A Conspiracy of the Carbonari Part 5

"And you would, you could, do this for me?" he asked, gazing with admiring eyes at her glowing face, radiant with enthusiasm. "You, the petted queen of society, the spoiled, delicate daughter of luxury and wealth, you could resolve to lead a quiet, simple, unknown life, far from the world and men?"

"Oh," she exclaimed, "such an existence would be my happiness, my ecstasy, my bliss. I would greet it exultingly. I long for it with all the powers of my soul, all the fervor of my heart. Give it to me, my beloved; give us both this life of solitude and divine peace. Speak one word--say that you are ready to fly with me--I will arrange everything for our escape; will guide us both to liberty, to happiness. Speak this one word, and I will sever every tie that binds me to the world; my future and my life will belong to you alone. We will strip off all the luxury that surrounds us as the glittering snake-skin with which we have concealed our real natures, and escape into the solitude as free, happy children of G.o.d. If such a life of peace and rest does not satisfy you; if you wish to labor and create, be useful to mankind, we can find the opportunity. We will buy a tract of land in America, gather around us people to cultivate it, create a little state whose prince you will be, which you will render free and happy and content.

Say that you will, my loved one; tell me that you will make my golden dreams of the future a reality--oh, tell me so and you will render me the proudest and happiest of women. My dearest, you have so long devoted your life to hate, consecrate it now to love; let yourself be borne away by it.

It will move mountains and fly on the wings of the morning through every realm. Hitherto you have called Poland your native land--now let love be your country, and you shall find it on my breast. Come, my darling, come!

My arms are opened to embrace you; they are ready to bear you away, far away from this battle-rent, blood-soaked Europe. Save yourself, my beloved, save me! Come to my arms, let us fly to America!"

She held out her arms, gazing at him with a happy, loving smile. But he did not rise from his knees to fall upon her breast; he only bowed his head lower and kissed the hem of her dress--kissed her feet, which he pressed to his bosom.

"Alas!" he sighed sadly, "this little foot, in its white satin shoe, is not created for the rough paths of life; it would be torn and blood-stained by their thorns, and the fault would be mine. No, my sweet love, you shall not for my sake renounce the world of pleasure and splendor whose queen you are, even though you wish it, and perhaps even long for the peace and quiet of solitude. I must not accompany you thither, must not be faithless to myself. For the most terrible and inconsolable thing which can befall a man is to be faithless to himself and turn from the way which he himself has chosen, and from the goals which he himself has appointed. But I should do this, Leonore, if I renounced the goals and efforts of my whole past life, and turned from what I have hitherto regarded as the most sacred purpose of my existence. You yourself, Leonore, cannot wish it, for then how could you trust my fidelity, my love, if, for your sake, I could be untrue to my native land, my sacred duty. No, Leonore, my heart is yours, but my brain and life belong to my country. I came to Vienna to serve it. The great patriots of Poland sent me here. 'Go to Austria, they said, and serve there the sacred cause of freedom and human dignity.' And I went, and am here to serve it. Many are in the league with me, struggling with me toward the same goal. No one knows the others, but in the decisive hour we shall all work together for the one great object. And this hour will soon come; all the preparations are made, all the plans are matured. It is approaching.

The great hour of sacred vengeance is approaching. You do not wish me to initiate you into my secrets, Leonore, and I now feel that you are right, for every sharer in these secrets is imperiled by them, and I will not draw you, my beloved one, into the dangerous circle, where I am bound. But if a gracious destiny grants our plans success, if the great venture which we have determined upon succeeds, then, Leonore, I will come to you, hold out my hand, and exultingly repeat the question which to-day I dare only to whisper timorously: Leonore, will you be my wife?"

She did not answer immediately, but covered her glowing face with her hands, while her whole frame trembled with emotion. "Oh," she groaned sorrowfully, "you will never repeat the question, for you will perish in the dangers which you are preparing for yourself."

"No," he cried joyously, "I shall not perish in them, and I shall come to repeat my question. Believe me, love, and be glad and strong. Do not fear for me, and forgive me if, during the next few days, I keep away from you.

The last preparations for our great enterprise are to be made; all my strength of mind, all the courage of my soul must be summoned, and perhaps I might be cowardly and weak if I should see you, gaze into your beloved face, and think of the possibility that I was beholding it for the last time; that death might clasp me in his arms ere I again pressed you to my heart. So I will bid you farewell, my dearest, farewell for a week. During this time, remember me, pray for me, and love me. A week, my dear one, then I will return to you; and then, oh, then may I be permitted never to leave you again; then perhaps we shall make the dream of your heart a reality, and in some valley of the New World seek for ourselves a new world of happiness."

He again pressed her closely in his arms and imprinted a long, ardent kiss upon her lips. "Farewell, beloved, farewell for a week, an eternity."

"Do not say that; do not talk so!" she cried, trembling, as she threw her arms around his neck and clung closely to him. "Oh, do not speak of an eternity of separation, as you bid me farewell, or my arms will hold you to draw you by force from the dangers that threaten you; my lips will betray you by calling for help and accusing you of a conspiracy, merely to save you--compel you to renounce your perilous plans."

"If you should do that, Leonore; if even for love of me you could become a traitress, I would kill myself, but ere I died I would curse you and invoke heaven's vengeance upon you! But why conjure up such terrible pictures! I know that my Leonore would be incapable of treachery, and that, during this week of separation, no word, no look, no hint, will betray that her mind is anxious and that some care oppresses her."

"I swear to you that by no word, no look, no hint will I betray anything,"

she said solemnly. "I swear that I will not even attempt to guess your secrets, in order not to be disturbed by them. But one question more, dearest. I shall give an entertainment to-morrow. Count Andreossy, Colonels Mariage and Schweitzer, Captain de Guesniard, and the two Counts von Poldring will be present, as well as Generals Berthier and Ma.s.sena, and several men who are prominent in aristocratic Austrian society. Will you not attend my reception? Will you not come to-morrow?"

"No," he replied, "no, I cannot attend gay entertainments now. My week of exile begins from this hour, and the first festival for me will be when I again clasp you in my arms. And now, dearest, let me go. This last kiss on your eyes--do not open them until I have left you; for your eyes exert a magic power, and if they are gazing at me I shall not have courage to go.

Farewell, my beloved star, farewell, and when you rise for me once more, may it be for the radiant hour of a reunion, unshadowed by fresh pangs of parting."

He pressed a last lingering kiss upon her eyes. She submitted and sat quietly with closed lids and clasped hands until the door had closed behind him and the sound of his steps died away in the anteroom.

Then she slipped from the divan upon her knees, and, raising her hands to heaven, cried: "I thank Thee, oh G.o.d, I thank Thee. He is not one of the conspirators; he has no share in these plans; for he is not coming to the entertainment to-morrow, and therefore does not belong to those who have their secret appointment with me. Oh, G.o.d be praised for it, and may He guard and protect him in all his enterprises! I do not wish to know them; I will not investigate them. Thou, oh G.o.d, canst s.h.i.+eld and defend him. Thou alone!"

CHAPTER IV.

BARON VON MOUDENFELS.

Colonel Mariage, alone in his room, was pacing restlessly up and down, with his eyes fixed intently, almost anxiously, upon the door.

"The appointed hour has come and he is not here," he murmured in a low tone. "Has suspicion been roused, and have they arrested him? Oh, G.o.d forbid! then we should all be lost, for we are all compromised, and letters from me, also, would be found among his papers."

At this moment the door was softly opened and the servant announced "Baron von Moudenfels."

"He is welcome, heartily welcome!" cried the colonel joyfully, swiftly advancing toward the door, through which the person announced had just entered the room. It was an old man with a long white beard, his head covered with a large wig, whose stiff, powdered locks adorned the temples on both sides of his pale, emaciated face. Thick, bushy brows shaded a pair of large dark eyes, whose youthful fire formed a strange contrast to the bowed frame and the white hair. His figure, which must once have been stately and vigorous, was attired in the latest fas.h.i.+on, and the elegance of his dress showed that Baron von Moudenfels, though a man perhaps seventy, had not yet done with the vanities of this world, but was ready to pay them homage. In his right hand, over which fell a broad lace cuff, he held an artistically carved cane, on whose gold handle he leaned, as he moved wearily forward, and a pin with beautiful diamonds glittered in the huge lace jabot on his breast.

Colonel Mariage held out both hands to the old man, but the baron contented himself with placing the finger-tips of the little hand adorned with glittering rings in the colonel's right hand a moment, and then sank into the armchair, panting for breath.

"Pardon me," he gasped, "but the exertion of climbing your two long flights of stairs has exhausted my strength, and I must rest. You probably see that I am a poor, fragile old man, who has but a few steps to take to his grave."

"But who will probably carefully avoid them," replied the colonel, smiling. "You are, as you say, an old man, but in this aged form dwells a fiery, youthful soul, whose strength of will will support the body so long as it needs the aid."

"So long as it is necessary to the native land, yes," cried the baron eagerly; "so long as there are foes to fight, friends to aid. Yes, the last years of my life belong to my native land and the foes who oppress it, and I know that I shall not die until I have attained the object of my life, until I have helped to overthrow the tyrant who has not only rendered my native land, Germany, wretched, but is also hurling his own country, France, into ruin."

Colonel Mariage glanced around the room with a hasty, anxious look. "For heaven's sake," he whispered, "don't speak so loud, baron; who knows whether my valet is not a paid spy; whether he is not standing at the door listening to betray me at once to Count Andreossy, or even to the emperor."

"My dear colonel," said the baron, smiling, "that is why it is quite time that we should secure you against such treason, and remove those who threaten you."

"What do you mean by that, baron?" asked the colonel timidly. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that the great hour of decision is approaching," replied the baron solemnly. "I mean that ere a week has pa.s.sed, the world will be released from the yoke which oppresses it--released from the evil demon, Napoleon."

The colonel, without answering even by a word, crossed the large apartment, and with a swift jerk opened the door leading into the anteroom. Then, after convincing himself that no one was near, he closed it, and made a tour of the s.p.a.cious room, carefully examining every _portiere_, every article of furniture, and at last approached the baron, who had been watching him with a quiet, scornful smile.

"Now, my dear baron, speak," he said, taking his seat in an armchair opposite to him. "We are really alone and without listeners, so I am ready to hear you. Do you bring news from our friends? News from France, especially?"

"Yes, news from France. I mean news from the Minister of Police, Fouche. Do you know, my dear sir, that Fouche is very much dissatisfied with his beloved fellow conspirators; that he thinks they have not acted so resolutely and energetically as might have been expected from the brave generals and colonels of the French army?"

"Why should he be dissatisfied?" asked the colonel. "What ought we to have done? When and where could we have acted more energetically?"

"At Castle Ebersdorf, my dear colonel. Surely you know that, after the battle of Aspern, when Napoleon left his exhausted and conquered army on the island of Lobau, and went to Castle Ebersdorf himself to enjoy a refres.h.i.+ng sleep after his first great defeat."

"Yes, that sleep was really singular enough," said Mariage thoughtfully.

"The emperor slept soundly twenty-two hours; slept so soundly, in so motionless a posture, breathing so softly, that he might have been believed to be dead, and did not even hear his drunken soldiers force their way into the castle garden, and, with furious shouts, plunder and destroy everything until our representations and entreaties forced them to retire."

"Yes, the emperor fell into a deathlike slumber and would have been unable to resist or to defend himself had he been bound and gagged and quietly carried away. Yet what did the generals and colonels who had a.s.sembled in the large reception-hall close beside the sleeping emperor's private office? What did the gentlemen who all belonged to the secret league which has existed in the French army four years, and whose object is to overthrow the hated tyrant and oppressor? Did they avail themselves of the opportunity to attain this desired goal with a single bold stroke? No, they stood whispering and irresolute, asking one another what should be done if Napoleon did not wake from his deathlike slumber--who should then be his heir to the throne of France? Whether they should make Bernadotte, the Prince of Ponte Corvo, or Eugene, the Viceroy of Italy, or the Count of Provence, who styles himself Louis XVIII., king of France, or again restore the great and glorious republic? And since they could not agree upon these questions, they did nothing at all, but contented themselves with sending a secret envoy to Paris to ask Fouche what should be done, how they should act in such a case, and what counsel he had to give."

"But how do you know all this so accurately?" asked the colonel in surprise. "One would really suppose you had been present, yet I distinctly remember that this was not the case."

"No, I was not; but you probably know that a certain Commissioner Kraus was there. Bernadotte had made the acquaintance of this Herr Kraus at Colonel Oudet's, who, as is well-known, is the head of the secret society, which existed in the French army, and to whose laws all members, or, if you choose, all fellow-conspirators, were compelled to submit. Oudet had recommended Kraus to the Prince of Ponte Corvo as a faithful and reliable man, a skillful negotiator, who was qualified to maintain and to promote the agreements and alliances between the French conspirators and the German patriots, and who could be employed without fear or reserve. Well, this Commissioner Kraus, as you probably know, had come to Ebersdorf to negotiate in behalf of myself and my German friends, and to ask whether the time had not now come to accomplish the great work and rid Germany of the scourge which G.o.d had sent in punishment of all her sins. Commissioner Kraus described that scene in the great hall of Castle Ebersdorf. He returned as your messenger, and brought us the news that we must keep quiet and wait for further tidings, and, after bringing this message, he went to Paris to Fouche, the minister of police, to deliver the letter and inquiry of the conspirators."

"And he has not yet returned," said Mariage, sighing. "Some misfortune has befallen him; the emperor's spies have doubtless tracked him, and he has atoned for his reckless enterprise with his life."

"No, Kraus is too clever and too bold to let himself be discovered by Napoleon's spies," said the baron with a subtle smile, "and, since Monsieur Bonaparte must fare like the worthy citizens of Nuremberg who hang no one until they have caught him, Commissioner Kraus has not been compelled to atone for his bold enterprise with his life, but has returned successful and unharmed."

"What? He has returned?"

"Four days ago."

"Four days ago, and I, we all, know nothing of it?"

"Yes, I knew it. Surely you are aware that Fouche was not to direct his reply directly to any one of you, to a subject of the emperor, in order, in case of discovery, to compromise no one. So Fouche addressed his reply to me; for if the letter had actually been opened, it could have done Baron von Moudenfels no harm, since fortunately I am not one of the emperor's subjects, and what he could punish in you as high-treason, he must recognize in us Germans as patriotism."

"But the letter, Fouche's answer!" said Mariage impatiently. "Pray do not keep me on the rack any longer. What does Fouche write?"

"Why, his letter is tolerably laconic, and one must understand how to read between the lines to interpret the meaning correctly. Here it is. You see that it is directed to me--Baron von Moudenfels--and contains nothing but the following words: 'Why ask me anything, when you ought already to have accomplished everything yourselves? Put him in a sack, drown him in the Danube--then all will be easily arranged everywhere.'"[C]