," said he, in a very low voice, "I
bear a message, as well as a nosegay. Is there any one about, to
overhear me?"

"No one," replied Laura, breathless and eager.

"Search the bouquet, and under the Comelina your ladyship will find
something."

Laura's rosy fingers were buried in the flowers, and she drew from
its fragrant hiding-place a small slip of paper.

"Your ladyship is requested, if you consent, to return, as an
answer, the four first words of the note."

Laura unrolled the paper, and read: "NOT TO-MORROW, BUT TO-DAY.
Danger threatens, and we must anticipate.--E."

Her face flushed, and her eager eyes were fixed upon that little
scroll which, to her and her lover, was of such great import. What
could it mean? She read it again and again, until the words danced
before her reeling senses.

The clerk came closer yet. "Your ladyship," whispered he, "I must
take back my answer. Somebody might come in."

"The answer?" gasped she, scarcely knowing what he said. "True,
true, there must be an answer." She stood for a moment irresolute,
then a shudder thrilled through her frame, and she felt as if some
evil spirit had again come nigh. She raised her eyes to the face of
the messenger, as though she would have looked into the penetralia
of his thoughts.

"I am to write four words?" asked she, plaintively. "You know, then,
where he lives?"

The clerk replied without the least embarrassment: "Pardon me, I
told your ladyship that I was unacquainted with the cavalier. He
awaits my return in the flower-market, and lest I should be too long
absent, he hired a fiacre to bring me forth and back."

"He awaits my answer," thought Laura. "Oh, it must be so! He shall
not be left in suspense!"

She went hurriedly to a table, and wrote, "Not to-morrow, but to-
day."

"Here," said she, "is my answer, and before you go, I beg you to
accept this for your trouble."

She was about to hand him a purse of gold, when he retreated, and
raised his hand in token of refusal.

"I thank your ladyship, I have already been paid, and have no right
to a reward from you. May I be permitted to take my leave?"

"Yes; hasten, I implore you," returned Laura, wondering at his
disinterestedness.

Scarcely had the commissionnaire taken his leave, when the door of
the antechamber was opened, and a lackey announced:

"Madame, her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans!"

Laura hastily thrust the paper in her bosom, and, coming forward,
kissed the hand of her friend. But as she did so, she felt the blood
rush to her temples, and bent low her head to hide her confusion.

"I could not stay away any longer," began the unsuspecting duchess.
"For three days monsieur has been confined to his room with some
trifling ailment, for which peevishness seems to be his only
palliative. He is one of those who, when, he sneezes, imagines that
the earth is shaken, to her foundations; and when he snuffles, that
all the angels in heaven drop on their knees to pray for him. With
some trouble, I prevailed upon him to give me one hour wherein to
make some change in my dress. I have accomplished the change in
fifteen minutes, and the remainder of the hour I come to spend with
you."

"Thank you, dear friend," replied Laura, who had now recovered her
self-possession, and was sincerely glad to see the duchess. Then
leading her to a divan, the graceful young hostess dropped down on a
cushion at the feet of her royal guest, and continued: "I have been
wondering why I did not see my gracious mistress; I thought she had
forgotten me."

"How could you do her such injustice?" replied Elizabeth-Charlotte,
affectionately. "I have been longing for the sound of your carolling
voice, and the sight of your beaming face. Let me look at you,"
continued she, taking Laura's head between her two hands, and gazing
upon her with fondest admiration.

Poor Laura could ill bear the test of such loving scrutiny. She
blushed scarlet, and her long black eyelashes fell at once under the
searching look of the duchess's round blue eyes.

"Laura!" exclaimed she, anxiously, "something ails you, my darling;
what have you on your heart that you are hiding from me?"

"Dear, dear duchess," stammered Laura, "I have nothing to--"

"Nay, child, do not stoop to untruth--"

"I cannot--I will not," cried Laura, bursting into tears. "I have a-
-secret--but you shall know it--soon."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the duchess, turning very pale, "what has
happened? What evil tidings am I to hear?"

"No evil tidings, my dearest mistress, no evil tidings! Nothing but
joy--joy unspeakable. Do you remember what I told you on that happy
morning of the ball, that if I ever loved I would leave even your
dear self to follow the man of my choice? Well!" cried she, her face
breaking out into bright smiles, while glistening tears lay like
dew-drops upon her rose-tinted cheeks, "he is here! He came down
from the moon on yesternight, and brought two great stars in his
head instead of eyes; stars that I had no sooner looked upon, than I
fell madly in love. Oh! he was sent hither by the good God, and it
is His will that I love him, and forsake all others, to follow
whithersoever he leads!"

"Is she mad?" cried the duchess, in alarm. "Yesternight?--came from
the moon?--WHO came, Laura?"

"God and my mother know his name, and both have blessed us; but I
dare not tell it yet--not even to you. Pray ask me no more--for I
may not say another word."

"Not say another word?" said the duchess, shaking her head, and
looking reproachfully at her favorite. "Then there is something
wrong in this headlong love, and it is no message to your heart from
above. Afraid to say more to your best friend--to her who replaces
your mother?--When saw you this preterhuman being? Who?--Great God!"
cried she, suddenly, putting her hands to her heart, "can it be!
Yes--it must be Prince Eugene!"

Laura clapped her hands, and then threw herself in the duchess's
arms. "Yes--you have guessed--it is he whom I shall love to-day, to-
morrow, and forever. But not another word, my own dear mistress. To-
morrow you shall know all, and be assured that there is no wrong
either done or to be done--I can say but this to-day, that he
certainly came down from the moon, and is the only luminary whose
rays shall ever shine upon my heart!"

While Laura was pouring out her childish half-confidences, her
disinterested friend, the commissionnaire, was similarly engaged in
the anteroom with Master George.

This latter worthy, after a few whispered words from the former,
excused himself to the lackeys of her royal highness, who were in
waiting there, and retreated to the corridor with the clerk.

"Now, George," whispered he, "mark what I tell you. Your master says
that the coachman must be ready with the travelling-carriage of the
marchioness at ten o'clock to-night; that Mademoiselle Louise must
secretly pack up some of her lady's effects and her own, and have
them conveyed to the chariot throughout the day; and that all must
be done so that her ladyship shall suspect nothing."

"It shall be done. And so her ladyship is to go on a journey at ten
o'clock to-night? What an hour to set out!"

"Yes, at ten o'clock precisely, and the blessing of God go with
her!"



BOOK III.


CHAPTER I.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.


All was bustle and confusion in the Hotel de Soissons. A crowd of
workmen filled its halls; some on ladders, regilding walls and
ceilings; some on their knees waxing the inlaid floors: and others
occupied in removing the coverings, and dusting the satin cushions
of the rich furniture of the state apartments. The first
upholsterers in Paris had been summoned to the work of preparation,
and the general-in-chief of the gilders stood in their midst, giving
orders to his staff, and sending off detachments for special
service. He held in his hand a roll of paper resembling a marshal's
baton, with which he assigned their posts to his men. Some of his
subalterns approached, to ask in what style the walls of the
reception-rooms were to be decorated.

"I must see the Prince of Savoy about that," said he, with a
flourish. And he took his way for the prince's cabinet. "Announce me
to his highness," said he as he entered the antechamber.

"His highness is at home to nobody to-day, sir," replied Conrad.

"He will be at home for me," said the decorator, complacently. "Say
to the prince that I desire an interview on business of great
moment, connected with the embellishment of the hotel; and without a
conference with himself we cannot proceed. I am Monsieur Louis, the
master of the masters of decoration."

Conrad, quite awed by the stateliness of Monsieur Louis, went at
once to announce him, and returned with a summons for him to enter
the cabinet.

Eugene met him with a bright smile of welcome, and asked what he
could do to assist Monsieur Louis.

"Your highness," replied monsieur, "my workmen have gilded, waxed,
and dusted the apartments, and the important task of decorating them
is about to commence. I am here to inquire of your highness what is
to be the character of the decorations. Are they to have a
significance that betokens Honor, Friendship, Art, or Love?"

Eugene could not repress a smile as he asked whether, for the
expression of these various sentiments, there were different styles
of decoration.

"Most assuredly," was the pompous reply. "It depends entirely upon
the nature of the guest or guests to be entertained. If your
highness is to receive a personage of distinction (a king, for
example), your decorations must be emblematic of respect. They must
consist of laurels, lilies, and banners. If a friend or one of your
own noble kinsmen, the decorations have no special significance; we
mingle flowers, festoons, and pictures that are not allegorical. If
you invite a company of artists, poets, musicians, and the like, the
principal decorations surmount the seat of the Maecenas who
entertains, and the rest of the apartment is left in simplicity."

"But you spoke of a fourth style," said Eugene, blushing.

"Indeed I did, your highness; and on that style we lavish our best
efforts. If the guest is to be a bride, then our walls and ceilings
must be ornamented with rich designs emblematic of love. We must
have cupids, billing doves, and wreaths of roses, mingled with
orange-flowers. Added to this, the decorations must begin in the
vestibule, and be carried out in character, through the entire
palace."

"Well," said Eugene, his large eyes glowing with delight, "let your
decorations be appropriate to a bridal."

"Impossible, your highness! This style requires great originality of
conception, and time to carry out the designs. It would require a
hundred workmen, and then I doubt--"

"Employ more than a hundred," returned Eugene, "and it can be done
in a day. Indeed it must be done, and--I ask of you as a favor not
to mention to any one in what style you are decorating the Hotel de
Soissons."

"Your highness, I will answer for myself, but I cannot answer for
the discretion of a hundred workmen, who, precisely because they are
asked to be silent, would prefer to be communicative."

"Well--do your best, but remember that your work must be done to-
day."

"It shall be done, your highness, and when you see it, you will
confess that I am the first decorateur of the age."

So saying, Monsieur Louis made his bow and strutted off.

Eugene looked after him with a smile. "He is proud and happy," said
the prince, "and yet he merely embellishes the palace wherein love's
festival is to be held. But for me--oh, happiest of mortals! is the
festival prepared. Laura, adored Laura. I must speak thy name to the
walls, or my heart will burst with the fullness of its joy! How
shall I kill the weary hours of this day of expectation? How cool
the hot blood that rushes wildly through my veins, and threatens me
with loss of reason from excess of bliss! I am no longer a solitary,
slighted abbe; I am a hero, a giant, for _I_ AM BELOVED!"

At that moment the door was hastily opened, and Conrad made his
appearance.

"Your highness," said he, "a messenger is here from her royal
highness, madame, and begs for an audience."

Eugene started, and his brow clouded with anxiety. "A messenger from
madame," murmured he. "What can--how should the duchess?--But--
Conrad, admit him."

"Speak," cried Eugene, as soon as the messenger entered the room.
"What are her royal highness's commands?"

"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans requests his highness
Prince Eugene of Savoy to visit her immediately. And that no delay
may occur, her royal highness's equipage is at the door, waiting for
his excellency."

Eugene answered not a word. With an imperious wave of the hand,
which was justly interpreted into a command to clear the passage, he
strode on and on through the corridors of the Hotel de Soissons,
crushing with his foot Monsieur Louis's choicest garlands, that lay
on the floor ready to wreathe the walls and mirrors of the rooms of
state.

Monsieur Louis was shocked at such desecration; but still more
shocked was he to observe what a change had come over the face of
the prince since their interview scarce half an hour ago. Reckless
of the ruined garlands that followed his track, pale and silent, he
went on and on, down the marble staircase, and through the
vestibule, until he flung himself into the coach, and cried:

"On, for your life! urge your horses to their topmost speed!"

The coachman obeyed, and went thundering down the streets, little
heeding whether the equipage that bore the royal arms trod down half
a dozen boors on its way or not.

It drew up with a sudden jerk before the Palais Royal; and the
messenger, who had followed on horseback, asked if his highness
would follow him. He had madame's orders to introduce her visitor
without further ceremony, by a private staircase, leading to her own
apartments.

Doubtless the duchess had heard the carriage as it stopped, for,
when Eugene entered the anteroom, she was standing in the door of
her cabinet, visibly impatient for his arrival. She beckoned him to
approach, and closed the door with her own hand.

She gave him no time for ceremonious greeting. "God be thanked, you
are here!" exclaimed she. "Put down the portiere, that no one may
hear what I have to say." Eugene obeyed mechanically, and loosening
its heavy tassels, the crimson satin curtain fell heavily to the
floor.

"And now," cried the duchess, indignantly, "now, Prince Eugene of
Savoy, I command you to tell me the truth, and the whole truth! What
have you done with her? How could you be so unknightly as to take
advantage of her innocent and affectionate nature, to wrong one of
the purest and most perfect of God's creatures! My heart is like to
break with its weight of sorrow and disgrace; and, had it not been
for Laura's sake, I would have laid my complaint before his majesty.
But I must not expose her to the world's contumely, and therefore I
endure your presence here. Tell me at once what have you done with
my darling?"

Eugene could scarcely reply to this passionate appeal. His senses
reeled--his heart seemed to freeze within him. He thought he
comprehended; and yet--

"Who? Who is gone? Oh, duchess, be merciful; what mean these words
of mystery?"

The duchess eyed him scornfully. "Base seducer, dare you question
me? Do you strive to delude me into believing that you do not know
of whom I speak? I demand of you at once the person of the
Marchioness de Bonaletta!"

"Laura!" cried Eugene, in a tone of deepest despair. "Laura gone!
And you say that I enticed her away!"

"Tell me the truth, tell me the truth," cried madame.

"The truth!" groaned Eugene, while the duchess started from her
seat, and grasped both his hands in hers.

"Have mercy," stammered he, trembling as if an ague had suddenly
seized him. "Is she no longer--here?"

"She is no longer here," echoed the duchess, staring in astonishment
at the writhing features of the unhappy prince.

"You know not where she is?" gasped he, faintly.

"No," cried she, "no! You look as though you were yourself
astounded, Prince Eugene; but you will no longer deny your guilt
when I tell you that my poor innocent child has told me all."

"What--all?" asked Eugene.

"She told me that you were lovers. And now, prevaricate no longer;
it is useless and renders you still more infamous."

"What more did she say?" asked Eugene, unconscious that his tone was
as imperative as that of an emperor.

"Nothing more. She merely told me that in two days I should learn
all. Alas! I have learned it to my cost, and to her ruin!"

"And you accuse me of enticing her! Great God! if my heart were not
breaking with anguish, it would break that such baseness could be
attributed to me. Would that I could answer you, duchess, but God in
heaven knows that I was ignorant of her departure, until I learned
it from yourself!"

"Was ever a man so bold in falsehood!" cried the duchess, losing all
command of her temper. "I have in your own handwriting the proof of
your wickedness. Now mark me! This morning, the second woman in
waiting of the marchioness came frightened to my apartments to tell
me that her mistress, her woman Louise, and George, had disappeared
from the pavilion, no one could surmise when. I was so overcome with
terror that I hurried to the pavilion, and alas! found that it was
indeed so. Neither her own bed, nor that of the servant who
accompanied her, had been occupied. I looked everywhere for some
clew to the mystery, when, on the floor near her morning-dress,
which hung on a chair, I found this scrap of paper, which, as it is
signed with your initials, you will not deny, I presume."

With eyes that flashed fire, she almost dashed the paper in his
face. Eugene took it, and, having given it one glance, he turned
pale as death, and it fluttered from his palsied hands to the floor.

"Heavens, what can ail him!" cried the duchess, sympathizing, in
spite of herself, with his sudden sorrow. He was ghastly as a
spectre, and his whole frame shook like the leaf of an aspen.

"I did not write it," gasped he, but almost inaudibly; for his teeth
chattered so that he could scarcely articulate a sound.

"What!" exclaimed the duchess, now thoroughly convinced of his
innocence, and feeling her terror increase with the conviction,
"what! you did not write these words?"

He shook his head, but no sound came from his blanched lips. He laid
his hands upon his heart as if to stifle its anguish; then, raising
them to his head, he pressed them to his temples, and so paced the
room for a while. Then he came and stood before the duchess, whose
compassionate eyes filled with tears as they met his look of
anguish. Finally, he heaved a long sigh, and spoke.

"My name has been used to deceive her," said he. "She has never seen
my writing, and thus she fell into the snare."

"But I cannot comprehend who it is that possessed such influence
over her as to frighten her into silent acquiescence of the fraud.
Laura is young, but she is prudent and resolute, These words had
some meaning which could be referred to you, or she would not have
understood them."

"Ay," returned Eugene, solemnly, "they were chosen with satanic
shrewdness. They referred to our plans of to-day, and signified that
I had anticipated the time for our marriage. Ah! well I know what
happened; and well I know why Laura made no resistance! At ten
o'clock she extinguished all the lights in her parlor save one; and
as soon as this signal had been given, four men, whose faces were
concealed, entered the house. One of them was a priest, two were
witnesses, and the fourth--O God! that fourth one! Who was he I know
not; but I shall learn--alas! too soon. Without a word (for such had
been our agreement) he took her hand, and the priest read the
marriage ceremony. When the names had been signed, he raised my
Laura in his arms, bore her through the postern to a carriage, and,
O God! O God! tore her from me forever!"

"But how come you to know these particulars, who knew not even of
her flight?"

"Duchess, it was to have taken place to-night, and I was to have
been that bridegroom. We were overheard, and those accursed words,
'not to-morrow, but to-night,' were sent in my name. She thought to
give me her dear hand, while I--I--"

He could not proceed. He gave one loud sob, and burst into tears.
Those tears, bitter though they were, saved his reason.

The duchess, too, wept profusely. "Poor prince!" said she, "well may
you mourn, for you have lost an angel of goodness and--"

"No!" interrupted Eugene, fiercely. "Say not that she is lost to me!
I must find her, for she is mine,--and I must find her ravisher.
Great God of heaven!" cried he, raising his clasped hands, "where
shall I find the robber that has so cruelly despoiled us both?"

"Stay!" cried the duchess. "I know of a man that was her suitor, and
whose suit was countenanced by her father and her brother. She told
me of it herself, and to avoid their persecutions, took refuge with
me."

"His name, his name, I implore you, his name!"

"The Venetian ambassador, the Marquis de Strozzi."

"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, approaching the door.

"Whither do you go?"

"To seek the Venetian ambassador."

"And compromise Laura? You do not know that things transpired as you
imagine. She may merely have been removed by her father, to part her
from yourself. And suppose the marquis was no party to her flight?
You would make her ridiculous--nay, more; you would sully her name,
so that every gossip in Paris would fall upon your Laura's
reputation, and leave not a shred of it wherewith to protect her
from the world's contempt."

Eugene wiped off the great drops of sweat that beaded his pallid
brow. "You are right," said he. "She must not be compromised--no,
not even if I died of grief for her loss: there are other means--I
will go to her father."

Elizabeth nodded her head approvingly. "Yes--that you can do. You
may confide her secret to her father. Take the same carriage that
brought you hither, and, to make sure of obtaining speedy admission
to Louvois' presence, announce yourself as my envoy."

"I thank your highness," replied Eugene, and, inclining his head, he
moved toward the door. The duchess followed him, and, taking his
hand affectionately, pressed it within her own.

"I see that you love my darling as she deserves to be loved, and you
would have made her happy. Forgive my injustice and my hard words. I
was so wretched that I knew not the import of my accusations."

"I do not remember them," returned Eugene, sadly. "But one thing
fills my heart--the thought of my Laura's loss. Farewell, dear lady.
Now, to question Louvois!"



CHAPTER II.

THE FOES.


Great was the astonishment of the household of Louvois, when,
hastening to do honor to the liveries of the royal house of Orleans,
they saw emerging from the coach Prince Eugene of Savoy.

"Announce me to Monsieur Louvois," said he.

The message passed from vestibule to corridor, from corridor to
staircase, and finally reached the antechamber of the minister's
private cabinet. In a short while, the answer was forthcoming.

"His excellency begged to decline the visit of his highness the
Prince of Savoy. He was particularly engaged."

"He is at home," replied the prince; "then I shall certainly alight,
for I must and will see him."

So he entered the house, and traversed the vestibule. The lackeys
made no effort to stop him, for he looked dangerous; but they were
certainly astounded at his boldness, who forced himself into the
presence of the minister, when he had declined the proffered visit.

Eugene, disregarding their amazed looks, asked the way to the
cabinet, and no one ventured to refuse. So he was passed from lackey
to lackey, until he reached the antechamber. "Here," said the
servant that had accompanied him, "here your highness will find a
person to announce you."

Eugene bowed his head, and entered. The "person" was certainly
within; but in lieu of announcing the prince, he stared at him in
speechless astonishment.

Eugene paid no attention to him, but moved toward the door leading
to the prime minister's cabinet. When the valet saw this, he flew
across the room to stop the intruder, and, placing himself directly
in his way, he bowed and said, "Pardon me, your highness. You must
have been misinformed. His excellency regrets that he cannot receive
your highness's visit to-day. He is particularly engaged."

"I have no visit to make to his excellency," replied the prince
without embarrassment. "I am the envoy of her royal highness the
Duchess of Orleans. Announce me as such."

The valet soon returned, and, holding up the portiere so as to admit
Eugene, he said, "His excellency will receive the envoy of her royal
highness the Duchess of Orleans."

Louvois was standing near a writing-table, from which he appeared at
that moment to have risen. His right hand rested on a book, and he
stood stiff and erect, awaiting an inclination from Eugene, to bend
his head in return. But the prince advanced so proudly that Louvois
involuntarily made a step toward him, and then recollecting himself,
stood still and frowned visibly.

"You came under false colors to claim an audience from me, prince,"
said he. "As you found (indeed, you should have known) that I would
not receive you in your own name, you borrowed that of her royal
highness; taking advantage of the respect due madame, to force
yourself into my presence. What is your business?"

"In supposing that I have used her royal highness's name to force
myself upon you, you are mistaken," replied Eugene, calmly. "If you
will take the trouble to look out of yonder window, you will see
that I came hither in her highness's own coach."

Louvois stepped to the window, looked out, and, affecting
astonishment, exclaimed, "True enough; there are the royal liveries,
and you have told the truth. You really must excuse me."

"I do excuse you; for I do not consider that one bearing the name of
Louvois is in a position to affront me by doubting my word."

"Lucky for you," returned Louvois, with his sinister laugh; "for
there is not likely to be much harmony between the two families. And
now to business. What message do you bear from madame?"

"Her royal highness informs Monsieur de Louvois that on yesterday
night, the Marchioness de Bonaletta disappeared from her pavilion in
the Palais Royal. As Monsieur de Louvois is well posted in all that
takes place in or about Paris, her royal highness is convinced that
he is no stranger to this occurrence, and she requires that her lady
of the bedchamber be returned to her, or she be directed where to
find her."

"Is that all?" asked Louvois, after a pause.

"That is all that I have to say for the Duchess of Orleans."

"You are so very emphatic that I infer you have something else to
say, after all. Am I right?"

"You are."

"Well, you may speak. But first, allow me to ask how you happen to
be her highness's messenger? Was it by way of sympathizing with the
Marchioness de Bonaletta, that you took service with her mistress?"

"My lord prime minister," returned Eugene, proudly, "I serve myself
and the requirements of my honor only."

"Ah, indeed! And does this respectable lady pay you well?"

"She bestows upon me wherewith to pay those who venture to attack
her name."

"Ha! ha! Then you must have heavy payments to make, not for yourself
only, but for your mother."

Eugene clinched his fist, and made a motion toward his cruel enemy,
but Louvois calmly raised his hand.

"Peace, young man," said he; "the hour for reckoning has not
arrived. I respect, in you, the representative of madame, and you
shall depart from my house uninjured, today. Take advantage, then,
of your opportunity; say all that you have to say, and spare
yourself the trouble of sending me your petitions by writing."

"I have no petitions to make to you, oral or written. I came hither
to claim for her royal mistress the Marchioness de Bonaletta, your
daughter."

"And I repeat my question. How came you to be the chosen ambassador
of her royal highness, on this strictly private affair between
herself and me?"

"I was chosen," replied Eugene, breathing hard and growing pale,
"because I love the marchioness."

Louvois laughed aloud. "You love my daughter, do you? I admire the
sagacity which directs your love toward the daughter of the prime
minister of France, and the richest heiress within its boundaries. I
congratulate you upon your choice."

"Yes," repeated Eugene, "I love her, although she is your daughter.
And so dearly do I love her that, for her dear sake, I submit to be
affronted by my mother's traducer, because that traducer is the
father of my Laura. As regards your absurd insinuations respecting
her wealth, they pass by me as the 'idle wind which I respect not.'
And now, that I have satisfied your curiosity, be so good as to
answer me. The Duchess of Orleans wishes to know where is her lady
of the bedchamber: Eugene of Savoy demands his bride."

"Demands his bride? This is too presuming! But I must be patient
with the representative of madame. Know, then, ambitious manikin,
that, with a father's right to save his misguided child from your
artifices and from the ridicule of the world, I rescued her from
ruin last night, and, to secure her honor, gave her in marriage to
an honorable man."

Eugene was as overwhelmed with this intelligence as though he had
not foreseen it from the first. His wail was so piteous that Louvois
himself felt its terrible significance, and started.

"You forced--forced her to give her hand to another?" gasped he.

"Forced! I perceived no reluctance on my daughter's side, to her
marriage. She spoke a willing and distinct assent to the priest's
interrogatory. I ought to know, who myself was one of her
witnesses."

"That merely proves that she was deceived by the lying note that you
forged in my name. How, in the sight of God, can a father so betray
his own child!"

"It was sent with my approbation, but written by Barbesieur, as a
slight token of acknowledgment for your cowardly attack on him at
the Pre aux Clercs. Your mother was right, it appears, when a few
weeks ago she told me that no sympathy could exist between her race
and mine; and that every attempt at love between us was sure to end
in hate. Quite right she was, quite right. And now, Prince of Savoy,
your mission is fulfilled. Tell the Duchess of Orleans that her lady
of the bedchamber is secure, but cannot return to her service: she
is under the protection of her husband."

"I will tell her," replied Eugene. "I will tell her that all honor,
all humanity, all justice, forgetting, a father has cruelly betrayed
his own daughter, and has cursed her life forever. Your wicked
action has broken the hearts of two of God's creatures, and has
consigned them to a misery that can only end with death. I say not,
'May God forgive you.' No! may God avenge my Laura's wrongs, and may
he choose Eugene of Savoy as the instrument of His wrath! for every
pang that rends the heart of my beloved, and for every throe that
racks my own, you shall answer to me, proud minister of France: and,
as there lives a God in heaven, you shall regret one day that you
rejected me for your son-in-law."

Without another word or look toward Louvois, he left the room, and
returned to his carriage. When he re-entered the cabinet of madame,
his ghastly face, the very incarnation of woe, told its own story.

"You bring me evil tidings," said she, mournfully. "My darling is
lost to us both!"

"Alas, my prophetic heart! She is married!" was his cry of despair.

"Poor Laura! poor Eugene!" sobbed the duchess, unable to restrain
her tears.

"If you weep, what shall I do?" asked Eugene. "Why do you take it so
much to heart?"

"Why?" exclaimed she. "Because I am no longer young, and I have lost
my last hope of happiness. You, at least, have life and the world
before you."

"And I," said he, languidly--"I am young, and have a lifetime
wherein to suffer. The world is before me! Yes; but it is a waste,
without tree or flower. With scorched eyes and blistered feet, I
must tread its burning sands alone. Forgive me, dear lady, if I ask
permission to go. If I stay much longer, my aching head will burst."

"You are wan as a spectre, my poor Eugene," returned the duchess,
laying her hand upon his arm. and looking him compassionately in the
face.

"And, in truth, I am but the corpse of the living man of yesterday,"
sighed he. "Let me go home, that I may bury myself and my dead hopes
together."

The duchess rang for her gentleman in waiting, and requested him to
accompany the prince to his carriage, and thence to the Hotel de
Soissons; but Eugene gently refused the proffered escort, and begged
to be allowed to depart alone. He turned away, and as the duchess
watched his receding figure, she saw him reel from side to side,
like a man intoxicated.

At last he was at home. He had strength left to alight, to ascend
the long marble staircase, whose balustrade was now hidden by a
thicket of climbing jessamines, and to enter the antechamber leading
to the apartments of state.

Monsieur Louis, with the elite of his workmen, was decorating its
walls with hangings of white satin, looped with garlands suspended
from the bills of cooing doves. When he beheld the prince, he came
triumphantly forward.

"See. your highness, this is but the vestibule of the temple! When
you will have seen its interior, you will confess that it is worthy
the abode of the loveliest bride that ever graced its princely
halls."

Eugene neither interrupted nor answered him. He raised his large,
mournful eyes to the festooned roses, the gilded doves, the snowy,
shimmering satin, and to his fading senses they seemed gradually to
darken into cypress-wreaths and funereal palls. He pressed his hand
upon his bursting heart, and fell insensible to the floor.



CHAPTER III.

THE REPULSE.


Eight weeks had passed away since the disappearance of the
Marchioness de Bonaletta--eight weeks of suffering and delirium for
Eugene of Savoy. A nervous fever had ensued, which, if it had well-
nigh proved mortal, had proved, in one sense, beneficent; for it had
stricken him with unconsciousness of woe. Blissful dreams of love
hovered about his couch, and lit up with feverish brilliancy his
pallid countenance. At such times SHE seemed to sit beside him; for
he smiled, held out his hand, and addressed her in words of burning
love and ecstasy. Perhaps these joyful phantasms gave him strength
to recuperate from his terrible prostration, for he recovered; and,
after four weeks of struggle between life and death, was declared
convalescent. His grandmother and his sisters had nursed him
tenderly throughout, and they had the satisfaction of hearing from
his physician, that to their loving care he owed his restoration to
health. The poor sufferer himself could not find it in his heart to
be grateful for the boon. With returning reason came awakening
anguish, sharp as the first keen stroke that had laid low the
beautiful fabric of his ephemeral happiness.

But he was resolved to face his sorrow--not to fly from it. "It
shall kill me or make a man of me, whom no shaft of adversity can
ever wound again," thought he. He confided his troubles to no one,
little dreaming that his secret was known not only to his
grandmother and his sisters, but to the Princes de Conti, who,
throughout their long watches by his bedside, had heard the history
of his love, its return by the beloved one, and its disastrous end.
But each and all respected the secret, and tacitly agreed to cover
it with a veil of profound silence.

So Eugene suffered and struggled alone, until the tempest of his
grief had passed, and light once more dawned upon his soul. His
dreamy eyes, in whose depths one visionary object had been mirrored,
now rested upon things with quick and apprehensive intelligence; his
ears, that had been pained with one monotonous dirge of woe, now
opened to the sounds of the outer world around; and his thoughts,
which hitherto had kept unceasing plaint for their buried love, now
shook off repining, and hearkened to the trumpet-call of ambition.

One morning he called Conrad, who (accustomed of late to see his
master reclining languidly on a sofa, seemingly interested in
nothing) was quite surprised to find him in the arsenal, busily
engaged in examining and cleaning his arms.

Conrad could not repress a smile, and a glance of mingled
astonishment and delight. Eugene saw it, and replied at once.

"You see," said he, gently, "that I am better, Conrad. I was very
slow to recover from my severe illness, but I believe that I am
quite sound again. I thank you for all your self-sacrificing
devotion to me, during that season of suffering; and never while my
heart beats will I forget it. Let me press your friendly hand within
my own, for well I know that your highest reward is to be found in
my esteem and affection."

Conrad grasped the hand that was so kindly proffered, and tears of
joy fell upon its pale, attenuated fingers.

"My dear lord," sobbed he, "how you have suffered! and oh, how
gladly I would have suffered for you!"

"I believe it, good, true heart; but let us try to forget the past,
and make ready for the future. First--tell me whether the letter you
took for me yesterday is likely to reach the cabinet of his
majesty."

"Yes, your highness," replied Conrad, with a happy smile. "My cousin
Lolo washes the plate at the Louvre, and is engaged to be married to
the king's second valet. I gave it to her, and charged her, as she
valued her salvation, to see that Leblond remitted it."

"So far, so well, then. Order my state-carriage, livery, and
outriders; and then return to assist me in dressing. I must go to
court in half an hour."

While Eugene was preparing to visit the king, his majesty with his
prime minister was in his cabinet, writing; while, not too far to be
out of reach of his majesty's admiring eyes, sat the demure De
Maintenon, profoundly engaged in tapestry-work. The conference over,
Louis signed to Louvois to gather up the papers to which the royal
signature had been attached, and to take his leave. Louvois hastened
to obey; put his portfolio under his arm, and was about to retire,
when the king bade him remain.

"Apropos," said he, "I was about to forget a trifle that may as well
be attended to. I have received a letter from Prince Eugene of
Savoy. There is a vacancy in the dragoons, and the little prince
asks for it. Methinks it can be granted."

Louvois smiled. "What, your majesty! Give a captaincy of dragoons to
that poor little weakling? Why, he would not survive one single
campaign." As he uttered these careless words, he glanced at the
marquise, who understood him at once.

"In truth," observed she, in her soft, musical voice, whose melody
was as bewitching as that of the sea-maids of Sicily "in truth, poor
Prince Eugene seems as unsuited to the career of a soldier as to
that of an ecclesiastic. The dissipated and debauched life which, in
imitation of his mother, he has led since his boyhood, has exhausted
his energies. He is prematurely old--older far than your majesty."

A complacent smile flitted over the features of the vain monarch.
"He certainly looked more dead than alive the last time we saw him,
and since then he has been very ill, has he not?"

"Yes," replied Louvois, carelessly, "and for a long time his
recovery was considered doubtful."

"Madame told me of it," resumed the king. "She seems very much
interested in the little prince."

"Madame is the impersonation of goodness," observed De Maintenon,
"and by her very innocence is unfitted to judge of character. The
old Princess de Carignan imposed upon her credulity with some story
of an unhappy attachment, while veritably his illness is nothing
more than the natural consequence of his excesses."

Louvois thanked his coadjutor with a second glance, and the marquise
acknowledged the compliment by a slight inclination of her head,
imperceptible to the king.

"Be all this as it may," replied the latter, "I cannot refuse so
paltry a favor to the nephew of Cardinal Mazarin. If we do no more,
we ought at least to throw him a bone to gnaw." [Footnote: Louis'
own words.--"Memoires do Jeanne d'Albret de Luynes," vol. i., p.
85.]

"Sire," said Louvois, hastily, "you do not know Prince Eugene. He is
a dangerous man, though a weakly one, for he is possessed of
insatiable ambition. He desires renown at any price."

"At any price!" repeated Louis, with a shrug. "Such a poor devil as
that covet renown at any price!"

"Sire!" exclaimed Louvois, earnestly, "he is an offshoot of the
ambitious house of Savoy, and a stranger besides. Strangers always
bring us ill-luck."

"You are right," interposed the marquise, with a sigh. "Strangers
never bring us any but ill-luck."

Louis turned and fixed his eyes upon her. Their glances met, and
there was such unequivocal love expressed in that of the pious
marquise, that her royal disciple blushed with gratification. He
went up to her and extended both his hands.

She took them passionately within her own, and covered them with
kisses. Then raising her eyes pleadingly to his, she whispered,
"Sire, he is the son of his mother; and if your majesty show him
favor, I shall think that you have not ceased to love the Countess
de Soissons, and my heart will break."

Louis was so touched by the charming jealousy unconsciously betrayed
by these words, that he whispered in return:

"I will prove, then, that I love nobody but yourself."

"Be so good," added he aloud to Louvois, "as to say to the usher
that the Prince of Savoy will have an audience."

This being equivalent to a dismission, Louvois backed out of his
master's presence, and retired. As he was passing through the
antechamber, congratulating himself upon having effectually muzzled
his adversary, the minister saw his pale, serious face at the door.
Eugene was in the act of desiring the usher to announce him.

"His majesty awaits the Prince of Savoy," said Louvois, and he
stepped aside to allow him entrance.

Eugene came in, and the door was closed. The two enemies were alone,
face to face; and they surveyed each other as two lions might do on
the eve of a deathly contest.

"It has pleased you to make an attempt to beg a commission in the
army, and to address yourself directly to the king," said Louvois,
after a pause. "And you presumed to do so without the intervention
of his majesty's minister of war."

"I have no business with the servants of his majesty," replied
Eugene, tranquilly. "If I have a request to make, I address it to
the king my kinsman, and require no influence of his subordinates."

"Sir!" exclaimed Louvois, angrily, "I counsel you--"

"I desire no counsel from a man whom I despise," interrupted Eugene.

"You shall give me satisfaction for this word," returned Louvois,
laying his hand on his sword. "You are a nobleman, and therefore--"

"And therefore," interrupted Eugene again, "you shall have no
satisfaction from me, for you are not a nobleman, and I shall not
measure swords with you. Peace, monsieur," continued he, as Louvois
was about to insult him, "we are in the antechamber of the king, and
a servant may not resent his grievances within earshot of his
master. Take care that you become not too obstreperous, lest I
publish to the world the story of your crimes toward your unhappy
daughter. And now let me pass: the king awaits me."

With these words Eugene crossed the antechamber, and stood near the
door that led to the king's cabinet. There he stopped, and,
addressing the indignant minister--

"Now, sir," said he, imperatively, "you can go out to the vestibule
and send the usher to announce me to his majesty."

Louvois made a rush at the prince, and almost shrieked with rage.
"Sir, this insolence--"

But at that moment the door of the king's cabinet opened, and the
voice of Louis asked, "Who presumes to speak so loud?" His angry
glances were launched first at one and then at the other offender,
and, as neither made any reply, his majesty resumed:

"Ah, you are there, little abbe? You asked for an audience: it is
granted."

He returned to his cabinet, Eugene following. The marquise was
assiduously occupied with her tapestry, but her large eyes were
raised for one glance; then, as quickly casting them down, she
appeared to be absorbed in her embroidery.

The king threw himself carelessly back in an arm-chair, and signed
to Eugene to advance.

"You would like to command a company of dragoons?" said Louis,
shortly.

"Such is my desire, your majesty. I wish to become a soldier; I
hope--a brave one."

Louis surveyed him with scorn. "I cannot grant your request," said
he. "You are too sickly to enter my service."

He then rose from his chair and turned his back. This of course
signified that the audience was at an end; but, to his unspeakable
astonishment, he felt the touch of a hand upon his arm, and, turning
round, beheld Eugene!

"Is that all your majesty has to say to me?" said the prince.

"That is all," cried Louis, imperiously. "The audience is at an end-
-begone!"

"Not yet," replied Eugene, "not yet."

Madame de Maintenon uttered a cry of horror, and her tapestry fell
from her hands.

"Do you know that you are a traitor?" exclaimed the king.

"No, sire. I am but a man who, driven to despair, can no longer
withhold the cry of a heart wrung by every species of contumely and
injustice. Were I tamely to submit to all that you have done to
wound me, I were a hound unfit to bear the name of nobleman. By the
memory of Cardinal Mazarin, your benefactor, nay, more, the spouse
of your mother, I claim the right to remonstrate with your majesty,
and to ask you to reverse your decision."

"You have summoned to your aid a name which I have ever cherished
and honored," replied Louis. "For his sake I grant you fifteen
minutes' audience. Be quick, then, and say what you will at once."

"Then, sire, may I ask if you remember the solemn promise you made
to the cardinal on his death-bed?"

"I do."

"To the man who, during your minority, transformed a distracted
country into a powerful and peaceful empire, you promised friendship
and protection for his kindred. But how has this promise been
fulfilled? The family of Mazarin have, one and all, been given over
to persecution and injustice, and that by a sovereign who--"

"Prince," cried Louis, "you forget that you address your king!"

"My king! when has your conduct ever been to me that of a king, and
therefore of a father? I know that my uncle was once king of the
King of France; and by the God above us! he was a gracious monarch,
for he left to his successor a prosperous kingdom and an overflowing
treasury!"

"Which was not fuller than his own private purse," retorted Louis.

"The cardinal named you his heir, sire--why did you not accept the
heritage?"

"Because I would not enrich myself at the expense of his family,"
replied Louis, haughtily.

"Because you knew very well that what you affected to relinquish,
that the world might admire your magnanimity, you intended to take
back by piecemeal. And to do this, you have persecuted the unhappy
family of your best friend with au ingenuity of malice that is
beneath the dignity not only of your station, but of your manhood!"

"Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, hastening to the king, "I beseech
you, drive from your presence this insolent madman."

"Let him speak," said Louis, in a voice of suppressed rage. "I wish
to see how far he will carry his presumption."

"Sire, it reaches past your crown, as far as the judgment-seat of
God, where it stands as your accuser. Sire, what have we done to
merit your aversion? My mother--that you allowed your minions to
traduce and drive her into exile? My father--who fought and bled for
you, that you offered him public insult, and so wounded his proud
spirit, that he died from the effects of your cruelty? My sisters--
that you have robbed them of their patrimony! And I!--what have I
done that you should hold me up to the mockery of your court, and
deny me the paltry boon of a petty commission in your army? I had
forgiven your public affronts, so unworthy of a king and a
gentleman; and I had offered my hand and sword to your majesty as
proofs of my loyalty and superiority to resentment. As a kinsman and
your subject you have repulsed me: for the future, know me as an
alien and enemy."

The king laughed scornfully. "Puny braggart, what care I for your
enmity?"

"Time will show, sire; and, as truly as a lion once owed his life to
a mouse, your majesty will repent of your injustice to me."

"I never repent," returned the king, hastily.

"A day of repentance must come for all who have sinned, and it must
dawn for you. Beware lest it come so late that the prayers of yonder
sanctimonious marquise avail you nothing."

"By heavens!" cried the king, starting from his seat and clutching
his bell, "my patience is exhausted. This arch-traitor shall--"

But Madame de Maintenon was at his side in a moment.

"Sire," said she, beseechingly, "in the name of the love and loyalty
I bear my sovereign, pardon this misguided youth. Remember that the
highest prerogative of power is the exercise of mercy. I, for my
part, forgive him freely, and I thank God that I am here to mediate
between him and your majesty's just anger."

"You are an angel," cried Louis, clasping her hand in his own, and
covering them with kisses. "You are an angel whom God has sent for
my happiness in this world and the next." And turning to Eugene with
a lofty gesture, he said: "Go, young man. Madame de Maintenon's
magnanimity has earned your pardon. Go--that I may forget you and
your existence."

"Sire," replied Eugene with emphasis, "I do not intend that you
shall forget me. In your pride of power, you have likened yourself
to a god, but, great as you are, you shall rue the day on which
Eugene of Savoy turned his back upon your kingdom!"

"So you persist in believing yourself to be a man, do you?"

"Yes, sire; such is my conviction. I aim at renown, and, in spite of
my enemies, of my poverty, and of my friendless condition, I have
strength and energy to attain it. I am no longer a subject of
France. I bid farewell to my country forever."

With a slight inclination of his head, and without waiting for
permission, he turned his back, and left the room.

Louis gazed upon his receding figure, with an expression so strange,
that Madame de Maintenon in great alarm flew to his side. His eyes
were fixed, and great drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead.
The marquise wiped them away with her handkerchief, all the while
whispering words of tender encouragement.

Louis shivered, and seemed like one awakening from a dream. His
eyelids fell, the strained eyeballs moved, and he tried to smile.

"Dearest friend," said he, "I know not what has happened; but, as
the Prince of Savoy disappeared from my sight, a voice seemed to
speak to my soul, and say that his threats had been prophetic, and
that I would dearly rue the day on which the nephew of Mazarin had
left me in anger. Can such things be? or am I the sport of--"

"Sire, sovereign, beloved," cried the marquise, kneeling and
clasping his knees in her arms, "give no heed to this mocking voice.
'Tis but a temptation of the Evil One. Let us pray together."

"Yes, let us pray. Send for Pere la Chaise, and let us away to the
chapel."



CHAPTER IV.

THE FAREWELL.


Prince Eugene, meanwhile, was on his way to visit the Duchess of
Orleans. She met him with unaffected cordiality, and gave him a
hearty welcome.

"Indeed," said she, extending both her hands, "I am rejoiced to see
you again. I made you many a visit of inquiry during your illness;
and it pained me deeply to hear from your grandmother that no effort
of those who love you had so far prevailed upon you to leave your
room. I am glad to see that your heart is returning to us, for you
know that I am foremost in the rank of your friends."

"I know it, gracious lady," said Eugene, feelingly, "and for that
reason I am here."

"And although you are pale, you are looking well. You have a brave
spirit, Eugene, and have met your sorrow like a man."

"Yes. Suffering has made a man of me, and he that has received its
chrism with courage has overcome grief. I have come to give your
highness a proof of my fortitude. I"--but he paused, and his face
grew of a deadly pallor, while a convulsive sigh was upheaved from
his bosom.

"Speak, poor boy," said the duchess, compassionately.

"I wanted to ask if your highness has news from the Marchioness de
Bonaletta?" resumed he, with an effort.

"Yes," replied the duchess, mournfully.

"Has she written to you?" was the hurried rejoinder.

The duchess shook her head. "She has not, and thereby I judge that
she is closely watched. For, if my darling were free to do so, she
would long ago have poured her sorrows into my heart. Sometimes I
feel her soft arms twining about my neck, and hear her voice, as, in
the simplicity of her trust, she said to me one day: 'Pray for me,
that I may never love, for if I should, I would forsake every thing
for the man of my choice--even yourself, my best friend.'"

"She spoke thus?" cried Eugene, brightening.

"She did; and, not long after, she glided up to me, and, giving me a
kiss, said: 'I have found him, I have found him--him whom I shall
love throughout all eternity.' 'Gracious Heavens!' I exclaimed, 'it
is not Prince Eugene!' whereupon she kissed me again, and said, 'But
it is he; and I shall love him forever!'"

"Ah! I thought I had been stronger!" murmured Eugene, his eyes
filling with tears. "I had armed myself against misfortune, but the
memory of her love unmans me."

"Poor Eugene! I have been thoughtlessly cruel: forgive me, for you
are the first one to whom I have dared, as yet, to mention her name.
Let me not probe your wounds further, but tell you at once what I
know. I have heard from Laura through the medium of her father only.
The day after her shameful immolation, he communicated his
daughter's marriage to the king; and, the evening after, gave a
grand ball in honor of the event. He excused her absence, and the
secrecy attending her wedding, by saying that her betrothed having
been suddenly summoned away, he had yielded to the solicitation of
the lovers, and had consented to have them married without
formality."

"Liar and deceiver!" cried Eugene, gnashing his teeth.

"Ay, indeed, liar and deceiver!" echoed the duchess. "And I had to
sit there, and hear him congratulated; and listen to the flattering
comments of his guests, every one of whom knew that not a word of
truth was being spoken on either side. Of course I had no choice
whether to absent myself or not; I was ordered to appear, and to
confirm the lie. And once or twice, when my face unconsciously
expressed my indignation, my husband was at hand to remind me that
my lady of the bedchamber had married with my consent and
approbation! The day after, Louvois distributed largesses among his
household, and bestowed princely sums upon the poor, all in honor of
the happy event! For a whole week I could neither eat nor sleep for
grief and anger. I can never recover from this blow. If you had
robbed me of Laura, I could have forgotten my own loss in her gain;
but to know that she is chained to the galley of an unhappy marriage
almost breaks my heart!"

"She is not chained to that galley," said Eugene; "the oath she took
was not to the man whom the world calls her husband--it was pledged
to me. But do not fear that I will lay claim to her, duchess. Far be
it from me to take one step that could endanger her safety, or
unsettle her convictions. If she considers the oath binding which
she took to one man, supposing him to be another, I will bear my
fate with resignation; but if she scorns the lie that calls her his
wife, she will find means to let me know it; and, let her summons
come when it may, I shall be ready to obey it. Let her heart seek
mine, and I will take care that renown shall tell her where to find
me."

"I feared as much," said the duchess. "I knew that you would not
remain at this false, corrupt court. Whither do you travel?"

"I shall follow my brother. Your highness knows that he was banished
for having married the girl whom he loved, whose only fault was her
obscure birth. He is in the service of the Emperor of Austria; and,
if his imperial majesty will accept of me, I, too, will join the
Austrian army."

"And you will live to replace the lost myrtles of your love with the
laurels of fame."

"God grant that you may be a true prophetess! And now, your
highness, I have one more favor to ask. May I visit the room in
which I saw her last?"

"Come. We can take a turn in the park, and enter the pavilion as if
by accident. Every thing is just as she left it."

Accompanied by two maids of honor, and followed at a distance by two
lackeys, they descended to the gardens. For a time they confined
their stroll to the principal walks; but when they had reached the
pathway that led to the pavilion, the duchess, turning to her maids
of honor, requested them to await her at the intersection of the
avenues, and continued her way with the prince. Not a word was
spoken on either side until they had ascended the steps leading to
the room where, in one short hour, Eugene had seen the birth and
death of his ephemeral happiness.

He opened the door; then, standing on the threshold, gazed
mournfully around him. Not an object in the room was missing. There,
in the embrasure of the window, stood her harp; there, on the table,
lay her books and drawings; and there, alas! hung the silver
chandelier whose solitary light was to have guided him to his
bridal. Every thing was there, as before, and yet nothing remained,
for she, who had been the soul of the habitation, had left it
forever!

And now, as his wandering gaze rested upon the arm-chair where,
kneeling at her feet, he had received the intoxicating confession of
her love, he started forward, and, burying his face in its cushions,
wept aloud.

The duchess, meanwhile, had remained outside on the perron. She
would not invade the sanctity of Eugene's grief by her presence, for
she felt that, in a moment of such supreme agony, the soul would be
alone with its Maker.

Presently she heard the door open and Eugene joined her on the
balcony. For a while he looked at her in silence; then his lips
began to move, and she caught these words, uttered almost inaudibly:

"I am about to go. Will you grant me one more request?"

"Yes--what is it?"

"You told me that, when she confided to you her love for me, she put
her arms around your neck, and kissed you. May I have that kiss from
your lips, dear duchess?"

Instead of a reply, Elizabeth embraced the poor youth. "God bless
you, Eugene!" said she, fondly. "Go forth, into the world to fight
the battle of life, and win it."



CHAPTER V.

A PAGE FROM HISTORY.


The year 1683 was full of significance for Austria. It was a period
of victory and defeat, of triumph and humiliation. Austria's wounds
were many and dangerous, but her cure was rapid. In the spring of
this momentous year she was threatened simultaneously from the East
and the West, and she had every reason to fear that she would be
similarly assailed from her northern and southern frontiers.

Her troubles originated, as they had often done before, with
Hungary--that land of haughty Magyars and enthusiastic patriots.
Leopold I. ascended the throne in 1658, and from that time forward
every year of his reign had been marked by intestine wars.
Sometimes, by force of numbers, the rebellious Hungarians were, for
a time, held in subjection; but the fire of patriotism, though
smothered, was never extinguished in their hearts. Deep buried under
the ashes of many a deluded hope, it lived on, until some friendly
breath of encouragement fanned it to activity, and its flames leaped
upward, and defied the emperor anew.

Hungary would not submit to be considered as a provincial dependency
on Austria. She claimed the constitutional rights guaranteed to her
from time immemorial, and recorded in the golden bull of King
Andreas. In 1654 the Emperor Ferdinand had promised, both for
himself and his successors, that this constitution should be held
inviolate; that all foreign troops should be withdrawn from Hungary,
while no Hungarians should be called upon to fight elsewhere than on
their native soil; that the crown lands were to be inalienable; all
offices bestowed upon native-born Hungarians; Protestants secured in
the exercise of their religion; and no war undertaken, nor treaty
concluded, with any foreign power, without the consent of the
Hungarian Diet.

The Emperor Leopold had promised to ratify the constitution. But, in
1664, Austria declared war against Turkey, and called for money and
troops from Hungary. The Magyars, not having been consulted as to
the expediency of the war, refused to have any thing to do with it.
With the help of France, peace was made with the Porte; and, as soon
as his foreign difficulties were settled, Leopold bethought himself
of his turbulent Hungarians at home. Austrian troops were marched
into Hungary, and the Protestant Magyars, in the enjoyment of high
offices, were superseded by Catholics.

The indignation of the Hungarians knew no bounds. They took up arms,
and swore never to lay them down until they had freed their native
land. The revolution broke out in 1670; and such was the fanaticism
of the patriots, that their banners bore the cross as their emblem,
and every soldier wore a cross upon his shoulder. By this sign they
swore eternal enmity to the detested Austrian lancers; and, however
they might be outnumbered, they hoped in God, and rushed by
thousands to fill up the ranks whence thousands had fallen.
Undaunted by reverses, undismayed by danger, new armies of warriors
seemed to spring from the blood of the slain. Nor were the brave
Hungarians without sympathy in their struggle for freedom; they had
allies both powerful and efficient.

Two of their ablest generals. Zriny and Frangipany, had fallen into
the hands of the Austrians, and had perished ignominiously on the
scaffold; and another hero, Count Tokoly, had fallen at the siege of
Arva. But his son survived, a boy who had been rescued from the
enemy and conveyed to Transylvania. There he was taught to hate the
oppressors of his country; and no sooner was he of an age to serve,
than he entered the army. He brought with him succor from Prince
Apafy, of Transylvania, and the promise of aid from the Porte. Fired
by the enthusiasm of young Emerich Tokoly, the Hungarians renewed
the contest with Leopold, and fortune so favored their youthful
leader, that he conquered Upper Hungary, marched to Presburg, drove
out the Austrians, and called an imperial Diet to consult as to the
propriety of deposing the Emperor Leopold from the throne of
Hungary.

But Emerich did not tarry at Presburg to attend the Diet. He marched
on to Buda to confer with Kara Mustapha, the grand-vizier of
Mohammed IV., on the affairs of Hungary. The victories of the young
hero had more effect upon Mustapha than any amount of pleading could
have done; he was therefore prepared to receive him favorably.
Mustapha was ambitious, covetous, and vindictive; he had latterly
felt some uneasiness as to the security of his own influence with
the Sultan, and he burned to reinstate himself by gaining a victory
or two over the Austrians. Moreover, he thought of the booty which
would follow each victory; and, in the hope of retrieving his defeat
at St. Gotthard's, he concluded a treaty with Count Emerich, which
was specially directed against Austria. He promised, in the Sultan's
name, arms, money, and men; and, as an earnest of the friendship of
his new ally, Emerich was declared King of Hungary.

Under the ruined walls of the fortress of Fulek, which Emerich had
taken from the enemy, Mustapha handed him the diploma of royalty
which had been drawn up in Constantinople; at the same time
bestowing upon him the rank of a Turkish general, and presenting him
with a standard and a horsetail.

The newly-appointed king pledged himself, in return, to consider the
Sultan as his lord-paramount, and to pay him a yearly tribute of
forty thousand florins. He was so elated with his title, and so
desirous of humiliating Austria, that, to free himself from the
emperor, he consented to become a vassal of the Porte. He signed the
treaty, whereupon Kara Mustapha rejected the proposals of alliance
which Leopold was making, and began to dream of extending the
dominion of the Crescent, and of founding a Moslem empire in the
West, whose capital should be Vienna. He dismissed the Austrian
ambassadors with cold indifference, and promised the Sultan that the
green banner of the Prophet should carry terror and devastation into
the very heart of Austria. This was the danger which threatened the
emperor from the East. He had equally powerful enemies in the West.
Hungary had sent ambassadors to the court of Louis XIV. These
ambassadors had been received in Paris as the accredited envoys of
an independent and recognized kingdom; and King Louis, a son of the
Catholic Church, had carried his hatred to Austria so far, that he
entered into a secret alliance with the unbelieving Porte, and
promised assistance to the Protestant rebels of Hungary. This
assistance he sent at once in the form of money and arms. French
officers were dispatched to Hungary, to join the insurgents and
discipline their soldiers. And, while Louis was secretly upholding
Turkey and Hungary, he was calling councils at home to establish
claims to a portion of the imperial dominions of Austria.

These juridical councils were established at Metz and Brisach, and
they had instructions from Louis to reannex to his crown all the
domains which had ever been held in fief by any of his predecessors,
however remote. They began by summoning the lords of the Trois-
Eveches to acknowledge their vassalage to France; and they went on
to cite before their tribunal the Elector Palatine, the King of
Spain, and the King of Sweden; all and each of whom were called upon
to do homage to the king, or have their possessions sequestrated.

All Europe was aghast at these monstrous pretensions, but nobody
ventured to put them down, for Louis had a standing army of one
hundred and forty thousand men, while the German empire, still
suffering from its losses in the Thirty Years' War, could scarcely
put into the field one-third of this number.

So that, without the drawing of a sword, Louis was suffered to
possess himself of the important city of Strasburg, and subsequently
of all Alsatia. Finally he claimed the cloister of Wasserburg and
the province of Germersheim, and pushed his greed and arrogance to
such a height, that Germany at last awakened from her lethargy, and
found resolution enough to protest against the aggressions of this
royal robber. Louis, in return, proposed to call a universal council
at Frankfort, and have his claims investigated. This was agreed to,
and each sovereign sent his plenipotentiaries. Meanwhile the King of
France kept possession of all the lands in dispute, and stationed
his troops at Strasburg, and at every other town in Alsatia.

Here was danger enough for the Emperor Leopold, from the west;
while, north and south, his horizon darkened also. The ambitious
Victor Amadeus, seeing that Austria was encompassed by enemies, now
bethought himself of annexing Lombardy to his dominions, while there
was every reason to fear that the bold and enterprising Peter the
Great would extend his frontiers to the Baltic Sea, and, with quite
as much right as Louis ever had to Strasburg, declare Dantzic to be
a part of his Russian territories.



CHAPTER VI.

THE EMPEROR LEOPOLD I.


The Emperor Leopold had just returned from early mass. Throughout
the services, and during the excellent sermon of his celebrated
court-preacher Father Abraham, the face of his imperial majesty had
worn a troubled aspect; it had not even brightened at the appearance
of the Empress Eleonora. But when, in his cabinet, he saw his
professor of music, Herr Kircher, Leopold smiled, and his brow
cleared at once. The professor was occupied in putting a new string
to the emperor's spinet, which the evening before had been broken by
his majesty at a concert; and, having his back turned to the door,
was not aware of the emperor's entrance until the latter laid his
hand upon Kircher's shoulder.

The musician would have risen, but Leopold gently forced him back
into his seat, observing that it was unbecoming in a teacher to rise
at the entrance of his pupil.

"Of his pupil, your majesty, to whom there remains nothing for a
teacher to teach; for in good sooth, if your majesty felt disposed,
you are competent to fill the chair of a musical professorship, or
to become the maestro of your own imperial chapel."

"I prefer my own position," replied Leopold, laughing, "although
there are times when the berth of an emperor is not an easy one. But
when as at present I am here with you, then I am truly happy, for
your conversation and music awaken in me pleasant thoughts and noble
aspirations. Let me enjoy the hour, for indeed, Kircher, I need
recreation."

The emperor sighed, and sank slowly into an arm-chair, where, taking
off his plumed hat, he threw it wearily down on a tabouret close by.

"Has your majesty any cause for vexation?" asked Kircher.

"Not for vexation, but much for sorrow," returned Leopold. "Let me
forget it, and if you have no objection, take up that piece of music
on the table, and give me your opinion of it."

Professor Kircher obeyed at once. "Your majesty has been composing,
I perceive, and your composition is in strict accordance with the
rules of counterpoint."

"I have translated my sorrows into music," returned Leopold. "I
could not sleep last night, and there was running through my head
the words of a sad and beautiful Latin poem. I rose from my bed, and
treading softly so as not to disturb the empress, I came hither, and
set the poem to music. It gave me indescribable pleasure, and I wish
you would try it, that I may know whether my interpretation has
meaning for others as well as for myself."

"My voice will not do it justice, your majesty; let me call Vittorio
Carambini to sing it, while I accompany him."

"No," returned Leopold. "Carambini's voice would so beautify my
composition, that I would not recognize it. I prefer to hear it from
you. So sit you down, dear Kircher, and begin."

Kircher made no further opposition, and commenced the prelude. The
emperor leaned back his head, and closed his eyes, as he was
accustomed to do, when listening attentively. Reclining among the
purple-velvet cushions of his luxurious arm-chair, Leopold presented
a handsome picture of imperial comeliness. His fine figure was set
off to advantage by his close-fitting Spanish doublet of black
velvet; his short Spanish cloak, looped up with large diamond
solitaires, fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, gently
stirring with its golden fringe the feathers of his hat that lay
beside him. The pale, regular features of the emperor harmonized
with the splendid costume which, from the days of Charles V., had
been in fashion at the imperial court of Vienna. Leopold had made
one modification, however, in his dress. In spite of his dislike to
the King of France, and all things French, he wore the long curled
wig which Louis XIV. had brought into vogue.

His whole attention was absorbed by Kircher, who, with a wig similar
in fashion, but more modest in dimensions, sat playing and singing
the "Schmerz-Lied." He sang with great feeling, and he, as well as
the composer, felt the power and beauty of the music.

It died away in gentle sighs, and there was a pause. Then the
emperor in a low voice said, "Thank you, Kircher; you have given me
great pleasure."

"Your majesty, it is I who should thank you. Your composition is a
masterpiece; and, instead of criticising my miserable performance,
you praise it."

"Do you really like it, then?"

"Like it! It evinces genius, which is something more than a
conformity to musical rules. It is a gift from Heaven, whence surely
all musical inspiration descends. The man that could listen to your
'Schmerz-Lied' without emotion has no soul; and, to him that could
hear it with eyes undimmed, God has denied the gift of tears."

"Kircher." said the emperor, with a delighted smile, "I thank you a
thousand times for your approbation. It emboldens me to confess that
I felt tears in my eyes while you sang. To you, a musician, I may
say as much; for you know that, to write a song of sorrow, a man
must have known sorrow himself. I fear that my 'Schmerz-Lied' will
have to give place to embateria, and our spinet to the discordant
drum."

"And will it come to open war with the Porte?" asked Kircher, sadly.

"I fear as much," sighed the emperor. "Is it not singular that I, a
man of peace, and lover of art, should be forever compelled to be at
war with the world? And is it not hard that a potentate should be
continually forced into measures which he abhors, and stand before
his fellow-creatures in a character that is not his own? History
will depict me as a heartless and bloodthirsty monarch, while no man
has ever more deprecated the shedding of blood than I. My only
comfort is, that, if my poor subjects suffer, it is 'ad majorem Dei
gloriam.'"

And Leopold, who was not only a disciple but a lay member of the
order of Jesuits, bent his head, and made the sign of the cross.

"Your majesty alludes to the bloodshed in Hungary?"

"Yes," said Leopold, mournfully; "for I love those poor Hungarians,
though they be heretics and rebels, and I long for the rising of the
sun of peace upon their unhappy land. O Kircher, if we could but be
at peace abroad and at home, how happily would our days glide by! My
court should be the paradise of poetry and love, the home of art,
and the temple of all wisdom and science."

"Your majesty is already the patron of all the arts; and artists are
proud to hail you as their brother. Are you not both a composer of
music and a performer? Do you not rival Hermann, Schildbach, and
Hamilton, in painting? And did you not astonish Fisher von Erlach
with the suggestions you offered him in the planning of the palace
of Schonbrunn? And in all your majesty's dominions, is there a
bolder horseman, a more valiant sportsman, a more graceful dancer
than yourself?"

"To hear you, Kircher," said Leopold, laughing, "one would suppose
that you were describing the attributes of Phoebus-Apollo."

"And so I am," laughed Kircher; "for out of the letters of your
majesty's name, Leopoldus A, did not Sigismund von Birken compose
the anagram, 'Deus Apollo?'"

"It is very easy to make anagrams by misplacing a few letters, my
dear Kircher; but to convert a poor terrene German emperor into a
Magnus-Apollo, would require the upheaval of mountains by Titan
hands, from now until the millennium. I would be content to be
myself, were I regarded as a beneficent and peace-loving monarch.
Consilio et Industria is the motto of my choice--a motto, which,
though inappropriate to a god, is pertinent as the device of a
Leopold. I would wish to govern with judgment, and labor
industriously for the welfare of my people, accepting with Christian
resignation whatever it pleases my Maker to apportion. All I ask of
Providence is some little leisure for the cultivation of my favorite
art. From music I derive such indescribable enjoyment, that, if I
could, I would die within hearing of its delicious melody. And,
since I have said so much, Kircher, I will go on to request of you,
that when my end draws near, you will attend to the fulfilment of my
wish."

"A melancholy duty you assign to me, gracious sovereign," sighed
Kircher. "But if I outlive you, it shall be lovingly performed. Let
us hope, however, for Austria's sake, that you will survive me by
many years."

"Life and death are in the hands of God," returned Leopold,
reverently. "And now let us speak of matters less serious. Here is
the score of a new opera, lately sent to me from Rome. It is called
'La Principessa Fidele,' and is composed by Scarlatti, who, as you
know, is winning a great reputation."

"Yes," growled Kircher. "he is winning reputation by tickling the
ears with soft strains which convey no meaning to the heart."

"Well, well, maestro, let us hear, before we decide," replied
Leopold, laughing.

Kircher placed the score upon the desk of the spinet, and began to
play. The emperor threw himself back again into his arm-chair, and,
closing his eyes, listened with an expression of great satisfaction.

But his pleasure was of short duration. Scarcely had Kircher
finished the first grand aria, before the door opened, and the
chamberlain of the day presented himself. Leopold frowned, and,
raising his head, asked somewhat impatiently, "Well,--what is it?"

"The members of your imperial majesty's council of war are in the
anteroom, and solicit an audience."

"Ask them to assemble in the small council-chamber, and I will join
them in a moment." Then, turning to Kircher, the emperor shook his
head. "Something unusual must have happened for the council to
assemble at such an early hour. You see, Kircher, that in these
troublous times an emperor can have no leisure hours; and, however I
may yearn to remain, I must leave you."

"Shall I return to-morrow morning?" asked Kircher.

"Happy is the man who can dispose of the morrow," sighed Leopold.
"It is more than an Emperor of Germany dare do. I must first
ascertain what news my council bring me; but, under any
circumstances, come, Kircher; for if I am not here, some distant
strain of your music may reach my ear to lighten my cares of state."

Resuming his hat, the emperor left the cabinet, and joined his
ministers in the council-chamber.



CHAPTER VII.

THE COUNCIL OF WAR.


The president, vice-president, and three members of the council,
awaited the entrance of the emperor. The president, the Margrave of
Baden, stood in the embrasure of a window, engaged in a whispered
conversation with the vice-president, General Count von Starhemberg,
whose eyes were continually wandering to the spot where the Duke of
Lorraine was profoundly engaged in the contemplation of a full-
length portrait of Charles V. Beyond, in the recess of another
window, stood the Counts von Kinsky and Portia, conversing in low
but earnest tones; both from time to time glancing at the Duke of
Lorraine with an expression of aversion which neither attempted to
disguise from the other.

"Do you think his majesty will bestow the chief command upon his
brother-in-law?" asked General Count Portia.

"Yes," replied Count Kinsky, with a shrug. "The emperor is so
inordinately fond of the Duke of Lorraine that he fancies him
endowed with military genius."

"General," whispered the Margrave of Baden to Count Starhemberg, "I
wish to say something to you in private. Can I rely upon your
discretion?"

"Your highness does me honor," was the reply, "and I promise
absolute silence as regards any thing you may be pleased to
communicate."

"Then I will go to the point at once. The Duke of Lorraine must not
have the command of the Austrian army. Do you sustain me?"

"Ah! Your highness, too, hates him."

The margrave smiled. "My dear general, that little word 'too '
proves that we are of one mind. Yes, I hate the Duke of Lorraine,
not per se, nor for any evil quality that I know of. I hate him as
one dangerous to the welfare of the state, and too influential with
its ruler, the emperor. Though he has the reputation of being a
great general, he longs for peace and retirement among his books and
maps at home; and he would rather submit to be humbled by foreign
powers than declare war against their aggressions, however insolent.
In other words, he hates bloodshed, and, if he is a soldier, he is
one that loves the pen far more than he does the sword."

"Your highness is right," returned Count Starhemberg; "the duke is
no soldier, and his appointment to the chief command of her armies
would be a misfortune for Austria. And, worse yet, he is so
opiniated that he never will listen to advice."

"Therefore we must work together to avert his appointment. We need a
young commander, brave, ambitious, and eager for renown."

"Like Prince Louis of Baden?" asked Von Starhemberg, smiling.

"Yes, like Prince Louis of Baden," said the margrave, emphatically.
"He is quite as brave and skilful as the duke; but he is modest, is
willing to listen to advice, and to be guided by the experience of
good counsellors. Instead of ruling the war department, he will be
ruled by it, and thus we will have unanimity both in field and
council. It is to your interest, therefore, to defeat the Duke of
Lorraine, and secure the appointment of my nephew."

"Your highness can count on me; but I am not very sanguine of
success."

"It may be easier of accomplishment than you think; at all events
let us make the attempt. We must represent war as inevitable; and,
having given an account of the formidable preparations making by the
enemy, we must counterbalance it all by a glowing exposition of our
own strength and resources. This will arouse the duke's spirit of
opposition, and he will forthwith discourse on the horrors of war. I
will take advantage of his disinclination to fight, to suggest that,
with such sentiments, he had better not aspire to command our
armies. In your quality of vice-president you come forward to
sustain my--Chut! Here comes the emperor."

All the members of the council bowed low, except the Duke of
Lorraine, who, having his back to the door, had not perceived the
entrance of the emperor. Leopold crossed the room, and the thickness
of the carpet so muffled his footfall that he had his hand on his
brother-in-law's shoulder before the latter had become aware of his
presence.

"What are you thinking of?" asked he, with an affable smile. "You
appear to be absorbed in admiration of our great ancestor."

"Yes, your majesty," replied the duke. "I was admiring the beauty of
his noble countenance, and thinking of the pride you must feel when
you remember that you are his descendant, and that his blood flows
in your veins."

Leopold bent his head in token of assent. "You are right; I AM proud
of my descent. Such an ancestry as mine should inspire a man to
noble deeds; and if I encourage pride of birth in my subjects, it is
because I believe it to be an incentive to virtue and honor.
Remembering, then, with mingled gratulation and humility, that we
are the posterity of Charles V., let us determine to-day to act in a
manner worthy of our great progenitor; for, by your haste to
assemble here this morning, I judge that we have weighty matters to
discuss. Be seated, and let us proceed to business."

So saying, the emperor glided into his arm-chair, which stood behind
a semicircular table, immediately under the portrait of Charles V.,
and his five counsellors occupied the tabourets around.

"And now, my lords," exclaimed Leopold, "let me hear what it is that
brings you hither at an hour so unusual."

"Dispatches from General Count Caprara, your majesty," replied the
Margrave Herman of Baden.

"And from France and Poland, likewise," added the Duke of Lorraine.

"Let us hear from General Caprara. We sent him to Turkey to make a
last effort at pacification. Our propositions, through him, were
such as must have proved to the Porte our earnest longing for peace.
Why did the general not present his dispatches in person?"

"Your majesty, it is out of his power to do so," was the reply.
"Your majesty's proposals were haughtily rejected, and, in their
stead, conditions were made which the general could not accept. The
grand-vizier was so incensed, that he arrested your envoy, and
forced him to accompany the Turkish embassy back to Constantinople.
He then marched his army to our frontiers, carrying along your
majesty's legation as prisoners of war. At Belgrade one of the
secretaries managed to make his escape, and to conceal on his person
the letters and documents of the general, which he has ridden day
and night to deliver into your majesty's hands."

"What is the purport of these documents?" said Leopold, who had
listened with perfect calmness to this extraordinary recital.

"First, your majesty, they contain an account of the general's peace
negotiations. They were all rejected, and the grand-vizier has
refused to renew the truce which has just expired. He requires new
conditions."

"Name them," said Leopold.

The margrave drew from his portfolio a document, and began to read.

"Austria shall pay yearly tribute to the Porte. She shall raze every
fortress she has erected on the Turkish frontier. She shall
recognize Count Tokoly as King of Hungary. She shall deliver to him
the island of Schutt, the fortress of Comorn, and all other
strongholds in Hungary, and place him on an equal footing with the
Prince of Transylvania."

"Which means neither more nor less than a declaration of war," cried
the emperor; "and General Caprara would have been a traitor had he
listened to such insulting proposals. My patience with this arrogant
Moslem is exhausted, and further forbearance would be a disgrace. We
have no alternative; we must go to war, trusting in God to defend
the right. Our cause is a holy one; and perhaps, with the blessing
of Heaven, it may be granted us to drive the infidel from Europe
forever. Go on, margrave. What other news have you?"

"Important information, your majesty, as to the strength of the
enemy's forces. The Sultan, at Belgrade, reviewed an army of two
hundred thousand men, all fully equipped, and anxious to retrieve
their losses at St. Gotthard. They have carried their fanaticism to
such an extent that they talk of planting the Crescent where the
Cross now looms from the towers of St. Stephen's in Vienna. Kara
Mustapha himself told General Caprara that, in a few weeks from now,
a Sultan of the West would seat himself on the throne of the
Emperors of Germany."

"God will punish his blasphemous boasting," returned Leopold. "God
will not suffer the Christian to perish before the might of the
Paynim. The die is cast for war, for war! At least, such is my
conviction: but if any one here be of opposite mind, let him speak
boldly. Freedom of speech in this chamber is not only his right, but
his solemn duty."

"War! war!" echoed the councillors, four of them vociferously, the
Duke of Lorraine deliberately, and so slowly that his voice came as
an echo of the words that were spoken by his colleagues.

The emperor was a little surprised. "Your highness is then of our
opinion?" asked he.

"I am, your majesty. War is inevitable, and we must risk our meagre
forces against the two hundred thousand men of the Sultan."

"True, we are not so numerous as the enemy," observed the Margrave
of Baden, "but our men are as well equipped and as enthusiastic as
those of the Porte, and, under the leadership of such a hero as the
Duke of Lorraine, we are certain of victory."

The duke shook his head. "The greatest general that ever led an army
into battle cannot hope for victory, when, to forces immensely
superior to his own, he opposes troops neither well armed nor well
provided."

"Happily," replied the margrave, "this is not the case with our men.
Without counting the auxiliaries that will be furnished by the
princes of the empire, we shall oppose a hundred thousand men to the
Turks. Moreover, we have been preparing for war, and for several
months have taken measures to arm our troops and provision them for
a campaign."

"Permit me to dispute your last assertion," replied the duke, whose
mild countenance kindled, and whose soft eyes began to glow. "It is
my duty to speak the truth to his majesty, and I shall do it
fearlessly. No, my liege, we have NOT a hundred thousand men, and
our soldiers are ill equipped and ill provided. As regards the
auxiliaries of the princes of the German empire, your majesty knows
that their deputies have been in Frankfort for months without having
yet held one single council to deliberate on the expediency of
sending or not sending re-enforcements to our army. I grieve to say
so, but the truth must be spoken. We have an insignificant army,
which, of itself, is inadequate to repel the Turkish hordes; and,
should they march to Vienna, our capital must fall, for I regret to
say that no measures have been taken for its defence. There are but
ten guns on the bastions; the trenches are so dry that they can be
crossed by foot-passengers, and the garrison consists of our
ordinary city guard, and one thousand troops of the line. For Vienna
to withstand a siege in this defenceless condition is impossible;
and, should the Turks be allowed to march hither, your majesty would
have to surrender."

"Your majesty," interrupted Count Starhemberg, vehemently, "leave to
me the defence of Vienna, and I swear that, sooner than deliver your
capital to the Turks, I will perish under its ruins."

"And I," added the margrave. "solemnly adjure your majesty not to
confide the chief command of your forces to the Duke of Lorraine,
for it is evident that he does not desire so perilous an
appointment. His highness has no confidence in our ability to
prosecute the war successfully; and no general can lead his soldiers
to victory who beforehand is convinced that they are destined to
suffer defeat."

"No general can lead his soldiers to victory who refuses to
contemplate the possibilities of defeat," exclaimed the Duke of
Lorraine, whose handsome face began to show traces of anger. "To
estimate his strength at its real value, he must at least learn
something of the size and condition of his army. It is the duty of a
commander-in-chief to see with his own eyes, and decide from his own
observation; for him, the men and stores that are exhibited to view
on the green cloth of a table within the walls of a council-chamber
have no significance whatever."

"Does your highness accuse me of an intention to deceive his
majesty?" cried the margrave, haughtily. "Do you--"

"Peace, gentlemen, peace!" interrupted the emperor. "We are here to
war with the stranger, not with our own flesh and blood. Every man
present shall speak his mind without censure from his colleagues;
and he who prevaricates is no true subject of mine. You are all free
to discuss our difficulties; it remains for me to decide in what
manner they shall be met. I beg to recall this fact to Count
Starhemberg, who unsolicited has offered to take upon himself the
defence of Vienna. My heartfelt thanks are due to the Duke of
Lorraine for his frank exposition of our disabilities; he is now, as
ever, the champion of truth and right. Has the Margrave of Baden any
further dispatches to lay before us?"

"No, your majesty," answered the margrave, pale with anger.

"Then let us have those of his highness of Lorraine," returned
Leopold, with an affectionate glance at his brother-in-law.

"I have couriers, your majesty, from Count von Mansfeld and from
Count von Waldstein."

"Let us hear the news from Paris first," replied Leopold, slightly
frowning. "Let us hear from our hereditary foe, who, under pretence
of coming to our rescue, pillages our property while the house is on
fire. We know full well that this fair-spoken Louis is in secret
league with our foes at home and abroad, and we confess that when he
invited us to be sponsor to his grandson, we accepted the honor with
an ill grace. By-the-by, has the young dauphin been baptized?"

"Yes, your majesty, and Count von Mansfeld was your imperial
majesty's proxy. After the ceremony the king held a long and
gracious conversation with your majesty's representative, in which
he expressed his great sympathy with your majesty, and requested
Count Mansfeld to say that he remembered you night and morning in
his prayers."

"The King of France will deceive neither the Lord of heaven nor His
servant the ruler of Austria, with his prayers," exclaimed Leopold,
with some show of warmth. "He merely means to say that he intends to
give us nothing more substantial. Would he but content himself with
cold neutrality, we would be willing to accept his prayers instead
of his works. But while he prays for us, he gives aid and comfort to
our enemies, who are less our enemies than such a sanctimonious
friend. But, enough of the King of France! To such an offensive
message I have no answer to return."

"Count von Mansfeld left Paris at once, your majesty, and proceeded
to Spain to urge the claims of his imperial highness, the Archduke
Charles, to the Spanish succession."

"Now let us hear from Count von Waldstein and Warsaw."

"Count von Waldstein was received with distinguished consideration.
The King of Poland, at least, is your imperial majesty's friend. You
remember that his wife is a French woman?"

"Yes," replied Leopold, shaking his head, "and a woman whose birth
is not illustrious enough for her station."

"She is, nevertheless, Queen of Poland, my liege, and is recognized
as such by the Poles. When the grandson of the King of France was
born, he purposely sent notification of the event to the King of
Poland, ignoring in his dispatches the queen. This omission of a
courtesy, customary among royal heads, offended the queen; and to
her resentment we are to attribute the gracious reception given to
our ambassador. My liege, our alliance with Poland is a fixed fact.
A treaty has been concluded, by which John Sobiesky pledges himself
to sustain Austria against Turkey, furnishing at once forty thousand
men who are ready for action as soon as needed."

"To what are we pledged in return for this?" asked Leopold.

"Merely to furnish on our part sixty thousand men, and to consult
with his majesty as to our operations."

"To consult with him!" repeated the emperor. "This looks as though
he expected to take part in our plans for the prosecution of this
war, instead of recognizing us as commander-in-chief."

"To exact such recognition from him would be unseemly," replied the
duke. "The King of Poland is a great captain as well as a crowned
head; and it would ill become us to dictate to a warrior, from whom
we should all regard it as a privilege to receive advice. Moreover,
as a crowned head, John Sobiesky is entitled to the first rank in
the field as well as in the cabinet."

"He is nothing more than an elected ruler," observed Leopold, with a
shrug. "For want of a better alliance, I must content myself with
that of John Sobiesky; but I put the question to you--suppose he
were to come to Vienna, how should I receive or entertain an elected
king?"

"With open arms, if he come to deliver us from our foes," [Footnote:
The duke's own words.--See Armath, "Prince Eugene of Savoy," vol.
i.] was the prompt reply. "Welcome are all who visit us as true
friends, but doubly welcome those who come in time of need. The King
of Poland has been the first prince to respond to our offers of
alliance, the first to co-operate with us in our struggle with the
infidel."

"But he will not be the last," interposed the Margrave of Baden. "I,
too, have good news for you, my liege. The Elector of Bavaria, to
whom I wrote for aid in your majesty's approaching troubles, has
promised not only a considerable body of troops, but offers to
command them in person. The Elector of Saxony, too, I think, will
co-operate with us. The council of the states of the German empire
also are in session at Frankfort, to consult as to the expediency of
joining your majesty's standard."

"And before the electors equip their men, and the council make up
their mind, the Turks will have marched to Vienna, unless we make a
junction with the King of Poland and intercept them on their way.
Each day of delay increases the peril, for they are already on this
side of Belgrade. Unless we can oppose them now, we are lost, and
all Bavaria, Saxony, and the states of the empire, cannot avert our
doom."

"Then, in God's name, let us act at once," cried the emperor, rising
from his seat. "President of the war department, let your troops be
in readiness to march, and see that our men are equipped and
provisioned."

"Your majesty's commands shall be obeyed."

"Duke of Lorraine," continued Leopold, "I appoint you to the chief
command of my forces. Go forth, and, with the blessing of God, do
battle for Christendom and Germany."

"I accept, your majesty," returned the duke, solemnly bending his
head. "Victory is in the hands of Almighty God; but bravery,
loyalty, and struggle unto death, I promise, on behalf of your
majesty's army."

"Count Rudiger von Starhemberg," resumed the emperor, "your petition
is granted. To you I commit the defence of my capital."

"Thanks, your majesty," exclaimed Von Starhemberg fervently. "I will
defend it with the last drop of my blood; and if Vienna fall into
the hands of the infidel, he shall find nothing left of her
stateliness, save a heap of ruins and the lifeless bodies of her
defenders."

"To you, Counts Portia and Kinsky, I commit the direction of the war
department, in conjunction with your colleague, the Margrave of
Baden. Let couriers be dispatched to all the European courts with
information of our declaration of war against the Porte. Let it be
announced to the world that, for the good of Christendom, Leopold
has grasped the sword; and, in this new crusade, may he confound the
unbelieving Turk, and glorify the standard of the Christian, in the
name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. And may the
Blessed Virgin, the Mother of Christ, vouchsafe her protection and
her prayers!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE PLAINS OF KITSEE.


On the first of May, 1683, the Emperor Leopold reviewed his troops
on the plains of Kitsee, not far from Preshurg, To this review, all
who had promised to sustain Austria were invited. Her appeals had at
last roused the German princes to action; but they had been so
dilatory in their councils, that not one of them was prepared for
war.

The army assembled on the plains of Kitsee was not numerous. There
were thirty-three thousand men in all, who, with their faded
uniforms and defective weapons, made no great show.

The emperor, as he emerged from his tent, looked discouraged.
Sternly he rode forth on his richly-caparisoned gray horse, and,
when his men greeted him with enthusiastic shouts, he bowed his head
in silence, and sighed heavily.

He turned to Charles of Lorraine, who rode a few paces behind him,
and said:

"Come hither, Carl." The duke obeyed at once, and at one bound was
at the emperor's side. "Tell me, Carl," said he, anxiously, "how
many infantry are there here?"

"Twenty-two thousand, your majesty."

"And cavalry?"

"Twelve thousand mounted troops."

"About what may be the strength of the enemy?"

"Your majesty, our scouts report that the combined forces of Turkey
and Hungary amount to more than two hundred thousand."

Leopold raised his eyes to the calm, self-possessed face of his
brother-in-law. "You say that, as quietly as if it were a pleasant
piece of news; and yet methinks we are in a critical position."

"Your majesty, I have known this for so long a time that I am
accustomed to contemplate it with equanimity. Before our decision
was made, I was timid and irresolute; but since the die is cast, I
am bold and self-reliant, for I know that I will either conquer or
die."

"You think success then a possibility! With thirty-three thousand
men, you hope to repulse two hundred thousand?"

"The King of Poland adds forty thousand to our number, the Electors
of Bavaria and Saxony are making preparations to re-enforce us, and
the other princes of Germany will soon follow their example. The
Moslem has put out all his strength for one decisive blow; the
longer we avoid an engagement the weaker he grows; while time to us
brings accession of numbers, and lessens his chance for reaching
Vienna."

The emperor shook his head. "That you are a hero, Carl, I confess:
this hour proves you one. But I cannot share your hopefulness. When
I look around me at all these men, and think that they are death-
doomed, my heart grows faint, and my eyes dim."

"Do not think so much of the number of your troops, sire; look at
their countenances. See those stern, resolute faces, and those fiery
eyes. Every man of them chafes to march against the infidel--"

"Hurrah for our emperor!" cried out a lusty voice, close by. "Hurrah
for our general, Charles of Lorraine!"

"Ah, Christopher III, are you there?" cried the duke, cordially.

"Yes, your highness," replied the cuirassier, while his horse
stepped a few paces in front of the ranks. "Yes, your highness, I am
here to fight the infidel with a will as good as I had at St.
Gotthard's twenty years ago. That was a glorious day; and I thank
God that I am alive to see your highness win another victory as
great over the insolent Turk."

"You think, then, that we will be victorious, Christopher?"

"Ay, indeed, your highness, for God is with us."

"Bravely spoken," said the emperor, gazing with visible satisfaction
at the wrinkled face and snow-white beard of the old cuirassier.

The Duke of Lorraine signed to him to advance. "Your majesty," said
he to Leopold, "allow me to present one of your bravest soldiers,
Christopher III. In all the army there is not a man as old as his
youngest son, and I venture to say that he is the oldest man in
Europe under arms."

"That is a broad assertion," replied Leopold. "How old may you be,
Christopher III?"

"Last Thursday I was a hundred and nine years old, please your
imperial majesty," said Christopher, bowing to his saddle-bow.

"A hundred and nine years old!" cried Leopold, incredulously. "Nay--
that is impossible. No man of that age could sit a horse or carry a
sword as you do."

"Your majesty, it is said in Holy Writ, that, when our fore-fathers
were five hundred years old, they were young and lusty; and I can
assure my emperor, that when once I am on my horse, with my sabre in
hand, I will fight with the best lad of twenty years. I mount rather
stiffly, because of a wound I received at Leipsic when we had the
ill-luck to be defeated by Gustavus Adolphus."

"Why, man, do you mean to say that fifty-two years ago you were in
the army?"

"Yes, sire; and there I received the wound from which I still suffer
to-day. The battle of Leipsic was far from being my first: it may
have been the twentieth, but I am not quite sure. When first I
entered the service, I used to mark our battles with a red cross
when we were victorious, and a black one when we were unfortunate;
but, after I had been in the army for twenty years, I stopped. There
were too many fights to record."

"But you can remember your first battle, can you not?"

"Certainly, sire. I began, as I am likely to end, by fighting the
Porte; and we defeated him then, as we assuredly intend to do now."

"When was it?" asked Leopold, with interest.

"Eighty years ago, sire, when the Hungarians and Turks made war upon
the Emperor Rudolph the Second. Yes, even then, the dogs were after
Vienna, and those mutinous Hungarians were giving trouble to your
majesty's forefathers. The Emperor Mathias, who succeeded his
brother, made a treaty with them for twenty years, for we had as
much on our hands as we could manage, with the rebels of Bohemia.
They rose again and again under the three Ferdinands, but we brought
them down at last. I have served under six emperors, and all have
vanquished their enemies, even as my last gracious sovereign Leopold
shall do. Long live our Leopold, the conqueror of the Turks!"

"Long live our Leopold!" shouted the cuirassiers, delighted with the
condescension of the emperor to Christopher. The shout was taken up
by the other troops, until it resounded like rolling thunder along
the plains of Kitsee.

The emperor greeted his army with something like a reflection of
their enthusiasm, and then returned to Christopher.

"Christopher," said he, "you have served under six emperors, and
have done more than your duty toward Austria. I give you your
discharge, for he who has worked faithfully all day has a right to
rest when night sets in. I appoint you castellan of my palace at
Innspruck; and, in addition to your salary, bestow upon you a
pension of four hundred florins."

"Thank your majesty, but indeed I cannot go," replied the old man,
resolutely. "I hardly think the Turkish hounds will ever get as far
as Innspruck, so I must e'en go forward with the army to fight them
wherever they are to be met. My night has not yet set in, sire."

"What!" cried Leopold, laughing, "you refuse?"

"Yes, your majesty. I crave neither pension nor sinecure. I intend
to follow the army, and, if God calls me hence, then I shall be
willing to rest; but before I go I hope to mow down a few Turks'
heads to take to St. Peter, for him to use as balls when he plays
ninepins. But, if your imperial majesty will grant it, you might do
me a favor."

"What is it, my brave cuirassier? tell me."

"Your majesty, will you allow me to present my sons, grandsons,
great-grandsons, and great-great-grandsons? They are all in my
regiment."

"The Eleventh Cuirassiers of Herberstein, your majesty," added the
Duke of Lorraine.

"Ah," cried the emperor, in a voice intended to be heard by all the
men, "that is an old and renowned regiment. Were you in it,
Christopher, when it was commanded by the great Dampierre in 16l9?"

"Yes, your majesty, I was the first man enrolled. I was there when
the regiment rescued the Emperor Ferdinand from a body of
insurgents, who had surrounded his imperial palace, and were trying
to compel him to abdicate. Just as they were forcing the gates, the
trumpets of Dampierre sounded an alarm, and the emperor was saved.
The cuirassiers galloped into the midst of the insurgents, and
dispersed them like so many cats."

"And to reward their loyalty and opportune aid," cried the emperor,
"Ferdinand conferred upon the Eleventh Cuirassiers the privilege of
riding through Vienna, trumpet sounding and colors flying, and of
pitching their tents on the Burgplatz." [Footnote: This is
historical, and in 1819, on the two hundredth anniversary of the
rescue, the privilege was extended to the present time.--See
Austrian Plutarch.]

"Hurrah! Hurrah! The emperor knows our history," shouted Christopher
Ill.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" echoed the regiment, and once more through the
plains of Kitsee rang the jubilant cry, "Long live Leopold! Long
live our emperor!"

"And now," said the emperor, when the shouts had died away, "now let
me see your children, my brave veteran.--Baron Dupin," added
Leopold, addressing himself to the colonel of the regiment, "will
you permit them to step out of their ranks?"

Baron Dupin bowed, and, riding to the front with drawn sword, he
called out: "All the descendants of Christopher Ill--forward!"

There was a general movement among the cuirassiers, and fifty-four
men rode up, and clustered around their common ancestor. There were
bronzed faces with white beards--others with gray; there were men in
the prime of life, and others in the flower; there were youths
approaching manhood, and lads that had scarcely emerged from
childhood; but from peeping bud to fruit that was about to fall,
they one and all resembled their parent stem; every mother's son of
them had Christopher Ill's aquiline nose, and large, sparkling eyes.

"Your majesty perceives," said the old man, looking proudly around
him, "that if I have sabred many a Turk's head, I have replaced each
one by that of a Christian; so that I owe nothing to humanity for
the damage my sword has done.--Now, boys, cry out, 'Long live the
emperor!'"

So the boys, young and old, echoed the shout; the regiment took it
up, and for the third time Leopold's heart was cheered by the
enthusiastic affection of the army.

"Well, Christopher," said he, gayly, "although you reject my pension
for yourself, you will not, I hope, reject it for your sons. Let it
be divided between them, and long may you live to see them enjoy
it!"

With these words, the emperor raised his hat, and waving it in token
of adieu, he returned to his tent, far happier than he had left it
some hours before.

"Carl," said he to the Duke of Lorraine, "I thank you for presenting
Christopher III to my notice. That old man's spirit is catching, and
I feel the pleasant infection. I recognize the might of bravery, and
it seems as if my small army had doubled its numbers. This veteran,
who in his person unites the history of six of my predecessors, has
taught me that individuals are nothing in the sight of God. Six
emperors have succumbed to the immutable laws of Nature, but the
house of Hapsburg is still erect. What, then, if I meet with
reverses? The Lord has given me a son, who, if I should be
unfortunate, will prop up our dynasty, and avenge his father's
misfortunes."

"We will try to leave him none to avenge, sire. Your men are full of
loyalty, and God will preserve your majesty's life until your son is
fit to be your successor."

"His holy will be done!" said Leopold, crossing himself; then,
having given orders for an advance upon the fortress of Neuhausel,
he changed his dress preparatory to starting for Vienna.

He had just been equipped in his black travelling-suit when Prince
Louis of Baden entered the tent, followed by a young man whose
simple costume presented a striking contrast to the magnificence of
the uniforms around. He wore a brown coat buttoned up to the throat,
leaving visible merely the ends of his cravat of costly Venetian
lace. Ruffles of the same encircled his white hands, which, it was
easy to see, had never been hardened by work, or browned by the sun.
His face, though youthful, bore traces of thought and suffering; and
his bearing was self-possessed, although every eye was upon him.

"Whom bring you hither?" inquired Leopold, with a smile.

"Your majesty, I bring nothing but a young Savoyard: nevertheless I
predict that, one of these days, he will be one of the great
generals of the world." [Footnote: The Margrave of Baden's own
words.--See Arinatli, "Prince Eugene," vol. i., p. 23.]

"I am not so presumptuous as to expect that I will ever rival Prince
Louis of Baden or Charles of Lorraine," said Eugene. "All I have to
ask of your majesty is the favor of being allowed to serve under
them."

There was a pause. Everybody looked in amazement at the bold being
who, all court etiquette disregarding, had ventured to address the
emperor without being spoken to by his majesty; but he was perfectly
unconscious of his blunder. He looked so frank, so modest, and yet
so unembarrassed, that the emperor was disarmed, and a smile
nickered over his pleasant face.

"I see that he is a stranger," was Leopold's deprecatory remark.
"Present him, your highness, that I may welcome him to Austria."

The prince, taking the young man by the hand, led him up to the
emperor.

"Sire, I have the honor to present you my kinsman, Prince Eugene of
Savoy. He has come to Austria to join his brother, and like him, to
serve under the Austrian flag."

"Prince Eugene of Savoy, you are welcome to Austria," said Leopold,
graciously.

Eugene answered the salutation by a low bow, and then calmly raised
his head. But Prince Louis of Baden whispered in his ear, "The
Spanish genuflection--quick! bend the knee!"

Eugene looked surprised, for he had not understood the warning. But
the emperor had overheard, and came once more to the rescue.

"Never mind the Spanish genuflection," interposed he, with a good-
natured laugh. "The prince is not my subject; he has been educated
in France, where people know little or nothing of the customs and
usages of our court."

But scarcely were the words out of Leopold's mouth before Eugene had
approached his arm-chair, and had fallen on one knee.

"Sire," said he, in his soft, melodious voice, whose tones went
straight to the emperor's heart, "allow me to consider myself as
your subject, and to render you homage according to the usages of
your majesty's court. It is my misfortune to have been educated in
France, and thereby to have lost twenty years of my life."

"Why lost?" inquired Leopold. "What was wanting in France to make
you happy?"

"Every thing, sire!" cried Eugene, warmly. "And the only thing I did
not want was thrust upon me."

"What was that?"

"The tonsure, sire. I begged the King of France for an insignificant
commission in his army; I was scornfully repulsed. And now that I
have shaken the dust of his dominions from my feet, I never wish to
return thither unless--"

"Well," said the emperor, as Eugene paused. "Finish your sentence.
'Unless'--"

Eugene raised his magnificent eyes until they met those of the
emperor. Then, in a calm voice, he continued:

"Unless I could do so as his majesty's victorious enemy." [Footnote:
Eugene's own words.--See Rene, "Mazarin's Nieces."]

"Your majesty sees that he is the stuff of which heroes are made,"
observed Louis of Baden.

"You do not love France?" said Leopold.

"Sire, my family and I have suffered persecution at the hands of the
French monarch, and I yearn for satisfaction. Your majesty sees how
unfit I am to be a priest, for I cannot love my enemies, nor do good
to those who despitefully use we."

"Let us hope that you will learn this lesson later. Meanwhile you
seem more fitted for the career of a soldier than the vocation of a
churchman. Your appearance here reminds me of my own youth. I, too,
was destined for the priesthood, and wore the garb of an abbe. I was
a younger son, and nothing but an appendage to royalty. But it
pleased God of His servant to make a sovereign, and to send as His
messenger, death. My brother Ferdinand, the hope of Austria, died,
and I stepped forth from my insignificance to become the heir to a
mighty empire. Your brother Louis has frequently mentioned you to
me, and from him I learned that at the French court you were known
as 'the little abbe!' If of me, who was once a novice, Almighty God
has made an emperor--of you, little abbe, He may make a great
warrior!"

"Sire, my fate is in His hands; but all that lies in my own, I will
do to serve your majesty as your loyal subject, hoping to follow
from afar in the footsteps of the distinguished models before me."
At the same time, Eugene bowed low to the Duke of Lorraine.

"Will you take him as your pupil?" asked Leopold of his brother-in-
law. "No one in Austria can teach him better how to win laurels."

"With your majesty's permission, I accept the task," replied the
duke. "But he must expect to find me a hard master, and, as my pupil
in war, to have little leisure for aught else."

"You see," said Leopold, gayly, "what a miserable lot you have
chosen for yourself. You have fallen from Scylla into Charybdis, my
poor youth."

"I have my Ulysses, your majesty, in his highness of Lorraine. I
give myself up to his sage guidance."

"If Prince Eugene is as ready with his sword as with his tongue, my
enemies will have to look out, methinks," cried Leopold. "So take
him along, Duke of Lorraine, and of the little abbe of the King of
France make a great captain for the Emperor of Austria."

"With your majesty's permission, I will confer upon him the rank of
colonel, and the first vacancy that occurs. Until then, prince, you
can accompany me as a volunteer."

"As a volunteer for life, your highness," replied Eugene; "and,
although I have already to thank his majesty for much gracious
encouragement, I feel more grateful to him for placing me under your
highness's orders, than for any other of the favors he has so kindly
bestowed upon me to-day."

"I am glad to know it," returned the emperor. "Follow your leader,
then, my young friend; and see that, although you have relinquished
the priesthood, you hold fast to Christianity. We part for a time,
but we shall meet again before long. Let us hope that it may be to
give thanks to God for victory and peace."

The emperor then rose, and, followed by his officers, left the tent.
His carriage stood without, and in a few moments, amid the
respectful greetings of his staff, and the hurrahs of the army, he
disappeared from the plains of Kitsee.

The Duke of Lorraine signed to Eugene to follow him. Laying his hand
gently upon the prince's shoulder, he said: "Young man, you have
requested me to be your instructor, and I have accepted the office,
for you please me, and my heart inclines toward you. Let me then
begin at once. I wish to give you some advice."

"I am all attention, your highness."

"Weigh well your words, before you give them utterance. You will
find enemies in the Austrian ranks, as well as in those of the
Turkish army. You have already gained a few; and by-and-by, if you
are not careful, you will have as many as myself."

"What can I have done, your highness, during the half hour I have
spent in his majesty's tent, to provoke enmity from the strangers
around me? That you should have enemies, I comprehend; for
distinction always calls forth envy. But I, an unknown youth! who
could envy me?"

"Those who saw how graciously you were welcomed by the Emperor of
Austria. But that is not all. You have offended your kinsman, Louis
of Baden. It was he who presented you to the king. He is a brave and
distinguished officer, and deserved all the compliments you bestowed
upon me. Believe me, if you know your own interest, you will select
him for your model and master in the art of war. He will be
flattered at your preference, and will serve you efficiently. His
friendship is worth having."

"I love Louis of Baden from my heart," said Eugene; "and, AFTER your
highness, he has the first place in my consideration and esteem."

"After me, say you? Give him the first place, and he will procure
you rapid advancement. For myself, I am unpopular, and if you love
or respect me, do so in secret. You will not long have been an
Austrian officer before you make the discovery that it is not
politic to praise Charles of Lorraine."



CHAPTER IX.

THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD.


War had begun. Kara Mustapha advanced into Austria, looking neither
to the right nor the left, marching onward, onward to Vienna. Such
obstacles as he encountered on his way he removed by the might and
strength of his forces, as an elephant lifts his ponderous foot to
crush a pigmy lying in his path. His march was through burning
villages and devastated fields; the glare of his torch illumined the
sky, the blood of his victims reddened the earth. Austria's
desponding hopes were concentrated upon the Duke of Lorraine; for
the King of Poland had not arrived, and the Elector of Bavaria was
yet undecided.

The army of the allied enemies increased daily, while that of the
Austrians was decimated partly by contagious diseases, partly by a
division of their forces, for the defence of the only fortress which
was in a condition to arrest the advance of the Turks.

The duke's army, which now numbered twenty-three thousand men, was
encamped in front of the fortress of Raab; for here the Turks would
make their first attack, and to possess Raab was to hold the key of
Upper Hungary and Central Austria. The army had halted there in the
course of the afternoon, but, as night approached, the hum of action
gradually ceased, and gloomy silence reigned throughout. No groups
of merry soldiers gathered round the camp-fires with laugh, or jest,
or mirthful song. Some slept from exhaustion and discouragement,
others sat mournfully gazing toward the east, which, unlike the dark
horizon around, was lit up with a fiery glow, that marked the
advance of the ferocious invaders. In one tent pitched on a hillock
that overlooked the camp-ground, a faint light shone through the
crevices of the curtain; and this glimmering spark was the only sign
of life that was to be seen. The rest of the camp was in utter
darkness.

The tent whence beamed this solitary light was that of the
commander-in-chief, to whom his scouts had just brought intelligence
which necessitated prompt action. He had sent for General Caprara
and Prince Louis of Baden; and when his interview with them Was at
an end, he dispatched his adjutant for Prince Eugene of Savoy.

In a few moments Eugene raised the hangings of the tent and silently
saluted his commander. The latter seemed not to have perceived his
entrance. He stood before a table, leaning over a map on which he
was tracing and retracing lines with his fingers. Eugene stepped
closer, and followed the motions of the duke with his eyes. He
seemed to understand them; for his countenance expressed anxiety and
astonishment.

A long pause ensued, after which the duke raised his head and spoke:

"You have been here for some time?"

"Yes, your highness; I came as soon as I received your orders."

"I saw the shadow of your head on the map. You were watching my
fingers attentively. I was glad to see that you were interested.
What did you infer from your inspection of the map?"

"I will try to tell your highness as well as I can," was the modest
reply. "You began by drawing a line from Stuhlweissenhurg with three
fingers. This represented the Turkish army, composed of three
columns. Your forefinger represented the left wing, your third the
right wing, and your middle finger the main body of the army. The
two wings were then detached, and made a circuitous march to capture
the fortress of Wesgrim. They again joined the main army, and I saw,
with astonishment, that the consolidated forces had flanked Raab,
Comorn, and Leopoldstadt, had passed by the shores of the Neusidler
Sea, and were now encamped on the banks of the Leitha."

"You have guessed most accurately," cried the duke, who had listened
in amazement to Eugene's reply.

"It was not difficult to do," remarked the latter. "Since I have had
the honor of serving under your highness, I have studied this map
daily. I know every thicket, every forest, every stream laid down
upon it. The whole country which it comprises is as familiar to me
as if I surveyed it all at a glance. It is not, then, surprising
that I should understand the movements of your highness's fingers."

"You think it quite natural--I consider it extraordinary. But you
have raised my curiosity to know whether you also were able to
interpret what followed."

"After accompanying the enemy to the banks of the Leitha, your
highness stopped, raised your hand, and laid your finger upon the
fortress of Raab. This, of course, denotes the position of our own
army, and the direction in which we are to move."

"Move? We came here to defend this stronghold."

"We have been flanked, and have nothing to gain by a defence of
Raab. With your finger, then, upon Raab, you were deliberating as to
the route we are to take; since it is evident that, if we are not
prompt, we will be cut off from Vienna. You made two divisions of
your army. One finger traced a line across the island of Schutt to
Presburg, and thence to Vienna; this, I presume, denotes the march
of the infantry. The other finger, on the left bank of the Danube,
drew a line from Wieselburg to Hamburg, and this route would be for
our cavalry--it is too rough for foot-soldiers."

The duke listened with growing interest, and when Eugene ceased, he
put his arm affectionately around the neck of the young officer, and
exclaimed, "I congratulate you, Eugene. You will be a great captain.
You will be a better general than I. Let us hope that you will also
be a more fortunate one--that you will complete what I have begun--
avenge Austria's wrongs on France, and restore her to her place as
one of the four great powers. You have not only the instincts of a
soldier, but the quickness and penetration which constitute military
genius. My pupil, I think, will ere long become my master."

"Ah!" replied Eugene, "unless you keep me as a pupil, I shall never
become a master."

"The little that I know you shall learn from me, Eugene. I have
predicted for you a glorious career, and, as far as lies in my
power, I will contribute to your success. But success is as much the
fruit of policy as of genius. You must not proclaim your preference
for me to the world; it will impede your advancement. To obtain
promotion you must be an ostensible adherent of my enemies; and for
this reason I shall give you some command near the persons of
General Caprara and Louis of Baden."

"Your highness, Louis of Baden is not--"

"My enemy, you would say? Believe me, I know human nature better
than you do; but I have no resentment against Louis on account of
his animosity. He is young, ambitious, and capable; it is therefore
but natural that he should covet my position. He will obtain it, for
all my enemies will give him their suffrages, and chief among them
all is the Margrave Herman. I, on the contrary, have but one friend-
-the emperor."

"But the emperor is a host within himself," cried Eugene.

"If you think so, it is because you are unacquainted with the
intrigues of the Austrian court. The privy council has more power
than Leopold; and the veritable ruler of Austria is the minister of
war, who, from his green-covered table, plans our battles and
commands our armies. What do you suppose are my instructions from
the war department? I must first, with my thirty-three thousand men,
hold the entire Turkish army in check; I must garrison Raab, Comorn,
and Leopoldstadt; I must defend fifty miles of frontier between the
pass of Jublunkau and Pettau; I must oppose the passage of the enemy
to Vienna; and having accomplished all these impossibilities, I must
end by giving him battle wherever and whenever I meet him."
[Footnote: Kausler, "Life of Eugene of Savoy."]

"Impossible, indeed!" cried Eugene, indignantly.

"And, for that very reason, assigned to me as my duty. For, as I
shall certainly not accomplish it, there will be an outcry at my
incapacity, and a pretext for my removal. I shall fulfil my
obligations nevertheless, as conscientiously to foes as to friends.
I have borne arms for the emperor against France, Sweden, Hungary,
and Turkey; if it serve his interests or those of Austria, I am
ready to struggle with his enemies at home; but, if my championship
is to be dangerous to my sovereign or to my country, I shall resign
without a protest. As for you, my son, the path of glory is open to
you; perhaps before another sun has set, you may flesh your maiden
sword in the blood of the infidel. You have anticipated my
intentions. We are about to march to Vienna. Do you hear the signal?
The men are being awakened; and in one hour we must be on our way. I
sent for you to bid you farewell. So far, you have been attached to
my person, and I have learned to esteem and love you. But the
opportunity for you to distinguish yourself is at hand, and I must
no longer retain you by me. I assign you to your brother's regiment
of dragoons. It belongs to the brigade of Prince Louis, and the
division of General Caprara. I part from you reluctantly, but I do
it for your own good; and I hope soon to make honorable mention of
my favorite officer to the emperor."

"My dear lord," answered Eugene, in a voice that trembled with
emotion, "I will do all that I can to deserve your approval. I care
for naught else in this world; and if after a battle you say that
you are satisfied with me, I shall be richly rewarded for any peril,
any sacrifice."

At this moment the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and the
duke's staff entered. He waved his hand in token of adieu to Eugene,
at the same time saying:

"And now, colonel, Prince of Savoy, you will join your brother's
regiment. It has received its orders, and is in readiness to
depart."

Eugene bowed low and left the tent.

The Austrian camp was now alive and in motion, but the men were
spiritless and taciturn. Conscious of the immense superiority of the
enemy, they advanced to meet him with more of resignation than of
hope. Not only were they out-numbered, but their foe was one whose
every step was marked by incendiarism and murder. The zest, the
incentive to gallantry, was gone; and, believing that they were
going forth to death, they went like victims to an inevitable doom.
Far different were the feelings with which Eugene mounted his horse,
and crossed the field to join the division of General Caprara. He
found Prince Louis of Savoy already in the saddle, awaiting his
arrival. The brothers greeted each other with fondest affection.

"Dear Eugene," said Louis, "my heart is joyous, since I know that we
are to go in company. How sweet and home-like it is to have you with
me! By-and-by, we shall see you cutting off Turks' heads as if they
were poppies."

"For each one that I send to his account, I mean to claim a kiss
from my beautiful sister-in-law."

"You are welcome if you can get them," laughed Louis. "But Urania is
not prodigal of her kisses, Eugene; I never was able to obtain a
single one until she became my wife. But let us not speak of her.
Love is any thing but an incentive to valor; and just now I almost
envy you who have never loved. If you intend to be a soldier, twine
no myrtle with your laurels until you shall have attained renown."

Eugene's brow darkened, and a gleam of anguish shot athwart his
countenance. "I shall never," began he--

But just at that moment the trumpet's peal was heard, and Prince
Louis, galloping off, gave the word of command to move on.

And now was heard the roll of the drum, the clang of arms, the stamp
of horses, and the measured tread of men. The infantry took the
left, the cavalry the right bank of the Danube. When morning dawned,
the camp lay far behind them, but the road was long that led to
Vienna.

The two Princes of Savoy rode together. Little had been said by
either one, but whenever their eyes met, each read in the glance of
the other that he was dearly loved, and then they smiled, and
relapsed into silence. After riding in this way for several miles,
Prince Louis spoke.

"I wish to ask you something, Eugene. But promise not to ridicule
me."

"I promise, with all my heart."

"Then tell me--do you believe in dreams and presentiments?"

Eugene reflected for a while and then said, "Yes--you know that our
family have every reason to believe in dreams. Mine have often been
realized; and often too, I must confess, that they have deceived me-
-but still I am a believer."

"Well, then," said his brother, "I shall meet my death to-day."

Eugene shuddered. "Meet your death!" exclaimed he. "This is a grim
jest, dear Louis."

"No jest, brother; a serious prediction. Last night I saw myself
mortally wounded, and I heard the wailing of my wife and children,
when the news of my death was brought to them. It was so vivid that
it awakened me. Dear Eugene, if I fall, be a brother to my Urania, a
father to my children."

"I will, I will, Louis, but God forbid that they should need
protection from me! Were you to die, I should lose my only friend,
for whom have I to love in this world besides yourself, dear
brother?"

"Nay, Eugene," returned Louis, "I cannot be your only or your
dearest friend, for you do not trust me. From our cousins, the
Princes de Conti, I learned that you had endured some great sorrow
at the hands of Louvois, the French minister of war. I have waited
for you to confide your troubles to me, but--Great God! What is the
matter?"

Eugene had reined in his horse with such force, that it seemed to be
falling back upon its haunches. His face was deadly pale, and his
hand raised imploringly.

"My head reels," murmured he, in return. "I dare not think of the
past, much less speak of it. Dear, dear brother, do not exact it of
me. Be content to know that, for three days of my life, I was happy
beyond the power of man to express--but for three days only. What
followed almost cost me my reason; and the mere mention of my
misfortune unsettles it to-day. Give me your hand, and let us drop
this subject forever, Louis. I have no past; futurity is everything
to me."

"So be it," replied Louis, grasping his brother's hand with fervor.
"From this day we are comrades for life!"

Their hands remained clasped for a few seconds: then, as by a
simultaneous impulse, the brothers struck spurs into their horses'
flanks, and galloped swiftly onward. The troops were allowed to halt
but once during the day; they went on and on until sunset, when they
arrived within sight of the market-town of Petronelle. Between the
city and the tired troopers was a wide plain, whose uniformity was
broken here and there by the ruins of ancient Roman fortifications.

Suddenly there was a cry, a clash of swords, and a clang of trumpets
uttering strange sounds; and, as the regiment of the Princes of
Savoy was defiling along a passage between the ruins, a troop of
Tartars that had been in ambuscade behind, sprang out, uttering the
most hideous yells.

"Forward!" cried Prince Louis, brandishing his sword.

"Forward!" echoed Eugene, joyfully, spurring his horse into their
very midst. For a while the brothers fought side by side, Louis with
calm intrepidity, Eugene with the instinct, the enthusiasm, the
inspiration of genius. His sword mowed down the Tartars as the
reaper's scythe sweeps away the grass; but unhappily the attack had
been so sudden, and the cries which had accompanied it so frightful,
that the Austrians became panic-stricken, and their ranks
disorderly.

In vain the elder Prince of Savoy tried to rally them; in vain
Eugene, followed by a few veterans, called upon them to charge; his
reckless gallantry availed him nothing. Finally his arm with its
unsheathed sword, dropped discouraged at his side.

"Lost, lost!" cried he to his brother. "Lost and disgraced!"

"Yes, by Heaven, they are flying!" was the despairing reply. But as
he spoke the words, he saw that he was in error. The galloping
horses were coming nearer and nearer, and now they saw that re-
enforcement was at hand. The Duke of Lorraine with his cavalry was
flying to their rescue, and the fight was resumed. The dragoons,
encouraged by the sight of their Commander-in-chief, now charged the
Tartars, and they in their turn began to fly.

Prince Louis was eager to pursue them, and, calling his men, the
chase began. His horse outstripped the others, and unhappily was so
conspicuous a mark, that the arrow of a Calmuck, hidden behind the
ruins of a triumphal arch, pierced his breast. Maddened by pain, the
animal leaped so high in the air that his rider was thrown to the
ground; and while the horse rushed on, his master was trodden down
by his own dragoons, who, in the eagerness of pursuit, trampled
their unfortunate commander to death.

The enemy had been repulsed, and the troops were in better spirits.
Eugene rode from rank to rank, repeating the same words, "Where is
my brother? Where is the Prince of Savoy?"

Not a man there could answer his questions, for not one had seen his
leader fall. At length, it was remembered that a wounded horse had
been seen madly rushing over the plain, but the excited troopers had
given no heed to the circumstance; it was an occurrence too common
in an engagement, to arrest them for a moment from their pursuit of
an enemy.

Eugene's heart was bounding with joy, and he had been seeking his
brother to give and receive congratulations. His countenance, which
had been glowing with pride, became suddenly disturbed; his flashing
eyes grew dull and leaden, and so for one moment he sat, stricken
and motionless. But he started from his lethargy, and crying out to
his men, "Follow me!" they galloped away to the spot where the dying
and the dead were heaped together near the ruined arch where the
Tartars had been concealed.

In an instant the unfortunate youth saw the body of his brother. He
flung himself from his horse, and knelt down by his side. Gracious
Heaven! was that bruised and shapeless mass all that remained of the
comeliness and grace of Louis of Savoy!

Eugene bent down, and, lovingly as a mother lifts her newborn
infant, he raised his brother's mangled head, and rested it upon his
arm. The hot tears that fell upon that poor, bleeding face, awoke
the small remnant of life that was pulsating in the dying prince's
heart, and his filmy eyes unclosed. Their light was almost
extinguished, but Eugene saw that he was recognized, for the feeble
spark kindled, and the pale lips fluttered.

"My dream!" were the words he uttered, "my dream!"

"No, no!" cried Eugene, in piercing tones of anguish, while with his
trembling hand he stroked his brother's hair and wiped the death-dew
from his brow.

"Eugene," murmured Louis, "my wife--my chil--"

"Oh! they shall be mine--mine, beloved," was the passionate reply.

"Kiss me, brother, and--bear the kiss to my Urania."

Eugene stifled his sobs, and kissed the pale, cold lips. A shudder
crossed the frame of the dying man, a torrent of blood gushed from
his lips, and moving his head so that it rested close to his
brother's heart, he expired.

With a groan, Eugene fell upon his lifeless body. How long he had
lain there he knew not, when he felt a gentle touch upon his
shoulder. He looked up, and beheld the Duke of Lorraine.

"Prince Eugene," said he, "war has claimed from you a terrible
sacrifice. You have lost a brother whom you most tenderly loved. But
a soldier must conquer grief; and who more than he should remember
that death, however painful, cancels all human woes?"

Eugene rose slowly to his feet, and raised his hand all purple with
his brother's gore. "See," said he, "my brother has given me the
baptism of war, and now I dedicate myself to strife. This blood-
besprinkled hand shall smite the Turk, shall ruin his fields, shall
devastate his towns.--Ah, Louis! Ambition has hitherto been my
incentive to glory, but revenge is stronger than ambition, and
revenge shall lift me to greatness!"

The setting sun poured down a stream of light upon the speaker, who,
small, delicate, and insignificant, seemed transfigured into the
genius of war. The dragoons around looked upon him with awe; and,
long years after, they were accustomed to relate the circumstance of
Prince Louis's death, and Prince Eugene's vow.



CHAPTER X.

VIENNA.


"The Turks, the Turks! The Tartars are coming! The Duke of Lorraine
has been defeated! We are lost!"

Such were the cries in Vienna, on the morning of the 8th of July,
1683. A courier from the Duke of Lorraine had brought news of the
unfortunate skirmish near Petronelle, and had warned the emperor of
the approach of the enemy. Leopold had acted upon the information at
once, and preparations were making by the royal family to evacuate
Vienna.

This fact was no sooner known throughout the city, than thousands of
its inhabitants prepared to follow. If the emperor deserted his
capital, it was because he knew that it must fall; and those who
loved their lives were determined to fly. From palace to hut there
was but one common feeling--a frenzied desire to go elsewhere--
anywhere rather than remain to be butchered by the infidel.

Whosoever possessed a carriage, a wagon, a cart, was an object of
greater envy than he who counted his treasures by millions.
Incredible prices were offered and received for the roughest of
conveyances. Before every house stood vehicles of every kind,
crowded with fugitives, upon whom the poorer classes gazed with
longing eyes; many of them, by dint of tears and prayers, obtaining
liberty to hang on the wagons as they drove away.

And now amid the throng arose a cry. "The emperor! the emperor!"

Yes--he sat in his imperial carriage, pale, mournful, silent. And at
his side, sorrowful as he, was the Empress Eleanor. Behind them, in
another carriage, came the aja, with the crown prince of Austria in
her arms. Alas! not even for that innocent babe was there safety to
be found in the doomed city.

The people, like madmen, rushed through the streets behind the
imperial cortege. Whither their sovereign went, they determined to
follow; for with him, they fancied, they would find refuge from the
terrible Turk.

The retinue of the emperor took the way toward the Danube, and the
long train of carriages thundered over its wide bridge. At intervals
the people shouted:

"Follow his imperial majesty! Whither our sovereign travels, we must
go for safety!" And for six hours the bridge was thronged with
passengers; some in vehicles, some clinging to vehicles; ladies and
lackeys together in rumbles, or together hanging to the carriage-
doors. Never in his life had such a cortege followed the Emperor of
Austria; and certainly a procession more mournful had never
accompanied a sovereign before. Leopold's destination was Linz; but
the way was tedious, the roads sandy, and the sun's rays scorching.
Poor horses! they were white with sweat; but still the drivers urged
them on, for relays there were none. Terror had almost depopulated
the country. Toward nightfall the fugitives were compelled to halt,
for their tired animals were too stiff to travel farther, and
themselves were weary and hungry.

They had reached a small village, where Leopold gave orders to have
beds and supper prepared for his pale and worn-out empress.

"Ah, yes!" sighed she, "I am hungry and sleepy."

But from some mismanagement, the wagons containing the beds and
provisions of the imperial family had either stopped on the way, or
had never left Vienna.

The poor empress folded her hands and began to pray. The emperor
bowed his head. "My house is sorely in need," said he, sadly, "but
we are all in the hands of Almighty God. Whithersoever it be His
will to exile us, I am ready to go; and may His holy will be done!"

The imperial pair then left their carriage, and, a bed being made of
the cloaks of the pages, they laid them down to sleep under the
dark-blue vault of the spangled heavens. But, at the dawn of day,
they resumed their journey. The horses had rested, and the gentlemen
of the imperial household had procured some homely refreshments for
the famished monarch and his family. It consisted of eggs, milk, and
black bread; but hunger lent it savor, and their majesties ate with
more relish, perhaps, than they had ever done before.

They set out again. Their way now lay over cornfields, where the
farmers, with their maids and men, were gathering the wheat, and
binding it into sheaves. They, too, were in terror of the Turks;
but, when they saw the imperial cortege slowly plodding its way
through the sandy road, they stopped their work, and, coming up to
the portieres, intruded their coarse, brutal faces into the very
carriages themselves. They stared at the empress and jeered at the
emperor; inquired how he liked his crown, and why he did not wear it
on his head. They added that it was a fine thing to be on a throne,
to be sure; but emperors had a right to their share of trouble in
this world, quite as much as other people; perhaps they deserved a
little more than others.

When the officers and pages around heard this insolent scoffing,
they drew their swords, and would have made short work of the boors;
but Leopold forbade the use of violence. "Let them alone," said he,
mildly. "They are quite right. It is easy to be a monarch while the
sun shines, and the empire prospers; let me hope to prove to my
subjects that I can bear my reverses with humility and fortitude.
Let these people alone; for all trials come from above, and in His
own good time God will help us, and end our tribulations."

The peasants, ashamed, slunk back into their fields, and the
imperial retinue went on to Linz, while for those that had remained
in Vienna there ensued a period of danger, hardships, and terrible
endurance.

Count Rudiger von Starhemberg, who had been chosen to defend Vienna,
entered upon his perilous responsibilities with enthusiasm and
energy. Rich and poor, great and small, were called upon to
contribute to the general welfare. Nobles of high degree worked on
the defences; ladies brought baskets of provisions to the laborers;
and the mayor of Vienna, by way of setting the example to his
inferiors, carried sand all day in a wheelbarrow to the
fortifications. But bravely as they worked, each day augmented their
danger. The sentinels on St. Stephen's towers could see, by the
reddened heavens, that the Turk was approaching. On the 12th of July
the summit of the Kahlenberg was seen to be in flames; and the
besieged had no need to be told that a monastery had been destroyed,
and its occupants perchance put to the sword. Kara Mustapha invested
Vienna, and sent to demand the surrender of the city. It was
refused, and the siege was begun.

The Turks pitched their tents at the distance of several miles, and
began to mine. Meanwhile a terrible fire broke out in Vienna which
threatened destruction to its inhabitants. Driven onward by a high
wind, it consumed street after street, and at length approached the
arsenal, within whose precincts were a shot-tower and the powder-
magazine. Thousands of citizens were at the engines, making
despairing efforts to arrest the conflagration; but the licking
flames came fast and faster toward the shot-tower. The wretched
Viennese had given up every hope of salvation, when Count Guido von
Starhemberg, the nephew of the commanding general, rescued Vienna at
the risk of his own life. Accompanied by a few soldiers, he entered
the tower, and deluged the powder-barrels with water. Animated by
the noble devotion of the young count, others followed him with new
supplies. The windows of the powder-magazine were then walled up,
and the fire extinguished.

Scarcely had the Viennese recovered from this threatened catastrophe
before danger assailed them from another quarter. The Turkish lines
grew closer around the city, and the Duke of Lorraine, who, in the
interim, had arrived, and had encamped on an island in the Danube,
was forced back to Moravia, there to await the long-promised succor
of the King of Poland, and the long-procrastinated re-enforcements
of the Elector of Bavaria.

Within the gates their foes were sickness, discouragement, hunger,
and mutiny. With these intestine enemies Count von Starhemberg
battled manfully. His own spirit and courage were the weapons he
used to keep down discontent. Day and night he was in the trenches;
and when, by skilful countermining, his men had succeeded in taking
the lives of a few hundred Turks, Count von Starhemberg embraced the
miners, and took the earliest opportunity of rewarding them.

Undaunted by the Turkish bullets, he visited the ramparts three
times daily, until finally he was struck by one of the balls that
were constantly aimed at him, and severely wounded in the head. He
was picked up insensible, and carried home; but Rudiger Ton
Starhemberg had no time to be sick: so three days after he rose from
his bed, and, with his head bound up, mounted his horse, and
returned to his post.

His short absence had been productive of much evil in Vienna. It had
dispirited the timid and emboldened the insubordinate. But Count
Rudiger had an iron will, and no sympathy for weakness that
endangered the state. An officer having neglected his watch, and
permitted the Turks to intrench themselves in front of a bastion
whereof he had the guard, Count von Starhemberg gave him his choice
between the gallows and a sortie wherein he should meet the death of
a soldier. The officer chose the latter alternative, and died after
performing prodigies of valor.

Two soldiers had resisted the commands of their captain. Both were
arrested, and one of them accused the other of having instigated him
to insubordination. In presence of their regiment they were made to
throw for their lives, and he who threw the lowest number was taken
out and shot.

From the fulfilment of their duty to the country, Count von
Starhemberg would exempt neither age nor sex. Two boys of less than
twelve years of age were accused of having secret understanding with
the enemy, by which, for a rich reward, they were to open the gates
at night, and deliver the city into Kara Mustapha's hands. Count von
Starhemberg investigated the matter thoroughly, and, the fact having
been proved upon the boys, they were executed.

But hunger and disease were fast decreasing the ranks of the
besieged. The hospitals were so crowded with patients, that no more
could obtain admittance; and the commander, who seemed to have an
expedient for every disaster, appealed to the women of Vienna to
receive the sufferers in their houses. They responded, as woman
does, to the claims of humanity, and, carrying their devotion
further than was required, they visited the hospitals, and brought
food to the men on the ramparts, to refresh and invigorate them as
they worked.

But unhappily, the day came when substantial food was no longer to
be gotten. The city was invested, and no supplies could come from
without. The Duke of Lorraine had promised re-enforcements toward
the end of the month; and yet the 30th day of August had dawned, and
no help was vouchsafed.

But there was yet another night to pass before they would despair of
his coming. Crowds of men assembled on the towers of St. Stephen's,
that they might hear from the lips of the sentinels the first
tidings of joy; in the churches women and children were on their
knees imploring Heaven to send them succor; while without the Turks,
who had just begun a fresh assault, were thinning the ranks of their
defenders, and adding to the mournful numbers of the widows and
orphans of Vienna.

By morning the Turks had mined a passage to the stronghold of
Ravelin. Thither rushed the men with pikes, sabres, and clubs; and
behind them came their wives and daughters with boiling pitch and
oil, with sacks of sand and ashes, to throw upon the invaders as
they emerged from their subterranean passage. The expedient was
successful; the enemy was repulsed with loss, and the fall of Vienna
averted for another day.

A messenger from the emperor had managed to pass the Turkish lines,
promising help to the brave besieged, could they but hold out till
the middle of September; but, after ten weeks of struggle, patient
waiting, and hope deferred, two weeks seemed an eternity.
Nevertheless the indomitable Starhemberg reanimated their courage,
not only by words, but by his noble and unselfish endurance of
hardship, his fearless defiance of danger. They had resisted fifteen
assaults of the enemy, and had made twenty-one sallies outside of
the defences. He knew that, if they chose, their valiant souls would
sustain them for two weeks longer, and his burning words prevailed.

Once more they rallied, and defended themselves with desperation.
Though shells were bursting over their houses and at their feet,
though sickness was raging in their hospitals, and hunger was
wasting away their kindred, they swore to resist for two weeks
longer. So they could but save Vienna, their fatherland, and their
emperor, they were willing to endure their sufferings to the bitter
end. The Turks pressed closer, but every foot of ground cost them
thousands of men; and their advance was disputed by heroes whose
bodies were weakened with fasting and sickness. Not a morsel of
bread or of fresh meat was to be seen; for a while a cat was
esteemed a great delicacy; and, finally, when the rats were
exhausted, the poor, famished Viennese were glad to eat mice.

Meanwhile Kara Mustapha went about in his litter, calling upon his
men to exterminate these obstinate starvelings, bestowing rewards
upon those who had distinguished themselves, and beheading with his
own cimeter such as displeased or offended him. After each one of
these visits of the commander to his trenches, the Turks made a
fresh assault on the city. Had they made a general attack, the
besieged were lost; for there were within the walls of Vienna but
four thousand men capable of bearing arms, and these were so
exhausted by hunger, that they might easily have been overpowered.
No amount of heroism could supply the want of bodily strength; and
at last Count von Starhemberg himself was forced to acknowledge that
they must ere long capitulate.

Every night from the towers of St. Stephen's signal-rockets
proclaimed to heaven and earth the distress and despair of the
people of Vienna; while the burning eyes of the brave commander were
strained to see a responsive light, and his ears intent to listen
for the answering boom of the cannon that was to have announced
approaching succor. One week of the two had painfully ebbed away; in
eight days more Vienna would be sacked, and the Crescent would
replace the Cross!



CHAPTER XI.

THE RE-ENFORCEMENTS.


On this same 8th of September--so fraught with discouragement to the
suffering inhabitants of Vienna--the Duke of Lorraine held a council
of war in his tent with his allies. The King of Poland was there,
burning with ardor to rescue the capital of Austria; the Elector of
Bavaria had arrived with heavy re-enforcements, which, added to the
troops furnished by Saxony, Swabia, and Franconia, swelled the army
to eighty-four thousand men. Other volunteers from various parts of
Germany had joined the standard of Austria, and all were eager to
uphold the cause of Christendom against the unbelieving infidel.

For three days the Polish troops had been occupied building a
pontoon bridge, upon which, on the 8th day of September, the allied
forces began to cross the Danube.

The first to cross were the King of Poland and the Duke of Lorraine.
No sooner had they gained the opposite bank than the army broke out
into one universal shout of joy.

John Sobiesky's fine face was beaming with exultation. With a
triumphant smile he turned to the duke, who, with his usual serious
expression of countenance, was watching the troops while they came
across.

"The Turks are lost!" said Sobiesky.

"They were lost from the moment your majesty came to our rescue,"
was the courteous reply. "From the moment that you assumed the chief
command, I felt certain of success."

"My dear duke," said the king, warmly, "I am not so dazzled by your
generous praise as not to know which of us is the greater general of
the two. If I have accepted your highness's gracious relinquishment
of the chief command to me, I shall take good care not to exercise
it without advice from yourself. But I am in no trouble now as to
the issue of our contest with the Turks. They are already beaten. A
general who, at the head of two hundred thousand men, suffers us to
construct this bridge within five leagues of his camp, is a man of
no ability. He is as good as beaten." [Footnote: John Sobiesky's own
words.--See Kausler, "Prince Eugene of Savoy," vol. i., p. 22.]

"Provided we reach Vienna before our poor hungry countrymen will
have been forced to surrender."

The king's eyes flashed. "Ay, ay, indeed!" exclaimed he, eagerly;
"every thing depends upon that. The main question is, to march to
Vienna as quick as possible."

"There are two roads to Vienna," replied the duke.

The king nodded affirmatively. "Yes; the road lying through the
valley of the Danube is level; the one that leads to Vienna by the
Kahlenberg is steep and toilsome."

"But much shorter," added the duke.

"Let us then select the route over the Kahlenberg," answered the
king. "Your highness' understands giving sound advice under the garb
of a passing observation."

Their conversation was just then interrupted by the appearance of
two young horsemen, who bowed respectfully as they rode by. One wore
the rich and becoming uniform of the Polish lancers--this was the
crown prince of Poland; the other, more simply attired, was Prince
Eugene of Savoy--the youngest colonel in the Austrian service.

At a signal from the King of Poland, the youths reined in their
horses.

"My son," said the king, touching the Polish prince on the shoulder,
"let me congratulate you that you are about to engage the enemy
under the command of one of the most distinguished generals of the
age."

The duke shook his head, and smilingly addressed Eugene: "Prince of
Savoy," said he, "you see before you a king whose least glory is his
crown. Let him be your model, and when you confront the enemy let
the thought of John Sobiesky's fame urge you to deeds of prowess."

"Your highness," replied Eugene, "not only when I confront the
enemy, but every day and every hour of my life, will I look back
with emotion to the time when I beheld the two most eminent
commanders of the age contemplating each other's greatness without
envy, and accepting each other's suggestions without cavil; and I
trust that, from the sight, I may receive inspiration as far as lies
within my capacity, to emulate their moral as well as their military
worth."

"You will ere long have the opportunity of showing us how proximity
to John Sobiesky inspires men to valor," replied the duke. "We are
about to march to Vienna. Which road would you take, if you had to
choose for the army?"

Eugene's large black eyes wandered over the horizon until they
rested on the summit of Kahlenberg. "If we gain those heights, we
overlook not only our friends, but the entire camp of the enemy."

"Well answered," said John Sobiesky. "You are a military man by
intuition, I see, and are destined to make a figure in the world.
You are small in person, but would be great in council. Men of your
size and build are more frequently gifted with military genius than
those of lofty stature. I suppose," continued he, smiling, "that it
is because the brain, which reasons, and the heart that feels, lie
close together, and so can help each other. But," said he,
interrupting himself, "here comes the Elector Max Emmanuel. Allow me
to bid him welcome."

The Duke of Lorraine followed him with his eyes, as, in company with
the crown prince, the king rode forward to meet the handsome Prince
of Bavaria.

"The Poles did well," said he to himself, "to prefer John Sobiesky
to me; and, if I had known him personally, never would I have been
his competitor for a throne. He is better fitted to reign and govern
than I."

"Has your highness any commands for me?" asked Eugene.

"Yes, my dear young friend," replied the duke, solemnly. "We draw
near to Vienna. Avenge your brother's death, but prize and cherish
your own life. Do not wantonly expose your person, nor seek for
danger, he alone is a hero whose valor is restrained by prudence. I
shall place you, nevertheless, where danger is imminent and glory to
be earned; so that, when I recommend you for promotion to the
emperor, the world may not say that you owe your advancement to
favor."

"Your highness's advice shall be followed to the letter," replied
Eugene, earnestly. "I will despise danger, that I may avenge my
brother; yet will I guard my life, that I may be the protector of
his wife and children. But nothing will more inspire me to heroic
deeds than the friendship which you so condescendingly evince for
me. May God bless and reward you for your sympathy with my suffering
heart!"

At the end of three days, the army gained the heights of the
Kahlenberg. The men, tired and sleepy, dispersed, and throw
themselves down to rest under the trees; their commanders rode
farther to the mountain's brow, and there, beneath the fiery rays of
the setting sun, lay prisoned Vienna and her Turkish jailers. But
above was a cloud of smoke and dust, through which ever and anon
leaped columns of fire, while the air was heavy with reverberation
of cannon. The Turks were storming the city.

The besieged, mindful of their promise, were defending themselves
with desperation. With imperturbable calm, Count von Starhemberg
headed every sortie, and his quick eye perceived every little
advantage that could be taken; while his wise precautions saved many
a life, and warded off many a peril. His redoubts were no sooner
damaged than repaired; trench after trench was dug; street by street
defended with palisades, improvised of rods and beams.

As night came on, the heavy firing of the Turks ceased, and a dead
stillness followed the terrible boom of cannon. The streets were
ploughed with balls, the ashes of many a consumed building were
scattered about by the wind, while here and there a fitful blaze was
seen issuing from a shapeless mass that once had been the stately
home of some proud Austrian noble. Pale, ghastly figures wandered
among the ruins, searching for food, which, alas! they rarely found.
But, amid this "abomination of desolation," they still lifted their
eyes to heaven for help, and still clung to hope of rescue.

Count Starhemberg, as usual, had ascended the tower of St.
Stephen's; while in the city below every form was prostrate in
prayer. With his own hand he fired the nightly rocket, and watched
its myriads of stars as they shot heavenward, illumined the
darkness, and then fell back into nothingness. His heart beat
painfully, as the last scintillations went out, and left but the
pall of night behind. But he gazed on in silence, and in anguish
unutterable. Suddenly he unclasped his rigid hands, for oh! joy!
joy! there was light on the summit of the Kahlenberg; the signal
darts up into the sky, and from Herman's peak the cannon proclaims
that help is nigh!

One cry of rapture burst from the lips of all who stood around the
commander; the warder grasped his speaking-trumpet, and cried out to
the crowd below, "The signal is answered!"

The sound was caught up by the eager multitude, the blessed tidings
were borne from street to street, and the people with one accord
knelt down and thanked God. Noble and simple, aged and young, all
hastened to St. Stephen's. Men clasped hands; and strangers that had
never met before, embraced one another like friends and kinsmen.
Hope had softened all hearts, joy's electric touch had made a
thousand interests one: men were no longer segregate, their lives
were blended into one great emotion.

Count von Starhemberg was so overcome, that for some moments his
tongue refused him utterance. When he spoke, his voice, so
accustomed to command, trembled and grew soft--soft and gentle as
that of a young maiden.

"Will some one fetch me pen and paper?" said he. And when a
portfolio was brought for him to write upon, he could scarcely
command his hand while it traced these few words:

"Lose no time; in Heaven's name, be quick, or we are lost!"

"Who will venture to swim across the Danube, and deliver this paper
to the Duke of Lorraine?" added he.

Three young men volunteered at once. Count von Starhemberg chose the
one that seemed the strongest, and gave it to him.

"Promise me that you will deliver it or die!"

"I promise," was the reply of the young man, who, without tarrying
another moment, sprang down the steps and disappeared.

In a few hours, another rocket from the mountain-top announced the
safe arrival of the messenger, and promised speedy relief.

Yes, deliverance was at hand. At gray dawn, the army were ready to
march, and the King of Poland, the Duke of Lorraine, and Louis of
Baden were in the saddle. When all were assembled, John Sobiesky
dismounted, and kneeling before the altar of Leopold's chapel,
addressed a prayer to Heaven for a blessing on the approaching
struggle. In his priestly robes, within the chancel, stood Marcus
Avianus, the inspired Capuchin whom the pope had sent to Germany to
preach this new crusade. His burning words had done as much, for the
cause of Christianity as the stalwart arms of Austria's best
warriors; and now, as he raised his hands on high, and eighty
thousand men knelt to receive his blessing, their hearts throbbed
with joy, for they felt that the God of battles would be with them
that day.

The rites done, John Sobiesky bestowed the honor of knighthood upon
his son, "thereby commemorating the proudest day of their lives;"
and at the conclusion of the ceremony, he addressed the Polish army,
exhorting them to fight as became a Christian host in a cause "where
death was not only the path to glory, but the way to heaven."

"I have but one command to give my men," said he, in conclusion.
"Let them follow their king, and wherever he is to be seen, there
let them know that the battle rages fiercest."

A tumultuous shout was the answer to this exhortation. It gathered
strength as it passed along the ranks, until it awoke a thousand
echoes from the mountain-tops around; while the rays of the sun,
like a consecrating fire, glistened from the point of every bayonet,
and flashed from the blade of every waving sword.

The cheers of the Christians were borne on the summer air, until the
sound reached the very camp of the Turks. It sent consternation to
the heart of Kara Mustapha, as he lay smoking his hookah under a
tent of silk and velvet. For sixty days he had besieged Vienna with
his hundreds of thousands. Against its obstinate defenders warfare
had failed; and now that hunger was about to do what he had vainly
tried--to paralyze their valor, here came succor, to render his
victory doubtful. For he well knew that the Christians were full of
ardor, while his Turks were tired of fighting. That he might excite
their thirst for blood, he assembled all his prisoners, men, women,
and children, together, and, within view of his army, ordered them
all to be massacred. The work of death began, and the expiring cries
of his victims were the Paynim's answer to the shouts of the
Christians, that were raising their hearts to God.

That fearful wail was heard, too, by the beleaguered men of Vienna;
and the thought of their butchered kindred gave strength to their
famished bodies. They hungered no longer for food! they thirsted for
blood.

And now the bells, which for sixty days had been silent, rang out
their alarum, calling all to the last great struggle. The sick
raised their heads, and felt the glow of health thrilling through
their fevered veins; the aged worked like youths--the youths like
demi-gods. And full of hope, full of valor, the brave citizens of
Vienna awaited the coming of their liberators.

The main body of the allied army was commanded by the Electors of
Bavaria and of Saxony; the right wing, by John Sobiesky; the left,
by the Duke of Lorraine and Louis of Baden. The plan of the attack
had been made according to the suggestions of the King of Poland.

At the side of Louis of Baden rode Eugene of Savoy, his sorrows all
forgotten in the excitement of the occasion. His countenance beamed
with animation, his eyes darted fire. His black war-horse, too,
partook of his enthusiasm: he pranced, leaped into the air, and
neighed as if in defiance of the barbs that were to bear his enemies
into battle that morning.

"My dear cousin," said Eugene to Louis, "I implore you let me go
early into action. Give me something to do as soon as we are in
sight of the enemy, and thereby prove me your love."

"You shall have your wish, Eugene. Your division is to open the
engagement. As soon as you hear the discharge of the cannon from the
heights of the Kahlenberg, you advance."

With a joyful wave of the hand, Eugene sprang forward, and placed
himself at the head of his dragoons, where, rigid as a statue, he
stood with his eyes raised to the summit of the Kahlenberg.

The first shot rolled like thunder through the valley gorges. The
men grasped their muskets, the horses pawed the ground. The second,
the third, followed, and every eye glistened, and every heart
throbbed. The fourth--THE FIFTH!

"En avant!" cried Eugene; and the dragoons galloped forward. They
were to drive the enemy from the valley of the Nussberg, and force
the pass of Heiligenstadt. But the Turks disputed every inch of the
ground, making breastworks of every hillock, trenches of every
hollow. They defended the way with such desperation that the
Austrian cavalry began to waver.

An exclamation of fury was heard from the lips of Eugene. "Victory
or death!" cried he; and with these words the intrepid youth struck
spurs into his horse, and sprang through the pass; his sabre,
flashing like lightning through the air, as right and left it dealt
destruction to the Janizaries that disputed his passage.

Amazed at such prowess, the dragoons gave one simultaneous cheer,
and leaped into the enemy's midst. From that moment they moved on
like a granite wall; onward in the track of their gallant commander,
all peril disregarding, they fought their way, until, inspired by
his heroism, encouraged by the soul-stirring tones of his blithe
young voice, they won the pass, and forced the enemy back.

Meanwhile the imperial and Saxon forces had advanced from the
Kahlenberg, in one dense column, the sight of which had sorely
shaken the confidence of Kara Mustapha in his power to resist them.

On swept the mighty mass, and in a few moments the deep thunder of
the cannon reverberated along the mountain gorges; the clashing of
swords and the rattling of musketry mingled with the cries of the
wounded, and the groans of the dying; while all above was fire and
smoke. The passes were reddened with blood, which drop by drop
flowed down their declivities, until it met another life-destroying
current on its way; and both glided onward to the Danube, empurpling
its waters with the mingled gore of Christian and Paynim.

The battle raged, without any decisive advantage, until long after
noon. At four o'clock, however, the Ulans of the King of Poland were
about to be overpowered by superior numbers, when re-enforcement
came in the form of a charge on the right wing of the Turks, by the
troops under Charles of Lorraine. Those flying squadrons, beneath
whose horses' hoofs the ground is trembling as if upheaved by an
earthquake, are headed by Eugene--the indomitable Eugene. On his
foam-flecked steed, with a sword in his hand that is gory to the
hilt, comes the "little abbe," who was too much of a weakling to
obtain a commission in the army of the King of France. If his mother
could see him now, she would confess that he was no fit aspirant for
a scarlet hat.

Side by side rode Eugene and Louis of Baden, both heading that
bloody chase. Over heaps of corpses, over struggling horses, falling
timbers, through smoke and fire, they dashed toward the gates of
Vienna. Count Starhemberg was there with his handful of braves,
making gallant resistance to the Janizaries. But for the mad charge
of Eugene, the little garrison would soon have been cut to pieces.
But the attack on their rear surprised the Janizaries; they fell
back, only to be confronted by the Duke of Lorraine, and, believing
resistance to be useless, they fled.

The King of Poland meanwhile was within the gates engaged in a hand-
to-hand fight with the enemy in the streets. He was not left long to
struggle without help. Once more Eugene and his cavalry came to the
rescue; and now the Turkish legions are flying for their lives,
while the Christians are shouting for joy and victory!

Kara Mustapha, who was to have made his seat of empire at Vienna,
has suddenly become a panic-stricken adventurer. With that singular
absence of fortitude which so often distinguishes tyrants in
adversity, he fell to weeping like a child, and went whining for
protection to the Khan of Tartary.

"Save me, save me!" was his cowardly cry.

The khan shook his head. "We know the King of Poland too well," said
he. "Nobody can withstand him."

And from this moment nothing was thought of, in the Turkish camp,
but flight. Kara Mustapha's war-horse, with its housings of purple
velvet worked in pearls, was too heavy to bear him away from Vienna;
he mounted a fleet-footed Arabian, and sped away without thought of
the treasures he was leaving behind. His costly tent, his girdles of
diamonds, his cimeters inlaid with rubies and sapphires, his six
hundred sacks of piastres, all fell into the hands of John Sobiesky.

While joy and jubilee prevailed throughout the streets of Vienna,
Eugene of Savoy was on his way to the dwelling of his widowed
sister: but, while he sorrowed with Urania and her orphans, his name
was being borne upon the trumpet-blast of fame, as chief among the
heroes that rescued Vienna from the infidel.



BOOK IV.


CHAPTER I.

THE FALL OF BUDA.


As a signal that the conference was at an end, the Emperor Leopold
rose from his arm-chair. The president and vice-president followed
his example, and the other members of the council bowed and retired.
The Margrave of Baden and Count von Starhemberg remained standing by
the green table, while the emperor, who had crossed the room, now
stood vacantly staring out of a window, drumming with his fingers on
one of the panes.

His two counsellors were perfectly au fait to the import of this
drumming; it meant that the emperor's thoughts were with his army,
which was still in the field, although three years had gone by since
the siege of Vienna. During this protracted struggle both parties
had fought bravely, but neither one had as yet prevailed against the
other. In 1684 the Austrians had gained a brilliant victory over the
allied enemy; but, in the course of the same year, the Turks, by
their obstinate valor, had forced the Duke of Lorraine to abandon
the siege of Buda, which, since then, had remained in their
possession, and gave them entire control of Hungary.

The emperor's thoughts, then, were at Buda, while his fingers still
drummed on the window-pane. At last he turned around.

"Any news from the army?" asked he, hastily.

"None, your majesty," replied the margrave. "Since the news of the
junction of the Duke of Lorraine's forces with those of Prince Louis
of Baden and Max Emmanuel, nothing further has been heard as to the
progress of the siege."

"And that, of course, signifies that there is nothing good to be
told," added Von Starhemberg. "If the Duke of Lorraine had met with
any success, he would not have failed to send a courier with the
tidings."

"Unhappily, since he has had command of the army, he has had many
more reverses to communicate than victories," replied the margrave,
with a sigh.

"You forget his brilliant victory at Gran last year," returned the
emperor. "Away with your petty ill-will toward the duke! Forget your
personal grievances in admiration of his heroism."

"Sire," replied the margrave, somewhat impetuously, "there are
personal grievances which will not allow themselves to be forgotten.
The Duke of Lorraine, in his dispatches, has not only accused me of
neglect in the provisioning and arming of his troops, but has also
declared me unqualified for my position, and has recommended another
man as minister of war."

"And yet you retain your position," replied the emperor; "so that
neither one of you has influence enough with me to injure the other.
I have great confidence, nevertheless, in the judgment of my
brother-in-law; and, if occasionally he is of opinion that battles
are not to be planned on the green table of a council-chamber, but
in the field by the man, who is to fight them--not in theories but
in praxis--I am inclined to think that he is right."

"One thing I hope that your majesty will do me the justice to
remember," answered Von Starhemberg, in a tone of vexation. "It is
this: the war department, at my suggestion, advised that Buda should
not be assaulted, but that the passes lying behind the city should
be seized, Stuhlweissemberg besieged, and Buda, by this means, cut
off from all intercourse with Turkey. Thus it would have fallen
without bloodshed; whereas we have nothing to expect, as the result
of a second direct attack, but the news of a second repulse."

"Should the Duke of Lorraine be forced to raise the siege a second
time, I hope that the war department will remember that it was I,
and not my commander-in-chief, who rejected their advice. So that,
if we should be unfortunate, mine be the blame of the disaster, for
I ordered the attack."

At this moment the door of the council-chamber was opened with some
precipitation, and the chamberlain of the day appeared on the
threshold.

"What do you come to announce?" asked Leopold.

"Sire, a bearer of dispatches from his highness of Lorraine."

"Ah, lupus in fabula" said the emperor, with a smile. "Well--let in
the lupus."

"Your majesty," interrupted the Margrave of Baden, "would it not be
better for me to receive the dispatches, and communicate their
contents to you? The news of another disaster will be a great blow:
your mind should be prepared to receive it."

"I am prepared for whatever it may please God to assign," replied
Leopold, reverently. "If the news be bad, it is my duty to confront
it like a man; if good, let me taste it pure, as it comes from the
lips of the messenger. Let him enter!"

The chamberlain stepped back, made a sign to the page in the
anteroom, and both sides of the door were flung open.

"Our bearer is a person of distinction," said Leopold to himself.
"Both doors are opened for a reigning prince, a grandee of Spain,
or--"

Just then the bearer of dispatches appeared--a small, slight person,
in a simple uniform, but his breast well covered with orders, both
Austrian and Spanish.

"Prince Eugene of Savoy!" exclaimed Leopold, with evident pleasure.
And he made several steps toward the prince.

"Prince Eugene of Savoy," muttered the margrave, with an ugly frown;
for well he knew that such an envoy would never have been chosen to
be the bearer of evil tidings.

Meanwhile Eugene rapidly crossed the room, and knelt before the
emperor.

"You forget," said Leopold, raising him, "that a knight of the
Golden Fleece is not obliged to conform to the court custom of
kneeling. His order kneel before the Almighty alone. Moreover, as
grandee of Spain, your highness has a right to appear with covered
head."

"Sire, I came hither neither as a grandee nor a knight. I came as
the squire of my noble lord, the Duke of Lorraine, and as the
soldier and subject of my emperor. Let me, then, greet my sovereign
as my heart dictates."

With these words Eugene knelt again.

"Now," said Leopold, "rise, loyal subject, and satisfy my
impatience. Tell me, in one word, has Buda fallen?"

"Yes, sire," was the exulting reply.

The emperor raised his grateful eyes to heaven, while his two
councillors exchanged glances of dissatisfaction. Leopold saw this,
and addressed himself to both.

"Gentlemen," said he, "pray remember that you were opposed to the
siege of Buda, and that it was undertaken at the request of the Duke
of Lorraine."

"Your majesty told us that you had commanded it yourself," answered
the margrave. "The duke, then, has merely carried out orders!"

"Orders given because of his request. He proved to me that Buda
could be taken; and, when I commanded this second attempt to reduce
it, I merely yielded to his better judgment. But let us change the
subject.--You are most welcome," continued he, to Prince Eugene.
"And now let us hear the details of your glad tidings."

"Sire, the siege of Buda is an epic, worthy of the pen of a Homer.
None but a great poet can do justice to the deeds of valor of the
Duke of Lorraine."

"Try you, nevertheless," replied Leopold. "But hold! It were selfish
to enjoy your narrative alone. The empress and the court shall
partake of our happiness to day. Count von Starhemberg, oblige me by
opening the door, and recalling the chamberlain."

The count reluctantly obeyed, and the chamberlain reappeared.

"You will announce to the ladies and gentlemen in waiting, that I
request the presence of the court. I myself will conduct the empress
hither." Then, with a wave of his hand to Prince Eugene, he added,
"Await our return."

Not long after, the empress, conducted by her imperial husband,
entered the room and took her seat. The ladies and gentlemen in
waiting stood behind, and the margrave and Count von Starhemberg
were on either side of the emperor.

"And now, Prince Eugene of Savoy," cried Leopold, "let us hear the
details of the fall of Buda."

All eyes were turned upon Eugene, who, without boldness or
bashfulness, calmly surveyed the brilliant assembly before him. In
his plain, dark uniform, his black hair worn naturally and without
powder, he presented a striking contrast to the courtiers in their
magnificently-embroidered Spanish doublets, and huge, powdered wigs.

He began his narrative, by alluding to the fact that for one hundred
and twenty years, in spite of six different attempts on the part of
Austria to retake it, the ancient capital of Hungary had been in the
hands of the Turks. He quoted the well-known saying of John
Sobiesky, "Buda has drunk such torrents of Christian blood, that
every handful of earth around its walls is red and moist with gore."
He made a few brief remarks on the subject of the last unsuccessful
attack, two years before; and then, with all the enthusiasm of a
warrior-poet, he entered upon the narration of the seventh siege.

He spoke of the various stratagems, sallies, and skirmishes that
preceded the final assault. On the 18th of June the city was
invested, and by the end of July the allied army had effected an
entrance, and captured so many streets that the besieged had been
compelled to retire within the fortress. At the same time,
combustibles were thrown into the magazine, which exploded with
fearful destruction, and the Duke of Lorraine, compassionating the
condition of the brave old commander, Pacha Abdurrahmen, sent a
messenger, advising him to capitulate. Abdurrahmen, for all answer,
informed the duke that Allah and the Prophet would shortly punish
the audacity of the Christians, and, by way of anticipating Divine
justice, he caused one hundred Saxons, who had been captured a few
days before, to be hanged within view of the besiegers.

This vindictive act was the signal for a new assault, and the
fortress was attacked on three sides. The assailants were several
times repulsed, for the Turks fought like demons. Undismayed, they
stood upon the walls, pouring fire and shot into the Christian ranks
until the hair was singed from their heads, and their scorched
clothes dropped from their bodies. If the allies were heroic in
their attack, the Turks were not less so in their defence. Finally
the women, too, were seen, some carrying ammunition, some bringing
refreshments to the gunners, while others, singing wild strains of
Turkish embateria, hurled stones from the walls upon the invading
army.

More than two thousand Austrians had fallen, but they had succeeded
in establishing themselves within one of the bastions, and had
thereby obtained possession of the prison-tower. The day following,
however. Abdurrahmen sprung a mine, which killed one hundred of the
imperial troops, and so terrified the others, that they retired in
confusion, and the bastion remained in the hands of the Turks.

Once more the Duke of Lorraine offered terms to the besieged, which
a second time were indignantly refused. For the grand-vizier had
arrived with re-enforcements, and on a plain just behind the city of
Buda his troops were drawn up in battle array. The besieged now
commenced an attack upon the besiegers; one of their bombs burst
almost at the feet of the Duke of Lorraine, killing and wounding
several of his staff; another fell into a heap of hand-grenades,
which produced a frightful conflagration.

On the first of September Abdurrahmen was again summoned to
surrender. The white-haired hero presented two documents to the
envoys, one of which was from the high-priest of the Prophet at
Constantinople, the other from the Sultan. The first enjoined it
upon the pacha, as a religious duty, to defend Buda as the key to
the Ottoman empire; the other contained these few emphatic words:
"Either fall as a martyr before the sword of the invader, or die as
a traitor by the blade of the headsman."

"You see," added Abdurrahmen, calmly, "that no discretion is allowed
me. I must prevail against you, or fight until I fall."

This decided the question of capitulation forever; and although the
grand-vizier was there with his reserves, the Duke of Lorraine
determined to storm the fortress anew. It was a desperate resolve;
hut, like Abdurrahmen, he had made up his mind to conquer or die.

At this point of his narration, Eugene paused for breath. The
emperor, perceiving that he was fatigued, made a sign to one of the
pages in attendance, who thereupon placed a chair for him--a
compliment never before paid by a sovereign of Austria to any man
below the rank of a reigning prince.

"Prince Eugene of Savoy," said Leopold, "as a grandee of Spain, and
a knight of the Golden Fleece, you have a right to be seated in the
presence of your sovereign. Make use of the privilege, then; for if
you stand much longer, I see that you will not have strength to
finish your recital; and I would not abridge it by a word. It sounds
like martial music to my enraptured ear."

"Sire," replied Eugene, accepting the chair, "'tis no wonder if the
boom of the cannon sound like music to the son of Charles V.; above
all, when it thunders to proclaim your majesty's success. On the 2d
of September began the last assault upon the fortress of Buda. It
was impossible not to admire the intrepidity of our enemies: to a
man, they seemed to have sworn, like their commander, to defend the
post or die amid its ruins. But your majesty's troops were as
resolute as they. After a terrible conflict fought over the bodies
of their slain comrades, they cut to pieces a detachment of
Janizaries that had been sent to oppose their passage."

"'No quarter!' was the watchword of the Moslems. 'No quarter!' cried
the Christians in return. 'No quarter!' shouted the Bavarians, as
they mounted a breach in the fortress, and fought hand to hand with
its frenzied defenders. The latter poured out in such numbers that
the Bavarians wavered, and perhaps might have been repulsed, had not
the gallant Louis of Baden mounted the breach himself, and called
upon his men to follow. They obeyed; the Bavarians rallied, and the
prince ordered a fresh attack. Thanks to his valor and able
generalship, the Turks were forced back, and fled in confusion; some
finding refuge within the walls, others, in their dismay, plunging
into the moat. The Bavarians followed the fugitives, and now from
every castle-window waved the white flag of surrender."

"To the hero of Buda, the brave Abdurrahmen, our commanders would
gladly have granted an honorable retreat. But he refused mercy at
the hands of his admiring antagonists. Alone he stood, sabre in
hand, defending the breach against our advancing troops, until he
fell, pierced by twenty balls, while the bodies of his slain foes
lay like a monument of his heroism around him. With the death of
Abdurrahmen the struggle ceased, and that night, as a last act of
defiance, the Turks sprung a mine in the fortress, and reduced it to
a heap of ruins."

"The next morning, the grand-vizier retreated, and the plan of
attack, inspired by the genius of the Duke of Lorraine, had
destroyed the prestige of the Sultan in Hungary. Scarcely inferior
to this great commander was the ability displayed by Prince Louis of
Baden, and Max Emmanuel. No man who beheld them can ever forget the
sight of these two great heroes, handsome and brave as Hector and
Patroclus."

"Sire, my tale is ended. Buda has fallen, and its conquerors have
immortalized themselves."

"You say, your tale is at an end, Prince Eugene," replied the
emperor, smiling. "But you have omitted something in your recital."

"What is it, your majesty?"

"You have not once mentioned the name of the Prince of Savoy; and
yet he must have been there. You have exalted the genius of the Duke
of Lorraine, and you have likened his two generals to the heroes of
antiquity. It is said that the Prince of Savoy is the inseparable
companion of Prince Louis and Max Emmanuel. Where, then, was he,
while his friends were gaining immortality?"

"Sire, he was with them; but, as he did no more than his duty, I
have nothing further to say."

"It is your duty, as bearer of dispatches from your commander-in
chief, to answer my inquiries, let them relate to whomsoever they
will. Where were you, then, while your friends were astonishing you
with their valor?"

"He was at their side, your majesty. Before the siege, the three
friends had sworn never to surrender to the enemy. It was therefore
natural that the Prince of Savoy should follow the example of his
superior officers, and imitate their gallantry."

"But was he in no danger? Was he not wounded?"

"Sire, on such a day, no soldier could hope to escape from danger;
above all, the officers who led them into action. The Prince of
Savoy's horse was shot under him, and he himself was slightly
wounded in the hand by an arrow."

"Where was he stationed on that last day?"

"He was ordered to skirmish with the enemy, and prevent them from
making sorties on the besiegers."

"A hard task, for one so young."

"Yes, sire; for it condemned him to inaction, while his comrades
were gaining glory. But before the close of the day, fate befriended
him. The grand-vizier having made no attempt to join the besieged,
the Prince of Savoy was so fortunate as to come in with his
dragoons, just as the Bavarians were about to be repulsed from the
breach."

"Ah! I thought so!" exclaimed Leopold; "and doubtless his appearance
had much to do with the successful storming of the castle. And how
did the Duke of Lorraine reward his gallantry?"

"Sire, he was rewarded far, far beyond his deserts. The Duke of
Lorraine, in presence of the army, folded him in his embrace."

"That was well done. Come hither, Prince Eugene. I, too, would
reward you as the Duke of Lorraine did."

Eugene hastened to the emperor, who folded him in his arms, and then
led him to the empress.

"Your majesty," said he to his wife, "I present you a young hero,
who for three years has been gaining renown in the service of
Austria. I recommend him to your favor, and beg that you, too, will
bestow some reward upon him."

The empress turned her soft blue eyes upon the prince, who bent his
knee, and kissed the hand she extended to him. "I will pray for
you," said she, "as long as I live; and, as a testimonial of my
regard, I beg you to accept my husband's portrait."

Unclasping from her neck a heavy gold chain, to which was attached a
miniature set in brilliants, she threw it over Eugene's shoulder
with these words:

"Let the emperor's likeness be to you a souvenir of your past
heroism, and may it inspire you for the future to serve him with
loyalty and love."

"Your majesty," replied Eugene, "of my own free will I chose the
Emperor of Austria for my sovereign; but from this day forth I am
pledged to serve him as his native-born subject: and the chain so
graciously bestowed by your majesty, I shall wear as emblematic of
my fealty, for life."

The emperor signed to Eugene to rise, and addressed himself to all
present. "Vienna, too, shall have her share in this day's joy. The
crescent, which for more than a hundred years has proclaimed to the
world that Austria's capital was once in the hands of the infidel,
shall be taken down from the tower of St. Stephen's. We have won the
right to displace the accursed emblem, and it shall once more give
place to the symbol of Christianity!"

The crescent of which the emperor spoke, had been on the tower of
St. Stephen's since the year 1529, when Vienna was besieged by the
Sultan Soliman. His guns were being constantly directed against the
tower; and the Viennese having sent a deputation to request that the
Turks would not demolish their beautiful cathedral, Soliman
consented to spare it on one condition. This was, that the cross
should be removed, and the crescent take its place. In their
extremity, the promise was made; and, from that day, the Christian
church had borne the hated symbol of Mohammedanism.

At the fall of Buda, Leopold refused to be bound any longer by the
promise extorted from his ancestors; and, in commemoration of the
capture of this important post, a cross was erected on the tower,
with this inscription: "Luna deposuit, et crux exaltata. Anno quo
Buda a Turcis capta, MDCLXXXVI."



CHAPTER II.

THE FRIENDS.


With the capture of Buda, the campaign of 1686 closed. The army went
into winter quarters, and the officers all congregrated in Vienna,
there to indemnify themselves for past hardships by a few months of
recreation.

Eugene of Savoy participated very little in the gayety of court-
life. While his companion-in-arms, Louis of Baden, plunged headlong
into the vortex of pleasure, the shy young Frenchman led a most
retired existence, in his little hotel in the Herrengasse. He had
purchased this residence for his brother's widow and children,
intending to make it not only their home, but his own. The young
widow, after spending two years with her brother-in-law, forsook the
world and retired to a convent, there to lay her burden of grief at
the feet of her Lord. Her children she committed to the care of
their great-grandmother, the Princess de Carignan; and Eugene was
left to the solitude of a bachelor home, without one friendly voice
to bid him welcome to its cold hearth.

Even Conrad, his faithful Conrad, was absent. Eugene had sent him to
Turin with messages to Victor Amadeus, which he had not thought it
prudent to write. For Conrad was not only loyal and affectionate; he
had proved himself a person of such uncommon ability, that he was
now his lord's secretary, no longer his servant. He had the care of
his money, the administration of his affairs, and was his trusty and
confidential friend. Eugene missed him sorely; for Conrad had
accompanied him "that night" to the Palais Royal, and although
Laura's name had never passed his lips, still her lover found some
solace in the companionship of the man who had tended him during
that dreadful illness, and who, he knew full well, had learned from
his unconscious lips the secret of his love and its blight.

Eugene was in his cabinet. He had been engaged in the study of
mathematics, and the perusal of Julius Caesar's campaigns; after
which, by way of recreation, he sat down to his escritoire, and,
unfolding a sheet of paper, began to make plans of palaces and
gardens.

He was so absorbed in his drawing, that he neither heard nor saw the
door open, and give entrance to a handsome young man in a rich
Spanish costume. For one moment the visitor paused on the threshold,
and smilingly surveyed Eugene; then, crossing the room on tiptoes,
he laid his hand upon the prince's shoulder.

"I certainly thought I would surprise you inditing a poem or a
letter to the lady of your thoughts, and here I find you drawing
plans!"

"Max Emmanuel!" exclaimed Eugene, rising joyfully, and embracing his
friend.

"Yes, Max Emmanuel, who, having paid his devoirs to his imperial
father-in-law, has come with all haste to ask how it fares with his
friend. The servants told me you were in your cabinet, so I forbade
them to announce me, and made my way hither all alone, that I might
take you by surprise, and find out whether you loved me as much as I
do you. Seeing you intent upon writing, I was quite confident that I
was about to discover a great secret--when lo! I see nothing but a
sheet of drawing-paper, covered with porches and pilasters. Tell me
the truth, Eugene--why is it that, instead of worshipping Aphrodite,
like other youths, you are doing homage to the household gods of
domestic architecture?"

"Why, my dear Max, domestic architecture interests me, because I
expect to build houses, and lay out grounds. I do not worship
Aphrodite like other youths, because--because I know her not."

The elector looked searchingly into Eugene's solemn eyes. "Are you
in earnest?" asked he. "Do you intend me to believe that you are
unacquainted with the ecstasies and tribulations of love?"

"No," replied Eugene, sadly, "for I am too truly your friend to
deceive you, Max. I have loved, but my love was unfortunate; and the
wound it has made in my heart is too painful to be probed. Dear
friend, let us speak of it nevermore!"

"On the contrary, let us speak of it together without reserve. A
hero like Eugene, who has faced death, and so often wrested victory
from his enemies, can surely contemplate such a wound as Cupid's
dart inflicts upon a man! But tell me, what are unfortunate loves?
mine have all been crowned with myrtle, and smothered in roses."

Eugene was silent for a time; then raising his large, melancholy
eyes, till they rested affectionately upon the bright, laughing
countenance of his friend, he spoke: "I can well believe that you
know nothing of the pangs inflicted by unhappy love; for you are
handsome, distinguished, and gifted. I, who am none of these, can
tell you what it is to love adversely. It is to love with passion;
to be parted from the object of your love; and not to know whether
she, like you, is constant to her vows, and suffers from your
absence, as you do from hers. Pray Heaven that love may never come
to you in such a shape as this."

"No danger of me contracting the malady," replied Max; "I am
constitutionally incapable of receiving it. I pluck the fruit or
flower that grows nearest, never suffering my imagination to run
away with my longings. But never mind me and my sybaritic
interpretations of the tender passion. Are your woes irremediable?
Is the lady married?"

"In the eyes of the world she is."

"But not in the eyes of God, you would say. Then her marriage must
have been compulsory or fraudulent?"

"It was fraudulent."

"Then hie we to the pope for justice! His holiness will not refuse
it to such a brave crusader as you, and I myself will be your
advocate. Give me pen and paper. I will write at once, send your
signature and mine to the petition, and dispatch it by a courier
this very day; and then the world will see whether we, who stormed
Buda, may not storm adverse fortune also."

"Dear friend, neither the pope nor you can storm my adverse
fortunes. I must hear from my beloved whether she is true to me
before I take one step to possess myself of her. For three years I
have waited in vain for her summons; and yet my longing arms are
outstretched to clasp her, and never while I live will they encircle
the form of another!"

"Nay--these are the enthusiastic ravings of recent disappointment.
For a few years longer you may sorrow for your first love; but
oblivion will come, all in good time, and you will end by loving
some other woman as deserving as your absent mistress, and more
attainable. After all, ambition, not love, is the business of life;
and Cytherea's groves grow not a flower that can compare with the
laurels which fame places on the brow of the conqueror. It is well
for me that I am ten years your senior, else I should have been
obliged to come behind you, Eugene, and pick up your cast-off
leaves."

"The Elector of Bavaria is not a man so easily set aside," was
Eugene's reply.

"And yet efforts are continually being made to set him aside," cried
the elector, hastily.

"Who could be so presuming as to lay his sacrilegious hand upon the
well-earned laurels of a warrior so distinguished as your highness?"

"Who? You know quite as well as I, that it is the Duke of Lorraine."

"Ah!" exclaimed Eugene, with enthusiasm, "who can compete with him?
He is the greatest man of the age. As learned as he is brave; as
prudent as he is resolute; a wise statesman, an unrivalled general;
equally distinguished in the cabinet and the field. How fortunate I
have been in having him for my master in the art of war!"

"You are modest," said the elector, derisively. "As for me, I have
no ambition to follow any master in the art of war. I wish to carve
out my own plans and schemes, and I am weary of being subject to the
will of the Duke of Lorraine."

"He is commander-in-chief of the army," urged Eugene. "No army can
be without a head, to which all its members must be subordinate."

"But why must that head be Charles of Lorraine, pray?"

"You surely would not dream of supplanting HIM!" cried Eugene.

"Yes, I would; and I have determined to submit to his dictation no
longer. If I cannot have a command independent of the Duke of
Lorraine, I shall withdraw my troops, remain in Bavaria, and leave
my father-in-law to fight his own battles with the Turks."

"You will do no such thing," said Eugene, laying his hand upon the
prince's shoulder, and looking anxiously into his face. "You will
not endanger the great cause for which we have fought together by
the interference of petty personal jealousies. No, Max Emmanuel, you
are too magnanimous to sacrifice the interests of Christendom to
such considerations. Moreover, you have gained too much renown as a
general, to be overshadowed by the reputation of any man."

"I do not know THAT. I only know that the Duke of Lorraine is in my
way, and that for the future he must stand aside, or I resign my
commission in the imperial army. But these are matters of future
discussion. We will postpone this altercation until the opening of
our next campaign. Meanwhile--do you know what brought me hither
this morning? I come to snatch you away from cold contemplation, and
introduce you to society."

"I have no taste for society," replied Eugene, shrinking from the
very thought. "I love solitude; and mine is peopled with delicious
visions of the past, as well as glorious aspirations for the
future."

"Of what nature are your aspirations? They point to military
distinction, I hope. Do they not?"

"Yes; and I trust that I shall attain it honorably. Fate will assign
me my place; the rest remains for me to do. I have too much to
learn, to mingle with the world."

"Man learns not only through the study of books, but through that of
human nature," exclaimed Max Emmanuel; "and you need never hope for
greatness unless you gain knowledge of the world. I have come to
entice you away, and I will not be refused."

"Whither would you entice me?" asked Eugene, smiling.

"To the paradise of pleasure and of lovely women--to Venice!"

Eugene started, and a glow overspread his pale face. "To Venice!"
echoed he. "To Venice!"

"Ay, prince--to Venice," repeated Max Emmanuel. "To live over the
'Arabian Nights,' by joining the great carnival."

"I have heard that Venice is the seat of all elegance and
refinement, and that no man who has not graduated in its school of
gallantry is considered perfect in worldly accomplishments."

"Then you perceive that you, who are so ambitious, must go with me
to Venice to receive your diploma as a gallant. My heart beats with
joyful impatience as I think of the delights that await us. The
carnival is to be unusually brilliant this year. The Prince of
Hanover, the Margraves of Baireuth and of Baden, the brave
commander-in-chief of the republican armies, Morosini, and Admirals
Molino and Delphini, are all to be there. Morosini himself has
written me an invitation to the carnival, and you must accompany
me."

"No, your highness," replied Eugene, seriously. "I have not been
invited; there is therefore no reason why I should go."

"But if I tell you that I will consider it as a proof of your
friendship," persisted the elector, "then I hope you will no longer
refuse me. Indeed, you would do me the greatest favor."

"How could it possibly be a favor?" asked Eugene.

"I will tell you how. _I_ am impulsive and easily led away: YOUR
principles are firm as a rock. I have known you for three years, and
have closely observed your character, Eugene. You are sensible,
honorable, and independent; you are reserved, yet sincere--brave,
yet discreet. You are more than all this--you are an honest man,
rejoicing in the fame of others, and never blind to worth because of
envy or longing for notoriety."

"My dear, dear friend," interrupted Eugene, "you overrate me beyond-
-"

"No, I do not overrate you," was the elector's reply. "I appreciate
you--that is all; and I want you for a counsellor. You know how a
reigning prince is surrounded by flatterers; how his follies are
heralded to the world as virtues; and, above all, you know how many
snares are spread for such a gilded butterfly by artful women, who
long, not only for his heart, but for his gold; above all, when he
calls himself a prince, and is the son-in-law of an emperor."

"You have a poor opinion of women," smiled Eugene.

"They have given me no reason to think well of them. I know the
whole sex to be fickle, coquettish, and heartless; and yet I am
forever being led astray by their siren voices. And when the wicked
enchantresses smile and swear that they love me, I am ravished--
albeit, I know that every word they utter is a lie."

"You mean when they smiled and swore, I presume," said Eugene; "for
such delusions must have ended with your marriage. The husband of
the beautiful Archduchess Antonia need not fear the wiles of Phryne
or Lais."

"Pardon me," replied the elector, with a woe-begone expression of
countenance, "they have become doubly dangerous, since they are
forbidden fruit. I never was intended to be a model of conjugal
fidelity, and my heart beats fearfully when I think of the starry
eyes, the raven hair, the pearly cheeks of the fair women of Venice!
I have very little confidence in my own valor, if I have to meet
them single-handed. Do, Eugene, come with me; let us be companions-
in-pleasure as we have been companions-in-arms. I depend upon you to
fortify my virtue in the hour of need."

"Your true and loving friend I am and will be ever," replied Eugene;
"but do not ask me to go to Venice. I am too poor to go thither in
such distinguished companionship."

"It is understood that you go as my guest; there can then be no
question of riches or poverty. I have engaged a palace for me and my
suite; my household are already there, and you have nothing to do
but to make yourself at home. Every thing I possess is at my
friend's disposal."

"Which means that your highness considers me as one of your suite,
and perchance intends to supply me with pocket-money?" said Eugene,
proudly.

"Nay, Eugene," replied the elector, offering his hand, "I meant
nothing that could offend my friend. I meant that he should share
with me as a brother whatever I possess."

"There are two things, your highness, which no man can share with
another. One is his mistress, the other his honor. I am poor, and
therefore I cannot share with you your advantages of fortune; I am
obscure, and scorn to shine by the borrowed light of your highness's
exalted station. Sooner would I dwell in a cottage than in a palace
at another man's expense."

Max Emmanuel had at first regarded Eugene with unmixed astonishment;
then the expression of his handsome face had changed to one of
admiration and tenderness. As the prince ceased, the elector rose
from his chair, and took both his friend's hands.

"You are, indeed, one of Nature's noblemen," continued he,
affectionately. "Your view of this matter is, as usual, exceptional;
but it is the highest view that can be taken of such an offer; and,
although I am the loser thereby, I honor you for the refusal. I must
then renounce the pleasure I had promised myself of having your
company to Venice," added the elector, with a sigh.

"Perhaps not," returned Eugene. "Any thing on earth I would do to
prove you my friendship; and I may go to Venice, not for the sake of
its beautiful women, but for the pleasure of bearing you company."

"Thank you for that 'may,' Eugene. But let your decision be a speedy
one, I implore you; for I long to quit a court that bristles with so
many tiresome Spanish formalities. I would be glad to start to-
morrow, but I will wait for you. How long must I wait?"

"Only until my secretary returns from Turin. I expect him to-day."

"So much the better. Let me hear from you as soon as possible."

"I will."

The elector rose and took his leave, while Eugene returned to his
escritoire, and tried to resume his occupation. But his thoughts
were straying to Venice, and his hand lay listless on the paper.

"To Venice!" murmured he. "To Venice--perchance to Laura!"

As he pronounced her name, he broke into one wild ejaculation of
joy.

"See her? Oh, yes!" cried he, passionately. "Gaze into my Laura's
eyes, I must--should the sight cost me my life! But--no!" faltered
he, suddenly. "I must not see her. She has forgotten me; and perhaps
at this very hour, when my heart throbs to bursting at the thought
of meeting her again, she jests with her husband at the silly
episode of her foolish fancy for me! Perhaps she rejoices at her
escape from alliance with the disgraced family of the De Soissons,
and blesses Heaven for--peace, doubting heart! I WILL believe--I
WILL hope--Laura, my Laura.--Ah, Conrad, are you here at last?"

And Eugene, springing from his seat, clasped Conrad's hands within
his own.

"Yes, your highness," replied Conrad, his face beaming with joy to
see his dear lord. "I have just alighted, and must apologize for my
dusty garb. I did not stop to change my dress."

"You were right--quite right, and it needs no apology. Tell me the
result of your mission. Did you speak with the Duke of Savoy in
person?"

"Yes, your highness, he was so kind as to grant me two audiences. I
related to him the entire history of your embarrassments, and their
cause. I told him of the sequestration of your estates by the
covetous King of France, and of the debts which this act of
injustice had compelled you to leave in Paris. He asked me what was
your pay as colonel in the Austrian service. I told him that the pay
was fluctuating as to amount, and uncertain as to receipt; but at
its maximum it might reach the sum of ten thousand florins a year.
Upon this, he said: 'Ten thousand florins a year to maintain a
prince of the house of Savoy, and one of the most distinguished
officers in the imperial service! Well may he be straitened in
purse!' Then I took courage, and told his highness that you could
not possibly live on less than fifteen thousand florins, and that
you appealed to him to assist you in maintaining the dignity of the
ducal house of Savoy, and saving its representatives from absolute
penury."

"And what was the answer?"

"He requested me to return the next day, which I did. I was most
kindly received, and his highness said that he hoped he had found a
remedy for your embarrassments, my lord. Although forbidden by the
laws of Savoy to pay a salary to any man not in the service of his
own dukedom, he would be happy to assist your highness from his own
privy purse, until he had arranged matters in a manner more
satisfactory and more secure. Prince Antony of Savoy, who is in a
dying condition, possesses the revenues of five abbeys, which his
highness of Savoy hopes to have transferred to your highness, thus
securing to you a fixed and certain income, not subject to the
sequestrations of the King of France."

"He wrote no letter?"

"No, your highness. The duke gave me four rouleaux of three hundred
ducats each for present need, and bade me take them as his answer to
your highness's letter."

Eugene smiled. "Therein I recognize my prudent cousin, who dares not
trust his promises to writing. But I thank him for his golden
answer. How much did you say you brought, Conrad?"

"Twelve hundred ducats, my lord, which will cover all expenses until
the opening of the spring campaign, when your pay is due."

"But, my dear Conrad, you forget that we have debts to pay. And, by-
the-by, what news do you bring from Paris?"

"Your highness's creditors there were so astounded at the prospect
of being paid, that I almost regretted to be obliged to disturb the
tranquillity with which they had accepted their losses. They were so
grateful that they bade me say they would be perfectly satisfied
with yearly instalments of any amount your highness would be pleased
to pay. So I made arrangements to close your whole indebtedness at
the end of three years."

"A long time for those poor fellows to wait for their dues," said
Eugene, shaking his head. "Conrad, if we obtain the transfer of
those abbey revenues, the first sum we receive therefrom goes to my
creditors in Paris. Remember that." [Footnote: The payment of Prince
Eugene's debts was regarded as something ultra-honorable by the
people of Paris, and the Duchess Elizabeth-Charlotte speaks of it in
her letters as a noble action.--See "Letters of Elizabeth-
Charlotte."]

"I shall be very sure to remember it, my lord; for it will be an
occasion of rejoicing to many an honest tradesman, each one of whom
will bless your highness's magnanimity."

"Magnanimity! I call it bare justice!" said Eugene. "Give me the
memoranda."

Conrad presented the package, which his lord opened, examining each
account until he had seen all.

"I miss one account here which I would gladly pay," said he, with
some embarrassment.

"The account of Monsieur Louis?" was Conrad's prompt reply.

Eugene made a motion of assent, while Conrad continued:

"My lord," said he, averting his eyes from the prince, "I went to
Monsieur Louis, as I did to your other creditors. He said that he
could not accept payment for decorations which had never been
completed. He would always hold sacred the remembrance of the day
when your highness fell insensible upon a heap of garlands that were
to have ornamented your reception-rooms, and he had been near to
lift you in his arms. He told me this with tears in his eyes, my
lord; pardon me if I have awakened painful reminiscences by the
recital; but he begged me to convey his message, and I felt bound to
comply."

For some moments Eugene kept silence. After a pause, during which
Conrad dared not meet his eye, the prince replied:

"Conrad," said he, "if I should ever afford to have a princely
retinue again, I will take Monsieur Louis into my service. At all
events, if I ever build a house, he shall decorate it, and shall be
well paid for his work.--And now to other things. Did you see her
highness the Duchess of Orleans?"

"Yes, my lord. Her highness was walking in the park when your letter
was handed to her. She sent for me at once, and received me in the
little pavilion."

"The pavilion! The pavilion! Go on."

"She inquired minutely as to your health, prospects, and condition.
She asked if you were cheerful. I told her that you were always in
high spirits on the day of a battle. Then she would have me relate
to her the dangers you had incurred, spoke of her grief at hearing
you had been wounded, and seemed never to tire of your praises. Then
she sat down and begged me to wait until she wrote you a short
letter. Here it is, my lord."

Eugene broke the seal; then, as if ashamed of the emotion that was
welling up from his agitated heart, he looked at Conrad, who
understood the appeal, and withdrew.

As the letter was opened, a small bit of paper fell from its folds,
and fluttered to the carpet. Eugene, without observing it, began to
read his letter. It ran thus:

"I cannot refrain from sending you a greeting in my own hand. My
dear prince, I hold you in affectionate remembrance; let me hope
that you have not forgotten me. Every thing remains here as when you
left; false, frivolous, and, to me, as antagonistic as of erst. I
have never been happy since SHE was so cruelly forced away from my
protection. I have had news of her. My daughter, who lives in Turin,
made a visit to Venice lately. I had begged her, if possible, to
give me tidings of----, and to give her my hearty love. They met for
a moment, when she pressed into my daughter's hand a little note for
me. I opened it, but it contained only the slip of paper I enclose.
Be assured of my sincere and constant friendship. ELIZABETH-
CHARLOTTE."

"The paper! the paper!" exclaimed Eugene, as, with trembling hands,
he opened the sheet, and found nothing within. "Great God! the
duchess has forgotten to enclose it, and I must away to Paris, this
night, this very--"

Just then his eyes rested on the carpet, and there at his feet lay
the treasured paper. It contained these words:

"I am a prisoner--watched day and night. Have you, too, forgotten
me? I cannot believe it; and, after three long years of silence and
of suffering, I still await your coming."

As Eugene read these tender words, he sank on his knees, and pressed
the paper to his lips. "Forgive me, my Laura," murmured he. "I was
weak in faith, and unworthy of you. But I will love you all the more
for my injustice. I come! I come!"

He rose from his knees, calling for Conrad, who was in the
antechamber, awaiting a summons to return. Great was his
astonishment when he beheld Eugene advancing toward him, his lips
parted with a happy smile, his eyes beaming with animation, his
whole bearing transformed. What could it mean?

"Conrad," cried he, and his very voice had a joyful peal, like the
chime of marriage-bells--"Conrad, we must leave Vienna this evening.
Let everything be in readiness. If we have not gold enough with our
cousin's ducats, borrow more; but be ready to go with me at once.
Stay--I had almost forgotten. Go to the palace; see the chamberlain
of his highness the Elector of Bavaria, and tell him to announce to
the prince that Prince Eugene of Savoy leaves this evening for
Venice. That is all. Make haste, Conrad! Away with you, and fly back
as soon as possible, for I tell you that we must be on our road
before night!"



CHAPTER III.

THE MARQUIS STROZZI.


The Marquis Strozzi was alone in his cabinet, pacing the room with
clouded brow and compressed lips. Now and then he stopped before the
window which opened on a balcony overlooking the Canale Grande; and
the sight of the gayly-decked gondolas that shot hither and thither
with their freight of youth and youthful glee, seemed to intensify
his discontent, and rouse him to positive anger.

"They are shouting their stupid welcome to these foreign princes,"
muttered he, "and presently she will be attracted by the sound, and
seek to know what it means. My God!" ejaculated he, striking his
forehead, "this love is the curse of my life. It will drive me to
madness, and yet--and yet I cannot overcome it. To work, then, to
work! I must increase my number of spies."

In the centre of the room, on a table of Florentine mosaic, lay a
little golden hell, fashioned by the master-hand of Benvenuto
Cellini. The marquis rang it gently, and, before he had replaced it,
a secret door in the wall slided back, giving entrance to a masked
figure, enveloped in a long black cloak.

Strozzi surveyed him for a moment, then, throwing himself upon a
divan, he was lost in contemplation of the frescoes by Paul
Veronese, which decorated the ceiling of this luxurious apartment.
Meanwhile the mask had carefully closed the door, and stood
respectfully silent.

Finally Strozzi condescended to speak. "Take off your mask." The man
obeyed, and Strozzi gazed upon a sinister face, disfigured by a
long, purple scar, which reached from the left temple to the chin.

"Do you know," continued the marquis, "that if you were to appear
unmasked in the market-place, every child in Venice would recognize
you, Antonio?"

"Yes, excellenza," was the humble reply.

"How did you come by that scar?" sneered the patrician.

Antonio moved impatiently, and glanced imploringly at the marquis.

The latter merely repeated the question.

Antonio heaved a sigh, and his head dropped to his breast.

"It was inflicted by my father," murmured he, almost inaudibly.

"Speak louder," said Strozzi. "Why did he inflict it?"

The man's eyes shot fire, but he dared not remonstrate. His glance
fell before the cold glitter of Strozzi's black orbs, as he muttered
in reply, "I was trying to get at his money, when he rushed in upon
me, and gashed my face with a dagger."

"Upon which YOU plunged your poniard into his throat, and made an
end of your respectable parent on the spot."

"Excellenza," cried Antonio, in tones of deep emotion, "I had but
raised it to ward off the blow, when my father rushed upon it, and
so met his fate."

The marquis laughed. "Rushed upon it--did he? Of course you are an
innocent lamb of a parricide, and the judgment passed upon your act
was a most iniquitous one. It was doubtless a shame that you were
publicly maimed, and then led back to prison to await your
execution. Possibly you may remember the night that followed your
punishment, when a priest entered your cell, and, on condition that
you paid him implicit obedience for five years, offered you life and
the release of your paramour--the woman for whose sake you murdered
your father."

"Poor Caterina!" sighed Antonio. "To think that, for the life of a
babe not a day old, she should be imprisoned for five years!"

"Why, then, did she murder it?" asked Strozzi.

"To save herself from the vengeance of her husband, excellenza. But
I--I have kept my word, and have served you faithfully, have I not?"

"Yes--you are a tolerably submissive hound," said Strozzi,
scornfully. "How long before your bondage ceases?"

"Excellenza, it was in January, 1683, that you appeared to me in the
dress of a priest, and saved me from the headsman. I owe you still
one year, one month, and twenty-six days of service."

"You are accurate--very; but mark me! If you fail in the least
point, the contract is null. I neither release your Caterina nor
you."

"I am your slave, and have no will but yours."

"'Tis well. What have you learned to-day?"

"As regards the gracious marchioness, but little. She drew, played
on her harp, and embroidered, as usual, and wrote a letter, which
she committed to the hands of that demoiselle Victorine. who gives
out that she was sent to her ladyship by her friend the Duchess of
Orleans."

"I know--I know. Where is the letter?"

"Here it is, excellenza."

The marquis examined the seal, to see that it had not been tampered
with by his underlings. "Any thing further?" added he, raising his
eyes to Antonio's woe-begone face.

"Very little, excellenza. The signora went twice to the balcony to
look at the gondolas, Mademoiselle Victorine watching her from
within. The second time she went, she clasped her hands all of a
sudden, blushed, and leaned so far over the balustrade that
mademoiselle made sure that there was something unusual on the
canal. Pretending that she had some question to ask as to the
signora's dress, she followed, but the signora was so absorbed in
what she saw, that she did not remark her tire-woman."

"What was it?" asked Strozzi, breathless with expectation.

"The Canale Grande was so crowded with splendid gondolas that it was
hard to say what had attracted the marchioness's attention. But
after a moment or two of waiting, Mademoiselle Victorine saw that
one of the gondolas was stationary just opposite to the palace."

"Whose gondola? Who was in it?" cried Strozzi, imperiously.

"Besides the gondoliers, the gondola contained a young man, so
simply dressed, that he could not have been anybody of distinction,
for he wore a brown doublet with plain buttons. Mademoiselle
concluded that the lying-to of the gondola was accidental; he was
too insignificant to have interested the signora."

"What do YOU think?" asked Strozzi, eying him searchingly.

"I think it was premeditated, but I will soon find out."

"What steps have you take a to--? But no!--go on--go on. What took
place afterward?"

"Nothing, excellenza; for after this gondola, came that of my lord
the marquis, and the signora retreated hastily to her room."

"Ah!--Now tell me what you have done?"

"I posted one of my men, with his gondola, under the balcony. He is
to remain there, watching every gondola that passes both by day and
by night. I have stationed men at every entrance of the palace, who
are to give admittance to all who present themselves; but who are to
require the names and business of all who leave. Even those who are
in your excellency's pay are to be searched--for example,
Mademoiselle Victorine."

"You are a well-trained dog," laughed Strozzi. "I really believe
that I will have to set you and your child-murderess free, some of
these days. Go, now, and bring me word who was in that gondola."

Antonio resumed his mask, and disappeared through the door, which
closed, and left no trace upon the wall.

At this moment, there was a knock at the door of the antechamber,
and a woman's voice was heard, asking admission.

"Lucretia!" said Strozzi, rising and undoing the bolt.

A lady entered the room. She was enveloped from head to foot in a
veil of costly Venetian guipure, fastened to the braids of her
raven-black hair by two large brilliants. Her face had been
concealed by the veil, but, as the door closed behind her, she threw
it back, and exposed to view a countenance of remarkable beauty.

"Look at me, Ottario," said she. "Tell me candidly--am I handsome
enough to bewitch our guests, those princely bears of Germany?"

The marquis surveyed her critically, just as a painter might examine
a fine picture. He looked at her pale, pearly skin, her scarlet
lips, her delicately-chiselled nose, and her low, wide forehead, so
like that of the Capitoline Venus. Then he gazed into her dark,
flashing eyes, at once so languishing and so passionate, with the
beautiful arched eyebrows that gave such finish to their splendor.
The black hair, like a frame of ebony, surrounded the face, and
brought out the graceful oval of her cheeks. Strozzi then followed
the luxurious outline of her well-developed bust, prisoned in a
bodice of blue velvet, which rested on her white shoulders like an
azure cloud upon the bosom of a snowy mountain-peak. The skirt, also
of blue velvet, was short in front, that it might not conceal a
fairy foot encased in blue satin slippers; but, behind, it fell in a
long train, whose rich folds lay on the carpet, perfecting the grace
and elegance of the beautiful living picture.

"You are certainly charming," said Strozzi, at last--"quite charming
enough to bewitch a dozen German princes, supposing your husband to
offer no impediment to the spell."

Here she drew out a fan of coral and gold. and, opening it with a
snap, began to fan herself. "Caro amico," said she, "you speak as if
you were ignorant of the character and virtues of Count Canossa,
when you yourself are the very tradesman that sold me to him."

"You use very strong expressions, Lucretia."

"Do I? Not stronger than are warranted by the transaction. You sold
me to him to rid yourself of your mother's dying charge, and you did
it, although you knew him to be a man so depraved that nothing on
earth was sacred in his eyes--not even the virtue of his wife."

"Why, that," replied the marquis significantly, "is so much the
better for you."

"You mean that otherwise he would not have married me?" asked
Lucretia.

"I mean that he would have examined more carefully into the truth of
the rumor which accused the sister of the Strozzi of having a
liaison with a gondolier; of having fled with him to Padua, and of
having been caught and brought hack to Venice, while her patrician
lover was sent to the galleys."

"I wish he had done so," was the reply, "and then you would have
been compelled to save my honor by allowing me to marry Giuseppe. Do
not laugh so heartlessly, Ottario. I loved him not only because of
his manly beauty, but because he was honorable and worthy of a
woman's purest love. His only fault was that of having loved me. You
sent him to the galleys; and I--I, too, have been condemned to the
galleys, and chained to a felon for life. Well I know that he
covered my indiscretions with his name for a stipulated sum, which
my generous brother paid to save my reputation, and he gambled it
away before the expiration of a year. Our palace resembles a ship
that has been visited by corsairs. It contains nothing but a pile of
lumber, for which not even a pawnbroker would give a bajocco. Were
it not for your alms, the Countess Canossa would starve."

"Alms, call you my gifts?" said Strozzi, casting his eyes over her
rich toilet. "They dress you up handsomely, methinks."

"But there they end," objected the countess. "I have neither lackeys
nor diamonds, neither gondola nor gondolier, and my saloons are so
shabby that I can receive no company at home. You give me as little
as decency permits."

"If I gave you diamonds, our dear Canossa would steal them; and if I
furnished your parlors, he would gamble away the furniture in a
night."

"You know the worth of the husband you selected for your mother's
child, and doubtless you had your own private reasons for
sacrificing her to such a man. His worthlessness, too, furnishes an
excuse for your niggardly allowance to me. The very dresses I wear
are the price of dishonor. I often feel ashamed of the part I play
toward your wife, Ottario, and I know not but some day I may throw
myself at her feet and acknowledge my treachery."

"If you do, your acknowledgment will be forthwith conveyed to my
ears, and the doors of the palace Strozzi will be closed to you
forever."

"I know it," sighed the countess; "and the fear of this expulsion
binds me to your wicked will."

"Never mind what binds you, so you serve with fidelity; and, above
all things, I charge you to be watchful during the coming week. I
will not be able to keep my wife much longer from participation in
the social pleasures of Venice."

"Why not? You have spread a report of her insanity, and nobody will
ever give a thought to her absence."

"But she may desire to witness the carnival herself."

"How so? when she has invariably refused to be presented to any one
as your wife?"

"She might change her mind, and claim her right to be presented to
the doge and dogessa. She may wish to take part in the carnival,
because of a fancy for some foreign prince!--Great God! when I think
of such a possibility," cried Strozzi, interrupting himself, "I feel
as though I were going mad for jealousy!"

"Poor fellow!" said Lucretia, "I pity you. You live with a perpetual
dagger in your heart."

"And it will kill me unless you are loyal to your office, Lucretia.
Promise me to watch this woman closely. Listen to me.--She may wish
to go out, and if she does, it is quite natural that you, as well as
I, should accompany her. Swear that wheresoever you may be together,
you will not for one moment quit her side, or take your eyes off her
person."

"For what do you take me. pray? Do you suppose that I attend the
carnival to yawn at the side of your wife? or do you imagine that
such eyes as mine were made for nothing better than to stare at a
woman?"

"You will have as much opportunity as you can desire to use them to
your own advantage, Lucretia, for Laura will not go out often."

"What will you give me in return for my self-denial?"

"If the carnival passes off without misadventure, I will buy you a
splendid gondola, with two gondoliers dressed all in silk."

"Give them to me now, and if I neglect my duty, then take them back.
But do--do give them to me to use during the carnival."

"Very well, you shall have them to-morrow morning. And you swear
that my wife shall neither give her hand nor speak to any man in
Venice, and that you will report her very glances to me?"

"I swear to guard your golden apple like a good dragon. And to-
morrow I shall join the great regatta," added she, clapping her
hands like a petted child. "Now, Ottario, listen to me--I have just
come from your wife's apartments with news for you."

"What is it?" gasped Strozzi, clutching at the arms of his chair.

"The beautiful Laura is no longer the cold vestal that came to
Venice as your wife. Her eye is bright, her cheek is flushed, her
lips are parted with womanly longing. I congratulate you upon the
change. Your love has at last awakened a corresponding sentiment,
and now is your time to woo and win. I came hither to tell you this
and make you happy. Do not forget my gondola! Addio, caro amico,
addio!"

She kissed the tips of her rosy fingers, and then, coquettishly
drawing her veil around her shoulders, she bounded off like a
gazelle, through the corridors of the palace.

"I wish I had your frivolity," murmured her brother, sinking back
upon the cushions of his divan. "I would that love, for me, were but
the episode of the hour!--But hark!--twelve o'clock--the hour for my
visit to her who is at once the blessing and the curse of my life!"

He was about to quit the room, when he heard a rustling at the
secret door. "Come in," said he, and the mask re-entered the room.

"You, Antonio! Already returned?" asked Strozzi, surprised.

"Yes, excellenza. I know the name of the young man in the gondola
which stopped before the palace this morning."

Strozzi was too much agitated to speak. He signed to the man to go
on.

"It was Prince Eugene of Savoy. He arrived in Venice yesterday, and
has taken the little Palazzo Capello, next to the Palazzo
Manfredino, which since this morning is occupied by the Elector of
Bavaria."

Strozzi was now as pale as a corpse; his brow darkened, and his
limbs trembled so that he was obliged to sit down. He mastered his
agitation as well as he could, and resumed his questionings.

"You are quite sure, Antonio?"

"Perfectly sure, excellenza."

"And yet the Prince of Savoy is not among the invited?"

"He came alone. The Marquis de Villars had rented the Palazzo
Capello for himself, but he has given it up to Prince Eugene, and
has accepted the invitation of the elector to occupy a suite on the
ground floor of the Palazzo Manfredino. The Prince of Savoy and the
elector are intimate friends; for no sooner had the former arrived,
than he left his address at the Palazzo Manfredino; and the latter
had not been here an hour before he was at the hotel of the White
Lion, where Prince Eugene had taken lodgings. By noon, the elector
had obtained the relinquishment of the Palazzo Capello for the
prince, and the Marquis de Villars had taken up his quarters at the
Palazzo Manfredino."

"From whom did you learn all these details?"

"From one of the gondoliers that rowed Prince Eugene this morning,
my half-brother Beppo. 'Whither shall I row you, excellenza?' asked
he. 'Anywhere,' said the prince, in excellent Italian, 'but take me
to see your famous palaces.' 'The Foscari, for example?' inquired
Beppo. 'Yes, and the Strozzi, which, I am told, is one of the finest
residences in Venice.' So they rowed to the Strozzi palace, and
there the prince bade Beppo stop for ever so long a time. The prince
will spend the entire carnival here. He has bought a gondola, and
his secretary is on the lookout for gondoliers, an Italian valet,
and a commissionnaire."

"You will offer yourself as his commissionnaire, then," said
Strozzi, with a sinister scowl. "And be sure you get the place--do
you hear?"

Antonio bowed, and the marquis continued: "In fifteen minutes return
to me, and meanwhile--begone!"

Without a word of reply Antonio disappeared; Strozzi pressed down
into the wall the spring by which the door was opened, and then,
taking up his plumed hat, betook himself to the apartments of his
wife.



CHAPTER IV.

LAURA.


She lay half buried in the yellow satin cushions of a soft ottoman.
Her large, dreamy eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, whereon groups
of flying Cupids were pelting one another with roses. Her lips were
parted with a happy smile, her fair brow was serene and cloudless,
and her cheeks were tinged with a faint flush like that of the rose
that is kissed by the first beams of the rising sun. She was the
same beautiful, spirited, hopeful being that had lived and loved in
the pavilion of the Palais Royal.

She lay dreaming and smiling, smiling and dreaming, when the velvet
portiere that opened into her boudoir was drawn aside to give
entrance to the Marquis de Strozzi. Yesterday his visit had been a
martyrdom to Laura; to-day she was indifferent to it: she was far
beyond its influence, nor did she acknowledge it by so much as a
glance.

But when he stood directly before her, and would have stooped to
kiss her hand, she withdrew it with a gesture of aversion, although
her countenance yet beamed with happiness.

The marquis saw that she was excited, and he frowned. "You seem in
good spirits to-day, Marchioness de Strozzi," said he, moodily.

"I am indeed in good spirits when I can endure your presence with
tranquillity, nor start at the sound of a title which is not mine. I
am not the Marchioness de Strozzi."

"I do not know how that can be, when you are indubitably my wedded
wife."

"No, no, I am no wedded wife of yours, nor am I bound to you by the
lying vows that gave me into your keeping. For three years, I have
endeavored to make you understand this, but you are singularly
obtuse."

"I can never be made to understand that the woman who, in presence
of her father and brother, promised to be unto me a faithful wife,
is not my true and lawful spouse."

"My vows were not for you; they were made to another."

"Nay--I can show your signature to the contract, and the pope
himself cannot undo our marriage."

"Our marriage!" exclaimed she, haughtily. "There is no marriage
between you and me, and be assured that there never will be. I would
sooner die than become your wife. Hear me," continued she,
passionately. "If I thought that I was indeed bound to you, I would-
-ay! I believe that I would commit the crime of suicide. Could you
convince me that the hand which received your accursed ring was
indeed yours, I would gather up all my strength of hate to strike it
off, and dash it in your face."

"Great God! And I love you to madness!" cried he, throwing himself
on his knees, and clasping her hands so convulsively that all her
writhings could not release them. "I love you, I love you, and am
doomed to love you, albeit your cruelty is driving me to madness!"

"'Tis the punishment of your crime toward me," answered Laura,
coldly. "You have sinned against love, and God has punished you
through love that shall be forever unrequited. Accept your fate, and
be resigned."

"I cannot do it, Laura, I cannot do it! My love for you is like a
deadly poison that sets my blood on fire. It must be requited, or I
shall die a maniac. Oh, have pity! have pity!"

"Pity for YOU!" said she, contemptuously.

"Look at me," cried he, imploringly. "For once in your life, Laura,
turn your eyes upon me without hate, and see how love has corroded
my very life. Three years ago I was a happy man--to-day I am not yet
thirty, and my hair is gray, and my face wrinkled. Life has no
charms for me, and yet I am too cowardly to die, and leave you to
another. Oh, Laura, look at me, and be merciful! Deliver me from the
hell in which your hatred has plunged me!"

"Nay--your sufferings are the purgatorial fires whereby you may
perchance be purified from the guilt of your treachery toward an
innocent girl. Marquis de Strozzi, now look at me. Am I, too,
changed since three years of misery unspeakable?"

"No," sighed he, "you are as beautiful and youthful as you were when
first I saw you in Paris."

"You are right," replied she. "I am altered neither in appearance
nor in heart. And do you know why? It is because Hope, bright-eyed
Hope, has sat day and night by my side, whispering sweet words of
encouragement, bidding me be firm; imparting to me strength to
endure the present, and to enjoy the future. I feel it in my soul
that he will come sooner or later to liberate me from my bondage."

"If he ever comes, I will murder him!" hissed Strozzi.

"You will try, but you will not succeed. God protects him, and he
wears the invisible armor of my love to shield him from your hate."

"Very well. Pray for him if you will; but, as sure as I live, I will
find his vulnerable heel!"

As he said this, Laura turned pale, and Strozzi remarked her pallor
with a malicious pleasure. "Ah! your faith is not strong! My
poisoned arrows will find the flaw, and upon him shall be avenged
every pang that you have inflicted upon my bleeding heart. You know
that he is here--I see it by your altered demeanor."

"Yes, yes, I know it."

"Be not too overjoyed thereat: for the daggers of my bravoes are
keen and sure, and the lagoons are deep, and give not up their
dead."

"You would not sully your soul with secret murder!" exclaimed Laura,
shuddering.

"That would I. He is my rival, and he shall be put out of my way--
that is all."

"No--that is not all. You dare not murder a prince, a hero upon whom
the eyes of all Europe are fixed in admiration. Such a man as he is
not to be put out of the way with impunity. Were you to murder
Eugene of Savoy, know that I myself would be your accuser; and your
uncle, the doge himself, is not powerful enough to save your head
from the executioner."

"What care I for the executioner's axe, who for three years have
been stretched upon the rack of your aversion? So I make sure that
he has gone before me--so I have the sweet revenge of sending him to
Tartarus, what care I how soon I follow him thither?"

"You are a monster!" exclaimed Laura.

"I am the work of your hands," replied Strozzi. "If I am a monster,
my perdition he upon your head. And now, mark me! I came hither to
have one decisive interview with you. Prince Eugene is in Venice;
you are aware of it, for you sent him a greeting from your balcony
this morning, as his gondola lay in front of the palace."

"Your spies are vigilant," said she.

"Yes, they serve me well, and they are ubiquitous. They mark each
smile and report every tear that tells of silent joy or grief upon
your face. They are with you when you pray; they watch you while you
sleep, so that your very dreams are not your own. Now you are my
wife, howsoever you may protest against the name, and you shall not
sully that name, be assured of it. If, by word or look, by movement
or sign, you allow Prince Eugene to suppose that you recognize him,
he shall expiate your disobedience to my will by death. I am afraid
that you do not believe me; you think that I make a mere threat to
terrify you into submission. Is it so?"

"Yes, marquis, it is so. You are treacherous and cruel; but, abhor
you as I may for the misery you have inflicted upon me, I do believe
you to be one degree above a bravo. You are not a coward--you would
not consent to be an assassin."

"You flatter your keeper, that you may disarm him."

"No; I speak the truth. I hate, but do not despise you to such a
degree as to believe your threats."

"So much the worse for you. I would enjoy the privilege of plunging
a dagger into his heart with my own hands; but I must deny myself
that satisfaction. It is safer to employ a bravo, and to pay him.
You know how dearly I loved my mother, do you not?"

"Yes, I have heard of it from your sister."

"Well--that portrait hanging over your divan is my mother's.
Doubtless, had you known it, you would have banished it from the
walls of your boudoir for hatred of her son."

"I have all along known that it is your mother. But I loved my own
too deeply ever to offer disrespect to yours. I have often raised my
imploring eyes to that mild face, and have poured out to her spirit
my plaint of her son's cruelty."

"Raise your eyes to it again, then, and inform her that it rests
with you whether her son shall become an assassin or not. For, by my
mother's soul, I swear that, if ever there comes to pass the most
trifling interchange of thought between Prince Eugene and the
Marchioness de Strozzi, he shall die--die, if I have to expiate the
deed upon the scaffold! Do you believe me now?"

"I must believe you," returned Laura, sickening with disgust. "But
while conviction despoils you of the last claim I supposed you to
possess to the name of a man, it does not terrify me for the life
you would destroy. God, who has protected him on the field of
battle--God, who has created him 'to give the world assurance of a
man'--God, who is the shield of the pure, the brave, the virtuous,
will not suffer the Prince of Savoy to fall under the dagger of your
hired bravi!" "Nous verrons.--And now, signora, let us speak of
other things. The carnival this year is to be of unusual splendor; a
number of foreigners of distinction have visited Venice to witness
it. Lucretia, without doubt, has apprised you of all this?"

"She has."

"So I presumed; for Lucretia is fond of gossip. She would gladly
induce you to go into society, knowing that a woman of your beauty
and extreme youth cannot appear in the world alone, and that she
would naturally be the person to accompany you. Would you like to
see the regatta?"

This proposal terrified Laura, for she comprehended that he was in
earnest when he threatened Eugene's life. The marquis read her
thoughts, and replied to them.

"I shall shun no occasion whatever that may justify me in keeping
the oath you heard me take a while ago. And, therefore, you are
welcome to appear at the regatta. The doge will be there in the
Bucentaur, attended by all the court. As you have refused to be
presented as my wife, you cannot take your proper place among the
ladies of rank. But it is not too late. If you wish, I can present
you to-day."

"No--no," cried Laura, "I do not wish it."

"Then perhaps you would like to go incognita. It will be many years
before another such regatta is seen in Venice."

"True, I would like to see the sight," said the poor young victim.
And to herself she added: "I might perchance see HIM."

"Be it so, then, signora; your wishes are my commands."

"But I would like to see without being seen," added she.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Strozzi, with a wicked sneer. "Then I will see
that your gondola is closely curtained. Will you allow me the honor
of accompanying you?"

"As if I were free to refuse," said Laura, with quivering lip.

"One thing more," said the marquis. "It is the custom for all who
join in the festivities of the carnival to appear in a costume of
some foregone century. May I commission my sister to select yours?"

"I would like to select for myself."

The marquis bowed his head. "As you please. The tradesmen of Venice
will be delighted at last to have a look at the beautiful wife of
the Strozzi."

Laura shrank visibly. "I will not go," said she. "Let the Countess
Canossa select my costume. It matters little to me: but be so good
as to see that the gondola is well curtained."

"I will not forget it," answered the marquis, as he bowed and left
the room.

Laura's eyes followed him until he had crossed her whole suite, and
had closed the door behind him. Then, yielding to the bliss of being
left a few moments alone, she opened her arms, and, kneeling before
her prie-dieu, poured out her heart in prayer to Heaven for Eugene's
safety. Then, throwing herself again upon the divan, she began to
dream. She saw her gondola approaching his; she saw her lover--her
spouse, and made one rapid movement of her hand. His gondola touched
hers; she flung aside the curtains and leaped into the boat with
him.

But as she dreamed, there floated over the water the sound of song.
This was no unusual sound on the Canale Grande, but the music was
not Italian; it was no languishing barcarolle, such as Venetian
lovers were wont to sing to their mistresses; the air was foreign--
the words were French. She heard them distinctly; they were the
words of her own, dear, native language!

"It is he!" cried she, springing out upon the balcony.

Yes, it was he; he had called her with an old familiar air, and,
while he looked up in rapture, the music went on, for the singers
were in a gondola that followed.

Laura was so wild with joy that she forgot the marquis, his spies,
and his threats. Snatching the first bouquet that presented itself,
she made an attempt to throw it to her lover. But she had not
calculated the distance, and it fell far short of its destination.

"An evil omen," murmured she, and then she remembered the horrible
threat of the marquis. She gave one ejaculation of terror, and
bounded back into her boudoir.

About fifteen minutes later, Strozzi entered the room. In his hand
he held a bouquet of beautiful roses, which he presented with mock
courtesy.

"Signora, you were so unfortunate as to drop your bouquet in the
lagoon not long ago. The mermaids will be glad to receive so fair a
gift from so fair a hand. Allow me to replace it."

"On the contrary, I must request you to take your roses away from my
boudoir. I do not like the odor of flowers, and I threw mine into
the water because their perfume oppressed me. I regret that you
should have taken so much useless trouble."

"And I beg pardon for interrupting your reveries," said Strozzi,
with a sarcastic smile, as he bowed and retired with his bouquet.

"Gracious Heaven, I was watched! Am I, then, given over to enemies,
and is there not one being here that I can trust?"

At this moment a door opened, and a young girl entered the room.
"Victorine!" exclaimed Laura, joyfully, "come hither. God has sent
you to me to shield me from despair."

The girl came smilingly forward, and, kneeling at her mistress's
side, looked affectionately at her, saying in Laura's own tongue:

"What ails my dear mistress?"

"Victorine," replied Laura, gazing earnestly into the maiden's eyes,
"Victorine, do you love me?"

Victorine covered her hand with kisses, while she protested that she
loved her mistress with all her heart. "Dear lady," said she, "did I
not leave Paris for love of her whom her royal highness cherished as
a daughter? Was I not sent to you by the Duchess of Orleans, that
you might have one true friend among your troops of enemies? And now
that I had hoped to have proved to my dear mistress my devotion, she
asks if I love her!"

"True, Victorine, I have no right to doubt your attachment. And
certainly I have proved that I trust you, by committing to your care
my letters to the duchess. Ah, Victorine, when will you bring me an
answer to those letters?"

"The answers cannot have reached Venice as yet, dear mistress," said
Victorine, soothingly. "But I came to tell you something. May I
speak?"

"Yes--speak--speak quickly!"

Victorine went on tiptoe to the door, and, having convinced herself
that no one was near, she came close to Laura, and whispered in her
ear: "Madame, one of the foreign princes has been here to call on
you."

"Who? who?"

"Prince Eugene of Savoy," said Victorine, as though she was afraid
the breeze might betray her.

Laura shivered, became deadly pale, and could scarcely gather
courage to say, "He was refused entrance?"

"Yes, the porter told him that the marchioness was in bad health,
and received no visitors."

"That was well. Go, Victorine, and tell the servants to convey
neither message nor card of Prince Eugene of Savoy to me. I will not
receive him. Go, go quickly, and then--"

"And then?" said Victorine, coaxingly.

Laura was silent for a while; then, putting her arms around
Victorine's neck, she drew the young girl's head upon her bosom.
"Try to find out where Prince Eugene is staying, and go to him. Say
that you come from the Marchioness Bonaletta, and you will be
admitted to his presence. Now tell him word for word what I shall
say to you. 'To-morrow the Marchioness Bonaletta will attend the
regatta. Her gondola will be closed, but whosoever wishes to
recognize it can see her as she descends the stair and enters it.
Let the gondola be closely followed, and when a hand holding a
nosegay of roses is seen outside the curtain, let the gondoliers be
instructed to come as close as possible to the hand, so that the two
gondolas collide. Then--let the prince await me.' Do you hear,
Victorine?"

"Yes, dear mistress, I hear, and will report your words faithfully."

"Tell him that Venice is alive with spies and bravi, and oh! bid him
be careful how he exposes himself to danger. Now go! and may Heaven
bless you for your fidelity to a wretched and betrayed woman!"

Victorine withdrew. But before leaving the palace, she betook
herself to the cabinet of the marquis, where they had an interview
of some length. No sooner was she dismissed, than she retreated to
her own room, drew out a purse of gold from her bosom, chinked its
contents, emptied them out on the table, and counted them with
rapture.

"Ten ducats! Ten ducats for each intercepted message," said she. "I
shall soon he rich enough to leave this abominable marsh of a
Venice, and return to my dear Paris!"

Having locked up her gold, and tied the key of her chest around her
neck, she directed her steps to the hotel of Prince Eugene.



CHAPTER V.

THE REGATTA.


Prince Eugene was watching the little French clock on the marble
mantelpiece of his dressing-room, wondering, in his impatience,
whether it ever would strike the hour of twelve, the hour at which
he was to witness the departure of the Strozzis for the regatta.

Mademoiselle Victorine had delivered her mistress's message, and the
heart of her lover was once more bounding with joy. His eyes flashed
with a light which, except on a day of battle, had never been seen
within their sad depths since the dreadful period of his parting
with Laura. Forgotten was all the anguish of those three long years;
forgotten all doubts, forgotten all fears. She loved him; she was
true to her vows, and he would bear her away from her ravisher to
the spouse that was hers before Heaven.

But how long--how unspeakably long--the hours that intervened
between him and happiness! He was wishing for some interruption that
would break this monotonous waiting, when the door opened, and
Conrad came forward.

"My lord, I have found a commissionnaire for you; one who professes
to know Venice and its golden book by heart."

"Introduce him at once: I wish to speak with him."

Conrad opened the door and signed to some one without, when the
commissionnaire advanced and bowed.

"Why are you masked?" asked the prince, who remembered the warning
which Laura had sent him the day previous.

"Excellenza, every Venetian of good character has a right to wear a
mask during the carnival."

"And every criminal can take advantage of the right," replied
Eugene. "Behind a mask every man has a good character, for nobody
knows who he is."

"I beg pardon, excellenza. The republican fathers, through their
sbirri, know every man in Venice. If you will take the trouble to
look around you in the market-place, you will see how now and then a
masker is touched on the shoulder, when his mask drops at once, or
he escapes among the crowd to avoid public exposure."

"Then, I suppose that a stranger has no hope of seeing the beautiful
women here?" observed Eugene, smiling.

"Pardon me; to-day, at the regatta, no masks will be worn, and your
excellency will see all the beauty of Venice, both patrician and
plebeian."

"Why, then, do YOU wear a mask?"

"I wear it habitually, having a fancy to go about incognito."

"Nevertheless, you must remove it now, for I cannot take a man into
my service incognito."

The man raised his left hand, withdrew the mask, and revealed to
sight a face that was colorless save where it had been marked with a
deep-red scar from temple to jaw.

"You are indeed conspicuous, and not to be mistaken by those who
have seen you once. Whence came this scar?"

"I received it two years ago, excellenza, at the taking of Prevosa."

"You have been a soldier, then?" asked Eugene, his countenance at
once expressing interest.

"I have, indeed; and but for the loss of my right hand by the sabre
of an infernal Turk, I would be a soldier still."

"You have written the conquests of the republic upon your body, my
friend," said Eugene, kindly. "But your mutilations are so many
orders of valor; they are the ineffaceable laurels which victory
places on a brave man's brow."

A slight flush overspread the sallow face of the ex-soldier, and his
eyes sought the floor.

Eugene contemplated him for several moments with the sympathy--even
the respect--which a military man feels for extraordinary bravery,
as attested by such wounds as these.

"With what manner of weapon were you cut in the face?" said he. "Not
with a sabre, for the scar is curved."

"It was not a sabre-cut, excellenza," replied the man, in a low,
tremulous voice. "I was in the breech, fighting hand to hand with a
Turk, whom I had just overthrown. While I was stooping over his
prostrate body, he drew forth a yataghan and gashed my face as you
see."

"I knew it was a dagger-thrust," replied Eugene. "Well, this scar
shall be your best recommendation to me, for I, too, am a soldier."

"Excellenza, I thank you, but I have other and weighty
recommendations from my employers. Moreover, here is my license as
commissionnaire from the Signiory."

So saying, he would have handed the prince a document with a large
seal appended to it, but Eugene waved it away.

"I prefer the license to serve that is written on your body, my
friend. You have been a brave soldier, you will therefore be a
faithful servant. You say that you are well acquainted with Venice?"

"Ay, indeed, signor; I know every palace and every den, every
nobleman and every bravo, in Venice."

"You are, then, the very man I need. Make your terms with my
secretary. But be loyal to me, and remember that the scar you had
received in your country's service was the only recommendation I
required when I took you into mine."

"Excellenza!" exclaimed the man, kneeling, and raising the prince's
doublet to his lips, "I will bear it in mind, and serve you
faithfully."

"I believe you, my brave! Rise and tell me your name."

"Antonio, signor."

"Antonio.--Well, Antonio, you accompany me to the regatta to-day."

"My lord," said Conrad, entering the room, "your gondola is below,
and his highness the Elector of Bavaria is here."

A deep flush of joy overspread Eugene's countenance as he, advanced
to welcome his friend. Max Emmanuel had chosen the gorgeous costume
of a Russian boyar. His dress was of dark-blue velvet, bordered with
sables, and buttoned up to the throat with immense brilliants. On
his head he wore a Russian cap, with a heron's plume fastened in
front by a rosette of opals and diamonds.

Eugene surveyed him with undisguised admiration. "You are as
gloriously handsome as a Grecian demi-god," cried he,
enthusiastically. "I pity the lovely women of Venice to-day, when
they come within sight of the hero of Buda."

"I absolve them all from tribute except one," returned Max.

"What! In love already!"

"My dear young friend, I saw yesterday on a balcony a black-haired
beauty far beyond pari or houri of my imagination!--majestic as
Juno, voluptuous as Venus, with eyes that maddened, and smile that
ravished me. Unless I find this houri, I am a lost, broken-hearted
man!"

"Then you have not yet begun your siege?"

"Impossible to begin it. The Duke of Modena was with me, and you
know what an enterprising roue he is. To have pointed her out to him
would have been to retreat with loss. So I was obliged to say
nothing: but I will see her again if, to do so, I have to reduce
Venice to a heap of ashes!"

"Peace, thou insatiable conqueror, or amorous ambition will
intoxicate you. You are certainly just the very cavalier to storm
and take the citadel of a woman's heart; but you are the Elector of
Bavaria, a reigning prince, and son-in-law of the Emperor of
Austria."

"My dear Eugene, no ugly moral reflections, as you love me! I am
here to enjoy the glow of the warm blood that dances through my
veins to sip the ambrosia that pleasure holds to my lips--in short,
I am, body and soul, a son of the short-lived carnival that begins
to-day. Don't preach; but pray if you like, for my success, and help
me in my need."

"Help you? I should like to know how I am to do that!" said Eugene,
laughing. "But stay--I have a man in my service who professes to
know everybody in Venice. So, if you should see your houri to-day,
point her out, and doubtless Antonio will tell us her name. Ah!
Twelve o'clock at last!--dome, come, let us go."

"You have not made your toilet, Eugene. What costume have you
selected?"

"The very respectable one of a little abbe," was the reply.

"Respectable, if you will, but excessively unbecoming, and unworthy
of the Prince of Savoy. I perceive that you, at least, have no wish
to make conquests to-day."

"No--all my victories I hope to win by the help of my good sword."

"Do you go with me in my gondola, reverend sir?"

"I in your magnificent gondola, at the side of such a Phoebus-
Apollo! I might well despair of making conquests in such company;
and, for aught you know, I may be desirous of attracting the
attention of some fair lady who is not taken by appearances."

The elector looked up in surprise. He had never heard an expression
like this from Eugene's lips before; and now he saw clearly that his
demeanor had changed, that his eye was restless and bright, his
cheek flushed, his whole countenance beaming with some inward hope
or realized joy.

"Eugene," said he, touching his friend's shoulder, "Venice holds the
secret of your love; and you have tidings that have lightened your
heart. I read them in your eyes, which are far from being as
discreet as your lips."

"Perhaps so; but the secrets of love are sacred--sacred as those of
the confessional. Nevertheless, I may confide in you sooner than you
expect, for I may need your help as well as you mine."

The two young men went out arm in arm, followed by the suite of the
elector, and, behind them, by Conrad and Antonio.

"Who is that mask?" asked Max, as he passed by.

"My new commissionnaire, Antonio--he that is to tell us the name of
your belle."

They were by this time on the marble stairs that led to the water,
where side by side lay the superb gilded gondola of the Elector of
Bavaria and the inconspicuous one of the Prince of Savoy.

As the two princes were descending the stairs, a gayly-dressed
nobleman sprang from the gondola of the elector, and advanced
respectfully to meet them.

"Monsieur le Marquis de Villars," said Max, bowing, "I am happy to
see that you have accepted a seat with me."

"It is an honor for which I am deeply grateful, your highness,"
replied the marquis; "and one which I accept in the name of my
gracious sovereign, for whom alone such a compliment can be
intended."

"You are mistaken, marquis; I invited you that I might enjoy the
pleasure of your company to-day. Allow me, Prince of Savoy, to
introduce to you the Marquis de Villars, the French ambassador to
the court of Bavaria."

"There is no necessity for us to know each other," replied Eugene.
"The marquis is a Frenchman, and I have no love for that nation;
particularly for those who are favorites of Monsieur Louvois. Adieu,
your highness."

And without vouchsafing a word to the French ambassador, Eugene
entered his gondola.

"I must apologize for my friend," said the courteous Max Emmanuel to
the marquis. "He has been sorely injured both by the King of France
and his minister. Forget his bluntness, then, I beseech you, and
forgive his unpleasant remark."

"He is your highness's friend, and that at once earns his
forgiveness," replied De Villars. "But that the friend of the
Elector of Bavaria should be the enemy of my sovereign I deeply
regret; for he may prejudice your highness against the King of
France. He may transfer his aversion to--"

"Let us rather suppose that I may transfer my love of France to
him," said Max Emmanuel. "But let us eschew politics, and enjoy the
bliss of the hour. To-day la bella Venezia puts forth all her
charms. And as the swift gondolas skim over the green waters of the
lagoon, so flies my heart toward my bellissima Venetiana!"

At twelve o'clock. Laura left her dressing-room to join the Marquis
de Strozzi and his sister in the drawing-room below.

"Great heavens, how beautiful!" cried Lucretia, embracing her. "I
have not been wise in placing myself so near you, bewitching Laura.
Ottario, do look at her; did you ever see such a vision of beauty?"

"Pray do not force the marquis to praise me," said Laura; "you are
perfectly aware that I am indifferent to his approbation. But as
regards beauty in Venice, where beautiful women abound, the Countess
Canossa is acknowledged to be la belleza delle belle. And to think
that nobody will see you to-day in my closed gondola!"

"You adhere to your resolution to have your gondola curtained?"
asked the marquis.

"Yes," replied Laura, without bestowing a glance upon him.

"And I rejoice to know it," exclaimed he, passionately, "for I alone
will drink in all your beauty. For me alone have you worn this
becoming costume."

"You know perfectly well that my dress was chosen by your sister."

"Catharine Cornaro was by adoption a Venetian," returned Strozzi,
"and since you have willingly donned her dress, I must accept it as
an earnest of your consent to appear as the wife of a Venetian
noble."

To this taunt Laura made no reply. She gave her hand to the
countess, and they passed into the corridors together. The walls
were hung with chefs-d'oeuvres of Titian, Tintoretto, Paul Veronese,
and Gioberti, all gorgeously framed in Italian style; and between
each picture was a mirror that extended from floor to ceiling.
Through these magnificent halls went Laura, as regardless of their
splendor as of the passionate glances of the man who walked by her
side, so near and yet so far, so very far away from her heart.

The gondola that awaited them was an heir-loom of the Strozzis, and
was never used except on gala-days. It was well known to the
Venetians, every one of whom was accustomed to point to it with
pride, saying, "There goes the bucentoro of the Strozzis!"

As Laura was about to step into this glittering bucentoro, the
gondoliers around, delighted with her beauty, shouted, "Evviva la
Marchesa Strozzi!" To their great astonishment, the marchesa,
instead of bowing and smiling as is usual on such occasions, gave no
other evidence of having heard their greeting than that which by a
frown and a flash of her dark eyes might be construed into a signal
of displeasure, as she disappeared behind the silken hangings of the
bucentoro.

The centre of the gondola was supported by gilded pillars,
surmounted by a canopy of silk and gold. Behind this canopy was a
sort of pavilion, bordered by seats cushioned with gold brocade. In
the centre was a table, of costly material and make, on which stood
a golden vase of rare flowers. The pillars also were wreathed with
flowers, which appeared to be carried from column to column by
flying Cupids that were holding up the garlands in their chubby
little hands. In short, the temple was worthy of the divinities, one
of whom was light-hearted and coquettish, the other proud and
serious. Between them was the Marquis de Strozzi, in the rich habit
of a Greek corsair--a character which his handsome, sinister face
was well fitted to represent. His gloomy black eyes were fixed upon
Laura, while his hands toyed with a silken cord that hung from the
pillar against which he was leaning.

The eyes of the countess were fixed upon the cord, and presently she
raised them with a glance of inquiry to her brother. He nodded, and
his sister smiled. Then throwing herself back among the cushions,
she raised her little foot to a gilded stool that was before her,
and leaning her head against the pillar, looked out upon the waters
with an expression that might have become Danae awaiting her shower
of gold.

Laura, on the contrary, wore a look of resolve that seemed
inappropriate to the scene and the occasion. But her thoughts were
far away from the frivolities that interested Lucretia. She had
determined that, in presence of all Venice and of the foreigners
that had assembled there to celebrate the carnival, she would burst
asunder the compulsory ties that bound her to Strozzi. Before the
world she would give the lie to that simulated bridal, and fly to
him who was, by all the laws of God, her true and only spouse.

Thus thought Laura, while far away from the crowds that from gondola
to gondola were greeting one another, the bucentoro pursued its
solitary way over the water. She had managed to draw aside the
curtain and to look around for him who to her filled the world with
his presence. At last she saw him. He was there--there! and he saw
her, for his gondola changed its course, and came nearer. Like an
arrow it sped across the waters, taking heed of no impediments,
dashing into the midst of other gondolas, as reckless as a pirate of
the consternation it created among the bewildered gondoliers, who
were forced to give it passage, or be dashed aside like so much
spray; while Eugene's gaze was fixed upon the golden bark of the
Strozzi--the argosy that bore such precious freight. At last they
neared it, and Eugene could see the little white hand, holding a
bouquet of roses from between the crimson hangings of the pavilion.
His eyes brightened, and his whole being seemed transfigured.
Gallant and comely he looked--a knight worthy of any woman's love.

The Elector of Bavaria had seen all the movements of Eugene's
gondola. He had seen it suddenly change its course, and had watched
the prince pointing with uplifted hand to some object in the
distance, which, to judge by his bearing, one would have supposed
was a breach to mount. Max Emmanuel had smiled and said to himself:
"In yonder direction lies Eugene's love-secret. We had better
follow, for we may be useful in time of need. He seems to me to be
too bashful to manage an intrigue with skill."

So the elector gave orders to follow the gondola of the Prince of
Savoy; and now his gondoliers, too, were rowing for their lives,
while many a bright eye was turned admiringly upon his tall,
graceful form.

Laura was not the only person that was looking out from the
curtained bucentoro. The marquis, too, had seen the two approaching
gondolas; and now, as the foremost one came full in view, he passed
his arm outside, and, while Laura's head was turned away, made a
sign to Antonio, who responded with another.

The gondolas were now so close that their occupants were easily
recognized. Strozzi saw Eugene's passionate gaze, and guessed that
it had been returned, although the face of his wife had been
averted, so that he had not seen the act.

At this moment Laura turned, and gave a quick, searching glance
around the pavilion.

"You are looking for me?" asked Strozzi, with a singular smile. "I
am here, my wife, to protect you from all danger; and as I am weary
of standing, and as there is no seat for me beside you, I will take
the place that my heart covets most."

And, before Laura could prevent him, he had thrown himself at full
length, had clasped her feet, and raised them over his knee, so that
they had the appearance of having been placed in that familiar
position by her own will. He then pulled the silken cord which he
had held all this while in his hand, and the curtains of the
pavilion were rolled up, exposing its three occupants to the view of
the whole Venetian world. On one side lay Lucretia, in her Danae-
like position, and on the other, gazing with the rapture of an
accepted lover into the face of the marchioness, lay Strozzi. The
picture was unequivocally that of a pair of lovers, and those who
knew her not as his wife were convinced that in Laura they beheld
the mistress of the Marquis de Strozzi.

"Evviva!" shouted the enraptured multitude, dazzled by the beauty of
the tableau. No one heard Laura's despairing entreaty for release
from a posture so humiliating. Nor had any one heard the exclamation
of delight that burst from the lips of the elector, as in Lucretia
he recognized his houri.

"There she is!" exclaimed he to the French ambassador.

"Who?" asked the latter, in astonishment.

"The most beautiful woman that ever distracted a susceptible man,"
was the reply. "Do you not know her?"

"I regret to say that I do not, but I will make it my duty to
discover her abode, and communicate the discovery to your highness."

"Thank you," began the elector. But suddenly he stopped, and gazed
intently upon Prince Eugene, who was standing at the stern of his
gondola, only a few feet distant from the bucentoro of the Strozzis.
The elector directed his gondoliers to approach that of the prince,
and, springing from one boat to the other, he laid his hand on
Eugene's shoulder.

"Friend," said he, "I do not desire to force myself into your
confidence; but lest I become your unconscious rival, answer me one
question. Is that lady there, in the red-velvet dress, the object of
your unhappy attachment?"

"No, dear Max," replied Eugene, with his eyes fixed steadfastly upon
Laura.

"Truly?"

"Truly, I do not know her; but if you ask Antonio, he will tell
you."

With these few words Eugene turned away, and, in a low voice,
promised a rich reward to his gondoliers if they would but touch the
gondola of the Marquis Strozzi.

The elector beckoned to Antonio. "Who is that lady in the gilded
gondola close by?" said he.

"Which one, your highness?"

"The one in red velvet,"

"That is the Countess Lucretia Canossa, sister of the Marquis de
Strozzi."

"Is she married?"

"Yes, your highness, to a man who has squandered her fortune; so
that but for her brother she would be penniless."

The elector thanked Antonio, and leaped back into his own gondola.
The Marquis de Villars, meanwhile, who knew that gondoliers were the
news-givers of Venice, had ascertained quite as much of the position
of the countess as Max Emmanuel had done during his short absence.

"I can answer your highness's question now," whispered he. "I have
learned every thing concerning her that it is needful to know from
the gondoliers."

"And I, too, know all that I care to know." replied the elector; "so
here am I, like Rinaldo before the enchanted gardens of Armida: I
must and will enter!"

"Of course you will. What woman can withstand the fascinations of
the handsomest cavalier in Europe?" observed the marquis; adding to
himself: "And thank Heaven that I know the Armida of his longings,
for she must draw this Rinaldo, not only into her own toils, but
into those of France."

Eugene was standing on the edge of his gondola, his passionate gaze
fixed upon the group that had been disclosed by the rising of
Strozzi's silk curtain. What could it mean? Oh! it was horrible! To
see Laura lying back in a position so voluptuous, her feet clasped
in Strozzi's arms, his eyes so lovingly triumphant, was like a
poisoned dagger to the heart of her unhappy lover. Had she called
him thither to make him the sport of his successful rival? The very
thought was madness: and yet Laura feigned not to see him; her eyes
were steadily cast down.

Eugene was determined to know the worst; he would not retreat until
conviction had chased away this deadly suspense. Slowly his gondola
came near and more near, while in that of his rival its approach was
watched by two of its occupants, both of whom knew equally well for
what purpose it was coming.

Laura gathered up all her strength for one effort, and freed her
feet from Strozzi's clasp.

"You are a wretch!" exclaimed she with indignation. "If you pollute
me again with the touch of your hands, I will drown myself here, in
your very sight."

"Oh no; you will throw yourself overboard, that Prince Eugene may
plunge after you. Listen to me, Marchioness de Strozzi. I am
perfectly acquainted with the nature of the stratagem you proposed
to put into execution to-day. But I tell you that as sure as the
gondola of the prince touches mine, and you make the least movement
of your hand or foot, he dies."

"Vain threat!" exclaimed she, surveying him with contemptuous
disbelief.

"You think so? Let me prove to you the contrary. Do you see the mask
behind Prince Eugene? He is the man that will do the deed. Observe
his motions while I speak a word or two, ostensibly to my rowers--
really to him."

And the marquis called out, as though to his gondoliers, "Are you
ready?"

The words were no sooner spoken, than the mask bowed his head, and
drew from his cloak a poniard, which he raised and held suspended
over the back of Eugene's neck.

Laura uttered a cry and fell back among the cushions, while Strozzi,
hanging over her with the air of an enamoured lover, whispered: "The
gondola almost touches ours. Make but the smallest sign--lift but a
finger, and I swear that I will give the signal for his death!"

"O God! do not kill him!" was all that the wretched girl had
strength to say.

The gondolas met. Eugene stood erect on the stern of his boat, his
right arm extended toward her whom he loved. But alas! she came not.
She did not even turn her head; for Antonio was there, his poniard
uplifted, and Eugene's life depended upon her obedience.

"Traitress!" exclaimed the prince, as Strozzi's bucentoro shot
ahead, and the red-silk curtains, falling heavily down, shut out the
fearful tableau that had been prepared to torture and exasperate
him.

Laura had swooned, and her fall had been remarked by the gondoliers.

"Poor thing," said one of them, "she has a paroxysm of insanity."

"How insanity?" asked Conrad.

"Everybody in Venice has heard of the lunacy of the Marchioness de
Strozzi," was the reply. "It is for that reason that she never goes
out. The marquis perhaps thought she might be trusted to see the
regatta; but he was mistaken. You must have remarked how closely he
watched her for fear of some catastrophe."

"Insane, is she?" said Eugene, with quivering lip, to Antonio.

"Pazza per amore," replied he, with a shrug. Then, coming closer to
the prince, he added, "The marquis gives out that his wife is crazy,
and, as nobody ever sees her, nobody is any the wiser."

"And you? What think you, Antonio?"

"I do not believe it, for I know the signora well."

"You know her?" said Eugene, touching Antonio on the shoulder.

"Yes. She it is who recommended me to take service with your
highness, and to tell you that you might trust me."

"Oh, I do trust you, good Antonio. Did I not say that the scar on
your face was your best recommendation?"

"Yes, excellenza; and I will not forget it."

"Can you explain to me the mystery of the scene we have just
witnessed?"

"Yes, excellenza. The marchesa intended to leap into this gondola
and fly with you from Venice; but, as she attempted to rise, the
marquis showed her a dagger, and swore that if she moved hand or
foot he would spring into your highness's boat and kill you."

"And I cursed her!" thought Eugene, "and she heard my cruel words.
Oh Laura, my Laura! when will I lie at thy feet to implore
forgiveness? Home," cried he aloud, to the gondoliers. Then, in a
whisper, he added to Antonio, "I must speak with you as soon as we
are alone."

All this time Laura lay insensible in the bucentoro, her husband
gazing intently upon her pallid face. The Countess Lucretia was
wearied to death with the whole performance.

"Fratillo," said she, "I hope that you have done with me, and that
you intend to return with your sentimental beauty to the palace."

Without removing his eyes from Laura, Strozzi bent his head, while
the countess went on:

"My gondola, your handsome present, is just behind us, and I must
say that it is worthy of Aphrodite herself. Pity that no goddess
should grace such a lovely sea-shell. Have I your permission to
occupy it, and leave this stifling atmosphere of love?"

"Go, go," answered Strozzi, impatiently.

"Thanks!" was Lucretia's heartfelt reply; and, opening the curtains,
she beckoned to her gondoliers, and stepped gracefully from the
bucentoro to her own dainty bark.

"It is rather tiresome to be without company," thought she, as she
was rowed away; "but solitude is better than concealment behind
those hateful curtains of Ottario's. I wonder who is the handsome
cavalier that seemed to be struck with me a while ago? One of the
foreign princes, I imagine, for he had a star on his breast. Ah!--
There he is, staring at me with all the power of his splendid eyes."

And the beautiful Lucretia, pretending not to see the elector, sank
gracefully back among her white satin cushions.

"Row toward the piazetta," said she to her gondoliers, "but go in a
direction contrary to that taken by yonder large gondola filled with
cavaliers."

"That of the Elector of Bavaria? Yes, signora."

"Ah!" thought she, delighted, "he is the Elector of Bavaria, son-in-
law of the Emperor of Germany. It would be worth my while to entice
so handsome a prince from his loyalty to an emperor's daughter!"

Scarcely had the gondola of the countess altered its course, before
the elector ordered pursuit.

"Do you see that gondola there, fashioned like a sea-shell, and
cushioned in white satin, Montgelas?" said he to his chamberlain.

"Yes, your highness."

"Say to the gondoliers that we follow in its track. Whether we see
the regatta or not is of no consequence, so we keep in view of that
Venus in the conch-shell."

The Marquis de Villars had pretended to be in earnest conversation
with his neighbor, but he heard every word of this order.

"Yes, indeed," thought he. "The countess must be bought, if her
price be a million."

Lucretia vouchsafed not a glance that could be detected at her
pursuers; but she saw every thing, and exulted at her conquest. "Oh,
emperor's daughter, emperor's daughter!" said she, "your husband is
falling into my toils. They say you are handsome, but your elector's
eyes tell me that I am handsomer than you!"

And so she beguiled her solitude, while in the bucentoro Laura still
lay in her swoon, and Strozzi gazed enamoured upon her beauty.

"Beautiful as Aurora!" murmured he, "beautiful as a dew-gemmed rose;
beautiful as the evening star! I love you--I love you to madness,
and you must, you shall be mine!"

He bent over her and, now that she had no power to resist him, he
covered her face with passionate kisses. But his kisses restored her
to life, and with a shudder she raised her hands, and threw him off.

"Touch me again, and I will plunge this dagger in your false heart!"
cried she, drawing a poniard from her bosom.

"I would not care, so I could say that you were mine before I died!"

"Would that you were dead, that I might fly to him whose wife I am,
in the sight of Heaven!"

"Put up your dagger," said Strozzi, coldly, while a look of venom
chased away the love that had beamed in his eye. "I will not trouble
you again."

"You have betrayed me a second time, liar and impostor that you
are!" exclaimed Laura, replacing her dagger. "You have deceived my
lover into the belief that I am false to him, but, believe me, he
shall know the truth. God will protect him from you and your bravi,
and He will avenge my wrongs! Now, order these curtains to be
raised. It is better to be gazed at by the multitude, some of whom
have hearts and souls, than to sit in this pavilion within sight of
you! And bid your gondoliers take me home to my prison, where, God
be thanked! I can sometimes be alone with my own thoughts!"

Strozzi obeyed like a cowed hound. He lifted the curtains, and
ordered the men to row to the palace.

Laura's eyes sought the gondola of her lover, but she could not see
it. It had left the regatta, and had already landed at the stairs of
the Palazza Capello.



CHAPTER VI.

THE NEGOTIATOR.


Countess Lucretia Canossa had just risen, and lay reclining on a
faded ottoman, attired in a neglige, which was any thing but
elegant, or appropriate to a beauty. She had rung several times for
her breakfast, but her waiting-maid had not seemed to hear the
summons, for nobody came at the call.

The countess, however, was so absorbed in her day-dreams, that she
forgot her breakfast. For a time her thoughts dwelt upon the
singular scene that had taken place in the bucentoro. She knew
nothing of the complications relating thereunto; she had but
witnessed the approach of the gondola which she supposed to be that
of her sister-in-law's lover; had seen her brother's extraordinary
excitement, and had guessed that some disappointment connected with
the presence of the insignificant little personage in that gondola
had caused Laura to fall into a swoon. She felt sincerely sorry for
her unhappy sister-in-law, but the countess was not inclined to
sentiment; so she dismissed the mystery of Laura's troubles with a
sigh, and fell to thinking of the Elector of Bavaria.

He had followed her all day, and well had she perceived that he had
had eyes for no one but herself. And when she had affected to weary
of his pursuit, he had left his own gondola for that of Count
Cornaro, who had approached and asked permission to present his
distinguished guest. The permission having been accorded as a matter
of course, the elector had entered into an animated conversation
with her, which lasted until the close of the regatta.

She had met him again that evening, at a ball given by Admiral
Mocenigo to the foreign princes. Many a handsome, gay gallant was
there; but the handsomest and most admired of them all was Max
Emmanuel of Bavaria. His dress, too, was magnificent in the extreme.
It was so covered with diamonds that it was like a dazzling sea of
light. But more splendid than his jewels were the flashing eyes
which, during that whole festival, had been fixed in admiration upon
the beautiful Lucretia; and what was still more delightful was the
fact that everybody had observed it, and that many a dame, who had
eclipsed the Countess of Canossa, and slighted her because of her
poverty, had envied her the conquest of the Bavarian prince's heart.
It had all ended as it should have done. Max Emmanuel had asked
permission to call upon her, and he was to make his visit at one
o'clock that day.

Lucretia had advanced so far in her triumphal course, when she cast
a glance of dismay at her mean, faded furniture.

"Oh, how forlorn it looks!" said she. "And to think that this is the
only room wherein I can receive a visit! for not another apartment
in the palace contains a chair whereon a man might take a seat. I
ought not to have yielded to my vanity, and consented to receive him
at home, for, when he sees my poverty, he will no longer think my
heart worthy of being won. He will believe that it can be bought,
and I shall sink in his estimation to the level of an ordinary
courtesan. I must be proud and reserved to-day with him; and, as I
have naught else to display, I must show off my wardrobe. But where
can Marietta be? Perhaps Count Canossa has gambled her away, and she
has gone off like the rest of the appointments of this dreary
palace."

Lucretia rang again; still there was no answer.

"The poor girl must have gone out to get me some breakfast. I had
forgotten that the cook left us because he had not been paid for a
year; and, as there is nobody else here, I must e'en have patience
until Marietta returns."

Lucretia sighed, and fell back upon her ottoman. For some time past
she had been aware that there was considerable bustle in the palace,
attended by hammering, and the sound of furniture either placed or
displaced. She had paid very little attention to it, for the rooms
were entirely empty, and she could only conjecture that her needy
spouse might have rented them out for the carnival. But the noise
came nearer and nearer, until she perceived that it had reached the
adjoining chamber, whence she could hear the sound of voices, and
distinguish much that was said.

She rang again, and this time the door was opened by some invisible
hand, when Marietta, bearing in her hand a large silver waiter,
advanced to a rickety table which stood near the ottoman, and placed
upon it a most delicate breakfast, served in dishes of costly,
chased silver. Not only the service was superb, but Marietta herself
was attired in a costume which shamed the shabbiness of her high-
born mistress.

Begging the countess's pardon for her unpunctuality, the maid
proceeded to pour out the chocolate, which she handed in a cup of
Sevras porcelain.

Lucretia rubbed her eyes. "Where, in the name of Aladdin, did you
get that dress?--And where this service?"

"The dress was brought to me this morning, my lady, and the mantua-
maker told me that it had been ordered by yourself; the jeweller who
brought the services of silver told me the same thing."

"I!" cried the countess. "I order such costly things?"

"Why, yes, my lady, for the upholsterers have almost arranged the
beautiful furniture you bought yesterday."

The countess smiled. "This is a prank of some carnival-mad jester,
child," said she. "There is not a word of truth in it. I wish there
were!"

"It is as true as that there are at least fifty workmen in the
palace at this very moment," was Marietta's reply.

Lucretia made no answer. She sprang from her ottoman, and, crossing
the room, threw open the door leading into the next saloon.

Marietta had spoken the sober truth. There they were all--fifty--
some hanging satin curtains before the bare windows, others placing
lofty mirrors in the recesses; one detachment uncovering the gilded
furniture, another arranging it, while the last folds of a rich
Turkey carpet were being smoothed in the corners of the room, where
dainty tables held vases of costly workmanship, filled with rare
flowers.

At first the countess had been struck dumb and motionless.
Recovering herself, however, after a moment or two, she went hastily
up to the person who seemed to direct the proceedings, and accosted
him:

"Will you oblige me by saying who ordered all this furniture?"

"Her ladyship, the Countess de Canossa," was the man's reply.

"Are you acquainted with the countess?" asked Lucretia.

"No, madame; I have not that honor."

"Then, how do you know that you are acting by her orders?"

"I received them yesterday through her steward."

"Her steward? And have you seen him since?"

"Yes, madame. He came again this morning very early, to see whether
we were punctual. It was all to be completed by one o'clock, and, as
it is not quite ten, you perceive that we will certainly have done
in time. But I must ask you to see the countess and request
permission for the workmen to be admitted to her boudoir. Will you
be so good as to convey the message?"

Lucretia cast a glance of shame at her faded gown. "He does not know
me," thought she, "and how should he in such a guise?" Then she
added, aloud, "I will apprise the countess."

Marietta was now in the dressing-room, whither she requested the
presence of her mistress immediately.

"What is it?" asked the bewildered Lucretia.

"The dressmaker is there, signora, to see if your dresses are to
your taste," replied Marietta.

"Let me see them," cried she, impatiently.

Marietta drew from a box a dress of pink satin, which, from its
make, was evidently intended for an under-skirt. "There is another,
just like it, of blue satin," exclaimed the enraptured lady's maid,
"and here is a box containing two peignoirs of guipure, with morning
caps to match. How beautiful your ladyship will look in these
negliges!"

"We will see at once whether I do," answered Lucretia, clapping her
hands with joy. "Here Marietta--quick! Help me off with this hateful
gown, and hand me the pink-satin petticoat."

In a few moments the mistress and maid were equally happy, while the
former was being decked in her magnificent neglige. The satin
petticoat was loose; and over it was thrown the guipure peignoir
which reached to the throat, and was continued at the waist by a
pink sash. The full sleeves were open, leaving half-covered, half-
exposed, Lucretia's arms, firm and white as Carrara marble.

"Now this love of a lace cap," cried Marietta, placing it with great
coquetry around the black braids of Lucretia's glossy hair; while
the latter, quite reconciled to the wonders that were being enacted
around her, was profoundly engaged in admiring herself in a looking-
glass.

"And now," said Marietta, "you are ready, and certainly you are as
lovely as a fairy."

"Fairy, say you? Yes; that seems to be the appropriate name for one
who is the recipient of such extraordinary riches as these. But now,
Marietta, whence do they come? Are they from my brother?"

"Signora, I know no more than I have told you. Yesterday a gentleman
(I think he must have been a Frenchman) came hither, announced
himself as an architect, and told me that your ladyship had sent him
to examine the palace, with a view to refurnishing it with great
magnificence."

"Did you take him over the rooms?"

"Of course I did, my lady. He took various notes as he went along,
and remained longer in your boudoir than in any room in the palace.
He sat down and made a drawing of it, asking me, now and then, a
question as to your ladyship's tastes and habits."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the countess, while a painful blush
overspread her face, "has he been here to see my need and hear of my
privations? Can he have been the secret giver of all this
magnificence?"

As the possibility that the Elector of Bavaria was her unknown
benefactor, presented itself to Lucretia's mind, her humiliation
grew extreme; for if these gifts were from him, they proved that he
held the daughter of the noble house of Strozzi to be a creature
that was to be bought with gold, without the poor pretence of one
word of love.

"When came he, and what sort of looking man was he?" asked she,
frowning.

"He came just after the regatta had begun, signora."

"Then, God be praised, it was not HE!" said Lucretia to herself,
"for at that hour, he was with me, in Count Cornaro's gondola."

A faint knock was heard at the door, and the decorateur begged
permission to enter. His coming awakened the countess from her
reverie, and she hastily bade him come in, "for," said she, "it must
be almost one o'clock."

"The clock on the mantel of the drawing-room has just struck eleven,
your ladyship," replied the man, who, now that she was richly
dressed, recognized the lady of the house.

"So," thought Lucretia, "I have a clock!" and she bounded off to the
drawing-room to see it. Marietta followed with the chocolate, which,
in the excitement of the moment, had been forgotten.

"True," said the countess. "bring me my breakfast, and let me take
it here in this beautiful apartment. Who is that at the door?" added
she, as Marietta went forward to open it.

"Your ladyship's butler," replied she. "He comes to know whether the
dejeuner a la fourchette is to be served in the boudoir or in the
banqueting-hall."

"Let it be in the banqueting-hall, for I may have several guests."

"The steward ordered it for one o'clock, my lady. He said that you
expected some guests of distinction."

"My steward?" repeated Lucretia, smiling. "So it seems that I have
an entire household. Let us go over our altered domains, Marietta."
And the two went from room to room, the femme de chambre as
delighted as her mistress, until they descended as far as the
kitchen. Here every thing gave evidence that the dejeuner was to be
a rare one. Two cooks, in white, presided over the arrangements, and
two scullions were busy carrying out the orders of the chief. They
were so absorbed in their business, that they did not perceive the
countess who stood in the door.

Presently from the storeroom opposite there emerged a man with
baskets of bottles, which he deposited on the table, saying:

"Here is Burgundy for the Bayonne ham. The champagne, sherry, and
constantia, are for the table."

The countess had now seen and heard enough. Not only was her palace
fitted up, but her kitchen was in order, and her wine-cellar filled.
So she returned to the drawing-room, where she was met with the
tidings that her boudoir was ready for occupation, and nothing now
remained to be done, unless her ladyship had any alterations to
suggest, or deficiencies to point out.

Her ladyship professed herself satisfied, and then came a moment of
embarrassment. "As regards the payment--"

"Oh, signora, the steward is to meet me at twelve o'clock, to
arrange that matter." And with these words he took his leave.

"I ought to have followed him," thought Lucretia, "to solve this
agreeable riddle, by making acquaintance with my steward. But pshaw!
I shall soon know all about it. Nobody has made me these presents
without intending to get a word of thanks for the benefaction."

She had scarcely seated herself in a new and beautiful ottoman,
which had replaced her faded, rickety old couch, before a servant
appeared and announced,

"Her ladyship's steward!"

"My ladyship's steward!" echoed Lucretia. "Do let us make his
acquaintance."

He came in--a small, slender man, apparently young, with a pair of
twinkling black eyes, and a countenance expressive of great energy.
With the air of a finished gentleman he bowed, advanced, and bowed
again.

"Signor," said Hie countess, "you have been announced by a title
which I have no right to bestow upon any person living--that of my
steward. Pray tell me who you are."

"Gracious countess," answered he, smiling, "I have the honor to
present myself. I am the Marquis de Villars, ambassador of his
majesty the King of France to the court of Bavaria."

"And may I ask why, in addition to your other representative titles,
you have assumed that of steward to the Countess of Canossa?"

"Because, signora, seeing that your habitation was not worthy of
you, I have ventured to perform the duties of a faithful steward, by
fitting it up in a manner which I hope is agreeable to the divinity
at whose shrine the elector is now a worshipper?"

"Did the elector suggest--" began Lucretia, reddening.

"Oh no, signora; he knows nothing of the little surprise I have
prepared for you. It does not concern him at all."

"Then I am to suppose that Count Canossa, having gambled away my
very home, this palace has become your property, and I am here on
sufferance. How long may I remain?"

"How long may you remain in your own home! Signora, all that you see
has been done for you, in your own name, and I hope you will do me
the honor to accept it."

"From whom?"

"You shall learn as soon as we understand each other, signora."

"Then let us come to an understanding at once, for the Countess
Canossa does not receive princely gifts from strangers."

"Of course not, nor would a stranger take so unpardonable a liberty
with a lady of her rank and birth. But before going further, let me
assure you, signora, that you are under obligations to nobody for
the little surprise I have prepared for you. Not in the least to me,
for I am but the representative of him who begs your acceptance of
it."

"You speak in riddles," said Lucretia, with a shrug. "But, at all
events, I understand that this furniture, silver, and these rich
dresses, are mine?"

"Assuredly yours, signora."

"Then let me inform you that in a week, at farthest, they will go,
as they came, in the space of a few hours. Count Canossa will have
lost them at the gaming-table, and the palazzo will be in the same
condition as it was yesterday."

"Count Canossa is powerless to touch the least portion of your
property, signora."

"Powerless? How! Are you a sorcerer, and have you changed him into
stone? Or have you spirited him away?"

"I have spirited him away, signora. I have persuaded him by the
eloquence of gold to forsake Venice, forever. As long as he remains
in Paris, he is to receive it yearly pension from the King of
France."

"Gone to Paris! Pensioned by the King of France!" exclaimed
Lucretia.

"Gone, signora; and, in leaving, he desired me to say to you that he
hoped you would forgive all the unhappiness he had caused you since
your marriage."

"Gone! Gone! Am I then free?" cried Lucretia, starting from her
ottoman, and grasping the hand of the marquis.

"Yes, signora. You are free to bestow your heart on whomsoever you
will. Count Canossa will never molest you more."

"Oh how I thank you! How I thank you!" replied she, her beautiful
eyes filling with tears of joy. "But tell me," added she, after a
short pause--"tell me, if you please, the meaning of all this
providential interference with my domestic affairs?"

"I am ready, signora," said the marquis, waiting for the countess to
resume her seat, and then placing himself at her side. "Perhaps in
your leisure hours you may have interested yourself in European
politics."

"Not I," said Lucretia, emphatically.

"Then allow me to enlighten you on the subject," replied the
marquis.

"To what end?" inquired she, impatiently.

"I will not detain you long, signora. Give me but a few moments of
your attention. Doubtless you have heard that the Emperor of
Austria, for several years past, has been at war with the Porte?"

Lucretia nodded, and the marquis went on. "Perhaps it will interest
you to know that the Elector of Bavaria is an ally of the emperor,
and has distinguished himself greatly, particularly at the siege of
Buda."

"Oh, I can believe it," cried she, with animation. "He looks like a
hero. Tell me, pray, something about his exploits."

"Later, signora, with pleasure; but for the present we must discuss
politics. Now the Emperor of Austria is fast getting the better of
the Sultan; and if the latter should succumb in this war, the former
would not only be left with too much power for the good of Europe
generally, but would become a dangerous rival to the King of France.
Now it is important for my sovereign that the victories of Austria
cease, and that Austria's power wax no greater. Have I expressed
myself clearly? Do you understand?"

"I begin to understand," was the reply.

"Now, there are various ways of crippling the resources of Austria;
for example, her allies might be estranged. Have patience, signora;
in a few moments my politics will grow personal and interesting. One
of the emperor's most powerful allies is the Elector of Bavaria."

"Of course," cried Lucretia, delighted with the turn that politics
were taking. "Of course he is, being the emperor's son-in-law. Tell
me about the elector's wife. Is she handsome? Does he love her?"

"Signora, as regards your latter question, the elector himself will
have great pleasure in answering it. As regards the former, the
Archduchess Antonia is handsome, but sickly, and her ill-health has
lost her the affection of her husband."

"Ah!" cried Lucretia, relieved, "he does not love her."

"He loves her no longer," said the marquis. "But he was greatly
taken by the charms of the Countess Kaunitz; and as the elector's
alliance with Austria was a matter of more importance than his
conjugal relations with the archduchess, the husband of the fair
countess was appointed ambassador to Bavaria, and his wife
ambassadress. It was through the influence of this charming
ambassadress that Max Emmanuel joined the forces of Austria."

"So he has a mistress, then? One whom he loves?"

"Whom he loved until he saw the Countess Canossa."

"Do you think I could supplant her?" exclaimed Lucretia, her large
eyes darting fire at the thought.

"I do not doubt it," was the flattering reply. "If you choose, you
can trample under foot this arrogant Austrian, who flatters herself
that Max Emmanuel is all her own."

"I would like to try," cried Lucretia, with the air of an amazon
about to go into battle.

"Then let me offer my services," said the marquis, bowing. "The
elector is peculiar, and has pretensions to be loved for his own
sake; therefore he would never quite trust the disinterested
affections of a woman whom he had power to raise from poverty to
affluence."

"Ah!" cried Lucretia, with a significant bend of the head. "NOW I
begin to apprehend your meaning as well as your munificence."

"Signora," said De Villars, with equal significance, "the King of
France seeks a friend who will alienate the elector from Austria,
and win him for France. Will you accept the trust?"

"But you said that he loved another woman."

"So much the greater will be your glory in the conquest, for the
countess is beautiful and fascinating."

"Is she in Venice?"

"Wherever the elector goes, thither she is sure to follow."

"She must leave Venice; she must be forced to leave!" cried the
vindictive Italian, ready to hate the woman whom Max Emmanuel loved.

"You must do better. Induce the elector to forsake her, and leave
her in Venice like another Didone abbandonata, while you carry him
in triumph back to Munich."

"I will, indeed I will!" exclaimed Lucretia, exultingly.

"Ah, signora," said the marquis, coaxingly, "what a magnanimous and
disinterested nature you display! You accede to my request without
naming conditions. Allow me to admire your nobleness, and believe me
when I say that my royal master shall hear of it."

"Well, tell him that, if it lies in my power, Max Emmanuel shall
learn to dislike Austria and love France."

"Signora, you are the instrument of a great purpose. I give you a
whole year wherein to work; and if, at the end of that time, you
have prevailed upon the elector to sign a treaty of alliance with
France, you, as one of France's noblest allies, shall receive from
my royal master one million of francs. Meanwhile you shall have ten
thousand francs a month for pin-money."

"Alas!" said Lucretia, "I am forced to accept; for my husband has so
effectually impoverished me that I live on the bounty of my brother.
And he is so arrogant that I am almost as glad to be independent of
him as to be delivered from my detestable husband. I shall endeavor
to let my acts speak my gratitude for the deliverance."

"Allow me, signora, to present you with your pocket-money for this
present month, and give me a receipt in the shape of your fair hand
to kiss."

So saying, he laid a purse of gold at Lucretia's feet, and covered
her hand with kisses.

"I shall want to consult you frequently, dear marquis," observed
Lucretia.

"I shall always be at your service."

"And now, I take it as a matter of course, that what has passed
between us this morning is to remain a profound secret."

"As a matter of course, signora, it goes no further," returned De
Villars, [Footnote: "Memoirs of the Marquis de Villurs," vol. i., p.
104.] "and to insure perfect secrecy, you must pretend not to know
me when we meet abroad. Not even the elector--or, perhaps I should
say, above all men, the elector is not to know of my visit. I must,
therefore, take my leave. for--hark! your clock strikes one, and
lovers are sure to be punctual."

"I shall expect you every morning at eleven; and so we can take
counsel together, and I can report daily progress to you."

"Aurevoir, then, signora. Allow me one word more. If, before the
close of the carnival, you leave Venice in company with the elector,
I shall take the liberty of refunding to you the entire cost of the
refurnishing of your palace to-day, as compensation for its
temporary loss. And now, fairest of the allies of France, adieu!"

The French ambassador had hardly time to make his escape, before the
doors of the drawing-room were flung open, and the lackey announced,
"His highness the Elector of Bavaria!"



CHAPTER VII.

THE LOVERS REUNITED.


Two weeks had elapsed since that unhappy meeting between Eugene and
Laura--two weeks of expectation and hope frustrated. In vain had
Eugene attempted to reach her with a message; in vain had he
remained for hours before her windows; in vain had Antonio tried to
penetrate into her presence. Day after day came the same sorrowful
news: the marchioness was very ill, and no one was allowed to pass
the threshold of the palace. Her husband watched day and night at
her bedside, and, excepting Mademoiselle Victorine, no living
creature was allowed to enter her room.

When, for the fourteenth time, Antonio returned unsuccessful from
his mission, Eugene became so agitated and grew so pale that the
bravo was touched to the heart, and, taking the prince's hand,
covered it with kisses.

"Do not be so cast down, excellenza," said he, imploringly; "have
courage, and hope for the best."

"Oh, Antonio!" murmured the prince, "she is dead!"

"No, excellenza, no! I swear to you that she lives, nor do I believe
one word of this rumored illness."

"Why should you not believe it, my friend?"

"Because I know the marquis well; and this is merely a pretext for
keeping his wife imprisoned."

"Thank you, Antonio, thank you," replied Eugene, "for this ray of
hope. Then I depend upon you to deliver my message sooner or later.
Remember my words: 'The Prince of Savoy knows why the marchioness
did not speak to him. He lives, loves, and hopes.' And if you will
but return to me with one word from her lips, I will feel grateful
to you for life, Antonio."

"I will serve you with my life, excellenza," said Antonio, bowing
and leaving the room.

He had not been long away, before the door was opened, and Conrad
announced the Elector of Bavaria.

"I have come to entice the hermit of the Capello out of his cell,"
cried Max Emmanuel. "My dear Eugene, was ever a man so obstinate a
recluse? Every time I come I am told that you are at the arsenal,
the dock-yards, the armory, a picture-gallery, or some other retreat
of arts and sciences."

"Well, dear Max, I am a student, and find much to learn in Venice."

"To whom do you say that?" cried Max, laughing. "As if I, too, were
not a student, only that my tastes lie not in the same direction as
yours, and as if I were not making tremendous progress in my
studies!"

"No wonder: you are far advanced in every branch of learning, while
I am but a neophyte."

"No such thing; you are much more deeply learned than I; but you are
the victim of an unfortunate passion which you are striving to
smother under a weight of study, while I--I, my dear fellow, am
distancing you every hour of the day, for my studies are all
concentrated upon the 'art of love.'"

"God speed you, then, and deliver you from the malady that is
wasting away my life!"

"You are an incomprehensible being, Eugene. I cannot comprehend your
dogged fidelity to such an abstraction as a woman whom you never
see. You have not trusted me with your secret, and yet I might have
done you some service had you been more frank with me."

"You mock me," replied Eugene, gloomily.

"No, Eugene, I do not mock you. I know your secret, despite your
taciturnity. I know that you love the Marchioness Strozzi, and that
the jealousy of her husband is such that you have not been able to
speak a word with her since your arrival in Venice."

"Who could have told you?"

"My houri--she whose love has made of Venice a Mussulman's paradise
to me. Oh, Eugene! I am the happiest man alive! I am beloved and
loved for myself. My beautiful mistress is noble and rich; she
refuses all my gifts, and yet she is about to give me unequivocal
proof of her love: she is about to leave her lovely Italian home,
and fly with me to Munich."

"Are you about to leave Venice so soon?"

"The archduchess is dangerously ill, and yesterday a courier was
sent to summon me home. And, would you believe it? my Lucretia
consents to accompany me, on condition that I force no gifts upon
her acceptance, but allow her to furnish her house in Munich at her
own expense. Did you ever hear of such disinterestedness? Now I am
about to give you a proof of my confidence, and tell you the name of
my mistress. It is the Countess Canossa. Well!--You are not
overjoyed? You do not understand!--"

"How should I be overjoyed or understand, when I do not know the
lady, Max?"

"Great goodness, is it possible that this unconscionable snail has
lived so closely in his shell that he does not know how fortunate
for him it is, that the Countess Canossa loves me! Hear me, Eugene.
My Lucretia is the sister of the Marquis de Strozzi."

"My enemy!" murmured Eugene, his brow suddenly darkening.

"Yes; but not his sister's friend; for although he makes a
confidante of her, she hates him. Except Victorine, the countess is
the only person permitted to have access to her sister-in-law's
apartments."

Eugene's eyes now brightened with expectation, and he looked
gratefully up into the elector's handsome, flushed face.

"Yes, Eugene, yes," continued Max, "and through her angelic
goodness, you shall visit your Laura. To-day, Lucretia appears as
Mary Stuart, at a masked entertainment given by Admiral Mocenigo.
Before she goes, she is to show off her dress to the poor prisoner
of the Palazzo Strozzi. Her long train is to be borne by a page, who
of course will have to follow whithersoever Mary Stuart goes. This
page is to be yourself, my boy!"

Eugene threw himself into the elector's arms. He was too happy for
speech.

At noon, on the same day, the gondola of the Countess Canossa
stopped before the Palazzo Strozzi. The countess, dressed in a
magnificent costume, went slowly up the marble stairs, her long
train of white satin borne by a page in purple velvet. His face,
like that of his mistress, was hidden by a mask; and the broad red
scarf which was tied around his slender waist, confined a small
dagger whose hilt was set in precious stones. His eyes were so large
and bright that the mask could not entirely conceal their beauty;
and it was perhaps because of their splendor that the porter
hesitated to admit him within the palace.

The countess, who had gone a few steps before, turned carelessly
round, and asked why her page did not follow.

"Your ladyship," replied Beppo, the porter, "the marquis has
forbidden the admission of strangers."

"And you call that poor, little fellow of mine a stranger? You might
as well ask me to cut off my train, as expect me to wear it without
my page!--Come, Filippo, come!"

Filippo passed on, while the old porter grumbled.

"Never mind, Beppo," said the countess, looking back kindly, "I will
tell my brother of your over-watchfulness, and inform him what a
love of a Cerberus he has for a porter." And on she went, having
reached the top of the staircase, before Filippo and the train had
gone half way.

Mademoiselle Victorine was awaiting their arrival, and made a
profound courtesy to Lucretia.

"Signora, the marchioness awaits you in her boudoir."

"And the marquis knows that I am here?"

"Yes, signora. He was anxious to accompany you in your visit to my
lady; but she would not consent; and you know that he dares not go
without it. He never has crossed the threshold of her dressing-
room."

"I know it well. Now go and announce my visit to her. But first, go
to the marquis and tell him that, as soon as I shall have returned
from the apartments of my sister-in-law, I wish to see him in his
cabinet, on important business."

This was spoken in an elevated tone, so that all the spies, whom
Lucretia knew to be eavesdropping around, might hear her words and
repeat them.

"I go, signora," replied Victorine, in the same tone; but she added
in a whisper to the page, "For God's sake, be discreet!"

The lady's maid, in obedience to Lucretia's orders, went directly to
the cabinet of Strozzi, while the countess proceeded in an opposite
direction. At the end of the grand corridor was a lofty door, which,
being shut, the countess remained stationary; while Filippo, who
seemed not to have remarked it, went on with his train, until he
stood immediately behind his mistress.

She chided him for his familiarity. "Back, Filippo," said she,
impatiently. "When I stop, how do you presume to go on? You are too
unmannerly for a page!"

Filippo murmured a few unintelligible words, and retreated, while
the countess knocked several times at the door.

"It is I, Laura, the Countess de Canossa."

If anybody had been near, the beatings of poor Filippo's heart might
have been heard during the pause that ensued before the door was
opened. At length its heavy panels were seen to move, and a sweet,
soft, voice was heard:

"Come in, dear Lucretia."

The countess disappeared within; but scarcely had she entered the
room before she grasped Laura's arm, and hurried her into the room
beyond.

"Not here, not here," whispered she. "Go into your private
apartment, Laura. In this one you would be unsafe. There will be
listeners at the door."

Laura made no reply; she flew back and disappeared behind the
portiere that led into her boudoir. The countess looked back at her
page, who leaned trembling against a marble column close by.

"Shut the door, Filippo," said she, "and await me here. I will see
the marchioness in her boudoir, and Mademoiselle Victorine will be
back presently, to entertain you."

The door was shut, and Filippo, letting Mary Stuart's train drop
without further ceremony, sprang forward and touched the arm of his
royal mistress.

"Where is she?"

"In her boudoir." The page would have gone thither at once; but
Lucretia stopped him. "Mark my words well. Speak low; and when
Victorine summons you away, obey at once, for delay may cost you
your life. And now, impatient youth, begone!"

They were together. Laura would have sprung forward to meet him, but
emotion paralyzed her limbs, and chained her to the floor. He
clasped her in his loving arms, kissed her again and again, and each
felt the wild throbbing of the other's heart. Forgotten were the
long years of their parting, forgotten all doubt, all anguish. It
seemed but yesterday that they had plighted their troth in that
moonlit pavilion; and nothing lay between, save one long night which
now had passed away, leaving the dawn of a day that was radiant with
sunshine.

"I have thee once more, my own! Close--close to my heart, and would
to God thou couldst grow there, blending our dual being into one!"

"Not once more, my Eugene, for thou hast never lost me. I have kept
unstained the faith I pledged, and never have I belonged to any man
but thee!"

"But alas, my treasure, I may not possess thee! Let me at least
drink my fill of thy beauty, my Laura!"

She drew him gently to her divan, and there, just as he had done in
the pavilion, he knelt at her feet, and gazed, enraptured, in her
face. With her little white hands she stroked his black locks, and
lifted them from his pale, high brow.

"My hero," murmured she, tenderly. "Thou hast decked that brow with
laurels since I loved thee, Eugene; and the world has heard of thee
and of thy deeds of valor. I knew it would be so; I knew that the
God of the brave would shield thy dear head in the day of battle,
and lift thee to mountain-heights of glory and renown."

"And yet I would so gladly have yielded up my life, Laura! What was
life without thee? One long night of anguish, to which death would
have been glorious day! Oh, Laura! that day--that fearful day--on
which I was bereft of thee!"

She laid her hand upon his lips. "Do not think of it, beloved, or
thou wilt mar the ecstasy of the present. I, too, have suffered--
more, it must have been more, than thou! And yet in all my anguish I
was happy; for I was faithful, though sorely tried, and never, never
despaired of thy coming."

"And yet thou art the wife of another."

"Say not so. When the priest laid my hand in his, I laid it in
thine. To thee were my promises of fidelity, to thee I plighted my
troth. That another--a liar and deceiver, should have inserted his
odious name for thine, laid his dishonored hand in mine, has never
bound ME! I was, I am, I will ever be thine, so help me, God! who
heard the oath I swore, and knew that, swearing, I believed thee
there!"

"And I could doubt her, my love, my wife! Forgive me, Laura, that in
my madness I should have accused thee."

"All is forgotten, for I have thee here!"

It was well for these impassioned lovers that a friend watched for
them without. Lucretia had mounted guard for half an hour, when
Victorine returned to say that the marquis would be glad to see his
sister; her visit had lasted long enough.

"Take my place, then, Victorine; holt the door, and admit nobody."

"Oh, signora, if the marquis finds us out, he will assassinate me!"
said Victorine, trembling.

"He will not find us out; and you can very well endure some little
uneasiness, when for a few nervous twitches you are to receive two
thousand sequins. Think that, by to-night, you will be on your way
to Paris."

"Would to God I were there, away from this frightful robbers' nest!"

Lucretia laughed. "You flatter the city of Venice. But I am not
surprised that you are not in love with the Palazzo Strozzi, for
when its master is contradicted, he is a raging tiger, whose thirst
nothing save human blood will quench."

"O God! O Lord! I am almost dead with fright!"

"Have patience, mademoiselle. Look at yonder clock on the mantel.
Precisely at the expiration of one hour, come with your message to
my brother's cabinet. That will be the signal for your release. Are
your effects out of the palace?"

"Yes, signora; they are all at the hotel of the Marquis de Villars."

"And the gondola of the elector will be here to speak the prince's
adieux. Now remain just where you are; and, instead of opening your
ears to what is passing in yonder boudoir, make use of your leisure
to say your prayers, which you may possibly have forgotten this
morning."

The countess lifted up her long train, and, passing it over her arm,
went on her way to meet the amiable Strozzi.

"Really, Ottario," said she, entering the cabinet, "your palace is
singularly like a prison. As I came through the corridor, I felt as
if I were passing over the Ponte de' Sospiri. The atmosphere of the
place is heavy with your jealous sighs."

"True; there is little happiness under the marble dome of my palace.
But let us speak of other things. What can I do to serve you?"

"You seem to intimate that I can never desire to speak with you,
except to ask a favor."

"I find that, generally speaking, the case."

"For once you are mistaken. I want nothing from you whatever."

"You seem to have grown rich by some legerdemain or other, Lucretia.
I hear that you have refitted your palace with great magnificence.
Has Canossa come into a fortune? or has he been winning at the card-
table?"

"Neither; but it was precisely of my newly acquired wealth that I
came to speak with you. I am about to quit Venice, perhaps forever;
and before leaving I wished to have an explanation with you."

"Gracious Heaven! who will take your place by Laura?"

"Very flattering that my departure occasions no emotion in my
brother's fond heart, save regret for the loss of his spy! But never
mind, I overlook the slight, and proceed with my confession."

So Lucretia went over all the humiliations and hardships she had
undergone within the past six months; and, after dwelling
pathetically upon her own sufferings, she related the manner of her
meeting with the Elector of Bavaria, and its consequences. They
loved each other to adoration; he lavished every gift upon her that
his wealth could purchase, and now she was about to give him
substantial proof of her attachment, by going off with him to
Munich. No mention was made, in the recital, of her episode with the
French minister.

The countess had barely arrived at the end of her confidences, when
a knock was heard, and Mademoiselle Victorine walked in with a
message from the marchioness.

"What message?" cried Strozzi, rising at once to receive it.

"Pardon me, excellenza, it is only a message for the signora," said
Victorine, courtesying. "My lady wishes to know if the countess has
the French book that she promised to bring to-day?"

"Dear me! I had forgotten it," cried the countess. "But stay,
Victorine, it is in the gondola below. Let little Filippo go after
it."

"Who is Filippo?" asked the marquis, frowning.

"My page, to be sure. Have you never seen him? Of course I could not
carry Mary Stuart's long train up the staircase without a page to
help me."

"And he is here, in the palace?"

"Of course he is: where else should the child be but here with me?
And, as I was not anxious to have him eavesdropping about your
cabinet while we were conversing, I gave him in charge to
Victorine."

"I shall discharge Beppo," growled the marquis. "How dared he--"

"Let me intercede for poor Beppo," laughed Lucretia. "He would have
kept out Filippo, but I insisted that your prohibition could not
extend to boys, and I insisted upon having him to carry my train.
Since his presence here annoys you, he shall be made to leave, and
await me in my gondola."

"But the book, signora," said Victorine, with quivering lip.

"True--the book for Laura. Will you permit Victorine to go with
Filippo, and get it? But bless me! Without her protection, Beppo
would not allow him to pass. You consent for her to accompany him?"

"Yes," said Strozzi, roughly. "But if ever you come again, leave
your page at home."

"The watchword, signor?" asked Victorine.

"Venetia," returned Strozzi.

"What!" exclaimed Lucretia, "does Victorine, too, need a password to
leave the palace? My dear brother, I admire your genius! You are
qualified to make a first-rate jailer."

Mademoiselle Victorine had not tarried to hear the ironical
compliment of the countess. She flew along the corridor to the
apartments of the marchioness, and, first knocking at the door, she
drew back the portiere.

"Your highness," said she, "the hour has expired." Then dropping the
portiere, that the lovers might part without witnesses, she waited
without.

Laura's arms were around his neck. Eugene drew her passionately to
his heart. "Must I then go without thee?" murmured he.

"Yes, my Eugene; this time thou goest alone. But be patient and
hopeful, and thy spouse will find means to escape from her jailer."

"I cannot go," cried Eugene, despairingly. "Nor can I leave my
enemy's house like a frightened cur, while the woman I love remains
to bear his anger. He must--he shall renounce my wife!"

"That is, you would see me murdered before your eyes!" exclaimed
Laura, well knowing what argument would move him most to discretion.
"Eugene, he has sworn to assassinate me, if I ever speak to you--
and, believe me, he will keep his oath."

"And I must leave my treasure in his bloodthirsty hands?" cried the
prince, pressing her still more closely in his arms.

"The tiger will do me no harm, Eugene, if thou wilt go before he
sees thee."

"Your highness," said Victorine, imploringly through the portiere,
"for God's sake, tarry no longer!"

Laura, freeing herself from his embrace, led him to the door.
"Farewell, my beloved," said she. "God is merciful, and will reunite
us."

"One more look into those dear eyes, one more kiss from those sweet
lips."

"Oh, your highness!" whispered Victorine, a second time.

Laura raised the portiere, and led him forward. She saw Victorine
reach him his mask, and then, darting back into her boudoir, she
fell upon her knees, and prayed for an hour.

Meanwhile the Countess Lucretia was still discussing her affairs;
but she seemed to have become absent-minded, sometimes stopping
suddenly in her sp'eech to listen, occasionally directing anxious
glances toward the windows.

The marquis was too keen for these symptoms to escape his
penetration.

"Are you watching or waiting for any thing?" asked he.

"Yes," replied she, "I await something, and--oh! there it is!"

As she spoke these last words, a voice from the water called out
three times: "Addio! addio! addio!"

"Do you know what that 'addio' signifies?" asked Lucretia.

"How can I understand the signals that pass between you and your
loves?"

"I will tell you what it means," said she, looking full into her
brother's face. "I--but no! your eyes glare too fiercely just now;
you are ready for a spring, and I dare not wait to be devoured.
Addio, Ottario, addio. Take this note, and swear that you will not
open it before ten minutes."

"What childishness!" exclaimed Strozzi, rudely.

"You will not? Then you shall not see its contents, which,
nevertheless, concern your Laura."

"Laura!--Then I swear that I will not open it before ten minutes."

"It is on the table. Be careful how you break your oath. You would
not be safe were you to unfold that paper before ten minutes."

So saying, she kissed her hand, and tripped merrily away to her
gondola.

At the expiration of the time required, Strozzi took up the paper,
and broke its seal. It contained the following:

"MY DEAR BROTHER: You sold me to Count Canossa, and you have
degraded me to the trade of a spy. You have forced me, more than
once, to play the dragon by your poor, unhappy wife; but I have
repaid her for my unkindness, and have avenged myself also. My
little Filippo is Prince Eugene, and he is to remain alone with your
wife, exactly as long as I converse with you in your cabinet. The
three 'addios' which you will have heard ere this from the Canale,
signify that the prince has reached his gondola, and is safe. Also
that Mademoiselle Victorine, my accomplice, has fled. You gave her
ten ducats for each betrayal of her mistress; we offered two
thousand sequins, and of course she betrayed you. Addio!"

To describe the fury of the marquis would be impossible. But his
paroxysm of rage over, he at once began to revolve in his mind the
means of revenge.

"There must be an end to this martyrdom," said he. "It must end!" He
looked at the clock. "'Tis time Antonio were here, and he shall do
it."

He struck three times on his little bell, and the door in the wall
glided back, giving entrance to Antonio.



CHAPTER VIII.

ANTONIO'S EXPIATION.


The next morning Antonio asked admittance to the cabinet of his new
employer.

"Your highness," said he, "I have seen the marchioness."

"What greeting does she send, good Antonio?"

"My lord, she awaits Filippo at eight o'clock this evening."

"She awaits me!" echoed Eugene. "And you are to conduct me to her?"

"Yes, my lord. I am acquainted with the secret passages of the
palace. I will show you the way, and, as God in heaven hears me, I
will bring you safely back."

"How solemnly you speak, Antonio!"

"Ah, excellenza, it is easier to enter that palace than to leave it!
But you shall leave it in safety, as I hope to be saved from
perdition!"

"At what hour did you say?"

"At eight this evening. And now, my lord, allow me to leave you for
a time. The marquis requires me to remain at the palace, and I must
be punctual, or he will suspect me. You will be obliged to engage
another commissionnaire; but, believe me, I shall better serve you
in the palace than here."

Antonio was allowed to depart; but instead of going toward the
Strozzi palace, he betook himself to that of the Elector of Bavaria,
where the household were in that state of confusion which precedes a
departure. The elector had chosen to leave Venice by night.

"I have an important message from my lord, Prince Eugene of Savoy to
his highness of Bavaria," said Antonio, making his way through the
busy throng of servants. "Is he in his cabinet?"

"Yes, The chamberlain is in the anteroom. He will announce you."

"His highness will receive the messenger of Prince Eugene," was the
reply; and Antonio, having been admitted, had a conversation of some
length with the elector, which left the latter in a state of great
agitation.

"I wish it were in my power to render assistance; but I dare not. He
made me promise that I would not interfere in any way; and I must
keep my word. I would but act in the dark, and might ruin him.--And
now to Lucretia, to devise other means of rescue, if these should
fail--" After leaving the elector, Antonio directed his steps toward
the prison near the palace of the doge. The porter that stood near
the grated door looked searchingly at the mask that presumed to
tarry before those dismal gates whereof he was the guardian.

"Would you earn a thousand sequins?" said Antonio, in a whisper.

"How?" asked the porter, opening his eyes like two full moons.

"Do you know in which cell Catherina Giamberta is confined?"

"Yes, I know."

"Take this flower to her. It is her birthday, and she loves flowers.
Tell her it comes from Antonio, and ask her to send him the ribbon
she wears around her neck. If you return with it, I will give you
one thousand sequins."

He handed the porter a large rose, whose stem was carefully wrapped
in paper. Christiano scarcely saw what it was, so dazzled were his
eyes by the approaching glitter of a thousand sequins. But he thrust
it in his bosom, drew the bolts of his prison, and disappeared
within its gloomy depths.

Antonio leaned his head against the clammy prison-wall and waited.
In half an hour the turnkey returned.

"Have you your thousand sequins with you?" asked he.

"Here they are," said Antonio, drawing from his cloak a purse,
through whose dingy silk meshes the gold was visible.

The turnkey put his hand through the grate, and Antonio saw a faded,
yellow paper, tied with a silken cord. He took the packet, and in
return gave Christiano the purse. As he did so, he said: "Make good
use of it; I have passed through five years of misery to earn it.
Make good use of it, and if you will have a mass said for the repose
of my soul, 'tis all I ask in addition to the service you have just
rendered me."

He turned away, and, hurriedly taking the direction of St. Mark's,
entered a side-door, and stood within its sacred walls. The church
was empty and dimly lighted. Antonio knelt down behind one of the
pillars, and opened the paper.

It contained a lock of golden hair--the hair of a child. The bravo
pressed it to his lips, and, murmuring a few fond words, laid it
lovingly upon his heart, and began to pray. When his prayer was
ended, he approached a confessional wherein sat an old Benedictine
monk, and, kneeling down, began his confession.

The recital was a long, and apparently a terrible one; for more than
once the monk shuddered, and his venerable face was mournfully
upraised as if in prayer for the penitent. When Antonio ceased, he
remained silent, still praying.

"Reverend father," murmured the bravo, "may I not receive absolution
for my sins!"

"Yes, my son, you shall receive such absolution as it rests with me
to give. If, as I hope, you are truly repentant, God will do the
rest. You have sinned grievously, but you are ready to expiate." And
the priest performed the ceremony of absolution.

"Reverend father, give me your blessing--your blessing in articulo
mortis."

"Come hither and receive it."

Antonio emerged from the confessional, and knelt on the marble
pavement, while the rays from a stained window above fell upon his
head like a soft, golden halo. The priest, too, stepped out, and,
laying his hand upon that bowed head, made the sign of the cross,
and blessed him in articulo mortis. Then going slowly up the aisle,
and kneeling within the sanctuary, he passed the night in praying
for a soul that was about to depart this world.



CHAPTER IX.

THE DUNGEON.


The clock on the Campanillo of St. Mark's struck eight. The day of
longing expectation had at last worn away, and Eugene was once more
to be admitted to the presence of his beloved.

Before leaving his cabinet he had sent for Antonio, and, reaching
him a purse of gold, had said: "Here, my brave--here are two hundred
ducats. Take this purse, and, when you make use of its contents,
remember that I gave it as a token of my gratitude for your fidelity
and friendship."

"No, your highness," replied Antonio, in a tearful voice--"no, your
highness, I need no gold. If you would give me a souvenir, let me
have the glove that has covered the right hand of a hero whose sword
has never been unsheathed save in the cause of right."

"Singular man," exclaimed Eugene, "take them both, and believe that
I thank you for your attachment. And now, let us away!"

"Yes, my lord; but I implore you, not this rich cloak of velvet.
Take this black wrapping of cloth; it is more appropriate for an
adventure such as ours."

The little gondola lay moored at the stairs, without gondolier or
light. Nobody was there except Eugene and Antonio, who rowed without
help. They made for a channel leading to a wing of the Palace
Strozzi, whose dark, frowning walls, unrelieved by one single
opening, were laved by the foul and turbid waters of the narrow
estuary. Antonio's practised eye discovered the low opening that
gave access to the palace; and, after fastening his gondola to a
ring in the wall, he knocked three times at the door. It was opened,
and they entered a small vestibule, dimly lighted, where they were
confronted by a man who asked for the password.

Antonio whispered something in his ear, and they were permitted to
ascend a steep, narrow staircase leading to a passage so contracted
that Eugene's shoulders touched on either side, as he struggled
along toward a second staircase. When they had reached the last
step, Antonio said: "We have no farther to go. Pass in, signor, and,
whatever ensues, remember that you must patiently await my return."

A door opened, Eugene passed through, and it closed behind him. He
was in a room of singular shape and construction. It was a rotunda,
whose blank walls were without opening whatsoever; neither door nor
window was to be seen therein. Suspended from the lofty ceiling was
an iron chain, to which was attached a small lamp, whose light fell
directly over a table that stood in the centre of the room. On the
table lay a piece of bread and a glass of water; near it was placed
a wooden chair, and this was all the furniture contained within the
dismal apartment.

"A dungeon," said Eugene to himself. "One of those dungeons of which
I have heard, but in whose existence I never believed until now."

He was perfectly collected; but he comprehended his position, and
knew that he had been betrayed. He had been lured into this secret
prison, there to die without a sign! But he must make one desperate
effort to escape. Death he could confront--even the death that
stared him in the face; but to know that Laura would be doomed to a
life of utter wretchedness, was a thought that almost unsettled his
reason.

He surveyed the place, and then felt every stone, every crevice,
that came within his reach. As he raised his mournful eyes to look
above him, the wall just below the ceiling began to move, a small
window was opened, and within its iron frame appeared a pale,
sinister face--the face of the Marquis de Strozzi.

Eugene tore the mask from his face, and his large eyes flashed with
scorn.

"Assassin!" cried he, "cowardly assassin!"

The marquis laughed; he could afford to laugh. "Yes." said he, "I am
any thing you may please to term me; but you, Prince of Savoy, are
no longer among the living. Your days are numbered: farewell!"

The window closed, and the wall moved slowly back until no trace of
the opening was to be seen. A dungeon! A grave! Eugene of Savoy
would die of hunger! no human ear would hear his dying plaint;
within a few steps of one that loved him he would disappear from
earth; and, until the great day whereon hell would yield up its
secrets of horror to the Eternal Judge, his fate would remain a
mystery! Alas! alas! And was this to be the end of his aspirations
for glory?

But hark! What sound is that? The invisible door, for which he had
been groping in vain, was once more opened, and Antonio glided
noiselessly into the room.

He raised his hand in token of warning. "Not a word, my lord,"
whispered he. "I come to save you."

"To save me, traitor! You, the despicable tool of Strozzi?"

"Oh, my lord! Have mercy, have mercy! Every moment is precious:
listen to me, listen to me!"

Antonio sank on his knees, the mask dropped from his face, and his
pale, suffering countenance wore any aspect but that of treachery.

"In the name of the Marchioness Laura Bonaletta, hear me," said he,
imploringly.

"Laura Bonaletta!" echoed Eugene, in a voice of piercing anguish.
"What can such as you know of Laura Bonaletta?"

Antonio gave him a folded paper containing these few lines: "If thou
lovest me, do as Antonio bids thee. If thou wouldst not have me die
of grief, accept thy life from Antonio's hands, and oh, love!
believe me, we shall meet again. Thy Laura."

Eugene pressed the paper to his lips, and when he looked at Antonio
again, his eye had lost its sternness, and about his lips there
fluttered a sad smile.

"What does this mean, Antonio?" said he.

"Excellenza, it means that I was a hardened sinner until you rescued
my soul from perdition. Would that I had time to lay before you the
sins of my whole life, that you might know from what depths of crime
you delivered me! But time is precious. I can only say that I am no
brave soldier that was scarred in battle. This wound upon my face
was from the hand of my father, and, for the crime of his murder, my
right hand was hewed by the arm of the executioner. Nay--do not
start, my dear, dear lord! 'Tis you that brought me to repentance;
'tis you that inspired me to seek reconciliation with Heaven. I came
to you a bravo--the emissary of the Marquis Strozzi; but when you
touched my mutilated arm with your honored hand--when you trusted me
because you believed me to be brave--I swore in my heart that you at
least I would not betray. 'Tis true, I led you hither where Strozzi
would have left you to die of hunger. Ah. my lord! you are not the
first that has looked upon these cruel walls. Giuseppi, the
gondolier whom the countess loved--he, too, poor youth. came hither-
-and six days after I was sent for his corpse, and consigned it to
the sullen waters of the lagoon, that covers the secrets of
Strozzi's atrocious murders."

"But why, then, did you not warn me?"

"Because Strozzi would have murdered me, and employed another man to
betray you into his hands. Or, if you had believed me, you might
have remained in Venice, and you must, fly this very night--this
very hour. Until you are safe, Strozzi must believe that you are his
prisoner."

"Am I, then, forever doomed to turn my back upon this man?"

"My lord, my lord, no vain scruples! The Marchioness Bonaletta will
die if you do not live to rescue her from his tyranny."

Eugene grasped his arm. "Ah, yes, indeed! Then come, Antonio--let us
fly."

"My dear lord, one man only can leave this room. The porter is ready
with his dagger if both should attempt to pass."

"You would remain here in my place! You would sacrifice your life to
liberate me, Antonio!"

"The parricide would fain be at rest," replied Antonio, gently. "The
sinner would gladly suffer death, that, expiating his crimes, he may
hope to be forgiven by his Maker."

"Never will I purchase life at such a price," was the reply of the
prince.

"My life is accursed," said Antonio; "my death will be triumphant.
My lord, if you knew how I longed for death, you would not refuse me
the blessing I covet. My Catherina ere this awaits me in the other
world; I long to rejoin her--I long to obtain the pardon of my
murdered father."

Eugene's face was buried in his hands, and he was weeping. "I
cannot, I cannot," gasped he.

"You would drive your Laura to despair, then? You would go to your
grave without renown?"

"No; I would live. Come: we can overpower the porter--if nothing
less will save us, we can kill him."

"Before he dies he will call for help, and help will be near. But
one of us can escape; and, by my eternal salvation, I swear that I
will not be that one! Away with you! Away! In a moment it will he
too late! Do you not hear me? Whether you go or stay, I never will
leave this place again!"

Eugene staggered against the wall, and sighed heavily. Antonio knelt
at his feet. At last he murmured almost inaudibly, "I will go."

Antonio sprang from his knees, threw his cloak around the prince,
and, with eager, trembling hands, adjusted his mask.

"Thank God!" said he, "we are of the same size and build. There is
not the least danger of recognition. The porter will suspect
nothing. The pass word is, 'One of two.' The gondola is moored in
the place where we left it, and your friends are at the landing,
awaiting you now. The marchioness knows that you are to leave Venice
to-night, God in heaven bless you. And now away!"

"Antonio," replied Eugene, greatly affected, "with my latest breath
I will bless and thank you."

Then folding the bravo in his arms, he would have spoken his thanks
again, but Antonio hurried him away, closed the door, and then fell
upon his knees to pray.

The password was spoken, the door was opened, and Eugene was saved!
He sprang into the gondola, and it flew across those sullen waters
like an arrow. As he reached the landing, a well-known voice called
out, "Eugene!"

"Max Emmanuel, I am here!" was the reply, and the friends were
locked in each other's arms.

At length the elector spoke:--"I have confronted death," said he,
"but never in my life have I passed an hour of such anguish as this.
Come, Eugene, yonder lies the ship that is to bear us away from this
sin-laden city. Step into my gondola, we have not a moment to lose."

They rowed to the ship's side; they mounted the ladder, and before
the dawn of day Venice with her palaces and their secret prisons had
disappeared, and the friends were far on their way to Trieste.



BOOK V


CHAPTER I

A TWOFOLD VICTORY


The winter of 1688 had gone by; the snows were melting from the
bosom of reviving earth; and the trees that bordered the avenues of
the Prater were bursting into life. At the court of Austria nobody
welcomed spring; for its approach betokened the cessation of gayety,
and the resumption of hostilities. The year 1687 had been rendered
illustrious in the annals of Austrian history, by Charles of
Lorraine, who, on the 12th of August, had gained a signal victory
over the Turks. The rebellion in Hungary, if not suppressed, was
smothered; for the weary and exhausted Magyars had been totally
crushed by the iron heel of General Caraffa, and they had submitted
to Austria. The conditions of the surrender were hard: they demanded
the relinquishment of some of the dearest rights of the liberty-
loving Hungarians. First, they were to renounce all right of
resistance against the King of Hungary; second, they were no longer
to elect their own sovereigns; the crown of Hungary was made
hereditary in the house of the Emperors of Austria. The Archduke
Joseph, then ten years of age, was crowned king; and the Hungarians
were compelled to take the oath of allegiance to this irresponsible
sovereign.

This being a decisive victory, the campaign ended early, and the
season of festivity had therefore been a prolonged one. Not only the
aristocracy of Vienna had celebrated the heroism of the victors by
balls, concerts, and assemblies, but the emperor himself sometimes
prevailed upon his retiring and devout empress to participate in the
national gayety, by giving entertainments to her subjects at the
imperial palace.

It was the festival of the Empress Eleanora, and the day was to be
celebrated by the production of a new opera, entitled "Il Porno
d'Oro." The rehearsals had been superintended by the emperor in
person; he had suggested and directed the scenery and decorations,
and, to the great scandal of his confessor, Father Bischof, Leopold
had more than once curtailed his devotions, to attend these
rehearsals.

On the day of the performance the emperor retired early to his
dressing-room, and, to honor the festival of his consort, arrayed
himself with imperial magnificence. His doublet was of cloth of
gold, edged with fringe of the same; his cloak of purple velvet,
richly embroidered, was fastened on the shoulder by an agraffe of
superb diamonds. The breeches, reaching to the knee, were of velvet,
like the cloak; and the hose, like the doublet, were of cloth of
gold. The shoes of purple velvet were fastened with buckles of
diamonds to correspond with the agraffe of the cloak. His ruff was
of gold lace, his hat was decorated with a long white plume, and on
his breast he wore the splendid order of the Golden Fleece.

When Leopold entered his music-room, Kircherus, who was there,
awaiting him, could not repress an exclamation of wonder at the
dazzling apparition.

"You are amazed at my magnificence," said the emperor, laughing.

"Your majesty, say rather that I am struck with admiration than with
amazement. You are as glorious as the god of day; and if the Muses
were to trip by, they would surely mistake you for their Phoebus,
and, quitting Parnassus, make themselves at home in Vienna."

"And be driven away with contumely; for, being heathen maidens,
Father Bischof would speedily exorcise and exile them back to
Greece. And now tell me what you think of the new opera. Do you
expect it to be successful?"

"Indeed I do, your majesty. It is, to my mind, heavenly."

"And to mine also. 'Tis the very music with which to lull the dying
soul to rest. I have spared nothing to bring it out handsomely, and
it has certainly been a golden apple to my purse, for it has already
cost me thirty thousand ducats. But I tell you this in confidence,
Kircherus: were my generals to hear of it, they would cry out that
money is to be had for every thing except the army."

"I wish there were no army to swallow up your majesty's resources,
and that we might be allowed to enjoy our music in peace," growled
Kircherus.

"Hush, Kircherus; you are an artiste, and know nothing of the
exigencies of political existence. I would I were such a heavenly
idiot as you; but God has decreed otherwise. It is my duty to
declare war or peace, as becomes the ruler of a great people; and so
disinclined am I to strife, and so inclined to peaceful arts, that I
sometimes think I have been purposely thwarted by God, and cast upon
an epoch of perplexity and dissension, that my character might be
invigorated by its exigencies. Even now I go reluctantly from art,
to hold a council of war. I fear it is about to be anything but
amicable; so, do your best to console me on my return, and see that
all goes well as regards the opera."

The officers of the war department had been for more than half an
hour awaiting the appearance of the emperor. One only was absent,
the Duke of Lorraine, who had excused himself on a plea of
indisposition.

"He is craftier than I had supposed," said the Margrave of Baden to
his nephew. "He avoids the unpleasant responsibilities of debate,
and shields himself behind the orders of the emperor."

"Because he awaits a reappointment to the chief command," replied
Louis. "For him is the glory of our victories; for us the danger.
But I have a missile to throw into the camp of the enemy; it is from
Max Emmanuel, who votes with us."

"Ah, indeed!" said the margrave, with a satisfied air. "Then I think
we may hope to thwart this insolent pretender, who considers me
incapable of directing the war department of Austria."

"He has offered me a public affront," returned Louis, indignantly.
"I had a right to command the Slavonian cavalry; and he bestowed it
upon Dunewald, who is nothing but his creature. I have therefore
followed the example of Max Emmanuel, and shall resign my commission
to-day."

"I would give millions if, after your defection, he were defeated by
the Turks. But he has the most unconscionable luck. And then, that
silly Prince of Savoy, who blows such blasts in his praise. Louis,
you ought not to be so intimate with Prince Eugene--he is one of our
enemies."

"Oh no," replied Louis, smiling. "Eugene is the enemy of no man. Say
nothing against HIM, uncle, if you love me. He is a youth of noble
spirit, incapable of envy; recognizing every soldier's merit except
his own. Our cousin of Savoy is destined to become a great man."

"He is already a great man," replied the margrave, with a sneer.
"Not twenty-five years of age, and a knight of the Golden Fleece--a
protege of the emperor, the favorite of Charles of Lorraine!"

At this moment the doors were opened, and Leopold, followed by a
small, slender officer, entered the council-chamber.

"The Prince of Savoy!" muttered the margrave, impatiently.

"Eugene!" said Louis to himself, as, bowing his head with the rest,
he wondered what could be the meaning of his cousin's presence.

"My lords," said the emperor, taking his seat, "I have invited
Prince Eugene of Savoy to assist at this council--not only as a
listener, but as one of us; and I shall call upon him to give his
opinion as such, upon the matters that come under discussion to-
day."

"Pardon me, your majesty, if, as president of this council, I remind
you that the Prince of Savoy is too young and inexperienced for such
a discussion, and that no man in active service, under the rank of a
field-marshal, ever participates in the debates of the war
department."

"Your highness is quite right, and I thank you for the reminder. We
have no desire to infringe the etiquette of the council-chamber; and
as we have invited the prince therein, we must repair our oversight
by qualifying him to sit.--Prince of Savoy, we hereby create you
field-marshal, and trust that, as such, you may win so many laurels
that the world will pardon your youth in favor of your genius."

Eugene crimsoned to his temples, and kissed the hand which Leopold
extended. "My liege," said he, in a voice choked with emotion, "your
majesty heaps coals of fire on my head. May God give me grace to
earn these unparalleled honors!"

"You have already earned them," replied Leopold, "and Austria is
proud to have won such a hero to her cause.--And now, my lords, to
business. President of the council, what is the condition of our
army at present?"

"Your majesty, the army is not, as yet, armed and provisioned; but
it will he in a condition to oppose the enemy as soon as the marshes
of Hungary are sufficiently dry to allow of an advance."

"That means simply that nothing has been done," replied the emperor,
in tones of dissatisfaction, "and that the winter has been spent in
total inaction. It means also that this year as well as last our
soldiers are to feel the want of the necessaries of life; and that
for lack of money, munition, and stores, our most advantageous
marches will have to be relinquished."

"I see that the Duke of Lorraine has already accused and calumniated
me," said the margrave, sullenly.

"The Duke of Lorraine has at times complained of the want of
munition, stores, and forage; but he neither calumniates nor accuses
any one. He has remarked that, instead of being sustained by the war
department, he has been hampered and harassed by its opposition to
his plans. Even his officers have manifested a spirit of such
insubordination, that they have seriously interfered with his
successes."

"That means that he has complained of me," interposed Louis of
Baden.

"Yes, margrave, it does; and we are both surprised that a hero of
your recognized ability and renown should fail in a soldier's first
duty--obedience to orders."

"Your majesty," exclaimed Louis, "I am no subordinate officer to
receive or obey orders from another! I am an independent prince of
the German empire, in every respect the equal of the Duke of
Lorraine."

"Except as an officer in the Austrian army," replied Leopold, "in
which character the Duke of Lorraine is your chief. You have not
sufficiently considered this matter of your rank as an officer in my
service; let me hope that, for the future, you will acknowledge and
respect the authority of your commander-in-chief. I myself have
found him ever ready to acknowledge and respect mine."

"The will of the emperor, to us, is law," said the Margrave Herman.
"But your imperial majesty has hitherto exacted of your officers
that they should receive your mandates through the medium of the
minister of war. The Duke of Lorraine, who claims such strict
obedience from others, has set at defiance the mandates issued from
this council-chamber. As president of the same, I complain of the
insubordination of your majesty's commander-in-chief. He has not
carried out the orders received from the war department."

"He would have been more than mortal had he done so; for the war
department has required of him feats that were physically
impossible. We can trace out upon this green cloth before me any
number of strategic movements, which, supposing the enemy to be of
one mind with ourselves, would annihilate him beyond a doubt. But as
he is apt to do the very reverse of what we would prescribe, the man
upon whom rests the responsibility of confronting him, must use his
reason, and modify orders according to circumstances. What is to be,
you cannot include in your paper plans of attack; but the Duke of
Lorraine has met every emergency as it presented itself on the
field, and every true Austrian should be his friend."

"Your majesty," cried the margrave, greatly irritated, "the
president of this council must nevertheless persist in his
conviction that the highest court of military jurisdiction is here,
and that the commander-in-chief of the army is its subordinate."

"You mistake the extent of its power," replied the emperor, with
composure. "It is merely expected of the general-in-chief that he
act in concert with the war department."

"Which the Duke of Lorraine has never done!" cried the margrave,
impetuously.

"Perhaps the blame lay in the injudicious exactions of the minister
of war," replied Leopold, carelessly; "and if, despite of all the
obstacles that were placed in his way, he has subdued Hungary, you
have no part in his glory, my lord; for in every case your judgment
has been contrary to his."

"It follows, then, that I have not filled my office to the
satisfaction of your majesty," said the margrave, choking with
anger.

"I regret to say that I have less confidence in your judgment than
in your ability, my lord; the former is unhappily often obscured by
prejudice," replied Leopold, calmly.

"Your majesty," cried the margrave, "in this case I shall feel
compelled--"

"I do not wish you to say or do any thing on compulsion, my lord; I
prefer to assign you a position in which your talents, being
unfettered by your antipathies, will shine with undimmed lustre. You
have complained of late that the duties of the war department have
become irksome to you; if so, I can give you an appointment less
onerous to you, but equally important to the state. I am just now in
need of an intelligent representative before the imperial Diet. This
charge I commit to you, premising that you must start for your post
immediately, that you may infuse some life into the stagnant
councils of the ambassadors of the princes of Germany."

"Your majesty wishes to banish me from court?" asked the margrave,
pale with anger.

"Certainly not, your highness," replied the emperor, gently. "I send
you on an honorable embassy, and one whereat I need a capable and
fearless advocate. The question to be decided before the imperial
Diet is one of life or death to Austria, nay--to Germany. France is
evidently preparing for war with the German empire. Her fortresses
on the eastern frontier are all garrisoned; her troops are
approaching; and under some pretext or other, they will cross our
boundary lines. This being the case, the princes of the empire must
cease their everlasting petty dissensions, and band themselves
together for the defence of Germany. Be it your task to strengthen
the bond of unity between them, and to convince them that in close
alliance with Austria safety is to be found for all. I know of no
man who can serve my interests at Regensburg as well as you, my
lord; while, happily, I can find a substitute for your presidential
chair at home, in Count von Starhemberg. And now, farewell; and let
me hear from you as soon as possible."

The emperor extended his hand to the margrave, who, scarcely able to
control his dissatisfaction, barely raised it to his lips, and
hurried away.

"My lords," said the emperor, "let us proceed to business. The
spring is nigh, and a new campaign is about to be planned. Count von
Starhemberg, as president of this assembly, will be so good as to
impart his views."

Count von Starhemberg bowed:--"Your majesty, it appears to me that
our policy is to avoid a general engagement. The end of this
campaign is the reduction of Belgrade, and great precaution must be
used if we are to succeed. I would divide the army, so as to begin
operations at three points simultaneously, and weaken the enemy, by
scattering his forces. By detaching, we can easily defeat them, and
capture their arsenals. This accomplished, we proceed to Belgrade,
and, with the conquest of this Turkish stronghold, we end not only
the campaign, but the war."

As Von Starhemberg concluded this harangue, the emperor addressed
himself to Prince Louis of Baden.

"Your majesty," replied he, "I have no opinion to offer, for my
views coincide altogether with those of Count von Starhemberg."

"And you, Count von Kinsky?"

"Your majesty, I sustain the president."

The same replies were forthcoming from Counts Liechtenstein and
Puchta, and the emperor, having heard each one, relapsed into
silence. After a pause, he spoke. "There reigns a remarkable
unanimity of opinion here, among the councils of the war
department," said he, with some emphasis. "Five members having but
one mind as to the prosecution of the war! Not one variation from
the plan of the president--not one suggestion--not even from so
experienced and able a general as Louis of Baden! This is singular
and surprising. We have yet to hear the youngest member of the
council. Field-Marshal Prince of Savoy, speak without restraint, and
fear not to express your own views."

"Pardon me, your majesty," said Eugene, blushing, "if I venture to
dissent from the opinions expressed by those who are my seniors in
years, and my superiors in experience. But it is the duty of a man,
when called upon to speak, to speak honestly; and I should be untrue
to my most earnest convictions, were I to give in my adherence to
the plan proposed."

Amazement was depicted upon the faces of the assembled councillors;
not only amazement, but disapprobation of Eugene's boldness. The
emperor, however, looked kindly at the prince, and bade him proceed.

"With your majesty's permission, I am of the opinion that the entire
army be concentrated in an attack upon Belgrade. To divide our
forces will enfeeble them doubly; their numbers would be
inconsiderable, and their command by one chief, impossible. Division
is weakness--concentration is strength. Belgrade is our goal, and to
Belgrade let us march at once. Let us possess the key of Turkey, and
then we can make conditions with the Sultan."

"I honor your frankness, prince," replied the emperor. "I should
respect it, were my opinion on the subject adverse to yours. But it
is not. My lords, I regret that we are not all of one mind; but I
must decide in favor of the campaign as proposed by Field-Marshal
Eugene of Savoy. I cannot consent to have the army crippled by
division; we must put forth all our strength, if we are to lay siege
to Belgrade, and to this one end let our warlike preparations be
directed."

"Your majesty's will is law," replied Count von Starhemberg. "It
only remains for you to name the one to whom the chief command of
the Austrian forces is to be intrusted."

"It is to be intrusted to him who has commanded it with such signal
ability--to the Duke of Lorraine, my lord.--And now, gentlemen,"
added the emperor, rising, "the sitting is ended."

"Your majesty," interposed Louis of Baden, "I crave a few moments
more."

The emperor gave consent, and the young prince came forward and
spoke.

"Your majesty, the chief command of the army being given to the Duke
of Lorraine, it follows that neither the Elector of Bavaria nor I
have any independent position; we are to obey the orders of the Duke
of Lorraine. This being the case, Max Emmanuel has commissioned me
to announce with the utmost respect that it does not become a
reigning prince to be the instrument of any other man's will. His
subjects have already complained of the subordinate rank of their
sovereign, and he cannot allow their sense of honor to be wounded by
a renewal of such affront. He therefore tenders his resignation. He
will withdraw the Bavarian troops, and take no part in your
majesty's projected campaign against the Turks."

"We shall take time to consider the subject," replied Leopold, in a
tone of unconcern, "and will speak with the elector in person. Have
you anything else to say?"

"Yes, your majesty." said Louis. "I, also, consider it beneath my
dignity to serve under a foreign prince, and I owe it to my own
self-respect to act with the elector, and to tender my resignation."

The emperor looked searchingly at the troubled countenance of the
margrave, who blushed beneath his gaze, and cast down his eyes.

"And you, too, would abandon your colors?" asked Leopold.

The eyes of the margrave flashed fire. "I false to my colors!"
exclaimed he.

"You," repeated the emperor. "With your rank, as Margrave of Baden,
I have nothing to do. You are an officer in my army, and have taken
the oath of allegiance to me, as your lord and emperor. I ask you if
you deem it honorable to desert your flag on the eve of a campaign?
Do we not call such conduct by the name of cowardice?"

"Your majesty," cried Louis, vehemently, "I a--!"

"I do not speak of you," interrupted Leopold, calmly. "I ask you,
if, at the moment of engaging the enemy, one of your ablest officers
were to come to you with the proposition you have just made to me,
by what word would you characterize the act?"

"Your majesty--I--I--" stammered the margrave.

"You cannot answer, my lord, but I will answer for you. You would
say to such a man, 'He who deserts his post in the hour of danger is
a coward.' But you, Margrave of Baden, are a man of honor, and
therefore you will withhold your vaulting ambition. You will not
strive with the destiny which makes Charles of Lorraine an older and
more experienced, but not a braver man than you; but you will return
to your duty, and emulate his greatness. Ambition is inseparable
from valor; but it must be checked by reason, or it degenerates into
envy. What would you think of a crown prince who should feel
humiliated at his subordinate rank when compared with that of his
father? When you entered my service, the Duke of Lorraine was
already general-in-chief of the armies of Austria; and, as he has
always led them to victory, it would be in the highest degree unjust
to supersede him by another. He who would command, must first learn
to obey. Margrave of Baden, I cannot accept your resignation."

"I will do my duty," replied Louis, bowing low before the emperor's
reproof. "I submit myself to your majesty's decision, and remain."

"Say, rather," returned Leopold, smiling affectionately upon the
young prince, "say rather that you go, for the campaign must open at
once. Be diligent, Count von Starhemberg; inaugurate your
preparations this very day; and you, Field-Marshal Prince of Savoy,
hasten to Innspruck, to communicate to the Duke of Lorraine the
result of our council of war."

"I thank your majesty," replied Eugene, "for this gracious command.
May I be permitted to retire, and make my preparations to leave?"

The emperor bowed his head, and addressed the Margrave of Baden. "As
there is no such urgency attending the movements of your highness, I
will be happy to consider you as my guest, and shall expect the
pleasure of your company at the opera.--You also, gentlemen," added
he to the other members of the war department. "The empress is
already in the theatre, awaiting our coming."

And with these words, the emperor, followed by his councillors, left
the room. Without, the court was waiting to accompany him; and, when
the lord-chamberlain had announced to the world that his majesty the
emperor was about to visit the opera, the long, brilliant cortege
set itself in motion.



CHAPTER II.

THE DUMB MUSIC.


The court entered the theatre. The emperor's suite took possession
of the boxes on either side of the one appropriated to the imperial
family, while Leopold, followed by Prince Eugene, whom he delighted
to honor, entered the imperial box.

"I wish to present our new field-marshal to the empress," said he to
his courtiers.

The empress was seated in one corner of the box, busily engaged with
a piece of embroidery. She was so absorbed in the mysteries of silk
and golden stitching, that she scarcely remarked the entrance of the
court. For a moment her eyes met those of the emperor, to whom she
bowed and smiled; then, bending her head again, she resumed her
work.

The emperor took a seat by her, and watched her flying fingers with
affectionate interest. "Your majesty is unusually industrious to-
day," said he, smiling, and touching the embroidery.

"I was merely beguiling the hour of expectation which has passed
away with your majesty's presence, by completing a flower on this
altar-cloth, intended for the chapel of the blessed Eleanor, my
namesake."

"The blessed Eleanor must excuse you to-day if I claim your presence
here," replied the emperor. "And let me implore you for a while to
fold those busy hands, and give your attention to the music which
has been gotten up for your especial gratification."

The empress quietly folded her work, and rose from her tabouret.

"Allow me to present to your majesty the youngest field-marshal in
the army," said Leopold, signing to Eugene to advance.

"I congratulate your highness," replied the empress, while Eugene
knelt and kissed her hand. "Are you, indeed, so very young, prince?"

"No, your majesty," said he, sadly. "I am so old, that I wonder my
hair is not gray."

"Indeed! How old are you, then?"

"Your majesty, I am forty-six years of age," replied Eugene.

"Why, how can you say such a thing," exclaimed Leopold, "when
everybody knows you to be just twenty-three?"

"Your majesty, are not the years of active service reckoned by the
soldier as double?"

"Yes, assuredly, my young field-marshal."

"Then, my liege, I am forty-six years of age, for my life has been
one long war with troubles and trials."

The empress looked sympathizingly into the deep, sad eyes of the
young prince, and saw that he spoke the truth.

"Have you then had many sorrows?" asked she, gently.

"Ay, your majesty; I have struggled and suffered since childhood,
for I have ever been a soldier of misfortune."

"But you are no longer one," said Leopold, laying his hand upon
Eugene's shoulder; "you have taken the oath of allegiance to
Austria, and misfortune has now no claim upon you."

Eugene looked up, and the face of the emperor was beaming with
kindness. "Whatever betide, my liege," returned he, "I am yours for
life, and Austria is my land of adoption."

"I am glad to hear it; and now there is but one thing wanting to
make you a subject after my own heart. You must marry an Austrian
wife that shall make you as happy a husband as myself, and transform
earth into heaven, as her majesty has done for me. It is in
commemoration of my own happiness that I have chosen the opera of
'Il Porno d'Oro' to celebrate the empress's festival. 'Il Porno
d'Oro'--that is, a happy union--the golden apple of paradise."

And the emperor, enchanted to have turned the conversation to a
subject which was to him of supreme interest, offered his arm to the
empress, and conducted her to the front of the box.

As soon as their majesties appeared, the spectators rose and cheered
them enthusiastically. The imperial pair took their seats, and
behind them stood Prince Eugene, the only other occupant of the box.

The emperor now waved his hand as a signal to the marshal of the
household, who, raising his gilded staff, conveyed the imperial
command to the leader of the orchestra. "His majesty is graciously
pleased that the opera shall commence," cried the lord-chamberlain.

The leader bowed to the emperor, and took his place, which was
conspicuously raised above that of the other musicians.

"His majesty is graciously pleased to allow all present to be
seated," was the second cry of the emperor's mouth-piece. And now
was heard a rustling of ladies' silks, and of cavaliers' velvets,
and the grateful spectators took their seats, while the emperor,
with a look of extreme satisfaction, opened the score of the Porno
d'Oro, laid it on the ledge of the box, and began to hum the
overture.

"Have you your text-book?" asked he of the empress. "I ordered one
for your especial use; a synopsis of the opera, with the principal
airs only. I hope that you received it. This one is too heavy for
you."

The empress pointed to a purple-velvet book at her side, and
slightly bowed her head.

Leopold nodded, much pleased, and then gave his attention to the
stage.

The audience breathlessly awaited the opening. The leader flourished
his baton. The violins raised their bows, the haut-boys and horns
were clapped to the mouths of their respective performers, bass-
viols were seized, harps were clutched, and drumsticks were raised
in the air.

Nevertheless, not a sound was heard from the orchestra!

The emperor looked up from his score, and there, to be sure, was the
leader, his baton going from left to right--there were the violins
busy with their bows; the wind instruments were blowing for dear
life; the harpists were tugging at their strings; the drumsticks
were going with all their might--and not a sound! The musicians
might just as well have been so many phantoms.

The emperor, in his bewilderment, turned to the empress, who was so
profoundly engaged with her score, that she murmured the words
thereof half aloud.

"Do you hear the music?" asked her husband.

She started a little, and, blushing deeply, looked very much
confused. "Yes, yes," replied she, absently; "it is very fine."

"I must then have lost my hearing," said Leopold; "for I hear
nothing." And a second time ho glanced at the orchestra, where the
music was proceeding with the utmost energy.

"I cannot unriddle the mystery," thought the emperor, "for the
empress hears the music and pronounces it fine. Prince Eugene,"
added he, aloud, "Do YOU hear any thing?"

"Not a sound, your majesty."

The emperor, looking very much relieved, beckoned to the lord-
chamberlain, and sent him to inquire into the matter.

The audience, meanwhile, were quite as astounded as their sovereign.
However, after a time they began to whisper and smile; and finally,
as the drummer performed an extra flourish with his drumsticks, a
voice was heard to cry out, "Bravo! bravo!"

This was the signal for a general burst of laughter, which the
marshal of the household, though he shook his baton furiously, was
impotent to quell. While the merriment was at its height the lord-
chamberlain returned, and his countenance was expressive of extreme
indignation.

Leopold, who for a moment had forgotten his Spanish formality, and
had retired to the back of the box, advanced eagerly to meet him.

"What says the leader?" asked he, hastily.

"The leader, your majesty, is in despair, and is as much at a loss
to account for the eccentricity of his orchestra as the audience
themselves. He says that the last rehearsal was perfectly
satisfactory."

"Go, then, to the musicians. See the first violin, Baron von
Rietmann, and tell him that the overture must commence."

The lord-chamberlain went off on his mission, while Leopold, in
undisguised impatience, stood at the door of his box waiting. The
empress, apparently not cognizant of any thing around her, kept her
eyes steadfastly riveted on her book. Prince Eugene had risen, and
stood behind the emperor.

"What think you of this opera comique?" asked Leopold.

"It is past my comprehension, your majesty. I cannot conceive how
they presume to--"

The emperor suddenly interrupted him. "I begin to apprehend the
difficulty," said he, laughing. "My musicians are all of high rank,
and, as noblemen and artistes, they have a twofold pride. They know
perfectly well that I cannot do without them, and they occasionally
take advantage of the fact to annoy me. They have some cause of
complaint, I confess, and--Ah! What says Baron Rietmann?"

"My liege,"--replied the chamberlain, pale and breathless.

"Do not look so terrified," said Leopold; "what says the baron?"

"Your majesty, I am ashamed to be the bearer of his message," sighed
the chamberlain. "He says their instruments will be dumb until the
arrears due the orchestra for the last three months are paid!"

At this the emperor burst into an audible fit of laughter; then,
remembering himself, he glanced anxiously at his impassible empress,
to see if she had overheard him. No; she was perfectly unconscious
of any thing but her book.

"Rietmann is a bold fellow," said Leopold at length, "but he is a
great artiste, and I forgive his presumption. He is quite correct,
however, as regards the orchestra. The imperial treasury has been
drained for the army, and nothing remains for my musicians."

"Your majesty must order the army to refill the treasury at the
expense of the enemy," said Eugene, with a smile. "It is said that
the grand-vizier has immense treasures in Belgrade."

"Capture them all, field-marshal, for we are sorely in need of them.
But let us try first to compromise with these musical rebels here.--
Go, my lord-chamberlain, to Baron Rietmann, and say that the arrears
due the orchestra shall be paid to-morrow, and thereunto I pledge my
imperial word.--Now, Prince Eugene, let us resume our seats. I
presume that my golden promises will restore the dumb to speech."

And so they did. Scarcely had the lord-chamberlain whispered the
emperor's dulcet words into the baron's ear, before a signal passed
between the musicians, and the overture began. [Footnote: This scene
is historical.--See "Life and Deeds of Leopold the Great."]

The scenic effect of the opera was beautiful. The fountains were of
real water, and graceful naiads disported within their marble
basins; and there was lightning and thunder; there were
transformations of men into animals, and finally, there was a golden
apple which fructified into a bewitching fairy. She sang so
delightfully that the emperor, in his enthusiasm, let fall his
score, and applauded with all his might.

The fairy was encored, and as she was about to repeat her aria, the
emperor turned to the empress and requested leave to be allowed the
use of her text-book for a few minutes. In his eagerness he did not
remark her exceeding confusion; but as, taking the book from her
hands, he gave a glance at its pages, lie uttered an exclamation of
surprise.

And no wonder! For, instead of an opera-score, he found a prayer-
book!

"I hope your majesty will excuse me," stammered the empress. "In
absence of mind, I brought my prayer-book instead of the score."

"And your majesty was praying for us," replied Leopold, half-vexed,
half-amused. "But in our sinful way, we, too, are praying; for
surely music such as this is both prayer and praise; and He who
taught the nightingale her song, must surely rejoice to hear from
human tongues the strains which He has revealed to inspired human
genius!"



CHAPTER III.

THE RETIREMENT OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF.


The imperial army, in five divisions, had marched to the Turkish
frontier. They had traversed Transylvania, taking, on their way, the
fortresses of Grosswardein, Sziget, and Canischa; and, farther on
their victorious march, Peterwardein and Illock.

The Turks had pursued their usual mode of vengeful retreat, tracing
their march with fire and blood, and, wheresoever they were forced
to surrender, leaving to the victors naught but the smouldering
ruins of the strongholds from which they had been driven.

The imperialists were eager to invest Belgrade; but their general-
in-chief was ill; and for several days they had watched in vain to
see the hangings of his tent drawn aside, and hear the welcome order
to march.

Finally a courier arrived from Vienna, and it was rumored that
instructions had been received to advance. The troops were all the
more hopeful that, immediately after the dismissal of the courier,
the Duke of Lorraine had sent a messenger to Field-Marshal the
Prince of Savoy, requesting his presence at headquarters.

The prince obeyed the summons without delay, and, entering the tent,
found the adjutant and the duke's physician, sitting together,
discoursing mournfully to each other of the illness of the beloved
commander.

"I fear," said the surgeon, "that his highness is attacked with
nervous fever; his symptoms indicate it. He passed a restless night,
and is suffering from intense headache. He must not be excited; he
can therefore see nobody."

"But he has sent for me," objected Eugene.

The surgeon shook his head. "Your highness has heard my opinion,
and, if you approach him, it must be on your own responsibility."

"I am a soldier," replied Eugene, smiling, "and must obey orders. I
have been sent for by the general, and must at least be announced."

At this moment the hangings of the inner tent were drawn aside, and
Martin, the duke's old valet, came forward.

"Am I wanted?" asked the surgeon.

"No, sir," replied Martin. "His excellency bade me see if the--Ah!
There he is! Your highness, the duke begs your presence at once, and
requests these gentlemen to leave the tent until his conference with
your highness is at an end. He is very nervous, and the least
rustling affects his head."

"Just as I feared," sighed the surgeon. "Martin, in one hour I shall
return, to change the cold compress."

Eugene entered the sleeping apartment of the duke, and his pleasure
at being admitted to see his commander, was changed into anxiety,
when he beheld the pale, careworn face of the duke, and saw his head
enveloped in bandages.

"Martin, have they left the tent?" inquired he, languidly.

"Yes, your highness; and I shall remain and keep watch that no one
may enter."

"Do it, good Martin, for indeed I do not wish to be disturbed."

Martin disappeared, and the duke, removing his bandages, rose from
the couch, and sank into an arm chair.

"We are alone, and I may as well dispense with all this; it is
needless."

"Then, your highness, God be thanked, is not sick?" exclaimed
Eugene.

"Yes, I am sick," replied the duke, sadly, "but not in the sense in
which my physician supposes. A malady of the mind is not to be cured
by compresses."

"Have you bad news?" asked Eugene, with tender sympathy.

"Ah, yes," sighed the duke. "Bad news for him who, loving his
fatherland more than self, is withheld from willing sacrifice by the
unworthy strivings of ambition with duty. But of that anon. I have
sent for you to confer of the affairs of the Austrian army; for I
know that I can count upon your sincerity, and trust to your
discretion."

"Your highness knows how unspeakable is the love I bear you; you
well know that it is the aim of my life to imitate, though I may
never hope to rival, your greatness."

"I thank you for your honest affection, dear Eugene," replied the
duke, looking fondly into the speaking face of his youthful
worshipper. "I thank God that you are here, to complete what I am
forced to leave unfinished."

"Your highness would forsake Austria!" cried Eugene, alarmed.

"Ask rather, my son, whether Austria has not forsaken me," was the
mournful reply. "It is of this that I would speak with you. You are
the only officer in the army that does not bear me ill-will; and to
your sound and impartial judgment I am about to submit the question
of my resignation."

"Resignation!"

"Yes; but first let us talk of the campaign which is before us. You
know that its main object is the capture of Belgrade."

Eugene bowed assent.

The duke laid his finger on a topographical chart that lay on a
table close by. "Here is the key which opens the door to Turkey.
Unless we obtain this key, our past victories are all without
significance, and for years we have been pouring out Christian blood
in vain."

"But we shall take Belgrade," cried Eugene. "We have sixty-six
thousand well-armed men, all eager for the fray."

"And the Turks have one hundred and fifty thousand."

"But they are not a consolidated army, and we must prevent them from
uniting their forces."

"True; and for this end I have sent Prince Louis of Baden to Bosnia
with six thousand men, that he may keep them busy at Gradiska. But
the long march has exhausted his troops, and he has written to ask
for re-enforcements. I must grant them; and to-morrow I send him
four thousand men. How many does that leave us?"

"About fifty thousand, general."

"Suppose the enemy oppose fifty thousand to our ten, in Bosnia,
there still remain to him twice as many as we can oppose to him."

"Yes; but they are not commanded by a Duke of Lorraine," exclaimed
Eugene, with enthusiasm. "A great general outweighs the disparity of
numbers."

A sad smile played about the duke's features. "I am not
indispensable to Austria's success," said he. "My men will fight as
bravely under another commander as they have done under me; but I do
not say that I relinquish them to that other without a pang."

"Has such a question been raised?" asked Eugene, sadly.

"You are too close an observer not to have suspected it. Do you
remember my telling you that I would be obliged to succumb to the
hatred of my enemies?"

"Yes, your highness."

"I did not overrate their influence. Even those who hate each other
forget their hatred, to persecute me. And yet I have never done them
the least wrong. There is Prince Louis of Baden--I have shown him
every mark of distinction in my power, and yet he hates me."

"Too true," sighed Eugene. "And I confess that since I have known
it, I love him less."

"You are wrong. He is merely an echo of his uncle, who has some
right to hate me, for to me he owes the loss of his place as
president of the war department. He was not fit for the office, and
I convinced the emperor of his incapacity. This, I allow, to be a
ground of dislike. But there is another distinguished officer, too,
that hates me. What have I done to Max Emmanuel?"

"You have not only given him every opportunity to gain renown, but
often have I admired your magnanimity when he has conspicuously
paraded his ill-will."

"I thank you for that avowal, Eugene; for well I know how
unwillingly you blame the elector. And he deserves your friendship,
for he loves you sincerely. He has a noble heart, although I have
not been able to win it; he is a fearless hero, and a great military
chieftain. It is a pity that we were contemporaries. Were I to die
to-day, no man would be louder in my praise than he; but I live, and
he cannot brook a rival."

"Nay, your highness, he is not so presuming as to suppose that he is
worthy to supplant you."

"He is about to supplant me, Eugene. I forgive him; for he is young,
ambitious, and conscious of his own genius, which, while I enjoy the
chief command, is hampered by a subordinate position. He is just as
capable as myself; but I do not feel that he is my superior, and
therefore it pains me to be obliged to resign my command to him."

"You do not think of such a thing! What would be the effect of your
retirement upon the troops?"

"They would cry out, as the Frenchmen do, 'Le roi est mort, vive le
roi!' I am not self-deceived as to the ephemeral nature of military
popularity. It is always directed toward an object present and
tangible, and speedily consoles itself for the loss of one idol by
replacing it with another. But now, listen to me. A courier has just
arrived from Vienna. The president of the war department declares
himself unable to put any more troops in the field; he has neither
money nor munition more. The emperor writes under his own hand that
he has several times called upon the Elector of Bavaria to join his
command, and place himself at the head of his Bavarians."

"And he has refused!" cried Eugene.

"No. He has accepted, but conditionally only. Can you guess his
conditions?"

Eugene turned pale and stammered: "Your highness, I cannot--I hope
that I do not--"

"Well, I see that you have guessed. He demands the chief command of
the entire army."

"But if the emperor, as a matter of course, refuses this
unreasonable and presumptuous demand?"

"Then he withdraws his troops. Peace--peace! I know that you love
the elector: let us not discuss his acts, but consider their
bearings upon the welfare of Austria. For months the emperor has
been trying to arrange matters, but all in vain. Count Strattmann,
the last envoy, who had a long personal interview with Max, says
that he will not retreat from his exactions. He assumes the chief
command, or his troops are this day ordered to Bavaria."

"The emperor will never yield. He ought not to yield."

"The decision of this difficulty has been left with me. Max is close
at hand, in Essek, awaiting my determination. And now, Eugene, what
answer shall I send him?"

"There is but one. The Austrian army cannot spare the Duke of
Lorraine."

"But still less can it spare the Bavarian troops. How many men did
you say that we counted in all?"

"Fifty thousand, your highness."

"And of these, how many are from Bavaria?"

"Eight thousand infantry," said Eugene, with a sigh.

"And four thousand cavalry. In all, twelve thousand; and let us do
him justice: the troops of the elector are an admirably disciplined
and efficient body of men. Now, if we lose this number, our forces
are reduced to thirty-eight thousand. Can we confront a hundred
thousand Turks with such a handful?"

Eugene spoke not a word. His face was bent over the chart, but it
was easy to see that he was powerfully agitated. After a long
silence, the duke pointed with his finger to the spot on the map
which the prince had apparently been examining.

"This tear is my answer," said he. "We cannot spare the Bavarians."

"Too true," murmured Eugene, "too true."

"Then the general must sacrifice his ambition to the national
welfare; he must retire from his command."

"Oh, no! Not yet. Let ME go to the elector. We are intimate friends,
and I will persuade him to retract his unrighteous exactions."

"You will not succeed. Moreover, I would not accept the sacrifice.
Could we have done without his troops, I would joyfully have
retained my command; but we have no right to ask of Max Emmanuel,
who cannot be spared, to yield to me, who can be spared. I repeat
it, then: I accept no sacrifice from the elector, nor will I be
outdone by any man in magnanimity. The wound smarts, I am not
ashamed to confess it; but my duty is too clear before me for
hesitation; and in its fulfilment I have great consolation. To you,
dear Eugene, this hour will afford a valuable lesson."

"Ay, indeed," replied Eugene. "It will teach me high resolve and
holy resignation. If I ever should be tempted to envy the greatness
of a rival, I will remember the day on which my friend's mad
ambition deprived an army of its great and renowned commander."

"You are not apt to have rivals, Eugene, for you will surpass all
your contemporaries in military genius. As for me, I retire, but I
shall probably find other opportunities of using my sword for
Austria. If--as God grant!--we should be victorious again this year,
the King of France will show his teeth, and perhaps the laurels I
have lost on the Save I may recover on the Rhine. And now, son of my
heart, farewell! God be with you, now and evermore!"

He embraced Eugene with affection, and, returning to the table, rang
for Martin. The old man answered the summons, whereupon the duke
began at once to give orders for his departure.

"Say to the surgeon that my head is worse, and that I crave his
attendance. Then see the imperial couriers, and send them hither."

"The surgeon is here," said that individual, coming forward. "But
what do I see? Your highness has risen?"

"Yes, doctor, for I am too ill to remain in camp any longer, and we
must start to-day for Innspruck, where you will find me an altered
man, and the most submissive of patients."

"Thank Heaven!" replied the surgeon, "for your highness needs rest."

"I will take as much as is needful," said the duke. "And now," added
he to Eugene, "will you do me a last favor?"

"What can I do for your highness?"

"Seat yourself at my escritoire, and write what I shall dictate."

Eugene took up his pen and wrote:

"INSTRUCTIONS FOR MY OFFICERS:"

"My health being too weak to allow of my remaining any longer in
active service, I am compelled to resign the command of the imperial
armies to another. My successor, his highness the Elector of
Bavaria, is at Essek, and will he with the army in a few hours.
Until his arrival, I appoint Field-Marshal Count Caprara my
representative. God protect the emperor and his brave army!"

"Thank you, prince," added the duke. "Now be so good as to reach me
your pen, that I may sign my name."

When his signature had been appended to this short proclamation, the
duke, sighing heavily, said, "Eugene, do you know what I have just
signed? My death-warrant!"

"Oh, my general!"

"Hush! Here come the couriers."

The duke bade them welcome, adding, "Did his imperial majesty charge
you with any letter subject to my order?"

"Yes, your highness. We have one to the Elector of Bavaria, which,
according as your highness commanded, was to be delivered to the
elector, or returned to his majesty."

"Hasten to Essek, and deliver it to the elector.--And you, baron,"
said he, addressing the other courier, "return to Vienna, and say to
the emperor that, as you were leaving the camp, I was departing for
Innspruck; and, that you may be able to speak the truth literally,
you shall see me go. If I mistake not, Martin is coming to say that
my travelling-carriage awaits me."

"Yes, your highness, we wait for nothing but your commands."

"Then let us depart. Doctor, you will bear me company as far as
Innspruck, will you not? Give me your arm, Prince Eugene."

With these words, he put his arm around the prince's neck, and,
supporting himself on that slender frame, the duke, who was a man of
tall stature, left his tent, and walked slowly to the carriage.

Behind him, in solemn silence, came the physician and the two
couriers. At the door of the chariot he let his arm glide away from
Eugene's neck, gave him one last fond look, one last friendly
pressure, and then was gone!

The prince followed him with his eyes, until the chariot had
disappeared from view. Then, sad and solitary, he returned to his
own tent.

"And thus I am doomed to lose all that I love!" was his bitter
reflection. "The Duke of Lorraine--Laura!--Oh, my Laura, how light
to me were other losses, wert thou but here to smile me to
forgetfulness!"

And, with his head bowed down between his hands, Eugene forgot all
time, to dream of his love. For several hours he sat thus--his
spirit all unconscious of the day, the hour, the place--when
suddenly he was aroused from his reverie by a familiar voice.

"Eugene," cried Max Emmanuel, "where are you? The whole army is
shouting me a welcome, and my friend has no greeting for me! He
waits until I force myself into his tent to claim his
congratulations!"

"I was not aware that your highness had arrived. I--I--"

"And is this my welcome!" cried the elector, disappointed. "Are you
displeased with me for superseding your master and hero?"

"Yes, proud, ambitious Max, I am grieved; for you are right, he was
my master and my hero."

"Proud, ambitious, am I? Yes, I acknowledge it, and acknowledge it
without shame. The day for hero-worship has passed away, and that of
heroic action has dawned for both of us. Forgive me if I have
usurped the place of your demi-god; and, in his stead, accept your
friend and companion-in-arms. Think of the pledge we made before
Buda, and refuse me not the advantage of your support. Without you.
I cannot capture Belgrade; with you, I feel that I am invincible.
Will you not sustain me?"

"I will, dear Max, and, sorely though you have grieved me, I bid you
welcome."



CHAPTER IV.

THE FALL OF BELGRADE.


Two months had passed away since Max Emmanuel assumed command of the
imperial army. During this time the besiegers had dug trenches and
thrown up embankments; had demolished fortifications, and thrown
bridges across the Save, with a view to attacking the Turks both in
front and rear. The latter had been obliged to look on while all
this had been progressing, impotent, in spite of their valor, to
stop proceedings. Of course they had thrown bombs and sprung mines
under the feet of their enemies, but nothing dismayed the Austrians,
and finally they were prepared to assault the city.

The duke had twice called upon Achmed Pacha to surrender. The first
summons, sent by a Turkish prisoner, was laconically answered by the
gibbeting of the unfortunate messenger within sight of the Austrian
camp. To the second, Achmed Pasha replied by a thousand greetings to
the brave Duke of Lorraine; adding that the siege would terminate as
it pleased God.

"And we are here to carry out His will," observed the duke,
laughing. "The miners must cease their work neither day nor night;
they may be relieved, but must not stop. Tell them that if they work
me a passage to the fortress by the 16th of September, I will give
to each one of them from this day forward a gratuity of two ducats a
day."

On the 15th of September the Turkish commander was a third time
summoned to surrender. This last summons was treated with
contemptuous silence. It had been delivered to Achmed Pacha, while,
accompanied by his Janizaries, he was on his way to the mosque. When
he had finished its perusal he addressed two of his officers that
were walking on either side of him.

"What answer would you advise me to make to the Christian commander-
in-chief?" asked he of the first. "In the name of Allah and the
Prophet, I call upon you to speak according to your convictions."

The two Janizaries exchanged glances of uneasiness; but Achmed
Pacha's stern, handsome face was inscrutable in its composure.

"We are sorely pressed," replied the officer, mustering courage to
speak. "Unless Allah work a miracle in our favor, we must succumb;
it seems to me, therefore, that a useless defence will but
exasperate the enemy."

Achmed Pacha turned to the other. "And you?" said he, mildly.

"Most illustrious leader of the armies of the faithful," said the
second officer, quite reassured as to consequences, "if you insist
upon hearing the candid opinion of the least of your servants, I
must venture to say that our garrison is exhausted and spiritless.
Allah has forsaken us, and it were better to stop further effusion
of blood by an honorable surrender."

Achmed's eyes now darted fire, and the angry blood rushed to his
pale brow. He signed to a third officer to advance.

"You have heard these traitors," said he in a loud, distinct voice.
"Off with their cowardly heads, and bear them through the city on
pikes, while a herald shall come after you, crying out to all who
choose to profit by the warning, 'Such is the fate of the traitors
that counsel submission to the Christian!'"

The officers were thrown to the ground, and, in a few moments, their
headless trunks lay stretched on the earth, while their heads were
borne aloft through the streets of Belgrade.

"Justice is satisfied," said Achmed Pacha, solemnly; "now let us
betake ourselves to prayer. Let us thank Allah, who has turned away
the perils by which we were threatened, and is preparing for the
faithful a great triumph over their unbelieving foe. The grand-
vizier is at hand with re-enforcements, and ere long the Christians
will be put to ignominious flight."

This declaration of the general soon made its way to every house in
the city, and caused universal joy. The soldiers crowded around
their chief and swore to defend Belgrade until the grand-vizier
arrived.

"And the Sultan will reward you all," said Achmed. "The booty will
be left to the soldiery, and the commander of the faithful will pour
out the treasures of his generosity from the horn of his
beneficence. The defenders of Belgrade will be the nearest to his
throne and his heart, and to your children shall descend the honors
he will confer! Now come and let us praise Allah for the glory you
are about to win!"

And with this flourish of promises, Achmed Pacha entered the mosque.
Once there, he fell upon his knees, and prayed after the following
fashion--:

"Allah, forgive me the lies which I have just uttered before the
gates of Thy holy temple. Allah, make true my words: send hither, I
implore Thee, the help I have ventured to promise to my unhappy
garrison; for the two unfortunates whom I have just executed were
the speakers of truth; if a miracle is not vouchsafed to us, we are
lost."

In the Christian camp Max Emmanuel was making ready to storm the
city; and his troops, with beating hearts, were eagerly awaiting the
signal to begin the assault.

"You are really going to commence your attack?" asked the Duke of
Mantua of the elector.

"Not only to commence, but to finish it," was the reply. "Before the
sun sets, Belgrade must be ours."

"Very flue and sententious," replied the duke, with a shrug, "but,
unfortunately, impracticable."

"Well--nobody can deny that your highness is a FAR-SEEING warrior,"
said Max, laughing, and remembering Mohacz. [Footnote: The Duke of
Mantua had promised to come to the assistance of the emperor. In
1637 he visited the imperial camp, where he was received with every
mark of consideration. On the morning of the battle of Mohacz, as
the troops were about to make the attack, he came up to General
Caprara, and in the coolest manner asked from what point he could
best observe the fight. The general replied, "Your highness must
join the staff of the commander-in-chief if you wish to look on
without being mixed up in the general engagement."--"But the staff
are in constant danger, as well as the rest," was his answer, "and I
might be struck by a ball or a bomb-shell."--"Oh!" cried Caprara,
"you wish to look on without endangering your life! Then go upto the
top of yonder mountain." The duke went, and remained there until the
battle was ended.] "You have an eagle-glance for a field of battle,
and I propose to renew for you to-day the spectacle which last year
you enjoyed looking on, while the rest of us were fighting."

"Think you that Belgrade is a bee-hive, and that the Turks are to be
smoked therefrom, like a swarm of bees?"

"I think that Belgrade is peopled by Turks, not bees; and yet I
shall smoke them out of it this very day. Will you bet me five
thousand ducats that I do not?"

"Yes, I take the bet; and although five thousand ducats is a
considerable sum, I sincerely hope I may lose it. I shall make,
haste to return to my villa, whence I can look on the assault, while
I pray for the success of your arms."

"We shall have unspeakable comfort in the thought," cried the
elector, galloping off to join his staff.

"A pious Moses that," said he to Prince Eugene. "I am really glad
that he has again taken his leave. I lose all my pride of manhood
when I look upon such a poltroon, and think that we are of the same
species."

"He is a natural curiosity," said Eugene, "a mere exception to his
race. I rather enjoy the contemplation of such a sporadic case of
cowardice."

The attack was to begin at five points simultaneously. When the
fifth courier had reported his division to be in readiness, the
elector, giving orders to his staff which dispersed them for a
while, turned to Eugene and began in a low voice:

"Eugene, I feel like a lover who has just become a husband. My heart
beats with anticipation of bliss, and is all aflame with desire."

"I should think you had clasped Bellona to your heart so often, that
you would have learned to accept her favors without excitement or
anxiety," returned Eugene, playfully.

Max glanced at the calm and self-possessed prince, and replied: "You
shall teach me self-control, dear Eugene, for you have wonderful
mastery over your emotions. Did I not know what a warm heart is
throbbing under that composed demeanor, I should imagine Prince
Eugene to be a mere compound of wisdom and self-possession; and yet
I know that, at this very moment, that heart is burning with love
for one who, in the hour of battle, is dearer to him than ever.
Eugene, this is a moment of solemnity enough for me to ask you
whether Laura lives?"

"I do not know," murmured he, nervously grasping his reins, and
becoming very pale. "I have no news, and yet, if she were dead, my
heart would tell me so; I believe, then, that she is alive, and,
should I fall to-day, there hangs a medal lion around my neck (her
dear portrait), which must be sent to her. Say that I died loving
her beyond all power of speech to convey; that for her love, I bless
and thank her, trusting that she will forgive me for having been the
cause of all her misfortunes. I am grateful to you, Max, for having
spoken of her to me. If I die, this is my last will."

"Enviable saint, that has but one legacy and one love! I shall take
very good care not to entertain you with the history, in many
volumes, of all my various loves. But the last of them you can greet
for me, should I fall to-day; and you will do it cordially, for she
is Laura's sister-in-law. Tell my beautiful Lucretia that I have
been happy in her love; and, although I would not have her mourn for
me, I hope she will sometimes waft me a thought or a gentle sigh.
And now--to arms, and to victory! You promise to fight at my side,
do you not?"

"Yes, Max--nothing but death shall part us, until Belgrade is ours."

"Give me your left hand, while, with the right, I give the signal
for the attack."

So saying, the elector held aloft a silken flag, which fluttered for
a moment, and then boldly caught the breeze.--There was a short
silence; then every Christian gun proclaimed defiance to the Turk.

Early in the action, General Scarffenberg was mortally wounded; but
he had carried his point of attack, and with his dying eyes he saw
the Austrians mount the breach, and drive away the enemy at the
point of the bayonet. The bastion once reached, the men, almost
reeling with fatigue, paused for a moment to regain breath. The
enemy taking advantage of the halt, returned and poured out such
numbers of fresh assailants that the Christians from sheer
exhaustion began to falter, and were about to be driven back, when
Prince Eugene, seeing their danger, sprang forward to General
Sereni, and called for re-enforcements.

Placing himself at their head, the bastion was recaptured, and the
Austrians rushed eagerly forward to follow up their success.

But just beyond the breach lay a deep, wide trench, behind which the
enemy had fortified themselves, and were now pouring out a murderous
fire.

"The line of these breastworks must be broken," said the elector.

But the question was--how were they to be broken? Not a path was to
be seen conducting thither: and the imperialists, hurried forward by
the eager troops behind, who were unaware of the impediment in
front, seemed to have no alternative but that of inevitable death or
retreat.

Retreat! odious word, which the officers could not bring their lips
to pronounce. And yet there was no possibility of advancing; and to
remain stationary was to offer themselves for massacre. The soldiers
were so closely packed together that they could make no use of their
weapons, while the Turks were shooting them down like so many birds
in a battue. The elector stood by the side of the breach, and called
a hasty council of his officers.

"We have done enough for to-day," said General Sereni. "We can
intrench ourselves behind the breach, and renew the attack to-
morrow."

"The men are exhausted," urged another. "We will surely capture the
fortress to-morrow."

The elector had listened in perfect silence to the various changes
rung on the same idea; but he was not altogether convinced. He now
turned to Eugene, who spoke not a word, but gazed sharply from the
trench to the serried ranks of Turks on the opposite side. He raised
his eyes with a mournful, questioning look, to the face of the
perplexed commander. Their glances met, and a smile of perfect
understanding passed between them.

The elector hurried forward to the brink of the trench; behind him
came Eugene. Both drew their swords, and, brandishing them above
their heads, Max Emmanuel called out in clear, distinct, and ringing
tones:

"Comrades, look, and follow me!"

Then the two heroes sprang into the trench, and the troops rushed
forward to follow them. Many dislocated their limbs, as they leaped
down; but such as escaped without broken bones went onward, fighting
like tigers.

Suddenly an arrow pierced the cheek of the elector, and his face was
covered with blood.

"You are wounded, dear Max!" cried Eugene, affrighted.

The elector laughed, and, drawing out the arrow, replied, "Not at
all; this is Bellona's first kiss."

And, like a furious lion, he dashed ahead, and avenged the kiss by
many a stout blow of his sword.

The Janizaries were driven from their breastworks, but, ere they
went, one of them, astonished at the prowess of Eugene, whom he took
to be a lad, was determined to make short work of the insolent boy
that was slaying right and left like another David.

He raised his brawny arm, and smiled contemptuously upon so puny an
adversary. But when he would have dealt his blow, it was parried by
a thrust of such power that he reeled and almost lost his balance.
In his fury he raised his cimeter and cleft the helmet of the prince
in twain.

For a moment Eugene was dizzy, though uninjured; but, quickly
recovering his senses, he made a lunge at the Janizary and ran him
through the body. Without waiting to see him die, the prince drew
out his sabre and darted onward. The imperialists shouted and
cheered him as he went, but the Turks, too, had witnessed the deed,
and more than one musket was vengefully aimed at the slayer of the
Paynim Goliath. One--one, alas! has reached the mark. It has pierced
his foot, and he is no longer in a condition to make another step.
Heaven be praised that the Turks have taken flight, and that the
Christians have possessed themselves of the trench! Eugene has the
comfort of knowing that he will not he a captive, and this assurance
gives him strength to drag himself within speaking distance of a
group of soldiers.

"Bear me away, if you please," said he; "I cannot walk."

Two of them hastened to his relief, and bore him tenderly away to
the spot where a field-surgeon was attending to the wounded.

The town and citadel have fallen; nothing now remains to the Turks
but the castle, from the windows of which a white flag is
proclaiming their defeat and surrender. But the Christians do not
see it; and the elector, followed by his victorious troops, rushes,
sword in hand, to the prison wherein the Christian prisoners are
confined. The dungeons were crowded with fugitive Turks, who had
betaken themselves thither as the safest place to be found. They
cried for mercy, and it was granted them. Their lives were spared,
but they were prisoners. Achmed Pacha was among them. He came
forward and bent the knee before his conqueror.

"Allah has willed it," said he, "and may his name be praised!
General, thou hast prevailed, and I am thy prisoner. I ask but one
favor of thee. Give me no Greek or Rascian for my master; let me
serve a German."

The elector smilingly raised him, and explained that Christians did
not enslave their prisoners of war. "You have defended yourself
heroically," added he, "and we honor a brave enemy. The Emperor of
Germany alone is the arbiter of your fate."

"Allah will decide what that fate is to be," was the pious response
of the Mussulman.

The Elector of Bavaria has won his wager; but what cares a
victorious hero for ducats or dastards like the Duke of Mantua?

"Where is Eugene?" was his first inquiry. And, not seeing him among
his followers, he darted out of the castle in search of his friend.

The question passed from man to man, until one was found at last to
answer it. The prince was in the hands of the imperial surgeons, who
were vainly endeavoring to extract the ball.

The elector dragged one of them aside. "Is he dangerously wounded?"
asked he, anxiously.

"He may not die of the wound," was the surgeon's reply; "but it will
be tedious and very painful."

"He will live!" cried Max, wiping away a tear, and hastening to the
litter whereon Eugene was lying.

He bent over him, and gently touched his forehead.

Eugene raised his large, melancholy eyes, and looking upon the
beaming face that encountered his, he pointed to the wound, around
which the blood had already coagulated, and said:

"Happy Max, whom Bellona has kissed! Me she has trodden under foot."



CHAPTER V.

THE MARCHIONESS.


"Strozzi, take my advice, and give up this miserable life. Of all
earthly bores, solitude is the greatest."

"No, Barbesieur, in solitude I find my only comfort," returned
Strozzi, with a weary sigh. "Here, at least, Laura is indubitably
mine; here she is Marchioness de Strozzi."

"She is Marchioness de Strozzi throughout the entire world. as I am
ready to prove, who saw your hands joined together, and heard your
reciprocated vows in Paris."

"Yes, yes; but you know that she denies the marriage, and persists
that she is the wife of Eugene of Savoy."

"She is a sentimental fool," cried Barbesieur, with a coarse laugh.
"And devil take me but I would cure her of her folly were she my
wife! If she will not love you, man, why do you not force her to
fear you?"

"Fear me! Her soul knows not fear. Have I not tried to intimidate
her over and over again? and every threat I hurl, she thrusts back
into my teeth, as though her spirit were defended from harm by some
invisible, enchanted armor."

"And you love her! You, the master and jailer, creep about, with
sallow cheek and sunken eye, while your prisoner is the very
impersonation of hopeful happiness. At every unexpected step she
listens with a smile; if a cloud stray across the window, she
mistakes it for the shadow of deliverance! Verily, my excellent
father, who sent me hither to find out whether you were slowly
killing his daughter by your cruelty, will scarcely believe me when
I tell him what a beneficial effect has been produced upon her by
your wholesome restraint. You must know that, although not
remarkable for his social virtues, Monsieur Louvois has intervals of
puling sensibility, at which times he reproaches himself with the
part he took in the comedy of your marriage, and, since Prince
Eugene has grown famous, almost repents that he did not accept that
fascinating individual for his son-in-law. He is beginning to be
absolutely afraid of the little ex-abbe."

"And I too fear him," said Strozzi, gnashing his teeth. "He bears a
charmed life, or he would not see the light of heaven to-day. I
thought I had him beyond all power of rescue, once in Venice. So
sure was I that he must die, that I hastened to Laura and announced
his demise. That night I took her away, hoping by change of scene to
induce forgetfulness, where hope, of course, was extinct. One day,
in Milan, a group of men were talking of some recent victory of the
imperialists, and to my amazement I heard the name of the Prince of
Savoy among those who had most distinguished themselves."

"Was Laura with you?" asked Barbesieur.

"Alas, she was! And her beautiful face was transfigured with joy. I
felt as if I could have swooned with jealousy. I hurried her home,
and in half an hour she was on the road to this castle. Here I knew
that no news could ever reach her of the world or its heroes; here I
could leave her, and fear not to absent myself, for this is a lonely
forest, no strangers ever wander hither, and I have good, watchful
dragons to guard my treasure. I posted then, with all speed, to
Venice, entered the palace at night, and made my way to the secret
prison of which you have heard, to see for myself if it could
possibly be true that Eugene of Savoy was living."

"Did you find any one?"

"Of course, some man was bound to be there: else he could not have
escaped. Conceive my fury when I recognized my own hired bravo,
Antonio, who must have betrayed me, and remained instead of the
prince. I opened a niche in the wall, kicked his rotten carcass into
the lagoon, and, more wretched than ever, returned to this hell
wherein I languish, while paradise is within sight."

"How long do you intend to make a voluntary Tantalus of yourself."

"I shall stay until she forgets Prince Eugene, and loves me."

"I wish you joy; meanwhile I shall await your bulletins at my
delightful residence--your generous gift. I must remain until the
arrival of my father's couriers; and, having seen them off with the
glad tidings of my fair sister's flourishing condition, I will be
off for Bonaletta. I wonder which of us two she hates the more?
Come--we may as well go at once to her rooms, that my visit may be
over."

So saying, Barbesieur put his arm within that of the marquis, but
the latter, drawing back, pointed to the clock on the mantel.

"It is too early: she never permits me to come before eleven."

"And you--her husband, suffer such impertinent dictation from your
vassal--your wife!"

"I dare not thwart her by any intrusion of myself except at her
will. If I were to lay my hand on her, she would kill herself, like
another Lucretia, to save her honor. And if I contradict her by
coming before my time, she will start and grow pale, perhaps faint,
and be sick; and oh, Barbesieur! the idea of losing her, makes me
frantic."

"As you please," returned Barbesieur, with a shrug and a loud laugh.
"But as I am not pining for a sight of her beauty, I shall go
rabbit-hunting, while you stay at home and look wistfully at what
you dare not take."

So saying, Barbesieur shouldered his gun, whistled to his dogs, and
went off to the chase; while Strozzi, his eyes on the dial of the
clock, awaited the hour for visiting his inapproachable wife.

The marchioness was in an apartment situated in the centre of the
wing which her affectionate husband had fitted up for her
incarceration. No one that entered this magnificent suite would ever
have imagined that it was a prison. The walls were covered with
hangings of satin and gold; the floors were hidden by Turkey carpets
as soft as turf; the windows were festooned with curtains of velvet
and lace; and their recesses filled with tall Venetian mirrors.
Paintings of value adorned the walls, and frescoes ornamented the
ceilings; while every object of vertu that was known to the age, lay
in elegant profusion about this luxurious abode.

And yet it was veritably a prison, wherein the Marchioness de
Strozzi was confined "because of her hopeless lunacy," and the
windows thereof were guarded by a strong trellis-work of iron, which
might clearly be seen through their panes, while without, in an
anteroom, two she-dragons kept watch over the doors which led from
the prison to the world without.

The parlor of Laura's habitation opened into a boudoir which led to
the bedroom. This apartment was as sumptuously fitted up as the
others, but its windows were similarly guarded. Opposite, and beyond
the parlor, was a small room occupied by the duennas, so that the
prisoner could not leave her apartments without encountering one or
both of them.

Tonietta, the second lady's maid, was busy with her needle when the
marquis entered, and began his usual routine of inquiries.

"How is the marchioness to-day? Is she quiet and well-disposed? Has
she breakfasted? Does her health seem good?" and so on.

The woman's lip curled, but she controlled herself and made reply.
"Her ladyship is as usual. She has played on the harp, sung, and
taken her chocolate. But she was unusually cheerful while we were
occupied with her toilet, and I do not like this humor."

"Why, why?" asked Strozzi.

"Because it is a very sudden change--too sudden to portend good. She
has always been reserved, and showed no disposition to be friendly.
All of a sudden, she becomes talkative and gay."

"So much the better. That proves that she is becoming accustomed to
her lot."

"It might prove just the contrary," returned the duenna, with a
crafty glance at her master. "It might be intended to blind us, or
it might prove that she has hopes of escaping."

"Great God!" shrieked Strozzi, "you terrify me. What hope can she
possibly indulge of escape?"

"I do not know, but I like not her cheerfulness, nevertheless.
However, be under no apprehension, my lord; we keep strict watch,
and there is no mode of egress save through one of these two doors.
I am not afraid during the day--but at night! Who knows? Your
lordship was wrong to allow her to sleep in a room without us, and
to permit her to fasten her door against us."

"She would have it so," sighed Strozzi; "but what does it signify?
Had she wings, she could not fly out of her prison."

And, with these words, he passed into the parlor.

Laura sat by a window before her easel, and was so absorbed with her
work that she was, or affected to be, unconscious of her husband's
entrance. Not daring to advance, he stood in the doorway, devouring
her with his eyes, almost mad with desire to clasp her to his heart.
She, on her side, sat painting, and humming a song, her blue-satin
dress defining the graceful contour of her bust and slender waist,
then swelling out beneath into rich folds that shimmered like silver
under the sunbeams that fell upon them from the window above. The
long lace sleeves drooped in gossamer waves over the dress, leaving
bare her round, fair arms, firm and white as those of the Venus of
Milo. Her hair was gathered into a Grecian knot behind, and her
delicate profile, illumined by the morning sun, was so marvellous in
its beauty, that Strozzi's eyes filled with tears as he gazed, and
his sallow, sunken cheeks glowed with mingled love and hate.

He made a few steps forward, and encountered the cold glance of her
splendid eyes, and saw the slight bend of her haughty head, as she
became aware of his presence.

"What brings you hither, sir?" said she. "But I need not ask. You
have come to satisfy yourself by ocular demonstration that your
prisoner has not flown up the chimney. You need not trouble yourself
to remain--I am here."

"Prisoner, say you, cruel Laura! Tis I that am a prisoner; prisoned
by your coldness, and yet I love you--I love you to madness!"

"You are quite right thus to define your love; and perchance it may
lead you to that lunacy which is your lying pretext for
incarcerating me alive in this lonely castle."

"Oh, I fear it, I fear it!" cried he, despairingly, "for day by day
my reason fails me. Have mercy, have mercy!"

"Mercy! You who would have taken the life of the man I love. You are
an assassin, whose just portion would be the scaffold. But enough
why renew each day the mournful duo of your love and my contempt?
Let me be silent and wait."

"Wait! Oh, then, there is hope for me, and you bid me not despair!"

"You!--I spoke of myself; for, as there is a just God above us, I
believe that He will open the doors of my prison, and send His angel
to deliver me."

"Then you arc entirely without sympathy."

"Entirely--for the man that obtained possession of my person by a
fraud, and who, for five long, bitter years, has laden me with the
chains of this lie which he calls our marriage."

"I know that you have suffered, and I have wept for your sufferings,
while I have been impotent to lessen them. Speak but the word--say
that you are that which, by the laws of God and man, you have been
for these five long years, and I open your doors and restore you to
freedom. I ask you not to love me; but I implore you to accept my
love, and acknowledge yourself to be my wife; for well I know that,
the acknowledgment once made, you are too honorable, too virtuous,
to sully the name you are willing to bear. Oh, Laura, my peerless
Laura! I will make amends for all that I have inflicted upon you
through the madness of my love. I have wealth unbounded--a noble
name, high station: all shall be yours. See--I am at your feet. Call
me your husband, and henceforth I live to be your willing slave!"

"Never!" exclaimed she, starting from her seat, and receding in
horror from his touch. "My body you hold in bondage, but my spirit
is free; and it is away from this gloomy prison, far away, mingling
with that of my spouse before Heaven, my Eugene, my lord and
husband."

"Silence!" shrieked Strozzi, starting to his feet. "Silence! or you
will drive me mad! And be assured that as long as you defy me, just
so long will I hold you in bondage."

"You may not live forever, marquis, for the Strozzis, like other
men, are mortal; and death, perchance, may liberate me, without your
permission. But live or die, as you choose; I shall find means to
rejoin Eugene, and this conviction gives me strength to endure your
persecutions."

"The Marchioness Bonaletta is too proud and chaste to be the
mistress of any man," returned Strozzi, with some return of
courtesy.

"What do you know of me?--I counsel you not to build your hopes upon
any estimate you may have formed of my notions of honor, for they
will sorely deceive you, if you do."

Before the marquis had time to reply to these defiant words, the
door opened, and Barbesieur, holding a letter in his hand, entered
the room.

Laura frowned, and asked Strozzi by what right her room was thus
invaded by a stranger. "I do not desire his presence," she said. "Be
so good as to conduct him to your own apartments."

"I am not so easily conducted, most amiable sister," returned
Barbesieur. "I have come to deliver a message from your father,
after which I shall take my leave without the least regret. We are
about to go to war with Germany, and _I_ am about to receive a
general's commission in the French army, so that I have no time to
lose in forcing my company upon you."

"You a general's commission! You that were once publicly disgraced
by--"

"Your marriage has long ago consoled me for that trifling mishap,"
interrupted Barbesieur, "and in Paris nobody has ever presumed to
think less of me on account of it. I think that, in every way, the
sufferer there from was the valiant Eugene. And, by-the-by, that
leads directly to the business that brought me hither. That Emperor
of Austria has been entirely too lucky in war to please the King of
France; and Max Emmanuel, whom we had expected to win over to our
side, is the commander-in-chief of the imperial armies. Max--your
quasi brother-in-law, Strozzi; for doubtless you are aware that
Lucretia, the left-handed electress, is the first person in
importance at the Bavarian court."

"May she be damned for it!" muttered Strozzi, between his teeth.

"Not on her head as much as on yours rests the shame of Lucretia's
act," said Laura, reproachfully.

"Ah!" cried Strozzi, a gleam of joy darting athwart his meagre face,
"you acknowledge, then, that a woman is disgraced who loves a man
whom she cannot marry!"

"A truce to this nonsense, my turtle-doves," interposed Barbesieur.
"I bring you tidings which henceforth render such discussions
superfluous. Listen to me, both of you. My father has sent me a bit
of news which, coming direct from the Marquis do Villars--that is,
from Munich--is positive and authentic. Here it is."

Laura turned away her head that they might not see her emotion,
while Strozzi besought Barbesieur not to be so long-winded.

"Well, I will gratify you both. Belgrade is taken; Prince Eugene, as
usual, was foremost in the fight; but unhappily for some people, and
happily for others--"

Here Barbesieur paused to enjoy the agony of his sister's suspense.
Her face he could not see, but her trembling figure gave evidence of
the poignancy of her anguish.

"Well--" said Strozzi, "what befell him?"

"Something not at all uncommon--he was killed."

Laura turned quickly around and caught the diabolical glance of
Barbesieur's eyes. "I--I do not believe it," murmured she.

"Did you say that you had the original letter from the Marquis?"
asked Strozzi, eagerly.

"Yes, here it is; the marchioness can see for herself."

Laura took the paper and glanced hurriedly over its contents. She
raised her eyes to heaven in thanksgiving. "He is not dead," said
she, almost inaudibly.

"Then you have read very carelessly," returned Barbesieur. "The
letter says, 'so dangerously wounded that he was transported in a
dying condition to Vienna,'"

"Had he been dying, he would not have been transported to Vienna,"
exclaimed Laura, with a smile of returning hope. "No, no! Had Eugene
been dead, the air I breathe, the clouds that I watch as they pass
by yonder grated windows--my heart, whose beatings are responsive to
his--every thing in nature would have revealed the terrible truth.
Eugene lives--and lives to fulfil his great and glorious destiny.
Pardon me, O Lord, that, for a moment, my faith was weak!"

She looked so transcendently lovely as she spoke, that Strozzi's
heart sank within him. He turned his face away, and groaned.

"My charming sister is easily consoled, you perceive," said
Barbesieur to Strozzi. "And now that, according to her own
interpretation of the marriage ceremony, she is widowed, I hope to
hear before long that you have effectually dried up her tears. Come-
-let us leave this hopeful widow to herself."

"I come," replied Strozzi, "for you must take some refreshment
before you go. Until the hour of dinner I take my leave,
marchioness."

"Marquis," said Laura, following him to the door.

Strozzi dropped Barbesieur's arm, and returned to her at once.

"You have something to command?" said he, humbly.

"I do not wish to dine to-day," said she. "It will be useless, then,
for you to return."

"I cannot deny myself that pleasure," was the reply.

Laura constrained herself to soften her tone, and to implore. "Only
this one day," said she, in trembling tones. "I need repose--quiet--
"

"To weep out the first pangs of widowhood," interrupted Barbesieur,
with one of his coarse laughs. "Come, Strozzi--let her cry it out
to-day, she will be all the more smiling for it to-morrow."

"Then as you please," said Strozzi, bowing respectfully. "I will not
return until to-morrow before noon."

"Tell my turnkeys that they need not disturb me," said Laura. "Let
me be veritably and entirely alone."

"You cannot dispense with their help," objected the marquis.

"I can and will dispense with their presence," returned Laura. "And
may I ask of you, as a guaranty that I shall not be disturbed, to
leave the keys inside? The bolts without are secure, and the women
can watch by the doors to see that I do not attempt to escape."

"Your will shall be my law, to-day," said Strozzi, "for I am but its
slave. When will you reward my love--when, Laura?"

"Leave me, I implore you," was the faltering reply of his stricken,
wife; "leave me for this one day!"

"I will," cried Strozzi, casting passionate glances at her, "but to-
morrow?"

"To-morrow," replied Laura, solemnly, "to-morrow is in the hands of
God!"

"There, now," exclaimed Barbesieur, "she is making promises already.
Come along--I am really hungry."

The voice of Strozzi was heard in the anteroom, and in a few moments
Carlotta removed the key to the inside. With one bound Laura reached
the door, and fastened it within. Then crossing the parlor, she
locked herself within her boudoir, and, falling on her knees,
besought the blessing of God upon her flight--for she was resolved
to fly that very night.



CHAPTER VI.

THE FLIGHT.


For one year--from the day of her meeting with Eugene--Laura had
been revolving in her mind the possibility of escape, and again and
again had she been compelled to acknowledge that escape was
impossible. At night, lest sleep should overpower their senses, her
untiring spies had barred the doors that led from the anteroom with
their beds. Sometimes Laura had proposed to bribe them; but in the
event of success with the women, a watchman kept guard at the head
of the staircase; and at the entrance of the castle was stationed a
porter, whom no one could pass without the watchword. If all these
obstacles had been overcome, and the prisoner had found egress to
the park, she was met by four watchmen, whom neither promises nor
bribery had power to conciliate. These were four bloodhounds who
were loosed at night by the marquis's own hands, and on whose
fidelity he knew that he might count.

Flight through the doors was out of the question; flight from the
windows, had they been free, was equally so; for whoever had dared
their dangerous descent, would have been devoured the very moment he
touched the ground below.

Plan after plan was made and rejected, and yet she must--she would
escape.

In her parlor was one of those large chimneys found in old castles,
chimneys that were intended to consume an entire load of wood at
once. On one occasion, Strozzi being present at the time, a chimney-
sweep went up its grimy walls, to cleanse them from the accumulated
soot of the winter. Strozzi, forgetting that the sweep had to
return, began to make declarations to Laura, and finally became so
lovelorn as to throw himself at her feet. He was on his knees,
whining for forgiveness, when the little sweep, like a deus ex
machina, alighted suddenly in the middle of the hearth, and
surprised him in his abject and ridiculous posture.

Laura laughed outright; but the marquis, of course, did not share
her mirth. He turned furiously upon the sweep, threatening to take
his life for his impertinent intrusion. The poor fellow pleaded the
impossibility of getting out by any other means, when the marquis,
stamping his foot with rage, bade him begone up the chimney, and
ordered him to find his way over the castle-roof to another chimney
at the farthest extremity of the building, which led into an ancient
buttery, and thence to the park.

From that day, Laura had revolved in her mind the feasibility of
escape through the chimney. If a boy like that had so often gone up
and down in safety, why not she, when urged by the double incentive
of liberating herself from Strozzi, and making her way to Eugene?
The more she pondered the scheme, the easier it seemed of execution,
and she began seriously to resolve means for carrying it out.

Accident soon befriended her. One day, in stepping back from a
window, whence she had been watching the flight of a flock of birds,
her foot became entangled in the carpet, and she fell. This carpet
did not cover the entire room. Within a foot of the walls it was
fastened by little brass rings, to nails of the same metal, which
caught and confined it to the floor.

Laura naturally looked to see the cause of her fall, and, while
examining the loosened nails, she perceived that the carpet--a
magnificent product of the looms of Turkey--was lined underneath
with a species of black cotton cloth, very similar to that of which
the sweep's garments were made. When she saw this, her heart beat so
wildly that she felt as if it were about to burst. Here was the
material of which her dress should be made! Providence had sent it
to her, and the enthusiastic girl knelt down and thanked God for His
goodness.

She now began to loosen it, and night after night, when her door was
locked inside, she worked as prisoners alone are gifted to work,
until she had stripped off enough cloth for her purpose. She gave
out that, to beguile her solitude, she was desirous of embroidering
an altar-cloth of black velvet, and Carlotta was dispatched to the
nearest town, to procure materials for the work.

Carlotta was absent three days, whence Laura concluded that the
"nearest town" was at some considerable distance from the castle, of
whose situation the marquis had taken good care that she should
remain ignorant. But another accident revealed to her the name of
the town. She found it in a small paper which enveloped some thread,
and contained the name of the merchant from whom it had been
purchased, with the place of his residence in a street which Laura
knew to be the great thoroughfare of Turin. She was then not two
days' journey from Turin, and no longer on Venetian soil.

Once in Turin, she was safe from pursuit, for her estates lay in
Savoy, and the duke was obliged to give her protection. She was his
subject, and he could not refuse it.

And now began that change of manner and of life which had awakened
the suspicions of the two duennas. For several hours of the day she
worked at her altar-cloth; but when night set in, and her doors were
locked, the needles, thread, and scissors, disappeared from the
frame in the parlor, and the black cloth was gradually converted
into a jacket and pantaloons like that of the sweep. This
accomplished, Laura set about devising a cord and weight, by which
she might descend into the buttery. She had so closely observed the
little lad she was resolved to emulate, that she had succeeded in
fashioning out of the heavy bindings of some old hangings, that lay
in a sort of rubbish closet, a stout rope, of strength sufficient to
bear her weight.

It was at this juncture of her preparations, that Barbesieur broke
in upon her happy solitude, with his terrible tidings of Eugene's
misfortune. She was ready to risk her life to meet him, and
perchance he was mortally wounded, and she might never see him more!
A woman less resolute might have faltered in her purpose; but to
Laura the news of her lover's danger had imparted new strength, and
she would liberate herself that very night, or perish in the
attempt.

She had no money; the marquis had considered it prudent to relieve
her of the custody of her wealth, and to put it out of her power to
bribe his spies. But she had jewels, and such of these as could be
concealed about her person she took.

During the day she had played upon her harp, and improvised melodies
so ravishing, that Strozzi had been on his knees outside, listening
and weeping by turns. Finally, when she had ceased singing, he
knocked, and besought her to let him look for one moment upon her
face, to let him imprint one kiss upon her hand.

Laura thought it prudent to comply, so she opened the door and
allowed him, for the first time in his life, to hold her hand and
press it to his lips, and to thank her for the heavenly music. Not
to overdo the matter, she allowed him to remain but a few moments;
and the marquis retired, perfectly convinced that all was right, and
that he had a hope of winning that obdurate heart at last.

Night was at hand! The skies were overclouded, with here and there a
star struggling through the darkness. Gradually the castle grew
silent, the closing of doors and drawing of bolts ceased at last,
and all was still.

All, except those two duennas; and Laura saw that if she ever was to
lull them to bed, she must call them in to undress her. So opening
the door, she beckoned to Carlotta, who, to her great joy, appeared
in a dressing-gown. Finally, the comedy being over, and the duennas
completely hoodwinked, Laura locked her doors a second time, and,
retreating to her bedroom, raised the carpet and drew forth her
black disguise. She tore off her white night-gown, clasped a pearl
necklace around her neck, and several diamond bracelets on her arms,
and then arrayed herself in the costume of the chimney-sweeper. She
took up her rope, and, fastening a small iron casket to the end,
slung it over her shoulder, and began her dark, perilous ascent.
Away! away! Over the castle-roof to liberty and love!--

With her delicate little hands she seized a hook that projected from
the chimney. She reached a second and supported her foot on the
first; a third, a fourth; and now the opening grew narrow and more
narrow, and she struggled along through the black, suffocating hole,
until her breath had almost failed her, and she had nigh been choked
to death! Poor girl! She could not reach her eyes to clear them of
the soot that was blinding and maddening her with pain, and she
began to tremble lest she should lose her senses. But she prayed to
God to deliver her, and made one supreme effort to free herself. She
felt the air from above; the hole began to widen, and she could lay
her head backward and breathe. She raised her smarting eyes and saw
a light--a star! A greeting from heaven!

But she felt that at such a moment she must not indulge in
sensibility. The extremity in which she found herself required
resolution, daring, and coolness. She called up all her courage, and
struggled on. At last--at last, her hands rested on the top of the
chimney: she drew herself upward, and with one bound sprang upon the
roof.

For a moment or two she leaned her weary arms upon the edge of the
chimney; then, placing her ear at the opening, she listened to hear
if there was any stir below. No--all was silent: not a sound broke
the profound stillness of the night, She must be going then--over
the castle-roof to liberty and love!

She groped, with hands outstretched, for some support, but found
nothing. Nevertheless she must tread the dark and mysterious way
that was to lead her to freedom, and she made a few steps forward.
Suddenly she grew faint and dizzy, and a shudder ran through her
limbs; she tried to rally her strength and put out her foot. It
encountered some obstacle which sent her reeling backward; and,
murmuring a prayer to Heaven, she swooned and fell. When she
recovered her senses, she was lying, she knew not where, perhaps she
had fallen from the battlements to the ground, there to be devoured
by the savage bloodhounds, or to become again and forever the
prisoner of the abhorred marquis. But she felt no pain and,
stretching out her hand to make an effort to rise, she perceived
that she was on a smooth, hard surface, and lay against the
battlements, or rather against a heavy stone balustrade that
surrounded the castle-roof. With this balustrade to grasp, she could
arrive at the chimney she was seeking; all she had to do, was to use
it as a guide to the remote wing she was trying to reach. If there
had been but a few friendly stars to smile upon her perilous
pilgrimage! But the night was fearfully dark; so dark that she had
no reliance beyond her sense of touch. This alone admonished her of
her approach to the angle where she was to turn into the wing. Now
and then she paused and looked back to see if there was light or
sign of life along that broad castle-front. But all was safe, and
she went slowly on. She felt hopeful now, and strengthened, for the
wing was quite remote from the inhabited parts of the castle; its
windows opened low; and a pathway, now overgrown with weeds, led
from one of these windows to a gate which, as the marquis had never
dreamed of danger in that quarter, was always left unlocked for the
accommodation of the foresters and wood-cutters. Oh, that she were
but there! On! on! she must hasten, or she might be discovered! She
was about to press forward, when, to her unspeakable horror, she
perceived that her hand rested no longer on the balustrade. She had
passed the chimney and stood upon the unprotected battlements!
Shuddering, she drew back--her feet almost giving way under her
trembling limbs; but in the might and vigor of her strong, firm
will, she drew herself up and retreated. The roof was not steep--it
had merely descent enough to carry off the rain; but the tiles were
so smooth that more than once she slipped back, and she was becoming
timorous and weak. While she was resting for a moment from her
fatigue, however, she saw something looming up above the roof the
sight whereof restored her courage and her strength. It was the
long-sought chimney.

She darted toward it, and in a few moments had made fast her rope,
and dropped it within. She caught it in her hands, and then,
carefully sliding into the chimney, began her frightful descent. In
vain she tried to resist; the rope slipped through her fingers with
such fearful rapidity that, by the time she had reached the hearth,
her delicate hands were all streaming with blood. She scarcely felt
the pain, she had but one absorbing thought--she was free!

Folding those poor, quivering hands, she whispered a thanksgiving to
God, and rose, full of hope and joy. Not a sound was to be heard;
and now, blessing the obscurity that shielded her from view, she
opened the window, and darted down the pathway. The gate yielded to
her touch, and, like a frightened doe, she fled through the woods,
until the castle was out of sight, and she could venture to breathe.



CHAPTER VII.

THE FORESTER'S HUT.


Morning had not yet dawned; nevertheless there was light and life in
a little hut that nestled in the woods near Strozzi Castle. The
forester, in hunting costume, stood in the middle of the hearth;
while his young wife, by the light of a flaming pine torch, prepared
his breakfast.

The whole room was illumined by the torch, whose red rays flickered
even over the face of the infant that lay sleeping in its cradle,
and shone far down the forest glade, a kindly beacon to guide the
footsteps of the fugitive of Strozzi Castle.

The forester rose from his breakfast, and slung his gun across his
shoulder. "Now I must go, Marcella," said he, "or the stag will have
left the brook before I get there. By sunrise it will be off."

"Go, then, Luigi, and may the holy Bernard protect you! I do hope
you will bring down the stag, and please the marquis by your skill
as a huntsman."

"Please him? He looks as if nothing on earth would ever please him
again. He is the crossest-looking man you ever saw; so unlike his
wife. They say the marchioness is crazy; but I do not believe it."

"Why, Luigi? Did you ever see her?"

"Once, when I went to the castle to tell the marquis that his hounds
were ready for the hunt. He was out walking in the park, and I had
to wait for him to come back. Presently he came with two lackeys
before him, and two behind, and at his side the most beautiful woman
you ever laid your eyes upon. I could have fallen on my knees before
her, she looked so lovely; while he--bless me, Marcella, with his
fierce eyes and his thick brows frowning over his long, sallow face,
he looked like Love's headsman--such a face.--But I must go; I will
tell you the rest another time."

"Oh no; do tell it to me now, I love so to hear you talk, dear
Luigi. But I will not keep you from your work. Let me go a bit with
you into the forest, as far as the blasted oak. It is too late for
me to sleep, and the baby will not wake for half an hour."

"Very well," said Luigi, kissing her; "come, for morning will soon
dawn."

So, with their arms entwined about each other, the young couple went
out into the woods, and the sound of their loving voices was sweet
to the ear of the wanderer that stood upon their threshold. Laura
pushed open the door, and entered the little room, looking around to
see if any one was nigh.

Her dress was torn, and her hands and feet were bleeding; but her
countenance beamed with hope, as, approaching the fireplace, she
rested her stiffened limbs.

After enjoying for a few moments the reviving glow of the fire, she
rose and looked around to assure herself that no one was near. "She
is to be absent for half an hour," said Laura to herself. "By that
time I will have destroyed this garment, and God will forgive me the
substitution of my bracelet for one of the peasant's gowns."

Opening a chest that stood by the side of the bed, the marchioness
took out a petticoat and kirtle of coarse, dark stuff; stripped off
her sweep's dress, and, in a trice, was transformed into a country-
maid, very beautiful, but sooty still. Then throwing her disguise
into the fire, she rejoiced to think that no human being would ever
find out the manner of her escape.

Half an hour after, Marcella returned, and rekindling the fire,
prepared to warm her baby's milk. As she rose from her knees, she
looked instinctively around at the child's cradle, and there, to her
extreme astonishment, she saw the figure of a woman with hands
outstretched, and eyes that seemed to plead for mercy. Marcella
darted toward the cradle, her fears being entirely for her child.
But it lay peacefully slumbering with a smile on its face, and the
mother began to be apprehensive for her wares.

"Who are you?" said she, sharply, to Laura.

"Marcella," replied the marchioness, coming forward and taking her
hand, "I am an unhappy woman, that implores you, by all your hopes
of heaven, to rescue her from persecution."

But Marcella heard not a word of this petition. She had recognized
her petticoat and kirtle, and screamed with all her might:

"Those are my clothes, you thief! You have been robbing me! Thief!
thief!" cried she. "Oh, why is Luigi not here? Give me my kirtle!
Off with my clothes, this instant, you rogue!"

Laura was somewhat alarmed, and not a little hurt; for the grasp of
the peasant was rough, and her voice, as she called for help, was
loud and piercing.

"Marcella," said she, when she had opportunity to speak, and her
tones were so pleading, that the woman listened in spite of herself-
-"Marcella, as I stood beside your threshold to-night, I heard your
husband telling you of the misfortunes of the Marchioness Strozzi.
He broke off to go into the forest; you followed him, and now I can
tell you what he related after you left the cottage. Your husband
came respectfully up to the marquis, who repulsed him rudely, and
asked what business he had in the court of the castle. Luigi replied
that Battista had admitted him, whereupon the marquis discharged
Battista on the spot, and drove him from the castle. Then he dragged
the marchioness forward and hurried her up the steps of the
portico."

"Just so," murmured Marcella. "But what else? Do you know what else
occurred? What the signora did?"

"Of course I do. Slipping from her finger a diamond-ring, she
presented it to Battista, saying, 'Forgive me; it is I who am the
cause of your dismissal.'"

"So she did!" cried Marcella. "But how came you to know?"

"Alas! I am that unhappy marchioness."

"The Marchioness Strozzi!"

"Yes; but believe me, Marcella, I am not crazy. For five years I
have been a prisoner, and now that God has willed my liberation by
means so marvellous as almost to partake of the character of a
miracle, He has sent me to you that you might aid in the blessed
work of my deliverance. See my hands bleeding and cut--see my feet
torn by thorns, and bruised by stones;--and oh, as you hope for
mercy, help me on my way to liberty!"

"I do not believe you," was the reply of the cautious Marcella. "The
Marchioness Strozzi would not come out of her grand castle by night
to steal a poor peasant-woman's clothes. Where are your fine
garments, if you are the marchioness? Let me see them."

"I came disguised, and burnt up the dress in which I made my escape.
I needed another disguise, and have taken your clothes; but I will
reward you richly for the forced loan. Take this bracelet; your
husband can sell it, and, with the money, buy you a pretty farm."

"Ah!" screamed Marcella again, "now I know you to be a thief,
perhaps worse than a thief! You have been stealing the jewels of the
signora; for aught I know, murdering her with those bloody hands,
and now you want to bribe me to help you away! No. no. you shall not
escape--that I promise you."

"Oh, Marcella, how shall I convince you that I am no impostor? I
swear, by God who made, by Christ who redeemed me, and by His holy
mother, the Blessed Virgin, that I am the Marchioness of Strozzi,
the unhappy prisoner of yonder gloomy castle. It is impossible that
you can be so cruel as to deliver me into the hands of its wicked
lord! A woman that loves--that loves her husband and child, must
surely have a compassionate heart! See--I am at your feet!--In
mercy, help me to escape!"

Marcella slowly shook her head. "I cannot, I cannot, I dare not."

"Yes, yes, you can, you dare do a good action. Think of the joy you
experienced when the pangs of your travail were past, and you had
given birth to a child whom you loved even before it had seen the
light of life. Think, if your child should be in distress like mine,
and kneel in vain at the feet of another woman who might deliver it
from peril, and would not!--Oh, if you were in your grave, as my
dear mother is, would you not curse the heartless being that
repulsed your orphan!--Oh, mother! my dead mother! soften this
woman's heart, that she may help me!"

Just then the voice of the baby, cooing in its cradle, reached
Marcella's ear, and strangely moved her heart.

"Ah, the child--the dear child will plead for me," cried Laura. And,
stooping to the cradle, she raised the baby in her arms, and brought
the little rosy, smiling thing to its mother's feet.

"Let this baby, whom you love, be my advocate. I lay my hand upon
its head and swear before Heaven that I am an innocent fugitive from
persecution. Do unto me as you would have others do unto your own
child."

And Marcella, no longer able to resist the pleadings of that
melodious voice, burst into tears, and, encircling both Laura and
the baby in her arms, clasped them close to her heart.

"My child, my child!" cried she, tenderly. "As I do to this unhappy
lady, so may others do unto you."

"Then you will not betray me!" cried Laura, joyfully. "Oh, good,
good Marcella, may God bless you for those pitying words!"

Marcella wiped her eyes, kissed her baby, and, replacing it in its
cradle, said, "Now, signora, that I consent to assist you, tell me
at once what is to be done, for it must be done quickly."

"Give me these clothes and a little money; guide me out of the
forest to a post-station whence I may travel to Turin; and for these
services take the bracelet: it is honestly mine, and therefore
yours."

"It is now four o'clock," observed Marcella, looking toward the
east.

"And precisely at eight the marquis will visit my rooms and discover
my flight. Come--come--we have indeed no time to lose."

"We can reach the station in an hour," replied Marcella, "and the
postilions will start early this morning for--to what point did you
say you wished to travel, signora?"

"To Turin."

"That is a pity," murmured Marcella.

"Why?" asked Laura, anxiously.

"Because, if you were going northward, we might find you an escort.
Luigi and I met a courier who was going to the next station to order
post-horses for a traveller who is to leave for Vienna this morning.
The man stopped to ask us the way."

"For Vienna!" cried Laura. "Who is going to Vienna?"

"The physician of the Duke of Savoy, whom his highness is sending to
see a kinsman of his who is very ill in Vienna."

Laura uttered a cry of joy. "O God! my God, I thank thee!--Come,
Marcella: I know the duke's physician, and he, of all other men, is
the one I prefer for an escort."

"But your poor, bleeding feet, signora," cried Marcella, piteously.

"Never mind them. May they bleed anew, so I but reach the station in
time to meet the physician I God has sent him to my deliverance.
Come--let us away!"



BOOK VI.


CHAPTER I.

SISTER ANGELICA.


Two months had passed away since the fall of Belgrade, and Prince
Eugene of Savoy was still suffering from his wound. Nothing had been
spared that could contribute to his recovery; ho was attended by the
surgeon-in-chief of Max Emmanuel, visited daily by the physicians of
the emperor, and nursed by his untiring secretary, Conrad. More than
once the report of his death had been spread throughout Vienna, and
then contradicted.

But, until the arrival of the physician of Victor Amadeus, all
medical skill had proved unavailing. Whether through the agency of
Doctor Franzi or of the nurse whom he had brought with him. Prince
Eugene began, at last, to improve.

Sister Angelica, the nurse, had watched her patient with preterhuman
vigilance. Day and night she sat by his bedside, dressing his wound,
administering his medicine, and resting his fevered head on her
shoulder; laying her soft, cool hand upon his brow, until to wild
delirium succeeded tranquil sleep, or a calm, placid wakefulness. At
such times the nun was accustomed to sing; and at the sound of her
voice, Eugene smiled, and resigned himself to rest.

At last, the glance of his eye grew intelligent, and he returned to
a consciousness of his position. Doctor Franzi remarked with regret,
however, that he was apathetic, listless, and quite indifferent to
his recovery. He made no complaint, seldom spoke, and seemed to be
sinking gradually into a state of nervous prostration.

"Your highness," said the surgeon, one day, "you are now
convalescent, and it is time you made some effort to receive your
friends."

Eugene turned wearily away, and sighed. "No, no," murmured he, "I am
averse to the sight of any man, friend or foe."

"Nevertheless, I prescribe it," urged the doctor. "You are now less
sick in body than in mind, and you must have change of scene to
cheer you."

"Change will not cheer me," replied Eugene, languidly. "I feel
nothing but absolute weariness of life."

"A morbid state of mind resulting from your long confinement to this
room, and it must be overcome by yourself. A pretty thing it would
be, to be sure, if, after saving your life, we should allow you to
fling it away because you are as melancholy as a lovesick maiden!"

"Doctor," cried Eugene, flushing. "choose your words more
carefully!"

"Good, good," returned the doctor, with an approving nod. "You have
some spirit left, I perceive, and if you would but see one or two of
your most intimate friends--"

"I will not see them," interrupted Eugene, peevishly. He would have
said something more, but his speech was checked by a paroxysm of
coughing. In a moment, the door opened noiselessly, and the nun
gliding in hastened to support his trembling frame; and. while he
suffered his head to fall upon her shoulder, wiped the dews from his
clammy forehead. Then, gently placing him on his pillow, she warmed
his drink over a lamp, and held it to his lips while he partook of
it.

"Thank you, dear sister," said the invalid, faintly.

The next morning a consultation was held by the physicians of the
prince, and it was decided that he must have change of air without
delay. Eugene, reclining in an arm-chair, looked wearily on, until
the conference was at an end; then, shaking his head and frowning,
he turned away and gazed fixedly at his nurse, who, with arms
crossed over her breast, stood close at hand, ready to anticipate
his wants ere he could give them utterance.

"Your highness must not resist," said the imperial court physician.
"Change of air and of scene is indispensable to your recovery."

"Let me die here," was Eugene's languid reply.

"Your highness is not going to die," observed Doctor Franzi; "but I
am afraid that you are about to cause the death of another person."

"Whom can you mean?" asked Eugene, interested.

"I mean Sister Angelica, your nurse."

"Surely she is not sick," said the prince, turning anxiously around.
"No!" said he, smiling, "no--she is here."

"And yet she is sick," persisted Doctor Franzi. "For a month past,
she has lived without sleep, scarcely snatching a moment to change
her clothing, and never once breathing any but the air of this sick-
room." The nun made a deprecating gesture. "You need not deny it,"
continued the doctor. "Prince, when Sister Angelica was allowed by
the prioress of her convent to accompany me to Vienna, she made a
vow never to leave my patient until he recovered from his illness or
died. Now you are neither dead nor about to die; but if you do all
you can to frustrate our endeavors to cure you, your nurse will
succumb long before you are well enough to dispense with her
valuable services."

"In that case, I cease to oppose you," said Eugene. "Do with me what
you will. God forbid that I should harm my ministering angel!"

"In view of your highness's submission to our orders," observed the
court physician, "his majesty the emperor has offered the use of his
palace at Schonbrunn, and we have taken the liberty of preparing
every thing for your immediate departure."

"His majesty is too kind," was the reply, "and my first care shall
be to thank my gracious sovereign for so signal a proof of his
beneficence. Let us then depart for Schonbrunn. You are satisfied,
dear sister, are you not?"

The sister bowed her head, and passed her hand over Eugene's glossy,
black hair, while Doctor Franzi came in and out, making preparations
for the accommodation of his patient.

A litter was brought, and when the prince had been carefully placed
upon it the doctor inquired whether he felt comfortable enough
therein to bear the journey. Eugene, on his part, asked how his
physician and the nun were to travel.

"We expect to occupy your highness's carriage, and to precede you,
by a half hour, to Schonbrunn."

"Would it be inconvenient or uncomfortable for Sister Angelica to
occupy the litter with me?"

"By no means; but if she accompanies your highness, things will not
be quite so comfortable for your reception."

"Then let me have less comfort, and more content. She supports my
head so delightfully when I cough, and moves my wounded foot so
gently--"

The nun no sooner heard these words than she put aside the doctor
who was standing before her, and hastened to the litter, altered the
inclination of Eugene's pillow, and very gently changed the position
of his wounded foot,

"Oh, how I thank you, dear sister!" murmured the prince, with a sigh
of relief. "When you are by, pain seems to vanish, and night breaks
into joyful day."

The bearers raised the litter, and the little cortege set out for
Schonbrunn. Two runners went before, to make way, crying as they
went along:

"Room for the litter of his highness the Prince of Savoy!"

The hurrying wayfarers retreated at the sound; a passage was opened
through the crowded thoroughfares; and, while the hero of Belgrade
was borne along the streets of Vienna, the people stood respectfully
aside to let him pass.

The air of Schonbrunn was pure and delightful. Every morning the
prince was conveyed to its lovely gardens, where he spent at least
an hour in inhaling the sweet breath of coming spring. He drank
goat's milk for his cough, and partook submissively of the food
prescribed for his nourishment; but his fever was not subdued, and
his cheeks grew paler and thinner each day.

"We must use other means," said Doctor Franzi to the nun, who had
been anxiously questioning him as to the result of a consultation
held that day over the sinking patient. "My colleagues are of
opinion that his fever is hectic, and therefore incurable; but I
differ with them. I really believe that if he could be roused from
his apathy, we could save him yet. Corporeal remedies have done
their hest; we must try a moral reaction."

"What do you mean?" murmured the nun.

"I mean that Sister Angelica must raise her veil, and break her long
silence," replied the doctor, raising her delicate white hand to his
lips.

The nun trembled, and caught her breath, the doctor viewing her with
amazement. "What!" said he, "you who have displayed such fortitude
and endurance, are you about to become faint-hearted?"

"Doctor," whispered she, "joy has its agitation as well as grief.
And if the shock should be too great for him!"

"If too great now, he will never be able to bear it, my dear child.
It is possible that it may deprive him for a time of consciousness,
but he will awake to life another man. At least, such is my
impression. I consider that his fate now lies in your hands, and you
must decide it to-day--nay, this very hour."

"Oh, doctor, I am so unprepared! I have no self-command; let us wait
until to-morrow. If we should fail--"

"We shall have done him no injury. I am ready to answer before God
that--"

The door was partially opened, and the valet of the prince
apologized for interrupting them. "His highness feels very much
exhausted, and calls for Sister Angelica."

"She will be there in one moment," replied the doctor.--"You see,"
whispered he, "that his heart has divined your presence. As soon as
you leave the room, he begins to suffer."

So saying, he gave her his hand, and she submitted to be led as far
as the door of the prince's sitting-room. There she paused, and
laying her hands upon her heart--

"Oh, it will burst," murmured she. "Doctor, you will remain with me-
-will you not?"

"I will remain as long as my presence is beneficial, and depart as
soon as it becomes oppressive. Come!"

He opened the door, and, with gentle constraint, compelled her to
advance. The prince, extended on his couch, looked very ill. "Have
you given me up? Have you, too, forgotten me?"

"'You too,'" echoed the doctor, while the nun was engaged in
preparing the patient's drink. "Why, has anybody else ever forgotten
your highness?"

"No," sighed Eugene; "I was unjust. But I have lost her, and that
loss is killing me."

"You hear him," whispered the doctor, while the nun, scarcely able
to hold the glass, presented it to the lips of her patient.

"Drink, Prince Eugene," said she, in low, trembling tones. At the
sound of her voice he started, and raised his head to listen.

"Great Heaven! Who spoke?"

The doctor smiled, and, slightly raising his shoulders, replied:
"Nobody but Sister Angelica, I presume, for nobody else is here."

"Sister Angelica!" repeated Eugene, slowly. "I thought she had made
a vow of silence, to last until her return to the convent?"

"You are quite right; but it appears that she has forgotten herself
for a moment, in her anxiety to serve you. Drink, then, to oblige
her."

Eugene clutched the glass and emptied it of its contents.

"Good," said the doctor. "Now that you are somewhat refreshed, I
must entertain you with a little outside gossip. I have letters from
Turin to-day. Victor Amadeus has disenthralled himself from his
filial bondage. His mother, having been regent during his minority,
has been struggling since his majority to retain her supremacy over
him and the duchy. She insisted upon taking precedence of her
daughter-in-law, the reigning duchess, and was equally bent upon
dismissing one of the ministers. There was considerable strife, and
no little intrigue in Turin, until the defection of one of the
dowager's adherents, which so strengthened the opposite party, that
she was obliged to succumb, and retired in high dudgeon to her
estates. The duke, on his side, out of gratitude to his new friend,
has created him prime minister--an appointment which is very popular
in Savoy--for there is not a worthier man in the dukedom than the
Marquis de Bonaletta."

At sound of this name, Eugene started up, and leaning his head upon
his hand, prepared to listen.

The doctor continued: "By-the-by, he is the uncle of the unfortunate
young marchioness of that name who was forced into a marriage with a
depraved Venetian nobleman called Strozzi. Your highness has heard
her history?"

Eugene murmured something in reply, and sank back upon his pillow.

"A very melancholy affair," pursued the doctor, signing to the nun
to approach, "and it has ended most singularly."

"Ended! How?" cried Eugene. "Speak, doctor, I implore you: is she
dead?"

"She? The marchioness? Quite the contrary, she is alive and well.
Her husband suddenly disappeared with her from Venice, last spring;
and it was discovered that he had confined her within a solitary
castle, somewhere in a forest; having previously given out to the
world that she was a raving lunatic."

"The accursed liar!" muttered Eugene. "May God grant me life to
avenge her wrongs!"

"Your highness is much moved at the recital," continued the doctor,
"and no wonder, for it is a fact much stranger than fiction. But I
will defer the conclusion of my story to some other day. You are too
much excited to hear it now."

"Oh no, indeed! I am strong--well. Look at me, doctor; and believe
me when I say that your conversation is more healing than all the
medicines you have ever administered."

"In truth, your highness seems quite invigorated within the last
half hour. Do you not perceive the change, Sister Angelica?"

She bowed her head, and approached the couch.

"Then, in mercy, let me hear the rest," cried Eugene, his eyes
flashing with eagerness.

"Be it so, then. In spite of bolts, bars, and her miserable
husband's spies, the marchioness has managed to escape."

"Escape!" exclaimed Eugene, starting from his couch, and standing
upright upon the floor. In a moment the nun was behind him, ready to
support him in case of need; but he walked hurriedly to the window,
threw it wide open, and inhaled the fresh morning air. For a while,
not a word was spoken. The prince looked upward at the blue and
silver clouds that were floating silently by; his large, dark eyes
wandered lovingly over the beautiful landscape that lay below, and
then, bowing his head, he lifted his heart to heaven, and thanked
God.

"Doctor," said he, at last, "whither fled the marchioness?"

"No one knows, your highness. But you must excuse me if I take my
leave. I must attend a consultation of--"

"Doctor," cried the prince, grasping him by the arm, "you cannot go:
I must know all that you have to tell."

The doctor smiled. "Upon my word, your highness speaks as if you
were ordering a charge against the Turks. But I cannot obey: Sister
Angelica has heard the story from beginning to end, and she will
relate the rest of it. Adieu."

So saying, Doctor Franzi left the room.

"Oh, dear sister," cried Eugene, "can you tell me whether she fell
into his hands again?"

"She did not," replied the nun, in a low, tremulous voice; "but the
shock of her disappearance was so terrible in its effects upon the
marquis, that he is now a maniac in the very apartments wherein he
had confined his wretched wife."

Eugene had listened in breathless amazement to these low, fluttering
words; and when they ceased he seemed still to listen. His face had
become excessively pale; his lips were slightly parted, and his eyes
riveted upon some imaginary object at a distance, which seemed to
obliterate from his mind the presence of his companion. She
meanwhile became so terrified that she clasped her hands, and knelt
at his feet.

He saw--he understood it all, and, raising her in his arms, he
pressed her rapturously to his heart. The veil had fallen, and she
was there! His Laura! his long-lost Laura!



CHAPTER II.

LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH.


The morning service was at an end, and King Louis XIV., attended by
his courtiers, left the royal chapel. His countenance was troubled,
and it followed, as a matter of course, that everybody else wore a
woe-begone expression. The fact is, that things were very dull and
solemn at the French court. Feasts and festivals were forbidden, and
nobody was allowed to look cheerful. La Valliere, in a Carmelite
convent, was doing penance for the sin of her love for Louis; while
De Montespan, in the world, was expiating hers within sight of the
king's indifference. He had tired of her long ago, but had permitted
her to remain at court, where her saloons were as stupid, as silent,
and as empty, as they had once been bright and crowded.

The reigning favorite was De Maintenon, who might have had followers
innumerable, had she desired them. But she appeared to be perfectly
unconscious of her own power; going about, now as ever, with modest
mien and simple dress, with folded hands and downcast eyes,
apparently unaware of the existence of any mortal whatsoever, save
that of her well-beloved Louis. And her course, of action had been
triumphantly successful, for by many she was believed to be the
legitimate spouse of the King of France.

From the chapel, Louis betook himself to the boudoir of the
marquise, and greeted her with a slight inclination of his royal
head.

"Why were you not at mass to-day, madame?" inquired he, curtly, as,
hastily crossing the room, he flung open the window, and admitted
the sharp air of a raw autumn morning.

De Maintenon stifled a sigh, and compelled herself to smile. "You
know, sire," replied she, gently, "that I am indisposed. My
physician has forbidden me to breathe the air, and for this reason I
dared not follow the impulse of my heart, and join my prayers to
those of your majesty this morning. The autumn winds are too keen
for me."

The king paid no attention to De Maintenon's allusion to the "autumn
winds." The window remained open, and she was obliged to stand
directly in front of it as long as Louis was pleased to enjoy the
breeze.

"You are becoming sickly, madame," observed he, coldly.

"True, sire, I suffer of late," sighed she.

"You are getting old," replied he, tartly. "Old age is a sorry
companion; it makes people peevish and disagreeable."

The marquise grew as pale as ashes, and the sharp glance of her
black eyes was turned quickly upon the countenance of the king, who,
instead of looking at her, was staring out of the window at the
marble Naiads, over whose white limbs the waters of a fountain were
foaming and plashing, in myriads of pearly drops. He appeared to be
quite unconscious of having wounded the feelings of his sensitive
companion.

She, on her part, felt that a crisis was at hand, and that, to waken
the king from his apathy, desperate measures must be adopted. She
plunged into her remedy at once.

"I see," sighed she, "that my presence is irksome to your majesty.
It is better, therefore, that I gather up my strength, and sacrifice
my happiness to yours. I will retire to St. Cyr."

Louis raised his shoulders. "I think not. People often say such
things, but never mean what they say."

"Sire, Madame de la Valliere is a proof of the contrary, and I--
although (as you remarked just now)--I am old, possess a heart over
whose emotions time and age have no power. I love as I have ever
loved, passionately, profoundly; but my love is disinterested, and
soars high above all self-gratification. Now that it has become
obtrusive, its current shall be turned to heaven, and in the sacred
walls of a cloister I will spend the remainder of my days in prayer
for him whose image I shall cherish unto death. Sire, I respectfully
request permission to enter the convent of St. Cyr."

Louis began to be uneasy. He knew very well that De Maintenon had a
vigorous and resolute soul, quite capable of carrying out any
purpose dictated by her head; and, if once she appealed from her
affections to her pride, he felt that no ulterior persuasions of his
would avail to deter her from the step she meditated.

"Are you serious, madame?" said he, reproachfully. "Would you,
indeed, forsake me?"

"Sire, I am so earnest in my intention to free you from the presence
of an infirm old woman, that I repeat my request to be allowed to
depart now--this very hour."

The king hated nothing on earth like surprises; he disliked to have
the sluggish waters of his every-day life stirred by unaccustomed
occurrences. He turned around at once to remonstrate, and, instead
of the pallid face he had encountered just a few minutes ago, he saw
a pair of glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, from whose lustrous
depths there darted a light that warmed up his tepid old heart, and
set it to beating as it had been wont to do, when La Valliere smiled
and De Montespan coquetted.

"Surely," said he, "you would not set a bad example to the wives of
my courtiers, Francoise! You would not teach them that when they
tire of their husbands they may desert them, and bury their ennui in
a convent!"

"Sire, I cannot accept the responsibility of other women's
derelictions. My duty points out to me a convent as the proper
refuge for a woman who has outlived her husband's love."

"I will not release you from your marriage-tie, madame; and, should
you brave my displeasure, and attempt to leave me, I would follow
you to St. Cyr, and drag you from the altar, were you in the very
act of making your vows!"

The marquise dropped on her knees. "Oh, sire, do I hear aright! I am
not odious to you!--You will not drive me away from my earthly
heaven! I may yet be happy, yet be loved!"

The king bent over her, and raised her tenderly in his arms. "Rise,
madame," said he, "it does not become the wife of the King of France
to bend the knee to any man. You know full well, Francoise,"
continued he, affectionately, "that without you my life would be an
aimless, burdensome one. Who could replace you, my wife, my
counsellor, my prime minister?"

"Ah, sire, what words! They thrill me to the depths of my heart, and
restore me to bliss unspeakable!"

"Then the cloud of your discontent has passed away, has it not?"

"Oh, sire, it is day, bright day, and my soul is flooded with
sunshine!"

"Then let us sit down on yonder divan, and talk of the affairs of
France. Do you know that I have bad news from Germany?"

"I feared as much, sire, when you entered the room with such a
troubled aspect."

"These German princes will not come to a decision as to my claims.
For four years my envoys have been before the imperial Diet, vainly
urging them to define our boundaries."

"They are procrastinating in the hope of receiving succor from the
emperor, who, as soon as he has sufficiently humbled the Porte, will
make an attempt to humble France. With Leopold to sustain them, the
Diet will claim Strasburg and Alsatia, and exact of your majesty the
withdrawal of the French troops from all the Rhenish provinces."

"They shall not be withdrawn," returned Louis. "When France has her
grasp upon a province, she never relaxes her hold. And so far am I
from any intention to temporize, that, if the Diet decides against
me, I will not scruple to break the twenty years' truce, and appeal
to arms. This I have long ago decided to do, so we need not discuss
the question any longer. I have other matters to confide to you,
which harass me."

"Has the emperor refused to recognize the new Elector of Cologne?"
asked the marquise, indignantly.

"Yes, he has had the assurance to reject the lawful election of Egon
of Furstenberg; and to appoint, in his stead, Joseph Clemens, the
brother of the Elector of Bavaria, Out of four-and-twenty
prebendaries of the archbishopric of Cologne, fourteen votes were
given to Egon, while Joseph received but ten. And what, do you
suppose, is the ground of the emperor's insolent rejection of my
nominee? He pretends that the fourteen voters were bribed by France,
and that the candidate himself is disaffected, and under French
influence. This is tantamount to a declaration of war; and, what is
worse than all, Pope Innocent sustains the emperor."

The marquise folded her hands in pious resignation. "That is a sad
proof of the unfriendliness of his holiness toward France," murmured
she. "But that is the fault of the Minister Louvois. He has deserved
the displeasure of his holiness by the forcible occupation of
Avignon (so long the residence of the successors of St. Peter), and
by the arrest of the papal nuncio."

"He could not help it." cried Louis, impatiently; "it was an act of
reprisal. Our ambassador at Rome had been affronted; the spies of
the pope had forced themselves into the hotel of the embassy and had
arrested two men that had sought protection from the French flag."

"Sire," said the marquise with determination, "they were papal
subjects and criminals, who had no right to the protection of the
French flag. It should never be said that Louis of France shields
from justice the thieves and murderers whom the Vicar of Christ
would punish. You know, sire, that these men had committed
sacrilege. They had plundered the altar of St. Peter's of its golden
pyx and candlesticks, and had poniarded the sacristan that had them
in charge."

"It was a crime--that I cannot deny," said Louis with a deprecating
sigh, "but the right of asylum is sacred, and we were forced to
defend it."

"Sire, do you, an earthly monarch, pretend to believe that you can
shield a criminal from the all-seeing vengeance of the Lord? Had the
sinner the wings of the morning, wherewith he might fly to the
uttermost limits of the earth, the arm of God would overtake and
arrest him in his flight! How, then, do you pretend to cover his
crimes with the folds of the French flag?"

The king was cowed by the bold and uncompromising voice of truth. He
folded his hands and bowed his head.

"Alas, alas! you are right and we were wrong! We should not have
given refuge to these murderers and plunderers. I am truly
repentant, Franchise, and will do my best to expiate the sin."

"Sire, you are right to bewail the sin, but it lies not on your
conscience; it is the fault of your arrogant minister, who, without
consulting you, demanded satisfaction of his holiness; and, when it
was righteously refused, took possession of Avignon, and imprisoned
the papal nuncio. Then, when the deed was done, and not until then,
he dispatched a courier to Paris, to inform you of what had taken
place."

"That is true, dear Francoise," said Louis, mildly; "but, after all,
Louvois had no alternative. Had he consulted me, I might have felt
myself bound to temporize; whereas, by his assumption of the act, he
renders apology on my part possible. The thing is done; the honor of
France is satisfied, and I can now release the nuncio, and make all
necessary excuses to his holiness."

The marquise gazed searchingly at the countenance of the royal
casuist, who bore her scrutiny without flinching, and, with a slight
clearing of his throat, went on:

"I am not yet at the end of my chapter of vexations. A courier has
arrived to-day from the Marquis de Villars. In spite of all his
petty intrigues, and the millions with which he bribed the mistress
of the elector, Max Emmanuel has never been estranged from Austria.
So far from it, he has assumed the chief command of the imperial
armies, and is about to lay siege to Belgrade."

"He will come to grief, sire," cried the marquise. "The Turks and
Hungarians greatly outnumber the imperialists, and--"

The king raised his hand and shook his head. "I would you were
right; but, Francoise, you are a false prophet--my last and worst
tale is told--Belgrade has fallen!"

"The will of God be done!" cried the marquise. "Christianity has
triumphed, and the unbelieving Moslem has bitten the dust!"

"Pray," interrupted Louis, fretfully, "put aside your piety for a
while and look at the thing through the medium of good sense and
earthly foresight. The Emperor of Germany is victorious; he is
gradually weakening the Sultan, so that it is within the range of
possibilities that he overturn the Ottoman power, and consolidate
the Germanic confederations into one great empire. This done, he
will turn his attention to France--of that you may be sure."

"My beloved sovereign speaks of events that will never come to
pass," replied the marquise, with one of her most enticing smiles.
"Long before the Emperor Leopold will have exterminated the Turks,
we will force him to defend his own territories from the invading
armies of France."

"You approve me, then, and think that it is time I began to be
aggressive in my warfare," exclaimed Louis, eagerly.

"I am always of the opinion of my lord and sovereign," was the
courteous reply of the marquise, who had already forgotten the
discussion relating to Avignon. "It remains to be seen if Louvois
acquiesces."

"Louvois will do as he is bid," said Louis, frowning.

"Remember, sire, that he said publicly, yesterday, that the French
army was not in a condition to open a campaign, and that it could
not be equipped before spring."

"Before spring!" echoed the king. "While the generals of Leopold
carry every thing before them!--for he has distinguished generals in
his service, madame; one of whom is that same Eugene of Savoy whom
you pronounced unworthy of a bishopric. Whatever he might have done
as a churchman, I would he were an archbishop rather than what he is
to-day!"

"Oh, sire!" said the marquise, reproachfully. "True--I never thought
Prince Eugene had any vocation for the priesthood; and, knowing his
disinclination to the church, I myself advised him to ask for a
commission in the army. He did ask it--a mere captaincy--and your
majesty well remembers who it was that influenced you to refuse him
so small a boon. To Louvois France owes the loss of this great
military genius."

"Right, right, you are always right, and I have unwittingly given
you another pretext for blaming him."

"Although he is my bitter foe, I would not blame him, sire, were he
not culpable."

"Your bitter foe, Francoise? How?"

"Ah, sire, was it not he that opposed our marriage?"

"Forgive him, dear Francoise, he acted according to his own notions
of duty. But you see that my love was mightier than his objections,
and you are, before God, my own beloved spouse."

"Before God, sire, I am; but the world doubts my right to the name.
In the eyes of the court, I am but the mistress of the king; a
humiliation which I owe to Louvois, who bound your majesty by an
oath never to recognize me as Queen of France."

"I rejoice to think that he did so," was the king's reply, "for the
tie that binds us is sacred in the sight of Heaven, while in the
eyes of the world I am spared the ridicule of placing Scarron's
widow upon the throne of Charlemagne the Great. In your own
reception-room you act as queen, and I am perfectly willing that you
should do so, for it proves that you are the wife of the king, and
not his mistress. Be magnanimous, then, and forgive Louvois if,
above the ambition of Madame de Mainterion, he valued the dignity
and honor of the French throne. But the hour of my interview with
you is at an end: I hold a levee this morning, and must leave you."

Kissing the hand of the marquise, Louis bowed and left the room.



CHAPTER III.

THE KING AND THE PETITIONERS.


When the king entered the audience-chamber, the courtiers, dispersed
in groups about the room, were all in eager conversation. So
absorbed were they in the subject under discussion, that those who
stood at the opposite end of the room were not aware of the royal
presence until the grande tournee forced it upon their attention.

The king joined one of these groups. "Gentlemen," said he, "what
interests you so deeply to-day? Have you received any important
news?"

"Yes, sire," replied the Prince de Conti. "We are speaking of my
cousin Eugene. He has been severely wounded, but not until he had
materially assisted the Elector of Bavaria to capture Belgrade."

"Ah! you have heard of the fall of Belgrade!" said the king,
frowning, as he perceived that Louvois was approaching. "Is it you,"
asked he, curtly, "that has been in such hot haste to spread the
news of the successes of the imperial army?"

"Pardon me, sire," replied Louvois, "I am no gossip; nor do the
successes of the Emperor of Austria interest me sufficiently for me
to deem them worthy of announcement here."

"Nevertheless, they are for you a cause of no little humiliation;
for they remind the world that you were once guilty of a blunder in
your statesmanship. If I am not mistaken, it was you who caused me
to refuse Prince Eugene a commission in my army--that same Prince
Eugene who has turned out to be one of the greatest military
geniuses of the age."

"Sire," returned Louvois, reddening with auger, "you yourself were
of the opinion that Prince Eugene of Savoy--" "Sir," interrupted the
king, haughtily, "I am of opinion that when you scorned Prince
Eugene, you were lamentably deficient in judgment; and that, if he
is now shedding lustre upon the arms of Austria, it is because you
repulsed him when he would have entered the service of France."

And the king, whose wounded vanity was greatly comforted by a thrust
at that of his prime minister, turned on his heel, and addressed
himself again to the Prince de Conti:

"Whence came your news of the taking of Belgrade?"

"From the Duke de Luynes, your majesty, who, you may remember, has
joined the imperial armies. But Eugene is not the only Frenchman who
has distinguished himself at the siege; the Prince de Commercy
behaved in a manner worthy of all admiration."

"Yes, indeed," added the young Duke of Maine (the royal son of De
Montespan). "It is such deeds as his that have earned for Frenchmen
the title of the 'Knightly Nation.'"

And the little hobbling duke, who had never drawn a sword from its
scabbard, struck himself on the breast, as if he had represented in
his own person the united chivalry of all France.

"I am curious to hear of the valiant deeds of the Prince de
Commercy," said the king, carelessly. "Pray relate them to us,
prince." The prince bowed: "Sire, as the Prince de Commercy was
charging a body of Janizaries stationed at one of the gates of
Belgrade, a Turk made a sudden dash at his standard-bearer, and
captured the regimental flag. The men were disheartened at their
loss, when the prince, crying out, 'Wait a moment, boys, and you
shall have another,' galloped right into the enemy's midst, and
raised his pistol to bring down the standard-bearer of the Turks.
The latter, taking immediate advantage of the position of the
prince, thrust a lance into his right side. Without giving the least
attention to his wound, Commercy grasped the spear with his left
hand and held it fast, while with his right he drew out his sabre,
killed the standard-bearer and bore away his flag. Then, withdrawing
the lance from his side, he gave the blood-besprinkled banner into
the hands of the German ensign, saying, as he did so, 'Pray be more
careful of this one than you were of the other.'"

The king slightly bowed his head. "Indeed, the Prince de Commercy
does honor to the country that gave him birth. I will take care that
he is suitably rewarded."

"Sire," replied the Prince de Conti, "the Emperor of Germany has
already done so. He has been promoted; and the flag which was
stained with his blood now hangs within the cathedral walls of St.
Stephen's; while, with her own hands, the empress is embroidering a
new one for the regiment, which, in honor of the prince, is called
the Commercy regiment."

"The Emperor of Germany knows how to reward valor," exclaimed the
Duke de la Roche Guyon, "for Eugene of Savoy is only five-and-twenty
years of age, and yet he has been created a field-marshal."

The king affected not to have heard this remark, and passed on. His
courtiers saw, with consternation, that he was annoyed at something,
and every face in the audience-chamber gave back a reflection of the
royal discontent. Louis sauntered along, occasionally addressing a
word or two to such as he "delighted to honor," until the grande
tournee had been made.

When the two Princes de Conti saw that he was disengaged, they
advanced with a mien so respectful, that Louis knew perfectly well
the nature of their errand, although he little guessed its purport.

"Well, gentlemen," said he, "for what new escapade have you come to
crave our royal indulgence? I see, by your demeanor, that you are
about to ask a favor of your sovereign."

"Yes, my liege," replied the elder of the two; "we have come to ask
a favor, but not such a one as your majesty supposes. We have grown
melancholy, and your royal hand can heal us."

"Grown melancholy! You, the boldest, gayest cavalier in Paris!"

"Yes, sire," sighed De Conti. "We cannot sleep for thinking of the
laurels of our kinsman of Savoy, and we humbly crave your royal
permission to join the imperial crusade against the Turks."

Louis frowned, but quickly recovered himself. "Of course--of
course," replied he, condescendingly; "if the laurels of the little
prince disturb your slumbers, you have my full consent to go after
him. 'Twere a pity to deny you so small a boon."

And, without giving opportunity to the two princes to thank him, the
king turned around and addressed Marshal Crequi:

"Who knows," said he, raising his voice, "whether these two silly
boys have not chosen the wiser part? Though they may never earn any
laurels, they may fight away some of their folly--which loss would
be to them great gain."

"Sire, it is perfectly natural for youth to desire glory," returned
the old marshal. "I think that thirst for fame is honorable to a
young nobleman, and for this reason I have consented that my son,
the Marquis do Blanchefort, should join the imperial crusade,
provided he obtains your majesty's consent. I venture to hope that
your majesty will not refuse to him what you have conceded to the
Princes de Conti."

Louis looked with amazement at the smiling countenance of the old
marshal, but he answered as before:

"I certainly will not do less for your soil than for the De Contis.
He has my consent to accompany them on their journey after glory."

The young Marquis de Blanchefort, who was near at hand, would have
expressed his gratitude for the royal permission to leave France,
but the king turned coldly away, and darted a peremptory glance at
Louvois.

The minister understood, and came forward at once.

De Blanchefort, meanwhile, hurried off to join the De Contis, who,
surrounded by a group of young noblemen, were engaged in a low, but
earnest conversation.

"I have my discharge," whispered he.

"Then you are the third one upon whom fortune has smiled to-day,"
sighed the young Duke de Brienne. "I wish I were as far advanced as
you."

"Allow me to give the three lucky knights a bit of advice,"
whispered the Duke de la Roche Guyon, Louvois's son-in-law. "Make
use of the king's permission without delay. Who knows, but when the
rest of us prefer our petitions, he may not withdraw his consent
from you?"

"My dear friend," said the younger De Conti, "our trunks are packed,
and our travelling-carriage awaits us at the corner of the Rue St.
Honore. Nobody knows what may happen; so that we are about to depart
without parade, bidding adieu to our friends by notes of farewell."

"You have acted with foresight," replied the duke. "And you, De
Blanchefort, when do you start?"

"My father is a soldier, and admires punctuality," answered the
marquis. "Yesterday afternoon he presented me with a new travelling-
chariot, and this morning he ordered it to be ready for my
departure, at the corner of the Garde Meubles. That is even nearer
than the Rue St. Honore, and if you will allow me, I fly to see if
it is still there."

"Do so," returned the duke, "and our dear princes would do well to
follow your example."

"We were about to take our leave, and now--" began young De Conti.

"Away with you!" was the reply; and the three young men, murmuring,
"Au revoir," disappeared behind the portiere which led to the
antechamber, and sped away from the Louvre to their carriages.

"Messieurs," said the Duke de la Roche Guyon, taking out his watch,
"we must give them a quarter of an hour, before we irritate his
majesty by preferring our own petitions."

When the quarter of an hour had elapsed, the duke replaced his
watch, and resumed: "Now let us go and try our luck."

"Shall we go together, or one by one?" inquired the Duke de
Liancourt.

"We are four, and the king's good-nature is soon exhausted. The last
two petitioners would indubitably be rebuffed, so I think we had
better go in a body."

"With yourself as spokesman," said De Brienne.

"Right!" echoed the others, and they are all approached the king. He
was engaged in conversation with Louvois, and interrupted himself to
stare at the four young men, as if he had been greatly astonished to
see them.

"Here is your son-in-law," observed he to Louvois. "What can he
want?"

"Indeed, sire, nobody knows his wants less than I. He is my
daughter's husband, but no friend of mine."

"Here are De Turenne, De Brienne. and De Liancourt at his heels,"
replied the king, trying to stare them out of countenance, while the
poor young men waited in vain for the royal permission to speak.

At last the Duke de la Roche Guyon gathered courage to begin.

"Your majesty, we come with all respect--"

"We!" echoed the king. "Then you represent four petitioners."

"Yes, your majesty, the three here present and myself. May I be
permitted to state the nature of our petition?"

The king bowed, and De la Roche Guyon resumed: "Sire, we, are all,
like the Princes de Conti and the Marquis de Blanchefort, envious of
the laurels of Eugene of Savoy. We are athirst for glory."

"And you come to ask if I will not make war to gratify your greed
for fame?" asked the king, eagerly.

"Sire!" exclaimed the duke, "can you imagine such assurance on the
part of your subjects? No--we merely ask permission to join the
imperial army."

"The army of the Emperor of Germany!" cried Louis, in a voice so
loud and angry that his courtiers grew pale, and almost forgot to
breathe. But the Duke de la Roche Guyon had steeled himself against
the bolts of this Jupiter Tonans.

"Yes, sire," replied he, courteously, "the army of the emperor who
represents Christendom doing battle with Mohammedanism. It is a holy
cause, and we hope that it has your majesty's sympathy and
approbation."

"It would appear that the youth of my court are drifting into
imbecility," replied the king, with a contemptuous shrug. "They need
a physician; and it will be time enough to listen to any request
they may have to make, when they shall have returned to their
senses."

"Your majesty refuses us!" said the duke, bitterly.

"When the king has spoken, sir," replied Louis, haughtily, "it
becomes his subjects to obey and be silent. The court is dismissed!
Monsieur de Louvois, you will go with me to Trianon, to inspect the
new palace. The court are at liberty to accompany us."

This "at liberty" being a command which nobody dared resist, the
king had no sooner left the room than the courtiers hastened to
their carriages and gave orders to their various coachmen to join
the royal cortege.



CHAPTER IV.

THE WINDOW THAT WAS TOO LARGE.


Meanwhile the king had made his way to the boudoir of his marquise,
who advanced joyfully to meet him.

"Madame," said he, "I am about to drive to Trianon; will you
accompany me? Decide according to your own judgment; do not
inconvenience yourself on my account."

"Your majesty knows that I live in your presence," sighed the
marquise, "but--"

"But you dare not leave your room. Well--I am sorry; you would have
enjoyed the drive."

"The drive to Trianon," replied the marquise, "where, as an
architect, Louvois will he the theme of your majesty's encomiums."

The king's lip curled. "Scarcely"--said he. "I do not think that
Louvois will enjoy his visit to-day. I am not at all pleased with
his plans, nor will I be at pains to conceal my displeasure."

The marquise looked inquiringly into the face of the king. It was
smiling and significant.

"Sire," said the marquise, "are you in earnest? May I indeed be
permitted to accompany you to Trianon?"

"Indeed, you cannot conceive how much I regret your inability to
go," returned Louis.

"Oh, sire, my love is mightier than my infirmities; it shall lend me
strength, and I shall have the unspeakable bliss of accompanying
you."

"I counted upon you," returned Louis. "So let us go at once; the
court waits, and punctuality is the politeness of kings."

Without paying the least attention to Louvois, who, as
superintendent of the royal edifices, stood close at hand, the king
entered his coach, and assisted Madame de Maintenon, as she took her
place at his side. Louvois had expected to be invited to ride with
the king, and this oversight, he knew, betokened something sinister
for him.

And what could it be? "The old bigot has been sowing her tares
again," said he to himself. "There is some mortification in store
for me, or she would not have exposed herself to this sharp autumn
blast to-day." And he ran over all the late occurrences of the
court, that he might disentangle the knotted thread of the king's
ill-humor. "It must be that accursed business of the Prince of
Savoy, and the king is no better than these silly lads; the laurels
of the little abbe keep him awake at night, and he vents his spleen
upon me. What an oversight it was of mine, to let that Eugene
escape! Had I caused him to disappear from this wicked world and
given him an asylum in the Bastile, he never would have troubled us
with his doings in Germany. THERE was my blunder--my unpardonable
blunder. But it cannot be recalled, and the king's vanity is so
insatiable, that there is no knowing how it is ever to be appeased.
I must succumb for the present, and--Ah!" cried he, interrupting the
current of his despondency, "I think I can repair my error. We must
allow his envious majesty to gather a handful of these laurels for
which he has such a longing. We must put the Emperor of Germany in
check, and--"

Just then the iron gates of Trianon opened to admit the carriage,
and the superintendent of the royal edifices made haste to alight
and wait the arrival of the king.

For the first time, his majesty condescended to seem aware of
Louvois' presence. "Monsieur," said he, to the tottering favorite,
"I have come to inspect this chateau. Madame la marquise, it being
intended as a pleasure-house for yourself, you will oblige me by
speaking frankly on the subject."

So saying, he gave his arm to madame, and the court, with heads
uncovered, came submissively behind.

"Follow us," said the king.

This "us" delighted the marquise, for it was an informal
acknowledgment of her right to be considered as the king's consort.
With her large eyes beaming with joy, and her face radiant with
triumph, she went, hanging on Louis' arm, over the chateau which his
munificence had prepared for her occupation in summer. Immediately
behind them walked Louvois; and after him a long procession of
nobles, not one of whom dared to utter a word. The central building
was pronounced satisfactory; its front and marble colonnade received
their due meed of praise, and the king ended by these words: "I am
perfectly satisfied with Mansard; he is really a distinguished
architect."

"Sire," returned Louvois, to whom this eulogium had been addressed,
"Mansard will be overjoyed to hear of his sovereign's approbation.
But your majesty will pardon me if I appropriate some portion of
your praise; the ground-plan of the building is mine. I furnished it
to Mansard."

The king made no reply to this attempt to extort a word of approval;
he merely nodded, and went on his way. They had now reached a point
whence the right facade of the building was brought to view.

"Monsieur," said Louis, pointing to the central window, "this window
is out of proportion."

"Pardon me, sire," returned Louvois, submissively, "it is exactly of
the size of the central window in front, and only appears larger
because of the absence of a colonnade."

"Sir," said the king, indignantly, "I tell you that this window is
much too large, and unless it be reduced the entire palace is a
failure."

"I must, nevertheless, abide by my judgment, sire," replied Louvois,
respectfully. "The two windows are exactly alike; this one being
more conspicuous than the other, but not one inch higher."

"Then you have been guilty of some great oversight by allowing it to
appear higher than the other," returned the king, rudely. "Your plan
is ridiculous, and the sooner you set about mending it the better."

"Sire," said Louvois, bitterly, "when praise was to be awarded, the
credit of the plan was Mansard's--"

"But as you did not choose to concede it, you must accept the blame
of your blunder. Your vision is not acute, sir, a defect that is as
unbecoming in an architect as in a war minister. You have been
equally blind to the monstrous size of yonder window, and to the
great genius of my kinsman, Eugene of Savoy. Unhappily, your want of
judgment, as regards the man, is irreparable; the defect in your
window you will be so good as to correct."

"Sire," said Louvois, trembling with anger, "I beg to be discharged
from my duties as architect to your majesty. Under the
circumstances. I feel myself inadequate to perform its duties."

"You are quite right," replied the king. "You will then have more
leisure to devote to the war department, and to devise some means
for gratifying the national love of glory, without driving my French
nobles to foreign courts for distinction.--Come, madame," added the
king, to the marquise, who, all this time, had been standing with
eyes cast down; the very personification of humility.--"Let us
proceed to Versailles; for this ungainly window has taken away my
breath. I must have change of scene for the remainder of the day."

As they took their seat in the coach, the marquise whispered: "Oh,
sire! how overwhelming, yet how noble, is your anger! I should die
under it, were it directed toward me; and, in spite of all Louvois'
ill-will toward me, I pitied him so sincerely that I could scarcely
restrain my impulse to intercede for him."

"You are an angel," was the stereotyped reply.

Meanwhile, the court were preparing to follow the royal equipage.
Louvois stood by, but not one of the nobles seemed aware of his
presence; he was out of favor, and thereby invisible to courtly
eyes.

On the afternoon of the same day the minister of war, with brow
serene and countenance unruffled, entered the council-chamber of the
king. He had found a remedy for his annoyances at Trianon, and he
pretended not to see the marquise, who, as usual, sat embroidering
in the deep embrasure of a window, almost concealed from view by its
velvet curtains.

"Sire," said Louvois, "I come before your majesty with proposals of
great moment, and I await with much anxiety your decision."

"Let us hear your proposals," said the king, languidly. "Have more
couriers arrived with news of Austrian successes?"

"No, sire, we have had enough of Austrian victories, and I am of
opinion that the emperor must receive his check from the powerful
hand of France. It is time that your majesty interposed to change
his fortunes."

The king was startled out of his indifference. He raised his head to
listen, while the marquise dropped her work, and applied her ear to
the opening in the curtains.

"Your majesty has acted toward this arrogant Austrian with a
forbearance that is more than human. Well I know that your humane
aversion to bloodshed has been in part the cause of your
unparalleled magnanimity; but you have been thwarted in your choice
of an Elector of Cologne; your claims to Alsatia and Lorraine have
been set aside; the dower of her royal highness the Duchess of
Orleans has been refused you; and patience under so many affronts
has ceased to be a virtue. The honor of France must be sustained,
and we must evoke, as a last resort, the demon of war."

"Gracious Heaven!" said the marquise, behind her curtain, "if he
rouses the king's ambition, I shall occupy but a secondary position
at the court of France, and he will be more influential than ever!
Louis has already forgotten me, else he would call me to his side
before he decides so weighty a matter."

The marquise was shrewd, and did not err in her speculations: Louis
had indeed forgotten her presence. His heart was full of
covetousness and resentment at the opposition of that presuming
Leopold, who penetrated his designs upon the Rhenish provinces of
the empire, and he thirsted for vengeance.

"Yes," replied he, "I have given an example of forbearance which
must have astonished all Europe. I would have been glad to settle
our differences in a Christian-like manner; but Leopold is deaf to
all reason and justice--"

At this moment the king's voice was rendered inaudible by a loud
cough which proceeded from the window wherein the marquise had
retired from observation.

"My dear Francoise," exclaimed Louis, "come and take your part in
this important council of war."

The hangings were parted, and out she stepped; slightly
acknowledging the salute of the minister, she passed him by, and
took an arm-chair at the side of the king.

"You have heard us discussing, have you not?" asked Louis.

"Yes, sire," sighed she, "I have heard every thing."

"Then you understand that it concerns my honor to make war upon
Germany?"

The marquise turned her flashing eyes upon the one that held this
royal honor in his keeping. "Sire," said she, "I am slow of
comprehension; for it has just occurred to me that your majesty's
criticism upon a window at Trianon is to be productive of results
most disastrous to the French nation."

"This criticism concerns nobody but Mansard," observed Louvois,
carelessly. "I am no longer superintendent of the royal edifices."

"I do not understand you, madame," interposed the king. "What has a
window at Trianon to do with the affairs of the nation? Pray let us
be serious, and come to a determination."

"Sire," asked the marquise, "is not this matter already determined?"

The king kissed her hand. "It is--and your inquiry is a new proof of
your penetration. How truly you sympathize with my emotions! How
clearly you read the pages of my heart! Yes, dear marquise, war is
inevitable."

"Then our days of happiness are at an end," returned she, sadly;
"and your majesty's heart will descend from the contemplation of
heavenly things, to thoughts of strife and cruel bloodshed."

"The war is a holy one," interrupted Louvois, "and God Himself holds
a monarch responsible for the honor of his people."

"Well spoken, Louvois," replied the king, approvingly. "The cause is
just, and the Lord of hosts will battle for us. You, marquise, will
be our intercessor with Heaven."

"But your majesty will not be nigh to pray with me," said the
marquise, in regretful tones.

The king made no reply to this affectionate challenge; he continued
to speak with Louvois, enjoining upon him to hasten his
preparations.

"Sire, my plans are laid," replied Louvois.

"Already!" cried Louis, joyfully.

"Already!" echoed De Maintenon, affrighted.

"Sire," continued Louvois, "as soon as your majesty has approved my
plan, the couriers, who are waiting without, will transfer your
royal commands to the army. It is my design to march at once upon
the Rhenish provinces, and to take possession of the Palatinate."

"Good! but will our army be strong enough to fight the emperor and
the Germanic confederation at once?"

"Sire, the emperor shall have occupation elsewhere, and the princes
of the empire must be terrified into submission."

"But how, now?"

"Both ends may be reached by one stroke. The Rhenish provinces,
Alsatia, and the Palatinate, must be transformed into a waste. We
must wage against Germany a war of destruction, whose fearful
consequences will be felt there for a century to come."

"Oh, sire," exclaimed De Maintenon, "such a war is contrary to the
laws of God and man! Shall France, the most refined country on the
globe, set to civilized Europe an example of barbarity only to be
equalled by the atrocities of the Huns and Vandals?"

"My dear marquise," cried Louis, fretfully, "do be silent.--Go on,
Louvois, and let me hear your plans."

"Sire, they are very simple. We have only to march on the German
towns, sack and burn them, and put to the sword all those that
presume to defy the power of France. We must spread consternation
throughout all Germany, that your majesty's name may cause every
cheek to pale, and every heart to sink with fear. The enemy shall
provision our army, and forage our horses. We will take possession
of their magazines, stores, and shambles; and to every house that
refuses us gold, we will apply the devouring torch. Thus we will
make it impossible for the emperor to advance to Lorraine; and the
wide desert that intervenes between us will become French
territory."

"I approve your mode of warfare, Louvois; it is good. If the emperor
had ratified my choice of an Elector of Cologne, and had sustained
my claims to Lorraine and Alsatia, I would have conceded him as many
triumphs as he chose in Transylvania. As he opposes me, let him take
the consequence--war with all its horrors!"

"Your majesty empowers me, then, to dispatch my couriers?" said
Louvois.

"I do, my dear marquis," was the gracious reply, while the royal
hand was held out to be kissed.

Louvois pressed it to his lips, as a lover does the rosy fingers of
his mistress, and, hastening away with the agility of a young man,
sprang into his carriage, and drove off. "'My dear marquis,'"
murmured he, with a smile of complacency. "He called me his dear
marquis, and the storm of his displeasure has passed away. I came
very near being struck by its lightning, nevertheless. That De
Maintenon is a shrewd woman, and found me out at once. Yes!--yes,
your majesty! Had you admired my window at Trianon, I should not
have been obliged to involve you in a war with Germany."



CHAPTER V.

THE IMPERIAL DIET AT REGENSBURG.


In 1687 the imperial Diet assembled at Regensburg, to examine the
claims of the King of France to Alsatia, Lorraine, the Palatinate,
and other possessions, which his majesty longed to appropriate out
of the domains of his neighbors.

On the 2d of October, 1689, a travelling-carriage might have been
seen standing in front of the large, antiquated building occupied by
Count Spaur, the envoy of the Emperor Leopold.

The postilion sounded his horn, and cracked his whip with such
vehemence, that here and there an inquiring and angry face might be
seen at the neighboring windows, peering out upon the untimely
intruders, who were making dawn hideous by their clattering arrival.
The footman sprang from his board, and thundered with all his might
at the door, while, between each interval of knocking, the postilion
accompanied him by a fanfare that stirred up the sleeping echoes of
that dull old town in a manner that was astonishing to hear.

Finally, their zeal was rewarded by the appearance of a man's head
at the window on the ground floor, and the sound of his voice
inquiring who it was that was making all this uproar.

"Who we are?" echoed the footman. "We are individuals entitled to
make an uproar, and shall continue to make it until we obtain
admission to the presence of Count Spaur for his excellency Count
von Crenneville, who comes on important business from his imperial
majesty the emperor."

This pompous announcement had the desired effect; it awed the porter
into civility, and he hastened to inform the footman of his
excellency, that Count Spaur being in bed, he would inform the
valet, and have the Austrian ambassador apprised of the visit of
Count von Crenneville.

"Open your door before you go, and admit his excellency into the
house," cried the footman, imperiously.

"I dare not," replied the porter, shaking his head. "I am not at
liberty to admit anybody, until I have orders to do so from the
valet of Count Spaur."

"Not admit the emperor's envoy?" exclaimed the indignant lackey.
"That is an affront to his excellency."

"I do not know the person of his excellency," persisted the porter,
"and how do I know but some petty ducal envoy may not be playing a
trick on me, and so obtain fraudulent entrance to the house of the
Austrian ambassador?"

"You presume to apply such language to Count von Crenneville!" cried
the footman, "I shall--"

"Peace, Caspar!" said a voice from the carriage; "the honest fellow
is quite right, and deserves no blame for his prudence.
Nevertheless, as we are no impostors, hasten, my good friend, to the
valet, and let me have entrance, for I am very tired."

At this moment the porter was put aside, and a man in rich livery
came forward.

"Count Spaur has risen, and will be happy to receive his excellency
Count von Crenneville," said he. At these magical words the heavy
doors were opened, and the envoy sprang lightly from his carriage,
and entered the house. At the head of the staircase he was met by
Count Spaur, who apologized for being compelled to receive his guest
in a dressing-gown.

"It would not be the first time that I have seen you in a
deshabille, my dear comrade," replied Von Crenneville, "for you
cannot have forgotten the old days when we were quartered together
in Hungary. As I presume you have not breakfasted, I will take the
liberty of inviting myself to breakfast, for I am hungry and
exhausted by travelling all night."

Count Spaur offered his arm, and conducted his guest to the dining-
room, where breakfast was about to be served.

Count von Crenneville threw aside his military cloak, unfastened a
few buttons of his uniform, and took his seat at the table.

"I am delighted to see you," said Count Spaur, handing a cup of
chocolate. "Your arrival is a delicious interruption to the stupid
life I had in Regensburg."

When they had breakfasted, Count Spaur led the way to his cabinet,
and the conference began by Count von Crenneville handing a packet
to his friend from the emperor.

The latter received it with a profound inclination, and carefully
cutting it, so as to avoid breaking the seal, he opened it, and
prepared to make himself master of its contents.

He shook his head dolefully. "His majesty asks impossibilities of
me," sighed he. "Do you know what this letter contains?"

"Be so kind as to read it to me."

So Count Spaur began: "My dear Count,--It is time this imperial Diet
end their petty quarrels, and go seriously to work; for these are no
days wherein important interests may be neglected for the sake of
etiquette. Announce to the Diet that I require of them to be
serious, and to come to the assistance of their fatherland. Count
von Crenneville, who will deliver this to you, is empowered to
declare the same to the assembled representatives of the Germanic
Confederation."

(Signed) "LEOPOLD, Emperor."

"It seems to me that the demand is a reasonable one," remarked Count
von Crenneville.

"But impossible of compliance. Do you know how long the Diet has
been sitting at Regensburg?"

"Two years, I believe."

"Well: do you know what they have been doing for these two years?"

"No, count; it is precisely to learn this that his majesty has sent
me here," said Von Crenneville.

"I will tell you then. They have been profoundly engaged in settling
questions of diplomatic etiquette. You may laugh, if you like; but
for one that has been obliged to hear it all, it is wearisome beyond
expression. The first trouble arose from the etiquette of visiting.
As imperial envoy, I received the first visit from them all, I
returned my calls, and so far all was well. But when the other
envoys were to visit among themselves, the dissensions began. Each
man wrote to his sovereign, and each sovereign upheld his man;
couriers came and went, and for a time Regensburg was alive with
arrivals and departures."

"And meanwhile the King of France was allowed to build his bridges
across the Rhine," observed Count von Crenneville.

"My dear friend, the King of France might have dethroned the
emperor, meanwhile, without a protest. Nothing under heaven could be
attended to, while this visiting question was on the tapis."

"Is it decided?"

"After three months of daily conferences, during which I exhausted
more statesmanship than would overturn an empire, it was decided
that the envoys of the princes would call on the envoys of the
electors, provided the latter would come half way down the staircase
to meet the former."

"God be thanked! They could then proceed to business!"

Count Spaur replied by a melancholy shake of the head.

"You are not aware that, before the Diet assemble, a banquet is
given, at which all are expected to be present. You are furthermore
not cognizant of the fact that every concomitant of this banquet has
been made a subject of strife, from the day on which the visiting
question was arranged, until the present time."

"My dear count, I pity you."

"You may well do so. The electoral envoys claimed the right of using
gold knives and forks, while they exacted that the ducal
representatives should be content with silver. These latter resented
the indignity, and of course the banquet had to be postponed."

"This is pitiful indeed; but go on."

"Then came the question of the color of the arm-chairs around the
table. The electoral envoys claimed the right of having their seats
covered in red; and contended that the others were obliged by
etiquette to cover theirs with green. The others would not accept
the green, and so arose the third point of discussion. The fourth
disagreement was about the carpets. The electorals would have the
four legs of their chairs on the carpet (which is narrow), and the
others should have but the FORE-legs of theirs. The fifth regarded
the May-boughs. On May-day, the electorate exacted that the
superintendent of public festivities should put six boughs over
their front doors, while the others must content themselves with
five. Now, my dear count, you are made acquainted with the subjects
of discussion which for two years have detained the imperial Diet in
Regensburg; which have imbittered my days, and made sleepless my
nights; which have nigh lost the cause of German nationality, and
have made us the laughing-stock of all Europe."

"My friend, I sympathize with you.--But are these five questions not
decided?"

"No, they are not. The ducal envoys indignantly refused to yield to
the pretensions of their colleagues, and no banquet could be given.
After much exertion on my part to bring about an understanding, the
banquet was set aside, and a compromise was effected. ALL the arm-
chairs were covered with green--this was a concession to the ducal
envoys; while they, on their part, consented that the hind-legs of
their chairs should rest on the bare floor!" [Footnote: Putter,
"Historical Notes on the Constitution of the German Empire."]

"What a victory! I congratulate you from my heart; for I would much
rather have charged a regiment of Janizaries."

"And at least have earned some glory thereby," returned Spaur,
grimly. "But the only reward I shall ever reap will be the
unpleasant notoriety I shall have acquired as a member of this
stultified assembly."

"My dear friend, be under no uneasiness as to that. The King of
France has crossed our frontiers, and you are about to throw aside
diplomacy and take up the sword. This is the message with which the
emperor has charged me, both to yourself and to the imperial Diet."

"I am happy to tell you that to-day the Diet opens its sitting.
Hark! the bells are ringing! This announces to Regensburg that the
envoys are about to proceed to the hall of conference. Excuse me
while I retire to change my dress."

"I will betake myself to the nearest hotel to follow your example,"
replied Von Crenneville.

"By no means. Your room is prepared, and I will conduct you thither
at once, if you wish."

Fifteen or twenty minutes elapsed, when the two imperial envoys met
again, and drove, in the state-carriage of Count Spaur, to the hall
of conference. The other envoys were all assembled, and, scattered
in groups, seemed to be earnestly engaged in discussing some weighty
matter.

Count Spaur remarked this, and whispered to his colleague: "I am
afraid there is trouble brewing; the electoral envoys are all on one
side of the hall--the ducal on the other."

"The electorals are those with the red cloaks--are they not?"

"Yes, they are; and I fear that these red cloaks signify war."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean war with--but, pardon me, I see that they are waiting for me
to open the council."

With an inclination of the head, Count Spaur passed down the hall,
and took his seat under the red canopy appropriated to the imperial
ambassador. A deep silence reigned throughout the assembly, broken
by the sweet chime of the bells that still continued to convey far
and wide the intelligence of the opening of the conference.

Count Spaur took off his Spanish hat, and, bowing right and left,
addressed the envoys:

"My lords ambassadors of the electors, princes, and imperial cities
of the German empire, in the name of his majesty Leopold I greet
you, and announce that the imperial Diet is opened. Long live the
emperor!"

"Long live the emperor!" echoed the ambassadors.

"The Diet is opened," resumed he, "and I have the honor to introduce
an envoy of his imperial majesty, who has this day arrived from
Vienna."

At this, Count von Crenneville advanced, and the master of
ceremonies placed an arm-chair for him under the canopy, at the side
of Count Spaur.

At a signal from the latter, the other envoys took their seats, and
Count von Crenneville addressed the assembly:

"My lords ambassadors of the electors, princes, and imperial cities
of the German empire, his majesty greets you all. But he is deeply
wounded at the indifference manifested by the Diet to the dearest
interests of Germany, and he implores you, as you value your
nationality and liberty, to lay aside your petty dissensions, and to
unite with him in defence of your fatherland. The King of France has
marched his armies into Germany--and disunion to Germans is defeat
and ruin."

This prelude appeared to cause considerable emotion. There was
visible agitation throughout the assembly.

Count von Crenneville felt encouraged, and was about to continue his
appeal, when one of the electorals started from his seat and spoke:

"I beg pardon of the imperial envoy; but I must ask permission of
the imperial representative-resident to make a personal remark."

"The permission is granted," replied Count Spaur, solemnly.

The envoy then continued, in loud and agitated tones: "I must, then,
call the attention of this august assembly to a flagrant violation
of the compact agreed between the first and second class of these
ambassadors, by the latter. They have advanced their arm-chairs
until the four legs of the same are now resting upon the carpet."

"We merely advanced our seats, to hear what his excellency had to
say," remarked the envoy from Bremen.

"Nevertheless," replied Count Spaur, "I must request these gentlemen
to recede. The understanding was, that their chairs were to rest
partly on the carpet, partly on the floor."

Back went all the chairs, but their occupants looked daggers at the
envoy from Mentz.

Count von Crenneville then resumed the broken thread of his
discourse: "I earnestly request the assembly to come to a decision
this very day. The country is in imminent danger, and can only be
saved by unanimity and promptitude of action."

Here he was interrupted by the envoy from Bremen, who rose and
begged to be allowed to make his personal remark.

Count Spaur gave the required permission, and Bremen began to
protest against Mentz & Co.

"I beg to remark, that the electoral envoys have spread out their
red cloaks over the backs of the chairs, in such a way as to conceal
the green covering entirely from view."

"It is exceedingly warm in the hall," replied electoral Cologne; "we
were compelled to throw off our cloaks."

"Why, then, did the electoral envoys wear their cloaks?" was the
inquiry of the other side.

"Because we had a right to wear them hither, and violate no compact
by throwing them over our chairs."

"But the electoral envoys had no right to use them as upholstery,"
objected Bremen, in tragic tones. "They have now the appearance of
being seated on red arm-chairs."

"So much the better," replied Cologne. "If accident has re-
established our rights of precedence, nobody has any business to
complain." [Footnote: Historical. See Putter.]

This declaration was received with a burst of indignation, and the
princely envoys rose simultaneously from their seats. A noisy and
angry debate ensued, at the conclusion of which the offended party
declared that they would rest every leg of their chairs upon the
carpet; and, as if at the word of command, every man dragged his
arm-chair most unequivocally forward, and surveyed the enemy with
dogged defiance.

There was now a commotion on the side of the electorals, in the
midst of which Count Spaur, in perfect despair, cried out at the top
of his voice:

"In the name of the emperor, I demand, on both sides, the literal
fulfilment of your conditions. The electoral ambassadors must
withdraw their red cloaks from the backs of their chairs, and throw
them over the arms, and the other envoys must draw back their chairs
until the hind-legs thereof are on the floor."

"My lords," added Count von Crenneville, "I demand also, in the name
of the emperor, that all personalities be cast aside, and that we
give our hearts to our country's cause. France is upon us. She knows
how disunited are the princes of Germany, and their discord is her
sheet-anchor. She knows that you are unprepared to meet her, and the
emperor, being at present too far to come to your rescue, she will
attack you before you have time to defend yourselves. Is it possible
that you have sunk all patriotism in contemptible jealousies of one
another? I cannot believe it! Away with petty rivalry and family
dissensions: clasp hands and make ready to defend our fatherland!"

At this moment there was a knock at the main entrance of the hall,
and two masters of ceremonies appeared.

"I announce to the imperial commissaries, and the envoys of the
German empire here assembled, that a messenger, with important
tidings, requests admission to this illustrious company."

"Whence comes he?" asked Count Spaur.

"He announces himself as Count de Crecy. ambassador extraordinary of
the King of France to the imperial Diet."

This communication was received in profound silence. Dismay was
pictured on many a face, and every eye was turned upon the presiding
envoy, the representative of the emperor.

"I lay it before the imperial Diet," said he, at last, "whether the
French ambassador shall be allowed entrance into the hall during the
sitting of its members."

"Ay, ay, let him enter," was the reply--the first instance of
unanimity among the envoys since the day they had arrived at
Regensburg two years before!

The masters of ceremonies retired, and Count Spaur, putting on his
hat, said: "I declare this sitting suspended. My lords, cover your
heads!"

The French ambassador, followed by a numerous retinue, now entered
the hall. He advanced to the canopy where the imperial envoys were
seated, and inclined his head. Not a word was spoken in return for
his salutation; and, after a short pause, he raised his voice, and
delivered his message:

"In the name of his most Christian majesty, Louis XIV., King of
France, I announce to the Diet of the German empire that he has
taken possession of Bonn, Kaiserswerth, and other strongholds of the
archbishopric of Cologne; that Mentz has opened her doors to his
victorious armies, and that war is declared between France and
Germany. The sword is drawn, nor shall it return to its scabbard
until the inheritance of the Duchess of Orleans is given up to
France, and the King of France is recognized as lord and sovereign
of Lorraine, Alsatia, and the Netherlands! War is declared!"



CHAPTER VI.

THE JUDITH OF ESSLINGEN.


It was a clear, bright morning in March. The snow had long since
melted from the mountain-tops, flowers had begun to peep out of the
earth's bosom, and the trees that, grew upon the heights around
Esslingen were decked with buds of tender green.

But the inhabitants of Esslingen had no pleasure in contemplating
those verdant hills; for the castle that crowned their summit was in
possession of the French. Within its walls the enemy were feasting
and drinking, while the owners of the soil, plundered of all they
possessed, had naught left to them on earth save the cold, bare
boards of their homes, wherein, a few weeks before, peace and plenty
had reigned.

On the 2d of March, 1689, the French reduced the castle of
Heidelberg to a heap of ashes, and for more than a century its bleak
ruins kept alive the hatred of Germany toward their relentless
enemies.

God had permitted them to spread desolation over the land. He had
withdrawn His help from the innocent, and had suffered the wicked to
triumph. After plundering their houses of every necessary of life,
General Melac now required of them tribute in the shape of twenty
thousand florins. To raise one-fourth of the sum was an
impossibility in Esslingen; and the burghers of the town had gone in
a body to the castle to beg for mercy.

Two hours had elapsed since they had departed on their dangerous
mission, and the people, with throbbing hearts, awaited their
return. Up to this day, they had mourned and wept in the solitude of
their plundered homes; but in this hour of mortal suspense, they had
instinctively sought companionship; and now the market-place, in
whose centre was the ancient town-hall, was thronged with men,
women, and children, of every degree. Misfortune had levelled all
distinctions of rank, and the common danger had cemented thousands
of human beings into one stricken and terrified family.

They stood, their anxious looks fixed upon the winding path which
led to the castle, while all around at the open windows pale-faced
women hoped and feared by turns, as they saw light or shadow upon
the faces of the multitude below.

Just opposite the council-hall was a house of dark-gray stone, with
a bow-window and a richly-fretted gable. At the window stood two
persons; one a woman whose head was enveloped in a black veil which
set off the extreme paleness of her face, and fell in long folds
around her person. Near her stood a young girl similarly attired;
but, instead of the hair just tinged with gray, which lay in smooth
bands across the forehead of her companion, her golden curls,
stirred by the breeze, encircled her young head like a halo, and the
veil that fluttered lightly around her graceful person lay like a
misty cloud about a face as beautiful in color as it was in feature.
Spite of suffering and privation, the brow was smooth and fair, the
cheeks were tinged with rose, and the lips were scarlet as autumn
berries. She, like the rest, had endured hunger and cold; but youth
is warmed and nourished by Hope, and the tears that dim a maiden's
eyes are but dew-drops glittering upon a beautiful rose.

Her face was serious and anxious, but her large black eyes flashed
with expectation, and the parted lips showed that hope was stronger
than fear in her young heart. Marie was the only child of the chief
burgomaster of Esslingen, and the lady at her side was his honored
wife.

"Do you see nothing, my child?" said the mother. "Great God! this
suspense is worse than death! Your father expected to be back within
an hour, and more than two hours have gone by!"

The young girl strained her eyes, and looked up the castle-road,
which was just opposite the house. "Mother," said she, "I see
something dark issuing from the gates."

"Oh, look again! Is it they?"

"Yes; I think so, dear mother. I see them advancing: it must be
father and the deputies. Now I begin to distinguish one from the
other. There are one--two--three. Great God, mother! were there not
seven? I see but six!"

"Yes--seven. Your father, two burgomasters, and four senators. Are
you sure? Look--count once more."

"I see them distinctly now: there are six. They will be hidden
presently by the winding of the road; but I see them each one as he
turns aside."

"And there are but six! One of them is missing! Oh, merciful Father,
which of them can it be?"

"I see them no longer. Alas! they are too far for recognition, and
we must wait. Oh, mother, how my heart pains me!"

"Let us pray, my darling," returned the mother, clasping her
daughter's trembling hands.

"Dear mother, I cannot! I am too miserable to pray. If Caspar were
but here, I should feel less wretched."

"And yet, as a soldier of the imperial army, he is in less danger
than he would be, as a civilian of Esslingen. I thank Heaven, dear
Marie, that your betrothed is not here. At least he fights face to
face, with arms in hand; while we--oh, what weapon can avail against
midnight murder and incendiarism?"

"And yet," sighed Marie. "I would he were here to protect me!"

"He would not be allowed to protect you, for, had he seen the
familiarity of that despot yesterday, he would in all probability
have lost his life in your defence."

"I had not thought of that, I had only yearned for his protecting
arm. Yes, mother, he would have done some desperate deed had he seen
the blood-stained hand of that accursed Frenchman when it touched my
cheek, and heard his insolent tones as he asked whether its roses
were colored by nature or art. Oh, mother, what a misfortune for us
that we were on the street when he arrived!"

Mother and daughter now relapsed into silence, for the deputies,
their heads despondingly held down, were to be seen making their way
through the crowd. Frau Wengelin could not articulate the words she
longed to speak; hut Marie, clasping her hands in agony, cried out:

"He is not there! My father is missing!"

With one faint shriek, her mother fell senseless to the floor, while
Marie, darting out of the house, made her way through the throng to
the market-place, and overtook the deputies as they were ascending
the steps that led to the hall of council. Grasping the arm of the
first she encountered, she looked wildly into his eyes, while her
quivering lips vainly tried to murmur, "Where is my father?"

The old man understood those pleading looks, and answered them with
tears.

"Where is my father?" cried Marie, with the strength of her growing
agony; and, as the deputy was still silent, the multitude around
took up the young girl's words and shouted: "Where is her father?
Tell us where is the Burgomaster Wengelin?"

"Is he dead?" murmured Marie, her teeth chattering with fear.

"No, Marie," replied the senator, "he is not dead, hut if no help is
vouchsafed from above, he will die to-day, and we must all die with
him."

The people broke into a long wail, and Marie fell upon her knees to
pray. She could frame no words wherewith to cry for mercy, but her
soul was with God; and for a few moments she was rapt in an ecstasy
that bore her far, far away from the weeping multitude around. She
was recalled from her pious transport by the voice of her uncle, one
of the deputies, who was addressing the people.

General Melac had mocked at their petition. They had humbled
themselves on their knees for the sake of their suffering fellow-
citizens, but the heartless Frenchman had laughed, and, laughing,
reiterated his command.

If before sunset the five hundred thousand francs were not
forthcoming, the French soldiery would be there with fire and sword.
The inhabitants should be exterminated, and Esslingen laid in ashes.

This horrible disclosure was received with another burst of woe,
except from the unfortunate Marie, who stood like a pale and rigid
Niobe--her grief too deep for tears or sighs.

When the tumult had somewhat subsided, the senator resumed his sad
recital. At sound of the Frenchman's cruel mandate, the Burgomaster
Wengelin had risen from his knees, and raising his head proudly, had
cried out: "Give us back that of which you have robbed us, and we
can pay you ten times the sum you ask. We were a peaceful and
prosperous community until your plundering hordes reduced us to
beggary. Be content with the booty you have already; and be not
twice a barbarian, first stealing our property, and then, like a
fiend, requiring us to reproduce and lay it at your feet."

The noble indignation of the burgomaster excited nothing but mirth
on the part of the Frenchman. He laughed.

"Well, it makes no great difference, after all. Your lives will do
quite as well as the ransom you cannot afford to pay for them. My
soldiery like fire and blood and pretty women almost as well as they
do gold, and I shall enjoy the spectacle from the castle-walls. As
for you, burgomaster, you have something that I covet for my own
use--your beautiful daughter."

"My daughter!" shrieked Wengelin, defiantly, "before she should be
delivered to you, monster! I would take her life as Virginius took
that of his well-beloved child!"

The general said not a word. For a time the two men eyed each other
like two enraged tigers; but General Melac wasted no time in vain
indignation. He signed to his guards, and ordered them to take away
the prisoner, and retain him as a hostage until sunset.

"When our well-beloved citizens of Esslingen shall hear the report
of the musketry that ends HIS life,--they will know that the signal
for pillage has been given. The execution will take place at
sunset."

Then, addressing himself to the six remaining deputies: "Go," said
he, "and relate what you have seen and heard to your fellow-
citizens; and tell them that my Frenchmen are skilful both with
sabre and torch; they have been practising for several weeks past in
Heidelberg, Mannheim, and other German cities. Do not forget to
communicate all this to the fair daughter of the burgomaster."

This time there was no outburst of grief from the people; they felt
that all hope was vain, and they were nerving themselves for
martyrdom. Presently there was a sound of voices, and the fugitives
from Wurtemberg and the Palatinate were heard relating their
frightful experience of the warfare of a monarch who styled himself
"Most Christian King."

One of them mounted the steps of the council-hall, and described the
entrance of the French into his native town. The people were driven
with bayonets from their beds into the snow, children were tossed
into the flames; old men were butchered like cattle; maidens were
torn from the arms of their parents, and given over to the soldiery;
and the narrator, who had escaped, had been for days without food--
for weeks without covering or shelter!

As the man concluded this frightful picture of carnage, a voice from
among the crowd was heard in clear, loud, ringing tones:

"There is rescue at hand--we must make use of it!"

At the same moment, Marie felt a grasp upon her arm, and turning
beheld herself in the custody of a tall, pale man, who continued to
cry out:

"She can rescue us! I saw the French general stroke her cheeks
yesterday, and look at her with eyes of love. Did he not demand her
of her father? And were his last words not a message to her? I hint
that she might ransom us if she would!"

"Ay, ay," responded one of the crowd. "Ay!" echoed another and
another; and now the chorus gathered strength, and swelled into a
shout that penetrated the walls of Esslingen Castle, and reached the
ears of Marie's unconscious father.

Marie covered her face with her hands, and sank upon her knees. "Oh,
Caspar!" was the unspoken thought of her affectionate soul.

"Friends!" exclaimed her uncle, "you are drunk with cowardly fright.
Know ye that ye ask of this maiden her own ruin for your lives--?"

"But if Melac's soldiery are set upon us," replied a young woman in
the throng; "we shall all he ruined--mothers, wives, and maidens.
And is it not better," continued she, raising her voice, and
addressing the mob, "is it not better that one woman should suffer
dishonor than a thousand?"

"Marie Wengelin will have her father's life to answer for, as well
as the lives of her fellow-citizens," cried another voice. "It is
her duty to sacrifice herself."

At this moment the loud, shrill tones of an affrighted voice were
heard calling out, "Marie! Marie! my child!" and the figure of Frau
Wengelin, with outstretched arms, was now seen at the window, whence
the mother and daughter had watched the return of the deputies.

Marie would have responded to that pathetic appeal, but as she rose
from her knees, and attempted to move, she was forced and held back
by the crowd. They were lost to all sense of humanity for the one
segregated being by whose immolation the safety of the aggregate
might be effected.

"Have pity! have pity!" cried the poor girl. "Do you not hear my
mother calling me? Think of your own children, and hinder me not, I
implore ye!"

"We think of our children, and therefore you shall not go! You shall
sacrifice yourself for the suffering many!"

And they lifted her back to the peristyle, where she stood alone,
confronting the pitiless crowd that demanded her honor wherewith to
buy their lives. What was the fate of the daughter of Jephthah,
compared to that which threatened poor Marie of Esslingen?

Suddenly a cloud seemed to pass over the sky, and the faces of her
enemies were no longer distinct. Marie raise her arms wildly over
her head, and screamed, for too well she understood the shadow that
rested upon the market-place. The sun had sunk behind the heights of
Esslingen, and one half hour remained ere her father lost his life.

The crowd renewed their cries, entreaties, and threats. Some
appealed to her patriotism, some to her filial love, some called her
a murderess,--the meanest among the multitude attempted to terrify
her--as if any doom could equal the horror of the one they were
forcing upon an innocent, pure-hearted, and loving girl!

She raised her hand to obtain a hearing.

"You shall not perish if my prayers can save you! I will go to our
oppressor, and try to move his heart to pity."

She heard neither their shouts of joy nor their thanks. She was
hardly conscious of the blessings that were being poured on her
head, the kisses that were imprinted on her rigid, clammy hands. She
stood for a while, her teeth clinched, her eyes distended, her
figure dilated to its utmost; then suddenly she shivered, thrust
away the women that were clustering about her, and began her via
crucis.

At the gate of the city she encountered the pastor that had baptized
and received her into the church. He had placed himself there that
he might pour what consolation he could into that bruised and
bleeding heart. The old man laid his hand upon her golden curls, and
she fell at his feet. The multitude that had followed their victim
simultaneously bent the knee and bowed their heads; for, although
they were too far to overhear his words, they knew that the pastor
was blessing her.

"As Abraham blessed Isaac, and as the Israelites blessed Judith, so
do I bless thee, thou deliverer of thy people! May God inspire thy
tongue, and so soften the heart of the tyrant, that he may hearken
to thy prayers, and, looking upon thy pure and virgin brow, he may
respect that honor which is dearer to woman than life. God bless
thee, Marie! God bless thee!" He bowed his head close to her ear.
"Marie you are a Christian. Swear to me that you will not stain your
hands with blood."

Marie's eyes flashed fire. "Did not the Israelite kill Holofernes?"

"Yes, my child; but Israel's heroine was called Judith, and ours
bears the blessed name of Mary! 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;
I will repay.'"

Marie's eye was still unsubdued, and she looked more like Judith
than like Mary. The old pastor was agitated and alarmed.

"Marie, Marie, you are in the hands of God. Come weal, come wo, can
you not trust yourself to Him? See, the sun goes lower and lower;
but before I release your hand you must swear that it shall shed no
blood."

Alas! Yes--the sun was rapidly sinking, and she must hasten, or her
father's life would be lost. "I promise," said she, "and now,
father, pray--pray for--"

She could say no more; hut rising she went alone up the steps that
led to Esslingen Castle. The people, still on their knees, followed
her lithe figure till it was hidden for a time by the fir-trees that
grew along the heights; then, as she emerged again and appeared at
the hill-top, the multitude gave vent to their feelings in prayer.

Higher and higher she mounted, until they saw that she had reached
the gates, and disappeared.



CHAPTER VII.

HER RETURN.


Hours went by and darkness set in. It was a cold night in March; the
wind howled in fitful gusts along the streets, but the people could
not disperse. They sat shivering together in the market-place; for
how was it possible for sleep to visit their eyes, when every moment
might hurl destruction upon their heads. The old priest went from
one to another, encouraging the desponding, and comforting the
afflicted; praying with the mothers, and covering their shivering
children, who, stretched at the feet of their parents, or resting
within their arms, were the only ones there to whom sleep brought
oblivion of sorrow.

At last that fearful night of suspense went by. A rosy flush tinged
the eastern sky, it deepened to gold, and the sun rose. The people
raised a hymn of thanksgiving, and, as they were rising from their
devotions, the roll of a drum was heard, and a file of soldiers were
seen issuing from the castle-gates. They came nearer and nearer,
until they reached the city; but by the time they had neared the
market-place, not a human being was there to confront them: the
people had all fled to their houses.

They stopped before the residence of the burgomaster, and from an
opening made in the ranks there issued two persons; the one a man,
the other a woman. The latter was veiled, and her head rested
languidly upon the shoulders of her companion.

A group of French officers escorted them to the door, where they
took off their hats, and, bowing low, retired. The father and
daughter were lost to view, the drum beat anew, and the men, without
exchanging a word with the inhabitants, returned to their quarters
at Esslingen Castle.

The people were no sooner reassured as to the intentions of the
soldiers, than they poured in streams from their homes, and took
their way to the burgomaster's house. Congratulations were exchanged
between friends, parents embraced their children, husbands pressed
their wives to their bosoms; every heart overflowed with gratitude
to Marie, every voice was lifted in her praise.

But she! Scarcely enduring her mother's caresses, she had torn
herself from that mother's embrace, and, hastening away to the
solitude of her own room, had bolted herself within.

Two hours went by, and the house of the burgomaster could scarcely
contain the friends that flocked thither to welcome his daughter.
Without, a band of music was playing martial airs, while within,
halls, parlors, and staircases, were crowded with magistrates in
their robes of office, churchmen in their clerical gowns, and women
and maidens in gay and festive apparel.

A deputation of citizens now requested to be permitted to pay homage
to the heroine that had rescued her townsmen from death; and Frau
Wengelin ventured to knock at the door of her daughter's chamber.
She was so earnest in her pleadings, that at last the bolt was
withdrawn, and Marie, with bloodshot eyes, and mouth convulsed,
appeared upon the threshold.

"Come, my child," said the poor mother, "the citizens will not leave
the house until they have seen you." And compelling her forward,
Frau Wengelin, with some difficulty, brought her as far as the foot
of the staircase.

She was greeted with loud and repeated cheerings, which scarcely
appeared to reach her ear, while her eyes, fixed upon the throng
before her, seemed to ask what meant this turmoil.

Suddenly she heard her name whispered, and, with a fearful shriek,
she recoiled from the outstretched hand of a young man, who had just
rushed forward to clasp her in his arms.

"What ails my Marie on this festive day, where all is joy around?"
said he. "I have just this moment arrived, to say that help is nigh,
my countrymen," added he, addressing the crowd. "Our army is at
hand, and the French shall suffer for their deeds of violence in
Germany. But what means this large and gay assemblage? And who are
these?" asked he, as a group of young maidens came forward with a
crown of laurel, and some of the principal burgomasters, leading the
bewildered Marie to a throne decked with flowers, seated her on a
chair under its green and fragrant canopy.

No answer was made to his inquiry, for one of the deputies began an
address, in which Marie was hailed as the heroine that had rescued
her fellow-citizens from death, and her native place from
destruction. Her portrait was to grace the council-hall of
Esslingen, and such honors as it lay in the power of its magistrates
to confer, were to be hers forever.

At this moment Marie rose suddenly from her seat, gasped for breath,
and fell as suddenly back, for the first time lifting her face,
which, as she lay against the wall of flowers that concealed her
chair, was marble-white, and strangely convulsed.

Her mother started forward, and Caspar, catching her in his arms,
covered her face with kisses.

"What ails thee, my beloved? Oh, do not look so wildly at thy
Caspar! Marie, my own one, what is it?"

"It is over," murmured she, almost inaudibly.

"What is over?" cried the frightened mother, bending over her
child's writhing form.

"Life!" sighed the girl, and her eyes closed wearily.

The frightful stillness was unbroken by a sound. Frau Wengelin
suppressed her sobs, that she might gaze upon her dying child; while
her father stood by, the picture of dumb despair. Caspar held her to
his heart, dimly apprehending the fearful tragedy of the hour, and
the guests pressed noiselessly around, vainly striving to catch a
glimpse of their victim's face.

The crowd opened to allow passage to the priest, who, approaching
the throne, came and knelt beside Caspar.

"Marie," said he, in a loud, distinct voice, that reached the
portals of her soul, and aroused her departing senses.

Marie slowly opened her eyes, and gazed upon the speaker. "I have
kept my oath," said she, hoarsely. "No blood was shed, but I have
returned to die."

"Wherefore to die?" cried several voices at once.

"Ask my Caspar," murmured she, looking fondly into the face of her
betrothed, and, with her eyes fixed upon his, Marie's soul took its
flight to heaven.



BOOK VII.


CHAPTER I.

THE ISLAND OF BLISS.


They were together in the little pavilion of the garden at
Schonbrunn. With clasped hands, and eyes that sparkled with
happiness, they sat in that sweet silence which to lovers is more
eloquent than words. The door that led to the park was open, and the
balmy breath of May wafted toward them the perfume of the flowers
and trees without.

The park, too, was undisturbed by a sound. The laborers had gone to
their mid-day meal, and the birds had hidden themselves away from
the sunbeams. The great heart of Nature was pulsating with a joy
like that of the lovers, too great for utterance. There was
something in the appearance of this youthful pair which would have
convinced a looker-on that there was a mystery of some sort
surrounding the romance of their love. For the one was in the garb
of a nun, her head concealed by a coif, and her person enveloped in
a long white veil; while the other was attired in a splendid Spanish
dress. Over it hung a heavy gold chain, to which was attached the
order of the Golden Fleece. His soft black hair lay on a forehead
white as snow, and made a pleasant contrast with a face which was
pale, not with sickness or suffering, but with that suppressed
sensibility which leaves the cheek colorless because its fires are
concentrated within the heart. No! It was not for sorrow that Eugene
of Savoy was pale; it was from excess of joy; for SHE was at his
side, and the world had nothing more to bestow!

So thought he, as, with caressing hand, he lifted her long veil from
her shoulders and threw it behind, in imitation of the drapery that
hangs around Raphael's Madonnas.

"Oh, how I love you, Sister Angelica!" murmured he; "and, in my
feverish visions, how often I have mistaken that white veil for the
snowy sail of a ship of which I used to dream in my delirium--a ship
that was bearing me onward to an island of bliss, where my Laura
stood with outstretched arms, and welcomed me home! But what were
imagination's brightest picturings to the reality of the deep joy
that flooded my being, when the veil was flung back, and my love
stood revealed! Oh, Laura--my life will be all too short to reward
you for your fidelity."

"You love me, Eugene, and therein is my unspeakable reward."

"And will you never leave me, dearest?"

She laid her small hand upon his head, smoothed his hair fondly, and
gazed passionately into his eyes. "You ask, as if you required an
answer," said she, in tones that were tremulous with love.

"I do require an answer, for I am continually fearing that this is a
blissful dream; and that some morn I shall awake to find thee flown,
and Angelica the nun all that is left of thee! When thou art absent
from my sight, I shiver with dread lest I should see thee never
more."

She laughed, and oh, how musical was her laugh! "Is this the hero of
Belgrade, that talks of shivering with dread?"

"Yes; and when he thinks that he might lose you, he is no hero, but
a poor coward. And in truth, my Laura, I am tired of a soldier's
life--it is too exciting for my health; and I am tired of the world
and its frivolities, too. If you love me as I do you, you will be
happy in our mutual love, without other companionship than mine."

"Over castle-roof, and through the dangerous descent of that castle-
chimney, came I to meet you, Eugene; how then should I pine for
other companionship?"

"When I think how mysterious was your escape, I dread lest you
should disappear from me as mysteriously. The very thought presses
on my brain like the first horrid symptoms of madness; then my body
begins to suffer, my wounds seem to open, and bleed anew. Laura,
prove to me your love by going with me into solitude. I am tired of
being a courtier, and have asked the emperor for my discharge."

"Did he grant it, Eugene?" asked she, fixing her large, penetrating
eyes upon his, with an earnestness that forbade him to avoid her
glance.

"He will grant it to-morrow. To-morrow for the last time, I go to
the imperial palace as a field-marshal; I shall return thence nobody
but Eugene of Savoy, your lover, who lives but to serve you, and
repay if he can all that he owes to your courageous and heroic
affection."

"The emperor has refused," replied Laura. "He gave you time for
reflection," added she, looking intently again into her lover's
eyes.

"Perhaps he may have wished me to reflect," replied he, smiling, and
trying to endure her scrutiny, "But my resolve is not to be shaken.
I shall retire to the estate presented me by the emperor in Hungary,
there to live with my darling on an island of bliss, upheaved so far
above the tempestuous ocean of the world's vicissitudes, that no
lashing of its waves will ever reach our home. Will you go with me
into this island, where you shall not fear the world's censorious
comments on our reunion--where you may throw aside that false vestal
garb, and be my own untrammelled bride?"

Laura said nothing; a deep glow suffused her cheeks, and her eyes
filled with tears. Gliding from her seat to her knees, she took her
lover's hand and covered it with kisses.

"Laura!" exclaimed he, "what can this signify?"

Laura wept on for a time in silence; then, when she had recovered
herself sufficiently to speak, she replied:

"It signifies that I bow down before the magnanimity of him who, to
shield me from the world's contumely, would relinquish that which he
holds most dear on earth, his hopes of glory."

"Laura, give me an answer to my prayer. Will you go with me to my
estates in Hungary?"

Laura smiled, but said nothing.

"Answer me, Laura, answer me, my own love."

"The emperor gave you a day to reflect upon your sudden desire for
retirement. Give me but one hour for my decision."

"You hesitate!"

"Only ONE hour, Eugene; but during that hour I must be alone with my
Maker. Await me here."

Drawing the veil over her face, Laura bounded lightly down the
pavilion stops, and walked hurriedly toward the palace. Eugene
looked after her with eyes that beamed with love ineffable, sighing
as he did so: "She is worthy of the sacrifice; I owe it to her."

The hour seemed interminable. At first, he fixed his eyes upon the
walk by which she must return; then he turned away, that he might
wait until he heard her dear voice.

At last a light step approached the pavilion; he heard it coming up
the steps, and a beloved voice spoke:

"The Marchioness de Bonaletta."

Eugene turned, and there, instead of Sister Angelica, stood his
beautiful Laura in rich attire-so beautiful that he thought he had
never sufficiently admired her before.

He started forward, and, dropping on one knee, took her little hand,
and covered it with kisses. Then, rising, he flung his arm around
her waist, and drew her to a seat.

"Now read me the riddle," said he.

"My beloved, do you think me so blind as not to have comprehended
the immeasurable sacrifice you would have made to my womanly pride?
Oh, how I thank you, my own, peerless Eugene! But I will not accept
it. I may not bear your name, but God knows that I am your wife, as
Eve was the spouse of Adam; and it is for me to show that our bond
is holy, by enduring courageously the stigma of being considered as
your mistress. Enough for me to feel that to you I shall be an
honored and beloved wife, incapable of sharing your fame, but oh,
how proud of my hero! Gird on your sword, my Eugene, and fulfil your
glorious destiny. Go once more into the world, and let me share your
fate."

"Let her share my fate! She asks me to let her share my fate." cried
Eugene, pressing her to his heart. And God and Stature blessed the
union that man refused to acknowledge.



CHAPTER II.

THE FRENCH IN SPEIER.


General Melac and his murderous hordes were in the old city of
Speier, squandering the goods and money of which they had robbed the
unfortunate inhabitants. Scarcely two months had elapsed since the
departure of the French from Esslingen, and in that short interval
they had laid more than one hundred towns in ashes.

But Melac was insatiable; his eyes feasted on the scarlet hue of
German blood, his ears were ravished with the sounds of German
groans and sighs; and oftentimes, when the poor hunted fugitives
were flying from his presence, he made a pastime of their misery for
himself, by aiming at them with his own musket, to see how many he
could bring down before they passed out of sight.

He was holding a council of war with his generals; but, while he
made merry over his cruelties of the day before, and projected
others for the morrow, his officers frowned and averted their eyes.

His thick, sensual lips expanded with a hideous smile. "It would
seem that my orders are not agreeable," said he. "Pray, gentlemen,
am I so unlucky as to have earned your disapproval?"

There was no answer to this inquiry, but neither was there any
change in the aspect of the officers.

"General Feuquiere," cried Melac, "you are not usually reticent;
pray, let us hear your opinion of my mode of warfare."

"I cannot approve of cruelty," replied Feuquiere, bluntly. "Our men
act much less like the brave soldiers of a Christian king, than like
demons that have been let loose from hell."

"You do not flatter us," replied Melac. "And I am curious to know
whether anybody else here present shares your opinion."

"We are all of one mind," was the unanimous reply.

"We are assassins and incendiaries, but we have never yet fought a
battle like men," resumed De Feuquiere.

"No," added Montclas. "We have longed in vain for honorable warfare;
for a fair combat before the light of heaven, face to face with men
armed like ourselves; and we are sick at heart of midnight torches
and midnight murders."

"No doubt; you are a sentimental personage, I hear: one who shed
tears when the order was given to sack Mannheim."

"I am not ashamed of those tears," returned Montclas. "For three
months these much enduring people have exerted themselves to do our
bidding, treating us like guests who had come to them as foes. And
when, in return for their kindness, our soldiery were ordered to
sack their beautiful city, I wept while I was forced to obey the
inhuman command of my superior officer. May Almighty God not hold me
responsible as a creature for what I have been forced to do as a
soldier!"

"You can justify yourself by referring the Almighty to me, as I
shall certainly justify myself by referring Him to Monsieur Louvois.
It is true that I do not weep when I carry out his orders; but you
may judge for yourselves whether I transcend them,--General
Montclas, be so good as to read aloud this dispatch."

General Montclas took the paper, and read in an audible voice:

"'It is now two weeks since I have seen a courier from the army.
What are you about that I receive no more accounts of the
destruction of German cities wherewith to entertain the idle hours
of his majesty? You have been ordered to devastate the entire German
frontier. You began bravely, but you are not keeping the promise of
your opening. The Germans are full of sentiment, and you must wound
them through their affections and associations. Burn their houses,
sack their fine churches, deface and destroy their monuments and
public buildings. When next you write, let me hear that Speier with
its magnificent cathedral is a thing of the past; and be
expeditious, that Worms and Trier may share the same fate.'"

"'LOUVOIS.'"

"You see, then," observed Melac, "that I do but obey orders."

"That may be," sighed De Feuquiere, "but all Europe will rise in one
indignant protest against our inhumanity."

"Let them protest; we will have raised such a barrier of desolation
between themselves and France, that we can afford to laugh at their
indignation. I for my part approve of the method of warfare traced
out for us by the minister of war, and I shall carry it out from
Basle to Coblentz. The time we allowed to the people of Speier for
reflection, expires to-day. To horse, then! The burgomasters are
waiting for us in the market-place by the cathedral."

Yes! The burghers, the clergy, the women, and the children, were on
their knees in the market-place, crying for mercy. Melac, laughing
at their wretchedness, spurred his horse onward, and plunged into
their midst, scattering them right and left like a flock of
frightened sheep; and the clang of his horse's hoofs on the stone
pavement sounded to his unhappy victims like the riveting of nails
in the great coffin wherein their beautiful city was shortly to be
buried.

But they were not noisy in their grief. Here and there might be
heard a slight sob, and, with this exception, there was silence in
that thronged market-place.

Suddenly the great bell of the cathedral began to toll, and after it
all the bells in Speier. General Melac slackened his pace, and rode
deliberately along the market-place, as if to give that weeping
multitude the opportunity of looking upon his cruel face, and
reading there that from him no mercy was to be expected.

The bells ceased, and their tones were yet trembling on the air,
when the women and children lifted up their voices and began to
chant: "In my trouble I called on the Lord!"

The strain was taken up by the musicians who stood at the open
windows of the council-hall, and now the burghers, the magistrates,
and the clergy, joined in the holy song. The French uncovered their
heads and listened reverentially, while many an eye was dimmed with
tears, and many a heart bled for the fate of those whom they could
not rescue.

Every man there felt the influence of the blessed words except one.
General Melac was neither awed nor touched; his pale eye was as
cold, his sardonic mouth as cruel as ever.

"He is perfectly hardened," murmured a monk, who was leaning against
one of the columns of the cathedral. This monk was a young man, of
tall, muscular build. His wide shoulders and fine, erect figure,
seemed much more suitable to a soldier than to a brother of the
order of mercy. Even his sun-burnt face had a proud, martial look;
and as his dark, glowing eyes rested on Melac, they kindled with a
glance that was not very expressive of brotherly love.

"He is without pity," thought he, "and perhaps 'tis well; for I
might have been touched to grant him a death more merciful."

He moved away that he might distinguish the words that were now
being poured forth from the quivering lips of the white-haired
prebendary of the cathedral; but the poor old priest's voice was
tremulous with tears, and the monk could not hear. He then made a
passage for himself through the crowd and approached General Melac.
The prebendary had ceased to speak, and there was a solemn stillness
in the market-place, for every sigh was hushed to catch the words
that were to follow.

Melac looked around that he might sec how many thousand human beings
were acknowledging his power, then he drew in his rein and smiled--
that deadly smile!

"My orders must be carried out," said he, in a loud and distinct
voice. "Speier must be razed to the ground, and I am sorry that its
inhabitants were unwilling to profit by the permission I gave them
to emigrate to France. They would have been kindly received there."

"We hope for mercy," was the reply of the prebendary. "Oh, general,
let us not hope in vain!"

"No mercy shall be given you," said Melac, who, turning to General
Montelas, remarked, "What an advantage I have over you! I know their
language, and can understand all their expressions of grief! It is a
comic litany!"

"Demon, I will repay thee!" muttered the monk. And, coming close to
the general's horse, he laid his hand upon the rein.

"What do you mean, sirrah?" cried Melac. "Withdraw your hand."

"Your excellency," replied the man in pure French, "allow me to
station myself at your horse's head, for you may need my help to-
day."

"Your help? Wherefore?"

"The work in which you are engaged is apt to provoke personal
hostility. I dreamed last night that I saw you weltering in your
blood, enveloped in flames. I am superstitiouns--very; particularly
as regards dreams, and I left the hospital where I was engaged in
nursing the sick, on purpose to protect your excellency from secret
foes."

"Protect me! Who do you suppose would he so bold as to attack me?
Not this whining multitude around us."

"Nobody knows to what acts despair may drive the meekest of men,"
was the monk's reply.

"Very well; I believe you are right," said Melac, a little
disturbed. "Station yourself at my rein, then."

At that moment there was a general wail, and many a voice was lifted
up in one last effort to soften the heart of their persecutor.

"Speier must be destroyed," was his answer, "but to show you the
extent of my clemency, I will now announce to you that without the
gates are four hundred forage-wagons, which I have provided for the
removal of your valuables (if you have any) to any point you may
select within the boundaries of France. Those who prefer to remain,
are allowed to deposit their effects in the cathedral, and to guard
them in person. The temple of Almighty God is sacred, and the hand
of man shall not profane its sanctity by deeds of violence. Take
your choice of the cathedral or the army-wagons: I give you four
hours' grace. If, after that time, I find a German on the streets,
man, woman, or child, the offender shall be scourged or put to the
sword."

In a few moments the market-place was empty, and the people,
exhausted and cowed though they were, by two months of oppression,
had flown to take advantage of this last act of grace.

"Now, my excellent brother," said Melac to the monk, "you see that I
am quite safe, and can dispense with your protection."

"The day is not yet at an end," said the monk, solemnly.

"You are right." cried the butcher, "it has scarcely begun; but by
and-by we shall see a comedy that will raise your spirits for a
month to come. The actors thereof are to be the people of Speier,
and the entertainment will close with an exhibition of fireworks on
a magnificent scale. Send me two ordnance officers!" cried he to his
staff.

Two lancers approached and saluted their commander.

"Let two companies of infantry occupy the market-place," said Melac.
"Let four cannon be stationed at the entrances of the four streets
leading to the cathedral. For four hours the people shall be allowed
to enter with their chattels. At the end of this truce, two more
companies of infantry shall be ordered hither, one of which shall
surround the cathedral, the other march inside. A detachment of
miners must encompass the columns and cornice of the roof with
combustibles; but use no powder, for that might endanger ourselves.
There are straw, hemp, pitch, tar, and sulphur enough in the town to
make the grandest show since Rome was burned. The infantry that
enter the church, will massacre the people, and if they are
dexterous the booty is theirs; but they must do their work swiftly,
or there will be no time to save anything, for I intend that the
entire building shall be fired at once."

The monk started, grasped the mane of the horse with a movement that
caused him to shy, and his rider to cry out in great irritation:

"What are you doing, fool?"

"Pardon, your excellency, my foot was under your horse's hoof, and I
could not help catching at his mane."

"Keep farther away, then; I do not believe in dreams.--Away!" cried
he, to the lancers, who, horror-stricken hut powerless to refuse,
went on their diabolical mission,

"And now," continued Melac, "we will ride to the gates to see what
sort of entertainment our hospitable hosts of Speier are preparing
for us there."

He galloped off with such swiftness that his guardian-angel was left
behind. But he followed as fast as he could; when-ever he met a man
hastening with his goods to the cathedral, bidding him "Beware!" and
passing on. Some heeded the warning, others did not. They were so
paralyzed by despair that the monk's words conveyed no meaning to
their minds, and they went humbly on to their destruction.

He meanwhile hurried to the gates through which the weeping crowds
were bearing, each one, what he valued most on earth. There were
women, scarcely able to totter, whose dearest burdens were their own
helpless children; there were men carrying sickly wives or decrepit
mothers; there were others so loaded down with the few worldly goods
that the odious Frenchman had left them, that their backs were
almost bent in two, and they were scarcely able to drag themselves
along! The nearer the gates, the denser the throng, many of whom
were fainting with misery and exhaustion; but many also to whom
despair lent strength.

Melac was there, enjoying the scene; sometimes glancing toward the
gates, sometimes toward the wagons which, for miles around, covered
the extensive plain outside of the city. The poor fainting wretches
that reached them let their burdens drop, and would have made an
effort to follow them, but they were told that no one would be
allowed to enter the wagons until all had been filled with their
wares.



CHAPTER III.

THE TREASURE.


For three hours the monk strove in vain to reach the gate; but the
time of grace was fast approaching its close, and now, the press
becoming less, he sped along as if he had been flying for life,
until he came panting, almost breathless, to the spot where the
French general, surrounded by his staff, was sitting on his horse,
enjoying himself immensely.

"Ah!" said he, "our pious brother here! Well--you see that I am
alive."

"Yes, and I am glad to know it," replied the monk, resuming his
place at the bridle.

Melac turned to one of his adjutants: "Give orders to the drivers to
go on, and let the soldiers cut down every man that attempts to
mount the wagons or withdraw his effects. To get the honey, we must
kill the bees. When they are all dead, the men can divide the
spoils." [Footnote: Historical.--see Zimmermann, "History of
Wurtemberg," vol. ii.]

"As soon as the sport is over," continued he, to another adjutant,
"I will repair, with my staff, to the council-hall, there to see the
illumination. Ride on, and tell the superintendent that, when he
sees my handkerchief waving from the great window in the second
story, he must apply his matches."

So saying, Melac put spurs to his horse, and, followed by his staff,
approached the wagons, and gave a signal with his sword.

The whole train was set in motion, and the horses were urged to the
top of their speed.

The unhappy victims of this demoniac stratagem gave one simultaneous
shout of indignation. Those nearest the wagons strove to clutch at
them with their hands. Some held on even to the wheels, some mounted
the horses, some snatched the reins. But sharp swords were near;
and, at the word of command, every outstretched arm was hacked off,
and fell, severed, to the ground.

A struggle now began between the soldiery and the companions of
those who had been so cruelly mutilated. They were unarmed, but they
had the strength of brutes at bay; and by-and-by many a sword had
been snatched from their assassins, and many a Frenchman had bitten
the dust. General Melac was so interested in a fight between two
soldiers and two women whose children had been driven off in the
wagons, that, before he was aware of his danger, a sword was
uplifted over his head, and a frenzied face was almost thrust into
his own. At this moment his reins were seized, his horse was forced
back, and the stout arm of the monk had wrested the sabre from the
enraged German, who fell, pierced by a bullet from the holster of an
officer close by.

"Was it you, pious brother, that so opportunely backed my steed?"
inquired Melac.

The monk bowed, and the general saw that his forehead was bloody.

"Are you wounded?"

"Yes, general; I received the stroke that was intended for you, but
parried it, and the blow was slight."

"I am a thousand times indebted to you for the service you have
rendered me, and hope that you will not leave me a second time
without your sheltering presence.--Ho! a horse there for the
Bernardine monk!"

No sooner were Melac's commands uttered than they were obeyed, for
he that tarried when the tyrant spoke was sure to come to grief. The
monk swung himself into the saddle with the agility of a trooper,
and, although the horse reared and plunged, he never swerved from
his seat.

"Verily you are a curious specimen of a monk," laughed Melac. "I
never saw a brother so much to my taste before. Come, follow me to
the market-place, and you shall see my skill in pyrotechnics. If I
had but Nero's field of operations, I could rival his burning of
Rome. Happy Nero, that could destroy a Rome!"

"Do you, also, envy Nero his sudden death?" asked the monk.

"Why, yes; though I would like to put off the evil day as far as may
be, I hope to die a sudden and painless death."

"Sudden and painless death," muttered the monk, between his teeth.
"You allude to death on the field of battle?"

"Ay, that do I; it is the only end befitting a soldier. See--we are
at the gates. The way is obstructed by corpses," continued he,
urging his horse over a heap of dead that lay in the streets.
"Luckily, they will not have to be buried; they shall have a funeral
pile, like that of the ancients."

"Is the entire city to be destroyed?" asked the monk.

"Yes, the whole city, from one end to the other; and these tottering
old buildings will make a brave blaze."

"A brave blaze," echoed the monk, raising his mournful eyes to the
long rows of houses that so lately were the abodes of many a happy
family, were as empty as open graves. They continued their way along
the silent streets--silent even around the cathedral, where, early
in the morning, so many thousand supplicants had knelt before God
and man for mercy, but knelt in vain.

Some few were within the cathedral walls, some were lying, their
ghastly faces upturned to heaven, and those who had survived were
wandering across their blasted fields, bereft of kindred and home,
houseless, hungry, and almost naked.

General Melac glanced at the cathedral porch. That, too, was empty
and still.

"I wonder whether our men have done their work over there?" said he.
"I must go and see."

Then dismounting, and flinging his bridle to his equerry, he called
upon the monk to follow him. The staff also dismounted, and an
officer advanced to receive orders.

"Gentlemen, betake yourselves to the hall of council, and await my
return at the great window there, opposite."

The staff obeyed, and the general, followed by his preserver,
ascended the steps that led to the cathedral.

"Your excellency," whispered the monk, corning very close, "before
we enter, will you allow me to say a word to you?"

"I should think you had had opportunity enough to-day to say what
you wish."

"Not in private, general. Until now we have had listeners."

"Well, is it anything of moment you desire to communicate?"

"Something of great importance."

"Speak on, and be quick, for time presses."

"Your excellency is resolved to burn down the cathedral?"

"Have I not told you that I would?" replied Melac, with a frown.
"Nothing in heaven or on earth shall save it."

"Then," said the monk with a deep sigh, "for the sake of our
brotherhood, I must violate the sanctity of the confessional. But
you must swear to preserve my secret, otherwise you shall not hear
it."

"A secret of the confessional! How can it concern me?"

"You shall hear. It relates to the concealment of two millions'
worth of gold and precious stones."

The covetous eyes of Melac glittered, and the blood mounted to his
brow. "Two millions!" gasped he.

"One for you and one for our brotherhood. Do you swear to keep the
secret?"

"Most unquestionably."

"And also swear that no one but ourselves shall know the place of
its concealment?"

"I swear, most willingly, for I do not intend to divide my share of
the booty with anybody living. How soon do you expect to come in
possession of it?"

"Now--at this very hour."

Melac drew back, and eyed the monk suspiciously. "How! These lying
wretches had two millions of treasure, and not one of them would
yield it up?"

"General, the people of Speier have nothing--nothing. Nobody knew of
it save the bishop, who died day before yesterday, and the
sacristan, who died to-day. You remember that I was absent from your
side during two hours to-day?"

Melac nodded, and the monk went on: "Those two hours I spent by the
dying-bed of this sacristan, the only depositary of the secret. He
was wounded among the rest, was conveyed to a neighboring house, and
there I received his last confessions. All the treasures of the
cathedral--its gold, silver, and jewels--were, at the approach of
the French army, conveyed to a place in the tower, which place the
sacristan designated so plainly, that I can find it without
difficulty."

"But what has induced you to share it with me?" asked Melac, with a
glance of mistrust.

"Imperative necessity, general. I cannot obtain it without your
protection. You have given orders that no man shall be suffered to
escape from the cathedral to-day, and, unless you go with me, the
treasure must be given up to the flames. Certainly, if I could have
gotten it without assistance, it would have been my duty to give it
over entire into the hands of the brotherhood. But if you help me, I
will divide it with you. It lies in the tower of the cathedral,
close by the belfry."

"Come, then, come; show me the way."

They entered the massive doors. The sentry saluted the general, and
they passed on.

"Let nothing more be done until I return," said Melac to the sentry.
"I wish to go over the old building before we consign it to the
flames."



CHAPTER IV.

CASPAR'S VENGEANCE.


Deep silence reigned within the walls of the holy temple, broken
occasionally by an expiring sigh, or the faint sound of the death-
rattle. For the French soldiery had done their work. The poor
wretches that had been ensnared into seeking refuge there, had all
been murdered, and their possessions removed to a place of safety.
One hour earlier, the vaults of the house of God had rung with
shrieks and groans, but the victims were now dying or dead.

General Melac went among the prostrate bodies, looking here and
there behind the pillars, to see whether any thing of value had been
overlooked by his subordinates. The monk mean while bent over the
prostrate forms that lay in hundreds upon the marble pavement, and
so absorbed was he in soothing their last moments, that he almost
started as the rough voice of General Melac reached him from the
opposite end of the nave.

"Come, come," cried he, in thundering tones. "Enough of useless
sentimentality!"

Without a word the monk rose, and, pointing to the grand altar, the
general entered the chancel, and followed his conductor to a small
door cut in the wall. This the monk opened, and, stepping back,
signed to Melac to advance.

"Does this winding-stair lead to the tower?" asked the latter.

"Yes, general, and as there is but one way to reach it, I resume my
proper place, and follow you, as in duty bound."

Melac began to ascend the stairs, the monk coming behind him, with
an aspect the very opposite of that he had endeavored to maintain
all day. His stooping shoulders were flung back, his head was erect,
and in his eyes there sat a threatening devil, which, if Melac could
have seen it, would have made his heart grow chill with
apprehension. But Melac, too, was no longer the same. Up to this
moment he had assumed an appearance of friendliness toward his
companion. But now his eye flashed, and his hand clutched his sword,
while deep in his heart flowed a current of treachery, which,
translated into words ran thus:

"I do not see why he should have any part in this treasure. As soon
as he has pointed out the spot, I will catch him in my arms and hurl
him down into the body of the church. By Heaven! the life of one
miserable monk never was worth a million of treasure!"

Did the monk suspect what was passing within the mind of the
general? Perhaps he did; for well he knew that he was capable of any
amount of atrocity.

On they went, sometimes stumbling in the dark, sometimes emerging
into the light, until at last they reached the topmost step where
Melac halted to breathe.

"Are we almost there?" asked he.

"Almost there." echoed the monk, while with a swift movement of his
hand he drew from under his cassock two long, stout thongs of hide.

"What are you doing there?" asked Melac.

"I am making ready my lasso." replied he, throwing one of the thongs
over the head of the general; and, before the latter had time to
recover from his surprise, it was passed around his body, and his
hands were pinioned fast behind.

Melac comprehended that he was betrayed, and making desperate
efforts to free himself, he lost his footing, and fell at full
length on the granite pavement of the tower. The monk now sprang
upon his body, and drawing from his bosom a long handkerchief, he
tied it fast over his victim's mouth.

"Your cries might be heard, and some fool might come to the rescue,"
said he. "You shall die without being allowed to give utterance to
your despair."

Melac's eyeballs almost started from their sockets, but the monk
looked on without pity. He dragged him to that part of the tower
whence the gilded weathercock could be seen toying with the free air
of heaven. The sky shone blue and bright; never had it seemed so
fair to the wretch that was looking his last upon its azure dome. He
felt himself raised in the arms of the monk, firmly fastened with a
second thong, and then tossed outside the tower, where he hung, a
small, dark speck in the eyes of the officers that were awaiting his
return to the hall of council.

And now the monk cast himself down upon his knees. "O God, I thank
Thee that Thou hast granted my prayer, and delivered this monster to
my hands! 'Tis Thy will that I should be his executioner, and may
Thy holy will be done forever and forever!"

He rose and approached Melac, whose face was ghastly pale, and whose
eyes were overflowing with tears. "Now," said he, "know why I have
delivered you unto a cruel and agonizing death. For months I have
tracked your path, with power to have stricken you every hour of the
day. But sudden death was too merciful for such a brute as you! The
Hyena of Esslingen shall have the horror and apprehension of a slow,
torturing, and solitary death. Without sympathy and without
witnesses shall he die, and in his last moments, when his flesh
quivers with agony, and the devouring flames shall consume his
odious body, let him think on Marie Wengelin, and on me. her lover
and betrothed husband--Caspar!"

Without another word, he drew from Melac's finger his signet-ring,
and began to descend the winding-stair. The eye of his victim
followed his tall, manly figure until it disappeared forever from
his sight; and then he listened to his retreating footsteps until
they grew faint and more faint, and all hope was lost! An hour of
mortal agony went by; the sun sank slowly to rest, and a few stars
brightened the sapphire vault above him. Suddenly a red glow
brightened the heavens, and gilded the dark waters of the Rhine--
that Rhine which he had so incarnadined with blood! Avenging God! It
was the fire himself had kindled! It leaped up from every point of
Speier--and now--now the cathedral was in flames, and death--slow,
lingering, and agonizing--had overtaken the Hyena of Esslingen!



CHAPTER V.

THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS.


"I can never consent to such a disgraceful marriage for my son,"
cried Elizabeth-Charlotte to her husband.

"Madame, I look upon it as a great honor that my son should espouse
the daughter of the king."

"The daughter of shame and infamy--the daughter of a man who,
violating his marriage-vow--"

"Madame," interrupted the duke, "you forget that you are speaking of
his majesty the King of France!"

"King of France? There is no question of a king, but of my brother-
in-law, of whose faults--nay, sins, I may surely speak, within the
walls of my own cabinet, I suppose."

"Madame," replied the duke, trying to draw up his small person until
he fairly stood on tiptoe, "madame, I forbid you to express yourself
in such terms of your sovereign and mine."

"Forbid me to speak the truth, you mean. And to be sure, at a court
like this, where everybody feeds on flattery, truth is strangely out
of place."

"Like yourself, for instance," observed the duke.

"Yes, like myself," replied the duchess, with a sweet smile that
illumined her plain features, and lent them a passing beauty. "I
believe that I am most unwelcome among the fine and fashionable
folks of Paris; but it is not my fault that I am here, a poor,
homely sparrow in a flock of peacocks and parrots."

"Madame," replied the duke, pompously, "if you choose to consider
yourself as a sparrow, you have my full consent to do so, although I
must say that it is somewhat presuming for any one so to designate
the woman whom I honored with my hand. But I must always regret that
you have never displayed enough tact to lay aside your plebeian
German manners, and resume those of the courtly and elegant
entourage of the refined King of France."

The eyes of the duchess shot fire, and the hue on her cheeks
deepened to scarlet.

"Your manners may be refined, monseigneur; but God shield me from
your morals! The war you are waging against my native land is one of
assassination and rapine; and oh! how I wish that I were free to
leave France forever, that I might suffer and die with my dear,
slaughtered countrymen! But dearly as I love my native land, I love
my children still more. Maternal love is stronger in my heart than
patriotism, and my Elizabeth and my Philip are more to me than
Germany!"

"You say nothing of me," observed the duke, sentimentally. "Am I,
then, nothing to you?"

"Yes, monseigneur, you are the father of my children. I plighted my
faith to you, and I have kept my marriage-vows. But you know, as
well as I, that we were both nothing but royal merchandise, bartered
for reasons of state, and that we have never been congenial.
Nevertheless, I love you as the father of my Philip! for he has your
handsome face and your refined and courtly bearing."

"Madame," returned the duke, blushing with gratification, "I thought
you disdained to flatter."

"I do not flatter you, monseigneur," cried the duchess, cordially
grasping his hand, and leading him to the mantel, over which hung a
full-length portrait of the youthful Duke de Chartres. "See,"
exclaimed she with affectionate pride, "see what a beautiful picture
Mignet has made of him. It was done in secret in Mignet's studio,
and was brought to me yesterday as a birthday present from my boy."

"It was very thoughtless of Philip to visit Mignet," objected the
duke. "He too often forgets his rank and relationship to the king."

"Forgive him, monseigneur. He forgot his station, to remember his
filial affection," and for several moments the mother's eyes were
fondly fixed upon the portrait. "Look!" resumed she; "these are your
eyes, your well-developed forehead, your aquiline nose, your
pleasant and expressive mouth. In your youth, you were as handsome
as he--I have often heard it said that you were the handsomest
cavalier in Paris."

"Except the king, madame--except the king! I am too loyal a subject
to excel his majesty in anything. I am glad, however, that you think
my son resembles me; to me there is a blended likeness of both his
parents in his countenance."

"Never, never!" exclaimed Elizabeth-Charlotte, with animation.
"There is no trace of my coarse features in that aristocratic face;
and yet, like the owl that hatched the eagle's egg, I am proud of
calling him my son. And now, monseigneur, let me implore of you not
to cross the escutcheon of our eaglet with the bar-sinister that
disgraces the arms of Mademoiselle de Blois."

"Madame," exclaimed the duke, much irritated, "speak more
respectfully of the daughter of Louis XIV.! She has been recognized
by his majesty, and there is no stain upon her arms."

"Pardon me--it is not in the power of any sovereign to erase the
foul blot of her birth; and I shudder when I think of an alliance
between the son of the Duke of Orleans and grandson of the Elector
Palatine, and the daughter of a king's leman. If his majesty
mentions the subject to me, I shall tell him as much."

"Impossible!" cried the duke, aghast. "I have already promised that
you would solicit the honor of an alliance with Mademoiselle de
Blois."

"You promised what I will not perform. Do you suppose that I, by
birth and marriage a royal princess, would debase myself so far as
to ask for my son's wife the daughter of a harlot who drove the
hapless queen to her grave? and to take her by the hand, and present
her to the court as my daughter? I would rather absent myself
forever from court, and I will certainly not attend the king's ball
to-night." "You cannot do that, for you accepted the invitation
yesterday."

"Yesterday I knew not the humiliation implied in my acceptance. To-
day I know it, and I will excuse myself, and be sick."

"Madame, I command you to appear at the ball," cried out the enraged
duke, "and we shall see whether you presume to rebel against my
conjugal authority."

"I shall not rebel," replied the duchess. "Since you command my
presence, you shall have it; but I warn you that I shall mortally
offend the king, for--"

The duke was about to protest anew against his wife's blasphemy,
when the old German lady of honor, who presided over the toilet of
her highness, rushed into the room in a slate of great agitation.

"What is the matter, Katharina?" asked the duchess.

"Your royal highness," replied Katharina, panting, "a courier has
just arrived from the Countess Louise. He has ridden day and night
to deliver his message, and, although he is covered with mud and
dust, he insisted that I should announce him to your royal
highness."

"A courier from Louise!" murmured the duchess. "Something must have
happened! Go, Kathi, bid him come into my little parlor.--Will
monseigneur excuse me? I am deeply concerned lest some misfortune
should have befallen my sister."

"Sister! Is the Countess Louise the daughter of a princess
Palatine?"

"No, monseigneur; you know that she is the daughter of the Countess
Dagenfeld, my father's wedded wife--although never acknowledged as
such--because she was not of royal birth. There is no bar-sinister
on Louise's shield; she is truly and honorably my half-sister."

The duchess bowed and hastened to her parlor, where the courier was
awaiting her arrival.

"Has anything happened to the countess? Is she ill? Have I lost my
dear relative?"

"No, your royal highness. Your princely relatives are well, and
here--here is--"

He made an attempt to place a letter in her hand, but reeled and
fell, exhausted, at her feet.

"Pardon me, madame," said he, "I have been for three days and nights
in the saddle. My strength has given way--I cannot rise. But read
your letter, I implore you."

The duchess stooped, and took it from his nerveless hand; then,
commending him to the care of Katharina, she broke the seal and
began to read.

Its contents affected her so terribly, that her teeth chattered, her
knees trembled, and, throwing herself upon the sofa, she covered her
face with her hands and wept.

But she wept for a moment only.

"Katharina," cried she, to her old confidante, who was chafing the
temples of the courier, "leave that poor youth for a moment, and
fetch me a mantilla and hood. I must go to the king at once!"

"Your royal highness is in a neglige," remonstrated Katharina; "I
will have to dress you."

"I cannot wait to be dressed," cried Elizabeth-Charlotte; "speed
away, and bring me my wrappings. God be praised, the king will be at
home! Thousands of lives depend upon my intercession!"

Katharina returned with the mantilla, which, without the least
regard to grace, her royal highness flung over her stout figure,
while she jerked the hood over her head with an impetuosity that
made the old lady wring her hands.

"Oh, her hair is down, and the hood all twisted to one side,"
murmured the mistress of the toilet, as the duchess, indifferent to
all forms of civilization, dashed down the staircase and leaped into
her carriage.



CHAPTER VI.

THE DELIVERANCE OF TRIER.


The equipage thundered along the streets of Paris, and drew up
before the hooded door, at the side entrance of the Louvre, which
was especially reserved for the use of the royal family.

The duchess sprang from her carriage, hurried up the staircase,
almost stumbling over the sentry as he made an attempt to present
arms, and flew into the antechamber that led to the cabinet of the
king.

She came in like a frigate under full sail, but was encountered by a
gentleman of the privy chamber, who barred the entrance.

"Make way for me--do!" said she, clasping her hands. "I must see his
majesty this very moment."

"His majesty is in secret conference with the Marquis de Louvois and
Madame de Maintenon," was the reply. "Not even your royal highness
can obtain admittance."

"So much the better if Louvois is there. Let me pass--I command you,
let me pass!"

"Indeed, madame, you know not what you ask. I have received
stringent orders to admit nobody."

"The royal family are never included in these prohibitions," cried
the duchess.

"But to-day, your royal highness, I was placed here to prevent their
coming! You well know that none but the princes and princesses of
the blood would presume to make use of this entrance."

"It concerns the lives of thousands!" urged the duchess.

"Did it concern that of my own son, I would know better than to seek
to save it by disobeying his majesty's orders."

"You will not--positively will not let me pass?"

"I dare not, madame."

"Then you must excuse me, but I shall force my way," returned
Elizabeth-Charlotte, grasping the slender form of the king's
gentleman, and, with her powerful hands, flinging him into the
corner of the room, while she strode rapidly to the opposite door,
and opened and had closed it again before her opponent had recovered
his breath. Before touching the bolt of the door which opened
directly into the king's cabinet, she paused to recover her breath,
and to gather courage for the coming interview. She trembled from
head to foot, and leaned against the wall for support. But
Elizabeth-Charlotte was not a woman to be deterred, by fear of
kings, from what she deemed her duty. "With the resolution that
characterized her, she uttered one short ejaculation for help from
above, and opened the door."

Louvois was in the act of speaking. "Sire, our arms are as
successful in Italy as they have been in Germany, where town after
town has been taken without the drawing of a sword--where the people
have offered the keys of all the fortresses to your generals, and
have welcomed the advent of our troops with joy."

"Your majesty," cried the duchess, coming forward, "do not believe
him! He tells a falsehood--O God! what a falsehood!"

The astonishment of that cabinet-council is not to be described. The
king rose from his seat and confronted her with eyes that named with
anger.

"Madame," exclaimed the grand monarque, in a rage, "were you not
told that I would see nobody this morning?"

"Yes, your majesty; so emphatically told, that, before I could make
my way to your presence, I was obliged to hurl your gentleman to the
other side of the room. It is not his fault that I am here!"

Madame de Maintenon rolled up her eyes, Louvois sneered and Louis,
looking as if he wished that he could consume his sister-in-law with
a glance, turned around to his minister.

"Monsieur Louvois, be so good as to forget the imprudent words that
madame has just spoken. It is impossible that a princess of the
blood should so far forget her own dignity as to lay hands on an
attendant of the king. Take care that the indiscretion of her royal
highness go no farther than these walls; and, if you hear it spoken
of, contradict it flatly."

"Your majesty," exclaimed the duchess, "that is the very way to make
everybody believe it, for surely nobody will believe Monsieur
Louvois."

"Sire," said Louvois, shrewdly, "I was about to communicate tidings
of the greatest importance to your majesty. I would be glad of your
permission to resume our conference. It is late, and--"

"Madame," cried Louis, "once for all, leave this room, and interrupt
us no longer."

"Does your majesty suppose that, after forcing my way to your
presence, I intend to retreat without accomplishing the object for
which I came? I entreat of you, hear me, and judge for yourself
whether my pertinacity is not justified by the occasion of my
intrusion."

"Very well, madame," replied Louis. "I will remember that you are my
brother's wife, and forget an excess of presumption which, were you
not my sister-in-law, would merit the Bastile. Speak, and let us
hear your petition. It needs to be one of moment to earn your
pardon."

With these words, Louis threw himself into his arm-chair, and,
pointing to a tabouret at hand, requested her royal highness to be
seated. The duchess looked around the room, and, seeing a vacant
arm-chair a little farther off, she rolled it forward, and seated
herself with great grandeur. This chair belonged to Madame de
Maintenon, who, a moment previous, had risen and walked to the
window.

She became very red in the face, and, coming directly in front of
the duchess, said: "Madame, this is my own arm-chair; be so good as
to excuse me if I ask you to rise."

"Impossible, my dear marquise, impossible!" was the rejoinder. "His
majesty requests me to be seated, and this is the only seat in the
room that accords with my rank. If his majesty allows you to seat
yourself in his presence, and that of a princess of the blood, there
is a tabouret which doubtless was placed for your accommodation on
such occasions."

Madame de Maintenon looked imploringly at the king, hoping that he
would interfere; but he did not. His eyes were cast down, and it was
plain that no help was to be expected from him. His unacknowledged
spouse was therefore obliged to yield the point, and put up with the
tabouret.

"Now, madame," said Louis, as though rousing himself from profound
meditation, "I await your pleasure."

"Sire," cried the duchess, "I have come hither to accuse yonder
traitor, who, in your majesty's name, is perpetrating deeds of
horror that are enough to brand any sovereign with infamy. Did I not
hear him say, as I entered this room, that the French army was
received with open arms by the Germans?"

"You did, madame. As a proof of the truth of this assertion, here
are the very keys of all the towns and fortresses we have besieged."

The king pointed to a basket wreathed with flowers, wherein lay a
heap of gigantic keys.

"Oh, sire," exclaimed the duchess, "these keys were purchased with
blood and pillage. Your soldiers have not marched into Germany like
the invading armies of a civilized nation; they have come as
incendiaries and assassins. Witness my father's castle, which they
reduced to a heap of ashes."

"My dear madame," said Louis, deprecatingly, "war is not a pastime.
I regret that it was necessary to burn your father's castle; but you
perceive that it was not burned in vain, for your countrymen, since
then, have shown themselves amenable to reason."

"Sire, you are shamefully deceived; and I have come to lay at the
foot of your throne the plaint of an unhappy people. Ah, you little
know what crimes are being committed in your name! General Montclas
himself shed tears when Mannheim was sacked and destroyed; and, when
the people of Durlach were driven by your soldiery into the very
midst of the flames that were consuming their homes, the Duke de la
Roche remonstrated with the Marquis de Crequi on the atrocity of the
crime. What do you suppose was the answer of the marquis? 'Le roi le
veut!'"

"Is this so?" asked the king, turning to Louvois, who was hiding his
troubled countenance in the embrasure of a window.

"Sire, I have never heard of it before," replied the minister.

"Well may he say that he never heard of it, if he means that your
majesty never gave such an order to him!" cried Elizabeth-Charlotte.
"But if he means that he did not order these massacres, he tells an
untruth. He is avenging on the people of Germany the laurels which
Prince Eugene has earned in the service of the emperor, and which,
but for him, would have redounded to the glory of France. Oh, sire!
this war is one of personal vengeance on the part of your wicked
subject; it is not waged for your honor or advantage. I ask in his
presence, did the King of France order the destruction of Worms and
Speier? Was it by the order of our gracious sovereign that the very
house of God was committed to the flames?"

"Can such a crime have been perpetrated in my name?" cried Louis,
with indignation.

"Sire," replied Louvois, "your majesty has said it--'War is no
pastime.'"

"He does not deny it," cried the duchess, wiping away her tears, and
struggling for composure to go on. "But what is done, is done--Worms
and Speier are in ashes, and their murdered inhabitants at rest.
But, oh, my liege, my gracious lord, the city of Trier is threatened
with the same fate! For three days the people have been crying in
vain for mercy.--At your feet, sire, I implore you, have pity, and
save them from butchery!"

And the duchess, with hands upraised, and eyes that were streaming
with tears, sank on her knees before the king.

Louis rose hastily from his seat.

"Rise, madame," said he, "and let us retire to yonder embrasure. I
wish to speak with you in private."

So saying, he gave her his hand, and conducted her to a deep recess
at the farther end of the room, which was, in fact, a small
apartment furnished with seats--A cabinet within a cabinet. He
loosened the gold cord that confined the curtain to the side, and it
fell to the floor--a thick, heavy portiere that shut all sound from
the apartment without. Not satisfied with this, the king opened the
casement, that the hum from the street below might effectually drown
their voices.

"Now, madame," said he, "we will converse openly and without
reserve, as it befits near relatives to do. Has your husband
confided to you my wishes?"

"What wishes?" asked the duchess, who, in her anxiety for the fate
of Trier, had forgotten the occurrences of the day.

Louis was piqued. "I allude to my matrimonial plans for your son and
my daughter; and I beg you to observe that where I have a right to
command, I am gracious enough to request their fulfilment. It is
understood that the Duke de Chartres is to be betrothed to
Mademoiselle de Blois this evening?"

"Sire," murmured Elizabeth-Charlotte, who began to understand how
much she was risking by her mediation in favor of Trier, "sire, I
implore you to save the lives of thousands of human beings, and you
answer me by questions as to the marriage of my son!"

"My dear sister," returned the king, with a smile, "surely you take
more interest in the fate of your child, than in that of a remote
town in Germany. My brother has already consented that our children
should be united; and, as you are here, I wish to hear from your own
lips that the union gives you as much satisfaction as it will afford
to me."

"Sire, the Duke de Chartres is but a lad--wild and untamed. He is
not fit to be the husband of any woman."

The king frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Sire, he is but sixteen years of age--a boy; and it is not
customary for princes of the blood to marry before the age of
eighteen."

"I know that as well as yourself. It is no question of marriage,
only one of betrothal. Mademoiselle de Blois is but twelve, and no
fitter to be married than your son. But it is well for young people
to know that they are bound by honor to restrain their passions and
curb their irregularities. If the Duke de Chartres is untamed, you
have the means of keeping him within bounds, and of forcing him to
lead a chaste and virtuous life."

"Oh, sire, you know full well that the promises of their parents do
not bind youthful hearts. My Philip is inclined to dissipation, and
it would be an unfortunate match for Mademoiselle de Blois."

"Give me a direct answer to my inquiry. Do you consent to the
betrothal of your son with my daughter?"

Elizabeth-Charlotte burst into tears. "Sire, I--I--cannot," murmured
she.

The king flushed with anger. "I thought so," said he, "You are
nothing but a mass of prejudices, which you would rather die than
relinquish. Very well, madame; I bow to your prejudices, and will
make no vain efforts to overcome them. Excuse me if, as regards your
petition, I echo your words, 'I cannot.'"

"Oh, sire," cried the duchess, "the cases are not parallel. I plead
for the lives of so many unfortunates!"

"And I for my own gratification; and assuredly a wish of the King of
France is of a little more importance than the fate of a miserable
German town."

"Your majesty, it would cost you but a word to earn the blessings of
so many grateful hearts."

"And it would cost you but a word to give rank and an unequivocal
position to my favorite daughter. For if a woman like yourself,
recognized as a model of propriety, acknowledge her as your son's
bride, you insure an honorable future to all my children not born to
the throne. It is in your power to raise Mademoiselle de Blois to
the rank of a legitimate princess of the blood, and thereby to
confer a favor upon her father."

"Oh, sire, indeed I cannot! Ask any thing of me but that! It would
give the lie to all the teachings of my life! It would be an
acknowledgment of the worthlessness of chastity--of honor! Oh,
forgive me! My brain reels; I know not what I say!"

"BUT I DO; and I have heard enough. I shall countermand the soiree,
and seek another bridegroom for Mademoiselle de Blois. But Trier
shall fall, and on your head be the fate of its inhabitants!"

He rose and would have put aside the portiere, but his hand was
convulsively clutched, and the duchess, in a voice that was hoarse
with agony, gasped:

"Have I understood? You would barter the fate of Trier for my
consent to this unnatural marriage!"

"Yes, by God, I do!" was the profane and passionate reply of the
king.

"Stay--stay," murmured she, trembling in every limb. "Would you
rescue the city if I consented?"

"I will do so, with pleasure."

The duchess shivered, clasped her hands together, and, closing her
eyes as though to hide her humiliation from Heaven, she retracted
her refusal, and then fell almost insensible into an arm-chair.

The king approached her and kissing her, said, "Madame, from my
heart, I thank you."

The poor duchess scarcely heeded these gracious words. She had
received a blow that well-nigh blunted her heart to the sufferings
of her countrymen. But she had made the sacrifice of her principles,
and she must reap the reward of that terrible sacrifice.

"Sire," said she, as soon as she had recovered strength enough to
articulate, "sire, fulfil your promise immediately, or it will be
too late."

"Give me your hand, dear sister," replied Louis. "Once more I thank
you for the happiness you have conferred upon me, and the first gift
of Mademoiselle de Blois to her mother-in-law shall be the safety of
Trier. I implore you, try to love the poor child, for my sake."



CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRE-TONGS.


Raising the curtain, Louis XIV. offered his hand, and the royal
brother and sister-in-law re-entered the cabinet, where their return
was eagerly awaited by Madame de Maintenon, and uneasily expected by
the minister of war.

"Monsieur de Louvois," said the king, "I am in possession of all the
details that relate to the shameful abuse that has been made of my
name in Germany. The cruel practices which you have authorized
toward an innocent population must cease at once, and our troops be
commanded to prosecute the war as becomes the army of a Christian
nation."

The king, while he spoke these words, was gradually advancing to his
writing-desk, which stood close to the mantel. Seating himself in
his arm-chair, he turned his countenance away from the penetrating
glances of De Maintenon, and began to play with the bronze shovel
and tongs that lay crossed upon the fender.

After a pause, during which he waited in vain for a reply from
Louvois, he resumed: "Why do you not answer me, Louvois?"

"Sire, your wishes shall be fulfilled. The next courier that leaves
for Germany, shall bear your royal commands to the army, and they
shall be ordered to remain altogether on the defensive."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SIR?" cried the king.

"If your majesty intends to treat your enemies with clemency, you
must expect no more victories, but remain content with the territory
you have already acquired. What are we to do, if we are crippled by
injudicious and false humanity? Must we relinquish our claims? Shall
we content ourselves with having made threats which we are too
pusillanimous to execute?"

"Monsieur," said Louis, haughtily, "you are becoming impertinent.
Cease your questions, and obey my commands. Send off your couriers
at once. Trier shall not be destroyed; nor shall its inhabitants be
driven from their dwellings. Private property shall be respected,
and the temples of the Most High held sacred."

"Sire," said Louvois, "I will obey; but, unhappily, as regards
Trier, your clemency comes too late. I cannot save it."

"Cannot!" shouted Louis, who to please his sister-in-law had worked
himself into a veritable fury. "Who dares say he cannot, when I
command?"

"Your majesty, what is done cannot be undone."

At these words the king sprang from his chair, still holding the
tongs in his hand.

"Do you mean to say that you have ordered new atrocities to be
commited in Germany?" exclaimed he.

"Sire," replied Louvois defiantly, "if it pleases you to term the
necessities of war atrocities, so be it. The people of Trier having
imitated the stubbornness of those of Speier, I ordered them to be
subjected to the same treatment."

"Sir," cried Louis, raising the tongs, as if he intended to assail
his minister with them, "you shall countermand this order at once,
or I will smite you as the lightning blasts the oak!" All this time
he was advancing, until the tongs were in dangerous proximity with
Louvois' head. [Footnote: Historical.--See "Memoirs of the Court of
France," by the Marquis de Dangeau.]

The minister was thoroughly frightened. "Sire," exclaimed he,
receding in terror, "would you murder me?"

"It would be too honorable an end for you to die by my hands,"
replied the king, letting fall his tongs. "But this I say to you: if
Trier is destroyed I will make an example of you that shall deter
any other traitor from using my name to gratify his wicked revenge.
Send off your couriers; nor return to this palace until you come to
inform me that Trier is safe." So saying, the King turned his back,
and began to converse with Madame de Maintenon on the subject of an
afternoon ride; after which he offered his arm to his sister-in-law
and conducted her himself to the head of the private staircase.

He had no sooner left the room than Louvois darted to the side of
Madame de Maintenon, who was just about to raise a portiere leading
to her own apartments.

Catching her dress in his agitation, Louvois implored her to remain.

"Wherefore, monsieur?" asked she, coldly.

"Oh, madame, I fear that I shall never be able to rescue this
accursed city, and, I implore you, be my mediatrix with his
majesty."

"On what grounds, monsieur?"

"Oh, madame, you have enemies as well as I: let us make a compact
together, and crush them all. Uphold me for this once, and you will
not find me ungrateful."

"I fear no man's enmity," was the reply of the marquise. "My trust
is in God, who ruleth all things."

"You refuse me then?" said Louvois.

"I am not in a position to defy the king, and uphold his rebellious
subjects. Were I Queen of France, my influence would, perhaps,
avail; as it is, I would advise you to make all speed to dispatch
your couriers, and thereby rescue Trier and yourself."

With these consolatory words, the marquise disappeared; and Louvois,
taking her advice, unpalatable though it was, rushed in undignified
haste through the corridors, and plunging into his carriage, was
driven at full gallop to his hotel.

Twenty minutes later his couriers were on their way. To him who
arrived at Trier first, Louvois promised a purse of one thousand
louis d'ors, and, if he reached the city in time to save it, the sum
was to be doubled.

Thanks to this reward, as well as to the dilatory movements of the
courier that had borne the order for destruction. Trier was saved on
the very morning of the day which should have been its last.

Louvois was ordered to bring the news to the duchess in person.

She was in her cabinet with the Duke de Chartres, who had been
complaining of the ugliness and stupidity of his affianced bride.
Louvois was announced, and the duchess, in her impetuous way,
hurried to the door and met him--not by way of welcoming him,
however.

"I never expected to see you here under my roof," said she, "nor
would I receive you had you not come from his majesty."

"Madame, I will withdraw as soon as my message is delivered,"
replied Louvois, haughtily. "His majesty has sent me to announce to
your royal highness that Trier is safe."

"Now, God be thanked!" exclaimed Elizabeth-Charlotte solemnly.

"With your leave, madame, I withdraw," observed Louvois.

"Not yet. You have brought me tidings of one deliverance--I will
impart to you another. Have you any news from my poor Laura?"

A cloud overspread the minister's brow. "I have not heard from her
for more than a year, at which time she fled from her husband's
castle, how or whither he has never been able to discover."

"And you--have you no idea of her whereabouts?"

"She must either have died, or have retired to a convent."

"She has done neither," replied the duchess.

"She lives!" cried Louvois, with more terror in his voice than joy.

"Yes: dear, ill-used Laura! She lives, and lives happily with him
whose arm will protect her against future persecution."

"Your royal highness does not mean to say that my daughter has
sought the protection of Prince Eugene?" cried Louvois.

"I do, indeed: they are united at last, whom you sought to put
asunder."

"Great God!" was the minister's exclamation. "She has given herself
up to shame! She lives publicly as the mistress of a man who was not
worthy to become her husband! Your royal highness must have been
misinformed."

"I have it from herself, nevertheless."

"And your royal highness, that bears the name of the most virtuous
woman in Paris, is not shocked at her unchastity?"

"Unchastity! You talk of unchastity, who, while she was plighting
her troth to this same Eugene, were not ashamed to prostitute her to
Strozzi! Cease your disgusting cant, and learn that I acknowledge
and respect the tie that binds your daughter to her real spouse: and
woe to you, if you dare trouble the current of her peaceful life!
Farewell. Say to his majesty that I shall be forever grateful for
the deliverance of Trier."

"Philip," added she, when Louvois had left the room, "forgive me,
beloved son, if I sacrificed you to the well-being of my oppressed
countrymen! You say that your affianced is stupid; but every weary
hour you spend in her society shall be repaid to you by the
blessings of those whom you have saved from assassination. Moreover,
Mademoiselle de Blois is not yet your bride, and many a thing may
intervene to prevent you from being forced to espouse her. If your
mother can do any thing to frustrate it, be sure that she will come
to your assistance. Her consent was wrung from her, 'tis true--but
not her willingness."

"Laura the mistress of Eugene of Savoy!" muttered Louvois, as he
descended the marble staircase of the ducal palace. "And to
propitiate that royal virago, I dare not revenge myself! But no!"
said he suddenly, "no--I need not lift a finger. I will leave it to
Barbesieur; HE will attend to it. He will put an end to her infamous
life!"



CHAPTER VIII.

BRAVE HEARTS.


The embassy of Prince Eugene to Turin had been attended with the
happiest results. His arguments in favor of the emperor had proved
irresistible, for he had worked upon the pride as well as the
ambition of his kinsman. He had addressed him as a "royal highness;"
had promised him accession of territory; and finally had imparted to
him a diplomatic secret which decided him at once to join the
imperialists. In the event of any manifestation on the part of
Victor Amadeus that was friendly toward the emperor, Louvois had
ordered Marshal Catinat to take him prisoner, confine him in the
fortress of Pignerolles, and appoint the duchess-dowager Regent of
Savoy.

The astounding insolence of the French minister gained a zealous
partisan for Leopold. "I am yours and the emperor's forever," cried
the indignant duke. "And from my heart I hope that we may both have
speedy opportunity to avenge the wrongs we have sustained at the
hands of Louis XIV. and that atrocious villain--Louvois."

"As for my wrongs," replied Eugene, with a beaming smile, "they are
all forgotten in my excess of happiness."

"So, then, you are happy at last?" asked Victor Amadeus, kindly.

"Supremely blest," was Eugene's emphatic reply.

"Supremely blest?" repeated the duke, shaking his head, "Pardon me
if I think otherwise. Do you not think that you could be made
happier by obtaining the sanction of the church to your liaison with
the Marchioness de Strozzi?"

"I would be the proudest and happiest of created beings if I could
call her my wife," sighed Eugene. "And since the subject has been
broached between us, I will confide in you. I have written to the
pope an account of Laura's fraudulent marriage with Strozzi, and I
hope that his holiness will recognize the unlawfulness of that
wicked transaction. It seems to me impossible that Religion should
look upon it otherwise than as an act of falsehood."

"You have no answer as yet from Rome?"

"I expect an answer to-day; and now, that the crisis of my Laura's
destiny is at hand, I begin to be timorous as to the success of my
petition. The pope is not my friend; I have upheld the Waldenses
against the church, and have sought their alliance for Austria.
These, I know, are serious offences; and not less displeasing to his
holiness will be the news of your defection from France to Austria
through my intervention."

"True--true," said Victor Amadeus, thoughtfully. "Your embassy to
Turin will prove prejudicial to your own interests at Rome. I am
afraid they will suffer. And if his holiness will not grant a
divorce, what is to become of the marchioness? You will not continue
to live with her out of wedlock?"

"Pardon me," replied Eugene. "She is mine in the sight of God, and
man shall not part us. Our union is holy in our own eyes, and we
shall maintain its sanctity against the whole world. It will very
soon forget us, and consign us to the oblivion we covet."

"You are not so easily consigned to oblivion, my dear cousin; you
occupy a prominent position before the world, and the brighter your
fame as a hero, the darker will be the shadow that falls upon your
mistress. My wife and I have talked this matter over, and we have
determined to make a joint effort either to have you formally united
at the altar, or to use our honest endeavors to induce you to
separate. The duchess has sent three invitations to the marchioness,
every one of which has been refused."

"The marchioness desires no intercourse with the world. She is
independent of its sanction or its blame."

"Because, for the present, her world is concentrated in you. But it
will not always be so; and the duchess has gone this very morning to
pay her a visit, hoping to prove to her that a woman should not only
avoid wrong, but the appearance of wrong. At the same time, we both
render ample justice to the purity of intention of the marchioness."

"Not only of intention, but of conduct," replied Eugene. "But let us
discuss other matters. The elector, Max Emmanuel, has arrived at
Montcaliers, the imperialists have joined him, and the Spanish
troops are on their way."

"My army also shall march to Montcaliers to-morrow. It is time that
the atrocities of Louis XIV. should cease. His soldiers have been
worse than an irruption of the Goths both in Germany and in Italy."

"With the help of God, we will emulate their deeds in France."

While the two Princes of Savoy were in their cabinet together, the
duchess was on her way to visit the marchioness. She was determined
not to give Laura the opportunity of denying herself. To this end
she followed the lackey that announced her, and as he opened the
door, and was about to pronounce her name, she passed him by, and,
going directly up to Laura, introduced herself.

She was calmly and courteously received, and, after some desultory
conversation, entered upon her delicate mission.

"I have but one rule of action," said Laura, in return, "and I
cannot wound my own convictions by shaping my conduct according to
the standard of others."

"But surely you do not apply this rule to your unlawful liaison with
Prince Eugene!" exclaimed the duchess.

"It is no unlawful liaison," replied Laura, simply. "I am Eugene's
wife in his eyes and in mine: we have plighted our troth, and will
be faithful to our vows until death!"

"And to this fidelity you sacrifice your honor and your peace of
mind. Prince Eugene is but a mortal man. He is, for the time,
desperately in love, and scorns all possibility of change. But by-
and-by he will begin to be annoyed by the world's censure: he will
be ashamed to be seen with you--"

"Madame," interrupted Laura, proudly, "by what right do you thus
prejudge the conduct of Prince Eugene?"

"By the right of experience, my poor child, and of a knowledge of
the human heart, whose inconsistencies are all unknown to you. Let
me relate to you a history that concerns me nearly, and has caused
me many a burning tear. My husband was once beloved by a beautiful
woman, who, for his wake, left her husband, the court, and the grand
monde, to be the solitary inhabitant of a castle, which, to be sure,
was fit to be the abode of a goddess. She became the mistress of the
Duke of Savoy, who loved her to distraction. I, his unhappy wife,
had no right to remonstrate, for our union was like that of princes
generally, an affair of state; and Victor Amadeus never knew that my
poor heart was racked by jealousy, and that many a time I prayed for
death as the only remedy for my anguish. For a time the duke was
contented to see the Countess de la Verrue in her castle, but by-
and-by he exacted of this poor devoted creature another sacrifice--
that of returning with a brow of shame to the world. He fitted up a
residence for her in Turin; passed all his time at her side; drove
out with her, and finally held his levees at her palace. Now, there
were certain festivals de rigueur that were obliged to be given at
the ducal palace; and from these festivals the countess would be
excluded unless she was invited by myself. I had nothing to lose,
and hoping to win an approving smile from Victor, I invited his
mistress, and, when she entered the hall of reception, placed her
above all possibility of slight by advancing to meet her."

"That was magnanimous indeed!" exclaimed Laura.

The duchess smiled. "Do not overestimate the act, my dear child.
There was quite as much policy in it as magnanimity. I know men
well: they are greater slaves to opinion than women; they have not
half our moral courage, and not one of them can long confront the
disapprobation of the world. From this day, a change came over the
spirit of my husband. Seeing that the world held me in high esteem
for my sacrifice, and held his mistress very cheaply, he began to
feel uncomfortable when he brought her before its scrutiny. From
discomfort he proceeded to shame, and finally the day came--the
inevitable day that dawns for every woman who lays her honor at the
feet of her lover. The poor countess was reproached for the
sacrifices she had made, and blamed for her weakness in yielding to
the importunities of her seducer! She fled, broken-hearted from his
presence, and, like poor La Valliere, took refuge in a convent. Oh,
my dear young lady!" continued the duchess, taking Laura's hand in
her own, "be warned, and do not court the fate of these unfortunate
victims of man's inconstancy!"

"Madame," returned Laura, "their fate in no way can affect ME, for I
am not the mistress of Prince Eugene. He can never reproach me with
weakness, for he, like myself, believes in the holiness of our
union. We have been sinned against, but are not sinning. No woman
can say of Eugene that he has broken his vows to her; no man can say
of me that I have been unfaithful to him!"

"You forget the Marquis de Strozzi."

"Forget him! Great God! Forget the villain who, under cover of
night, stole the vows I pledged to Eugene, and kept me his prisoner
for five long years! No, madame, I have not forgotten the Marquis de
Strozzi; but he is no husband of mine. My spouse before Heaven is
Prince Eugene--and, so help me God, I will be true to him in life as
in death!"

"You are a noble woman; and your love, I admit, is as pure as that
of Eve for Adam. But, for your exalted ideas of duty, you will
receive naught from the world save scorn and contumely."

"So be it. In my Eugene's love will be my exceeding great reward.
The arrows of the world's contempt will fall harmless at my feet,
for his dear arm will shield me from their sharpness. My world is
Eugene; he alone is my husband, and my judge."

The duchess looked compassionately at the beautiful enthusiast, and
heaved a sigh. "I cannot save you, my child: your resolution is
mightier than my arguments, and I can only pity and love you.
Farewell! May your heroism meet with the reward it deserves."

Laura accompanied the duchess to the door, and returned, calm and
serene, to her embroidery-frame. She was working a standard for her
beloved Eugene, and appeared quite to have forgotten the visit of
the duchess, when, suddenly her cheeks flushed, and she raised her
head to listen. She sprang from her seat, crossed the room and
opened the door. Eugene came in, clasped her in his arms, and
imprinted a kiss on her fair brow.

"My own love, my white swan," whispered he.

She lifted her magnificent eyes to his, there and he read the
history of her deep, deep love. They sat down together, his arm
still around her waist.

"Has the Duchess of Savoy been here?" asked he.

"Yes. She was here to persuade me, for the world's sake, to leave
you."

"The duke has been doing the same by me," said Eugene.

And then they smiled. Neither one made protestations to the other;
neither one had any thing to relate. The heaven of their mutual
trust was without a cloud.

Their silent, solemn happiness was interrupted by a knock. Conrad
came in with two dispatches--one from Germany, and one from Rome.
Eugene took them from the golden salver on which they lay, and said:

"With the permission of the marchioness, I will read them."

She bowed and smiled; then, passing her arm through his, led him to
a divan, and would have had him take a seat by her side.

"No, darling," said he, gently putting her down upon its satin
cushions. "Lie there, while I sit at your feet and read the fiat of
Rome."

He unfolded the letter, and read, Laura watching him the while;
smoothing his hair with her loving hands, and gazing in his face
with tenderness unspeakable. As she gazed she saw a cloud pass over
his features; he looked up at her, and his eyes wore an expression
of strange compassion and sorrow.

Laura bent forward and kissed him. "What ails my love?" said she.

"This letter has destroyed a blessed dream, beloved. I had hoped
that we had propitiated Fate, and that misfortune had ceased to
follow us."

"Why, what have your political papers to do with our fortunes?"

"This is not a political dispatch," replied Eugene. "It is the
answer to a letter I addressed to Pope Innocent. Will you read it,
dearest?"

She took the paper from his hands, and then began to laugh.

"I do not read Latin," said she. "Translate it for me."

Eugene then rose, put his arm around her and read:

"The sacrament of marriage is holy and inviolable, and it cannot be
set aside. Woe be unto those who deny its sanctity and its
irrevocable pledges! The marchioness Strozzi was married by a
priest, and her witnesses were a father and a brother. We are under
the necessity of refusing the petition of the Prince of Savoy; for,
no representation of intentions misdirected, can stand against the
deliberate consent of the parties to wedlock, witnessed by honorable
relatives. We, therefore, call upon the Prince of Savoy to humble
himself as beseems a man that has sinned against God and the Church,
lest he incur her malediction, at the hands of the vicar of Christ
on earth."

The paper fell from his hands and fluttered to her feet.

"You appealed to the pope to annul my marriage with Strozzi?" asked
she.

"Yes, my beloved. I would have aspired to the bliss of seeing the
beautiful Laura Bonaletta my own wife--my wife before the world."

"How good, how noble of you!" murmured she. "You would have elevated
poor Laura Bonaletta to the height of your own greatness, and would
have had her bear your glorious name! It would have been too much
bliss for me to bear that honored name, Eugene: and yet! oh, how I
wish I might have called myself Princess of Savoy! This happiness is
denied me, and I must submit; but I will not sin against my
conscience, by allowing any judgment of mortal man to drive me from
your side. Once more I lay my hand in yours, and what God has joined
together, no power of man shall ever put asunder."

Eugene clasped her trembling hand in his, and, raising his eyes to
heaven, recorded their vows.

After a pause, Laura resumed: "You have another letter to read, dear
Eugene. Perhaps it may console you for our own disappointment. It is
from Germany, and will, doubtless, bring pleasant tidings."

Eugene unfolded the dispatch, with a smile; but scarcely had he
glanced at its first words, when his face grew pale, and his hands
trembled so that he could scarcely hold the paper.

"Ah!" cried Laura, "another disappointment!"

"Oh, Laura," sighed he, "Charles of Lorraine is no more."

"Your dearest friend?"

"Ay--my dearest friend! Charles of Lorraine dead!--And dead of a
broken heart. Not on the battle-field, as became the greatest hero
of his age, but on a bed of sickness. No officer by to do him honor-
-no soldiers there to weep for their adored commander! Oh, I would
he a happy man, could I but win the love of my men as he did, and
earn but one of the many laurels that were wreathed around his
honored head!" [Footnote: Prince Eugene's own words.--See
Zimmermann.]

"Your laurels will surpass his, my Eugene," exclaimed Laura, with
prophetic love. "You are destined to achieve immortality."

Eugene shook his head, and, almost unconsciously, murmured these
lines of Homer:

    "Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found,
     Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
     Another race the following spring supplies,
     They fall successive, and successive rise.
     So generations, in their course, decay,
     So flourish these, when those have passed away!"

"Any admission within these enchanted walls?" said a gay voice,
behind them; and, starting up in amazement, they beheld the tall
figure of the Elector of Bavaria, and behind him, Conrad, with a
perplexed and most distressed countenance.

"Before I say another word, let me exonerate Conrad from any
complicity in my indiscretion," said the elector; "for, I must say,
that he told a series of falsehoods on your account, that will keep
him out of heaven for many a month. But I surprised him glancing
uneasily toward this door, so I took your Peter by the shoulders,
put him aside, and walked into paradise without his permission."

"Very well, Conrad," said Eugene; "you are excused." And, taking the
hand of the elector, he led him to the marchioness, and presented
him as his dearest living friend.

The elector kissed her hand and bent the knee before her as he would
have done before an empress.

"Madonna," said he, "I bow before your beauty and your worth. I am a
poor, sinful mortal, but I have, at least, an appreciation of
heavenly goodness, and I come to do homage to the innocence, the
purity, and the courage of my friend's guardian angel."

"You are most welcome, prince; but, I pray you, rise. It becomes not
a hero like you to kneel before poor Laura Bonaletta."

"I would have died but for her care," said Eugene, when the elector
had accepted a seat at Laura's side. "She came to me through perils
that shame our every-day deeds on the field of battle."

"I have heard of her miraculous night from one who loves her dearly.
We rejoiced together over the news of her escape."

"You allude to Lucretia," said Laura--"how is she?"

"Like other mortals," laughed the elector; "loving to-day and hating
to-morrow, and, finally, discovering that lovers' hate is love.
Neither you nor Eugene can understand these vicissitudes of
sublunary attachments; for you have nothing in common with the
stormy and changeful sea of ordinary loves. Heaven created you one
for the other, and your lives are a development of that divine
charity which 'believeth all things, hopeth all things, and endureth
all things.'"



BOOK VIII.


CHAPTER I.

THE ADVANCE INTO FRANCE.


The war in Italy had lasted for three years without any decisive
result on either side. Here and there some unimportant advantages
had been gained by the imperialists, which had then been balanced by
some equally trifling defeats. The campaign had opened
unfortunately. Against the advice of his generals, Victor Amadeus
had given battle to General Catinat, near the abbey of Staffarda,
and in spite of all that his kinsman Eugene could do by personal
bravery to repair the blunder, the imperialists sustained a most
humiliating defeat. Eugene, however, had the melancholy satisfaction
of knowing that he had predicted the result, although his
remonstrances had been unavailing to avert it.

This disaster had the effect of cooling the zeal of Victor Amadeus
to such an extent, that he actually began to repent of having taken
sides against the French. He was too wary to betray his state of
mind; so he pretended great ardor, and called urgently for re-
enforcements. Backed by the importunities of Prince Eugene, he
succeeded in obtaining them, and at their head the Elector Max
Emmanuel, commander-in-chief of all the imperial forces.

In spite of all this, the war was not vigorously prosecuted. Max
Emmanuel, although brave and true, seemed to have lost the qualities
that had made him a wise and energetic commander: he lacked coolness
when plans were to be conceived, and decision when they were to be
carried out. He left all supervision to the care of his
subordinates, and spent his days in the pursuit of pleasure.

All this Prince Eugene perceived with unavailing regret. He was
powerless to prevent it, for, as the youngest of the field-marshals,
his duty was restricted to the mere execution of the orders of his
superiors. The war dwindled down to an insignificant though bloody
contest with the mountaineers of Savoy and the Italian peasantry,
and things continued in this state until the allies of the emperor
manifested their discontent, and called for the removal of Max
Emmanuel. Field-Marshal Carassa was recalled, and, at the beginning
of the campaign of 1692, the command of the allied forces was given
to Victor Amadeus, while Field-Marshal Caprara was appointed second
in command.

Circumstances now seemed favorable to an earnest prosecution of the
war. The imperialists were assembled at one point; they were
superior in numbers to the enemy, and at their head stood a man who
lost no opportunity to publish to the world his devotion to Austria,
and his detestation of France.

Eugene was not as hopeful as the rest. He had had enough of valiant
words, and was longing for valiant deeds.

"We must advance into France," said he, when the generals next
assembled in council. "We must retaliate upon the people the
persecutions of their army in Germany and Italy. We must enter by
the pass of Barcelonetta, which for the present is unguarded. Before
troops can arrive to succor the garrison, we shall have taken
several more posts of importance."

"But should we take, will we be able to hold them?" asked Victor
Amadeus, affecting wisdom.

Eugene's large eyes looked searchingly into the sealed book of his
cousin's shrewd countenance.

"Your highness," replied he, "above all things let us have
confidence in ourselves, and let us place some trust in the fortunes
of war."

"Catinat is very sagacious," observed General Laganny, the leader of
the Spanish forces. "As soon as we move in the direction of
Barcelonetta, he will re-enforce the garrison."

"Then so much the more necessity for speed on our part," cried
Eugene. "We must mislead the enemy, and make a feint on Pignerol. To
this end, let us send a corps of observation into Piedmont, while we
order a detachment of dragoons and infantry to possess themselves in
all haste of the pass."

The Duke of Savoy looked thoughtful, and there was profound silence
among the members of the war council. After a pause of some
duration, Victor Amadeus raised his head, and gave a long searching
look at the excited countenance of his cousin.

"The Prince of Savoy is right," said he, at length. "We must avenge
our wrongs, and carry the war into France. Our way lies through the
vale of Barcelonetta, and we must move without delay."

The face of Eugene was so lit up by joy that his cousin smiled, and
gave him a significant look.

"I have an account of my own to settle with France," added he, "and
personal affronts to resent. So has my cousin, who longs to avenge
the injuries he has received from Louvois."

"I assure your royal highness," answered Eugene, eagerly, "that
personal feeling has naught to do with my opinions as to the
prosecution of this war. I would despise myself if, in what I have
spoken regarding the interests of the emperor, I had been actuated
by any secret motive of aversion toward his enemies."

There was something in this protest that annoyed Victor Amadeus, for
his eyes flashed, and his brows were momentarily corrugated. But no
one knew better than he how to suppress any symptoms of vexation. It
was not convenient to evince displeasure, and he composed his
features back to serenity.

"Members of this council of war, and officers of the imperial army,"
said he, with an appearance of solemn earnestness, "we must act
promptly and energetically. Let us prove to our allies, and to all
Europe, that we know how to avenge the wrongs of our countrymen. We
pass the boundary-lines of France!"

And every preparation was made to carry out this determination. The
army was to advance in three divisions, and Prince Eugene was to
lead the vanguard.

His way lay through the mountainous districts of Savoy; but, with
experienced guides to lead them, the dragoons were able to defile
through secret passes unknown to any but the natives, and to arrive
unsuspected upon the frontiers of France.

The peasant that preceded Prince Eugene stopped for a while, and,
raising his arm, pointed onward.

"This is France," said he. "Yonder is Barcelonetta, and the towers
you see beyond are those of the fortress of Guillestre."

Eugene thanked him, and put spurs to his horse. On the frontier he
drew in his rein, surveyed the lovely green plain before him, and
addressed the Prince de Commercy.

"I have kept the promise I made in Hungary," said he.

"I remember it," replied De Commercy. "I had been telling you that,
after hearing of your heroic deeds in the emperor's service, Louvois
had said: 'Let Prince Eugene beware how he attempts to return to
France!' And your reply was this: 'I shall return, but it shall be
sword in hand.'" [Footnote: Historical.--See Armath, "Prince Eugene
of Savoy," vol. i.]

"And we are here--my good sword and I. Nine years ago, I left my
native country, a miserable and despairing youth."

"And you return a great general, and one of the happiest men alive,"
cried De Commercy.

"Ay," murmured Eugene, "one of the happiest men alive!--so happy,
that methinks the contrarieties of life are so many vaporous clouds,
that throw but a passing shadow over the face of heaven, and then
melt into the azure of resplendent day. From my heart I thank
indulgent Destiny for her blessings!"

"Destiny that was mightier than the puny enmity of a Louvois! Well--
we have had our fill of glory in Hungary and Italy. I hope we shall
find a few laurels here in France."

"I hope so," said Eugene, moodily, "though oftentimes I--"

"Why do you hesitate? What do you fear?" asked De Commercy.

"I fear," replied Eugene, lowering his voice, "that we will not be
allowed to pluck laurels that grow on French soil."

"Do you think the French will outnumber us?"

"No," sighed Eugene, "the enemy's numbers give me no uneasiness: I
am afraid of our own weakness. We lack the morale--the will to
conquer."

"Why surely, Eugene, you lack neither," replied De Commercy.

"As if _I_ had any voice in these councils! Were it left with me to
manoeuvre this army, I would lead it to Paris in two weeks. But,
unhappily, you and I are but the instruments of the will of our
superiors. I will not conceal from you, my friend, the impatience
with which I submit to carry out orders against which my judgment
continually rebels; and how weary I am of serving, where I feel that
I ought to command. You know me too well to suspect me of the
meanness of a mere lust for distinction. Had we a true or competent
leader, I would be content to remain where I am, as youngest field-
marshal in the army--in the fifth rank; but--"

"But you consider Victor Amadeus as incapable as Max Emmanuel?"

"Max was not incapable," said Eugene, as though speaking to himself.
"True, he exhibited none of those great qualities which
distinguished him in Hungary; or perhaps he was shrewd enough to
perceive that no amount of generalship could prevail against the
dulness of his German officers, the ill-will of the Spaniards, and
the irresolution of the Duke of Savoy. I believe he concluded to let
things take their course, and cause his own removal. But he, at
least, was honest. He was not casting his eyes about, to see on
which side lay his own interest. His countenance is a true reflex of
his soul--and what he says, he means."

"And by this you wish me to infer that such is not the case with our
present commander-in-chief?" asked De Commercy.

Eugene bent his head in token of assent, and gazed for a moment at
the country which lay before them. "We will capture Barcelonetta,"
said he, "Gillestre, and perhaps Embrun, provided we are too rapid
in our movements for the duke to circumvent us by countermanding
orders. We must strive to make retreat impossible, but we must not
lose sight of Victor Amadeus. We must watch him closely, and be on
our guard against--"

"Against what?" asked De Commercy.

"Against treason," whispered Eugene.

"How! You think it possible that--"

"That while the road to Paris is open before us, we never get
farther than Embrun. Unless we are wary, De Commercy, we shall be
betrayed and sold to the enemy.--But look! Here come our vanguard.
You can indulge your fancy for rural scenery, while I go to receive
them." And Eugene galloped back to his men, who received him with
shouts of enthusiasm.

"My braves," said he, unsheathing his sword, and pointing to the
smiling plains beyond, "my braves, this is France: the enemy's
country, which we are here to conquer!"

The troops responded with a yell that betokened their readiness for
the bloody work.



CHAPTER II.

THE RAVENS.


The men were allowed an hour's rest to feed their horses and prepare
their dinners. Fires were lighted, vivandieres went hither and
thither, wishing that they could multiply themselves to answer the
demands of the hungry soldiers. Here and there were picturesque
groups of men reclining under the trees, some chatting, some
smoking, others singing songs of home.

This bivouac was a pleasant scene to look upon; but its peace was
like the stillness that precedes a storm. A few hours might change
these light-hearted human beings into mangled corpses, and dye this
velvet sward with human blood.

Eugene had dismounted, and, accompanied by one of his staff-
officers, mingled with the merry crowd. Everywhere he was greeted
with demonstrations of affection and contemplated with unmistakable
admiration. Sometimes he paused awhile to chat with the soldiers, of
their families at home; often accepting the bread they offered, and
tasting of the soup that was being distributed by the vivandieres.

Now and then a gruff voice was heard calling out to the "little
Capuchin," as the soldiers were accustomed to designate Eugene,
through fondness. At such times, he smiled, nodded, and, when his
officers would have chided the men for their familiarity, besought
them not to reprove them for a jest so harmless.

"Why do you look so melancholy, lieutenant?" asked he of a young
officer, who, apart from his comrades, was leaning against a tree,
gazing intently in the distance.

The officer appeared to waken from a fit of abstraction, for he gave
a slight start, and removed his cap.

"Are you not pleased at our invasion of France?" asked Eugene.

"Ay, that am I," replied he, with a bitter smile. "I have long hoped
for this invasion, and I thank God that it is at hand."

"You are ambitious to wear the epaulets of a captain, I presume?"

"No, general, no. I care nothing for military finery."

"Why, then, have you longed to march to France?"

"Because I hunger and thirst for French blood. General, I implore
you, give me a body of men, and let me initiate our invasion of
France by giving the French a taste of guerrilla warfare."

"Are you so sanguinary, young man?" asked Eugene, in amazement. "Do
you not know that war itself should be conducted with humanity, and
that we should never forget our common brotherhood with our
enemies!"

"No, general, I know it not, nor do I wish to know it. I know that
the French have left me without kindred, without home, without ties;
and that they have transformed me--a man whose heart once beat with
sympathy and love for all living creatures--into a tiger, that
craves blood, and mocks at suffering."

"Unhappy man!" exclaimed Eugene, sadly. "Then you have suffered
wrong at the hands of the French?"

The young man heaved a convulsive sigh.

"I come from the Palatinate," said he. "My parents' house was fired,
my father murdered, and my mother driven out into the woods, where
she perished. But this is not all. I loved a maiden--a beautiful and
virtuous maiden, to whom I was betrothed. O God! that I should have
lived to see it! General, the name of my betrothed was Marie
Wengelin."

"Marie Wengelin!" echoed Eugene, with a shudder. "I have heard of
her tragic end. It was she that delivered Esslingen, but was--"

"Marie! Marie!" cried Caspar, hiding his face with his hands.

Eugene kindly touched him on the shoulder. "Unfortunate young man,"
said he, "from my soul I pity you, and well I understand your hatred
of the Frenchman."

"Dear general, give me the command of a body of marauders that shall
clear the way for our army. There is many a man in our regiment as
eager for revenge as I; let us be consolidated into one corps, and
where bloody work is to be done, confide it to us."

Eugene thought for a moment, and then replied: "So be it; you shall
have your wish. Select one hundred men, of whom you shall be
captain, and come to me, individually for your orders, reporting
also to myself, and not to my officers. I will give you opportunity
to distinguish yourself, young man; but remember that it is one
thing to be a hero, and another to be a cutthroat. Retaliate upon
the men, but spare the women. If, in every Frenchman, you see a
Melac, look upon every woman as your Marie. Will you promise me
this?"

"I will, general. At last I shall have vengeance, I shall serve my
country, and when my work is done, may God release me from this
fearful earthly bondage!"

"Utter no such sinful wishes. Believe me, there is balm for every
wound; and I, who tell you this, have suffered unspeakably."

"General, my Marie is dead, and died by her own hand."

"She died the death of a heroine. But for you, it is heroism to
live, and so to live that the world may esteem you worthy of having
been loved by Marie Wengelin. Ah! you are no cutthroat. I see it in
the glance of your eye, in the tremor of your lip. You shall have
command of the guerrillas; for you will not be barbarous in your
warfare. What is your name?"

"Caspar Werner."

"Give me your hand, Caspar Werner, and promise me that you will go
through life with the fortitude that becomes a brave man."

Caspar grasped Eugene's extended hand. "Yes, general, I promise. I
will be worthy of my Marie--worthy of your kindness to-day; and from
this hour forth I am yours for life or death."

Eugene gazed admiringly into the handsome face of the trooper. "I
will do all that lies in my power to lessen your troubles, Caspar,
and you shall be under my own special protection. How soon will you
be able to organize your corps?"

"In ten minutes, general."

Eugene shook his head incredulously.

"You will see, general," said Caspar. "We are all prepared, and
awaited nothing but your consent. Now look! The men have just risen
from dinner. Will you allow me to present them now?"

"Certainly. I will wait for them here."

Caspar leaped on his horse, which was close at hand, grazing, and
galloped to the spot where the soldiers had bivouacked. Eugene, who
was now joined by several of his staff, followed his movements with
great interest.

The trooper came so suddenly upon his comrades, that not one of them
had been aware of his approach. They went on chatting and smoking
until, all of a sudden, were heard these few words: "Ravens, to
horse!"

In the twinkling of an eye, every man stood erect. For the second
time, Caspar called out, "Ravens, to horse!" when their hands were
on the bridle, and in less than five minutes they were all mounted.

Before ten minutes had expired, the Ravens had defiled before Prince
Eugene, who contemplated, with a sort of grim satisfaction, their
stalwart forms, their resolute, bronzed faces, and their fiery,
flashing eyes.

He signed to Caspar to approach.

"Gentlemen," said he to his officers, "let me present to you Captain
Werner of the --th. He is in command of an independent corps who
call themselves 'The Ravens,' but in their aspirings emulate the
eagle."

"General," said Caspar, "give the word, and let your Ravens fly."

"You have it," replied Eugene, smiling. "Yonder are the towers of
Barcelonetta. On our march thither are two forts; they would
inconvenience our advance, and must be taken."

"They shall be taken," was the reply, and in a few moments the
Ravens had flown, and were no longer to be seen.

One hour later the vanguard of the imperial army resumed its march.
Nothing checked their advance, for the Ravens had carried every
thing before them. Barcelonetta, terrified at the fate of the two
other forts, held out the white flag; and, by the time Prince Eugene
had arrived, a procession was on its way to deliver into his hands
the keys of the fortress. The clergy, in full canonicals, were at
their head, and after them a troop of young girls dressed in white,
the first of whom presented the keys on a silk cushion, and
petitioned "the great hero" for mercy.

"Oh, my mother!" thought he, as he took the keys, "you the avenged.
The despised abbe has proved to the King of France that he is not a
weakling unworthy of wearing a sword!"

They tarried but a night at Barcelonetta. On the morrow they
captured Guillestre, and set out for Embrun, where they expected to
be joined by the main army.

Embrun resisted for twenty-four hours, but at the end of that time
it fell, and Victor Amadeus took up his headquarters there, while
Eugene marched on to Gab. He had been preceded by the Ravens, who,
in imitation of their enemies, had driven the people from their
houses, and had set fire to whole villages, cutting down all who
offered resistance.

And, while they transformed the beautiful plains of Dauphine into a
waste, and marked their path forward by smoking ruins, they shouted
in the ears of the unhappy fugitives: "Revenge! Revenge for the woes
of Germany!"

"Revenge for the woes of Germany!" cried the Ravens, as they leaped
from their horses to storm the walls of Gab.

But no answer was made to their challenge, for not a soul was there
to give back a defiant word. The gates stood open, the walls were
unguarded, and, when the dragoons entered the town, they found not
one living being whereon to wreak their vengeance. So hasty had been
the flight of the inhabitants that they had left their worldly goods
behind, and their houses looked as though the owners had but just
absented themselves for an hour or so to attend church, or celebrate
some public festival.

The Ravens took possession, and, when Prince Eugene arrived, he
found the Austrian flag waving from the towers, and that of Savoy
streaming above the gates.

"You have done your work quickly," observed he to Caspar.

"There was nothing to do. general," was the reply. "There is not a
living soul of them within the walls. And now, your highness--a
boon!"

"What is it?"

"General, recall to your mind Speier and Worms, and grant us leave
to find our retaliation for their destruction in Gab."

"You say there is not a living soul in Gab? Are there, then, no
women, no children, no superannuated or infirm?"

"General, every house is empty. I found but one living creature in
Gab--a young girl who lay sick in bed--too sick to move."

"Alone? forsaken?"

"Forsaken, general, save by one little dog that had just expired at
the side of her bed, for its body was warm and supple."

"And the poor girl?"

"She was dying."

Eugene's large, questioning eyes were upon Caspar's face, and their
expression was anxious and painful. "Caspar, did you remember your
promise?"

"Yes, general, I did. The maiden asked for water, and I held the cup
to her lips. I seated myself at her bedside, and, while my comrades
sacked the town, I soothed her last moments. When all was over, I
covered her face, and left the house."

Eugene extended his hand. "You acted nobly, Caspar."

"Nay, general," replied Caspar, his eyes filling with tears, "her
name was--Marie!--But now, that I can assure you on my honor that
there is no creature to molest in the town, I once more present the
petition of my men. They ask for permission to destroy Gab."

Eugene pondered for a moment, and then gave his consent. "Let them
do what they choose with the town."

Then, turning to the Prince de Commercy, "I begin to think," said
he, "that I have done injustice to Victor Amadeus. It was he who,
contrary to the opinions of his officers, ordered the advance to
Gab. He will be delighted and surprised to hear that we have
possession of the fortress already, for he was anxious to be with us
at the siege."

"I can believe it: he may well desire the honor of capturing one
stronghold in France, when his cousin has already reduced two.--But
look, Eugene, at yonder courier coming toward us--he seems to be in
haste."

The courier came on, his horse flecked with foam, himself covered
with dust; and, no sooner had he approached within hearing, than he
called in a loud voice for "Field-Marshal, the Prince of Savoy."

An orderly conducted him at once to the prince, to whom he delivered
a package from his highness the Duke of Savoy.

Eugene broke the seals, and began to read. His brows met, and, as he
looked up from the perusal of his dispatches, his face was
expressive of extreme annoyance.

"It is well," said he to the courier. "Say to his highness that we
will obey. Monsieur de Commercy, let us ride together up the
heights, whence we may have a full view of Gab and our troops."

They set their horses in motion, and in a few moments had reached
the summit of the hill. Here Eugene reined in his horse, and
reopened his dispatch.

"Here we are alone, Commercy. Let me read you the letter of my well-
beloved cousin and commander-in-chief:"

"My dear kinsman and distinguished field-marshal: To my unspeakable
regret, I am deprived, by a serious illness, of taking part in the
attack upon Gab. My physicians have ordered me back to Embrun, there
to await the result. These presents will convey to the advance guard
my command to retreat to Embrun until further orders. It is my
intention (unless I succumb before your arrival) to hold a council
of war; and, to this intent, I require the presence of all the
general officers. Hasten, therefore, my dear Eugene, lest you should
find me no longer alive; and believe that, living or dying, I am, as
ever, your devoted kinsman and friend."

(Signed) "'VICTOR AMADEUS, Duke of Savoy.'"

"Do you believe all this?" asked De Commercy.

"Stay till you hear the postscript from his own hand:"

"'My dear cousin: You must pardon my egotistic ambition, if I do not
allow the siege of Gab to be prosecuted without me. I am very
desirous of glory, and perchance your laurels have contributed to my
indisposition. At any rate, before you take a third fortress, I must
have my opportunity of capturing two. So, instead of attacking Gab,
come to Embrun to the relief of"

"'Yours, besieged by illness, V. A.'"

"I repeat my question--do you believe in his illness?"

"And you--do you believe in his ambition?"

"Why not? He avows it openly."

"For which very reason, it has no existence. Victor Amadeus is too
crafty to make such an avowal in good faith. He never says what he
thinks, nor does he ever think what he says. No, no--my poor little
leaflets of laurel would have given him no uneasiness, had they not
been plucked on French soil!--But we must wait and see. The main
point is to retreat to Embrun."

"And Gab? Will you retract your gift of its empty houses to the
Ravens?"

"No. My instructions were not to besiege Gab. It surrendered before
they reached me, and I shall leave it to the soldiery. As for you
and me, we must hasten to Embrun to try to break the seal of my
cousin's impassible countenance, and read a few of his thoughts. Did
I not tell you that we would march no farther than Embrun?"



CHAPTER III.

SICK AND WELL.


The Duke of Savoy had taken up his residence at the castle of
Embrun, where, as soon as the officers had arrived, his highness
called a council of war. They were assembled in the council-chamber,
awaiting the appearance of the invalid.

The doors leading to a room beyond were opened to give passage to a
huge arm-chair on rollers, which was wheeled by four lackeys, to the
centre of the hall. The duke's head reclined on a cushion which had
been fastened for the occasion to the back of the chair: the
remainder of his person was buried under a purple velvet coverlet,
except his neck and arms, which were clothed in a black doublet, the
whole costume being eminently calculated to heighten the pallor of
the duke's cheeks, and increase the whiteness of his hands as they
lay limp and helpless on the velvet covering. His eyes were half-
closed, and as he made a feeble attempt to survey the assemblage
before him, they appeared to open with difficulty. With a faint
motion of the hand, he signed to the lackeys to retire, and then
made a painful effort to raise his head.

Deep silence reigned throughout the council-chamber, but the gaze of
every man there was fixed upon the pallid face of him in whose
trembling hands lay the destinies of four different armies. His dim
eyes wandered slowly about the room until they rested on the person
of Prince Eugene, who, hot and dusty, presented an appearance that
contrasted strongly with that of his brother-officers.

"Our dear kinsman Eugene has arrived, I see," said the duke, in a
faint voice. "We were afraid that we would be obliged to hold this
important council without your presence."

"I hastened with all speed to obey your highness's summons," replied
Eugene, "and I must avail myself of this opportunity to apologize
for my dress. I have just dismounted, and hurried to the council-
chamber that I might myself announce to your highness the good news
of which I am the bearer."

"Let us hear it," murmured the duke, closing his eyes, and letting
his head droop upon the pillow.

"Your highness, we were not obliged to storm Gab: it surrendered
without a shot."

The duke's eyelids moved, and a flush overspread his face. No one
remarked this save Eugene, for all other eyes in the hall were
riveted upon himself.

"This is very good news," said the duke, feebly.

"Your highness sees, then, what a panic is produced by the mere
mention of your name. It is a talisman that will lead us to Paris
without opposition or loss of life. Like Caesar, you come, see, and
conquer--and that--not by your presence, but by your reputation."

"Your highness is too modest," said Victor Amadeus, somewhat
recovering his voice. "I cannot accept the laurels you have so
honorably won. Alas!" continued he, "I fear that I shall never lead
an army into battle again!"

And, as if exhausted by the thought, he fell back and was silent. In
a few moments, he raised his head and spoke: this time with open
eyes, and with some distinctness.

"Gentlemen take your seats. The council is opened."

The great question of the next movement of the army was now to be
agitated. The council were divided in their sentiments. Some were
for rapid advance, others were of opinion that great discretion was
to be exercised, now that they stood on the enemy's territory, and
that not one step should be made without great deliberation as to
its expediency.

At the head of the latter party stood General Caprara. "We have no
right to trust to luck in war," said he. "We must take into
consideration all the mischances that may befall us in the enemy's
country, and act accordingly. Prince Eugene's advance-guard, for
example, had the good luck to find Gab abandoned by its inhabitants.
Had they remained to defend their city, we would have lost our men
to no purpose whatever."

"My advance-guard is composed of young and brave men, who, to avenge
the injuries of Germany, have devoted themselves to death; but they
are so fearless, and therefore so terrible, that I believe they will
live to perform many a gallant deed."

"If they are not hanged as marauders," retorted Caprara; "for my
edicts against plunderers and incendiaries remain in force here as
well as at home."

"Your excellency has, then, changed your mode of warfare since your
soldiery devastated the towns of Hungary," said Eugene.

"Field-Marshal!" cried Caprara, reddening.

"What, your excellency?" asked Eugene, with a provoking smile.

"Gentlemen," interposed the Duke of Savoy, "distract not our
councils with your personal differences. Field-Marshal Caprara, you
are, then, of opinion that it would be perilous for us to advance
farther into the enemy's territory?"

"Yes, your highness," growled Caprara, looking daggers at Eugene. "A
rapid march might give opportunity for the display of personal
prowess, which, while it redounded to the credit of the few, would
imperil the safety of the many."

"I heartily second the views of General Caprara," said General
Legnaney, the leader of the Spanish division. "If we march on, we
leave our base of operations far behind, and render unforeseen
calamities irremediable."

"That is my opinion;" "And mine," cried several voices together, but
among the younger officers there was dissenting silence.

Victor Amadeus gave a long sigh, and, turning his head slowly,
addressed Eugene:

"Field-Marshal, Prince of Savoy, it is your turn to speak."

"I, your highness, am of opinion that we push our conquest with
vigor. All the talent and strength of the French army has been sent
to the Netherlands, and France is, so to speak, at our mercy. We
have no obstacles before us in the shape of men in the field or
garrisoned strongholds. As we captured Barcelonetta, Guillestre, and
Gab, so will we capture every place that lies on our march. There is
absolutely nothing of the proportions of a mole-hill to prevent us
from going as far as Grenoble--nay, as far as Lyons."

"The Prince of Savoy has spoken like a sagacious general," said the
Prince de Commercy. "Nothing prevents us from marching to Lyons."

"I sustain his views," added the Duke of Schomberg. "We must
advance. Let us promise protection to the Waldenses, and so foment
civil discord among the enemy. To create disaffection in the enemy's
country is good policy--and it is a policy that will bear us on to
Paris."

"We are of the same mind," said the other officers, who had kept
silence.

And now ensued another pause. The casting vote on this momentous
question was to be given by Victor Amadeus. He had recovered his
strength in a wonderful manner, for his face had lost its pallor,
his eyes their dimness, and his whole countenance beamed with
resolution.

"Gentlemen," cried he, as, in his excitement, he rose from his
chair, "to youth belong fame and conquest; to youth belongs the
strength that casts away impediments, and overleaps all hindrances
to success. Forgive us, who, being young, thirst for glory, and long
to quench that thirst in the sparkling waters of military success.
Forgive me, you who are satiated with ambition gratified, if, rather
than be discreet with you, I would be rash with my young kinsman. I
am of Prince Eugene's opinion. Nothing hinders our march to
Grenoble. I am impatient--"

Suddenly he paused, and grasped the arms of the chair. A shudder
pervaded his whole body, and, with a convulsive gasp, he fell hack,
apparently insensible.

The assembly broke up in confusion. Physicians were summoned, and,
at their bidding, the duke was slowly borne back into his chamber.
His head was enveloped in damp cloths, his temples were rubbed with
stimulants, and, after various restoratives had been applied, he
slowly opened his eyes, and looked bewildered about him. Nobody was
near except Doctor Mirazzi. The other physicians had retired to the
embrasure of a bay-window, and the lackeys had gathered about the
door, where they were awaiting further orders from their superiors.
All this the duke had seen at a glance. He closed his eyes again,
but, as he did so, he made a sign to Doctor Mirazzi.

The latter bent his head to listen, but in such a manner as to
convey the idea that he was watching his patient's fluttering
breath.

"Dismiss them all," whispered the sick man.

The doctor gave no ostensible sign of having heard. He still kept
his ear to the patient's mouth; then, after a while, he placed it
close to his heart. The examination at an end, he went on tiptoes
toward the window where his colleagues were standing.

"He sleeps," whispered he. "When he awakes, his malady will probably
declare itself. I will remain here to watch him; it is unnecessary
for you to confine yourselves with me in this close sick-room. Will
you oblige me by returning this evening for a consultation?"

"Certainly," was the reply of the others, who were grateful to be
relieved from duty. "Shall we appoint seven o'clock?"

"Yes," answered Mirazzi; "and we will hold our consultation in the
duke's sitting-room. Our presence, here might be prejudicial."

And, with injunctions for silence, the doctor accompanied his
colleagues to the door, which was noiselessly opened by the lackeys;
but, before they had time to close it again, Mirazzi shut it with
his own hands, loosening simultaneously a thick velvet portiere,
through whose heavy folds no sound could penetrate without.

Victor Amadeus, meanwhile, lay motionless in his arm-chair.

"Your highness." said Mirazzi, "we are now safe and alone."

The duke arose, kicked off his coverlet, and stood erect. "My dear
doctor," said he, "you must prove to me that I may trust you."

"For thirty years I have served your royal highness's family, and I
am ready to do so, be it with my life," replied Mirazzi.

"I believe you, Mirazzi; and therefore I, who am insincere toward
everybody else, am honest in my intercourse with you. Now listen to
me. In the science of medicine there are many remedies for diseases.
Are there any potions, known to physicians, that have power to
PRODUCE maladies?"

"That is a dangerous inquiry, your highness; for it regards the most
tragic secrets of the craft. There are many, many things known to us
that will produce sickness, followed by death, immediate or remote;
but unfortunately there are not as many as you suppose, that will
restore the vital energies where they are impaired by disease."

"But, doctor, surely you have some way of simulating disease without
injuring the patient. Cutaneous maladies, for instance, must be very
easily induced."

"They can more easily be induced than simulated. I can raise a
scarlet eruption on a man's skin; but when it appears, it will bring
with it fever and thirst."

"So much the better, so much the better!" exclaimed Victor Amadeus,
eagerly. "How long will the symptoms last?"

"If proper remedies are administered, they will disappear in five or
six days, your highness."

"Good, good," murmured the duke to himself; and then he began to
pace forth and back the length of the apartment. After a while he
came and stood directly in front of the doctor, who with his sharp
eyes had been watching him as he walked, and perfectly apprehended
the nature of the service he was expected to render to his
distinguished patient.

"Doctor," said the sick man, "I feel the premonition of some serious
illness. My head swims, my limbs ache, and cold chills are darting
through my body. My fever will be high, and perchance I may grow
delirious. Let me then use the rational interval left me, to make
such dispositions as might be necessary in case of my demise."

"Then let me advise your highness to get to bed as speedily as
possible," replied the doctor, solemnly. "This done, I will call in
our consulting physicians--"

"By no means: I hate consultations. Nobody shall come into my room
but yourself, and, when you need the advice of your coadjutors, you
must assemble them in some other part of the castle."

"I thank your highness for so signal a proof of confidence," said
Mirazzi, "but I am not at liberty to assume the undivided
responsibility of your nursing; for you may become really sick, and
you must have all needful attention. Were we in Turin, her highness
your noble spouse would suffer no one to attend you except herself;
but here--"

"Here she shall not come; and to make sure of this fact, I will
write her a letter in my own hand that will allay any anxiety she
might feel on my account. Write yourself to the duchess, and ask her
to send my old nurse--her that has always tended me in sickness. But
I feel very ill, doctor. Call my valet to undress me. When I am
comfortably arranged in bed, I will send for my secretary, and
afterward for my staff-officers. They must receive their orders from
me, before I lose my senses."

"To bed, to bed, your highness--that is the main thing!"

"Yes, that is the main thing," echoed the duke, falling into his
arm-chair, and drawing up his velvet coverlet. "Now, doctor," added
he, in a very faint voice, "call my valets, or I shall swoon before
they get me to bed."



CHAPTER IV.

THE DUKE'S DANGEROUS ILLNESS.


The news of the duke's terrible illness spread through the castle,
over the town, and reached the barracks of the soldiers, who, like
their officers, received the intelligence with blank looks of
disappointment.

The staff-officers hastened to the castle, and some of them made
attempts to penetrate the sick-chamber. But all in vain. Doctor
Mirazzi's orders were stringent, and the nerves of his patient were
not to be tried by the presence of any man, were that man his own
brother.

"We can determine nothing, nor can we administer any remedies," said
he, "until the malady declares itself. We must wait."

"We must wait," said the duke's physician, and the whole army was
doomed to inaction, while urgent and more urgent grew the necessity
for active operations.

Throughout the castle reigned profound stillness: not the least
sound was permitted to reach the duke's ears. The officers that
called were kept at a distance from his apartments, and to all their
inquiries there was but one and the same reply--the duke was
delirious, and incapable of giving orders.

Finally, after three days of mortal suspense, it was announced that
his highness of Savoy had malignant scarlet fever.

During the four days that followed this announcement, nobody was
allowed to enter the room except Doctor Mirazzi, and the old nurse
that sat up with the duke at night. But, on the fifth day, two
persons were admitted. Of these, one was the marshal of the duke's
household, the other was his cousin Eugene.

They were received with mysterious whisperings, and were warned not
to excite the patient. He had, in the incipiency of his illness,
insisted upon making his will, and these two confidential friends
had been summoned to witness it.

The old nurse now joined them to say that his highness was awake,
and would see Prince Eugene.

"My dear cousin," said the duke, languidly, "come and receive my
last greeting."

Eugene entered the alcove, and stood at the bedside. The bed was
curtained in purple velvet, and the hangings were so arranged as to
leave the duke's face in obscurity. Eugene perceived, nevertheless,
that there was no emaciation of features, nor any alteration in the
expression of the sharp, restless eye.

"My dear kinsman," continued the invalid, "it is all over with me. I
die without fame; I have fought my last battle and am vanquished by
invincible death."

"No, your highness, you have not the aspect of a dying man; and I
have strong hope that you will live to perform great deeds yet.
Young, wise, and brave as you are, your strong will may vanquish not
only death, but our common enemy--the King of France."

"May your words prove prophetic!" sighed the duke, "but something
tells me that I must prepare for the worst. I have made my will,
and--"

He paused, gasped for breath, and closed his eyes. Then motioning to
Eugene to come nearer, he whispered: "I have appointed you my
executor until the majority of my heir. Promise me to do all in your
power to make my subjects happy."

"Your royal highness amazes me, and I know not--"

He was interrupted by a loud groan which brought Doctor Mirazzi to
the bed in a trice. The duke was trembling; his teeth were clinched,
and his hands were pressed upon his temples.

Restoratives were used, and at the proper time the patient unclosed
his eyes. With a great effort he raised himself in bed, beckoned to
the marshal of the household to approach, and, supported by Mirazzi,
he put his name to the will.

"I request my minister and the marshal of my household to approach
and witness the signing of my will."

They came in, and, taking up a document which lay on a table close
by, the duke raised himself in bed, and, supported by the doctor,
gave his signature.

"Take it," said he, "to Turin. Place it in the archives, and when I
am dead let it be opened in the presence of the duchess and of my
well-beloved kinsman here present, the Prince of Savoy. And now,"
said he, "farewell. My strength is exhausted! The end is nigh!"

And with these faintly-articulated words, Victor Amadeus fell back
upon his pillow and swooned.

Eugene returned to his quarters in a state of extreme perplexity.

"How is the duke?" cried De Commercy, who shared his lodgings.

"I do not know," said Eugene, moodily. "But this I know. we march,
not to Grenoble, but back to Turin."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; such are the duke's latest orders, and, as he has appointed no
one to represent him, the army is still under his sole control. I
told you, we should get no farther than Embrun!"

"But the duke? It is not possible that he is acting the sick man all
this while?"

"Not possible! Nothing is impossible to such a crafty, vulpine
nature as his!"

"The bulletins say that he is attacked with scarlet fever, and you
must have seen whether he bears its marks on his skin or not."

"He has them, but--this shrewd kinsman of mine has many a secret
unknown to such as you and myself, Commercy. Perhaps I do him
injustice; for, in good sooth, I am provoked, and in a humor to
suspect everybody. His voice is very weak, and indeed, Commercy, I
would feel very uncomfortable should he prove to me, by dying, that
I have suspected him unjustly. I must go again; I MUST satisfy my
doubts."

The duke's condition was declared to be so precarious that sentries
were stationed at every entrance of the castle, to prevent so much
as the lightest footstep from being heard by the noble patient. He
was passing a crisis, and, during the transition, not a soul must be
admitted within the castle gates.

Prince Eugene, nevertheless, at dusk, betook himself thitherward.
The sentry saluted him, but barred the entrance.

"You do not know me," said the prince. "I am the duke's nearest
kinsman, and, unless you have orders to exclude me personally, I
have the entrance to his chamber."

"We have no orders with reference to your highness," was the reply.

"Then I must pass, and I shoulder the responsibility."

The officer signed to the sentry to stand aside, and Eugene entered
the castle, crossed the tessellated vestibule, and ascended the wide
marble staircase. Here he was stopped a second time, but he referred
the guards to the officer below, and was again allowed to pass. "I
must try to solve this riddle," thought he. "The emperor's interests
hang upon the solution. Luckily, I have a pretext for my unexpected
visit in these dispatches."

He had now traversed the long, lofty hall; had entered a smaller one
that led to the duke's antechamber, and had reached the opposite end
of the room, where stood two more sentries, one before each door
that opened into the duke's chamber. They had seen him in the
morning, and taking it for granted that, having penetrated thus far,
he had authority to go farther, they saluted him, and stepped aside.

Eugene whispered, "Is this the door by which I entered this
morning?"

The sentry bowed.

"Whither does it lead?"

"To his royal highness's alcove, my lord."

"Right," said Eugene, laying his hand on the lock. It turned, and he
was in a small recess which opened into the alcove. The portiere was
down, and Eugene stood irresolute before it. He felt a nervous dread
of he knew not what, and almost resolved to retrace his steps. He
thought he could not bear the shock of the duke's treachery, should
the illness prove--as he feared it would--a sham. He wondered what
he would do; and began to think it better not to penetrate into the
secrets of his kinsman's acts, but--

No, no! He had gone too far to lose his opportunity, and, ashamed of
his irresolution, he raised the portiere. The alcove was darkened by
draperies, but as soon as Eugene's eyes had accustomed themselves to
the obscurity of the place, he drew near the bed, opened the
curtains, and beheld--nobody! nothing!

"I was right," muttered he, grinding his teeth; "it was a comedy!"
As he retreated, he stumbled against the little table, and the chink
of the phials that stood upon it was audible.

"Is that you, my good Annetta?" said the voice of the duke.

Eugene emerged from the alcove, and entered the sitting-room. There,
in an arm-chair, before a table laden with viands, fruits, and rare
wines, sat the expiring patient that had made his will in the
morning.

The duke was in the act of raising a glass of wine to his lips. He
laid it hastily down, and his keen eyes darted fire at the intruder.

"What means this?" asked he, in a voice that was somewhat uncertain.

"If I may be permitted to interpret what I see before me," replied
Eugene, "I should say that your highness is merely carrying out
military customs. We were at a funeral this morning, to the tune of
a dead march--we return, this afternoon, to that of a quick-step."

"I hope you are agreeably surprised to find that instead of being
left behind, I have come back with the music," said the duke,
recovering his self-possession. "Come and join me in a glass of good
wine. I am as yet too weak to do the honors of my house, but I shall
enjoy my repast twofold, now that I have a guest. Sit down. My
physician, having ascertained that what I mistook for approaching
dissolution was a favorable crisis, has prescribed a generous diet
for me, and I do assure you that, with every mouthful, I feel my
health return. Ah, Eugene! life is a great boon, and I thank God,
who has generously prolonged mine. I hope that you, too, are glad to
see me revive; the army, I know, will rejoice to hear of my
recovery."

"I do not doubt their joy," replied Eugene, "for your highness's
quick convalescence will spare them the mortification of a retreat
to Piedmont. I presume you will now march to Paris."

"My fiery, impetuous Eugene," replied Victor Amadeus, with an air of
superiority, "you forget that convalescence is not health. I am here
for three weeks at least, and by that time the season will be too
much advanced to make a second invasion of France. So, God willing,
we shall return to Piedmont, there to prosecute the war against
Catinat and his incendiaries, whom I hope to drive ignominiously
from Italy."

"That is--we are to hold ourselves on the defensive," replied
Eugene, bitterly. "Your highness is truly magnanimous! All France
lies within your grasp, and, instead of taking advantage of your
good fortune, you lay it humbly at the feet of Louis. We have it in
our power to dictate terms, while this retreat exposes us to have
them dictated to ourselves."

"Field-marshal," said the duke, haughtily, "you forget that you
speak to your commander-in-chief."

"Yes--to remember that I speak to the Duke of Savoy--"

"With the head of your house," interrupted the duke, "to whom you
owe respect."

"I accord it with all my heart. Precisely because the Duke of Savoy
is the chief of our house, do I implore him not to turn his back
upon the road which lies open to fame and renown, but to advance
bravely to the front, as becomes the friend and ally of the
emperor."

Victor Amadeus put his hand up to his head. "Excuse me--I am not
equal to the holding of a council of war, nor do I intend to have my
commands discussed. We go back to Piedmont."

"Then I must submit," said Eugene, mournfully. "But I crave
permission to ask one question of my kinsman."

"Say on," answered the duke, wearily.

"Does your highness propose to desert the cause of the emperor, and
renew your alliance with France? Ah, you smile! You smile to think
that I should be so unpractised in the art of diplomacy, as to
expect a direct answer to such an inquiry. But I entreat you to
remember, that your defection concerns not only your honor but mine
also."

"My dear Eugene," said the duke, mildly, "you are anxious without
any grounds for anxiety. At your solicitation, and from my own
convictions of duty, I became the ally of the emperor; I have never
reaped any advantage from the alliance, and yet I have remained
perfectly loyal. France has made me many offers, every one of which
I have rejected. So, make yourself easy on the score of my good
faith, and let us change the subject. To what chance do I owe the
pleasant surprise of this visit from you?"

"I have the honor to bring letters to your royal highness from the
emperor," answered Eugene, presenting his dispatches. "I owe it to
my relationship with your highness, that I was allowed by your
sentries to effect my entrance here."

"Of course, of course. Everybody knows in what high esteem I hold
Prince Eugene. Verily I believe you to be the most popular man in
the army, and your brown cassock to inspire more respect than my
field-marshal's uniform. And now to study the emperor's letter. I
say study, for his majesty will write to me in Latin, and I am no
great scholar."

"While your highness is occupied," said Eugene, rising, "I will
retire to the window." He crossed the room, and, entering the
embrasure, was completely lost to view behind its hangings.

There was a silence of some duration. The duke studied his Latin,
while Eugene looked out of the window. Suddenly, without any
previous formality of knocking, the door leading to the antechamber
flew open, and the voice of the old nurse was heard.

"Your highness," said she, as though communicating a most agreeable
piece of news, "your highness, here is the French ambassador. I--"

"Peace, Annetta, peace!" cried Victor Amadeus. But Annetta was too
much interested to hear, and she went on with great volubility:

"Here he is; I passed him through. Everybody mistook him for Prince
Eugene--"

"Annetta, hold your tongue!" cried the duke, in a thundering voice.

"Ay, your highness, ay," was the reply of the old woman, who,
stepping back, opened the door and called out:

"Count Tesse, his highness expects you; come in."

And, to be sure, there walked in a gentleman wearing the identical
brown cassock, with its brass buttons, which was known as the
costume of Prince Eugene of Savoy!

Victor Amadeus, in despair, sprang from his chair, and made a
deprecatory movement by which he hoped to prevail upon the count to
retreat. But he only looked bewildered; and his bewilderment
increased to positive consternation, when the curtains opened, and
the veritable Eugene stepped out and surveyed him with undisguised
contempt.

"My dear Eugene," said the duke, in a conciliatory voice, "you see
how pertinaciously I am besieged by these Frenchmen. Here, for
instance, is Count Tesse. This is his third attempt to force an
interview with me, and he has gained his end by bribing my silly old
nurse to admit him under the garb of one to whom no one here would
dare deny entrance. Count Tesse is an envoy of the King of France,
and in your presence I intend to show him that no offer, however
brilliant, can induce me to forsake my imperial ally of Austria."

"I am perfectly convinced of your loyalty," said Eugene, with an
ironical smile, "and, to prove my trust, I beg permission to
withdraw. I have the honor to bid you good-evening."

So saying, Eugene inclined his head to the duke, and, paying no
attention whatever to his double, passed on.

With a saddened heart he returned to his barracks. He was met by the
Prince de Commercy, holding aloft a huge placard. "The bulletin! The
bulletin!" cried he. "The crisis is past, and the duke is safe."

"We, however, my friend, are in great danger. We are not driven from
French territory by our enemies, but by our pretended friends. Ah!
Victor Amadeus has this day inflicted upon me a wound more painful
than that of the Janizary's arrow at Belgrade. He has withered my
laurels at the very moment when my hand was extended to pluck them."

"Then he abandons us, and declares himself for France?" asked De
Commerey.

"If that were all, we could bear his defection, for we would have
one enemy more--that is all. Instead of which, we have a double-
faced friend who will have far more power to injure us by his
treachery in our own camp, than by his hostility in that of the
enemy. I will warn the emperor, as it is my duty to do; but he will
be dazzled by the fine promises of the duke, and disregard my
warning. [Footnote: Every thing happened exactly as Eugene
predicted. The Duke of Savoy retained command of the imperial army
for three years, during which he played into the hands of Louis
XIV., condemning the allied forces to total inaction, until France
had complied with all his exactions, when he declared himself for
Louis, and accepted the rank of a general in the French army. The
Prince de Commercy was so exasperated that he challenged the duke,
but the challenge was refused.] Meanwhile, as long as Victor Amadeus
wears his mask, should we even wrest a victory in spite of his
intrigues, he will manage to deprive us of all its advantages. He
will sell us to France, of that you may be sure."



CHAPTER V.

THE MARQUIS STROZZI.


"Then you think that Strozzi will not recognize me?" asked
Barbesieur de Louvois.

"I know it," replied Carlotta. "His memory is a blank from which
every image, except that of his wife, has been effaced."

"Does he love her still?"

"Unhappily he does," sighed Carlotta.

"My good girl," said Barbesieur, trying to look amiable, "pray don't
be so concise. Tell me the condition of the marquis, at once: I did
not come to this old owl's roost for pastime. I came to see what
could be done to restore its unhappy lord to reason. That you are
observing, I remember; you proved it by the good care you took of my
sister Laura."

"My lord, you jest; but the flight of the marchioness has disgraced
me. She outwitted me, and I shall hate her to the end of my days."

"Verily I believe you," laughed Barbesieur, as he saw the glitter of
her pale-green eyes. "I see in your face that you know how to hate.
But you must excuse me if I am amused when I think I see you
watching the doors like a she-Cerberus, while that sly creature was
flying out of the chimney. But never mind her: I want to talk with
you of her husband. I know that he was confined in a mad-house; but,
having occasion to see if he was sane enough to do me a service, I
found out that he had been discharged as cured, and had retired
within himself. Now, good Carlotta, tell me his veritable
condition."

"He never has been sane since the flight of the marchioness. The
morning after, when, in spite of our knocking and calling, we
received no answer, I set Julia to watch the doors (for I thought
she was merely trying to frighten us, and would make her escape
while we were away), and went to consult the marquis as to what we
must do. When we returned, Julia assured us that she had not heard a
breath since I had been away."

"And I suppose that the marquis forced the doors?"

"Oh, no, my lord," replied Carlotta, bitterly. "He was so fearful of
displeasing her that he resisted all my importunities to break them
open. He knocked and begged so humbly for admission, that I fairly
cried with rage. This lasted for hours. Finally he fell on his knees
and cried like a child, promising, if she would open the door, to
give her her freedom, and never imprison her again. Then he swore by
the memory of his father that he would go to Rome and get a divorce
for her. It was shameful; and at last I cried out for passion, and
told him to get up and behave like a man. But all in vain. Suddenly
Julia came running to say that, while the marquis had been lying
before the parlor door, she had forced the one that led to the
sitting-room, and that the marchioness had escaped."

"What did Strozzi do when he heard this? Whine louder?"

"Oh, no! He sprang up, rushed into the rooms, and began to search
for her."

"I suppose you helped, like good dogs after their game?"

"Of course, for it seemed impossible that she should have gotten out
by any but supernatural means. But at last we were obliged to accept
the fact of her flight, wonderful as it was, and we sat down. Not so
the marquis. He appeared to think that she had been transformed into
a mouse, for he ran about, opening boxes, looking under tables,
occasionally stopping to roar like a wild beast, or falling on his
knees and weeping. Then he would begin his hunt again, and this
lasted the whole day. We asked him to take some rest, and let his
servants be sent out to search the woods, but he gave us no answer,
still going round and round until dusk, when he called for lights.
He kept up his search the whole night; and when the sun rose, and we
awoke, we found him running to and fro, from one room to the other.
In vain we pressed him to eat or to rest, he spoke not a word to any
of us. Finally, one of the men laid hands on him to force him to sit
down, when he drew back and struck him with such force that the
blood spirted from his face, as he fell full length on the floor.
The marquis went on in this manner for a week, each day growing
paler and feebler, until at last he staggered like a drunken man."

"Unhappy lover!" exclaimed Barbesieur, with a shrug.

"Finally, the physician we had sent for came from Turin. By this
time the marquis had fallen from exhaustion, and lay asleep. He was
lifted to bed, and four men were set to watch him; for the doctor
expected him to be violent when he waked. And so he was. He tried to
leap out of bed, and was finally bound hand and foot. After a while,
came his cousin from Venice, who took charge of him and of his
property."

"Yes, to my cost," growled Barbesieur. "for he swindled me out of my
pension."

"The Marquis Balbi-Strozzi inherits the estate, if the Marquis
Ottario dies without heirs," said Carlotta.

"The Marquis Ottario will not be such an ass as to die without
heirs," cried Barbesieur, impatiently. "He shall be reconciled to
his wife, or he shall marry some other woman, and beget children.
The devil! He is a young man, and nobody dies of love, nowadays."

"He looks like a man of eighty," said Carlotta.

"He is much changed, then?"

"You would not know him, my lord."

"Perhaps not, but he will recover his youth with his health. What
does he do all day, Carlotta? What does he say?"

"My lord, he says nothing, except an occasional word to his valet.
As for what he does, he is forever shut up in his laboratory."

"Laboratory? What sort of a laboratory?"

"A room which, immediately after his return, he had fitted up like a
great kitchen. When the alterations had been made, he went to Turin,
and came home with the entire contents of an apothecary shop, with
which the shelves of his laboratory are filled. I helped him to
place his jars and phials, but much against my will, for he calls me
ugly names."

Barbesieur laughed. "Do tell me what he calls you?"

"My lord, you may laugh, but you would not like to answer to the
name of 'Basilisk.'"

"To be sure, 'Floweret' would be much more appropriate to your style
of beauty, Carlotta; but let that pass, and go on with your
narrative. What is Strozzi about, in this laboratory?"

"How do I know, my lord? He cooks and evaporates his messes; then
runs to his table and reads in some mouldy old parchments; then
hurries back to the chimney and stirs his pipkins--then back to the
table--and so on, all day long."

"But, my angelic Carlotta, if nobody is allowed to enter the
laboratory, how came you to be so admirably posted as to Strozzi's
movements?"

Carlotta looked perplexed. "My lord, there is a little hole in the
door that leads out to the corridor, and sometimes I have thought it
but right to watch our dear lord, that he might do himself no harm."

"Which means that you bored a hole in the door by way of
observatory. Nay--do not deny it; I respect your thirst for
knowledge. Does he never leave his laboratory?"

"Oh, yes, my lord. He writes a great deal in his cabinet. All his
orders are transmitted in that way. Last week the steward made a
mistake in his accounts--"

"To his own prejudice?"

"My lord," said Carlotta, with a hoarse laugh, "no, to that of the
marquis. When he discovered it, he wrote underneath, 'Two thousand
florins unaccounted for. If this occurs a second time, you are
discharged.'"

"Good, good!" cried Barbesieur. "Then he is returning to his senses.
He receives no company?" added he.

"How should he? He knows nobody, and has forgotten every thing
connected with his past life."

"But you told me that he still remembered the marchioness?"

"As for her, my lord, he loves her as madly as ever. He stands
before her portrait, weeping by the hour, and the table is always
set for two persons. Every morning he goes into the garden and makes
a bouquet, which, he lays upon her plate before he takes his seat."

"Poor Strozzi! Sane or mad, he will always be a dreamer!" said
Barbesieur. "Where is he now?"

"In the garden, my lord; for it is almost the hour for dinner, and
he is in the conservatory gathering flowers for the empty plate."

"Show me the way. I am curious to know whether he has forgotten his
brother-in-law and benefactor."



CHAPTER VI.

INSANITY AND REVENGE.


Barbesieur followed Carlotta to the garden. They were walking
silently down the great avenue that led to the conservatory, when,
at some distance, they beheld advancing toward them the figure of a
man. His step was feeble and slow; his black garments hung loosely
about his shrunken limbs; his face was bloodless, like that of a
corpse, his cheeks hollow, his large eyes so sunken that their light
seemed to come from the depths of a cavern. His sparse hair, lightly
blown about by the wind, was white as snow; his long, thin beard was
of the same hue.

"Who is that strange-looking old man?" asked Barbesieur.

"That, my lord, is the Marquis Strozzi!"

"Impossible!" cried Barbesieur, with a start.

"I told you. my lord, that he looked like a decrepit old man," said
Carlotta.

"And truly he is not a very seductive-looking personage," answered
Barbesieur. "But we must try if, in this extinguished crater, there
be not a spark by which its fire may be rekindled. Leave me,
Carlotta. I must have no third person here to divert Strozzi's
attention from myself."

"Shall I not announce you, my lord?" asked Carlotta, who was dying
of curiosity to see the meeting.

"Not at all, my angel. Go back to the castle--not by that winding
path, if you please, but by this wide avenue. And--be alert in your
movements, for I shall watch you until yonder door closes upon your
youthful charms, and hides them from my sight."

Carlotta looked venomous, but dared not tarry, and Barbesieur
followed her with his eyes until he heard the clang of the ponderous
castle-door behind her. He then confronted the living spectre that,
by this time, was within a few feet of him.

"God's greeting to you, brother-in-law," cried he, in a loud,
emphatic voice, while he grasped Strozzi's poor, wan hands, and held
them within his own.

The marquis raised his dark, blank eyes, then let them fall again
upon the bouquet which Barbesieur had so unceremoniously crushed.

"Sir," said he, gently, "do release my hand, for see--you are
bruising my flowers."

"Sure enough, he does not recognize me," said Barbesieur, relaxing
his hold; while Strozzi, unmindful of his presence, caressed his
flowers, and smoothed their crumpled leaves.

"She loves flowers," murmured the poor maniac.

Barbesieur took up the words. "Yes," said he, "yes; my sister Laura
loves flowers. Pity she is not here to see them."

The marquis shivered. "Who speaks of my Laura?" said he.

"I,--I, her brother," bawled Barbesieur, looking straight into
Strozzi's eyes. "I spoke of her, and, by G-d, I have a right to call
her, for I am her brother Barbesieur!"

Strozzi extended his hand, and an imbecile smile flitted over his
ghastly face. "Ah! then, you love her?" asked he, mournfully.

"Of course I love her," was the lying response. "You remember--do
you not--that you were indebted to me for your marriage with Laura
Bonaletta?"

"Bonaletta!" screamed Strozzi. "There is no Laura Bonaletta; her
name is Laura Strozzi, the Marchioness Strozzi, my wife! Remember
that, sir--remember it."

"To be sure, to be sure," murmured Barbesieur; "he has forgotten
everybody but that tiresome Laura. Let us see if we cannot stir up
his memory to another tune."

Strozzi meanwhile had passed on, and, with his eyes fixed on his
flowers, was slowly making his way to the castle. Barbesieur
followed, though the poor lunatic seemed to have no consciousness of
his presence. They walked on together in silence, until they had
reached the castle, and entered the dining-room, where dinner was
served.

Strozzi went up to the table, laid his offering on the plate, and
bowed:

"Will you allow me to take my seat?" said he, humbly, while he took
a chair opposite, which old Martino had drawn back for his
accommodation.

"Do you see, my lord?" said Martino to Barbesieur; "he imagines the
marchioness present at all his meals."

"He must be undeceived," said Barbesieur, roughly.

"I beseech you, signor," said the old man, "leave him in error; for,
if you undeceive him, you will rob him of the only glimpse of
happiness that remains to him."

"I shall make the attempt, nevertheless," replied Barbesieur, in a
tone that admitted of no further remonstrance, while he advanced to
the table, and seated himself in the empty chair.

The marquis started, and his brow darkened. "Sir," said he, "that is
the head of the table--the place of the Marchioness Strozzi."

"I know it," was the reply, "and, as soon as she makes her
appearance, I will give it up.--Martino, serve the soup; I am
hungry." So saying, he tossed the bouquet to the valet, and poured
out some wine.

At this, Strozzi sprang up, and, staring at Barbesieur, with eyes
that glowed like the orbs of a wild animal--"Sir," exclaimed he,
"you are an insolent intruder!"

"I know it," cried Barbesieur--"and what next?"

The marquis gazed in bewilderment at the threatening face of his
self-invited guest, and then, slowly turning around, prepared to
leave the room. Barbesieur rose and followed him.

At the door of his cabinet he stopped and cried out:

"Let the marshal of the household see to it that no one intrudes
upon my privacy!"

And, with a gesture of offended dignity, he entered the room.
Barbesieur, however, was immediately behind him, and they had no
sooner crossed the threshold than he locked the door, and put the
key in his pocket.

"Now, I have him," thought he, "and I shall begin my experiments."

"Sir," said Strozzi, alarmed, "why do you persecute me?"

"I want you to say if you know me," answered Barbesieur, dominating
the madman with the calm, powerful glance of reason.

Strozzi shook his head, murmuring, "No, sir, no. I do not know you."

"But I know YOU, Strozzi, my good fellow. You are my beloved
brother-in-law, the husband of my sister Laura, who forsook you so
shamefully, because she did not love you."

The shaft had pierced. A gleam of returning reason shot athwart
Strozzi's face, and a faint color rose to his cheek.

"Not love me!" echoed he, tearfully; "whom, then, does she love?"

Barbesieur laid the weight of his great hands upon Strozzi's
shoulders, and looked steadfastly in his eyes. Raising his voice to
the utmost, he shouted: "I will tell you whom she loves, and mark me
well, Strozzi. She loves Prince Eugene of Savoy!"

"Eugene of Savoy!" shrieked the wretched creature. "Eugene of Savoy!
Ah, yes, I remember. I hate him, and he must die!"

"Ay, that's it!" cried Barbesieur, cheerily, "that's it. He must
die; and when he is dead, Laura will love the Marquis de Strozzi."

"You think so?" asked Strozzi, laying his tremulous hand upon
Barbesieur's, great firm arm.

"I know it. The very moment Prince Eugene dies, Laura's heart is
yours."

"He must die! He must die!" murmured Strozzi, clasping his
attenuated fingers, and looking imploringly into Barbesieur's face.

"Ay, that must he, and you are the man that shall take his life.
Your honor demands it of you."

"Yes, my honor," repeated Strozzi, "my honor. I thank you, sir, for
your goodness to me. You are the first person that ever advised me
to avenge myself on Eugene of Savoy. You are the only person that
ever advised me to take his life, and I believe you, and trust you.
Yes, sir, take my word for it, Eugene of Savoy shall die!"

"How will you go about it?" asked Barbesieur.

An expression of cunning was seen to steal over the face of the
madman, as he replied, "That is my secret, sir."

"I will tell you how to make an end of him," cried Barbesieur,
patting him on the shoulder. "Poison him!"

Strozzi gazed with astonishment at his brother-in-law, and forthwith
conceived a profound respect for his cleverness. "Did you know
that?" said he, with a silly smile. "Did you know that I meant to
poison him?"

"To be sure I did, and I came here to work with you in your
laboratory, until we concoct the right dose for him."

"Did you know that I had a laboratory?" asked Strozzi, in a whisper.
"And did you know that I was trying to find a brave, beautiful
poison that would kill him like a pistol-shot, or a good stab under
the ribs?"

"I knew it all, and I came to help you."

"I thank you, sir, I thank you! Give me your hand. I take you for my
friend, and trust you. Come with me to my laboratory."

So saying, he passed his arm within that of his brother-in-law, and
led him to the opposite end of the room. Barbesieur laid his hand on
the bolt, but the door was locked.

"You see," said Strozzi, waxing confidential, "I keep this door
always locked, for let me tell you, my dear friend, that Eugene of
Savoy has surrounded my castle with a regiment of dragoons, who are
his spies. That is the reason why I never talk to anybody--I am so
afraid that my people will betray me to Prince Eugene's dragoons.
Luckily, they have never found out the secret of my laboratory, for
I always carry the key in my pocket. Here it is." He took out his
key and unlocked the door, but before opening it he addressed
Barbesieur in a solemn whisper:

"My dear friend, before you enter my sanctuary, swear to me, by the
memory of my dear departed wife, that you will not betray its
secrets to Prince Eugene's dragoons."

"I swear, my dear Strozzi, by sun, moon, and stars--"

Strozzi shook his head, and folded his hands reverently. "No, no;
swear by the memory of my sainted Laura."

Barbesieur swore, and the door was opened.

"Come in," said Strozzi.

"And may all the gods of vengeance bless my entrance hither!"
muttered Barbesieur, between his teeth.

The room was as Carlotta had described it. Its long shelves were
filled with jars and phials, and over the chimney was a wide mantel,
with porcelain pipkins, retorts, glass tubes, and flasks.

"Ah," cried Barbesieur, taking a phial from its shelf, "this is a
precious beverage, that lulls one to sleep or to death, as one's
friends may prescribe."

"Yes--it is laudanum," replied Strozzi. "A painless dagger, an
invisible sword of justice in the hands of the elect. It was the
basis of all the wonderful preparations of Katherina de Medicis.
There was a woman! Why did I not know her, and learn of her the
precious secrets of her laboratorium? From my youth, I have studied
chemistry, and I had a beautiful room in Venice, where I used to
work with the famous Chiari. But we never discovered Katherina's
secret."

"What secret, dear Strozzi?" inquired Barbesieur.

"The secret of killing people by fumes, which left no trace whatever
of their action on the body," answered Strozzi, with an awakening
gleam of wickedness in his eyes.

"And you believe that there are such delicate, ethereal little
ministers of vengeance?"

"Do I believe it?--Why, to their agency Katherina owed her elevation
to the throne of France. Nobody knows this better than I, for my
ancestor Filippo Strozzi was her friend and relative, and their
correspondence now is in the archives of the family, at Venice. I am
indebted to the letters of Katherina for much of my knowledge of
chemistry."

"And so you found out from her correspondence how she managed to
become Queen of France?" asked Barbesieur, anxious to indulge
Strozzi's sudden fit of garrulity.

"I did," was his complacent reply, while he nodded his head
repeatedly, and stroked his long, white beard. "When Katherina came
to France, she came as the bride of the Duke of Orleans, the second
son of Francis I. There seemed no chance for HER to be a queen, for
the dauphin was a lusty young fellow who was already betrothed to
the beautiful Infanta of Spain. But Katherina had no mind to let the
infanta reign in France, so she invited the dauphin to her castle of
Gien, and took him to her conservatory. There was a beautiful rare
flower there, which had a strong perfume. Katherina directed his
attention to it, but advised him not to hang over it too long, as it
never failed to give HER the headache, if she approached it too
closely. The dauphin laughed, and was not to be frightened away from
a flower, because of the headache. Moreover, the odor was
delightful, and he would not be warned. That day he had a headache;
the next, he was pale and feeble, and in less than a week, he died,
and nobody the wiser, except Katherina."

"And he died, really from the odor of a flower?"

"Yes. from a flower which Katherina had perfumed for his use, my
dear friend. And do you know how she made away with Joanna of
Navarre, who had guessed the secret of the dauphin's death, and had
already hinted her suspicions to her brother Francis?"

"No, I never heard of it. Upon my word, Strozzi, you interest me
exceedingly."

"Do I? Well, I will tell you more, then. Katherina made a present to
Joanna of a pair of embroidered gloves. The day after she wore them
she was dead. What do you think of that?--And did you ever hear how
the Prince of Porcia died--he who advised the dauphin to divorce his
wife because she had been married for eight years and had borne him
no children?" continued Strozzi, with increasing volubility.

"I confess my ignorance, Strozzi; do enlighten me."

"I will, sir. The prince received a present from Katherina (she was
a great hand to make presents). This time it was a flask of fine
Italian oil for his night-lamp, which oil, in burning, emitted a
delicate perfume. By the time the flask was emptied, the prince had
gone the way of all flesh."

"And all this because of Queen Katherina's science?"

"And all this because of Queen Katherina's science!" echoed Strozzi.

"But you have not yet hit upon her secret yourself?"

"Not yet; but I think I am on the track, and hope to discover it in
time to try it on Prince Eugene."

Barbesieur rose from his seat, and, coming toward Strozzi, struck
him on the shoulder. "Now, Strozzi, look at me attentively, and try
to understand what I am about to say to you. I will help you to seek
this poison. Do you hear?"

"Yes," said Strozzi, with a cunning leer. "Yes, I hear. You will
help me to seek the poison for Prince Eugene."

"Good," replied Barbesieur. "Now, look at me full in the eyes. Look,
I tell you!" repeated he, as Strozzi's face began to relapse into
imbecility. "I have found the poison."

Strozzi uttered a triumphant yell, but Barbesieur silenced him. "Pay
attention while I tell you how I became possessed of it. I was by,
when La Voisin was put to the torture in La Chambre ardente, and I
heard her confession. I was deputed to search for her papers; and
before I delivered them up you may be sure that I examined them, to
see what I could make out of them for my own profit. I found various
receipts for love-potions, as well as for the renowned poudre de
succession of the Countess Soissons; but of that anon. Do you mark
me, Strozzi?"

"Oh, sir," cried Strozzi, trembling in every limb, "speak--speak
quickly, or I shall die of suspense!"

Barbesieur then, emphasizing each word, replied: "I found a
parchment on which were inscribed these words: 'Receipt for
procuring death by inhalation. Queen Katherina de Medicis.'"

"That is it, that is it," howled Strozzi, and in his ecstasy he
flung his arms around Barbesieur's great body. But suddenly his
countenance became expressive of distrust, and his eye had a deadly
glitter, like that of a snake.

"But will you give it to me? Where is it? I warn you, do not trifle
with me, for you never shall leave this laboratory until I have it!"
Meanwhile he made a furtive movement toward his breast.

But Barbesieur had seen the gesture, and with his powerful grasp he
clutched Strozzi's hand, and withdrew it armed with a poniard of
fine, glistening steel. Flinging it with such force against the wall
that it buried itself in the masonry, Barbesieur gazed for a moment
at the poor fool whose teeth were chattering with fear; then leading
him to a seat--

"Come," said he, "let us talk like men. We are neither enemies nor
rivals; we are brothers, having one and the same interest at stake."

"Yes, sir," murmured Strozzi, obsequiously.

"Well, then, look at me. Did you ever see me before?"

Strozzi raised his obedient eyes and looked--for a while, in blank
amazement. But gradually his black orbs dilated, and a sudden flash
of intelligence crossed his face. He breathed hard.

"I think, sir, I think you are--are--ah, yes! I know. You are Count
Barbesieur de Louvois."

"Right, right," cried Barbesieur. "Laura Strozzi's brother."

"Are you the brother of my darling Laura?" cried Strozzi. "If you
are, you are welcome, sir. Oh, if she were but alive to see you!"

"Alive? What do you mean? Where do you suppose her to be?"

"She is dead," replied Strozzi, his eyes overflowing with tears.
"Dead--my own, my precious angel!"

"Of what did she die?" asked Barbesieur, highly amused at poor
Strozzi's grief.

Strozzi shook his head. "No one on earth knows, sir. She must have
dissolved in a sunbeam, and gone back to heaven, for her corpse was
never found here below."

"Strozzi, you are mistaken," exclaimed Barbesieur, with an
authoritative gesture. "Mark my words, and believe them, or I shall
be very angry. The Marchioness Laura is not dead. She lives here on
earth, not far away from you."

"She lives!" repeated Strozzi, starting from his seat and falling at
Barbesieur's feet. "Tell me where she is. Let me go, let me go, and
bring her home. Come--come with me!"

"Wait a minute. She is living with Eugene of Savoy, disgracing you
and me both. Before you bring her home, you must take the life of
her paramour, and just as soon as you have done that, she will be
freed from the spell that binds her, and will love nobody but you."

"Ah, he shall die," muttered Strozzi.

"Yes, he must die, and you must kill him. But _I_ shall furnish the
means. And now to work, to prepare the ambrosia that shall give him
immortality!"



CHAPTER VII.

THE AMBROSIA.


Thanks to the illness of the Duke of Savoy, the summer campaign of
1692 was of short duration. The allies had dispersed and retired to
winter-quarters; the imperial army had retreated to Piedmont; and
the officers in command of the several divisions had betaken
themselves to Turin to enjoy the festivities that followed the
recovery of Victor Amadeus.

Eugene had been invited with the rest; but he gave his health as an
excuse for avoiding the changeable winds of Turin, and seeking the
balmy atmosphere of Nice, where, having found comfortable quarters
for his troops, he proposed to pass the coming winter.

Victor Amadeus made great pretence of regret at Eugene's absence;
but, truth to tell, he was not sorry to escape the scrutiny of his
clear-sighted cousin, who, for his part, was happy beyond expression
in the devotion of his men, and the companionship of his Laura.

Here in the peaceful seclusion of the obscure little village of
Nice, Eugene and Laura enjoyed unalloyed happiness. The fishermen
and sailors, that formed the principal part of its population, knew
nothing of the history of the grand Austrian officer that had come
to live among them. In their eyes, the beautiful signora was his
wife, as a matter of course; and they sunned themselves in the
radiance of her beauty, without ever giving a thought to the nature
of the ties that bound her to the field-marshal.

They were without an obstacle to their happiness. Eugene, sitting at
a table covered with paper and charts, wrote dispatches, and planned
his next campaign; while, on an ottoman at his side, Laura read or
embroidered, often interrupting her occupation to gaze at his
beloved countenance.

As for him, his mind was clearer, his hand was firmer, his spirit
seemed to dominate every subject of its contemplation, when she was
by. Oftentimes he paused in his labors to watch the delicate outline
of her sweet face, and, when their eyes met and they exchanged a
loving smile, he felt that there was a communion of hearts that
beggared language, and would have no interpreter but a glance.

They were sitting together on the perron of their villa, which
looked out upon the shores of the Mediterranean. The door leading to
the drawing-room was open, exposing to view a harp from which Laura
had just risen. Before them lay the boundless expanse of the ocean,
blue with reflected azure from heaven; and, like some soft, weird
melody to their ears, was the murmuring of the waves, that kissed
the smooth, white beach before them. Elsewhere all was silent, for
Nature seemed to listen--unwilling, by a sound of stirring leaf, to
break the delicious stillness.

On a sudden, a wild scream was heard in the air above, and a
vulture, cleaving the clouds, flew over their heads. Laura's smiling
face was upturned to reply to some loving expression of Eugene's;
but when the vulture's scream was heard, she rose to her feet, and
with a slight shudder followed its flight until it lessened to a dim
speck on the horizon.

"What has disturbed you, dearest?" asked Eugene.

"Nothing," whispered she. "And yet I am a miserable coward. Even
this vulture's scream has startled me. It seems like an ill omen."

"Why, my darling, why should a vulture's scream be ominous?"

"Do not laugh at me, Eugene; but my old nurse used always to cross
herself when a vulture was in sight, and if it screamed, she wept,
for she said it betokened the approach of misfortune."

"Why should you share the superstition of your nurse, dearest?"

"Because I myself once heard the scream," said Laura, growing very
pale. "I was standing with my nurse on a balcony of Bonaletta
Castle, and she was making wreaths of pomegranate and orange from
the blossoms I plucked. Meanwhile she was telling me a tale about
some enchanted princess, to which I was listening with my whole
heart. Suddenly I heard the cry of a vulture, the old woman dropped
her flowers, clasped her hands, and cried out: 'Oh, my God! there is
woe at hand! Come, child, come to the chapel, and pray the Lord to
avert it,'"

"And it was averted by your dear prayers, was it not?" asked Eugene,
kissing her.

"Alas, no! Not many hours afterward, I was called to my mother's
room. She lay on her bed, dying,--in her hand, a crumpled letter.
The letter was from Barbesieur, and its contents were her death-
blow! Eugene, she never opened her eyes again!--And oh, how she
loved me--that dear mother!"

"Who that knows you can help loving you?" said Eugene, tenderly.
"Look at me, my treasure--look at me, and smile. What--tears?"

"I am thinking of my mother, dear, and of her wretched life. It
humiliates me to remember that she, who was a saint, suffered so
many sorrows, while I, her child, who have done nothing to merit it,
am too, too happy."

"Nothing to merit happiness? You, whose constancy and heroism I
could not dare to imitate? Ah, Laura, remember that before I knew
you, I was without hope, without trust, without love. You crossed my
path, and then my soul began to soar to God; for God is love, and he
that knows not love knows not what it is to adore his Creator. You
are not only the architect of my happiness, beloved, but that of my
religion."

Laura flung her arms around his neck, and rested her cheek against
his. "And you--you are my sun--the luminary of my life! Without you,
all is dark and void. Oh, Eugene! be prudent, love, and beware of
your enemies; they encompass you with snares. Do not go unarmed to
the barracks, for not long ago the soldiers saw a man following you
after dusk. They searched him, and found on his person a poniard,
and in his possession a purse of gold."

"We cannot deny that the dagger and bowl seem to be the order of the
day, in this land of bravi," returned Eugene, "and I am continually
warned that, dead or alive, the French are resolved to possess
themselves of my body. But between intention and execution there
lies a wide path, and in spite of prison and steel, I hope to tread
it safely. [Footnote: Eugene's own words.--See Armath, "Life of
Prince Eugene," vol. i, p. 51. ] So do not be unhappy on my account,
sweet one. Let me look in those dear eyes, and there read the poem
of our love--a love that death itself shall not overcome."

"No, not death itself," said Laura, repeating his words, and
nestling close to his heart. He laid his hands upon her head, and
blessed and kissed her.

"So would I love to die--so--resting on thy heart, and gazing into
thy face," murmured she, her eyes filling with tears of joyful
emotion.

"Die!" exclaimed he, shuddering. "Love cannot die. Through all
eternity, its choral hymn--"

He unclasped his arms, for steps were heard along the corridor, and
presently, within the frame of the open door, was seen an orderly
attached to the household. Laura retreated to the parlor, while
Eugene demanded the reason of an intrusion so untimely upon his
privacy.

"Your highness, a courier has arrived, with dispatches from the Duke
of Savoy. They are so important as to require immediate attention,
and he will deliver them to no hands but your own."

"Admit him," said Eugene, entering the drawing-room, and joining
Laura, who had taken a seat before her easel, and was preparing to
paint. "Shall I see the courier in my cabinet, or receive him here?"
said he.

"Remain here, my dearest, and let me hear the sound of your voice."
So saying, she drew the hangings together, and, in the deep
embrasure of the bay-window, was entirely concealed from view.
Gliding back into her seat, she raised her loring eyes to the canvas
whereon she was painting a portrait of her Eugene.

"I shall never, never catch the expression of those wonderful eyes,"
said she to herself. "This is their color, but where is their
heavenly light? How shall I ever transmit--"

She started, let fall her palette, and gazed, horror-stricken, at
the hangings. She had heard a voice, the tones of which, she knew
not why, made the blood freeze within her veins. These were the
words she heard: "Here, your highness, are my dispatches." Words
without significance, but Laura shivered from head to foot. With
trembling hand, she parted the hangings and looked out.

There, in the centre of the room, stood Eugene, in the act of
opening a sealed paper. For one moment, her eye rested tenderly upon
the beloved image; then she glanced quickly at the person who stood
by the door. He wore the Sardinian uniform, and stood in a
respectful posture, his eyes cast down.

But Laura? She stared at his swarthy face and bloodless lips, the
sunken cheeks, and beetle brow, with a strange repugnance that
almost shaped itself into some old, forgotten dislike.

"I must have seen him somewhere," thought she, "and the dim
remembrance of the countenance pains me terribly. If he would but
speak again! I surely would recognize that voice--that voice which
sounds to my ear like some retrospective agony of which I may have
dreamed long years ago."

Eugene still held the paper. He had opened it, and was turning it in
and out, with an expression of great surprise. "What am I to
understand by this mystification?" said he.

"Your highness," returned the courier, "the dispatches are secret,
and written with sympathetic ink. If you will hold them over a light
until a vapor begins to rise from them, the writing will appear."

Eugene rang and ordered a light. He stood smilingly, scrutinizing
the blank pages of his letter; the courier kept his eyes on the
floor, and Laura behind the hangings stood contemplating the scene,
her heart throbbing as though it would burst. She saw the orderly
place the wax-light upon the table, and Eugene advance and hold the
dispatch above it. She turned unconsciously toward the courier. His
eyes, no longer riveted on the floor, glared horribly at Eugene; and
in their glance were written manifest hatred and exultation.

For one moment Laura felt as though she were stiffening to stone:
then, dashing aside the curtains, she bounded to the table, crying
out with all the strength of her love:

"Eugene, 'tis Strozzi!" And, tearing the poisoned paper from his
hands, she flung it at the feet of the courier.

He sprang forward, and seized her in his arms. Eugene darted to her
rescue, and strove with all his might to free her from Strozzi's
grasp. But despair and insanity had lent him strength, and vain was
all striving to unlock his hands as they clutched her slender
throat, and threatened her with speedy death.

Eugene made one bound to the table, and snatched up his pistols. At
the same moment, a dagger gleamed in the air. Laura fell back with a
piercing cry. and Strozzi, kneeling over her prostrate body, covered
her face with kisses.

The sharp report of the pistol was heard--the murderer leaped up
into the air, and then dropped dead upon the floor. And close beside
him lay Laura with a poniard in her breast, whose hilt of diamonds
rose and fell with her quick breathing, and glistened brightly in
the rays of the setting sun that gilded the terrible picture.

Instinctively Eugene would have withdrawn the murderous weapon from
his darling's heart, but he felt his arm withheld, and turning
beheld Doctor Franzi.

The doctor shook his head, sadly. "Do not touch it," whispered he,
"or her life-blood will gush out, and she will die at once."

With a look of despair, the wretched man arose, and beckoned to the
doctor to follow him to the balcony.

"The truth," gasped he, while his eyes glared as if they would have
started from their sockets. "Must she die?"

"She will die instantaneously if the dagger is withdrawn. I am
familiar with the thrusts of these Venetian bravi--when they aim at
the heart, death follows the stroke immediately; but when they
strike the breast, it ensues with a gush of blood, at the withdrawal
of the weapon."

"Is there any--hope?"

The doctor knew not how to shape an answer to this heart-rending
appeal. He turned away his face, and Eugene understood the mute
reply.

"How long?" asked he, almost inaudibly.

"If it were any other woman, I should expect internal hemorrhage to
ensue within half an hour; but the strong will of the marchioness
will ward off death for the space of an hour."

Eugene stifled a groan. "O God! is there no, no help?"

"None. Science cannot prevail against the well-directed blow of a
Venetian dagger. But the marchioness will not suffer."

"No," sobbed Eugene, "for she dies; but I--I--"

"Go to her, my dear friend--go before she calls, for every exertion
she makes will hasten the end."

Eugene wrung his hands. "Not yet--I cannot. I must have a moment to
conquer this overwhelming anguish. Go to her yourself, doctor--tell
her--I--"

But the doctor was already in the parlor, and Eugene was alone. He
leaned over the balcony and stared out at the sea; the breeze had
freshened, and the sound of the waves as they dashed against the
shore seemed to mock at his agony. He looked above: the skies were
serene and indifferent to his misery. The sun was setting in a flood
of red and gold. Alas! alas! For Laura, it would rise no more!

But Eugene remembered that she had but an hour to live, and,
shuddering, he overcame his weakness and approached the dying girl.
She held out her hands, and smiled.

"Eugene," said she, "I long for air and light. May I be lifted out
upon the balcony?"

Eugene looked at Doctor Franzi, who beckoned to the servants. They
rolled a divan to the spot where the marchioness lay, and she was
placed upon it, and gently removed to the balcony. She thanked them
all for their kindness, and each member of her household kissed her
hand, and went away weeping. No one now remained with her save
Eugene and the doctor.

"Step aside for a moment, beloved," said she. "I would speak a few
words with our dear friend."

He obeyed, and retired out of hearing, but not out of sight. He
could not do that. They had but half an hour!

"Doctor," said Laura, "I must die, must I not?"

"All things are possible with God, but--"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Does Eugene know it?"

"Alas, he does!"

"Doctor, promise me that if in his grief he should forget to care
for his own welfare, you will watch over it as I would have done,
had Heaven permitted. As long as sorrow predominates over reason,
you will enter his room every morning, and speak these, my dying
words: 'Laura sends you her greeting, and bids you do all that you
can to preserve your health, and to overcome your sorrow.' Promise
me this."

"I promise," replied the doctor.

"And now, tell me. Is my enemy--is Strozzi dead?"

"The bullet went through his brain."

"May God forgive him, as I do!" murmured she. "And now, dear friend,
farewell! I thank you for all my happiness on earth, and bless you
with my latest breath for your kindness to Eugene and to me."
[Footnote: This attempt to poison Prince Eugene is historical.]

She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and, no longer able to
restrain his tears, he went back to the parlor. There on the floor
lay Strozzi stark and dead, his glazed eyes staring, as if in
defiance, to heaven. Doctor Franzi had the corpse removed, and threw
himself wearily upon a sofa. Presently he saw Laura's Italian
greyhound, with a piece of paper between its teeth, with which it
seemed to be playing. He was watching its motions, as people whose
minds are preoccupied with a great sorrow, are apt to watch some
particular object within view, when suddenly it howled, made a leap
into the air, and fell panting on the floor. The doctor stooped to
examine it. It was dying.

"Why, the poor little brute has been poisoned!" said he to Conrad.

Conrad shook his head. "Impossible!" replied he. "It has been with
me this whole day, and came with me hither not half an hour since."

"Stay," replied the doctor, picking up the bits of paper that lay
scattered over the carpet. He took them to the light, and held them
above it. In a few moments a white vapor mingled with green was seen
to rise in the air, and an odor of garlic pervaded the apartment.

"Come, Conrad," exclaimed the doctor; "leave the room quickly! Happy
it is for us that all these doors and windows are open, or my
curiosity would have cost me my life."

"And the marchioness?" asked Conrad, sadly.

The little French clock on the mantel struck the hour. "You hear,"
said the doctor. "She has not a half an hour to live."

Not half an hour to live! And Eugene knew it! For above the breaking
waves, above the tumultuous beating of his bleeding heart, even
above the tones of her dear voice, he heard the striking of that
clock.

But one half hour!--He was on his knees, her little hand locked in
his, and her eyes fixed upon his face, with a look of love such as
no human tongue had power to speak. But he could not bear to see her
so motionless; he feared that she was about to expire.

"Speak to me, my angel; say thou lovest me," sobbed he.

"I love thee!" said she, with a joyful smile. "Ah, Eugene, I have
spoken these words so often that earth and air, sky and sea, will
echo them forever."

"But thou--thou goest from me!"

"God has willed it thus. But, beloved, how beautiful to me is the
death that giveth life to thee! Ah, my sovereign! lord of my heart!
weep not for her who dies as woman loves to die!"

"Weep not for thee! Alas! shall I have courage to bear the burden of
the life thou hast purchased with thine own?"

"Yes, God will give thee strength to fulfil thy heroic destiny, my
Eugene. We have been very happy on earth, and in heaven He will
perfect our imperfect union. Farewell, beloved, farewell!"

"Oh, look at me once more!" cried Eugene. "Laura, Laura, speak to
me! O God! it cannot be that thou must die!"

She made no answer, but her fast-closing eyes were fixed upon his.
He bent closer and closer, and opened his arms, with a vain longing
to fold her to his heart. But he durst not! His embrace might
extinguish the feeble spark of life that glimmered yet for his
momentary consolation.

But his tears fell upon her face, and awakened her failing senses.
She spoke again, and the melody of her voice was like the faint
notes of an AEolian harp.

"Do not weep," murmured she. "I was happy. I will be near to thee in
spirit. I--"

A last sigh fluttered from her lips, and the AEolian harp was
silenced forever!



CHAPTER VIII.

THE BETROTHAL.


The Duchess of Orleans sat weeping in her cabinet, and yet she had
been several times reminded by her tire-women that monsieur awaited
her in the drawing-room. She held in her hand a letter--the apparent
cause of her unwillingness to move.

"It has terminated as I feared," thought she; "her short-lived
happiness has been purchased with her life. To think that her
relentless foe should have had no mercy upon her youth and beauty!
And so it is--to the good are apportioned tribulation and trials--to
the wicked, prosperity and long life! God is merciful, and allows to
those who are destined to burn in hell their short season of triumph
on earth. But I, who am no saint, will avenge my dear child's
murder, by exposing its instigators to public scorn. My poor,
darling Laura! God only knows how I am to bring it about, but He
will surely prompt the right words at the right moment. And now to
discharge the tiresome duties of the sacrifice I made to the
shameless exaction of Louis XIV.! Now for the act that befouls the
escutcheon of France with the blood of De Montespan's bastard!"

She folded her letter, and, putting it in her bosom, called with her
stentorian lungs, for Katharina.

The tire-woman, who had been anxiously awaiting the summons,
appeared immediately, and approached her mistress, in great haste to
commence.

"Katharina," began the duchess, "do not be provoked if I reject the
magnificent attire you have prepared for me to-night. I cannot wear
it."

Katharina drew back in terror. "So your royal highness does not
intend to appear at court to-night?"

"I intend to appear there, because I am compelled to do so,"
returned the duchess; "but I do not know that it is incumbent upon
me to be as gay as a peacock, on the occasion of my poor Philip's
betrothal to that girl of De Montespan's. To me it is more like a
funeral than a festival, so you may get out my suit of court
mourning. The skirt of black velvet, the train and head-dress of
purple."

"Is the Empress of Austria dead, that your royal highness should
wear purple?" asked Katharina. [Footnote: At the court of Louis
XIV., purple velvet was worn in the deepest mourning only.]

"A personage of more consequence to me than the Empress of Austria
is dead--an angel has taken her flight to heaven, and no royal
princess can replace her here below. Hush, Kathi--you need not open
your mouth to remonstrate, for my purple mourning I will wear, and
nobody in France shall hinder me."

Katharina knew this so well, that she inclined her head, and went
off in search of the costume, which, as Elizabeth-Charlotte never
lingered before her looking-glass, was donned in less than a quarter
of an hour. She returned to her cabinet, and gave a quick glance at
her image, as she passed before a large Venetian mirror, that
reached from floor to ceiling. She smiled, and began an apostrophe
to herself, after the following manner:

"You are unquestionably a homely woman; and, in the finery that
decks royalty, you look somewhat like the scarecrows I have seen in
gardens at home. But, soberly clad as you are at this moment, you
are not an unsightly or undignified woman, nor would my poor
murdered darling despise me, were she to see me now. Ah, Laura!
would that the battle of life were over for me, as it is for thee!
For the world has apportioned to me much vexation, but little
happiness."

She turned away from the mirror, with a sigh. "Well, I may not mourn
any longer. I must put on my court-face, and sing with old Luther:"

   "It must be so,
    That pain and woe
    Will ever follow sin;
    Then go your ways--"


The duchess was singing out this doggerel in a rough, loud
contralto, when her chamberlain appeared at the door, and announced
that his royal highness was waiting for her to descend.

"Tell monsieur not to let me detain him," replied she. "I will be
escorted to the Louvre by the Duke de Chartres. Hey, Kathi! come
with my wrappings!"

Kathi had just enveloped her highness's stout, robust form in a
cloak of purple velvet, when the little duke came skipping into the
room.

"Here I am, chere maman," cried he; "here is Cupid, ready to attend
on Venus."

The duchess replied with a glance of displeasure, and took his arm.
As they were crossing the corridor, she said: "Cupid was a fractious
and rebellious boy, and I remember that Venus had many a time to box
his ears for his misbehavior. You are quite right to liken yourself
to Cupid, for you are just as contrary as he--"

"And just as handsome?" asked the duke, coaxingly.

The duchess tried to suppress a smile. "You are a little puppy,"
said she; "and if I resemble Venus in no other way, I shall imitate
her maternal corrections, and let you feel the weight of my hand, if
you provoke me, sir." And so saying, she tumbled herself into the
coach.

"I have already felt its weight," sighed the young duke, "and a
right heavy hand it is, when it is lifted to chastise."

"Then take care not to deserve its chastisements. But now, Philip,
listen to me, and be serious. It is understood between us, that you
refuse to sign the contract--that you avow loudly your aversion to
marriage in general, and to Mademoiselle de Blois in particular; and
that you throw yourself at the feet of the king, and ask for two
years' delay."

"Oh, yes, maman, yes, of course," replied Philip, hurriedly. "I
understand it all perfectly. Ah, here we are at the Louvre! Allow me
to assist you to alight."

And the duke, vastly pleased that the maternal lecture was at an
end, leaped from the coach, and escorted his mother to the palace.

The royal family, with the nobles and dignitaries that were to
witness the signing of the contract, were in the king's cabinet. The
court awaited them in one of the magnificent rooms of state.

On a marble slab, supported by three gilded dolphins, lay a long
roll of parchment, and close by was an inkstand of gold, set with
sapphires and diamonds. The king was in an adjoining apartment,
anxiously waiting the arrival of the Duchess of Orleans and the
bridegroom-elect.

"Methinks," said Louis to monsieur, "that madame makes me wait."

As these words were uttered with great severity, the duke was
abashed, and scarcely knew what he way saying. "Your majesty,"
stammered he, "you know how--may I entreat of you--"

"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans, and the Duke de
Chartres," cried the gentleman usher.

Louis rose from his arm-chair, and advanced to greet his eccentric
sister-in-law. Suddenly he drew back, and looked like a Jupiter
Tonans.

"Madame," said he, eying the duchess from head to foot--from her
purple feathers to the very edge of her long purple-velvet train--
"madame, what means this extraordinary attire? Have you forgotten,
in one of your fits of absence, that you were invited, not to a
funeral, but to a betrothal?"

"Sire," replied the undismayed duchess, "I am not subject to fits of
absence; but I beg to apologize for my dress. It is appropriate to
my feelings, for I have just experienced a most painful loss."

"What member of your family is dead?" asked his majesty.

"Not a member of my family, but a beloved friend, has been foully
murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed Louis. "Who has been murdered!"

"Sire, I will tell you, but Monsieur Louvois must be by to hear the
recital."

Monsieur Louvois was summoned, and while awaiting his arrival, Louis
expressed a wish that the duchess would make her story as short as
possible; he was anxious to have this ceremony over.

"Sire, I shall do my best," was the reply.--"Ah," continued
Elizabeth-Charlotte, "here is Monsieur Louvois--Perhaps he can tell
your majesty why I am in mourning."

"I--I" said Louvois, with a defiant stare at his enemy. "I have not
the honor of being in the secrets of madame."

"But she has the misfortune to be in yours," cried the duchess.

"Sire, a few years ago, there appeared at your majesty's court a
young girl of extraordinary beauty and worth. She was one of my
maids of honor, and was as dear to me as my own child. Lovely,
innocent, and virtuous, as she was, she was an object of aversion to
her own kindred. She became ardently attached to a youth of rank
equal--I mean to say, superior to hers, against whom her relatives
entertained a prejudice that manifested itself by every species of
persecution. There could be no reasonable objection to the alliance,
but the lovers knowing that, for very hatred of them both, the
maiden's father would oppose their union, agreed to be married in
secret. They were betrayed, and you will scarcely believe me, your
majesty, when I tell you that the poor girl's own father and brother
deceived her by forged letters, and so arranged matters that they
came by night, and, substituting a man whom she detested, for her
lover, they obtained her signature to a fraudulent marriage."

"Her father did his duty," interrupted Louvois. "He had a right to
select her husband, and exercised his right. I hope that his majesty
is of the same opinion."

"Madame," said the king, taking no notice of Louvois' remark, "pray
continue your narrative."

"Your majesty, the miserable girl refused ever to acknowledge the
marriage. The man they had forced upon her imprisoned her for years,
giving out to the world that she was insane, but holding out to her
a promise of release, whenever she would recognize him as her
husband. She never would--she never did."

"But her lover--what was he about all this time?" asked Louis.

"He believed himself forgotten, nor could he discover whither his
betrothed had been conveyed by her tyrant. Finally by means that
seem almost miraculous, she effected her escape, and joined him;
and, believing herself to be his spouse before God, they lived
together as husband and wife."

"I should have regarded them as such," was the remark of the king.
"I hope that her unprincipled relatives did not seek to repeat their
sacrilege by any attempt to part her from him to whom she had
veritably plighted her faith."

Louvois could not contain himself. "Your majesty," cried he, "the
sacrilege was hers and not her father's. She was legally married,
and the tie that bound her to her lover was a crime!"

Louis contemplated his own illegitimate children, there present, and
Louvois' words roused his ire. "Sir," said he, "you mistake human
prejudices for principles. How can you presume to contend for the
sanctity of an infamous falsehood like that of a marriage ceremony
fraudulently performed?"

"Thanks, your majesty, thanks for those generous words," exclaimed
the duchess, joyfully. "They rehabilitate the memory of my darling,
who was as pure and chaste as she was constant and loving. In her
case, endurance of the world's contumely was heroism. She felt it to
be unjust, but bore it for the sake of her lover, and was happy. Her
relatives, however, urged, by their hatred of the poor child, made
use of her demented husband to avenge what they pleased to term
their outraged honor. They armed him with dagger and poison, and her
own brother brought him to the town where she was living, and led
him to her villa."

"What an unnatural and wicked brother," exclaimed the young Duke of
Maine, who had edged himself in to listen.

The duchess gave him a grateful smile, and continued her story:

"The murderer made an attempt to poison his rival. He was recognized
under his disguise by his wife, who darted forward to save her
lover's life. As she did so, the assassin drew from his bosom a
poniard and stabbed her to the heart,"

"Horrible!" was the exclamation of all the bystanders.

"Sire." resumed the duchess, "the woman so foully murdered by the
tool of her father and her brother,--she, whom I loved so dearly,
and whom your majesty's self honored by your attention, was Laura
Bonaletta--the daughter of Monsieur Louvois, and the sister of his
depraved son--Barbesieur."

"The Marchioness Strozzi!" cried the king, turning his indignant
eyes upon Louvois, who was vainly trying to effect a retreat.

"Sir," said Louis, "I hope you will be able to disprove this
dreadful charge, and convince her royal highness that she has been
misinformed."

"Sire, I am not aware that any guilt attaches to my actions as a
father. I married my daughter to the man whom I chose should be her
husband, and I hastened the marriage that I might save her from the
artful snare which Prince Eugene was laying for her large fortune."

"Sire," cried the duchess, "the whole world knows Prince Eugene to
be above mercenary considerations, and it also knows that had
Monsieur Louvois not driven him away from France, he would not now
be the most distinguished officer in the army of a foreign prince."

"Very true," returned the king.--"Louvois never showed himself to
have less penetration than when he undervalued the genius of Prince
Eugene. But this blunder we can pardon, so he but clear himself of
participation in the assassination of his daughter."

"That I can easily do, your majesty," replied Louvois. "I knew
nothing whatever of the attempt on Prince Eugene's life."

"Then how comes it that this intercepted letter from your own hand
speaks so knowingly of it to your son?--Sire," continued the
duchess, "this letter was sent to me by Victor Amadeus. The courier
to whom it had been confided was arrested by a vidette of the
duke's, and the letter forwarded to his highness. From my step-
daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, I hold my information; and it was
imparted to me at her husband's desire, that I might transmit it to
your majesty, and Louis XIV. might hear how Louvois vanquishes the
heroes that are opposed to him in war. Sire, not only your friends,
but your enemies, know that you hold such warfare in abhorrence."

"I do, indeed," cried Louis, "and I thank not only Victor Amadeus,
madame, but yourself, who have not shrunk from the ungrateful duty
of accusing a man whom many another would have feared, because he
was high in my estimation. I thank you that you have given me
occasion to vindicate my honor from the foul blot which this man
would have cast upon it. I say nothing of his cruelty to his unhappy
daughter, for that I leave to his Maker. But, as regards the attempt
on the life of Prince Eugene, it shall be investigated;--and woe to
him, should he be inculpated by the examination of these papers!--
Go, sir, and until your fame is cleared, consider yourself a
prisoner in your own house."

Pale and trembling, Louvois retreated from the royal presence.
Around the door of the cabinet were groups of high-born dames and
titled lords, who all drew back to let him pass. No one wished to
breathe the atmosphere that was tainted by the presence of a
suspected murderer; and the rumor of his disgrace spread so rapidly
through the palace, that it reached the room where the court was
assembled, and every man there turned his back upon the favorite
who, an hour before, had been greeted with courtesy and respect by
the proudest nobles in the land.

The king's eyes followed the bowed figure of his fallen minister
until it passed out of sight; then, as if nothing had happened, he
smilingly addressed the Duchess of Orleans:

"Madame, will you take the bride by the hand? I, myself, will escort
the bridegroom."

Elizabeth-Charlotte, who, in her sorrow for the tragical death of
Laura, had forgotten the occasion of her coming, gave a sudden
start, and her heart died within her. She turned her sharp eyes with
a searching look upon the Duke de Chartres, hoping for some
significant glance that would reassure her as to his intentions. But
the young duke's eyes were turned another way: he was following the
master of ceremonies, and making a profound inclination before the
king.

Madame dared no longer hesitate: she gave her hand to Mademoiselle
de Blois, and led her forward to the table where lay the dreaded
document.

At a signal from the king, the keeper of the seal advanced, and,
taking up the parchment, read the marriage contract of his royal
highness the Duke de Chartres with Mademoiselle de Blois. The duke's
marriage with the king's daughter entitled him to the grandes
entries du cabinet, and the entrees de derriere,--privileges highly
prized by the members of the royal family. The contract also
recognized Mademoiselle de Blois as a daughter of France, and gave
her a dowry of two millions of livres, several large estates, and a
complete parure of costly diamonds.

With the exception of madame, everybody was enraptured with the
royal munificence. Again she tried to meet her son's eyes, but they
were steadfastly fixed upon the hand of the king who had signed the
contract, and was in the act of placing it before his daughter.

Mademoiselle de Blois scribbled her name under that of her father,
and passed the pen over to the bridegroom. The decisive moment was
at hand. With fast-throbbing heart, the duchess bent forward to hear
her son's rejection of this insulting mesalliance, when lo! that
son, with a placid smile, accepted the pen, and signed!

A cry had well-nigh burst from his mother's lips, as, with every
show of respect, he presented her the pen. Speechless with anger,
she advanced her hand, but it was not to take the instrument of her
humiliation: it was to administer to her rebellious son a box on the
ear which resounded like a pistol-shot through the apartment, and
created considerable astonishment among the aristocratic guests
therein assembled. [Footnote: Historical.--See "Letters of the
Duchess of Orleans to the Princess of Wales."]

The young duke uttered a howl, and, rubbing his cheek, jumped behind
the hooped dress of his bride-elect.

"Madame!" exclaimed the king, "what means this violence?"

"Your majesty, I was killing a fly that had lit upon Philip's
cheek."

"It must be a robust fly, if it is not crushed to atoms," replied
the king, much amused.

The court, unable to withstand their merriment, burst into out--
simultaneous shout of laughter, under cover--of which Elizabeth-
Charlotte, with tearful eyes, signed the fatal document which
mingled the noble blood of Orleans with the muddy stream of
illegitimacy.



CHAPTER IX.

VENGEANCE.


So great had been the haste of the courtiers to spread the news of
Louvois' disgrace, that the very usher who opened the door that led
into the vestibule, performed his office with a superciliousness
which proved him to have heard it as well as his betters.

Louvois felt as if his grave were yawning before him. He had
forgotten that his carriage could not possibly have returned so
soon; and now he stood alone on the perron of the palace, staring up
and down the street in the vain hope of concealing himself in a
fiacre from the gaze of the curious. No sentinel saluted him, no
soldier presented arms, as, ashamed of his rich dress and sparkling
orders, which rendered him conspicuous, he walked on and on, an
object of curiosity to every passer-by. At length, on the Pont Neuf,
he met a dilapidated old hackney-coach, amid whose threadbare
cushions he was glad to retreat from observation.

On his arrival home, nobody came out to assist him to alight; for
how could the lackeys who were idling around the porte-cochere
surmise that the occupant of that shabby vehicle was their haughty
master?

He entered the hotel, and, without vouchsafing a word to the
astounded valets, ascended the staircase that led to his own private
apartments. But they came after him to ask whether he was
indisposed, and whether they could be of service.

Their offers were rejected with scorn; but Louvois thought it
politic to inform his own valet that, having been attacked with
sudden indisposition, he had been forced to leave the court-ball,
and return in a fiacre. While he was being divested of his rich
dress and long curled wig, the valet went on to announce that Count
Barbesieur had arrived from Italy, and was desirous of seeing his
father as soon as possible. A lady also had called to see his
excellency; and, having been told that he was at the great court-
festival, she had replied that he would be apt to return home early,
and she would await his arrival, for she had important business to
transact with him.

"Where is the lady?" asked Louvois.

"She is in her carriage at the side door of the hotel. Shall I ask
her in the drawing-room, your excellency?"

"Later," said Louvois. "I must first speak with my son."

"I am here," cried Barbesieur, who had silently entered the room.

"Leave us," said Louvois to the valet, "and when Count Barbesieur
has retired, admit the lady. I--"

He paused, and caught at the arm-chair for support. He had become
suddenly dizzy, his face grew scarlet, his eyes blood-shot, and his
breathing oppressed.

The valet hastened to his assistance, and offered him a glass of
water. He emptied it at a draught, but his hands shook so, that he
could scarcely hold the goblet, Barbesieur had thrown himself full
length on a sofa, whence he contemplated his father with the most
consummate indifference.

"You ought to be bled," said he, carelessly.

"I will do so. It may relieve me," replied he, panting. "Go," added
he to the valet, "go for Fagot."

The valet hurried off, and the father and son were left alone
together. The former lay gasping with his head flung back on a
cushion; the latter watched him closely, but without the merest
appearance of sympathy or interest.

After a pause, he spoke: "Father, have you forgotten my presence?"

Louvois opened his eyes wearily. "No; I have not forgotten it."

"You do not ask me about the result of my expedition," said
Barbesieur.

"Nor do you seem to think it incumbent upon you to ask wherefore I
suffer, or why I am here instead of being where I ought to be, at
the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois," replied Louvois, whom his
son's indifference had stung to returning energy.

"What care I for the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois?" answered
Barbesieur. "And as regards your indisposition, it is not the first
time that I have seen you similarly affected. These congestions
invariably leave you stronger than they find you; so let us pass on
to affairs more momentous. I have to inform you that my expedition
to Italy has resulted in a disastrous failure. Have you seen my
courier?"

"No, I have not seen him, but I know that you were guilty of sending
me written dispatches on a subject which pen should never have
recorded."

"Oh!" sneered the dutiful son, "you are better, I see, for you grow
abusive. Then I suppose my courier has been arrested?"

"Ay, and your letters are in the hands of Louis XIV."

"Can it be possible?" cried Barbesieur, anxiously. "How came he in
possession of them?"

"They were given him by the Duchess of Orleans."

"But she--"

"She received them from her step-daughter, the Duchess of Savoy. Not
only them, but your imbecile-written promise to Strozzi that his
wife would return to him as soon as Prince Eugene was dead."

"It was a blunder, I admit," returned Barbesieur. "But the idiot had
so set his heart upon it that I was forced to yield to his whims;
there was no other way of controlling him. I had no sooner given him
this paper, than he became as plastic as clay."

"Nevertheless, Laura is dead, and Eugene of Savoy lives."

"Oh, yes--the thing miscarried, but how, I cannot conceive. I was
close at hand, waiting with horses for Strozzi, who was to seize
Laura, and make all speed for Italy. I waited so long, that at last
I ventured to creep up to the house, and there I learned how Strozzi
had stabbed Laura, and Eugene had shot Strozzi. As soon as I found
out that all had gone awry, I galloped off to Bonaletta, to get my
share of Strozzi's and Laura's property. But the covetous relations
would not let me lay a finger on Laura's estates, without your
written authorization. That brought me hurriedly to Paris. I want it
at once, that I may return to Bonaletta to-day."

"You must remain for a while longer," said Louvois.

"And why, pray?"

"Because you must at least wait until my funeral is over," replied
the unhappy father.

Barbesieur began to laugh. "Oh, papa! pray don't get sentimental.
People are not apt to die of these little vexations. I suppose the
king was rude, as he has been many a day before this--was he?"

"He was more than rude; in presence of all his nobles he accused me
of participation in Laura's murder, and banished me from court until
I returned with proofs of my innocence."

"H'm--" muttered Barbesieur. "The affair looks ugly."

"Insulted before the whole court," murmured Louvois.

"Pshaw! Don't take it so much to heart. It is not your first
affront. You know full well that if old women get the better of you
to-day, you will outwit them to-morrow. Witness your feud of years
with De Maintenon."

"I shall not outwit them this time, Barbesieur. The duchess has
played her cards too dexterously for me to escape. Nor would the
king befriend me; he is under too many obligations to me not to
desire my humiliation and my ruin. Moreover, he is anxious to
propitiate the Duke of Savoy, and will give him full satisfaction
for the attempt on the life of his kinsman. I am lost--irretrievably
lost!"

"Then so much the more imperative is it for us to lay the foundation
of some new structure of fortune elsewhere.--Luckily, Laura's large
estates in Italy are all-sufficient to make you a very rich man yet.
So give me authority to act for you; I will go at once and take
possession, while you arrange your affairs at home, and then follow
me to Italy."

"He thinks of nothing but wealth," murmured Louvois; "he has no
shame for loss of reputation or good name."

"Nonsense!" said Barbesieur, with a coarse laugh; "no man that has
money loses reputation. Poverty is the only crime that the world
cannot pardon, and you, thanks to the Marchioness Bonaletta, have
just inherited a fortune."

Louvois shuddered. "A fortune through the murder of my child!"

"For which we are not accountable," said Barbesieur, carelessly. "We
owe that obligation to Strozzi. and I must say it Was the only
sensible thing I ever knew him to do."

"Silence!" cried Louvois, incensed. "If you have no respect for the
living, have some reverence for the dead!"

Barbesieur rose with a yawn. "I see that my honored father is not in
a mood for reasonable conversation. Here comes the surgeon with his
lancet. Perhaps, when you have lost a few quarts of your bad blood,
you may see things in a better light." So saying, he sauntered out
of the room. With scorn and hatred in his eye, Louvois watched him
until he disappeared from sight; then turning to the surgeon, who
had entered by another door--

"Be quick, and take some blood from my veins, or I shall suffocate!"

A half an hour later, the operation was over, and Louvois felt much
relieved. His face was pale, his eyes no longer bloodshot, and the
surgeon having prescribed rest, the disgraced favorite was left
alone.

He sat propped up in his arm-chair, staring at vacancy--his solitude
embittered by the recollection of what he was, and what he had been.
The stately edifice of greatness, which he had spent a lifetime in
erecting, had fallen like a chateau de cartes, leaving nothing
behind but the stinging recollection of a glorious past. He could
not outlive it--he could not retire to obscurity--he--

Suddenly he shivered, and gazed with eyes distended at the figure of
a woman that now stood against the portiere opposite. Great God! had
delirium seized upon his senses? Were the memories of his youth
about to take shape and form, and mingle their shadowy images with
the tangible realities of life! He knew her--tall, beautiful, pale
as she was--and the recognition filled him with terror indefinable.

He knew her well! In her youth he had loved her, but she had scorned
his love, because she was cherishing the hope of becoming Queen of
France! This triumph had been denied her, and she had hidden her
disappointment by a marriage with another. And fearfully had Louvois
avenged her rejection of his love! He had cited her as a criminal,
before the highest tribunal in France, and had driven her into
exile. Destiny had also given him power to crush her son--to blast
his life as a lover, and his good name as a man. But ah! that
daughter whom Eugene had loved! He had blasted her life also, and
had given her over to a monster that had murdered her! So young, so
lovely, so attractive! She had died to gratify the malice of her own
father!

Like a lightning-flash these thoughts glanced athwart his brain,
while, breathless and terror-stricken, he gazed upon the spectre
that stood against the portiere!

Was it a spectre, or some delusion of his disordered mind? She stood
motionless as a marble statue of Nemesis; but those eyes--those
glowing eyes--there was life and hate in their fiery depths!

Louvois had not the power to look away; he was as spellbound as a
bird under the glance of the basilisk.

"Olympia!" cried he, at last, with a supreme effort to dissolve the
spell.

She threw back her proud head, and came directly in front of his
chair. "You recognise me," said she, in tones of icy hauteur. "I was
waiting before I spoke, to see whether you had forgotten me."

"What brings you hither?" stammered he, confusedly.

"Destiny," replied she, sternly. "Louvois, God is just, for He has
chosen me to be the instrument of your destruction. I was travelling
through Turin to nurse my son, who was not expected to live. I
learned that his illness was of the heart--not of the body. His
Laura had been murdered before his eyes, and, for love of her, he
was in danger of dying. Ah, Louvois! it was the second time you had
almost robbed me of my child! But God is just! To my hands were
confided the proofs of your participation in the crime of your
daughter's assassination, and it was I that delivered them to the
Duchess of Orleans. She had her Laura's death to avenge, I--great
God! what had I not? The humiliation of my flight from France--my
persecution by strangers in a foreign land--my son's lifelong
sorrow!--But ah! you, that drove him from his native country, have
fallen, to rise no more, while Eugene's name is but another word
throughout the world for genius and valor."

Louvois' teeth chattered with fear. He raised his hand, as if to
implore forbearance. She gave him, in return, a look of scorn.

"All Paris rings with your disgrace. The populace are before your
windows, ready, at a signal, to assault your palace, as, at your
son's instigation, they once assailed mine. Your servants are
stealing away, and you are forsaken! Poor, fallen, powerless
Louvois!"

"Not so," screamed Louvois, "not so! If I am powerless it is because
I am dying!" And, with a passionate gesture, he tore the bandages
from his arm.

The blood gushed out like water from a fountain, and Olympia looked
on for a while in cruel enjoyment of her enemy's mortal agony. But
her hatred was unclouded by passion.

"It were a kindness to suffer you to die now," said she; and her
words fell like sharp icicles upon his poor, lacerated heart. "But
you shall live to endure the contumely you forced upon me and mine!
Farewell! I go to call for help."

She crossed the room, and, as she entered the antechamber, Louvois
swooned, and fell upon the floor.

"Go to your lord," said Olympia to the valets who were waiting. "The
bandage has become loosened, and he will bleed to death if you are
not prompt."

Crossing the antechamber, she opened the door that led to a corridor
where her own valet was awaiting her return.

"Can you tell me where I may find Count Barbesieur?" asked she.

"Yes, my lady. He is in his own room, to which I was directed by his
valet."

"Show me the way," said the countess, following the man to the
farther end of the long corridor.

"Here, my lady," said he, pausing, "is his anteroom."

"Go in and announce me."

The valet opened the door and crossed the antechamber. It was empty;
for Barbesieur's valet was, with the other servants, in the
vestibule, discussing the mysteries of the evening. Seeing that no
one was there to announce the countess, the lackey knocked until he
heard a voice from within. He then threw the door wide open, and
cried out--

"The Countess de Soissons!"

Barbesieur, who was seated before a table, deep in the examination
of the title-deeds of the Bonaletta estates, started up in amazement
at the unceremonious interruption. As he turned around to chastise
the insolence of the servant, he encountered the stately figure of
the Countess de Soissons,

"It is long since we met," said she. "Do you remember the occasion
of our meeting?"

"No, countess," replied he, awed by her queenly bearing into
momentary courtesy.

"I will refresh your memory. When last I saw you, you were at the
head of the rabble that mobbed the Palace de Soissons, and had just
received a wound in your arm from the pistol of my son, Prince
Eugene. I had not the satisfaction of being present at the
horsewhipping he administered to you at Long Champs, for I was
obliged to fly from your persecutions, and I have never set foot in
France until now."

Barbesieur laughed. "I have had my revenge. I owe him nothing. The
very grief that is sapping his life at this moment is the work of my
hand."

"I know it, and I, in my turn, have avenged his woes."

"You must have done it secretly, then, for I have never felt any
inconvenience from your vengeance."

"You will experience it before long. Did one of your servants bring
you a fine peach on a salver, about half an hour ago?"

Barbesieur turned very pale, and stammered, "Yes."

"Did you eat it?"

"Yes," murmured he, "I did."

"Then, Barbesieur, that peach avenged Eugene and Laura both. I sent
it to you."

"You!" cried Barbesieur, with a shudder.

"Yes," replied Olympia, her black eyes darting fire as she spoke. "I
sent you the peach, and if you have eaten it (it will be very slow
in its effects), you have just four years longer to live!"

As he heard these terrible words, Barbesieur dropped, like a felled
ox, to the floor.

"Count Barbesieur," cried a voice in the antechamber, "your father
is dying of apoplexy."

Barbesieur started up with an oath, and darted from the room. The
Countess de Soissons followed him to the corridor. No one was there,
for the servants had all congregated, as near as possible, to the
chamber of the dying statesman. Olympia passed on, unchallenged,
reached her carriage, and set off at full gallop for Nice.

She found Eugene improved, and sitting up. He was in his arm-chair,
gazing with tearful eyes at a portrait opposite--a portrait of
Laura, as Sister Angelica. His thoughts were so far, far away from
the weary present, that the door had opened, and his mother had put
her arms around his neck, before he became aware of her entrance.

"Eugene, my beloved son," said she, "I have avenged you."

"Avenged? Dear mother, what can you mean?"

"I mean that Louvois is dead--dead of humiliation. And that
Barbesieur lives; but lives in the knowledge that, in four years, he
must die. His life, then, unto the bitter end, will be one long
agony. Eugene, you avenged my wrongs. I have now paid the debt."

Eugene sighed heavily. "You have erred, mother. You should have left
further vengeance to God. What does it profit me that Barbesieur
suffers--his sufferings cannot recall my Laura."

"Ah," said Olympia, disappointed, "if you were in health, you would
not be so pusillanimous, my child. 'Tis easy to see that you are
sick."

"No, mother, I am no longer sick. At Laura's command, I have
wrestled with bodily weakness, and have overcome it."

"I do not understand you, my son."

Eugene pointed to the figure of Doctor Franzi, who just then entered
the room. "Listen, mother, and you will understand."

The doctor advanced, and, taking Eugene's extended hand, repeated
Laura's dying words. Eugene looked at his mother, and smiled.

"This message has been the medicine that has restored me to health.
My Laura speaks from beyond the grave, and I must obey."

"Who but a hero could have obeyed a mandate at once so loving and so
cruel!" exclaimed Doctor Franzi. "Countess, I am rejoiced to see
you, but more especially rejoice that you should have arrived to-
day."

"I travelled night and day to return in time," said Olympia, looking
fondly at her son.

"Is it a festival?" asked he.

"Yes, dear child," replied his mother, kissing him, "It is your
thirtieth birth-day."

"My thirtieth birth-day!" murmured Eugene. "My youth is no more; I
enter upon the stern epoch of mature manhood."

"Youth, with its sweet visions of love, has passed away; but manhood
will indemnify you, prince, for the sorrows of the past. Before you
lies a future of usefulness and heroism.--Congratulate your son,
countess, for he yesterday received from the Emperor Leopold the
chief command of his armies in Italy. The troops are on their way
now, to greet their general. Hark I Do you not hear the drums? Every
brave heart in the army is beating with joy at the prospect of
seeing him again."

"And I, too, am joyful at the anticipation," replied Eugene, rising
from his chair. "You are right, Franzi. I have been sorely grieved,
'tis true; but I bear about my heart the knowledge of my Laura's
love--as veritable now as when I saw and felt her mortal presence.
This blessing shall make me a hero. So help me God! I will strive
hereafter to do my duty as a man, a soldier, and a Christian."

The drums rolled, the trumpets sounded, and thousands of voices
responded without:

"Long live our general! Long live Prince Eugene!"



THE END.



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