A Conspiracy of the Carbonari Part 11

CHAPTER VIII.

PARDON.

Four days had elapsed since the execution at Schonbrunn. Baron von Kolbielsky had been forced to attend it and was then conveyed to Vienna to spend dreary, lonely days at the police station in the Krebsga.s.se.

He had vainly asked at least to be led before his judges to receive his sentence. The jailer, to whom Kolbielsky uttered these requests whenever he entered, always replied merely with a silent shrug of the shoulders, and went away as mute as he had come.

But yesterday, late in the evening, he had entered, accompanied by the Chief Commissioner Gohausen, two magistrates, and a clergyman. With a solemn, immovable official countenance Commissioner Gohausen opened the doc.u.ment which his subordinate handed to him, and, in a loud voice, read its contents. It was a sentence of death. The death-sentence of Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky "on account of sympathy and complicity in a murderous a.s.sault upon the sacred life of his annointed imperial ally and friend, Napoleon, emperor of the French."[F] Early the following morning, at dawn, Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky must be shot at Schonbrunn.

Kolbielsky had listened to this death-warrant with immovable composure--no word, no entreaty for pardon escaped his lips. But he requested the priest, who desired to remain to pray with him and receive his confession, to leave him.

"What I have to confess, only G.o.d must know," he said, smiling proudly. "In our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of my friends. G.o.d sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on me. I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request."

So he was left alone--alone during this long bitter night before his doom!

Yet he was not solitary! His thoughts were with him, and his love--his love for Leonore!

Never had he so ardently wors.h.i.+pped her as on this night of anguish. Never had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave of her. Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his eyes. He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he loved. All his desires turned to her. Oh, to see her once more! What rapture thrilled him at the thought! And he knew that she would come if he sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring him her last love-greeting. He need only call the jailer and say to him:

"Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottenga.s.se. Tell her that I beg her to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell. She is my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me."

He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred, and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.

But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his heart, for such a message would have compromised _her_. Perhaps she, too, might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal, though she was innocent.

No, he dared not send to her! His Leonore, the beloved, wors.h.i.+pped idol of his heart, should not suffer a moment's anxiety through him. He loved her so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for her. Let her think of him as one who had vanished! Let her never learn that Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man whom she loved. He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave her hope! Hope of a meeting--not yonder, but here on earth! She would expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of seeing him no more. Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless, would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was destiny which severed them--that if he did not return to her, he had gone to the place whence there is no return.

"Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one! Never to see you again, never again to hear from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look into your eyes, those eyes which s.h.i.+ne more brightly than all the stars in heaven."

It was already growing lighter. Dawn was approaching. Yonder, in the dark night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day. The sun was rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the condemned man, death.

Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation, support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it s.h.i.+elded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the martyr of a great and n.o.ble cause would he front death. And though fate had not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust, trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and the liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy.

The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart, farewell!"

The inner door was opened--Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.

Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment, utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor, closed the door behind him and locked it.

The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for years.

Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.

"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"

The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?"

he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."

A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were s.h.i.+ning in and fell upon the young man's face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou bringest love.

"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my--"

He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept--wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight, of ecstasy--tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.

Yet no. He would not weep, for tears will dim her image. He wished to see her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live there while he died.

He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with a happy smile.

"Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars? Do you s.h.i.+ne on me once more, ere I enter eternal night?"

Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.

"Why do your lips quiver? Why do they utter no word of love? Oh, let me break the seal of silence which closes them."

Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the lips.

"Speak, my Leonore, speak! Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you."

"No, no," she cried exultingly, "no, you will not leave me, you will stay with me."

Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flas.h.i.+ng eyes she repeated:

"You will stay with me."

"Oh, my sweet love, I cannot! They have sentenced me to death. They will soon come to summon me."

"No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death. They will not kill you. I bring you life! I bring you pardon!"

"Pardon!" he cried, almost shrieked. "Pardon! But from whom?"

"Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!"

"G.o.d be praised. I can accept it from _him_," cried Kolbielsky jubilantly.

"So I am free? Speak, dearest, I am free?"

She shook her head slowly and sadly. "I have been able only to save you from death," she said mournfully. "I have been able only to obtain your life, but alas! not your liberty."

"Then I remain a prisoner?"